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party-gilmore · 3 years

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This is still just a half formed thought but @pebblesrus got me thinking bout The Pool Scene and Eliot viewing his body/safety as something to physically exchange for that of others, combined with the commentary about how Eliot was counting the seconds Hardison was without air, like

There's still the thrum of angry tension stretching out from Hardison between them through the night, during Flores's call, on the way in and through the airport... Eliot isn't avoiding Hardison's angry gaze, but he's not seeking it out either. It burns under his skin, a hot coil of discomfort and the sinking sensation of having ruined something unless he manages to make things even.

At some point midflight, Hardison gets up to pace near the bar (because it might have been last minute, but he's NOT gonna make the team fly coach - even though he's still upset with Eliot and may have thought about it for a minute). Eliot follows a few seconds later and catches Hardison on the way back, quickly shoving him into the small lavatory and locking the door behind them.

"Man! What the hell! If you don't get your hands off me, I-"

"One minute, nineteen seconds." Hardison stops flailing against Eliot's grip around his wrists and just... stares, incredulous.

"...what?"

"You were without air for one minute, nineteen seconds."

"...you were counting." It feels a little like a question, although it isn't. Not really. Eliot's grim expression softens often imperceptibly. Hardison would've missed it if they weren't crammed so tightly in the small bathroom. Eliot answers the non-question anyway, voice uncharacteristically gentle.

"Course I was."

Hardison tumbles that around in his head for a bit. Of course Eliot was counting. Probably to know when it was too dangerous anymore to stay in character. Hardison knows how important it was to gain Moreau's trust at the time. In his head, he knows that. Knew it, even then. He was just... so afraid, at almost drowning, and angry at the secrets Eliot was keeping... but he was counting. He would've gone in for him, if he needed. Blown the whole damn thing.

Yeah the situation just sucked all the way around, sure, and yeah Alec's still a little pissed - why wouldn't he be! He's got the right! - but Eliot was counting. That means even though he'd had to put Hardison's life at risk, he was willing to risk even more - his own safety, the entire con - to pull him back out if needed. That was something, right? That was still-

-Hardison's too busy turning the pieces around in his own head to notice Eliot shifting his grip from Hardison's wrists to his hands. Tugging them closer. Pulling them up.

Alec snaps back to the present when his fingertips graze the warm, flushed skin of Eliot's neck.

"What-"

"One minute, nineteen seconds." Eliot suddenly presses Hardison's hands tight around his throat, guiding his thumbs to the appropriate hollows beneath his jaw.

"You... you can't be fucking serious!"

He tries to pull away, but Eliot's grip holds fast.

"Damnit Hardison," his growl comes rough, grating, as he puts pressure on his own windpipe through Hardison's palm. "You were right! Okay? I risked your life. For one minute and nineteen seconds. So that's what you get. Just... just do it, man! Get it over with, then we're even!"

"Even-... man, do you not realize how fucked up this is? I'm not... I'm not doing this!"

With a growl, Eliot tears his hands away from Hardison's, and Alec snatches his newly freed palms back to his chest. Eliot clearly wants to pace, but can't in the cramped room, so he settles with carding his fingers through his hair.

"Then what the fuck else do you want from me, man!" His voice already sounds ragged, even with how short of a time Hardison (or rather, Eliot by way of Hardison) was pressing around his throat.

"I just wanted you to be honest with us! With me!" Hardison slumps back against the far wall, anxiously rubbing his jaw as he tries to find the words. "Alright, look, I get it, what you had to do at the pool. I do. That doesn't mean my being upset about it is just gonna... go away!"

"I know that!"

Hardison flinches as Eliot slams his fist against the side wall. He knows the strike wasn't meant to be pointedly 'at' him, that in such a small space there's not a whole lot of room to safely lash out in when feeling cornered, but it was still too close to him for comfort. Eliot clocks the flinch, and for a moment the frustration on his face morphs into a clear expression of the guilt he's been masking since the pool.

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't... fuck, I'm sorry," he pulls away, shrinking in on himself like he does on the grift, trying to consciously make himself seem smaller. "I just... I just don't want to have ruined us, man. Whatever is we've got... you and me, this team... I just wanna fix what I broke. I want us to be good."

"We are good, man," Hardison cautiously steps forward. He thinks to put a hand on Eliot's shoulder, but that's too close to his throat at the moment, so he goes for the outside of his arm instead. "You don't gotta... let me hurt you to make things even. That's... I don't know where the hell you learned that, but I don't like it. I'm not gonna do it. You just... you just gotta let me feel my feelings for a bit, okay? We'll get Moreau, and that'll feel fucking great, and have a little party, and everything will be fine. "

Eliot looks up at him and the ragged, raw desperation in his gaze about knocks Hardison back against the wall.

"...that's it?" Eliot's almost laughing, with a dry sarcastic bite behind his tone that makes him sound unhinged... well, more unhinged than usual. Although, he did just ask Hardison to choke him, so Alec figures we're not exactly working with the usual state of mind here.

"It's that easy, huh? You just... say we're good, and we're good?"

"Uh, yeah." Hardison shakes his head, tightening and loosening his grip on Eliot's arm in what he hopes is a soothing pattern. "That's how normal feelings work when somebody you care about pisses you off. You talk your shit out, it hurts for a bit while it heals up, then you're good. I don't know who fucking taught you you had to pay for-"

Oh. Oh but then it hits him. The dots finish connecting and he's looking down at Eliot, who's been strung tight and volatile as a clumsily stripped live wire ever since they closed in on Moreau, and in that moment Alec knows who taught him that.

He steps in close, carefully taking the back of Eliot's neck in a gentle grip, and ducks slightly to even out their gazes. Eliot’s whole body is tensed so hard he's almost shaking with it, but his eyes start to lose their sharp edge with Hardison's easy hold.

"I need you to hear me, Eliot. If I say we're good? Then we're good. No strings attached, no games, no doing any 'favors' for me first to prove any kind of loyalty or whatever. You know I don't play that shit. Yeah? You hearing me, man?"

Eliot's body starts to lose a bit of it's tension. A hesitant nod starts, but stops early. Hardison's seen Parker do that before, when she's too nervous to fully commit to a new idea even if she wants to, so he softens his tone and backs up a bit like he does with her.

"You hear me, babe?"

"I hear you," the reply is soft, almost embarrassed, and Eliot's eyes dart away. Hardison let's him go, indulging the gruff 'pretending to shake off the touch' Eliot does a second too late to be any kind of believable, and respectfully ignores the clearing of his throat and wiping at his eyes.

"We, uh..." Eliot turns to the door, fidgeting with the handle for a moment. "So, we'll talk. In San Lorenzo. When it's done?"

"When it's done."

Affirmation granted, Eliot darts out of the room. Hardison takes a few more minutes. Washes his face. Processes all the data thrown at him in the past few minutes as much as he can before filing it away for later. For 'when it's done.'

BONUS:

I feel like later, when they have their actual talk and Moreau is dealt with and both parties are a little more calm about it, Eliot is still like okay, I hear you, I understand that you don't need this to feel like we're square... but I do. Please.

And this time, knowing a little more of the whole story, Hardison is more comfortable accepting that like you know what, okay. If this is what you need, now that we've talked it out in a much less charged scenario and I can trust that you're in (more of) your right mind about this, okay. So long as you know I don't need this, that this is for you, and that if you need to stop early you swear you'll tell me.

Eliot probably rolls his eyes a bit at that like c'mon not even a full two minutes of getting choked out? He's had to go [absurd amount of time] without air in [equally absurd situation] in [obscure country], he'll be fine.

So Hardison sets a timer, and gently presses Eliot up against a wall, hands wrapping round his throat, Eliot's hands around his wrists - the deal is that he holds on for as long as he's good, if he let's go then so does Hardison - and he starts pressing in.

The whole scene is far softer and more intimate than either of them expected. They keep crazy intense but somehow still gentle eye contact almost the entire way through - the only exception being when Eliot's eyelids start to flutter a bit near the end, his grip loosening but not letting go - and when the time's up Eliot almost doesn't want Hardison to let go. He didn't even know that was a Thing for him. It had never been like that before, and like he said it's hardly his first time being choked... but something about trusting Hardison with that level of control... it makes him realize he maybe likes it a little too much. Putting his actual life in Hardison's hands in such a very physical, tangible way.

It kind of scares him, to be honest, how easily he'd be willing to let him do it again. And thinking about Hardison always leads to thinking about Parker, and thinking about Parker always leads to thinking about Parker's hands, and he realizes that he'd even trust "I hang off buildings by my fingertips" hand strength Parker to do it too... maybe even gets excited at the idea of it...

...and realizes he's well and truly screwed.

#eliot spencer #alec hardison #eliot spencer x alec hardison #precursor to the #leverage ot3 #Moreau's mindfuckery

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a-simple-gaywitch · 3 years

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Resident Geniuses

Summary: When the BAU is called to NYC for a case, they weren’t expecting to have to pair up with the local Interpol team. Spencer wasn’t expecting to meet his female counterpart

Word Count: 1496

Warnings: Implied Sexual Content, Talks of Murder Case and Crime

Requested: Yes/No

“The measure of intelligence is the ability to change.” -Albert Einstein

The BAU team was in New York working on a case. The city had yet another serial killer demanding their attention. The team was set up in the FBI field office, trying to lay down a profile. Unfortunately, this unsub would dump the bodies in New Jersey, making him harder to pinpoint. The team was getting closer until the next body showed up. Same MO and signature, but the victimology was completely different.

Then the local Interpol team arrived. Hotch and the woman in charge of the other team went head-to-head almost immediately.

“The man who was murdered is an international art thief. That makes this our jurisdiction, Agent Hotchner.”

“But he crossed the state line into Jersey. That makes this our jurisdiction, Agent Langley.”

“Um, Maura, Agent Hotchner?” a shy woman towards the back of the group spoke up. “You’re missing the obvious solution of us working together,” she said. “Wouldn’t collaboration help us both reach our goal?”

Agent Langley looked at the woman. “You’re right, Doc.” She sighed. “Agent Hotchner, we should pair up our teams to combine what we know and what you know.”

After a bit of discussion, Maura and Hotch returned to the two gathered teams.

“Morgan, Prentiss, you are going with Agent MacKenzie and Agent Leavitt to the crime scene,” Hotch said.

“Lorenzo, you’re staying here with Agent Jareau to keep the media at bay.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Reid, you’re staying here with Doctor (L/N).” Spencer’s head snapped up when he heard Hotch addressing him. Spencer looked over at you. You were sitting at a table, going through the FBI’s files. Spencer thought the way your brows furrowed in concentration was adorable. Just looking at you put butterflies in his stomach.

The two teams split up. Tanner MacKenzie, a man who was like your brother, patted your shoulder on his way out.

“Good luck, Doc.” He looked at Spencer. “I’m sorry man, she’s gonna drive you mad before the end of the day.”

You flipped him off as you took a seat and looked through the files. “Why don’t you bugger off and go catch up to Steph.” It was the first time Spencer was really noticing your accent.

After the other agents cleared out of the conference room, Spencer cleared his throat. “So, Dr. (L/N)-”

“Oh, (Y/N), please,” you interrupted him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just don’t like the formality.”

He smiled at you. Spencer found you so endearing. “Call me Spencer.”

You and Spencer got along like a wildfire. While the two of you worked, Spencer learned that you were from a small town in Northern England but that you went to Oxford for your degrees. You just about matched him, with 3 PhDs and 4 Master’s degrees.

He learned that your nickname was Doc, but only your team could call you that. He learned about your family and how hard it was for you to be an ocean away from them.

You laughed at all Spencer’s jokes, and you actually understood them. Spencer had never met anyone he got along with as quickly or as easily. You were intelligent, funny, and beautiful. And when the team finally got back to the hotel for the night, you were the only thing on Spencer’s mind.

Spencer looked up at the hotel ceiling, realizing he was truly, completely, unequivocally, fucked.

When Spencer arrived at the office the next morning, the Interpol team was already there. They were rushing around the office, functioning as a well-oiled machine.

“What’s going on?” Hotch asked.

“There was a double murder last night,” Agent Langley informed him. “Both were women. One has ties to a crime ring my team has been investigating, the other doesn’t. Both fit your preliminary profile for victimology.”

“This changes our whole outlook. We need to sit down, all of us, and discuss this.”

Once everyone settled at a conference table, Hotch said, “So, start giving me theories. Why the seemingly random kill before reverting back to his original victimology?”

“Was he a victim of opportunity?” Morgan asked. “Or he got in the way and needed to be eliminated?”

You shook your head. “No. Marcel Delacroix is -was- a recluse. He only left his apartment for jobs.”

“A hit job?” Prentiss suggested. “Maybe the unsub was hired by someone to take the art thief out?”

“That could be possible,” Agent MacKenzie said with a nod. “The world of an art thief is competitive, much like the world of the one making the art. Jobs can be hard to come by, especially if people know someone is good, like Delacroix.”

“But that brings up another question- what is this unsub’s true motive?” Jason Gideon asked.

You were muttering under your breath, looking at the case file.

“What’s going on up there, Doc?” MacKenzie asked.

“Can I see the information on the previous victims again?” Hotch slid the files over to you. The BAU watched as you arranged the photos around the table.

“What is she doing?” Prentiss asked.

“It’s her process. It only makes sense to her, but her genius always pulls through,” Langley said.

“Sounds familiar.” Morgan nudged Spencer, who was just watching you work. “Reid?”

“What? Sorry, I was trying to see if I could figure out what connections she made.”

“I got it!” you said. “None of these are random. They’re all linked to the same crime family.” You went on a spiel about how they all connect, and who the unsub was. “The only problem is, we don’t know where to find him.”

“Leave that to us,” Hotch said.

The two teams worked together to bring the unsub into custody. Thankfully, he didn’t make things harder for everyone until he was put in restraints.

“Well, good work, Agent Hotchner,” Maura said, holding her hand out to shake the man’s.

“You too, Agent Langley. It was nice to work alongside your team.

“Likewise. Well, I guess we should be going back to our own office. We have a lot of paperwork to fill out.”

