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navigating-through-gray · 2 years

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Landing in the Ocean 1

Author’s Note: Like a lab experiment that gained sentience, this fic has grown beyond my control.

Summary: Karl has been falling from one world to the next for so long his memories have vanished into the purple haze of the void, so XD decides to jog his memory with a world of almost-familiar faces.

***

Karl lived a charmed existence, by which he meant that a witch had probably cursed him at some point.

He panted heavily, sprinting for his life over end-stone and obsidian. There was a maniac with an axe behind him and Karl could confirm the smiley-faced Jason ripoff wanted his skull as a doorstop.

In the corner of his eye he caught sight of purple sparks and nearly sobbed in relief. He couldn’t sob though, he couldn’t stop gasping in lungfuls of air and running for nowhere at all. The killer was still behind him.

As the sparks slowly multiplied Karl’s lungs began to burn, an awful stitch in his side beginning to grow. His traitorous body would slow down soon, maybe too soon. If he couldn’t stay out of reach long enough for the ‘shift’ he’d be dead. Desperate, Karl whipped his head around searching for a way to buy time. His eyes landed on the edge of the building’s roof, a long drop to concrete below. Hopefully the shift would come before he hit the ground. Karl darted for the edge, but the sparks had multiplied into a shimmering sea of stars that obscured his vision. That meant the next step of phasing out of existence, dizziness and nausea. He tripped and felt his open palms meet the hard ground, screaming in terror as the smiley-faced assassin’s boot pinned him down a second later.

Despite the boot digging into his back Karl felt weightless, blind and sobbing as he heard the sound of an axe swooshing through the air-

Then the lost traveler dropped through reality like a brick.

\/ \/ \/

Karl closed his eyes immediately as the cold wind of the void rushed past him, but as always he heard that awful voice inside his head.

Karl clenched his eyes shut tighter, only able to remember one thing about the god that taunted him between the planes of reality. Nothing good ever came of acknowledging its existence.

<Fiiine. Let’s see if this will get a reaction out of you.>

\/ \/ \/

The sensation of falling vanished as quickly as it came and Karl found himself planted in front of a sun-kissed resort, seagulls calling in the distance. He sank to his knees and panted, trembling next to a bubbling dolphin fountain. That last world had been so, so close. Had he ever come so close to dying before? Karl couldn’t remember.

After a few minutes his legs began to ache and Karl picked himself back up. He was somewhere new, and that meant something new to deal with inside this hotel. It’s hard to start walking again, Karl ended up standing lamely just out of range of the automatic sliding doors. He really doesn’t want to find out what awaits him inside.

But eventually, the same old feeling wins out. There is something, somewhere he has to find. The feeling used to be stronger, used to burn in his chest. Now he’s forgotten why and Karl moves mostly on instinct.

If he’s about as animated as a corpse the concierge doesn’t comment on it. Karl has long since learned to make the best of things and goes along with confirming his ‘reservation’ and attendance at ‘the auction’ in two hours. He’s never (to his knowledge) been here before in his life and certainly has no money to spend at an auction, but in a few days he will lose everything but the clothes on his back again and wind up in a new perilous situation. He may as well enjoy the five-star resort while it lasts.

The nice lady at the front desk hands him a room key and points him toward a ritzy reception parlor. It’s a pretty standard setup as far as these things go, and with some luck Karl will have enough time to go to his room and sleep behind a locked door before things go south. The heavenly aroma of food nearby wafts through the air and Karl’s stomach growls. Saying the previous world had been unkind was an understatement, Karl hasn’t eaten in days. The fancy little hors d’oeuvres buffet doesn’t stand a chance.

The small shrimp dipped in cocktail sauce crunch unappealingly between his teeth because Karl does not bother to shell their tails. This is because they are the best thing he can ever remember tasting, and the traveler is happy to keep shoving them into his mouth as quickly as possible. The other guests are giving him weird looks and Karl knows he ought to be mingling, but for now as long as they aren’t trying to kill him he could care less. He’s had a rough eternity. Sue him. He threw himself fully into the pleasure of filling his empty stomach at the expense of social courtesy.

“Hungry?”

A hand landed on his shoulder and Karl jumped out of his skin. His startled screech was silenced before it even began when he inhaled a shrimp. Airway suddenly blocked he began to cough, hacking as his hands flew up to his throat. Strong arms wrapped around him and Karl had just enough time to stiffen before a balled up fist drove itself up into his diaphragm. The shrimp went flying and Karl gasped as the stranger moved to steady him, the sounds of the party pausing to watch the drama unfold. He was the center of attention, along with whoever had snuck up on him.

The stranger looked more amused than anything, the man’s single raised eyebrow stretching the scar running down the left half of his face. Karl thought he saw a glint of gold beneath the divot where the old wound crossed over teeth.

“Karl Jacobs,” Karl looked up in surprise and no small amount of trepidation. The man smirked. He did have a gold tooth beneath the scar, along with an immaculate set of sharp teeth.

“You’ve got quite the appetite.”

“How do you know my name?” Karl squeaked, eyes finding the closest exit.

“I make it a point to know all my guests.” The man said, ignoring his obvious unease and offering him a handshake. “I am Quackity. Are you enjoying El Rapids?”

Quackity. Karl froze, attention snapping fully back to the man. He searched him up and down, and then over again, but there was no recognition on Quackity’s face and Karl… to Karl this man was a stranger.

“I like the food.” He said dumbly, taking the hand.

Quackity’s grip was firm, and then it was gone.

“I can tell. Try chewing next time, this is a high class establishment.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry.”

“Until we meet again, Mr. Jacobs.” Quackity purred, smooth as silk, before he walked away and at some invisible signal the reception started up again. Karl stared after him, before making his escape entirely.

***

The elevator doors slid shut behind him and Karl closed his eyes, counting up the floors as they passed.

1,2,3,4…

Quackity, Quackity, Quackity, Quackity.

The player had been trapped for as long as he could remember, thrust from one place to the next by a the cruel god in the void. But ‘as long as he could remember’ was a flimsy measurement. Purple static obscured his memories, only the past handful of weeks remained clear. The rest of his past was a notebook written in pencil with its lines erased, and now Karl could only fumble at the pages for impressions of what had been. He thinks he used to write down everything he could remember after a shift, it seemed a logical thing to do, but he didn’t anymore. The voice had wanted him to stop.

A shiver of instinctual dread to runs through his body.

He only had two words, now. The only things he could keep between shifts because at some point he’d carved them into his body. Karl’s hand traced his right arm, where meticulous scars etched pale letters into the flesh. ‘Quackity’ and ‘Sapnap’.

Nothing more than utter nonsense to his ears no matter how long he tried to wrack his brain, and now was no different. Except now he knew Quackity was a NAME. All this time puzzling over anagrams or a hidden message and it was a name. Karl felt sick, frustration and fear clawing up his throat because Quackity was someone he SHOULD remember but COULDN’T. Purple static was the only thing left and his head ached from the effort of trying to clear the fog. All he had was the same creeping dread that followed him everywhere.

Karl had always assumed the words were important, if his past self deemed they shouldn’t be lost. Somehow, those words had to be the key to ending this nightmare. But what if he was wrong? Now that he’d met Quackity and seen the dangerous glint in the man’s eyes... maybe they were meant to be a warning instead.

The elevator let out a cheerful ding and Karl’s stomach lurched as the upward momentum halted and gravity briefly lessened. He didn’t want to feel the weightlessness of a shift ever again.

***

Two hours later Karl is no closer to answers, and the auction house is a large ornate room covered in gold from one end to the other. One side opens onto a rooftop bar with a crimson seaside sunset but the view was obscured by rich red curtains shortly after Karl slunk past the bouncers at the door. A relieved receptionist had shoved a placard with his name on it into his hand and told him a ridiculously high sum of money that left Karl staring like an idiot at the innocent wooden board. The fresh sea breeze died a minute later along with the guests’ chatter and Quackity himself stepped onto the raised stage in front of the crowd. His golden tooth glittered in the spotlight as a near manic grin split the man’s face and stretched his scar.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Quackity boomed, voice filling the room without a mic. “Tonight El Rapids hosts an array of ancient artifacts and priceless magical merchandise for sale, I’d like to give a huge thanks to Ponk for his last minute addition to the docket.”

Karl shifted uneasily. He got the feeling Quackity was angry, but as quickly as the feeling came on it passed. The man’s face hadn’t changed in the slightest.

“Please let me remind you tonight’s auction is limited to the placards present, if you want an item raise your placard! We can see everyone just fine and we know how much money is attached to it. There will be no online or over the phone bidding.”

“As always we are selling under the terms and conditions listed in our catalogue, for those of you joining us for the first time that means you pay every day. You buy an item today you write a check today. That’s just the best way to do it.” Quackity’s eyes locked with his, just for an instant, before they continued rolling over the crowd.

“I’d also like to thank all you lovely people for your patronage at El Rapids, my humble hotel would be nothing without your patronage and support. Let us begin the 13th Sunset Auction!"

This was a cue to some men off stage to carry in a small box made of black wood, which was placed on a table in front of Quackity’s podium at the man’s nod.

“Our first object of the evening is a treasure taken from the very ends of the Nether, a prize so rare many believe its existence nothing but a wish.”

The lights dimmed at the wave of his hand, and Quackity approached and opened the box with theatrical reverence. He carefully teased a crystal star from its satin confines and raised the shimmering light aloft.

“Let’s start with ten thousand for this nether star!”

Quackity began belting out numbers faster than Karl could track, but he didn’t try terribly hard. Karl didn’t want a nether star, or a conduit, or even a pair of magical wings Quackity named an ‘elytra’. He wanted answers, not treasure.

As the auction continued Karl took a moment to scan the room. In his experience, it was always the people you had to watch out for. His eyes met a piglin’s, and to his dismay the massive hog grinned and began pushing through the crowd. Karl held his ground with some effort as the piglin reached him, the stranger’s size letting him loom over Karl’s human height.

“You’re here for the last item on Quackity’s list, huh?”

Karl gulped.

“I can tell.” the piglin continued, “You aren’t interested in all this fancy stuff.”

“Yeah.” Karl agreed with the hope of appeasing him and ending their conversation. Karl never had that kind of luck.

“How do ya feel about a deal?” The piglin’s tusks flashed as he grinned, “You see that guy over there?”

Karl followed the piglin’s gesture and his blood froze in his veins. Green. There was a man standing in the shadows at the back of the room wearing a green hoodie and a white mask, a simple smile carved into the porcelain. He was clearly not the same man, but Karl recognized that smile. That smile had nearly buried an axe into his back two hours ago.

“Yeah,” Karl said, his mouth dry. “I see him.”

“He’s rich.” The piglin stated bluntly.

“I mean, everybody’s rich here but I know that guy’s richer than me and probably richer than you. I also know he’s here with the express purpose to buy what Ponk found. In fact, I’d reckon this whole shebang is just dressing up to make the sale more ‘legal’. Dream is the type to make things stupidly complicated.” The piglin snorted, shooting the man an unimpressed look before turning back to Karl with a feral grin.

“I, on the other hand, am more partial to chaos. Wanna throw a wrench into an entitled rich snob’s plans?”

“I, um.” Karl hesitated, and the piglin plowed on.

“I’m just suggesting we make a deal, if Dream manages to beat out our individual bank accounts. I combine my money with yours, or yours with mine. Then we split the prize fifty-fifty. Deal?”

“Deal.” Karl said with no idea what he was agreeing to, just wishing the stranger would leave. The piglin shook his hand, his hooves dwarfing the other’s fingers.

“Cool.” The piglin moved off and finally left him alone.

Karl eased his way to the front of the room, as far away from the masked man as he could get, with half an ear out on the items for sale. A bunch of magical stuff Karl had never heard of flew by at the rate of Quackity’s tireless voice, the man yelled out price after price for an hour and never seemed any closer to going hoarse. As time wore on, however, Karl noticed the room begin to change. The other guests had started the auction chatting quietly among each other but that chatter was slowly dying down. The bouncers had come in at the back of the room and doubled in number at some point. Whatever Ponk had found needed extra security.

Karl had a sudden uneasy image of a warden being led on stage, just before the monster broke free during the bidding. That was how things usually went. Karl glanced back at the doors, but he certainly wasn’t going to get any closer to ‘Dream’ until he had to. A large clock on the right wall in the room silently reached ten and the piglin came to stand a few feet away from him. Karl gulped as a complete hush fell over the room.

“And now the moment you’ve been waiting for.” Quackity beamed, gold tooth flashing in a way that made Karl think of nothing so much as a snarl. From stage right two employees wheeled in a box, around two feet long and a foot tall, covered by elaborately decorated silk. With a gesture from Quackity they left the box and cart before the podium and exited stage left. Quackity walked up to the box and unfurled its covering, revealing a fish tank.