Before your team left, you walked over to Spencer. “You know, Dr. Reid, that cell phone in your hands can be used for more than just work,” you said in a low voice. You handed him a card, brushing your fingers against his. It sent a shock through Spencer. “Goodbye, everyone! It was nice working with you!” She waved to the BAU before following her team out of the FBI office.

Spencer smiled as he watched her leave. He looked down at the business card you gave him, your personal number scrawled on the bottom. In Roman Numerals. He tucked the card in his pocket before his team saw.

“Hey, has anyone seen Reid this morning?” Hotch asked the team as they waited for the jet to be ready at the airstrip.

“No, I thought he left for the hotel with Morgan last night,” JJ told him.

“He told me he was riding back with you,” Morgan said.

“I’m here, I’m here!” Spencer said, running over to the team. “Sorry I’m late.”

“That’s not usually like you. Are you okay?” JJ asked.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine. Just overslept.”

Gideon squinted at him. “You’re wearing the same clothes you had on yesterday.”

Spencer looked down at his rumpled clothes. “I, uh, I fell asleep reading last night and didn’t have time to change this morning.”

“Is that a hickey?” Emily asked him. Spencer’s hand flew up to cover the dark spot on his neck.

“No way, Pretty Boy has a hickey?”

Spencer’s face was bright red. “Shut up, Morgan.”

“So… Tell us about her!” JJ said.

“Yeah, who’s the lucky lady?” Morgan asked him.

“Um…”

“Guys. If Reid doesn’t want to tell us who he’s sleeping with, he doesn’t have to. As long as it isn’t interfering with his job.” Hotch gave Reid a pointed look.

He shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Good. And I don’t want to hear any of you pestering Reid about it.”

The team climbed onto the jet. After everyone got settled, most falling asleep, Gideon took a seat next to Reid.

“So, how was your night with Dr. (L/N)?” he asked.

“How did you-”

“You’re not that discrete, Spencer.” Gideon gave him a soft smile.

Spencer smiled back. “She’s amazing. She makes me feel… normal. I don’t feel like I’m weird or just a brain with her.”

“She sounds like a lovely girl. Why don’t you want to tell the others about her?”

Spencer sighed, looking out at the clouds. “I guess I just want something for myself for a bit. I really care for (Y/N) and I know how invasive the team can be. I don’t want them to scare her away.”

“I don’t think they could scare her away if they tried. She’s perfect for you.”

“Never give up on something you can’t go a day without.” -Winston Churchill

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #em's fics

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pebblesrus · 3 years

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au where eliot goes back to damien moreau after everything falls to shit at the pool scene. based off my tags on this post (original post).

disclaimer, this does not end like the tags do.

Hardison walks towards the elevator, Eliot in tow. Eliot knows he should go alone, but he can’t bring himself to tell Hardison to back off.

Hardison babbles his cover while Eliot stares down the highest ranking guard.

“Who the hell are you?”

Eliot bites his tongue. He knows his time’s up. His plan is solid but he knows - he knows - his only job is to get Hardison out alive. If it costs him his life, so be it.

“Me? I'm Eliot Spencer.”

It sounds like I’m the one he’s been waiting for.

Chapman stands up, walks to meet Eliot eye to eye. Every gun in the room is trained on Eliot but Chapman doesn’t pull a weapon.

Eliot tries to read Chapman but all he sees is that unwavering cold, maybe even more than before Eliot had left.

“Chapman.”

“Eliot.”

“They gave you the job?” It sounds a lot like He gave you my job.

“There was an opening.” It sounds a lot like I will kill you if you try to take it back.

A door opens. Eliot watches, calculating the mans every move, as Moreau walks towards him.

Moreau kicks Hardison’s chair into the water. Eliot doesn’t blink, he doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t break eye contact with Moreau.

Pop. Pop.

Moreau kills Hardison.

Eliot feels his entire body go cold. As if the shots had taken the life out of him and not -

“How did you know?” Eliot chokes out the words.

“Because I own you, Eliot Spencer. Don’t ever forget that again”

As he turns to leave with Moreau, Eliot avoids eye contact with the pool. He doesn’t need to look in the pool to know that Moreau didn’t miss.

As if reading his mind, Moreau cooly whispers into Eliot’s ear, “Look at him.”

Hardison is floating, lifeless, at the bottom of the pool. There’s no blood. Eliot’s brain shorts. He feels like his heart is being ripped from his chest for a second time in a matter of minutes.

“He drowned because you were too much of a coward to go in after him.”

Eliot feels his body hit the ground. He doesn't know if it was grief or Chapman’s fist that knocked him down.

Eliot wakes up in a bedroom. He recognizes it as one of the spares in Moreau’s main house in San Lorenzo.

His whole body aches but there’s not a bruise on him.

Hardison is dead. I let him die.

Eliot doesn’t get up.

Every morning, Moreau comes in with a tray of food and a smile.

Under the plate is always a file. Eliot knows what’s inside. It’s a job. It’s his job.

Eliot doesn’t eat, he doesn’t open the file, he doesn’t do anything except sit and replay his last moments with Hardison. Parker. The team.

The flips the scenario over in his head a thousand times, What did I miss? Where did I go wrong?

He tries to remember - he tried to remember them - but all he feels is pain.

He sleeps, because his body cannot do anything else. Someone always takes away the plates while he’s asleep. He has half a mind to worry that he can’t tell when people come and go, but he lets the concern go. His senses have been numb ever since he heard the shot by the pool.

Besides, his life doesn’t matter anymore.

Your one job was to protect them and look at where that got you.

You were supposed to die first.

Eliot lets the files pile up on the floor, untouched.

One morning there is no breakfast, no file. Chapman opens the door, throws something at Eliot, “Good riddance, I’ll say.”

Eliot doesn’t turn to look until he hears the door forcefully close.

It’s a lock of blonde hair stained with dried blood. He knows without asking that it belongs - belonged to Parker.

Eliot screams. Deep in his gut, screams.

It feels like whatever was left of his soul being ripped out.

Eliot pushes open the door, walks down the familiar hallway.

Moreau’s back is to the door when Eliot opens it. “Took you long enough. It’s not like your door was ever locked.” Moreau’s voice cuts into Eliot. He leans into the pain.

I know. I might be heartbroken but I ain’t dumb. “You were never going to let me walk away.” Not then, not now.

“You know if you had gone in after him, I would have killed him anyway.” It’s not a question but Eliot nods.

Damien meets his eyes. “Are you ready to follow orders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sit down and eat breakfast.”

Eliot does.

Moreau hands him a needle. Eliot slips it under the man’s fingernail. Old school, but effective in a small town where it will be overlooked by the coroner.

“Well, then, beat the answer out of him,” Moreau says. Eliot hits until his knuckles are raw and there’s more blood than skin on his hands.

Moreau hands him a knife. Eliot cuts until his clothes are saturated with blood, long after the man’s heart has stopped.

“Drown him,” Moreau says. Eliot kicks the chair into the water. He flinches, barely, when the sound hits that raw part of his brain that only remembers flashes. Parker. Hardison.

Moreau hands him a loaded gun. Eliot pulls the trigger.

The targets get faster, stronger, more ruthless. Moreau’s orders follow suit. Eliot follows.

But this time, when Eliot pulls the trigger, hears the wind knocked out of the target as the bullet hits his chest, he feels a matching jolt to his chest.

He lies on the ground, unaware of the commotion around him.

Eliot is dying. Honest to God dying.

He can hear Moreau laughing - or is that the Devil’s welcome?

Finally. His thoughts are cut short as he bleeds out.

With the image of his own death burned into the back of his eyes, it hits him. He knows the play. It’s not one of Nate’s alphabet soup Plans, but it’ll have to do. Play submissive.

Eliot lets his eyes stray from Moreau for a beat as the man walks forward. A silent message. You still own me. I would never cross you. I would never lie to you. I am still your dog.

He prays - honest to God prays - that Moreau takes the bait.

“That's no way to treat an old friend.” Moreau is walking towards Eliot.

Eliot fully turns to face Moreau. His eyes scan the man’s body. Something about the robe and flip flops ooze sadistic control and Eliot can’t help but relax into his role.

“Damien.” He meets Moreau’s eyes, forcing his eyes to promise the man I missed you. I am yours. I came back.

Moreau looks fondly at Chapman, the same way you would look fondly at a gift horse you know ain’t got enough years left in it to be worth the trouble.

Smiles, turns to Eliot. “Let's catch up.”

He fell for it.

They’re walking away from Moreau, women are streaming back into the room, Hardison is safe.

“Come on,” Eliot growls at him, not wanting to be in the room another second - needing Hardison to not be in that room for another second.

Hardison speaks to him, low, angry, hurt seeping into his voice. “I lowered the chair and sucked the air from the pneumatic. It gave me an extra 30 seconds. That better be why you didn't come and get me - 'cause you knew I'd do that, right?”

Eliot knows the fallout will be - he knows he might never be trusted again, he knows the team might kick him to the curb. But none of that matters because Hardison is alive, safe.

Hardison is safe. Hardison is safe. Haridson is safe.

Eliot can’t help but let the relief sweep through his body.

But he straightens up, knowing he still has a part to play. He growls out, “Yeah, Hardison, 'cause I knew you were gonna suck air out of a chair.”

#leverage #leverage fic #the big bang job #eliot spencer #damien moreau #alec hardison

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jerrylewis-thekid · 2 years

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FBI, THERE'S A CAROGNE NAME EDGAR HOOVER

More or less we all knew that J. Edgar Hoover, the mythical director of the equally legendary FBI, was a heated reactionary, an eccentric man, a type not exactly favorable to blacks, homosexuals, Jews and women. Now, without fear of denial, we can say that J. Edgar Hoover was much more, and worse: a paranoid fascist, a blackmailer of presidents in turn blackmailed by the mafia. Anthony Summer, a brilliant "investigative journalist", already the author of investigations of great commitment such as those on the Kennedy murder or on the life (and death) of Marilyn Monroe, tells us his story. He tells us about it in a book (J. Edgar Hoover, pp. 528, 35,000 lire - Bompiani) which for the abundance of documentation and anecdotes, for the speed of narration and writing, I could define pleasant reading, were it not for the subject becomes repugnant from time to time. I admit, at the cost of sounding a bit provincial, that I didn't expect so much. I did not expect that the greatest democracy in the world would have been able to tolerate for half a century, at the head of a delicate and powerful body like the FBI, an authentic "son of a bitch", a "bastard fagot" (the definitions are president LB Johnson), a psychotic like J. Edgar Hoover. We too have and have had our "bastards" in this field, but I recognize that in the face of the magnitude of the violations committed by Hoover, the Sifar files disappeared, the specious "omissions" on state documents, the diversions of the Sid, the Piano Solo, Pazienza and De Lorenzo, become jokes. In his own way, Hoover embodied one of the souls of America, more precisely the soul prevalent in some rural and Midwestern areas. So while his tenure at the head of the FBI offended the enlightened spirit of the American constitution, on the other a man like him embodied, like it or not, the deep feelings of a large section of the people of the United States. When J. Edgar Hoover died (May 2, 1972) at the age of 77, he was still in service. He had become director of the FBI almost half a century earlier, in 1924. He had run that institute in the days of Dillinger, Capone and the gangsters of the thirties, was there during the Second World War and then again in the era of McCarthy and the war cold. He had spied on the clandestine loves between Eleanor Roosevelt and her young lover (she 58, he 33), and the brazen loves of the Kennedy brothers, he had woven relationships with the most powerful Mafia bosses, hindered the advancement of blacks and the birth of the commission of inquiry against crime chaired by Senator Kefauver. For those very long decades the guiding ideas of his action had been two: the FBI and America. Not all of America, of course. "His" America, the only one that, in his eyes, was worth defending, at the cost of violating the constitution, if necessary by placing a microphone under the president's desk, or in one of his bedrooms. His persistence in persecuting those he considered the enemies of "his" America bordered on ferocity. Charlie Chaplin, for example. A friend of the Jew Einstein, Chaplin was the embodiment of everything that triggered Hoover's fear and wrath. The FBI had judged Chaplin "dangerous" and his films "communist" even before Hoover took over as director. But it is curious to learn that many years after Chaplin was established in Switzerland, Hoover continued to keep his name in the "Security index", or the list of those who needed to be arrested in the event of a national emergency. How to say the "capturandi" of the Solo piano - in the Magnum version. Another of his victims was black activist Angela Davis. The officers watching her risked being fired because they failed to photograph her having sex with her lover. A fury surpassed only by what Hoover felt when Martin Luther King jr was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Hoover didn't know half measures. In Miami Beach, where he went to spend Christmas, he always went down (as long as there were) to hotels that displayed the "No jews, no dogs allowed" sign - no Jews, no dogs. When he became director in 1924, the FBI

had only three female agents. Two were fired immediately. The third ended up in a psychiatric hospital. He spent his days repeating that as soon as he was outside he would kill "that dog Hoover". His entry into the Bureau marked a turning point. Up until that point, the FBI had been a rather corrupt and ramshackle federal agency. In the headquarters there was a room, called the "cage of the vultures", where the agents without assignment spent their days drinking whiskey and telling each other obscene stories. Hoover fired most of them and had the room sealed. Summer writes: "From the beginning of his tenure to the present day, no one has heard of corruption among FBI agents". Hoover desperately fought the Communists and homosexuals by being himself, not a Communist, but a homosexual. That with Clyde Tolson was a very close relationship that lasted for a few decades, and to the end. But Hoover's homosexuality also had dangerous aspects and Summer actually traces back to this the weakness of his action against the mafia: "Starting in the 1930s, the FBI's war against the mafia became a mere formality". Various explanations of the phenomenon have been given over the years. Summer's idea is that Hoover was being blackmailed. He frequented the restaurants of the mafia in New York and Florida, he often played horse racing and indeed "The races put him", he writes, "in a state of overexcitement. One afternoon, after a lucky bet, he got into the car by mistake. someone else and used it to get back to Washington. " Gangster Sam Giancana's brother Chuck said that Hoover was no different from all the other politicians and cops, only more bastard: "Hoover didn't want a bribe a month, so we never gave him cash, but something better: straight on rigged races. If he wanted, he could bet ten thousand dollars on a horse being given twenty to one ... and he did. " But with this we are not yet at the heart of the blackmail. There is more. The man who really blackmailed Hoover, who "had him by the balls", to put it in the crude language of the gangsters, was the Jewish mafia boss Meyer Lansky. Lansky was a genius and in a safe he had pictures of Hoover in compromising poses with Clyde Tolson: "That was the reason, they said, they had nothing to fear, and for a while, from the FBI." Some of the most exciting chapters of the book concern the clashes between Hoover and the Kennedy brothers: John the president and Bob the minister of justice. They are also the chapters in which the mafia and the tragic and seductive figure of Marilyn Monroe appear, mixed together, that the two brothers took to bed and that Hoover had photographed and recorded. The war had begun at the time of the Democratic "convention" where Hoover, against Kennedy, wanted to nominate Johnson. When it was seen that Kennedy would prevail, they pressed why he accepted Johnson as vice president: "John Kennedy made that nomination, under the threat of disastrous sexual revelations that would destroy his image ... the blackmailers, according to this version, they were the same Johnson and Edgar. " It is difficult to summarize these chapters, you have to read them to decide which side looks worst. Source: La Repubblica @zivasanxiety

#j. edgar hoover #dean martin #jerry lewis

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astyle-alex · 3 years

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[Fanfic] Museum Mishap | the BatFam

I’m posting an older fanfic to kick off my attempt to be more involved with the Tumblr Fandom community!

Museum Mishap | Chapter 6/6

Fandom: the DC Universe, Batman & co. Pairings: Jay x Tim Characters: Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson Rating: Gen Audiences Warnings: None

Total Word Count: 38,590

Summary:

Middle-School Tim Drake is on a field trip to the Science Museum, but with a WE exhibition of top-secret new technologies being staged in the basement, Tim separates from his classmates and breaks into the staff-only areas by using the skills he's developed over years of stalking Batman and Robin.

Current-Robin Jason Todd catches him in the act, but he's not there to confront Tim for trespassing or truancy - he's there because there's a rumor on the street that Tim Drake knows Batman's real name. And the rumor's gaining ground, quick, drawing in the wrong kind of attention.

When a Drug-Lord decides to take the rumor seriously enough to kidnap the little genius, Jason jumps into the crossfire. It all goes downhill from there. Fast.

(Jason is 14, Tim is 12)

|| Read on Ao3 | Read on FF.net | Follow my updates on Patreon ||

Museum Mishap Chapter 6: Safe

It’s five weeks after Jason disobeyed Batman’s orders to drop the idea of investigating the rumor that a random rich kid knew the vigilantes’ secret identities.

Five weeks since Jason let himself be kidnapped by the upstart drug lord Lorenzo Sabini in an attempt to protect the kid who was Sabini’s real target – the kid rumored to know impossible things about Batman and Robin.

Five weeks since Jason’s leg was broken – in the line of a duty he never should’ve been asked to shoulder, never should’ve been allowed to feel bound to carry – and Bruce Wayne rediscovered the impossible duality of being responsible for the life of a child that he’d somehow managed to forget. That had faded from his mind when Dick had grown up enough to go off on his own – without his Guardian having any legal say in stopping him.

Batman has been able to bury the raging concern, the guilt he bears for introducing Jason to such a dangerous lifestyle – for not doing more to discourage his interest. Batman is able to silence the voice that says Jason acted honorably, if stupidly, by insisting that Robin needs to do better, to be better, so that he can keep the boy inside the costume safer.

But Bruce is having trouble letting Jason heal.

‘Suffocating’ Jason calls his attentions, merely ‘stupid codling he doesn’t need’.

Jason submitted to three weeks of strictly bedrest – a godsend if Bruce could ever believe in such things. He’d offered only mild resistance to being benched for six weeks – to rigorous and thorough PT, and light, careful exercise and a slow return to the training regimen that kept shaping Robin’s growing body into something more heroic than the average simple human.

But there was no point in even trying to bring up the idea of retiring Jason’s pixie boots for good – of trying to convince him to stand down from the Vigilante fight.

Bruce knows that, but he still tries it – once, in a terse conversation that gets shut down before he even makes it to the first point of reasoning – and then he swallows the rest of the worry and buries it in silence alongside his fury at Jason’s constant reckless disregard for his own safety. Bruce knows he can’t stop Jason, can’t force him out of the cape, so Batman vows to train him harder, push him further, make him stronger, make him faster, more durable, more prepared – keep him safer.

It’s a compromise.

And it has to be enough.

Because Jason is already back on his feet.

He broke his own way out of the cast almost a week ago – refused to apologize or sit for another casting – and though Alfred’s managed to somehow force him into a sturdy brace, guilted him into maintaining his use of the crutches… Jason’s been back inside the Cave twice already while Batman has been out – at least twice.

The Cave’s security cameras have caught him on the Salmon Ladder the last two nights in a row – going through two sets his first night back, and four the next. So that was two nights, at least, that security footage showed Jason working out inside the Cave, but it was possible there were nights he wasn’t tagged on the Cave’s security footage. Dick had certainly learned to sneak down without being caught on camera. Bruce doubted that Dick would share his secrets with Jason – but it was not beyond possibility.

Bruce kept meaning to add more cameras, to ensure that every inch of the cave was covered by an unblinking eye equipped with filters in Starlight and infrared, but that project kept getting sidelined somehow. He kept getting distracted.

Because his kids kept getting hurt.

But it’s been five weeks since Jason got hurt.

He’s getting better, and his bullheaded determination is just the same as it was before the injury – the stubborn streak still apparent, now even more so if anything had changed.

But there’s something else about Jason that’s different.

Bruce almost can’t see it – almost convinces himself it’s not happening, because he’s so damn hopeful that it is happening that his chest constricts with this strange kind of joy or pride or something and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Because Dick and Jason are talking.

Not fighting, talking.

Alfred’s caught them playing video games. Together.

They were supposed to be doing homework – Jason’s been back at school for three weeks and while Dick’s purposefully selected freshman college classes don’t require constant attendance, they do give assignments that need to be turned in online – but still…

Dick and Jason are getting along.

His adopted sons are becoming brothers.

Bruce notices.

And wants it to be real so badly that it hurts.

Batman notices, too.

But Batman notices other things, as well.

Batman notices how the Wayne Boys have befriended the kid Jason got himself kidnapped alongside.

Batman notices how Nightwing volunteers to swing off on his own every night for a cursory once over of deterrence through Coventry and around the area in the Upper West Side where Sabini’s gang and the rumors they’d acted on had run amok – had being the operative word, seeing as how the entire area had been scared so straight there hasn’t even been a purse snatching in over a month.

Batman notices how quiet the supposed-civilian kid at the center of those rumors is when he’s home alone – which is often – how the only thing he talks about out loud, in range of Batman’s listening devices, is how much he admires the caped crusaders and how much he wants for their ramshackle team to work together as brothers and sisters in arms – to work through their issues and be a kind of family.

Batman notices.

And he watches.

And he’s concerned by what he sees.

So tonight, as Nightwing swings off towards Coventry – with a big smile and a wholly unnecessary flip – Batman decides to investigate the kid firsthand.

The civilian’s name is Timothy Jackson Drake and he is twelve years old, enrolled as a sixth grader at Gotham Preparatory Academy Primary Campus. His parents are Jack and Janet Drake, famed globe-trotting researchers and archeologists, and the second generation of Drakes to head up Drake Industries – a leading Wayne Enterprises competitor. The Drakes reside in the mansion that neighbors the Wayne Estate – another statement of how DI both complements and competes with WE.

Timothy Drake seems mostly unremarkable.

He’s skipped two grades, and his teachers say he’s got a remarkable mind, but he lacks significant social skills and spends most of his time alone – tinkering with some project or other. He’s never demonstrated a particular drive to be anything when he grows up, but he’s applied to the Wayne Tech summer camps three years in a row – despite being under the age requirement – and his bedroom is littered with DI equipment and half-finished robots he’s clearly engineered himself in the hours and hours he spends unsupervised.

Lucius Fox likes him.

In the way that some people like puppies.

Bruce isn’t even entirely sure how Lucius Fox discovered the Drake kid, but it’s in his files in the Batcomputer – Fox has his name on a recruitment list, circled in red sharpie with a smiley face next to it.

So, Timothy Drake is a smart kid.

But he’s just a kid.

According to all of Batman’s information, Timothy Drake is just a kid.

A civilian who happened to have a bad stroke of luck and got his name wrapped up in a rumor founded on nothing more than a junkie’s word and some evidence that the kid in question was a vigilante fan.

Is still a fan, somehow, despite the circumstance that admiration landed him in.

Timothy Jackson Drake seems like nothing more than a dedicated fan – a child, not a threat. But the evidence is so peculiar – there are ridiculously strong indications that the rumor carried truth, and yet… the notion that the child knows nothing is so convincing that Dick and Jason agree on it… which in and of itself makes the evidence seem suspect…

Thus, Batman is set on investigating the matter further for himself.

A twelve year old civilian would be in bed at this time of night, tucked safely into the labyrinth of the Drake Mansion.

So as Nightwing peals away to the west, Batman plots a course northward.

He’s planned this carefully. His choice of direction does not immediately alert Nightwing to his intentions. He’s been rotating where he patrols after splitting off from Nightwing, moving counterclockwise by a dozen blocks every few days. Now he’s pointed right towards the Robbinsville area, where he’s stashed one of his getaway vehicles – a rather bland, all-black motorcycle that’s nothing special, but is quick and maneuverable enough to get him to the Drake Estate and back before Nightwing realizes he’s deviated.

He even has Batgirl prepped to back Nightwing up if something happens – Barbara is visiting her father this weekend and doing research for her own case in Chinatown. She might not be actively patrolling, but Batman had been sure to give her warning of his activities.

He trusts her discretion, and he knows she would be as worried as him about Nightwing's probable – and possibly willful – oversight of the threat posed by Drake. Batman does not want to think Nightwing would be so foolish as to dismiss a threat simply because it doesn't seem actively threatening – or worse, because he wanted to curry favor with his adoptive brother – But it’s always better to be safe.

So, Batman is tracking north – from slightly further east than he’d originally planned, drawn off course by what seemed to be a mugging, but quickly resolved as Batman ID'd a drunk man resisting as his friend took away his keys – and he’s determined to get to the bottom of Drake’s capabilities and influence.

He’s about to swing down to the last tall building before the midrises and family homes of Robbinsville take over Gotham’s footprint when he spies a figure huddled on the rooftop.

Had Batman been approaching from his planned route, he wouldn’t have seen the figure until he touched down on the roof – within easy knife throwing distance of the stranger, with no chance to react if an attack was imminent.

Carefully, Batman swings around to the far side of the building and climbs silently up to roof level after landing on a balcony. He creeps close enough to ascertain that the would-be assailant is small – even with a massive jacket attempting to keep out the late January chill, the figure is miniscule… a child.

Concern leaps, unbidden, into his chest as he wonders what could possibly bring a child onto a freezing cold rooftop in the middle of the night. The apartment building is not the lowest rent residence in the region, but it has its fair share of alcoholics and abusers. It would not be unheard of for a child to sneak away for what respite they can get and the Bat knows that this situation takes precedence to his Drake investigation.

Batman is just about to announce his presence – From far enough away to hopefully prevent the kid from falling off the roof in fright, though he has his grapple gun ready just in case – when the kid shifts.

An eerie blue glow lights up the crouching figure’s face as his phone flares briefly to life.

It's Timothy Jackson Drake.

Batman frowns, continues to silently observe.

Drake curls more tightly around his knees. He huffs – breath turning instantly to steam that catches in the city's light – And mutters, “He should be here by now... There’s no sirens, no breakouts, nothing to keep him away… unless he’s not coming this way tonight… but he should be… he’s been moving north… but maybe I miss-counted the interval, or maybe I’m too far north… but this is the best vantage to check on Robinsv-”

His mumbled monologue – which Batman is certain he is not intentionally speaking aloud – is interrupted by a sneeze.

“Bless you,” Batman says, stepping from the darkest shadows.

“Thanks,” Tim returns.

A beat passes, and then Tim whirls around with a string of oddly pronounced Chinese curses spilling from his tongue.

“Batman,” Tim breathes, awestruck and a little bit fearful.

“Timothy,” Batman returns, “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

It’s true, the kid had just mumbled as much. There was no one else he could possibly be waiting for here, not with the details he’d murmured about having tracked to find him.

“Um, kinda,” the kid admits.

He’s not as surprised by Batman’s recognition of him – of the Bat using his name directly – as Batman would’ve thought. He is nervous though, antsy. Batman scans him for weapons, but nothing notable shows up in any of his cowl’s filters and the coat is too cumbersome for any shapes beneath it to be positively identified.

Tim does have something in his hands, though – something he’s clutched close to his chest. Bare fingers glow ghostly in the night, tremble in the freezing air.

It’s not a weapon that he’s holding, or a camera – like might be expected and acceptable from a fan. It’s a set of note cards. Note. Cards. Like he’s practicing for a speech.

On an ice cold Gotham rooftop in the middle of the night.

Bruce Wayne is thrown by that. Far enough to make Batman pause.

Batman regards the kid standing before him in the darkness.

Timothy Drake stares back.

“Did you have a reason?” Batman asks eventually.

“Huh?”

“To be looking for me, did you have a reason?”

Timothy looks down at his hands, at the half-crushed note cards he’s holding. “Yeah,” he says slowly, quiet with the kind of resignation Batman knows is guilt.

“Well?” Batman prompts when Timothy offers nothing more.

The kid flinches, and Batman fights a wince of his own.

The obvious reasons Nightwing has for underestimating this kid assert themselves plainly. He is a child, small for his age and easily frightened. There seems no reason to suspect him of anything – except that he was waiting on a rooftop for Batman, intentionally. A rooftop even Batman didn’t know he would be visiting until about a week ago.

“I’m worried about Robin,” Timothy admits. “And Nightwing, and Batgirl, for that matter, but mostly Robin.”

“Why?”

Another flinch. Bruce Wayne consciously tries to reel back the Batman ‘grr factor’, as Dick has termed it. And yet… Timothy clearly knows more than he should. Perhaps the gravel and growl is worth it to extract that information.