Within the small tank a flicker of living flame flashed through the water, trapped inside the glass. It stopped closest to Quackity, and Karl finally saw a tiny mermaid. The little thing glared at the man, bearing its tiny white teeth. Quackity gave the creature the smallest glance before turning his full attention back to the crowd, “Ladies and gentleman our final item. A bone fide’ mermaid.”

He turned to the mer and whispered something. It snarled and crossed its arms, to which Quackity frowned back and poked a finger into the glass, tapping out an enunciation for whatever he said next. The mer continued to glare, but Quackity turned with a smirk. His eyes were dead, and Karl decided then and there the name ‘Quackity’ was a warning. The room’s lighting dimmed, and patrons of the auction gasped in awe as the mermaid’s scales began to shine. Karl watched entranced as the faux firelight rippled over the room, refracted as if through invisible waves. Quackity continued his pitch as the colors danced.

“Smaller than the legends would portray, but nonetheless the genuine article. This creature possesses magical abilities as of yet unknown. Who will be the one to discover his mysteries? The bidding starts at twenty thousand for Sapnap.”

Every placard in the room rose, including Karl’s. The mermaid flinched, eyes darting around before snapping back to Quackity and belting out a silent string of insults. If the little guy was making a sound Karl couldn’t hear him. If Quackity heard anything he made no move to indicate it, the room had erupted into a cacophony of noise the instant the placards rose. Still, Karl would swear on his life that ‘Sapnap’ was talking.

The number he had been told at the entrance was fifty thousand dollars, but Karl’s heart leapt to his throat as the mer’s price jumped to thirty thousand in moments. Several placards fell and Karl caught Quackity calling for a raise of five, then another five. Suddenly all the other placards were down.

“Forty thousand!”

Quackity called, his pace slowing for Karl to easily keep up with. Like everyone else in the room the man was staring at him now, but while the crowd was filled with glares and amusement Quackity just looked mildly confused. Karl steeled his nerves and stared back. The money meant nothing to him, he’d lose it all in the next shift but before then he needed to talk to Sapnap.

“Do I hear forty-five?”

Karl kept his placard up, but Quackity ignored him. He guessed it was because he had the bid for forty.

“Forty-five?”

The rest of the room remained empty of placards and Karl felt like his heart was about to beat out of his chest.

“Forty-five is out!” Quackity sang and Karl felt a moment of pure relief before the man continued, “Do I hear a forty-four? Forty-three? Two?”

At two a handful of placards rose and Karl’s relief vanished.

“Forty two! Forty two now forty five? Forty-five!”

Quackity gestured to Karl’s placard as it began to tremble, the player’s heart in his throat. No bids for fifty thousand but at forty six the same number of placards raised.

“Fifty!” Quackity finally called, indicating him again. The room had gone dead silent as the guests who had retired from the bidding war looked on, still staring at him. Fifty. The number did not seem like much now. The piglin snorted and gave Karl a shrug, before his placard rose into the air. Quackity looked at placard, then back to Karl with a second of pity, and that was that.

“Fifty five!” The owner’s voice rang out an instant later, picking up its pace once more, and a wave of dismay crashed over Karl.

The bidding war continued but he could only stare at the tiny mer trembling with rage on the podium. Sapnap’s eyes darted from the piglin to the masked man, as each named a higher number, all the while muttering darkly to Quackity or himself, Karl couldn’t tell. Quackity remained impassive beside the small mermaid, continuing to belt off numbers, and yet Karl could tell he was getting angry. Karl didn’t understand that. Surely the more ‘Sapnap’ went for the more money El Rapids made, and Quackity clearly loved gold.

“Seventy!” Quackity finally called, and the piglin’s face fell as the green man held up his placard smugly. The man had drawn a smiley face onto his placard. The piglin turned to Karl and tilted his head, hand casually outstretched as he spoke.

“Alright, spiral guy. Let’s go crazy.”

Karl handed over his placard and the piglin’s voice rose to a yell that deafened the room.

“One Hundred and Nineteen Thousand!”

At this Quackity’s eyebrow visibly twitched, before he repeated the number. Though their play had caught more than Quackity’s attention. With a shiver he realized the green man had gone still, and was staring at him through the dark holes of that pale mask. Karl squared his shoulders and stared back as the piglin grinned and patted him on his shoulder.

For a moment Karl swore the mask’s grin stretched wider, and his heart stopped as the man tilted his head and a fair voice called out, “One Hundred Twenty.”

The piglin’s grin had frozen on his face, then fizzled into a pout.

“Well that’s that then,” He shot an apologetic look to Karl, and changed from patting his back to supporting it. Karl would’ve sank to the floor without him there.

Green. Whenever he got close to an answer, or even just had a moment to breathe, Karl was always confronted with acid green and an empty smile.

<home?> The words flitted through his mind unbidden, a memory or a dream, <but you haven’t found your answers, Karl.>

<You said...> The memory laughed, it’s voice quickly fading back into static <...go back…fix the present.>

“This isn’t even my world.” Karl whispered under his breath, voice hoarse and strange in his ears, “You’re not even giving me my world anymore…”

“Hey. Hey spiral guy. Um. Yeah, that didn’t work out. You are not taking this well.” The piglin’s voice brought him back to the present, where the guests were currently filtering out the doors. Karl saw Quackity pick up the mer and carry him off stage. The nice thing about being displaced in existence? He didn’t need to worry about the long term consequences of robbery.

“W-when?” He clutched the piglin’s arm. “When is Quackity handing him over?”

The piglin gave him an assessing look. “The mer?”

“Is it happening now?” Karl pushed, but the piglin ignored the question.

“It kinda sounds like you know him.” He said slowly, and Karl’s hand clenched.

After a pause the piglin sighed. “No. You have, like, an hour. There’s this big dinner thing first.”

Karl fled. Once he exited the auction house he looked for a way to back stage and spotted a pair of double doors on the side of the hall, beside a potted palm and guarded by two large men he had no hope of slipping past.

A piercing squeal ripped through the air. The piglin had picked up a bouncer and hurled them onto the stage. The guards rushed past Karl a moment later, attempting to tackle the piglin and only managing to dangle off the hog as he rampaged. Karl slipped through the crowd of running and shouting guests and hurried through the double doors. Sure enough the other side was a service hallway. He heard people approaching and rushed into the nearest door, hearing Quackity’s voice hissing a moment later as the man ran past.

“...are you serious?! Get me...”

More people came, and Karl could hear piglin squeals and shouting from the main hall. The noise quickly ended, however, and employees began filtering back past his little broom closet while Karl held his breath. He did not hear Quackity again.

He just needed to get some time alone with Sapnap, just a few hours. Just to talk. Eventually the sounds of people outside became less frequent, until Karl felt confident he could leave and be unseen for at least a little while. The hall was indeed empty when he left it, and Karl walked as quickly as he could, glancing at green rooms and one dance studio. Then he came to a door labeled ‘backstage’ and the room next to it ‘storage’. He carefully cracked open the backstage door but only saw a small, dark area behind the curtains of the stage. Storage, however, was the room he was looking for. Stage props and items from the auction were line up from one end of the room to the other, with a pathway leading to another set of double doors labeled ‘loading bay’.

To Karl’s unease the room appeared abandoned, the only light hidden behind other objects in the middle of the space.

Karl crept inside, noting the path was lined with a strange bouncy material, and looked down to find rubber laid down to prevent scratches on the hardwood floor. The color of it was green. Of course. Swallowing his nerves Karl kept going, noting the box with the wither star as he passed it before he found Sapnap’s tank. It bubbled quietly in the center of the room just off the path, sitting on a sturdy wooden desk strewn with records and receipts. A water filter had been added to the tank along with a heat lamp bathing the cloth in soft warm light. The cover Quackity had used at the beginning of his presentation was back over the glass, hiding Sapnap from view, so Karl carefully reached for it.

“Karl from Kinoko!”

Karl screeched as the floor moved and caught him up in acid green slime. A human face materialized from the sludge and gave him a beaming smile as Karl thrashed about.

“Hello!” It said and Karl gulped. The hold was too strong to escape.

“Wh-what’s Kinoko?” He asked, “And how do you know my name?”

“What’s Kinoko?” What had been the rubber path parroted back in innocent confusion, “You must have been traveling for a long time. I am glad you still remember your name though!”

Before Karl could demand more the thing continued jovially, “My Quackity said I should kill anyone who came in here, but he wouldn’t want me to kill you.”

“What?” Karl’s heart stopped and he squeaked.

“Don’t worry, Karl!” the slime wiggled around him playfully, “My Quackity will come back soon, I triggered a silent alarm when you came in! He’ll know what to do and I’ll let you go.”

“No! I mean, just let me go now.” Karl pushed at the slime ineffectively. “I need to talk to the little mermaid, Sapnap. Please!”

“Hmmm…” The slime seemed to hesitate, before they both heard a tiny tapping sound coming from the tank. “Ok!” The slime chirped, and just like that it grew a human hand from the mass trapping Karl and lifted the cloth, revealing the mer tapping on the glass inside. Sapnap’s eyes were red, Karl saw, the same red as his firey scales. Even without the magic glow the mer’s scales were stunning, but Karl was more focused on Sapnap’s eyes as they darted over Karl then narrowed.

“Um, hi.” Karl said weakly, picking up on the distaste. “I’m Karl.”

The mer made no move to answer him.

“Do you know me?”

Karl asked plaintively and Sapnap swam to the top of the tank, splashing above the water and tapping at the closed top. A series of grating clicks came out of the mer’s throat and Charlie started.

“Oh! Of course. Just don’t jump out.” The slime replied to the strange sounds in English and unlocked the top of the tank. Sapnap pulled himself half way out of the water and proceeded to glare at Karl, spitting out a string of his strange deep clicks, vitrol in every sound. When the mer stopped the slime noticed Karl’s helpless look and said, “My Sapnap says he is very mad because you and Technoblade tried to buy him!” Karl’s heart dropped as the slime poked his face hard and added, “Buying people isn’t nice Karl.”

“I… oh.” Karl went back over the last hour and went pale. “I’m sorry,” he shrank under Sapnap’s accusing glare. “I’m so used to going along with whatever’s happening, I… I didn’t think…Oh god I’m an idiot.”

Sapnap cut him off with a trilling growl.

“My Sapnap says that is a bad excuse, and I agree with him.” The slime said, and poked Karl again while the player wished the floor would hurry up and finish swallowing him. Sadly, the green slime perked up instead and happily exclaimed, “My Quackity is here!” Just before the door opened and Karl felt a fresh bolt of fear jolt through him.

Quackity strode through the door, tilted his head at the strange sight they all must make and gave him another false smile.

“Well, well, well.” His golden tooth flashed as he closed the distance between them, “Hello again, Karl. I’m surprised you’re still alive.” Quackity shot the slime a look and it beamed back. “Hello Quackity! Look! I found a Karl!”

Quackity’s smile softened for an instant before the man sighed and gestured for the slime to let Karl go. “I noticed. Thank you Charlie.”

‘Charlie’ jiggled and receded into the form of a human, allowing Karl to stand on his own two feet. The look Quackity gave him was far less fond.

“You’re a terrible robber. You know that?”

“What?” Karl tensed and Sapnap screeched beside him.

Quackity pinched his eyebrows and turned to the mer. “How many times do I have to say I fucking know, but you’re getting sold anyway. Stop trying to make it my problem!”

“And you!” Quackity whipped back around to glare at Karl. “How did you even get here?”

Karl’s breath rushed out of him. No one had ever noticed his appearing out of the blue before.

“I memorize my guest lists.” Quackity continued, jabbing a finger at him. “You weren’t in our system last week. But lo and behold I can’t find ANY evidence of tampering, even in our physical copies. So me,” Quackity began to chuckle and Karl tried to take a step back. Charlie nudged him and he stayed put. “Being the idiot I am, thought you must be competent. And what do I get?”

He gestured to Karl with a sneer. “Whatever the hell you are. Were you even trying to keep a low profile? TECHNOBLADE was more subtle. And then you walk in here and get CAUGHT.”

Quackity spread his arms wide and cackled. “I should be happy, you know? El Rapids has a reputation to uphold.”

The rant ended as quickly as it began, Quackity falling silent with another quiet curse. He stared at Karl, the light reflecting in his retinas bouncing back an inhuman shade of gold.

“Where did you come from?” Quackity held a veneer of calm and composure that belied some danger about to strike. Karl knew with unpleasant certainty that the man was weighing up whether or not to kill him. He wished he had an answer for him. Instead, the water in the mer’s tank kept up its quiet bubbling and after a moment of tense silence Quackity lazily glanced at the mer still glaring on the lid. “Is he a friend of yours?”

Sapnap’s tail worried at the water behind him, glowering as he clicked out a reply. Behind him Charlie shifted, and Karl held his breath. Quackity and Sapnap stared each other down until the man stepped forward and the mer dived to the bottom of the tank, hissing inaudibly underwater as Quackity loomed over him.