“Because they need you to listen to them – that’s why you fought with Nightwing to begin with, right? You, um, you passed his mantle on without letting him explain why he didn’t want you to?” Tim’s actively struggling to make eye-contact.

Batman doesn’t verbalize a response.

He’s evaluating how this kid could possibly know what he does without knowing the names beneath the masks – it’s possible, he supposes, but extremely unlikely.

“I get why you didn’t, he was still a kid and not very good at making his important points clear, but when he went to California, he didn’t want you to let him go, he wanted you to bring him home,” Timothy rambles, losing his battle for eye-contact.

Batman scowls.

Timothy swallows dryly. Consults his notes.

“They need you to help them,” Timothy says.

Batman’s scowl deepens, and he must make some sound because Timothy doesn’t just flinch this time, he yelps and curls into himself. His cards get squeezed so tightly they pop out of his hands and scatter across the rooftop. Timothy dives after them, but the roof is wet with the afternoon's snow shower and the antifreeze that keeps it from becoming ice.

There is no recovering the careful presentation Timothy clearly had planned for this meeting. But Timothy isn’t willing to admit defeat immediately.

“Timothy Jackson Drake,” Batman says as the kid in question scrambles with his wet paper, frowning at the smudged and ruined ink like he should have been able to plan for that – like he should’ve had a contingency.

At Batman's voice saying his full name, Timothy freezes and stares up at him like a frightened deer.

“Tell me how and why you have come to know so much about the relationships between the Gotham masks.”

“That’s not important,” Timothy says. Quick, dismissive, like the point truly doesn’t matter in his world-view, or to his understanding of his place in it.

“It’s not?”

“No. What’s important is that you’re not letting them do their jobs,” Timothy accuses.

And then he promptly freezes and stares up at Batman like he just then has realized not only what he said, but how – how direct and confrontational it was.

“They don’t have jobs,” Batman replies, level and calm. “They are children.”

“Not when they're wearing masks,” Timothy snaps back immediately. “When the masks are on, they’re vigilantes. Nothing else.”

Batman narrows his eyes at Timothy's temerity.

And fights himself to keep from agreeing with Timothy’s point. But his disagreement doesn’t make it any less true. No matter how much he wants to remember that under the masks the heroes who have joined his crusade in Gotham are children, he can’t ignore the truth of Timothy Drake's words: when the masks are on, they’re not children – They can’t be.

Batman cannot ignore that – can’t pretend it away.

But he can insist on one smaller truth. “They do not have jobs.”

Timothy glared – actually glared at Batman in full cape and cowl and scowl – and said firmly, “Their job is to make sure you remember why is it that you do yours.”

Batman blinked behind the lenses of his cowl.

“That’s not how it works,” Batman defends. Weakly – he knows.

But he’s not entirely sure what to do with this child, this strangely mature tiny human with hope and sweetness and innocence – and uncomfortably valid points – lecturing him like Batman is the errant child here.

“You can’t possibly be that stupid,” Timothy says – a moment later looking wide-eyed and horrified by his words, yet still going on with speaking as if his mouth had detached itself from is brain and was running on a will of its own. “They care about what happens to you, which makes you care about it. They need you alive, and you – on some level, at least – recognize that need. It keeps you safer. And it makes you be a better person, in trying to set a good example for them to follow. And that’s important.”

Tim pulls more air into his lungs, enough for another leg of his tirade, and goes on, “Without Robin, Batman is too violent, too aggressive… like Green Arrow starting to gain ground in Star City; you’re too much like the criminals you hunt to make a genuine, lasting difference. Without Robin, you’re just scary. Robin tempers you; makes you an inspiration – makes people believe that you aren’t just hurting bad guys, but also protecting good ones.”

Tim manages to close his mouth and keep it shut after that – if only by the simple force of his clear mortification sealing off his words.

“Timothy.”

Terrified eyes peer up at Batman.

“What do you know about us capes? There was a reason Sabini had an interest in you and I’m not convinced it was just a junkie’s word and evidence that you’re a fan,” Batman lays out simply – calmly, regaining control of this discussion.

“I know that you’re necessary,” Tim replies in a squeak.

Eyes narrow behind the lenses of the cowl.

Tim ducks his head, fully aware that he has not answered Batman’s question.

“I know that Gotham needs you,” Tim reiterates. “I don’t know who you are beneath the masks, and I don’t want to know. I just want to help you keep Gotham safe. Because I’m not a mask, I’m just a fan… but I can still help.”

Batman regards the young civilian carefully. He has Jason’s spirit and determination, Dick’s unyielding sweetness, and Barbara’s practical acceptance of humanity’s flaws.

“You don’t know our civilian identities?”

Tim shakes his head. “I don’t care about them.”

Batman does not believe him – does not believe that he doesn’t know, or that he doesn’t care. Timothy Drake knows more than enough to be dangerous.

Dick has always been a terrible judge of character – in some ways, he always sees the best in people, in their potential – so his support of Timothy Drake as a non-threat means little.

But Jason is the most astute observer of humanity Bruce has ever encountered – he can read a person’s entire psyche in a gesture, find their cracks and weaknesses and apply just the right leverage to break them. And he’s never thrown from thinking that a seemingly innocent person is capable of doing a great deal of damage – would never underestimate a threat like that.

Case in point: how he hadn’t let go of the potential threat Tim posed to begin with.

Jason had decided Tim was safe.

Batman decides to trust his Robin’s judgement; Bruce puts faith in his son.

Batman heaves a sigh.

“It’s time to go home, Timothy,” he says. “This is no place for a child to be, and you shouldn’t be out at this time of night.”

Timothy frowns.

“It’s my city, too,” he mumbles.

Batman takes no quarter and as soon as he gets a nod of permission – Jason’s taught him how to work with children who aren’t like Dick, with an insatiable desire for physical contact – Batman hoists Timothy up and settles him on his hip. Batman holds tight to the child and shoots his grapple gun to carry them down to street level. He sits Timothy on his motorcycle and speeds across the city to Drake’s own door.

There is no one home.

Concerning in a very different way.

Batman knew the Drakes were away. Bruce didn’t realize the implications of that beyond how Timothy was left unsupervised – hadn’t until right now.

“Do you want me to come in,” Batman asks, awkward and uncertain of whether it would help at all to walk the kid to his bedroom. Batman should not linger – should not even consider the idea of tucking this neglected child into bed – but Bruce cannot quite bear to drag himself away just yet. He needs to know that Timothy is safe.

Timothy is staring at him like he’s shown up as Batman to a career day at school.

“Why?”

“No one’s home.”

“No one’s ever home,” Timothy replied blankly, adding. “I don’t need a real babysitter, let alone Batman. But Nightwing probably needs backup.”

Batman nodded. Accepted that he needed to push the Bruce in him down until they finished with the night’s patrol.

Tomorrow he could look into Timothy Drake’s circumstances.

“Be safe, Timothy,” Batman fare-wells. “Stay off the streets, and be careful, or this will not be our last conversation.

“You be safe, too,” Timothy replies. “Or I’ll just have to find you again.”

Batman almost chuckles. He waits until Timothy locks the door behind him, and then he takes his motorcycle back to where he’d stashed it across the bridge from Robbinsville.

He meets up with Nightwing and finishes patrol.

If he’s more reticent than usual Nightwing doesn’t comment.

The teenager is still wearing the blinding goofy smile of his, broader now after a successful sweep of Coventry – no new rumors of Tim Drake. And he’d saved a cat from where it had gotten stuck on a gargoyle after it had slipped out of its apartment and ventured off an inopportune ledge beside the balcony.

And because that’s the kind of hero Dick is, he chatters on incessantly about the cat and how it wailed and scratched him at first and yowled as he swung around the building, but then it purred and refused to let him go when it realized he’d brought it home.

Beneath the cowl, Batman almost smiles.

When he and Nightwing make it back to the Cave, Jason is not down there – the only evidence that anyone has been down there since he and Nightwing left is the snack left out for them by Alfred. Jason is in bed, asleep and dead to the world when Bruce slips in to check.

Jason is safe.

And Dick is safe.

And Alfred and Barbara are safe.

His family. Safe.

And Tim is… safe enough for the moment.

Tonight, Bruce will sleep.

Tomorrow he will reevaluate the child and his circumstances.

But tonight, Bruce Wayne basks in the truth that has a Family.

And his family is home, and safe.

It’s a foreign feeling.

But a good one.

|| Read on Ao3 | Read on FF.net | Follow my updates on Patreon ||

#BatFam #Batman #Batman & Robin #dcmultiverse #dcu #Jay x Tim #Jason Todd #Jason Todd x Tim Drake #Tim Drake #Bruce Wayne

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bytheangell · 4 years

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If Yesterday’s Too Heavy, Put It Down (1/5)

(Read on AO3) ------------- It isn’t strange for Alec to call Andrew up to his office to go over some of his security reports, but it is strange for Alec to be pacing by the window when he shows up, and it’s definitely strange for Alec to immediately tell him to come in and close the door behind him.

“Is everything alright, Sir?”

“Yes,” Alec says, though there’s an edge to his voice that implies otherwise. “I just have a request that’s… not strictly off the books, per se, but-”

“Understood,” Andrew says, not needing Alec to explain himself. This isn’t the first time Alec did something that wasn’t sanctioned, and Andrew doubted it’d be the last. Andrew trusts his judgment, however, and is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt that whatever it is will be worth the risk.

“I’m not sure you do,” Alec says. “There’s a group of young warlocks causing trouble, selling services to mundanes who don’t know what they’re asking for. They’re summoning some rather powerful demons that need to be caught and returned, but… the High Warlock doesn’t want this on the books, because he doesn’t trust the Clave to be fair in their punishment of the children.”

Sometimes Andrew wonders if Alec knows how good he’s getting at wording what he says to hit all the right points to convince people to agree with him - it’s rather politician of him, and if the rumors of his bid for Inquisitor are true Andrew doesn’t doubt he’s going to do well there. Using the fact that they’re children as a reason for leniency, rather than the sympathies of the warlock who made the request, is clever.

But the mention of the High Warlock doesn’t escape Andrew, either. “Lorenzo requested this?”

Lorenzo hadn’t said anything to him about it. Andrew wondered how long this was going on, how long he’s kept it from him during their dates the past week or two. At least this answers why his boyfriend seemed more than a little distracted lately.

“He did,” Alec confirms. “In fact, the current plan is to keep this to himself and Magnus, and they believe that with a Shadowhunter to use the Alliance rune with, the combined strength of the four of us will be enough to carry this out without drawing unnecessary attention. That is, if you’re agreeable.”

So there it is. Alec isn’t looking for someone to cover for him, he wants Andrew to be the fourth person on this secret mission.

“I thought with your relationship with Lorenzo it might be easier with you than someone he doesn’t know as well, or trust as much. Don’t feel like you have to. I can always ask Jace or Izzy or someone else if you say no,” Alec adds quickly.

Andrew considers the offer. The idea of sharing powers with Lorenzo… his first reaction is to be excited by the idea of having magic at his fingertips, and then eagerness to be useful to Lorenzo in something he obviously feels strongly about. On the other hand, it sounds intimate, at a level that they might not be at quite yet. And what if he isn’t strong enough, or he messes it up? Andrew’s been on countless routine missions before but this one carries more weight than all of them combined no matter how ‘casual’ Alec tries to make it sound.

All it takes is one thought of how Lorenzo would react to having to work with Jace instead of himself for Andrew to decide he should at least try - if not to prove to himself that he can, then for Lorenzo’s sake. If it’s that important to Lorenzo, then it was important to Andrew.

“I’m in. What’s the plan?”

---

That’s how Andrew ends up in the middle of a ritual he would otherwise have no business being in. He can tell that up until now Magnus and Lorenzo were both doing their best to cover their increasing concern the longer the demon in front of them remains bound, but not sent back to the realm it came from. He knows Alec can feel it too - they aren’t strong enough and there’s no telling how much longer they can hold this before they’re properly overpowered.

“Bane…” Lorenzo grunts out, his tone cautious.

“We’re fine,” Magnus snaps before the question can even be raised.

“Magnus,” Alec tries. “We can all feel it.”

“I’m almost there,” Magnus insists, the words strained.

Andrew exchanges a concerned look with the others, one that Magnus doesn’t see with his eyes closed to better concentrate his energy, and reminds himself that Magnus would never put Alec in unnecessary danger. Either this is worth the risk, or he really does have it under control - either way it’s all Andrew can do to offer what little energy he has left to make that a reality.

The demon in the middle of their circle snarls.

“Perhaps if you hadn’t cut yourself off from your father and your birthright you’d be strong enough on your own,” the demon hisses directly at Magnus, trying to get under his skin. It doesn’t appear to work as Magnus remains focused, so the demon turns with a devious glint in its eyes to look between Alec and Andrew. “And you bring Nephilim, allowing them access to our powers? It’s unnatural. Abhorrent,” the demon spits out the last word before a slow smirk spreads across its mouth. “Perhaps if your Nephilim toys want to play Warlock so badly they should get the full experience...”

The demon lashes out at Andrew and Alec simultaneously with something that feels like a burst of energy. It breaks their grips on Magnus and Lorenzo’s hands and throws them back against the wall on either side of the room. Andrew hits the stone with a thud, his entire body tingling, before slumping down against the ground without the energy it’d take to even try and stand back up to rejoin Lorenzo and Magnus. He glances across the room to see Alec equally motionless.

Magnus instinctively takes the power they’d been using to keep the barrier going and channels it into an immediate shot of deep crimson magic that’s finally enough to banish the demon, and not a second too soon. The demon’s cry fades to silence as Magnus drops to his knees in exhaustion.

“Andrew-” Lorenzo starts, the single word strained and weak. Lorenzo manages to remain upright just long enough to make it over to him. “Are you hurt?”

Andrew isn’t sure how to answer that. His shoulder is bruising from where he hit the wall, he can feel that forming already, and he doesn’t remember being this exhausted in his entire life, but more than that something feels wrong. He isn’t in pain, but something he can’t place is just… off.

“I don’t… think so?” Andrew manages.

“What was that?” Alec asks, propping himself up into a sitting position across the room.

Neither Lorenzo nor Magnus have the magic left for a proper examination but satisfied that everyone is physically okay enough to travel each open a portal home, Magnus and Alec going back to the loft to recover and Lorenzo taking Andrew back to his house to rest.

---

It takes two full days of sleeping and eating and sleeping some more before Andrew feels well enough to return to the Institute. Okay, maybe there are a few extra activities in there that he and Lorenzo could’ve forgone to recover faster, but he’s certainly not complaining.

Something still feels off but he doesn’t mention it. With the warlocks who summoned the demon to deal with and backed up work at the Institute when he and Alec return, the last thing they need is a vague, probably just in his head worry to add to their list of problems to deal with. For the most part, Andrew manages to ignore it.

That is, until a few weeks later when Alec comes to him in the surveillance room, checking to make sure they were alone before speaking.

“Hey,” Alec starts slowly, in that way which implies he has something he’s still not sure how to say on his mind. “How have you felt since we banished that demon?”

“You mean since that demon hit us with whatever that magic was?” Andrew questions.

Alec nods. “So you definitely feel it, too?”

“It felt like my blood was tingling for days,” Andrew admits. “And something still feels off, but I can’t pinpoint what, so I haven’t brought it up.”

Alec is still nodding. “Same,” he agrees. “Magnus took longer than normal to recover, but when he did he gave me a quick once-over and didn’t find anything wrong.”

Still, if they both still felt the same strangeness this long after it was over, it had to be more than nothing didn’t it?

“Maybe Isabelle could run some tests, just to cover all our bases?” Andrew suggests.

“Sure,” Alec agrees easily. “I’ll have her set one up.”

---

It’s only a day after Isabelle took samples from each of them and said she’d let them know what she turned up before she’s already calling them back to her lab.

“I’m going to need a longer range of samples. You’ll both have to come back once a week for the next… let’s say three weeks, just to be sure,” she says as casually as possible.

“Sure of what?” Andrew asks immediately.

“I don’t know,” Izzy admits. “By all accounts, you’re physically fine, don’t worry,” she adds quickly.

“What aren’t you telling us?” Alec demands more directly.

“Nothing! There’s nothing to tell, not until I have more samples to compare,” she insists, but there’s an edge to her tone that neither of them like. As wary as they are of Isabelle’s obvious avoidance there isn’t much either of them can do about it.

So Andrew waits.

---

Three weeks later Andrew and Alec are both back in the lab, and Isabelle hasn’t stopped pacing since they arrived.

“Alright, I need you both to just… not freak out, okay?”

“That isn’t helping,” Alec says immediately on edge.

“What is it?” Andrew prompts.

“So, I ran the tests. I couldn’t be certain at first when the original samples came back matching particular elements of warlock and vampire DNA we have on file, but after comparing the ones from last month to the ones from yesterday…” Isabelle hesitates, hands wringing in front of her, biting a bit on the corner of her lower lip.

“Just spit it out, Iz,” Alec says, his anxious tone matching how Andrew feels though he’d never snap at Isabelle that way. One of the perks of being related.

“I think the two of you stopped aging,” she says.

“What?” Alec sputters, eyes wide.

“You think?” Andrew asks, wondering how much uncertainty there is here.

“Okay, I know, pretty much. The tests seem pretty conclusive but it isn’t like I have anything to base it off of. No one’s ever just… become immortal before. But there’s nothing else this can be.”

Immortal. Somehow it seemed less severe when she’d originally said ‘stopped aging’, though they mean the same thing. But to hear the word immortal, it held a certain weight to it, one that Andrew didn’t like one bit.

The room is silent for a long time after that, the significance of Isabelle’s findings settling over them. It’s suffocating.

“No,” Andrew says, shaking his head. “No, that has to be wrong. Do another test. Another dozen tests! It has to be something else.”

“Does it?” Alec speaks up suddenly. “Remember what that demon said before it lashed out at us?”

Andrew tries to think back. “It said sharing warlock magic was unnatural,” he remembers.

“It said something about giving us the ‘full experience’ of being a warlock,” Alec recalls. The moment he says the words Andrew remembers, though he hadn’t before. It just sounded like nonsense at the time, just gloating to distract them. “What if it cursed us?”

Andrew pales at the thought. He grows still, trying to remind himself to breathe. “Then there has to be a counter, doesn’t there? Some spell that will undo it, or a potion, or--” the words tumble out of Andrew’s mouth in a panic. “--or something.” He looks over at Alec who fell into a strange calm, and looks almost guilty for a moment, though Andrew can’t imagine why. “Alec?”

“What if I don’t want to undo it?” Alec says quietly.

“What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t you-” but his words fall away abruptly. “Oh.” Magnus. Of course Alec wouldn’t mind the idea of immortality if he gets to spend his eternity with the man he loves. But Andrew doesn’t have that.

Andrew has a new relationship with a Warlock he isn’t sure even loves him, let alone loves him enough to spend forever with him. That isn’t what Lorenzo signed up for. That isn’t what Andrew signed up for! And if they can’t find a way to reverse this Andrew knows he’s facing the reality of an eternity entirely alone and he isn’t sure he can handle that.

No, scratch that, he’s absolutely positive he can’t handle that.

“It’s fine. We’ll talk to Magnus and Lorenzo, and-”

“No.” Andrew says the word immediately, Lorenzo’s name snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts. “No, you can’t tell Lorenzo.”

All he can imagine is the fact that the second Lorenzo finds out this is over - they’re over - and he doesn’t want that. Not yet. It’s still so new, Andrew doesn’t want to scare him away before he ever gets the chance to really know him. He deserves that much, he thinks selfishly.

“You have to tell him,” Alec says.

“Not yet. Please, Alec,” Andrew pleads. He doesn’t care how desperate it makes him look. He needs time to process this, to figure it out. “I’ll tell him, I swear I will, just… not yet.”

“I have to tell Magnus,” Alec points out, but his expression softens at the look on Andrew’s face. “But I’ll ask him to keep it between us. I can’t promise he will, I can’t make him, but I can ask.”

“Thank you,” Andrew sighs.

The number of thoughts that cross Andrew’s mind at that moment is staggering. He thinks of the number of people who would literally kill for a chance at immortality. He thinks of what he can accomplish with potentially limitless time to learn and improve, the skills he can develop, the people he can help.

He thinks that even considering the positives, if given a choice he wouldn’t choose it, and the guilt of something like this being wasted on him is overwhelming.

“I’d like to take the rest of the day off if that’s alright?” Andrew asks, and his own voice sounds weary in his ears.

“Of course, Andrew,” Alec agrees immediately. “Are you alright, though? You can stay here if you want, or come hang out and the Loft with me for a bit.”

Andrew knows that Alec wants to make sure he isn’t unstable or about to run off and do something stupid, a concern he’s grateful for even if it isn’t needed.

“I’m fine, really. I just need some time to process,” Andrew reassures him, giving what he hopes is a reassuring smile to both Alec and Isabelle before leaving the room and heading straight for the exit. He isn’t sure where he’s going, he just knows he needs to get out of there and clear his head.

#reyhill #andrew underhill #lorenzo rey #alec lightwood #shadowhunters #magnus bane #malec #i have a WIP problem apparently #i swore i wouldn't have two at once and here we are #elle writes a few deadbeat lines #long post

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freddieslater · 4 years

Text

Rowing the Rarepair Rowboat: Enzo St. John x Maria DeLuca | Michael Quinn x Maggie James

Glancing up at the flashing neon sign above, Enzo doubts himself. Those damn travellers were so cryptic before they decided to spontaneously combust. The only thing they left behind was a note to him.

Find her. Roswell, New Mexico. Wild Pony.

For years, the thought of finding Maggie once he was finally free--because he was sure he would be, someday, somehow--was one of the only things that kept him going through it all. To thank her. To see that she got the life she deserved; a life full of love and happiness. A human life.

But a bar? She wanted to help people. He takes another quick look at the note, but sure enough, the sign reads the same name beneath the flashing image of a cowboy riding a horse.

Stuffing the slip of paper back into his jacket pocket, he shuts his car door and walks across the gravel to the entrance. He pulls the door open and steps inside.

The room's lit with soft lights, almost dim, just enough to feel welcoming. Chatter from the locals fills the air, a chuckle here or there from the tables. The quiet clatter of a pool cue hitting a ball over to his left, followed by a triumphant cheer and some lighthearted arguing.

He immediately decides that it's preferable over the Grill. Though perhaps that's because he's still unfamiliar here. Make a few enemies, specifically out of the bartender, and then it'll probably feel the same.

Not moving from the doorway, his eyes dart all across the room. They sweep from left to right, to right to left, taking in every face. None belonging to an elderly lady.

Disappointment sweeps through him briefly. Probably for the best, he thinks as the loud-mouthed rednecks at the pool table spout some distasteful language.

Ignoring them, he finally moves, making his way up to the back of the bar. Maybe the travellers sent him here to find one of her relatives, perhaps her child. Though he has no idea if he'd even recognize Maggie now, never mind a descendant of hers.

But when he reaches the bar and seeks out someone who'll be able to give him something to ease his frustrations, he stops dead. Proven wrong, it would seem, because he instantly recognizes the woman behind the bar, caught in the middle of a playful conversation with a rather tipsy man on a stool.

Except it's impossible. Not a feature has changed. She looks as young as the day he compelled her to forget him and walk out without ever looking back. Those dark eyes, so soft yet filled with life like a blazing match. The curve of her lips, that smile that filled his mind to replace the darkness everytime he closed his eyes.

It isn't possible. The only way...

His heart drops. He can't even stomach the thought. Compelling Maggie was meant to protect her, to keep her as far away from his world as possible. Unless she found another vampire more willing to turn her without knowing.

No. He refuses to believe that. But the proof is right there, undeniable. A relative, he tells himself. A daughter with an uncanny resemblance to her mother.

She notices him at last, her eyes flicking over to him. Straightening up and abandoning ber conversation in the process, she shoots him a warm, friendly smile that makes his throat close up.

"All right there?" she asks with a slight chuckle, eyeing him. "You look lost. Or like you've seen a ghost. Neither one uncommon here, surprisingly."

Enzo doesn't know what to say. He realizes she doesn't recognize him. Nothing in her expression or her eyes tells him she has the faintest idea who he is. Of course not, he chides himself. Because she's not Maggie.

"New in town, I take it?" she continues on anyway, apparently unbothered by his lack of response. "I know all of the local's faces; I should, considering I've lived here my whole life."

Something comes loose in his chest. Her whole life. Maggie wasn't from Roswell. There's a sinking feeling inside of him that he can't ignore no matter how he tries.

"Your whole life?" he hears himself ask faintly, forcing an interested smile onto his face. "Must really like this town."

The woman shrugs. "It's my home. But" --she leans both hands on the bar, grinning at him now with that same spark in her eyes-- "with an accent like that, I can see I was right in saying it's not yours."

Enzo huffs out a chuckle and nods. "You caught me. I've visited before, though. Couple times, long time ago."

Her eyebrows furrow the tiniest bit and her head tilts in curiosity as she stares at him. He can see her trying to recall him.

"Weird," she says after a beat. "I feel like there's no way I would forget someone like you..."

She trails off somewhat pointedly, expecting an introduction. He opens his mouth to give it despite his better judgment, but she beats him to it, holding a hand up to stop him.

"Wait, hold on, I'm psychic. Let me take a shot at this."

Her eyes are wide and excited, and he can barely bring himself to be fazed by the claim of being psychic. There's a snort from down the bar from the man she'd been talking to.

She rolls her eyes but otherwise ignores him, her attention fixated on Enzo. Keeping their gazes locked, her eyes narrow. It's taking everything in him not to give anything away. If she's really psychic, somehow, then that won't be a problem.

"I think that... your name is... Michael." As soon as the name falls from her lips, there's a guffaw from her friend and she groans. "Oh, tell me I'm wrong."

But Enzo's heart has stopped again. Michael was the name he had on his file when she was working at Augustine. Dr. Whitmore had taken him from the Air Force, while he was still under his alias of Captain Michael Quinn. It's what Maggie knew him as him until he confessed his real name a few months before she left.

"Just can't get me off your mind, can you, DeLuca?" her friend says, evidently enjoying himself a great deal. He turns to Enzo. "I'm Michael, by the way. The person that the lovely Maria here claims to despise, and yet..."

He waves a hand as if providing all the evidence he needs to make his point. Maybe that's it, Enzo thinks, and his mind catches the name this Michael uses. Maria. Not Maggie. Similar but not the same. Maria DeLuca, by the sounds of it. Not James.

Maria scoffs and aims the towel in her hand at Michael, who merely laughs and dodges the blow of it.

"Ignore him," she tells Enzo, turning back to him.

He laughs it off as well. "That's okay. Maria, was it?"

She nods, her lips pressing together in a smile again. "That's right, mysterious stranger whose name is definitely not Michael. Sorry about that. Sometimes I'm right, sometimes I'm wrong. It happens."

Part of him is tempted to tell her she's not wrong. After all, he was Michael for over ten years. Who's to say that means it isn't still part of his identity?

"Well, it is my middle name, so not entirely wrong," he decides to say. "I'm Lorenzo. People usually just call me Enzo."

Maria's face lights up, her smile brightening. "Middle name is good enough for me. And it's nice to meet you, Enzo. So, what can I get for you?"

"Er, just a bourbon, please."

He hesitates, then takes a seat on one of the stools. His eyes stay glued to her as she pours him a bourbon. How is this even possible?

Doppelgangers exist. He knows that far too well from his brief time in Mystic Falls, but that was a curse. Maggie was never in the middle of some two-thousand-year-old love affair involving vengeful travellers. As far as he's aware.

Maria sets the glass down in front of him. He thanks her and slides the money over before taking a long drink. At this rate, he's going to need a lot more than one glass.

"So, Enzo," Maria says, and pain spikes through his heart at hearing that same voice say his name again after all these years. "What brings you to our lovely but ultimately boring little town? Is it the aliens?"

He can't help but laugh at that. Once upon a time, it was in fact the aliens that brought him here.

"No, no, though I wouldn't mind seeing a few," he jokes, and is pleased when she laughs, too. He then sighs. "But I'm looking for someone. A woman I used to know. We... lost touch for a while."