Karl jerked forward but Charlie was there to restrain him, green ooze holding his arms and legs fast.

“Leave him alone!”

To Karl’s surprise Quackity flinched at his shout, before glaring back at him defensively.

“Shut up! If you had done your job I wouldn’t have to deal with this. God damned Hybrid Rights vs The SMP...” The man spat, turning to the tank again and darting his hand into the water quick as a flash. He grabbed the agitated mer and raised Sapnap out of the water with a grimace. This time he ignored the shrieks and chitters in favor of speaking to Karl. “The guy selling Sapnap is an asshole and the buyer is a bastard, but every fucked up thing about this is legal and done in the public eye.”

“However...” Quackity removed a length of fishing wire from his suit pocket and carefully pinned the mer’s flailing arms down.“Despite staying at the hotel Dream has seen fit to handle his own security after the transaction. He’s in room 121. Say that back to me.”

Karl glared as Quackity used more wire to gag the mer. Charlie’s slime tightened around his arms.

“Dream is in room 121.”

Quackity nodded, then dangled Sapnap by the tail and raised him above his head.

“W-wait, what are you doing to him?”

Quackity looked him in the eye and dropped the wriggling mer into his mouth.

“No!”

Charlie muffled the rest of his shouts and thrashing as Quackity swallowed once, twice, a large bulge pushing out his throat and then vanishing below his suit collar. Sapnap was gone. Just like that. Quackity straightened his collar with a sigh before deigning to meet his horrified stare.

“Relax, will you?” Quackity smirked, yellow eyes glinting like a cat who just ate the canary. “He’s magic.”

With that he placed a keycard on the desk and walked away while Karl hung limply in Charlie’s hold.

“Don’t worry, Karl from Kinoko!” Charlie set Karl down after Quackity left and formed back into the shape of a man in overalls. A pair of ordinary glasses bubbled up and settled on the slime’s nose as he continued, “My Sapnap will be fine. In this reality he is mostly stomach-proof! Isn’t that neat?”

Karl did not move, still staring at the door Quackity had exited. Charlie shrugged after a moment and continued, “My Quackity just wants to hold onto him until our Dream gives us a bunch of money!”

Mind swirling, Karl finally turned and picked up the keycard Quackity had left. It was blank. All Karl wanted to do was leave but as he stepped away Charlie fell upon him again. This time the slime gave him a proper hug instead of restraining him, but the effect was the same. Karl couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hugged, even if he wished the source came from someone less threatening. “I’m so glad I wasn’t asked to kill you, Karl! I hope you are better at rescuing than stealing.”

“Um, thanks. Charlie?” Charlie beamed. “I am a Charlie, yes! Though I am not your Charlie. I should be Charlie from El Rapids, I think. To avoid confusion.”

“Ok.” Karl said, very confused.

The hug ended, and Charlie waved as Karl debated staying before the urge to flee won out and he walked to the door.

“Good luck, Karl from Kinoko!”

Charlie began melting back into a path as Karl stepped outside, and stared blankly down the service hallway he had snuck through mere minutes before. Quackity was gone, along with Sapnap.

The blank keycard trembled in his fingers.

#tw vore #my stuff #my writing #mcyt vore

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cancerjupiter · 3 years

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🔥 fire venus 🔥

venus in aries

ex: lily james, rihanna, marilyn monroe, lady gaga, tyler the creator, mariah carey, audrey hepburn, rdj, freud, gigi hadid, chris martin, melanie martinez

they are driven to impress others, show them new things and new experiences. they need to excel in their chosen field and feel in charge, directing the action. however, in relationships, they’re also attracted to strong-willed people - which often leads to conflicts. if they like you, they’re very direct and spontaneous. their greatest charm is their straightforwardness in social interactions, often combined with daring humor. if things go badly, however, their mood can change to combatively defensive and oversensitive. they’re not known for subtlety, and often like violent sports. fighting is natural for them, and they admire others who fight for causes. they highly value independence and always want to be number one, no matter what. they are not very patient and are terrified of boredom.

express affection directly, impulsively, enthusiastically; in love with the honeymoon phase of relationships.

assertive and demanding, which can add difficulty to intimacy.

values independence above all, in self and others

aries venus can be fiercely proud of their romantic attachments and loved ones. they can be very emotional, but rarely would you describe them as deeply feeling. they’re not very romantically sentimental or sympathetic; they prefer to be direct and blunt. the men are self-centered and not very giving; the women aren’t very patient or stereotypically feminine. the women don’t like overly gentle or patient men, preferring them to be aggressive and “compete” with her; they’re a true contradiction and quite complex. both like “quickies” and can be almost insatiable sexually, although quite selfish.

they can be selfish in relationships since they push their own ideas about how it should go, instead of talking about it with their partner. relationships start with a BOOM but fizzle easily since aries is not known for its longevity. they’re always looking for excitement, daily. they like to be enthusiastic and positive and let no one walk over them, even if they’re not overly assertive.

venus in leo

ex: fiona apple, madonna, mj, nicole kidman, tom cruise, amy winehouse, jlaw, whitney houston, niall horan, jason momoa, dua lipa, asap rocky, hitchcock

these people do nothing halfway. when committed, they can show remarkable loyalty. the problem is that they can go to such extremes of misplaced and impractical loyalty, that it outdoes common sense of objectivity. their reactions, while warmhearted, are well calculated and not at all spontaneous. as Grant Lewi points out, “No one with Venus in Leo has ever been talked into anything”. they want to make sure the right effect and use their affections to get what they want.

they possess sharply contrasting qualities: sincerity and generosity combined with a superior attitude towards others, and showing jealousy over others’ success. they have a huge, vulnerable ego and the merest “slight” is taken as a major offense: try leaving them on read too often or not showing up to their party. they’re very proud of their relationships and need to feel respected and admired by all. their greatest gift is probably their ability to vitalize others through their faith in them, conveying a warmth of encouragement to anyone who needs it.

express affection warmly, dramatically, playfully, and enthusiastically.

the need to be the center of attention or dominant force of a partner's life can encumber deeper intimacy.

can be extremely generous and loyal.

leo venus is rather in love with dramatic love. they crave grandeur and excitement, often staging affectionate displays or romantic situations. they have tremendous pride over their relationship and their own wonderful generous qualities (yes; they know how good they can be). although they’re easily offended by real or imagined insults, they’re quite insensitive to others’ feelings unless it’s related to the leo venus, somehow. a constant need for praise is their most tiresome feature, and they have an enormous weakness for flattery, one way they can be emotionally manipulated. at worst, they’re so self-centered they can’t relate on a simple, sincere human level and use others for self-aggrandizement. and if so, they can end up lonely, petty, and indignant.

they want to do a lot for their beloved, and make sure they enjoy every moment spent with the leo venus, and certainly don’t mind if other people notice their magnificent generosity. their own sense of identity is sometimes so tied up with their primary relationship, that they often go into crisis if things end, badly or not. they like physical demonstrations of affections, but are not very receptive on a true feeling level. they stimulate these displays of “love” in you, especially if in need of affection, but they can also drop you like a stone if they find someone who can praise them better and you’re not delivering.

their responses to love and affection are lavish, open-hearted and almost childish. the urge to spread sunshine throughout their partner’s life is genuine. flattery will get you everywhere with them, but make sure to keep this up if you intend to maintain a relationship. they can also be very sexual and give as good as they take.

venus in sagittarius

ex: joan baez, david bowie, nicki minaj, billie eilish, kendall jenner, jake gyllenhaal, jimi hendrix, jane fonda, mac miller

their reactions to life are rather happy-go-lucky and philosophical, explaining how resilient they are when confronted by the cruelty of life. some call it shallowness or avoidance of true feelings. take your pick, but it’s hard to stay mad when they disappoint. they’re often fickle and hard to please, but that’s due their chronic lack of satisfaction. they have a hard time dealing with routine, tedious reality, and facing the practical limits of life. they don’t enjoy living in the moment.

for them, there’s always room for improvement, and their philosophy of life is optimistic, always thinking a better reality exists just over the hill. they love surprises and you can expect anything from them. a need for space and freedom is essential for them: both mentally (learning, discussion, debate) and physically (activities, sports, traveling). they are also brutally honest about others’ hypocrisy or negligence, although they react to their own truth with a shrug because of their inflated self-image.

expresses affection freely, enthusiastically, generously and idealistically. motivated by an inner trust and faith in love.

tolerant and open-minded attitude toward love with a need for alignment of ideas; values honesty but may be insensitive to feelings.

sag venus wants to be hard, or at least noticed, in any social situation. and in a close relationship, the sharing of ideas and philosophical harmony is necessary for it to last. but for it to last even one evening, there has to be a common sense of humor or type of entertainment, since they can’t stand boredom and are naturally humorous people. they like exploring their relationship and often ask their partner some probing questions and enjoy teasing statements. honesty is, again, valued above all else, but they can be extremely insensitive and dismissive of others’ feelings and needs because of it. their casual remarks do real damage and reveal an irresponsible, and self-centered attitude towards love and sex.

they’re tremendously enthusiastic and unprejudiced about love and sex, and their sexuality is often not straight. they’re fun, but you can never flatter or praise them. you’ve got to earn their respect and usually glow with self-confidence to intrigue them. this venus placement is found in many who are impulsive and generous with affections; they are demonstrative, but also rather impersonal in their relationship approach, although quite charming. being a fun “pal” comes easier than being a truly intense lover; and the fact they grant their partner vast amounts of freedom reveals they like to maintain a level of personal distance, without restraint or heavy expectations.

these people see no reason why emotions shouldn’t be followed, and usually discount the importance of material things if their partner can’t offer them (unless there’s heavy Taurus on the chart).

#astrology #venus signs #fire venus #aries venus #leo venus #sagittarius venus #venus in aries #venus in leo #venus in sagittarius

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hotchley · 3 years

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heavy is the head that wears the crown

Hey besties...

This was my first CM fic, and it was only on ao3, so I am now cross-posting it almost a whole year later because I changed my url and was redoing my masterlists so... yeah.

IT IS FROM A YEAR AGO PLEASE DO NOT COME FOR ME IT'S ALMOST EMBARRASSING JUST COPYING IT </3

Trigger Warnings: depictions of child abuse, aftermath of abuse, canon-typical violence, references to self-harm (it’s not depicted, but hotch has some unhealthy thoughts in the hardwick scene), heavily implied sexual content

read on ao3!

He remembers the last time his father laid a hand on him perfectly. He remembers it perfectly because it was the most painful. When he was feeling particularly low, he wondered if his father knew he was going to die and wanted to watch his oldest son try and hold himself together as one small act of defiance.

He remembers how each strike with the belt hurt more than the last. He remembers how he tried to keep his voice down, because Sean was sleeping, and he didn’t need to ever find out that their father was a bastard. He remembers that the pain became unbearable the moment his father pressed the still lit cigarette to the cuts and that he had screamed so loudly, he was scared the neighbours would come running. Remembers how his father had yanked his hair so hard more tears pooled in the corner of his eyes.

But they didn’t fall. Not when his father shoved him to the ground and left him to deal with his injuries himself. They didn’t fall then because he knew that for one more night, his mother and Sean would be safe from his touch. And that would have to be enough to keep him going.

They didn’t fall when the nice lady from reception asked to speak to him and told him how sorry she was but the hospital had phoned to say his father was dead after suffering a heart attack at work. He didn’t cry then because he was too busy thinking about how Sean was going to be destroyed. And his mother would likely retreat further into herself, leaving him to pick up the pieces and take over the home.

He didn’t break at the funeral. Sean was clinging to his hand, tears streaming down his face, even as he didn’t understand why daddy wasn’t coming home. He wanted to fall to his knees and scream, because despite everything that man had done to him, he had never touched Sean, not even when he had been at boarding school and unable to protect him. But he didn’t, because neither he nor his brother had access to their inheritance, and they needed to survive. His mother wouldn’t work- and he wouldn’t want her to. But it meant it was up to him.

So he looked at himself in the mirror, put the mask that transformed him from Aaron, the delightful teenager who was in the theatre club, into Mr Hotchner, the man who could provide for his family and be who they needed him to be.

It was almost too easy.

If he thought about it for too long, he would classify the whole incident with Vincent Perotta as his version of a breakdown. As the garrotte tightened around his neck, and as it became harder and harder to fill his lungs with the need to live, all he could think of was his father and Haley. His father smirking as his eldest son finally met the end he deserved- killed by someone he should have been able to defeat in the dark because he had gotten distracted- and Haley, home with a son barely old enough to hold his own head up.

Haley.

The image of her holding their son gave him the strength to shove the unsub- he didn’t deserve to be named- away. And then the flashlights came into view and he knew he was safe. They had come to get him. He wasn’t alone. The relief was quickly overshadowed by the officer they still had to find, and the confession they still needed. He should have known Gideon would know why he had refused everyone’s offers of help. Why he hadn’t even loosened his tie. The ghost of his father saying he deserved the pain still haunted him.

He hadn’t wanted to finish it. He had wanted to stay as far away from that bastard as he could. But Jason Gideon never asked questions. He phrased demands as questions. So he put back on the Unit Chief mask and said sure. But he knew as soon as he said some that he had messed up. He just hoped nobody else would notice.

The world had never been kind to him.

He didn’t know why he didn’t just walk out without responding. Why he chose to stand there and admit- or as close as he would ever get to admitting- that his father had abused him. That the shards of his words and actions still broke his skin and damaged his heart and filled his lungs with poison that he had to inhale. Maybe it was because he needed to remind himself. He was not his father, and he never would be.

Haley was awake when he got home. He felt bad, she needed all the rest she could get, but she had smiled, and said she loved him. It sounded like a reminder rather than a confession. He had managed to smile, gratefully getting in the bath she had run for him, scrubbing the hands of a murderer off of his skin.

She made love to him that night. Took her time, brushing her lips over every bruise and scar. He had wanted all the lights off, still disgusted by the sight of his father on his body, but she had asked if having the lamp on the dimmest setting was okay, and he had said okay. She said she was so proud of him- was always so proud of him. And she didn’t laugh at the tears that fell after.

He wondered what Jason had said when he phoned, but he never asked.

III

After Reid killed Tobias Hankel, he kept it together. He had to. Because as clever as Spencer thought he was being, everyone knew he was keeping information from them. And Hotch wasn’t going to let him become the next Elle. He wasn’t going to let Gideon convince him everything was fine, because it wasn’t. And it wouldn’t be. Not for a while. Maybe not ever. But that wasn’t the priority. The priority was making sure Reid would be okay at the hospital. Then to get home. Then to give his statement. It wasn’t about making him better. It was about helping him get through each stage.

He didn’t break, because his team already hated him. Reid had called him a narcissist, and whilst he knew what was really being said, he couldn’t help but worry his youngest agent thought it was true. He knew Reid had initially believed what he had said to Phillip Dowd, but they had worked to move on from that. He thought they had. Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe Reid really did think Hotch viewed himself as better than everyone. If only he knew the truth.

Morgan had called him a drill sergeant, but he could handle that. Prentiss saying he trusted men more than women wasn’t hard to understand. He could argue that in her case, it was justified. But JJ calling him a bully without any hesitation had been like a knife to the heart. Worse than that. It had been like a small paper cut on each part of his body, so the pain would never fade. Not properly, because as soon as it stopped in one place, it started in another. He had tried so hard to love all of them. Especially her. She reminded him of Haley. Not because he was attracted to her- he wasn’t, no matter what rumours flew around- but because of her spirit. Her kindness. Her warmth towards everyone. Her willingness to trust. Her ability to be good, despite all she had seen.

Jason had been the only one to not say anything. But Hotch knew he would’ve had something to say. That was why he’d cut them off, started talking about an argument he had forgotten until then.

He didn’t break that night. Or the night after. He pulled away from the team, observing from a distance. He didn’t deserve to cry. Not when it was his fault Reid was struggling with a drug addiction he thought he was hiding. His fault JJ couldn’t even look at dogs without shaking.

It was his fault. He would lock away his need to fall apart until he could look at them without guilt clouding his mind.

Deep down, he knew he would be going back to an empty house after leaving for the case. Still, it was painful to see almost every trace of Haley and Jack gone. It hurt to look around the place they were meant to raise their son together and only see his own clothes and shoes. The plates Haley had picked because they were more fun than the set from her parents. The crib he had assembled before leaving. Jack had migrated to a bed, but they had just never gotten around to getting rid of it. The photos from the case that had ended everything.

He sat on their bed, head in his hands. At some point he started crying. For everything he had done wrong, for everything he was going to still screw up.

And then the phone rang. And Spencer was speaking too quickly for him to understand everything that had happened, but he managed to grasp the most important fact: Gideon was gone. He had left them. With nothing but a letter, addressed to Spencer, that he had left at the now cleared out cabin.

Despite the weariness stamped into his bones, he told Spencer to stay where he was. He drove to pick him up, took him back to his apartment. Said Haley would understand when he started to panic about taking him away from his wife. He rocked Spencer to sleep, singing the same lullabies he heard Haley sing to Jack when he wouldn’t stop shrieking. Noted there were no new marks on his arms and breathed a sigh of relief. He had to stop pulling away from Reid now Gideon was gone.

He couldn’t believe it. Well. He could believe Gideon leaving, always knew the day would come where he would decide he couldn’t do it anymore, and he had thought that day would be when Bale blew up six of their best agents, but when it didn’t happen then, he had dared to hope that it would never happen. He couldn’t believe Gideon had left the way he had. With only a goodbye to Spencer.

And he wanted to be mad at Spencer, because he was there and it would be so easy, but he looked at his sleeping figure, and knew he couldn’t. It wasn’t his fault. But he was mad at Gideon for only saying goodbye to Spencer. Because he had been the one to step up and become Unit Chief when Gideon was placed on leave. He had sacrificed his marriage and his life to make sure the team stayed together. Him. Not Morgan, definitely not Reid. Wasn’t he worth saying goodbye to? Had he really meant that little to Gideon?

For the next few weeks, everything served as a reminder. Reid quoting something or other reminded him of a book Gideon had recommended. A smile from a stranger in the street reminded him of Haley. The silence of a too big house reminded him of how he had failed. A comment about fallen agents made him think of Jason and Elle.

He wanted to walk away as well. Beg Strauss for that transfer and go to Haley. Tell her he would do anything, if she would just come home. But his team- the team Gideon had already abandoned- were depending on him. They didn’t hate him now, but they would if he left as well. So he helped JJ with the requests, took interest in the languages Prentiss could speak, offered to listen to each and everyone of Reid’s lectures. He let Morgan take control every once in a while.

And if he became more Hotch than Aaron in doing so, then that was the price he would pay for not being better.

Chester Hardwick was- for lack of a better term- an absolute shit show. Going into a cell with a dangerous serial killer and picking a fight with him had not been the plan. The initial plan had been to get in there, do the interview as quickly as possible, drive back to Quantico in silence- Reid never spoke on the return journey (he had never fully decided if he hated or loved that)- and ignore Haley’s demands for another night.

Then JJ phoned. And he knew she was trying to keep her tone professional, to not pass judgement on his soon-to-be ex-wife, but it was impossible to miss. Haley had clearly made it into a big deal that he hadn’t answered her calls. It angered him. He didn’t want to give up his son, or only be able to see him on the weekends because it wasn’t fair. He couldn’t guarantee he would even be available on the weekends, but he could guarantee to be there after a case.

Haley didn’t want to accept that. She didn’t want to amend the custody agreement. He didn’t want to go to court and have his faults brandished, but he didn’t want to back down. Which meant they were stuck. And she knew he would eventually be forced to give in and lose.

Again.

He told himself he needed to keep it together. He wouldn’t shout at Reid, not when he was still recovering from Hankel, from Gideon, from all the other bad things that had happened to him since then. And if he was being completely honest, he probably couldn’t shout at Reid, even if he needed to. For although he knew Spencer wasn’t the same innocent, uncoordinated mess that had joined his unit five years ago, he was still so good and kind. Hotch wouldn’t take that from him by shouting because he was frustrated at himself.

Instead, he provoked a dangerous serial killer. That had been one of the few things Haley had never gotten wrong about him: he never did things half-heartedly.

So instead of asking questions to help understand why Hardwick had killed all those women, he shrugged his jacket off, loosened his tie (the memory of cold metal pressed against his neck still woke him even now) and raised his hands on a man who could very easily take any of the things in the room and kill him.

It was stupid. It was reckless. It was the kind of behaviour his father would beat him for, that Haley would shout at him for, and that Rossi would probably give him a round of applause and a drink.

But he was so angry at everything and everyone and he needed to relieve the tension but he couldn’t do it by going down the firing range and shooting a gun because it wasn’t the same. Maybe he was exactly like his father in that respect. Maybe it was the first step into becoming the monster he always knew he would be. It was unfair to say all abused children became abusers. It was fair to say profilers were just unsubs on the right side of the law. Sure, they did the right thing, but at the end of the day, they knew how serial killers and child abducters worked. Crossing the line wouldn’t be hard for any of them.

He raised his fists at a serial killer because he needed to feel something under them. He needed to release the anger and sadness and guilt that flowed beneath his veins. Needed to see the blood on his fists from punching something too hard as a reminder he was human. And he knew that wasn’t healthy, but it was the truth.

Something he had never been good with.

It was stupid. And he should have- could have, very easily- died.

But of course Reid saved him. Dr Spencer Reid, who was always rattling off statistics nobody understood, who had almost been sick at his first crime scene, who had teared up during his first solo interrogation, saved him. By playing to his strengths. He went on and on about the effects of abuse on a child, about the psychology behind finding release in murder, about what made someone into a serial killer.

He kept his audience of one captive for so long that the guards came and unlocked the door without Hardwick ever laying a hand on either of them. He managed to talk a serial killer out of murdering two federal agents. Hotch felt so proud. And disgusted with himself. Reid had talked long enough for the anger to evaporate into thin air and the shame to rain down on him like a storm.

What had he done? It wasn’t falling apart, because he knew what it was like when he fell apart, and that wasn’t it, but it was horrifying. Humiliating. He had put himself and his own issues above Reid’s safety.

He was every bit the narcissist Reid had once described him as being. The thought made him sick. Today it had been a serial killer, but how long before it became his team? Before it became his son?

He felt sick. But he forced himself to get behind the wheel, rejecting Reid’s offer to take over the driving for a little bit. He knew Reid hated driving. But when they had been on the road for a good twenty minutes, and the younger agent still hadn’t said anything about the journey back, or the sky, or the cars around them, he knew he had screwed up.

Scratch that. He had fucked up.

Which was why he told Reid the truth. He hated speaking about his personal life, had always struggled with being open with others, especially the people he worked with because he was the Unit Chief and that meant he was supposed to be there as a strong presence that couldn’t be harmed, but Reid deserved to know why Hotch had been so willing to try and get himself killed.

“I am sorry. I shouldn’t have endangered you like that. It was wrong, and if you want to say something to Rossi or Strauss, I won’t stop you,” he said, after his confession that he couldn’t get what he wanted.

“I won’t say anything Hotch. You would never purposely disregard my safety. Even if you put yourself at risk, any harm that happened to me wouldn’t be deliberate. I know you kick better than a nine year old girl, and that you were holding back with Dowd because you didn’t want to hurt me too badly. And you didn’t,” Reid replied.

His throat went dry. “Hurt you too badly? As in, I did hurt you?”

The sudden fear he radiated made Reid pause. A bad move. Hotch was a damn good profiler, and whilst he always tried to follow the no inter-team profiling rule, some things were just too obvious to miss.

“I need to pull over,” he said.

Reid nodded, face pale and terrified. Luckily, he didn’t follow when he got out the car. And when he returned, Reid handed him a bottle of water and a mint.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he had whispered after Hotch had begrudgingly taken both.

“I hurt you,” Hotch replied. There was no point in trying to be the Unit Chief now. Reid had dismantled his shields by accident, and no suit or back-up weapon could prevent Aaron emerging and taking over from SSA Hotchner.

“But it wasn’t intentional then, and it wasn’t intentional with Hardwick. And you would never hurt Jack. Not in the way you think you may. I’m not saying you’re never going to make a mistake, you will, but you won’t hurt him the way your father did. You’re too good of a person to do it. I saw you holding Jack. The love in your eyes couldn’t be faked. And the way you rocked me to sleep after Gideon left was gentle and kind. You made a mistake with Hardwick. And that’s okay. You don’t have to be perfect. Not with us.”

Hotch stared at him. “I- how do you know about my father?” he asked, defences rising. The only members of the team who had known were Gideon who never followed the rules, and Dave, who had always had a soft spot for him.

Spencer flushed. “I didn’t profile you. We shared a room that one time, and the door to the bathroom wasn’t closed properly so I saw the scars. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been looking.”

“It’s okay,” he said, because it had to be.

The younger man didn’t seem convinced.

“Spencer.” The use of first names always drove points home. “It’s fine. I suppose everyone was going to work it out at one point or another. Thank you for not bringing it up then.”

When they pulled into the car park at Quantico, Reid did something very unexpected. He hugged Hotch. For a moment, he stood there, frozen because it had been so long since someone had done more than shake his hand that a hug felt so foreign, but then he regained control of his body and he bought his arms up and around him.

“Thank you Spencer,” he said.