Maria frowns. "Oh. Well, what's her name? Like I said, I know everyone in this town. If she's been here, I'll remember."

He stares at her for a moment. I'll remember. Something about the way she says it sends a shiver through him.

"Maggie James," he says before he can process he's doing it. "Her name's Maggie James."

For the briefest flicker of a moment after he says it, he admittedly expects recognition to flash across her face and for her to say that's her mother's name. Or an auntie. Someone in her family, something to explain this, because he can't think of a single logical explanation otherwise.

But her eyes stay blank and distant, still frowning. Then he notices that her frown has actually deepened. More thought than required for remembering a name of a stranger you met once or twice. And the blank look in her eyes is too blank, like they've glazed over, completely detached from reality.

Enzo's heartbeat quickens. Her expression twitches. It's a tiny movement, invisible to the human eye. But he catches it, and everything crashes down inside of him. It's the look of someone trying to unearth a memory buried beneath layers of compulsion. Just below the surface but forever unreachable.

Then she blinks, and it's as if she's thrust back into her body. She straightens up a little too quickly, her eyes wide and dazed. But alert. And lost.

"Nope," she says, and shakes her head, reverting back to her casual composure from before. "Sorry. Doesn't ring any bells."

He can hear the lie in her voice. Feel it from her. It did ring a bell, just one she couldn't quite hear. Muffled by his own doing. Or something else, he just wouldn't know what. It can't just be his compulsion. It doesn't explain why she'd still be this young, why she has a completely different identity and life. None of it makes sense.

"Don't worry about it," he tells her, plastering on another careful smile. "I'm sure I'll find her."

He doesn't know why, but it feels like the truth. Something tells him he won't have to look far. It's just more complicated now, is all. But when has he not loved a few complications here and there? They're what make things interesting.

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carmenlire · 5 years

Note

Prompt: Malec playing with the Alliance Rune, +\- magnus (being a little jealous?) not liking Lorenzo’s magic running through Alec, wanting it to be his. Alec loving Magnus’ magic

Thanks for sending a prompt Bel!! I hope you like this!

read on ao3

When Magnus notices, it’s a punch to the gut. It makes bile climb up his throat, seeing the nauseatingly yellow magic around Alec’s hands– his Alec, his darling Alexander, using another warlock’s magic is intolerable.

And Lorenzo, the bastard, he knew. He knew how it would feel to see another’s magic around his fucking fiance.

Magnus is well aware that it’s neither the time nor the place for such a primal reaction. The truth is, the alliance rune had saved those closest to him and secured his own freedom from Edom.

That doesn’t mean that Magnus doesn’t almost choke on the knowledge, though.

Still, everything happens so fast after the rescue mission and it’s weeks later before it comes up again. The two of them are walking through Central Park and it’s the most peaceful Magnus can remember feeling in years– decades maybe.

It’s winter and they’re bundled up in their coats and scarves and Alec’s wearing those fingerless gloves that Magnus adores even if he wonders how on earth Alec’s staving away frostbite. It’s quiet, snow spitting down, and it feels like they’re in their own little world.

Alec hauls him a little closer with his arm over his shoulder and Magnus hides a grin in his scarf, tightening his own arm that’s slung low around Alec’s back.

“You know,” Alec starts and when Magnus looks up, it’s clear that his husband is choosing his words carefully, that this is far from the spontaneous little conversation he’s clearing aiming for. “I love your magic.”

A little taken aback at the abrupt declaration, Magnus merely blinks. “Thank you, darling,” he says, nonplussed.

He looks up in time to see Alec roll his eyes, though he doesn’t know if it’s at himself or Magnus. Looking over, the breath stalls in his chest at the intensity in Alec’s gaze.

“What I mean is– I love the feel of it, the way it seems to reach out to me sometimes, especially when you aren’t even paying attention. It feels familiar.” Magnus watches, entranced, as Alec swallows hard, as his tongue darts out to swipe across his lip. “It feels like home.”

Something melts in Magnus and he leans further into Alec. “Oh,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

Alec looks like he wants to say something else but he doesn’t and Magnus doesn’t push. Instead, they continue strolling aimlessly down a path while Magnus’s head spins. It’s nothing new or unexpected but damn if Alec doesn’t know how to lay waste to Magnus’s defenses with the simplest of declarations.

His thoughts catch on Alec’s words, however, and his head snaps back up. “You said it felt familiar,” Magnus drawls. He raises a brow. “More familiar than a certain other warlock’s?”

Wincing, Alec doesn’t pretend not to know what Magnus is alluding to. “I’d much rather have been your partner for the alliance rune than Rey’s, I assure you. While it was cool, it felt like his magic was fighting me every step of the way.”

Filing away that useful bit of information, Magnus replies before his brain has a chance to catch up to his words. “Then let’s do it.”

He comes to a stop as Alec freezes and while he hadn’t meant to, he knows his voice had betrayed his irritation. He meets Alec’s eyes with a challenge in his own.

Breath catching as Alec steps close, as his husband cups his cheek and tilts his face up a bare inch, Magnus can’t look away as Alec asks, “You mean that,” in a low tone.

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it, Alexander. Besides,” he asks with a quick grin, “If I can’t share the alliance rune with my husband then who the hell can I use it with?”

He watches the way Alec’s eyes darken and then he’s being pulled into a searing kiss that makes Magnus hot, no matter that it’s thirty degrees outside. When Alec finally steps back, his voice is hoarse as he says, “Home. Now.”

–

Alec sits on the couch, twirling his stele absently in his hand. It’s unfairly attractive and Magnus feels his stare land on him as he lights half a dozen candles around the living room. The late winter afternoon is gloomy, casting the loft in shadows. Taking their outerwear off, Magnus had rolled up his shirt sleeves as Alec had settled. Magnus feels a shiver wrack up his spine and can’t help but feel like the mouse to Alec’s cat.

A few minutes later, Magnus is done and he strolls over to Alec. Looking down at his husband, he blinks slowly and between one moment and the next, his glamour dissolves. He hears Alec’s breath catch and he grins as he steps so that Alec’s thighs are between his legs.

Tilting Alec’s head up, he murmurs, “Are you sure about this, darling?”

Alec’s nodding before he’s even finished asking. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admits and a fire blooms in Magnus’s gut at the earnest words, at the way he reaches out and grips Magnus’s hips in steady hands. “I want all of you, Magnus.”

Magnus lowers himself until he’s straddling Alec and he holds out his arm. His voice is husky as he offers, “Mark me then, Alexander.”

Alec’s fingers dig into his hips for a moment and Magnus half hopes he follows through on his clear desire to push Magnus back onto the couch and do wickedly wonderful things to his body.

Instead, he takes a deep breath as if gathering his thoughts and wraps a hand around Magnus’s arm. His thumb brushes over the sensitive skin of his wrist and Magnus shudders in his hold. When he lifts his other hand and the tip of his stele touches him, though, Magnus can’t stop his instinctive flinch.

Memories course through him, flashes of a chair and restraints and an Alec he didn’t recognize.

Catching the little movement, Alec stills, too. “You okay,” he asks softly. “I won’t hurt you– besides the rune itself stinging a little as it’s applied– but I don’t want to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

Shaking his head a little to clear it, it’s Magnus’s turn to take a steadying breath and when he looks up at Alec, his expression is serious but sure. “I want this. It’s just something new and unexpected and my body hasn’t quite caught up with my head.” He sees the hesitancy in the tension seeping into Alec and all he offers is a quiet, “Please.”

Alec nods to himself and then the stele is touching him once more. Alec draws the swirling lines in a competent hand and he wasn’t lying– it does sting as the rune flares with light before settling into a deep crimson against his skin. The pain sears into him for one heartbeat, for two and three, before it settles back down and Magnus bites his lip at the feeling.

It strikes him immediately that it’s different than the first and last time he was runed. This pain is comforting, familiar, something he wants to sink into. His mind’s a little hazy but he has a desperate wish to chase the sensation and when he shifts, biting back a moan, he knows that Alec’s picked up on his reaction from the way his gaze sharpens.

Magnus doesn’t say anything, though, and neither does Alec and as the heat banks back down, Magnus is struck by a different feeling.

There’s a connection there and it’s like he’s been jump-started. There’s a different energy buzzing under his skin and he has the sudden desire to– to do something, anything, that can test the limits of the power he can feel simmering just below the surface, waiting to be tapped.

He doesn’t do any of that, though. Instead, he reaches for Alec’s stele and as soon as his fingers wrap around it, it glows red.

Alec doesn’t comment on the color and when Magnus darts a look up, it’s to see his husband’s unsurprised face.

“You knew?”

Raising a brow, Alec merely replies, “I know who I married.”

Huffing out a laugh, Magnus reaches for Alec’s wrist only to be stopped. He looks up, curious, but Alec just urges him to lean back. With enough room to maneuver, he pulls his shirt off, tossing it onto the floor next to him.

Tapping over his heart, Alec murmurs, “Right here.”

Swallowing hard, Magnus nods once. He’d studied the alliance rune that first day– his eyes had burned into the rune Lorenzo had drawn on Alec’s arm and he’d poured his gaze over the scrap of paper Biscuit had drafted.

He draws the rune over Alec’s heart now with a steady hand. When he’s done, they both take a breath and Magnus rests his hand over Alec’s chest, feels his heart beating wildly underneath his palm.

Looking up, Magnus’s breath catches as his eyes lock on Alec’s. He reaches a hand up, running a thumb over his cheek.

Distantly, he thinks he understands Alec’s reaction to seeing his mark because seeing Alexander with gold eyes is one of the most stunning images Magnus has ever been treated to.

“Mine,” Magnus breathes, tipping Alec’s head up, and he feels the shudder that rolls through his husband at the declaration, at the possessiveness lingering in his undertone.

When his husband lifts a hand to put over his, they see the blue tendrils wrapped around his fingers at the same time and the breath is punched out of Magnus anew.

If seeing his mark on Alec was gorgeous, watching his magic wrap around his love is something else entirely. Magnus doesn’t have words for what the sight does to him, for the primal surge that rocks through him at seeing his magic– his soul, his essence– intertwined with Alec.

He’s not entirely aware of doing it but in a flash, he has Alec on his back, pushing him into the couch cushions, leaning over him with hands on his chest.

They both freeze for a moment as they realize what’s happened and then Magnus is grinning down at Alec and it’s sharp, wicked and teasing.

Before he can do anything else, though, Alec’s across the room. There’s a flush riding high across his cheeks and his eyes are glinting with challenge, with a look Magnus has only ever seen when the heat of a mission was thrumming through his blood.

“Catch me.”

Magnus has a second to register the words before Alec’s gone and it’s more instinct than anything else that has him giving chase.

It’s odd, to feel the power of runes running through him. They stay in the loft and Alec flashes from one room to the next, letting Magnus get close without quite managing to win. Magnus supposes it would be anticlimactic for vampires or even werewolves but warlocks have never had increased speed or strength. Magnus might be exceptionally fit for a human but any superhuman power comes from his magic and it’s a thrill to feel his heightened senses working in a totally different way than he’s used to.

There’s another piece of it, though, and he follows Alec, reaching through their connection. His magic binds them and he can feel it working in Alec. The ebb and flow, his power sparking in an unfamiliar body while still recognizing it on a molecular level.

It’s like Alec mentioned earlier, Magnus realizes. His magic has recognized Alec since the beginning, since before he used Alec’s strength to restore his depleted levels so long ago. It’s made a home in Alec for longer than Magnus realized– it’s burrowed its way into his husband until Magnus is fairly stunned at how happy it feels to be in Alec, crashing through his system like a purring cat.

Clearing his head, Magnus redoubles his efforts and when he finally catches Alec, he pins him against the wall in the living room. He’s not quite aware of just how effective the strength rune is, however, and when Alec leans in and crashes their lips together, Magnus’s hands drag down his sides until they’re settling against his thighs and he’s pulling, both of them breaking apart to gasp in surprise as Magnus lifts Alec until he can wrap his legs around his waist.

Magnus doesn’t even break a sweat and he feels more than hears Alec groan, his own chest aching in response.

It quickly devolves from there but when Alec’s hands cup his face, the kiss turns impossibly deep and everything slows down until they’re grinding against each other and Magnus has the thought that they should probably move this to the couch or bed or, hell, the floor, but then Alec moves.

Magnus almost comes in his goddamn pants as his choked off cry echoes through the room. When he opens his eyes, it’s to see Alec staring at him, shock and delight flaring bright in his face as they have the same realization.

Alec’s hands had moved down until he was pressing desperate nails into the small of Magnus’s back. Without knowing how– and the very small piece of Magnus’s brain that is still online is racing at the implications– Alec had coalesced his own pleasure and doubled it back, pushing it into Magnus with a shock wave of feeling.

Sex magic is intimate and while Magnus loved it, particularly with Alec as the very willing recipient, it took extensive training and an emotional bond that had to be carefully cultivated.

The fact that Alec had had the alliance rune for less than an hour yet was able to do such a thing was nearly inconceivable.

Magnus gives very brief thought to pursuing it on an intellectual level but the desire still running through him quickly drowns that inclination out.

It looks like Alec is on the same page as they lean back into each other, mouths meeting in a kiss that’s as hot as it is desperate.

As Magnus steps away from the pillar, still holding Alec effortlessly, he turns toward the bedroom.

He can’t wait to thoroughly test out the alliance rune’s abilities.

#intangibel #asked #answered #my writing #supernova #malec prompt #malec fic

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malecsecretsanta · 4 years

Photo

Merry Christmas, @forensicsisabelle!

Dear giftee!

Hope this gift will give you a smile and a giggle over the festive period! Merry Christmas! <3

Read on AO3

******

There's Something Magical About Christmas!

Chapter 1 - Christmas Eve

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

Surely it couldn’t be time to rise and face the day already, Magnus thinks, burrowing deeper into the furry warmth of his husband’s comfy chest, stubbornly refusing to let the light stealing through the curtains rob him of his contented bliss.

The answering purr he feels beneath his cheek makes him smile though..

“You’re turning into Chairman, Alexander,” he mumbles, scrunching his nose at the delicate licks it’s now being treated to.