“You once said to JJ that it’s okay if you lose it every once in a while. That it reminds us that we’re human. I think you should take your own advice.”

He nodded. But he didn’t.

He signed his divorce papers without contest. Haley was right: Jack deserved better than a father who could never confirm whether or not he would be there. He deserved better than a father who woke up in the middle of the night, and he definitely deserved better than a man who’s biggest fear was not that someone else would hurt their child, but that they would be the one to hurt them.

He signed the papers.

And then he got spectacularly drunk.

He used to love New York. He had never worked there, but one of the few holidays he’d had with Haley that hadn’t been cut short was spent in New York. They’d never had a case there, which was why they were both so eager to go.

It had been so nice, to be in a city, and not remember an unsub who tortured women then left their bodies in ditches, or who had preyed on vulnerable children and then manipulated them into joining their twisted cults.

He had loved New York.

And then Kate Joyner had died.

He wasn’t stupid, and his hearing wasn’t damaged when they first arrived. He heard JJ’s remark about her appearance and the tone in Emily’s voice when she had repeated his earlier statement that they had liased together.

It embarrassed him. If he had heard, then Kate definitely knew what they were saying. Not only did she have better hearing than he did, she was also pretty good at reading lips- a skill Hotch had learnt in SWAT and taught her for fun. And she had been staring at them, not him, when they spoke. It wasn’t going to be difficult for her to fill in the gaps.

They hadn’t slept together. He had been happily married at that time, still affectionately calling Haley at every opportunity. And she hadn’t been interested in him like that. They had just been friends that worked well together. He had found it easy to open up to her, and she had liked him because his Southern upbringing meant he was nothing but a gentleman to her.

Then they were both blown up, only he walked away with nothing but a ringing ear and a breaking heart. She would never do anything ever again, and it was all his fault. Everyone he cared about either left or died- his mother, Haley, Kate and Sean.

“Look man, I’m not going to pretend you’re fine because I’ve called your name twice and you haven’t even raised an eyebrow so you’re going to pull over and I’m going to drive,” Morgan shouted.

Hotch slammed the brake far too hard, and turned, glowering at his subordinate. “I could’ve crashed the car then. You don’t need to yell.”

“Yes, I do. What is going on with your ear?”

“It’s nothing.”

Morgan looked at him, the disbelief clear, but eventually rolled his eyes and turned to stare out the window. Hotch took the hint and started driving.

When they got back to Quantico, Rossi was tucked away in his office, and when Hotch looked through the paperwork he needed to fill in, he found half of it missing. JJ had left a note with her file saying she had moved his meeting with Strauss to next week. Garcia had left a batch of chocolate cupcakes with one of her many soft toys. Prentiss had already written her report, with no evidence of Reid’s input. Morgan appeared with his not too long after they returned. Reid offered to take the consults he had to do before he went home to an empty apartment.

He accepted, the impossible smile making an appearance.

His team- no, his family- were always going to be there. He realised then that he could depend on them. That they wanted him to depend on him. Because they could all trust him with their lives, and everything they had done since landing had been to show him that they understood. That he wasn’t alone.

His joy lasted till the door to his apartment swung open, and he was greeted with the impersonal furniture, boxes he hadn’t had the time to unpack. The absence of a smiling blonde and excited little boy pretending to be a superhero.

Instead of breaking, he pulled out a file about a case involving missing women. They had all been pregnant, unmarried and blonde. He hadn’t wanted JJ to see it. So he worked on a profile late into the night, only putting the file away when he was pleased the police would be able to find the unsub.

He couldn’t protect his team from a lot, but this. This he could do. It was better than them realising he wasn’t worth baking for, wasn’t worth their attempts of comfort and walked away.

Haley was dead. She had been killed in the home they were supposed to raise their son in together, all because he had wanted to be a hero and refused to take the deal. The deal she had never found out about and would never find out about because Foyet had murdered her. It was stupid, but Hotch wondered what would have happened if he had taken the transfer. It wouldn’t have been this.

Foyet was dead. He had killed a man with nothing but his bare hands. He was worse than his father. He had killed a man who said they had surrendered because he was angry. And he knew Foyet would have never surrendered. He would’ve waited for Hotch to move away and then killed him, found Jack and made good on his promise. He knew that, logically, there was no other option.

It didn’t make him feel any less like a monster. That was part of the reason why he had sent Jack away as soon as possible. He didn’t want his son to see him covered in blood long enough for it to become a proper memory. Didn’t want his son to see it and start asking if his daddy had been hurt by a bad guy because he didn’t want to explain that this time, daddy had been the one to hurt the bad guy. He had hurt him so badly that he was never coming back.

And neither was mommy.

The only real parent Jack had ever had was gone, and he didn’t know what to do. He had never prepared himself to have the conversation about death with Jack. It was morbid, but he had always assumed Haley would be the one explaining that sometimes bad things happen to good people, and because of that, dad wasn’t going to be coming home anymore, because he was going to go to heaven instead.

He’d never been particularly religious. But he wished he was. At least then he could believe himself when he finally told Jack that mommy had gone to heaven like some of the other kids’ grandparents.

Not for the first time, he wondered why he ever thought having kids was a good idea. He hadn’t wanted them at first. He hadn’t wanted to bring a child into the world when so many people were evil and malicious. Hadn’t wanted to put anyone else at risk of becoming the object of his anger. He didn’t want to repeat the actions of his father and become the monster in the closet he had always been terrified of.

Then he had met Haley, and she reminded him of the stars. For she brightened even the darkest moments, and he just knew that no matter what he became, if she had his children, they would shine like the brightest star, and they would never become irreparably damaged by his own paranoia and fear because she would be there for them.

Now she was gone. And it was all his fault.

But he managed to keep it together at work for his team, and at home for his son.

Jessica had been a lifesaver, taking Jack out when Hotch needed a break, staying with them until Jack had settled into the apartment properly. She even dug up old albums and gave them to Hotch, saying that he deserved to have them. The two of them had grown closer, and he was happy for that, but he just wished it hadn’t taken the death of Haley to let them bond. Jack had nightmares about a loud bang, and sometimes he would wake up crying for his mother, but Hotch had already started looking into therapists for children, and he also sat with Jack, stroking his hair and reading him stories till he fell asleep.

He never told Jack he too had nightmares about lots of things, and sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night, terrified and wanting someone there to comfort him. Both Jessica and the bureau psychologist he was forced to see had told him to, but there was something- pride mainly- that prevented him from ever admitting to his son that he wasn’t okay.

At work, he compartmentalized as much as was humanly possible. The team were doing their best to cope, and he knew the only reason he’d been offered the option to take his retirement package or return, as opposed to being fired without any benefits, was because of the accounts they had given Strauss. Accounts that framed him as a man desperate to bring a killer to justice and protect his son, as opposed to a man who had become obsessed with one particular case that had hindered his ability to do his job.

He never said thank you, because he knew they wouldn’t understand. In their eyes, he had been heroic. He had done what any of them would have. But Hotch knew he hadn’t. He knew his team. They were better people than he was, and they would never have killed a man who had surrendered, no matter how bad their crimes had been.

So although he wasn’t okay, he kept it together. He kept it together for as long as he could, and he ignored his own broken heart, ignored the constant replay of the final conversation he’d ever had with Haley and the sound of gunshots ringing out. He ignored the nightmares and the memories, the sick feeling that overwhelmed him every time he remembered that Foyet had won by destroying him and then moulding him into the person he’d sworn not to become.

He stayed strong because he had to be. But it was becoming harder everyday as the threads that held him together frayed with every scream from his son’s bedroom, every sympathetic smile Strauss gave him in meetings, every hand Jessica placed on his shoulder, every file his team tried to hide from him and pass to Rossi to sign off on instead.

It was three months after that the thread finally snapped clean in half. He had thought he was getting better. Jack certainly was. His twice-weekly trips to the therapist were proving to be beneficial as he was sleeping through the night more often and finding it easier to talk about his mom, even if he didn’t fully understand what was going on. Jessica had gone back to work and was slowly moving through her own grief as she tried to honour the memory of her sister by sharing her memories with her son and ex-husband.

Aaron thought he was doing the same, but maybe repressing and coping had become the same in his mind.

It was late, but Jack had gone to see his grandparents with Jessica and he didn’t fancy going home- not when the rest of his team were still there- so he got a coffee, ignored their concerned faces and started working on a consult he hadn’t got round to the previous day.

He dropped his mug the moment he opened the case file and saw who the victims were.

All blonde women. All divorcees. All of them had been the ones that filed, and all of them had filed because they felt neglected. All of them had been awarded custody of the child, without a court hearing. The police were stuck because they couldn’t find anyone in the local area who had been married to a blonde woman and had one young child.

The sight of their bodies, mutilated and bloody, made him sick. The images blurred as he tried to blink away tears. Next to the photos of their dead bodies were the pictures of their faces, genuine smiles and sparkling eyes, blissfully unaware of the evil that was about to happen.

He didn’t hear the mug shatter into nothing as hot coffee went all over the wooden flooring. All he heard was a gunshot, then another and then a third, and Foyet taunting him, saying he would find Jack and show him the bodies of his dead parents. Maybe he screamed, maybe he couldn’t make a sound, but he couldn’t see anything properly as tears streamed down his face and made everything unfocused and fuzzy.

“-you hear me?” someone asked.

He blinked. Why was he on the floor? What had happened? He looked down, saw his knees pulled to his chest, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“What?” he managed to say, voice hoarse.

“What’s wrong?” Rossi asked, kneeling beside him.

He looked up, saw Spencer and JJ in the room, Emily and Morgan in the doorway, and Garcia behind them.

“Nothing,” he lied. He was supposed their leader, the mom of the team- he had grown to accept that title. He couldn’t fall apart in front of them. “You’re going to hurt your knees if you sit like that for much longer.”

Rossi cursed in Italian. “Kiddo, I don’t care. I want to know what’s going on with you. You’ve been pretending to be strong for these past few months, and we know how much you hate anyone interfering with your personal life, but if you’re hurting, you need to let me help.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated.

JJ picked up the file, opened it without a word. “Oh, Hotch. Why didn’t you let one of the others deal with it?”

There was such sadness in her eyes, he couldn’t look at them. “Because I can handle it.”

The sound of Reid’s cane coming closer gave him something else to focus on. “Hey Hotch,” he greeted gently. “Do you want to know something? After Hankel, I found it almost impossible to deal with consults involving someone who was using drugs, either on themselves or the victims. I had to try and pass the files off to Morgan and Prentiss. I can do them now, but it still hurts. So it’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” he said. “It’s not because it’s my fault she’s dead. If I hadn’t rejected the deal, all those people on the bus would still be alive, Haley would be here and Jack would have a real parent, who could be there and comfort him, instead of a failure of a father who can’t guarantee to keep him safe and who wakes up shouting in the middle of the night.” He didn’t know why he suddenly opened up, but Reid just had that effect on people sometimes.

Reid blanched. Rossi pulled away, shock all over his face. Garcia pushed her way into the room, heels louder than Reid’s cane and threw her arms around Hotch in a tight hug. He felt the sleeve of his shirt start to get wet, and it was only then that he realised Garcia was crying.

“It is not your fault that Haley died. It is Foyet’s. He killed her, and you had no control over his actions. You did the right thing by not taking the deal, and don’t you ever think otherwise. You are a real parent. You’re a parent to almost everyone on this team, and you’re a wonderful father to Jack. Stop beating yourself up. You’ll never be able to protect him from everything, but that doesn’t mean you’re not good. You are the best man I know, and I know some pretty great people. So dry those eyes, and let us help you,” she said, determined.

He stared at her for a few moments.

“Sir,” she added hesitantly.

“Do you honestly believe that?” he asked, more tears threatening to spill.

Garcia nodded.

Morgan crept closer. “I know what it’s like to grow up with a dad. And Jack will never have to go through that, because even if you’re not there in person, you’re there emotionally. He won’t remember missed soccer games or forgotten parent-teacher conferences. He’ll remember how you read to him, how you always listened.”

“My father turned up to everything I ever did. But it never felt like he cared. It felt like he was just trying to keep my mother happy. When you go to Jack’s things, he knows you’re there because you love him, and that is all any child wants,” Emily added.

“You’re more of a father than my own dad ever was,” Reid declared.

“Hotch, you were the one that taught me that this job doesn’t have to take everything away from us. That we can still form meaningful relationships with others. You never doubt my choices, you just make sure I’m able to back them up, and you’re the reason I don’t go home fretting about whether or not I made the right call,” JJ said, tucking the file away.

“Aaron, I never got to meet my son. But every time I see you smile, every time I see you handcuff another unsub, or speak to a victim, I am reminded that family is not just blood. You’ve been strong for far too long. Let yourself fall and trust us to catch you,” Rossi finally spoke.

“I just couldn’t believe she was gone. And then I saw the photos, and I realised it must have been like that for someone else when she died and it finally hit me and I just couldn’t, but I thought I was moving on and-“ he couldn’t speak, the words not able to push past the lump in his throat as the emotions finally overwhelmed him and the soft cries became mournful sobs that eventually calmed into sniffles.

Rossi and Garcia never stopped hugging him. Reid kept his hand on his shoulder. JJ smoothed his hair, singing the same lullabies that Henry heard every night before he slept. Morgan and Prentiss stood to the side, having locked the door and closed the blinds.

Once he had enough awareness to realise what he had done, he tensed and waited for the hit. It never came. What came instead was a series of encouraging smiles, the option to talk, or just sit in silence. The promise to never leave. To always be there when he needed them.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You’re our family Hotch. We’re not going to let you suffer,” Morgan said.

Everyone nodded.

It wasn’t easy, falling apart. Especially not in front of your colleagues. But Morgan was right, they were a family. So Hotch finally let himself fall, finally let himself feel all the grief he had been burying for so long, and for once in his life, he let someone else catch him. He let them in. He accepted their support, however long it took for him to actually do so was irrelevant. He let himself cry, and he let his family dry his tears.

They wouldn’t leave him. Not now. Not ever.

But soon, he would be saying goodbye to JJ, wondering how they were going to survive without her. He would be faking Emily’s death, then fleeing because he was a coward who couldn’t bear to see their grief-stricken faces. He would be forced to confront his own actions, reveal the deadly secret that had been slowly killing him. He would damage the trust that had taken so long to build, damage the friendship he had with Morgan, potentially ruin the friendship between Reid and JJ.

He would be crying himself to sleep. Having nightmares that stopped him from doing that for more than a few moments.

And then Garcia would find him rocking himself in his office, whispering I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, to himself. She would drop her request for advanced technology, and once again wrap her arms around him. She would tell him that he did the right thing, that in time, everyone would forgive him, would trust him again. He would look at her, and her heart would break, because her boss should never look that pale and broken, and ask if she was sure.

She wouldn’t be able to answer for a moment. And then she would say she forgives him. And that it was okay.

The next day, Morgan would ask him to check a file. Reid would tell him about the stars. Garcia would bring him a slice of pie. Rossi wouldn’t make any comments that undermined his authority or showed a lack of trust. Prentiss would call him Hotch again, instead of sir. He would invite them for dinner, and they would all accept.

He would confess that keeping the secret had broken him, and they would all forgive him. He would finally let himself cry, let them put him back together. And they would decide to have a very dodgy sleepover- Garcia’s suggestion- because Jack wanted to see Henry, and who could ever say no to his requests.

And that night, Spencer Reid would phone his sponsor, not because he was scared of using, but because he didn’t want to.

Jennifer Jareau would snuggle up to William LaMontagne Jr instead of pulling away from him like she had the past few months.

Derek Morgan would not blame himself for everything that had gone wrong that day.

David Rossi would not curse the God he believed in, he would thank Him for bringing Emily back safely, and for granting Aaron peace.

Emily Prentiss would sleep without a knot in her stomach, for she would finally be sure her family would be okay.

And Aaron Hotchner would watch his family with a smile, before he finally fell asleep as well, not a single tear needed to exhaust himself. He would be a little more whole, once again sure the people around him did truly love him. And he would remember his wife, just before he fell asleep, and it wouldn’t hurt, because he was happy.

#criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #hurt hotch #sad hotch #dear lord why am i doing this #tw child abuse #sumayyah writes cm

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violetsmoak · 5 years

Text

Tabula Rasa [1/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183281/chapters/47822500

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Tim and Jason have known they are soulmates for years, though neither has said anything about it. Tim thinks Jason doesn't know, and is just trying to live with it. Jason thinks Tim knows but doesn't care, which is fine with him, he thinks the soulmate thing is a crock anyway. But one night, a minor mishap forces them to confront the issue head-on, leading to a series of events no one could have predicted.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #a lie #bright vivid colours #danger #enemies to lovers #soulmate aversion #soulmark tattoo

Canon-Compliance: Follows the New Earth continuity, with elements of New 52 (ie the ones that don’t completely contradict everything that happened pre-Flashpoint). Ignores Rebirth completely. So, up to about 2016 in terms of publication dates? Robins War happened, but Red Hood hasn’t met Artemis or Bizarro, and nothing bad has happened to Roy ffs!

Beta Reader: I'll get back to you on that.

________________________________________________________________

“Three cheers for the happy couple!”

The south wing ballroom of Wayne Manor erupts with the raucous shouts and applause of a hundred and twenty reception attendees. Tim’s congratulations get lost in the din, but he does catch Dick’s eye and flash him a thumbs up.

Seated at the high table, his older brother leans in and kisses his bride, which causes more cheering and catcalls from the guests, and makes the normally unflappable and newly named Barbara Gordon-Grayson blush.

Tim turns away and pastes a smile on his face as the Davenports, a senior couple and two of Wayne Enterprises' most influential shareholders, approach him.

Time to be ‘on’ again…

A generous mix of family friends (most of whom are vigilantes or heroes), and GCPD officers, fill the ballroom. These are interspersed with a few Haly’s Circus performers, and the requisite number of elite guests required by the Society pages of the Gotham Gazette.

Bride and bridegroom sit at the head table with their respective entourages, engaged in animated chatter. Babs and her maid of honor Alysia dissolve into laughter as Dick says something to Damian, who scowls and turns redder by the minute. The Gordon family is there, the Commissioner conversing in stiff politeness with his ex-wife Barbara, and Bruce is in full “Brucie” mode. In the background, Alfred directs the hired staff with his usual decorum and efficiency.

Across the room, Cassandra drags Stephanie over to the dance floor. At a smaller round table near the bride and groom, Duke just misses being speared with a fork by his girlfriend when he tries to sneak a piece of Izzy’s cake. Helena flirts with both Luke and Kate and Tim’s sure Selina is somewhere in the house stealing something to lure Bruce over to her place later.

It’s rare to have so many members of the family together in one room, and so Tim does his best to ignore the lingering dismay at the glaring absence in their numbers.

Dick and Babs look at each other now and again, like they’re the only ones in the world, and he makes an effort to find it adorable. He bolsters the jovial front he’s been wearing all night, reminding himself that his happiness for his brother and new sister-in-law isn’t something that needs faking. It took so long for them to sort everything out between them; it goes to show that being soulmates doesn’t equal an automatic perfect relationship.

I know that better than anyone.

It’s just getting more difficult with every passing hour to maintain the graceful Timothy Drake-Wayne façade.

“It will be your turn next,” Mrs. Davenport informs him, while her husband nods along. “Since Richard and dear Cassandra have found their matches, you’re the only one left.”

Tim’s smile becomes a little more forced. “Well, there is Damian.”

The demon brat looks as if he swallowed a mouthful of peppercorns as Brucie leans over and ruffles his hair, laughing his raucous fake laugh.

Now I’m glad Dick didn’t ask me to be his best man, or I’d be the chump stuck up there.

Not that he was that upset when he heard the news.

Tim’s distanced himself enough from the loss of Robin to accept Damian needs as much help as they can offer if he is ever to be a ‘real boy’. Little gestures like this from Dick are part of a larger plan. And it was endearing, in a way, to see the kid stomping around in the weeks leading up to the wedding, trying to check off a list of best man duties he’d printed off the internet.

And dissolving into teenaged fury when innocent things went wrong or when the groom teased him by flouting what Damian considered ‘according to convention’.

And then there was that bachelor party he organized…

It would seem extreme trampoline parks were a thing; also, getting banned from said parks within an hour for trampolining while drunk was a thing.

“Yes, but he’s still so…young,” Mrs. Davenport says, bringing him back to the present. Tim perceives how she hesitates on the best word to describe the youngest member of the Wayne family.

“It’s fine, you can call him a prepubescent terror. I always do.”

“Oh, Timothy!” Garish laughter as if he told the most hilarious joke of the season. “You are such a character. Why haven’t you found your someone yet?”

Tim catches sight of Steph once again, dancing with Cass and looking carefree and blissful and in love. And this time it’s a bit harder to experience only joy for his siblings, more of a struggle to fight the pang of hurt and jealousy that rears its head.

“You’re almost eighteen,” her husband remarks, interrupting his thoughts. “Most people find their matches much younger. Eleanor and I met when we were fourteen.”

“Oh, it was a beautiful summer in the Hamptons.”

“And it seems like youth today are finding each other earlier every year.”

“My sister and Stephanie didn’t,” Tim points out, only somewhat strained because that one still stings.

He and Steph had been together for most of their teenage years. She hadn’t possessed a soulmark, and Tim’s…would lead nowhere. He truly loved her, and if things were different, he knows they would have had a happy future. Lots of people whose marks don’t match are.

But then the day Spoiler and Black Bat met, they’d shaken hands, and everything fell into place. He’ll never forget either of their eyes—Steph bemused as her mark appeared for the first time and then exploded into color across her forearms; Cass puzzled until she realized what was happening. Then her face became an open book of joy rivaled only by how she looked when Bruce told her he intended to adopt her.

Faced with their happiness, it was only natural that Tim took a step back, much as it hurt to do.

“Perhaps your soulmate lives in another country,” Mr. Davenport suggests; it is clear he is not picking up on Tim’s reluctance.

“Oh!” his wife cries. “You should go on that television show they have now! You know, the one where they try to help you track down your match? I can’t remember the name, but it’s something like The Amazing Race or the Bachelorette.”

“Perhaps yours is younger than you. That happens sometimes.”

“Yes! May-December relationships aren’t that uncommon with your generation, I hear.”

“Or maybe they’re dead,” Tim suggests, and though his tone is light and friendly, his words shut them up in an instant.

Because if very well could be true.

Tim’s never shown off his mark in public, and he told Steph that exact story when she asked all those years ago. At the time, he wasn’t even lying.

Soulmarks develop around puberty and last the duration of the lifespan of the shorter-lived partner. Some people are born with several, the way Dick was, and some only share platonic or familial bonds, like Alfred and Bruce. Others have none at all. When a soulmate dies, the mark associated with them vanishes.

That’s because most don’t come back from the dead.

Still smiling at the now cringing couple, Tim takes his leave, letting them stew in their faux pas as he wanders toward the bride and groom’s table. He’s reached his limit.

Not wanting to crouch down in the middle of their group, he gestures until his brother sees him and makes an excuse to Babs. She’s following his gaze, offering Tim a worried look, but he smiles and shakes his head, trying to telegraph ‘It’s nothing. Go back to your celebration.’

Dick is red-faced and his eyes brighter than usual when he gets to Tim; people been plying him with generous amounts of alcohol all day. “Hey, Timmy, what’s up?”

“I think I‘ll make my way out,” he replies. “Do a bit of patrolling and then turn in.”

“Tim…”

Dick’s expression becomes concerned, and Tim shifts in discomfort.

“Someone has to be on the streets while you guys are slacking,” he jokes. “You know it took an Act of Alfred to get Bruce to take the night off, right?”

(It was also pointed out that if any of big players had planned anything tonight, probability and precedent suggested they would try it at the Gordon-Grayson reception.)

“You don’t have to do that! I’ve already got one brother missing.”

“Consider this my wedding present. You get to stay and enjoy your party with the rest of the family.”

“You’re just trying to worm your way of giving us a real gift,” Dick accuses, but the words lack malice. With a surreptitious glance around to ensure they aren’t being overheard, he lowers his voice and asks, “Are things getting bad again? Do you need to talk? Because Babs won’t mind if I duck out for a bit.”

And he’s always doing this, checking in with Tim, even years after it’s been an issue.

There’s a distinct possibility Dick has noticed how uncomfortable the atmosphere is making him, despite him doing his utmost to hide it, to keep from casting a dark cloud over the festivities.

And Tim should be okay.

Bruce is back from having lost his memories, Damian’s stopped his determined attempts to sabotage or kill him, his relationship with Dick is almost normal again, he has his team and place with the Titans, and there hasn’t been a major crisis in Gotham for about a month which is a record.

Yet he still feels raw and exposed, ill at ease in his skin.

Bruce has been questioning him a lot more, criticizing the way he handles not only cases but projects at WE. Tim worries there’s less time for him to recover between being Tim Wayne, CEO, and Red Robin. And the Titans are getting to the age where many of them want to strike out on their own or pursue more civilian interests—jobs and schools and a normal life. He respects that, even if he doesn’t understand it.

He has never had a normal life, and never will.

But he does have more and more days now where he looks at himself in the mirror and wonders how he’s supposed to keep doing this forever. Can’t figure out how Bruce has managed it for so long. Tim suspects he’s becoming little more than his daytime public persona and his nighttime alter ego.

Who exactly is Tim Drake?

Instead of voicing any of this, though, he musters up a comforting smile for his brother and assures him, “There’s nothing to talk about. It’s like every day. Just one step at a time, right?”