Muffled giggling has Magnus cranking one bleary eye open to see it was indeed the magnificent Meow providing him with a perfect pillow, while the highly amused trio of his nearest and dearest were huddled together on the other side of the bed, laughing at his expense.

Once again, Magnus silently congratulates himself for suggesting they all wear brand new festive pyjamas every year as a Lightwood-Bane family tradition, because seeing Reindeer Rafe, Mince Pie Max and Angel Alexander had already made his Christmas as far as Mistletoe Magnus was concerned.

A grin tugging at his lips, Magnus subjects all three of them to lazy tickles, reserving a nuzzle for the unimpressed pet, who promptly vacates the bed in a huff over all the jostling noise, the void quickly filled with eager bodies scooting closer to get their morning cuddles.

“Snuggles,” declares their youngest, heaving a contented sigh when everyone’s limbs are entangled enough to barely allow any breath and his parents’ arms reach across to lock them in tight.

“How long have you three been awake?” Magnus rasps, dropping a kiss on the boys’ heads before crushing them briefly when his husband seeks one for himself.

Whispering into Rafe’s dark curls, Alec replies, “Someone forgot to turn their alarm off this morning and woke us up.” Hazel eyes peer mischievously at him through ridiculously long lashes. “Well, most of us.”

Magnus savours it, lips curling in tandem with his handsome husband’s as they patiently wait to give each other a proper kiss good morning.

“What can I say, family of mine?” he sighs, propping himself up on his elbow to see their faces better “Those of us not blessed with a Nephilim glow or the magic of youth, require all the help extra sleep can give.”

“As if,” snorts Alec, rolling his eyes in unison with their eldest, while big blue ones crinkle in delight at his papa’s silly words.

“I think you SPARKLE!” Max declares, his eager arms reaching to wrestle Magnus down for a flurry of loud, wet kisses to his face, both boys oblivious to the dopey smiles exchanged over their heads as they nestle deeper under the covers.

Hearing the mouthed words, “You’re beautiful,” because they’re voiced loud and clear on an almost daily basis by his very complimentary partner, Magnus absorbs all the affection in a languid state of happiness as he watches Alec rise to go make breakfast, asking over his shoulder what everyone wants to do today.

Everything from trips abroad to board games are discussed over the kitchen table as they wolf down Alec’s expertly-made crepes, but before they even have a chance to clear the dishes, an unwelcome security issue requiring Alec’s immediate attention threatens to breach their cheerful mood.

Rafe, proud of his dad’s position as the Head of the New York Institute and keen to take any opportunity to observe him in action, is the only one excited by the news.

“I’ll be ready in five minutes,” Rafe chirps, scrambling off the chair and running to get dressed without waiting for Alec’s permission to go with him.

With a fond shake of the head, Alec crouches next to where Max is now pouting on Magnus’ lap and takes his hand.

“I hate to leave, Max, but I’ll try and make it quick, then we’ll do whatever you boys want, ok?” Alec promises, kissing his 5-year-old’s button nose and getting rewarded with one back before going to change.

Determined to remain upbeat, Magnus suggests helping Max practice the magic trick he plans to use to impress their friends later, flicking his wrist to fill the loft with music from Max’s favourite Harry Potter film, trying and succeeding in bringing the joy back to his little one’s face.

By the time his angelic duo are ready to leave, everyone’s mood is restored, except Alec’s.

“Go do your job, Shadowhunter,” Magnus tells him between quick, chaste kisses that will have to do for now. “We’re not going anywhere.”

The lop-sided smile he receives makes the wait for their return much easier.

*********************************

Given the mutinous look on his 7-year-old’s face, Alec’s half-expecting his son to dig his heels in and refuse to leave his side while Underhill delivers his security report, but Rafe’s need to make his father proud of him overrides his annoyance at being temporarily dismissed and he trudges over to Aline without another word, letting her cajole him with offers of bo staff training and peppermint fudge until he caves with a dimpled grin.

“Thanks for offering to look after him, Aline. Appreciate it.”

A knowing smile accompanies her nod, and with a quick wave, she closes the door behind them.

“He’s a chip off the old block, you know,” says Underhill, eyes darting to the handful of papers at Alec’s elbow that Rafe had just been practicing his memos and perfecting his tricky signature on.

If it was what Rafe wanted, his son was going to head up his own institute one day, Alec was sure of it. Pride softened his voice. “Actually, I think he’s got a lot of Magnus in him too,” Alec replies, capping the embossed fountain pen Rafe had been using and twirling it in his hand. “I offered him crayons but apparently they’re not good enough for cursive writing.”

Underhill chuckles, taking a seat and opening the file. “He’s a credit to you both. Max too.”

Warmth fills Alec’s chest at those words. “Thank you. We’ve been very lucky.”

Clearing some space for them to study the data, Alec’s remembering the cleverly-timed kiss that allowed Magnus to persuade him to add some ‘yuletide joy’ to his austere surroundings, having to reign him in on the six-foot tree but unable to resist the fibre optic family-of-four snowmen sharing a rainbow scarf that stood beside a framed photo of them all.

The glamoured one secreted away in the bottom drawer of his desk, offering a digital slideshow of Magnus at his most alluring, was for his eyes only when he had to work late. That is a gift that truly keeps on giving.

A discreet cough brings him back to the present.

This time, warmth flooded Alec’s face. “Sorry. Shall we get started?”

Ever the gentleman, Underhill focuses on showing him their security status, assuring him that Keller, a specialist from the Tokyo Institute, would be a competent stand-in for himself when he took some long-overdue leave after Boxing Day.

Genuinely happy for the man who’d become a sympathetic friend over the last few years, Alec wishes Underhill good luck with his proposal plans, sure in the knowledge that Lorenzo will give him the answer he hoped for.

And equally sure they’ll be receiving an invitation, in portrait form, to the grandest wedding Spain will ever see.

Eager to retrieve his son and gather his family around him, Alec’s in the middle of locking drawers, switching off screens and filing the practice memos away for safe-keeping, when Rafe returns, sporting a megawatt smile as Aline and Helen regale Alec with how much progress the young Shadowhunter’s made with his posture and composure since he last visited.

Heart melting, Alec drops a kiss on Rafe’s head before giving him a piggyback and messages Magnus to say they’re ready to come home and need a portal, never more grateful for his favourite warlock’s pioneering ability than when it brings them all back together again.

“Will you both be on duty over Christmas?” Alec asks, once Rafe’s high-fived his chaperones goodbye.

“We are,” Helen replies, taking Aline’s hand and kissing it sweetly. “But we have each other for company while we do some heavy-duty…research.” The shared look between the girlfriends doesn’t escape Alec.

“Oh, research? Is that what we’re calling it now?” he teases as he heads for the portal that’s appeared behind him.

“We might even check the perimeter now and then,” Aline calls after him. “ I’ve heard it can be fun with the right company.”

Flipping them off behind his back, their laughter sends him home smiling and eager for a kiss from his husband.

*************************************

“Once more, my little blueberry. You’re so close, I can taste the cappuccino,” Magnus urges, heartsore about how defeated his little boy looks over the absence of lasting magic from his hands and wishing all the ley lines would converge beneath penthouse one to help Max complete his sorting spell.

The teary expression on Max’s face tells Magnus he’s not convinced he can do this.

With a soothing hand between shoulder blades stiff with tension, Magnus kneels down and cups his other one beneath both of Max’s which hold a small hill of coffee beans, and continues his encouragement. “Believe in your ability to do this, Max. Picture your magic roasting them, changing what the beans can do. Feel it in your gut and guide it to your fingertips, just like we talked about. Okay?”

Tilting his face up for a ‘positivity peck’ on the cheek, a more focused Max nods and prepares to try again, reciting the simple charm with more conviction than before.

Ready and waiting to provide a boost if needed, Magnus watches with incredible pride as the pale blue sparks don’t splutter and die, but grow stronger and brighter, rippling across the childish palms and engulfing the beans in a painless fire that ensures their new ability before clearing in a puff of white smoke.

Casting a quick reinforcement spell to preserve Max’s hard work, Magnus stores them in a sack stamped with the Hogwarts School emblem and flings his arms open for a hug, happy tears and giggles filling the room.

“Oh Max, you were wonderful!” Magnus tells him once they recover themselves, standing to swing the boy onto his hip. “Just wait until your dad and Rafe find out that you controlled your magic this time. Let alone see what we’ve done with the kitchen.”

Casting a critical eye over the lavishly-decorated roleplay cafe it had become thanks to both Max’s fertile imagination and his creative genius, Magnus has to admit he’s pleased with the results.

Shrugging his shoulders, Max is confident his father will love it. “This is fun. Dad said we could do what we wanted today.”

“He did indeed,” Magnus agrees, feeling warm and fuzzy about how, even at this tender age, Max is secure in the knowledge that his father will want to spend time having fun with him and his brother, because he loves them, and that Alec’s promises mean something.

Magnus wishes he’d known such certainty of affection growing up, been able to believe in the words spoken to him by the two men who’d held paternal roles in his life, but today was not to be spoiled with thoughts of fathers past, only enjoyed with a dearly beloved father of the present and the future. He’d found the perfect man to raise kids with.

One of many, many reasons he loves Alexander Gideon Lightwood.

“We have the stage, but not the costumes. Any thoughts?” Magnus asks, watching a slideshow of ideas come and go on Max’s face, giving it the serious consideration it deserves.

“Mmm, I want to be…..Draco. No! Dumbledore!” Bouncing with infectious excitement, Magnus needs both arms to contain his wannabe Albus, heading for the walk-in closet when a message from Alec comes through.

“Is that Dad? Are they coming back?” Max asks, crossing his fingers.

Magnus happily confirms that they are. “No time to waste,” he decides, magicking them both into costumes befitting their characters.

Max’s ecstatic smile, almost hidden by his new silvery beard, surely means Magnus chose wisely.

Activating the requested portal, they take up their positions just in time.

Gratifying gasps meet their ears when Alec and Rafe step through and spy their handiwork. Rafe takes in the bright red exterior framing the kitchen doorway as he slides to the floor, while Alec’s eyes rake over every inch of Magnus in his Lockhart finery, from his golden hair and make-up to the hem of his elaborately embroidered cape-coat.

“Papa, can I dress up too?” Rafe asks hopefully. “I want to be Ssssseverus Sssssnape!”

Dragging his eyes away from Alec’s frank appraisal, Magnus gives Rafe a thumbs up. “Certainly, ssssssunshine.” And with a flick of his wrist, Rafe becomes the head of Slytherin House.

Turning to Alec, Magnus issues a silent challenge to choose a character, lips quirking at the devilment he saw in those eyes. Watching the expressive slideshow of thoughts, an uncanny repeat of their youngest when he’s thinking, Magnus finds himself intrigued.

“How about Hag-?”

“No chance.”

“Alastor-”

“Nope.”

“Vol-”

“Don’t say his name!” exclaim the boys, pointing accusing fingers at their dad for forgetting.

Alec holds up his hands, suitably chastised, and turns a knowing smile on Magnus. “Let’s go with Sirius Black.”

“Excellent choice,” Magnus beams, all set to conjure the most raggedy and revealing prison clothes he could in the presence of the boys, when Alec spoils his fun with, “Minus the handcuffs.”

“As you wish,” he sighs, still creating a masterpiece with Alec’s velvet frock coat and fob chain, the false moustache and day-old stubble wreaking havoc with Magnus’ imagination until Max, equally resplendent in a silk robe and tasseled cap, clears his throat and lifts his arms.

“Welcome, Severus! Welcome, Sirius! This is the Elephant House coffee shop.” Pausing to check with Magnus that he’d said it correctly, Max continues. “Would you like to come inside for a drink?”

Bowing, Alec replies, “We’d be honoured, Professor,” causing Max to dissolve into giggles.

Rafe, however, staying wholly in character, gives his brother a dismissive look and strides inside, much to everyone’s amusement.

But before Magnus can follow them, Alec steals a surprise kiss as busy hands roam over the flowery cravat and waistcoat Magnus is wearing. Alec uses the voice usually reserved for the bedroom. “I just want to say that all of this works for me in ways it really shouldn’t.”

Similarly undone, Magnus tugs him even closer by his lapels. “Your whiskers have the same effect as my cat eyes, Alexander. You might have a hard time finding your razor from now on.”

The slow grin he receives is pure filth.

“Good to know.”

Magnus leaves him go with a grin of his own and shoos him inside the cafe.

Based mostly on Dumbledore’s office, the transformation looks amazing, if Magnus does say so himself. Bookshelves have replaced the cupboards, an ornate desk stands in lieu of the kitchen table, portrait paintings cover the walls and a grand chandelier graces the ceiling. In pride of place is a candle-lit lectern in the shape of an owl which holds a beautifully-styled coffee menu, next to which is a big wooden, globe-shaped drinks cabinet that houses a coffee machine with four spouts, each one forged into the head-shape of the animals representing the Hogwarts houses - a lion, a badger, an eagle and a serpent.

“You’ve outdone yourself in such a short space of time, Gilderoy,” Alec declares, taking in all the little details.

“‘Spooky how the time flies when one’s having fun,’” quotes Magnus, preening like a peacock at how thrilled everyone is with his efforts. “Care to take a taste test with our newly-qualified warlock-in-residence? Or am I spilling the beans too early, Max?”

Alec and Rafe turn to look expectantly at Max, who’s bubbling over with his need to share his news.

“I made magic coffee beans ALL BY MYSELF!“ he cries, quickly disappearing beneath a two-fold attack of bear hugs and congratulations that has Magnus joining in.

“What do I have to do to sample these special beans?” asks Alec, radiating with pride at his son’s first magical triumph.

“Sit and we’ll show you,” answers Max, fetching the sack of beans and opening it so his dad and brother could take one each, leaving his papa to explain the rest.

“These beans have been magically roasted by my good friend, Dumbledore, so that they’ll tell us which type of coffee you’ll enjoy drinking the most, based on the colour it leaves on your tongue when you chew it. Temporarily, of course.” Elegant hands draw their attention to each of the available beverages on the menu and their corresponding colour.

“Scarlet for a Grounded Gryffindor, yellow for a Hot Hufflepuff, blue for a Rich Ravenclaw and green for a Smooth Slytherin.”