Dick’s expression clears then, and he nods, relieved. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“And Dick?”

“Yeah?”

“Congrats.”

“Aw, thanks, Timmy.”

A bone-crushing hug later, and Tim’s car peels out of the estate parking garage, still ignoring the growing pit in his stomach.

He returns to his apartment in the Theater District, shedding his suit and tie in a pile that Alfred would have a coronary over if he were there to see it. Jumping in the shower, he scrubs himself of any traces of his cologne or other identifying scents he might have picked up at the reception and tries to get himself back into a clearer headspace.

He pauses for a moment at the sink, trying to shake off the lingering, bone-deep exhaustion. Several prescription bottles line the mirror—various sleeping aids, most of which don’t help anymore (but the rebound insomnia of stopping them isn’t worth the trouble). These days it’s only the heavy-duty sleep narcotics that work when he needs to turn his brain off for a few hours.

Among the personal pharmacy are several combinations of anti-depressants he tried in the past few months. Most of the time he powers through it, the way he’s done his whole life, but in recent weeks Tim’s noticed things getting hard again. The helpful alerts he sets on his phone don’t always convince him to leave his bed and even video games lack the usual draw. He sometimes gets lost in his head for hours; on bad nights, he hesitates a second longer before shooting a grapple line or dodging a knife. In rare moments, he considers his sleeping pills a little too much consideration, at which point he calls Dick or Connor. Talks to someone so he isn’t so alone.

As he dries off, Tim stares down at his right wrist, examining the complicated knotwork design emblazoned there. Swirls of crimson and gold loop in and out of each other, before cutting off along his forearm.

Everyone has a soulmark, an arrangement of swirling shapes across their skin; each is distinctive to the individuals bonded by them. They first appear when a person is in the general vicinity of their soulmate, manifesting as a colorless pattern of darker and lighter shades of melanin. Those patterns fill with bright, rich colors upon physical touching one’s mate. When pressed together, they interlock in only one way and retreat when contact stops.

Soulmates who have reciprocated bonds sport their marks in full and everlasting display. The sight is both beautiful and frustrating to see, even on his family, as he’ll never experience that himself.

His mark might be a stunning amalgamation of scarlet and gold, twisted into a mandala upon his wrist, but it will never be permanent. While it’s been a while since Jason’s made any energetic attempts to kill him, Tim’s resigned himself to living without a completed bond; tolerance is about the only thing he can hope for from his predecessor.

Finding Steph when they were younger had been a joy and a relief. Her not having a mark meant they both had a chance for a fulfilling connection. Until Cass.

Tim forces himself to stop dwelling on it and shoves the bleak thoughts down behind the wall he puts everything uncomfortable and not cohesive to whatever task he’s given himself. Instead, he busies himself with covering up his mark using the spray-on cover that doesn’t fade with water or perspiration, only coming off when scrubbed with a special soap. One of Bruce’s earliest and more practical inventions, since Brucie Wayne and Batman couldn’t have a soulmark in common.

Bruce covers his pretty much all the time, but Tim’s only been covering his when he suits up. He lives his life in disguise, he doesn’t want to hide such an important part of himself when he’s off the clock.

He heads down to the lower levels of his Nest, gets dressed while having the computer scan for trouble. The program calculates probabilities for where violence will crop up, where he should begin his patrol. He hopes for a busy night, something to distract him from his convoluted thoughts.

As usual, he intends to start his rounds off in Tricorner, and then go through Chinatown—which is when he notices movement on a camera that concerns him.

A familiar gleaming scarlet helmet.

Red Hood.

He debates with himself for several minutes.

On the one hand, it’s his regular patrol territory; on the other, seeing the other vigilante tonight, while his mood is already so low, isn’t something he wishes to contend with.

He clenches his fist.

He knew of Jason Todd for a year before discovering the second Robin was his soulmate. By the time he wanted to do anything about it, the older boy was dead, and Tim consigned to grieving in secret.

Then Jason came back, but it was almost worse than him being gone because he hated him. Without having ever met him.

Even now that he’s mellowed out (sort of), Jason appears to reserve more dislike for his successor than anyone else in the family, not counting Bruce and Dick for obvious reasons. Red Hood and Red Robin have run into each other enough in and out of costume that there have been ample opportunities for Jason’s soulmark to make itself known. That Tim has seen nothing close to resembling it means one of two things: either the other man hasn’t developed his mark yet, which is possible albeit rare, or he has, and like Batman, always keeps it covered.

Which says more than enough about his sentiments on the matter.

Between Jason refusing to acknowledge their connection, or just not being aware of it, Tim prefers to believe the latter, if only to make himself feel better. There’s no point in bringing up the soulmate thing at this juncture. He decided years ago to respect the status quo, for the simple reason it’s less painful than the alternative.

All that being said, he doesn’t enjoy watching Jason get in trouble, even more so when the situation is avoidable and he’s near enough to help. At the moment the big idiot is courting a potential gang war.

Sometimes protecting someone means protecting them from themselves and their bad choices, I guess.

Static crackles through the comm in his ear, and then he hears Batman’s low growl. “What’s going on in Chinatown?”

“Why am I not surprised you’re still listening to the comms at your son’s wedding,” Tim sighs. “Nothing. I’m handling it.”

“Are you sure?”

“B, I’ll help A drug you every day for a week,” he threatens. “And you know we both can and will find new and interesting ways of doing it.”

There’s a huff on the other side of the line. “…Noted. Reach out if you need backup.”

“You’ll be the first.”

“You’re lying.”

“Wow, you must be a detective or something,” he deadpans. “Red Robin out.”

Jason is the last person he wants to run into right now, but Tim’s also been cultivating a few informants there and he can’t have that jeopardized.

Looks like I’m going to Chinatown. Hope Lynx is in a good mood…

He wonders if tonight he’ll end up getting beaten up, or just insulted. He’s not even sure which would hurt more.

⁂

Jason goes flying out of the upper story of the restaurant, followed closely by a very tiny woman wielding a very big sword. She reminds him of Cheshire, with a shade less lethality.

Actually, if it were Jade, he would end up critically injured when she lands on him, using him as a cushion against the pavement. He manages to turn his body to land in a way that won’t break his back—though his right side will be a giant bruise tomorrow—and scrambles to his feet.

This is one of the reasons I avoid Chinatown.

Things never go well for him here, especially not since that thing with the Su family. It’s just better to avoid the place. But before that, he and the Ghost Dragons at least used to get along—professional courtesy and all that, along with an unspoken agreement not to step on each other’s toes.

That’s over, apparently.

All he’d wanted to do was ask some questions. One of his stool pigeons passed him some information on a human trafficking ring; according to him, it was based on Chinatown. It would seem sex slavers were luring young women over to the United States with the premise of work and accommodations. Then, upon arrival, the girls were hauled into a life of sexual servitude.

Jason didn’t even go in guns blazing this time or wearing the helmet. Just a domino and a hankering for some barbecue pork bun.

So, either someone tipped them off what I was coming around for, or this kid in the mask has something to prove.

There’s a slow curl of heat moving up the back of his left wrist and up his arm, and his first thought is he’s been cut. Except while the sensation is familiar, it isn’t the liquid warmth of blood.

The woman moves fast, and a beat later her sword is swinging downward. Jason’s hands fly to his holsters, thinking he’s going to have to break out the guns after all when there’s a clang.

Suddenly there’s a bō staff in front of his face, catching the sword inches before it slams into Jason’s nose.

Ah. And there’s the other reason I avoid Chinatown.

Because in the past year or so, it’s been part of the patrol route for a certain Timothy Drake.

A.k.a. his replacement.

A.k.a. Red Robin.

A.k.a. his soulmate.

No wonder that warmth in his hand was familiar; the soulmark must have reacted to the younger man’s approach.

After a brief tussle, there’s the sound of a grapple line firing, and then Tim flies upward, ridiculous cape fluttering, still holding the struggling woman.

Her sword stays on the ground.

“Oh, hell no,” Jason growls, because this is his business, damn it!

When he reaches the roof where Tim’s carried off Jason’s would-be-murderer, he notes they are standing close together, conversing in rapid Cantonese. Jason’s rustier at that than he’d like, but he gets the gist when the woman stalks right up to him and begins yelling and gesturing.

Then she shoves him and pushes away; a smoke bomb goes off, and then she’s gone.

Tim makes no move to go after her.

Which, seriously?

Jason stalks over, looming over the shorter man and touching his hand to the still holstered gun in his belt in an implicit (and mostly baseless) threat. He’s always amused at just how much of a height difference there is between him and his replacement, and tonight he makes a point of lording it over him.

“You guys looked awfully cozy there, Timbers.” Which shouldn’t bother him, but he can’t fight a twinge of irritation. “Care to share with the class what your little tête-à-tête was about?”

The cowl covers Tim’s face, but Jason can imagine the judgemental stare.

“She said your poking around her territory will jeopardize her investigation into the sex traffickers.”

“Her investigation? She’s the damn head of the Ghost Dragons!”

“Yeah, and she’s also an undercover operative sent by Hong Kong PD, which I’m only telling you, so you don’t decide to go and kill her for apparent crimes.”

And that was not what he was expecting.

“How do you know this?”

“She told me. She’s one of my CIs.”

“And you believed her?”

“Cass looked into her for me. She’s legit, even if she’s a little…unorthodox.” Tim’s head tilts to one side, considering; with the cowl it makes him look like his avian namesake. “You’d think you’d appreciate that.”

“On the list of things I don’t appreciate, you showin’ up while I’m chasin’ a lead is one of them,” Jason growls. “Don’t you have a party to be at?”

“I ducked out early.”

“Well, that’s lame.”

“Not as lame as someone who ignores the fifteen invitations he was sent.”

Ah, and now they’re back on familiar ground.

“Pfft, I’ve seen enough Brucie to last me several lifetimes.”

“Yeah, but it was for Dick. All you had to do was show up—” his mouth twitches here; Jason can’t tell if it’s amusement or irritation, “—in jeans, even.”

“I’ve been dead once; I don’t need Alfie murderin’ me for that big a faux pas. And somehow I doubt Barbie would appreciate if her wedding photos included Dickiebird sporting a swollen eye.”

Tim sighs. “What are you fighting about this time?”

“Other than the usual stuff? We’re not. But I’m sure he’d put his foot in it at some point and need a nice bit of cognitive recalibration.”

“And you, the perfectly innocent party in all this, would happily provide that?”

“Call it a civic duty.”

Tim shakes his head, but Jason thinks it’s done in amusement this time, instead of exasperation.

“I don’t know how she can settle for that birdbrain,” he continues. “How does she stand bein’ around him so often without wantin’ to punch him in the face every time he opens his mouth?”

“Maybe not every time.”

“Point still stands.”

“Well, they’re soulmates,” Tim says vaguely, distant like he’s not paying attention to what he’s saying. He fiddles with his wrist computer, giving no indication that he is aware of anything else.

Jason’s pretty sure that’s not the case.

After all, he’s practiced in the art of pretending not to feel how his soulmark warms the closer he stands to Tim. There’s no question Tim’s learned to do the same.

It might be hypocritical of him, but that makes him angry somehow.

“As if that explains it all,” Jason sneers. “Come on, Replacement, I thought out of all of them, your whole logical-scientific-question-everything-Klingon-mind wouldn’t go for that hokey soulmate crap.”

“Vulcan.”

That brings him up short. “What?”

“It’s Vulcan culture that’s more focussed on logicality and empirical data-gathering. Klingons are more combat-oriented and tend toward more aggressive means of…” He trails off when he realizes Jason staring at him. “What?”

“You complete nerd,” Jason tells him. “No wonder you left the wedding early. I bet socializin’ with normal people probably stressed you right the fuck out, didn’t it?”

Tim gives a noncommittal shrug.

“Havin’ a soulmate doesn’t mean people should be together,” Jason goes on, filled with the sudden need to hammer home this point. “Look at all the examples from history—Cleopatra and Antony, Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, Bonnie and Clyde—” He ticks the couples off his finger. “They were all soulmates and they all either made each other miserable or got each other killed.”

“You can’t apply a few historical anomalies to every soulmate pair,” Tim counters. “Life circumstances skew the data.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that fate shouldn’t decide if people will magically work out!”

“That’s not…” Tim appears frustrated, at last, putting down his wrist computer and clenching his jaw. “It’s not supposed to work out magically. It’s about finding the person who completes you. You still need to work at it. It’s not all magically going to fall in place, and you’ll be happy forever right away. Even soulmates don’t get to live perfect lives.”

Ain’t that the truth, Jason muses, considering Tim.

“Sounds like you want a soulmate,” he points out, a little stiffly, and what the hell possessed him to say that?

He wonders what the kid is going to say now, or if this is the day their careful pretense, the lie of not knowing gets shattered.

Luckily, though, Tim avoids opening that can of worms.

He takes a step back from Jason, looks away and mutters, “It’s not relevant to the Mission.” Which is a total cop-out, but Jason will take it. “Anyway, if you’re done causing trouble here and riling up the gangs, I’ll take my leave.”

“Wish you would.”

Tim shoots him an unimpressed glare—or at least, that’s what it seems like to Jason. “Don’t make me come back here. And for god’s sake, at least call and congratulate the happy couple.”

He grapples away rather than allow a witty retort; Jason watches him go with a scowl. Once he’s sure the other vigilante is gone, he tugs the glove off his left hand, frowning at the whorls of crimson and yellow retreating down his forearm and back to his wrist.

His soulmark appeared one night a few evenings before the Garzonas incident. Jason vaguely remembers swinging through an alley to escape yet another argument with Bruce and knocking out a bunch of thugs threatening a kid. He’d been so buzzed on adrenaline and fury he hadn’t noticed the warmth in his wrist. He only caught sight of the mark itself when he returned to the Cave.

And then he spent the night wondering if one of the assholes he knocked around was his soulmate. It wasn’t a comforting idea, and he’d decided then and there to cover up the mark and forget about it. The disappointment about his potential soulmate had been a contributing factor in a long line of shit the universe decided to dump on him that sent him to Ethiopia. If he was linked to scum like that, he wanted to be as far as possible from Gotham.

It never even occurred to him to imagine the kid in the alley was his match. Hell, it didn’t even register when he discovered that Tim Drake had been following Batman and Robin around for years.

Only that day at the Tower, when Jason made his first move against Batman and attacked his replacement, did he finally make the connection.

His mark reacted the minute they were in the same room, spreading across his skin and swirling about seeking its partner. Jason had been so far gone with rage that the sight of it had made him angrier, made him hit harder—because if he didn’t meet Tim before, it meant their bond hadn’t been strong enough to keep him from making the biggest mistake of his life.

It meant he was supposed to meet him after being ripped apart and rebuilt as a weapon.

Luckily, or not, Tim was unconscious before the manifested completed, sneaking out from beneath the long green gauntlets of Jason’s fake Robin suit.

And if he did happen to notice before passing out, the kid hasn’t said anything about it.

Probably hates me and doesn’t want to acknowledge the universe’s idea of a shit joke.

Jason doesn’t blame him. Soulmates are a crock of shit anyway, and Tim’s better off without being tethered to him, and vice versa. They should keep pretending.

Because Jason doesn’t get to be happy.

And Tim deserves better than him because Tim—as much as he’s a pain in the ass—is good.

“And on that note,” Jason murmurs to himself, putting his gauntlet back on, “time to play the villain.”

The tip he received put him in the Ghost Dragons’ crosshairs—which means someone on his payroll is making a move, either against him or against someone else.

Time to find out for sure.

And no more moping over this soulmate crap.

Johnny Lino is the head of an investment company that’s just a front for his money laundering. He’s been passing the Red Hood information about his clients for the better part of a year now, ever since Jason put the fear of Hood in him. Quite a feat, considering the man’s a few inches taller and broader.

Jason finds him in a condo off the Diamond District, watching the Knights game and stuffing his face with pretzels.

Ponzi schemes don’t buy manners, I guess.

“Johnny,” he greets in a clear, would-be friendly manner that has the older man choking up his most recent handful. “Long time no see. Got a bone to pick with you.”

He expects there to be some mumbling and groveling, a few bald-faced lies that require the generous application of foot to face and the reassurance that everything in Jason’s sandbox is back to the way it should be.

So, it surprises him when Johnny scrambles for something that Jason notes too late is a panic button. All of a sudden, half a dozen masked men in combat gear and carrying assault rifles are busting through the door.

“That’s a bit of an overreaction to some conversation, don’t ya think?” Jason asks, throwing himself into action to deal with the interlopers. Bullets fly and knives slice toward him, but in five minutes he’s standing in the ruins of the room with six unconscious men.

And one dead one.

Johnny’s got a neat hole in the side of his head, from one of his hired muscle’s guns, Jason presumes.

“And doesn’t that say a lot about the quality of hired muscle in Gotham these days?” he grumbles, kicking at the body. “Can’t even trust your own people not to shoot you by accident.”

He can hear sirens, knows a neighbor or someone has called in the noise and heads for the fire exit before anyone can link him to the scene. That’s all he needs is the big Bat thinking he pulled the trigger in there.

And damn it, the giant bastard was one of my best sources. Now I’ve got to find someone else.

The encounter bothers him.

He’s had people on his payroll get shifty before, but it’s been his experience that there’s more of a prelude before the attempt to stab him in the back. They try to run or talk their way out of it; it seems Johnny went all out, trying to take out the Red Hood, all because of a bit of questionable information.

If he was so desperate to hire a kill squad rather than answer some well-deserved questions…

Maybe it’s not me that spooked him.

He thinks back to the shot that killed Johnny, remembers the angle it hit the head, and where the exit wound was. The opposite direction from where the thugs entered—from the window.

“There was another shooter,” he realizes.

A quick visit to the building opposite confirms his suspicion: the scrape where someone set up a tripod, bullet casing rolled to one side.

It wasn’t Johnny afraid to talk to the Red Hood—someone else feared he would.

Question is, were they worried he’d talk or worried he’d talk to me?

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

This blog isn’t my primary, so my reblogs don’t show up very well. As such, please reblog the fic, otherwise not a lot of people are going to see it :)

<3 Violet

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unilifeonline-blog · 7 years

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Five components iOS ought to take from Android We have a couple of thoughts for what Apple ought to duplicate. Do you?

If you've come anyplace close to a tech site in the most recent year or thereabouts, you've heard everything some time recently. "iOS is getting stale contrasted with Android! It needs some new thoughts!" Whether that is in reality genuine is up for (warmed) wrangle about, however those with a receptive outlook are typically ready to recognize that Apple and Google could bear to swap a couple of thoughts with regards to their portable OSes.

So in a dreamland where we could bring over a portion of the better Android components to iOS, which elements would those be? Among the Ars staff, we once in a while have energetic "discussions" about what perspectives would be the best for each organization to photocopy. Along these lines, we thought we'd pick a couple that may run over well with iOS clients. Try not to stress, we have a sidekick post of elements that Android could bear to take from iOS. The duplicating can go both ways.

Nobody needs iOS to end up Android or the other way around. This is about perceiving how to enhance iOS with components that would be valuable to individuals contingent upon their cell phones for more than the infrequent content or telephone call. We perceive that Apple tries to keep an eye towards exquisite usage, as well. So which elements would we say we are discussing? Happy you inquired...

Google Now-style relevant administrations

For the individuals who aren't acquainted with Google Now, it can be somewhat mind boggling to disclose because of its extensive variety of administrations. (Look at Ryan Paul's writeup about it keep going August here on Ars.) On one side, Google Now does Siri-like voice activities, however that is not the part we need Apple to take from Android. The part we need is Google Now's capacity to give notices and different administrations in light of a scope of logical data, for example, your area, regardless of whether you're physically moving or not, your timetable, et cetera.

"Google Now can show comparative directing and activity notices for spots that the client expects to go, by checking the up and coming arrangements in the client's timetable. At the point when the client approaches a mass travel station, the product shows transportation plans. It can likewise illuminate the client when they are near purposes of intrigue—however living in the inconceivably dull rural areas outside of LA, I still can't seem to see this element in real life," Paul wrote in his piece.

Be that as it may, Google Now can do different things as well, as inspect your past pursuit history with a specific end goal to discover which sports groups you take after consistently or whether you've looked into a flight as of late. The administration will then begin offering you warnings with updates about this data. Or, on the other hand, as Ars Technical Director Jason Marlin called attention to, Google Now can advise you that guests are nearby in light of sent agendas in your email, or caution you that a bundle is out for conveyance—all without you setting up those sorts of warnings.

There will unquestionably be clients who don't care for the possibility of Apple consequently sifting through their email or continually perusing their GPS area. Yet, it ought to be something you can pick all through effortlessly. Furthermore, for those of us that are more alright with such an element, wouldn't it be pleasant if Siri could play out these same (or comparable) capacities?

Snappy settings in the Notification Center

There are some gadget settings we outright utilize more than others every day. For me, it's the Wi-Fi on/off flip on my iPhone, in light of the fact that my exceptionally Comcastic home Internet association can't remain up when I require it. For others, it may be the screen brilliance control, the Do Not Disturb switch, or the Personal Hotspot flip.

Android clients can get to specific settings by means of their own adaptation of the Notification Center, permitting them a brisk and simple approach to flip these without jumping such a distance out of an application, into the Settings application, and back. As surveys proofreader Florence Ion stated, "It's baffling switching back to the settings to deal with the splendor in case I'm really busy watching something on Hulu."

In the event that you could pull down the Notification shade while within an outsider application, you could alter the brilliance (or kill Wi-Fi, or turn on Do Not Disturb) without leaving the application in any case. No less than, a component like this would incredibly diminish the quantity of taps required keeping in mind the end goal to complete an errand, along these lines streamlining the convenience and making the iOS encounter a great deal more pleasant.

Autocorrect and spelling proposals

Its a well known fact that Apple's strategy for offering spelling recommendations and autocorrect can be an enormous disappointment for iOS clients. You're simply writing alongside your thumbs when iOS chooses something you've composed—maybe road names or out and out darken words—isn't right. Now, iOS starts to disclose to you what word it's going to autocorrect to on the off chance that you don't tap on your unique word to let it know "no." If you're similar to me, you tap on your unique word again and again and over with your fat fingers, however iOS autocorrects to its own particular word at any rate. At that point you need to delete over the whole thing and begin once again—normally doing combating with iOS once more over the spelling of your unique word. Wash, flush, rehash.

What's more, obviously, there is no specifically client editable word lexicon in iOS. You either need to enter your dark words as content macros (which is not precisely the first expectation of that component), or essentially trust the application being referred to in the end makes sense of the spelling you needed subsequent to entering it a thousand times.

There must be a more rich method for doing this, correct? Android clients appear to have the better end of the stick with regards to taking care of autocorrections and spelling. When writing out an irregular word, the OS will offer exchange spellings as catches over the console. Be that as it may, all the more imperatively, on the off chance that it figures out how to autocorrect your oath to something you didn't need, a solitary delete will reestablish the first spelling. Furthermore, it will inquire as to whether you need to add that word to your lexicon to boot. For all our rational soundness, Apple ought to embrace this sort of autocorrect conduct, detail!

The capacity to set default applications

You know the bore: maybe you favor Chrome over versatile Safari on your iPhone, yet every time you tap a connection from email it opens in Safari at any rate. Or, on the other hand maybe you like Google Maps or Waze, yet whenever you attempt to get headings from another application, it compels you to utilize Apple's Maps application. There's no real way to change which applications are utilized by the OS as defaults for these activities—you're held prisoner with Apple's own particular applications as the default.

Do iOS clients know how to continue on pointlessly on this theme? Yes. Be that as it may, that doesn't make this component any less alluring, particularly since our Android-utilizing companions get the chance to toss it in our confronts constantly. When they dispatch another program, the OS inquires as to whether they need to set it as the default—on account of the way that Android can perceive when you have numerous applications introduced to perform comparative capacities. On the other hand, they can change their default applications in their settings by going into an application director to pick whether that application dispatches of course for specific capacities.

"The decent thing is that with pictures, for example, I can choose which application to alter in without going into another application and finding it in the exhibition," Ion said. Undoubtedly, while maybe not each iOS client needs this element, enough of us think about it to make it a beneficial expansion to iOS.

Home screen alternate routes to places inside applications

iOS enables clients to set home screen symbols that go about as fast bookmarks to Web applications or other Web pages in Safari. This is quite advantageous, however you can't utilize that same usefulness to set an alternate way to a "page" or usefulness inside local applications. Our Android companions can, however, giving them simple access to certain data without navigating there unfailingly.

"I can set an easy route in Google Maps Navigation as a symbol on my landing page. For example, in case I'm lost in the auto and need to return home, i should simply press the symbol that I made and it dispatches the Navigation to my street number," Ion said. "I realize that iOS has this for bookmarks and so forth, yet I like having the capacity to do this with particular applications."

Without a doubt, there are various iOS applications I use all the time that compel me to explore completely through a few screens before getting the data I need. On the off chance that I could make another home screen symbol that connections straightforwardly to a specific usefulness inside an application—outsider or else—it would essentially eliminate taps. (Also, in the winter when it's 11°F outside, that implies less time with my poor, revealed substance being uncovered.)

This might be the most outlandish of the considerable number of proposals here, yet it's one that could be possibly helpful to the best number of clients. Simply think: what number of you have no less than one iOS home screen alternate way to a Web page? Precisely.

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