“I love that,” Rafe chuckles.

“It’s actually really sweet,” Alec agrees, winking at a proud-as-punch Max.

“Now you can eat the bean,“ announces Magnus. “It tastes of Lucky Charms because Max wanted Rafe to like the taste.”

“Nice one,” Rafe says, high-fiving his little brother before popping the bean into his mouth. Alec followed suit.

When they reveal their matching green tongues, Rafe takes it to mean he’s definitely following in his father’s successful footsteps and glows as Max puts a goblet under the snake’s spout and pulls the spoon-shaped handle for the coffee to pour.

“Remember to put extra milk in Rafe’s goblet please, Max,” says Magnus, smirking at the eye roll this earns him from his offended son.

Moaning with pleasure over how satisfying his coffee tastes, Alec sets down his cup and draws them all in for a group hug.

“Gentlemen, you’ve just given me the perfect blend of family, fun and fantasy that I could ever hope to enjoy. Thank you.”

Forgiving his husband the terrible pun, Magnus knows he couldn’t agree more.

Chapter 2 - Christmas Day

***************************

“I think our presents were a success, Alexander. Would you agree?” asks Magnus as they attempt a waltz around the loft, but Alec’s trying to focus on avoiding all the trip hazards that litter the floor, such as Persian rugs, Chairman, randomly tossed cushions and the odd discarded toy.

“Uh, yeah. They seemed over the moon with them,” he smiles. Mostly, it’s relief at having just negotiated the coffee table without incident, but there’s also the memory of how elated the boys had been, despite the early hour.

Having arranged for their friends to visit them for a late breakfast, he and Magnus had decided to let the boys dive straight into opening their gifts after being rudely woken up with their ear-splitting cries of, ”Merry Christmas,” and clambered over by their reckless limbs. There’d been many to get through but, as always, their own special ones had been revealed in an unconventional way, as befitting his unconventional husband.

Already overjoyed with all the smaller items they’d been lucky enough to receive from their parents, the boys had been watching the film, Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory, a tradition they’d adopted ever since Max had discovered the scene where Violet Beauregarde turned into a giant blueberry, when Magnus had reminded them that their festive stockings hadn’t been emptied yet.

Suspicious but eager to seek out more possible rewards, both had taken the Wonka chocolate bars inside to be exactly that, until they’d removed the wrapping and discovered the golden tickets with news of their bespoke gifts written on them.

Private singing and dancing lessons for Rafe and a prominent pirate role in an upcoming blockbuster movie for Max, both courtesy of Magnus’ close personal friends, Beyonce and Baz.

Chairman was still recovering from the screams that had rocked the entire apartment, hence why he was nowhere to be seen now, despite the number of familiar faces that were here this afternoon. Though the volume in here could have something to do with it too.

In honour of one of their generous donors, the Moulin Rouge! soundtrack had been selected as something they could all dance to, and glancing around him, Alec thinks it’s an inspired choice. How else would he be able to bask in the timeless fun of seeing Simon lip-sync a love medley to his adoring boyfriend, with Raphael’s heart eyes in full effect whenever it’s his turn to join in, with gusto. Probably for her own protection, Madzie was out on the balcony learning how to cha-cha with Catarina, while Ragnor’s frequent offers to teach them the gavotte or the jive fell on purposely-deaf ears.

And then there was their precious sons, too busy eating the last of the penguin-shaped pretzels Catarina had brought to take an active part in the chaos, but cheering loudly from the sidelines in between bites.

Alec’s sigh is filled with bone-deep contentment. One Magnus recognises instantly, dipping him into a martini-flavoured kiss Alec never wants to end.

Alas, someone has other ideas.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake man, put him down. You still have guests, you know?” Ragnor chides as he passes by on the way to Magnus’ apothecary, port in one hand and shortbread in the other, having clearly taken the hint that his skills weren’t currently required.

“You’re just sour that I christened you after the Hufflepuff ghost on account of your tongue. ‘The Fat Friar’ actually suits you,” Magnus shoots back with a pointed look at Ragnor’s stash, claiming another kiss out of spite before restoring Alec to an upright position.

Far too soon, for Alec’s liking.

“At least you weren’t ‘The Bloody Baron,’ that was way too convenient, if you ask me,” Raphael chimes in, letting slip a private smirk when Simon questions the accuracy of having been dubbed ‘Nearly Headless Nick.’ “Close enough,” he replies, utterly deadpan.

“Well, I still think Tessa should’ve been here to claim the title of ‘The Grey Lady’ but I’ll take it with grace,” Catarina says, a breathless Madzie on her hip as she rejoins them from outside.

“On that ridiculous note, I will take my leave, and my surplus-to-requirement dancing skills, to the den next door, in peaceful tribute to the fantastical badger aligned to my Hufflepuff House,” declares Ragnor, taking three steps before jabbing a finger in Magnus and Alec’s direction. “And you, my boys, better not disturb me with your caterwauling when the final song comes on.”

“The Hogwarts School motto is ‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon,’ my dear cabbage, so you’re quite safe,” Magnus counters, laser-quick, to a chorus of giggles and a solitary, unamused groan. “My work here is done,” his wicked husband chuckles, before declaring everyone needs refreshments ahead of the grand finale.

Watching him go, Alec thinks about how he’d never wanted to celebrate Christmas growing up in the stale environment of the Institute, but as with so many things, Alec had only known what he wanted since Magnus Bane had come along. The best gift Alec could’ve asked for.

***********************************

Sipping his cranberry margarita in the doorway of the balcony, Magnus takes a much-needed timeout from his duties as co-host for the evening and surveys the scene before him.

Thanks to everyone’s high spirits and all the party debris they’re accumulating, the loft is an absolute mess. Yet to Magnus, it’s never looked more perfect a home than it does in this moment.

Against a colourful backdrop of Christmas lights and mirror balls, family and friends are strewn across couches, rugs and cushions in varying states of sobriety, each one enjoying the company of those around them and managing to drown out the muted background music with their lively chatter and carefree laughter.

The now-familiar feeling of being home that Alec’s always given him, is only strengthened by the bonds that have been forged between their families, both biological and chosen.

A sigh escapes him as he imagines how different his life might have been had his mother lived, but there’s no other universe in which he sees himself being happier than he is here, with Alec and their sons. So he raises his glass in a silent toast to the mother whose loss he still feels to this day, and rejoins the party with a genuine smile for some of those people he’s happy to have found.

He’s barely taken two steps before an excitable Max is summoning him across the room to where Clary’s impressive face-painting skills are transforming his son into Frosty the Snowman, his beautiful horns, only unglamoured in the presence of those he trusts, just like his blue skin, have been turned into carrots and his blue hair is a riot of glitter and snowflakes. Conjuring a cashmere scarf to complete the look, Magnus takes a photo before messy hands have a chance to undo all the hard work.

“Just when I think you couldn’t look any cooler,“ Magnus quips, smitten with the groan and eye-roll combo that meets his embarrassing ‘dad’ joke. He still gets his cuddle though. “I think you both deserve a snow cone. Agreed?”

“Absolutely!” Clary chimes in. “But maybe make mine a little more Black Russian than blackcurrant, please?”

“Your wish is my command, biscuit,” Magnus replies, sweeping a bow as he delivers their rewards with a finger snap and giving them both a paternal pat on the head, moving on swiftly at Clary’s glare.

He spies Luke barely managing to hide his mirth over yet another argument between those notoriously fiery lovebirds known as Maia and Jace, unaware he now embodies the ‘jolly old elf’ on his gloriously ugly Christmas sweater, and decides to find out why.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asks his friend, from a safe distance away. Then he overhears his hapless brother-in-law misquote Dickens’ famous introduction to A Tale of Two Cities in a bid to prove he knows his Shakespeare, and Magnus thinks he already knows the answer.

“Oh dear.”

“Yep, it’s that bad,” Luke confirms, shoulders shaking with the effort it’s costing him not to burst out laughing. “Nine months in and the boy still hasn’t learned there’s nothing that riles our well-read warrior more than the desecration of her favourite classics.”

“And compounding it by confusing the writers?” Magnus shudders. “I always knew his self-preservation skills were minimal, but she’ll tear him to shreds if he keeps this up.”

Luke swigs his beer and slaps a paw on Magnus’ shoulder. “Fifty says he’s sleeping on your couch tonight.”

“A hundred says he isn’t.”

“Deal.”

Parting on a fist bump, Magnus winks at his admiring husband in passing and locates Isabelle in the newly-restored kitchen. Unsupervised.

Worse still, she’s engrossed in that cookbook from Idris that Robert gifted her years ago, but when she begins her feverish search for ingredients, that’s when fear grips him, thanks to a deeply unpleasant memory.

Throwing back his cocktail, Magnus knows he has to try and stop her before someone gets hurt.

“Isabelle, my dear, care to help me devour the last cream cheese bagel from Sadelle’s before Alexander gets his hands on that thing?”

She hits him in his weak spot with those luminous Lightwood eyes and devastating smile, and before she’s even finished her sweetly-worded request for permission to cook, he’s giving her carte blanche to potentially poison them all.

Oh well, he tried.

Spinning on his heels, Magnus initiates plan B, first seeking out Clary to deploy her best distraction tactics on her girlfriend and secondly, heading for his apothecary to prepare the potent werewolf fangs they’ll all need to consume.

Glimpsing a terrified Jace as he emerges from the kitchen, Magnus cuts him off with, “I’m on it,” to which Jace nods in relief.

Minutes later, he’s just bottling the preventive potion when Alec steps inside and closes the door with a look of intent that holds more danger than anything his sister’s cooking could.

“Finally,” Alec whispers, grabbing Magnus to him by his waist and crushing his mouth like a starved man finding a meal.

Magnus allows himself a few minutes of mind-blowing kisses and handsy exploration, then detaches himself reluctantly to explain his need for haste in delivering the elixir to their guests, but Alec simply shrugs and pulls him back in for more.

Both freeze mid-action when an apologetic Jace, hands raised to protect his eyes from any scenes of near-nudity, grabs the bottle and leaves, closing the door behind him.

“Damn it,” Alec groans, both taking a steadying breath as they restore their clothes to a reasonable state of tidiness, rejoining the party after one last chaste kiss.

After dosing themselves up and with new drinks in hand, Magnus settles within Alec’s embrace to watch Rafe and Maryse sing the Spanish lullabies Alec’s been teaching their son from his childhood, When Luke joins his wife to lend his voice, it draws everyone else into the impromptu concert.

Magnus closes his eyes to savour his husband’s soft baritone and burrows deeper into his arms, grateful beyond measure for the loved ones that make his life this beautiful.

***********************************

“I don’t want to disturb them,” Alec admits as they lie sprawled and overlapping on opposite ends of the too-comfy couch, their sons’ adorable snores the only sound to break the well-earned peace they’re finally able to enjoy.

Magnus sighs, running gentle fingers through Rafe’s hair as he watches Alec nuzzle Max’s, both children curled into their chests with half their face-paint still on. “I don’t either, but we’ll all be sorry if we wake-up with stiff necks and headaches.”

Reluctantly, they gather up their sons, few protests made as they’re carried to their beds, where Magnus’ magic wipes their faces clean and dresses them in their festive pyjamas. Feather light kisses and moon-shaped night-lights, don’t disturb them.

Grateful for the day they’ve had, but more than ready for this time alone together, the husbands hold hands and head for their room, exchanging ‘love you’s’ and sharing kisses until they’re both sated and asleep.

And neither could wish for a more perfect way to wrap up Christmas than that.

#forensicsisabelle #malecsanta19 #*fics19 #*gifts19

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knotfodder · 7 months

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saleintothe90s · 5 years

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381. It Came From the Daily Show: one episode from June 1999, and one from July, 1999

(April and May, 1999)

I fell behind on this series because Daily Show (especially back then) only worked for about 2 weeks out of every month during the Summer. There was slim pickings. Also, I have to get this out of the way so we can discuss the episode of Daily Show where Jon makes fun of Garth Brooks for being Chris Gaines!!

June 24, 1999

Intro - “I’ma’ gonna totally sign your yearbook!” “ I can’t believe we’re going to college in the fall! BFF!”

Headlines - Spike-O Killer - Son of Sam is upset about the movie about him, Summer of Sam, “demands more Summer, less Sam.” Son of Sam says the film is “hurtful to society”, and the audience dies laughing. He’s also mad that he’s being played by “the fat guy from The Practice”.

Headlines - “Deep Ship” - Bob Ballard has found two of the oldest shipwrecks off the coast of Israel. Obligatory Gilligan’s Island three hour tour reference. We also learn about Polyphemus?! Don’t worry, Jon didn’t know about him either.

Correspondent Bit - “Another World”. Stephen Colbert discusses the NBC soap opera Another World being canceled. Jon would never leave Lilah in an elevator shaft while in labor during the big ball! Does he ever wonder about his bastard elevator baby?! Does Stephen Colbert look french? Daddy?! I love it when they did stupid bits like this back then, I’m also just a sucker for when they changed the lights in the studio.

(There’s also a hilarious bit from the summer of 2001 where Steve Carell cries over Luke and Laura from General Hospital finally divorcing.)

Special Report - Terror in the Toy Chest. I love it when Jon talks about mundane things such as toys. In this case, its a Tarzan doll that makes a masturbatory gesture, a prudish woman is filing a obscenity complaint against Toys R Us selling an Austin Powers doll that says “do I make you horny, baby?”, and pool dive sticks have been impaling children in the butt. I remember the pool dive sticks being recalled!

Cherilyn Paulsen of Silver Spring, Md., wishes she had taken the dive stick away from her daughter. In August 1997, Paulsen’s daughter was jumping and playing in an inflatable pool in the family’s backyard, celebrating her 6th birthday.

“The next thing I heard was my daughter’s blood-curdling scream,” Paulsen remembered.

The girl had been impaled on a dive stick brought to the party by a friend. Paulsen’s daughter was flown to an area children’s hospital, where she underwent two hours of surgery.

“It tears through children’s bodies,” Paulsen said of the toy. “It looks harmless, but people need to realize how much harm they can do.” 1

Take a listen to the hotline the company has set up: