#imagine being bear and sleepily turning around in bed and your boyfriend is warm next to you | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Tumblr has been providing a Korean-language service since 2013.

#imagine being bear and sleepily turning around in bed and your boyfriend is warm next to you

anastasiyaigorevnadobrodevskaya · 3 years

Text

Kuka pelkää pimeää? - Kaapo Kakko

A/N: I hope you will enjoy the reading as much as I enjoyed the writing. A big thank you goes to everyone who has supported me. Here on tumblr I’d like to thank @nhlandotherimagines personally. Thank you Jessie.

Kuka pelkää pimeää? - Who is afraid of the dark?

The song mentioned.

Word count: 1764

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Having a relationship with a hockey player can get hard at times. It can get even worse if both sides of the relationship are working for a professional hockey team. Boy, can it get even worse if those teams happen to be the division rivals in the NHL.

The whole situation was tense as it was before the corona decided to lock me up with my boyfriend at our shared apartment in New York. Between his crazy schedule and mine, just as chaotic one, it is very difficult to find some peaceful time for one another.

Having just returned from a roadie, which was successful taking 4 out of 6 points, I close the door behind me as quietly as possible. It’s already late and Kaapo leaves for a couple of away games of his own tomorrow morning. Which doesn’t give us much time to spend together, but at least we can sleep in the same bed for once.

I change sleepily and get ready for bed trying to not make too much noise. After dragging myself out of the bathroom I slip under the covers right next to the sleeping body of my boyfriend. He stirs in his sleep, slowly turning around so he is facing me.

“Hei. How was your flight?“ His soft mumbling is barely audible and his hands reach out wrapping around my waist. His fingers slipping under the fabric of my T-shirt.

“It was okay. Guys were pain in the ass as usual.“ I laugh nuzzling my head into his chest rumbling with laughter. “But I am damn tired.“ I add a yawn for demonstration.

A chuckle leaves his pretty lips as his big hands caress my bare back. “Then sleep.” He advises, voice laced with sleep I unintentionally woke him from. I hum in response closing my eyes. I relax into the soft mattress listening to the even breathing of my beloved one.

Lying in bed I try to drift off to dream, but fail terribly. Again. Decided I��ve had enough I reach for my phone and turn it back on. Throwing the covers off of me I sit up and rub my face, annoyed at my inability to fall asleep despite being tired. I reach for my wireless headphones and put them on pairing them with my phone. I put on a rather calming playlist and click on the flashlight icon.

Tiptoeingly I leave the room making sure to close the door behind me and head for the living room. I turn on the light hanging above the kitchen island and grab a glass filling it with water to the very brim. I chug down almost half of its content and set the rest on the marble surface.

I walk over to an armchair and push it to the floor to ceiling window. I stop and cringe slightly when it makes a disturbing noise. I throw myself on it with a heavy sigh escaping my lips. Closing my eyes I take a deep breath. I focus on the music reaching my ears. The gentle tones infecting my brain trying to get it to loosen up.

I open my eyes taking a look at the city below. It never sleeps. No matter the crazy hour there’s always someone driving the busy roads. It’s as if the dark sky was outstretching its arms and reaching for people in an attempt to put them to sleep. Humans, ever the persistent creatures, are escaping its hold with cars lighting up the roads and apartments with yellow light seeping through the glass and blinds.

I hate the dark. In fact it terrifies me. I bring my knees under my chin and hug my legs close to my body. The unknown danger hiding in the shadows scares me. I no longer check under my bed for monsters. I don’t need to. They are in the streets, we meet them daily, although we don’t realize. But walking home alone in the dark makes my blood run cold at times. I can’t stand it, no matter how old I am.

Finnish songs from my playlist come up and I smile. They always remind me of Kaapo. An instant mood lifter. One song catches my attention. Kuka pelkää pimeää from Herrat. How fitting, eh? It's about two people being the only ones wide awake at a late night hour. The sleeping city and stars shining above it, but them not being afraid of the dark. I wish. I think bitterly.

I sing along quietly, imagining driving around the city with Kaapo. With no destination in mind, just driving. Probably listening to our favorite songs and messing up the lyrics, especially me making up new Finnish words and him laughing at and with me. He rarely smiles, but when he does it’s so worth it. He saves it for the good moments. With him I would drive even at the darkest of the nights.

A happy sigh escapes my lips as another of the songs I keep deep within my heart comes up. I look around the apartment, the only source of light being the one I left on at the kitchen island.

A figure standing in the living room doorway catches my attention and I shriek. Pulling my headphones down I reach for my phone, panicking. The person steps into the light and I release a breath I forgot I was holding in the rush of it all.

"Jesus fucking Christ. Are you insane?" I almost yell with a trembling voice. I add a couple more swear words, mumbling them under my breath and in a language my boyfriend speaks ever so fluently.

"I-I am sorry. I didn't want to scare you." Kaapo apologizes, the tips of his ears turning red. Coming up to me I stand up and he wraps his arms around my shaking figure. "I am sorry." He whispers in his native language.

"You scared the hell out of me." I whine placing my head on his firm chest. He just holds me closer and rubs my back soothingly. "What were you even doing standing in the shadow like that?"

"You weren't in bed." His voice is laced with concern, his accent heavy.

"Couldn't sleep." I say in Finnish. My knowledge of that language is not great, but I like it and it makes him more comfortable. It makes our talks more private. More intimate. "I am sorry, I woke you. You should sleep. You have a flight in the morning."

"And you just came back. You are tired too. Come back to bed." He tries to reason with me.

"But I can't sleep." Arguing back I shake my head in his chest.

"And if I help you sleep?"

"How?" Lifting my head I look into his blue eyes.

"Trust me?" Brushing a strand of hair behind my ear his fingers brush my cheek gently.

"Kyllä." I breathe and nod.

Taking me by the hand he walks to the island turning the lights off. The moment it goes dark my heart rate picks up. "Kaapo." He squeezes my palm reassuringly.

"I am right here with you." He pulls me to his chest. Taking me by my thighs he lifts me up. My limbs instantly wrap around him and I burry my face in his neck. "It's alright." Turning his head he kisses my hair and starts walking back to our bedroom.

Flicking on the bedside lamp he sets me on the mattress. He then turns around opening the wardrobe and shuffling around for something. I take off the headphones from around my neck and put them on the bedside table. Tilting my head I watch him, but remain quiet, more than interested in what he is up to. Pulling out a small box he sets it on the ground pluging it in.

He looks up at me with a soft smile. I remember the box! I gave it to him on his birthday. He turns the lamp off and then presses a button on the box. The dark room lights up with many little white starts and green and blue clouds moving like Aurora Borealis. My heart bursts with so much love at this moment.

It's a star projector I gifted him because he missed Finland so much and I thought that seeing the stars would remind him of home. It did. He was so happy he couldn’t stop smiling. I was never more proud of myself as back then for picking the right gift. That is actually how I found out about his interest in the stars.

He climbs onto the bed laying down on his back. Reaching for me he pulls me to his side. He takes the duvet pulling it on top of us. I place my head on his shoulder and his warm palms settle on my waist. “Can you point the Polaris?” He whispers into my hair.

“Of course. It’s uh-“ I let my eyes wander across the ceiling. “There. Pohjantähti.“ I point to a star. “On the right from the light.“ I explain excitedly. “It is part of Big dipper which is uh- Otava in Finnish!“ I look up at him to see if I remembered right.

“Very good.“ He smiles squeezing my hip. “And that,“ he points up, “is Iso karhu. The big bear?“ He questions the last part, unsure of the English translation.

“The great bear. Yes.“ I giggle. “But there is one star missing, no?“ If I recall correctly there should be a mistake in the image. I mean, when we turned it on for the first time Kaapo pointed out the absence of one star.

“Yes, Mizar is not there.“ He confirms. “I still can’t understand how they forgot Mizar when Alcor is right there. Mizar even shines brighter than Alcor!“ He shakes his head. I smile at his passion and the unintentional English thrown into the mix.

“Minä rakastan sinua.“ I whisper filling the silence that settled between us.

“I love you too.“ He mumbles the cute way he always does.

We continue lying in our bed talking about stars we miss so much. I feel my eyelids grow heavy and slowly the stars fade from my view. I feel a shift on the bed and decide to protest. “Don’t leave.”

“I am just going to turn it off.“ He whispers and suddenly his warmth is gone. I pout sleepily reaching my arms out grabbing onto the empty air. I hear a click and feel the bed dip. Then his arms wrap around me and a content smile takes over my face. “Hyvää yöta.“

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Translations:

Kyllä. - Yes.

Pohjantähti - Polaris

Iso karhu - The great bear

Minä rakastan sinua. - I love you.

Hyvää yöta. - Good night.

A/N: Hopefully it was worth the wait.

#kaapo kakko gif #kaapo kakko imagine #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #new york rangers imagine #kaapo kakko #hockey #nhl #New York Rangers #hockey fanfiction #hockey imagines #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagines

50 notes · View notes

primergon · 4 years

Text

imagine sleeping/cuddling with the decepticons !

Megatron: He doesn’t like to sleep with company. Even back in Kaon, he would never let anyone stay in his berth any longer than necessary. You understand old habits are hard to let go, but when he made an exception for you, you can’t help but tear up a little at the sight of him displacing his mass to slid right next to you. The fact that it had been your bed instead of his made you even giddier. He would wrap both arms around you protectively, sometimes it gets so tight to the point where you can’t really move – but into the night his grip would loosen and you’ll adjust your positions. His head would rest above your chest and you’ll have his head cradled between your hands. When the sun rises, the sight of your legs intertwined is almost enough to make him forget that he has duties to attend aboard the Nemesis. Almost.

Soundwave: He’s not picky when it comes to sleeping together, sometimes you’ll sleep right next to his helm or he’ll shrink down to fit into your bed so you can cuddle. You never expected this from him, considering that you took him for the type who hates cuddling. He is a light sleeper, who is almost unmoving in slumber ( he could eerily pass for a corpse ) and most importantly, even in recharge, he keeps his visor. Yet, Soundwave is surprisingly affectionate in his own way. So when into the night you had found that he had retracted his helm to nuzzle his face into your shoulder, you had to keep still to make sure that the moment lasts.

Knockout: Sleeping with Knockout is to say stressful, in a sense that he loves to hog the blanket. Ever since you introduced him to wool blankets, he’s been obsessed. He would always beat you to the human bed you share in his quarters, because apparently once he discovered just how soft human beds are his berth have been mercilessly abandoned. He would already be buried between the pillows, the thrum of his engines signaling that the doctor’s deep in recharge. Yet into the night, he’d unconsciously try to rip the blanket off you, which would always lead to you pressing against one another to keep the fabric on both of you. It’s a playful wrestle that would sometimes wake him, and once he sees your shirt hiking above your midrib – he’d instantly be awake and more than ready to abandon sleep. Breakdown: You would never have to spend another cent on plushies because why buy a life-sized teddy bear when you have Breakdown? Although the metal would fool anyone into thinking that cuddling would be painful, he is surprisingly warm and gentle – and you’re more than happy to see that your limbs would slot perfectly against his from time to time. Cuddling is a must with the gentle giant, and you’d both spend a few minutes under the covers sleepily talking about your day. It was only a matter of time before one of you falls asleep, which would prompt the other to pull the blanket and turn off the lights. Once in awhile, you’ll wake up to find him stroking your hair or kissing your forehead, prompting you to bury yourself deeper under his chin.

Starscream: Against popular belief, Starscream is a wonderful berth-partner. You spend more time bonding during your nightly routines than anywhere else, where Starscream would vent to you about his day as you apply your skincare. At times, the both of you would walk past the sliding doors and decide with a single look that you are both too tired for anything, and you’ll both wordlessly collapse on the bed – atop the sheets with the lights on. However, when you wake in the middle of the night, you’d already be under the covers – with the lights off and his arm resting against your hipbone. He would switch in between being the big and little spoon, depending on his mood – but you don’t mind. He’s surprisingly tame in his sleep, and since you’re with him, he’s less anxious about waking up in the dead of the night to escape Megatron’s wrath or an Autobot attack. But he still remains restless at times, then again you’re always there to rub comforting circles against his wings.

Shockwave: When dating someone with the emotional range of a teaspoon, you didn’t expect much from Shockwave. In fact, you expected nothing at all. He never holds your hand or kisses you unless you ask for it. He never hugs you out of the blue or comfort you when you cry – sometimes you question why you stayed and feel guilty about wanting more from him. Until he invites you to bed for the first time – it wasn’t even suggestive. The two of you lay there, face to face, with a small space between the two of you that stretched for what seemed like miles. The initial awkwardness doesn’t seem to fade, and you nearly resorted to turning around to face the other way. Until he reaches out, ever so slowly, and lays a hand in the empty space. “ I understand you desire a more…emotional approach to our relationship.” It took you a while to realize it was an invitation, and you’d tentatively put your hand there – by morning he’s already gone, but you can still feel the warmth of his fingers cradling yours the entire day.

Dreadwing: Considering that he’s a very old school mech, you expected chivalry to prevent him from sleeping with you until marriage. Yet, he’s open to the idea of sharing a bed with you, if not shy. And you couldn’t help but grin at the sight of him unsure and slightly flustered at the prospect of sharing a bed. In the beginning, he laid on the furthest edge of the bed, acting as if you were a carrier of some contagious disease. Until you beckoned him to come closer, and as the days bled to weeks, the gap between the two of you shrunk, to the point where he has both arms wrapped around you at all times throughout the night. He would sometimes, oddly enough, slide down unconsciously – until his head is resting against your stomach. Or sometimes, he’d be the one to press you against his chest, with your open palm resting above his spark.

Predaking: You once told him that you loved sleeping with his dragon form, and from then on he had let you curl against his tail, secured right next to his jaw protectively. Once he discovered that sleeping that way for too long hurts your body, he had offered to sleep on your bed – alas it broke under the sheer weight of his armor, and you have decided to buy a futon for both of you to sleep on. It was uncomfortable in the beginning, as his claws were too sharp and would sometimes poke you in your sleep. Yet, when winter and the rainy season rolls around, you’d be more than happy to cuddle against your own personal heater. Especially when that heater comes with affectionate nuzzles and kisses. You have to make sure the kisses wouldn’t lead to anything more from time to time, considering that even if his stamina is never-ending, you, on the other hand, have to sleep.

ST3V3: You have a love-hate relationship with sleeping with ST3V3. While you understand he is your boyfriend, he is also your best friend – meaning you can’t expect to fall asleep right away when he’s always making you laugh in the dark. He’s like that one kid during sleepovers who’d make people laugh for no absolute reason and keep them awake until morning. Unless you’re tired, then he’d dramatically carry you to bed before WWE slamming you against the cushions. He’d hold you close, but don’t expect him to not lean into your ear to whisper some outdated meme to annoy you on purpose, you might have to keep a pillow ready at hand to throw at him.

( A/N : forgive me if grammar isn’t perfect or if it doesn’t make that much sense as I too, am writing this as I am sleep deprived, the only difference is that i don’t have a robot bf to cuddle :”( , find me @/primergonn on insta !)

162 notes · View notes

exhaustedfander · 4 years

Text

Dance like no one’s watching (even if they are)

a03 link

word count: 2,360

It isn’t uncommon for Virgil to wake before Remus does. Granted, he usually goes to bed far later than he should, and who is he to say no to sleeping in late on the weekends? But Remus sleeps like a rock. It’d take a marching band to raise him from his slumber – or Virgil hitting him with a pillow over and over again, begging him to wake up because, “God damn it, Rem, we’ve got somewhere to be!”

Virgil’s a light sleeper; always has been. He figures it has a lot to do with the fact that he’s basically anxiety and self-doubt stacked together in a trench coat pretending to be a person, but yeah, it doesn’t take much to wake him. The creaking of a door, the sound of birds chirping outside, Remus snoring. He always claims he doesn’t, and honestly, Virgil is considering recording it to prove that, yes, he absolutely does snore, and it’s insufferable. Well. Maybe not insufferable, just… annoying, sometimes.

Remus isn’t snoring now, though. He’s fast asleep, his hair frazzled, and drool stuck to his pillow which is way more adorable than it ought to be. Virgil doesn’t know what woke him, but it wasn’t his boyfriend this time. He glances at the clock and groans sleepily. It’s still early in the morning, and a Saturday, too. He’d like to shut his eyes, throw his arms around Remus and get a few more hours of sleep, but he knows himself well enough to understand it’s just not gonna happen.

Still, he lies there for a few minutes, relishing in the quiet and comfort of the thick duvet and Remus beside him, his own personal space heater. Remus runs hot, and Virgil’s always a little cold, so they balance each other out. It’s weird. They shouldn’t, or at least, it doesn’t seem like they should.

Virgil thinks back to when they first knew each other. Having been friends with Roman for quite a while, he’d thought it odd that Roman had never formally introduced his brother. Upon actually meeting Remus, however, Virgil’s confusion quickly dispersed.

Remus is loud, bold, energetic to an erratic point, and he says absolutely everything that comes to mind the moment the thought occurs to him. “Hey, emo, what do you think it’d look like if I just exploded right now! Just my blood and guts smeared all over the walls! Wouldn’t that be awesome?!”

Needless to say, Virgil’s not initially a fan. Remus is a lot to handle, and honestly, Virgil’s a little scared of him at first. It isn’t as though he thinks that Remus is going to hurt him, he’s just… weird. And crude, and a lot to handle. He’s impulsive and brash, and a kind of person that Virgil’s never known. He decides that he doesn’t like him and that he’ll avoid him as much as he’s able.

Except, that isn’t really possible. Despite the fact that Remus and Roman’s relationship is strained, to say the least, they still spend some amount of time together, and Remus is occasionally invited (or invites himself) to events. The point is, Virgil sees him around, more and more. And somewhere along the way he somehow becomes tolerable.

Virgil doesn’t know what changes, but one day, at a party Remus plops himself down next to him, crowding his personal space, and he lets him stay. That’s when he first realizes how warm he is, how strangely comfortable Remus’s presence can be. It might be the alcohol, Virgil thinks to himself that night, that’s why Remus leaning on him, giggling and making inappropriate jokes makes him feel so stupidly nice.

Virgil blames the liquor when he kisses Remus, too. He still can’t fully remember what spurred it; he just knows Remus looked so pretty, his grey-streaked hair falling in his eyes, coming out of its bun, and Virgil leaned forward and kissed him. It’s harder to blame anything other than a more complicated desire when he finds himself in Remus’s bed, their limbs a tangled mess.

It’s startling, that morning, waking up and seeing Remus asleep beside him for the first time and thinking about how beautiful he looks. Remus and Roman are identical twins, and he’s certainly never thought about his friend that way. That isn’t to say he hasn’t noticed that Roman is handsome, because, c’mon, he has eyes. But this is different. The way he looks at Remus is different and – oh shit – trashy men with ratty mustaches and a terrible fashion sense are his type, aren’t they?

He doesn’t know when he went from being afraid of him to tolerating his presence, to finding him heart-wrenchingly beautiful, but the shift has happened regardless. When did Remus’s jokes go from unnerving to kind of fucking funny? He can’t say. At first, not sure if it’s going to last. They’re so different, or at least, that’s how things appear.

But with time, Virgil learns that isn’t necessarily the case. Yes, Remus is far louder and more abrasive than he is, but there are more commonalities between them then he might’ve thought. Remus is a Halloween freak, too, which is nice because none of Virgil’s friends like the holiday quite as much as he does. Remus adores horror movies, the gorier the better, and his shoulder makes the perfect spot to hide his face when things get too scary. Remus likes a lot of the same music (although his taste can be a tad crude sometimes, to say the least), and it’s nice, not having to worry that his playlist is to “emo.”

A lot of things are nice with Remus, Virgil comes to realize. Waking up beside him, singing along to music way too loudly, being picked up by him because good lord is he strong. It’s all just really… domestic, which isn’t something Virgil had ever seen for himself. So, yeah, they don’t make a lot of sense, at least not at first glance. But somehow, they just work, and that’s enough for Virgil. It’s more than enough.

Virgil turns over in bed, his right hand finding its way into Remus’s frazzled hair. His boyfriend’s mustache curls slightly upwards when his lip twitches upward into a smile, but he doesn’t wake, just arches closer to Virgil. Virgil smiles at this, stroking through his long hair.

His eyes glance to the cardboard moving boxes that litter the bedroom floor. God, he’s really got to start unpacking soon. He just moved into Remus’s apartment – their apartment now, he supposes – a week ago, and he’s been getting used to living with another person. Virgil had never let himself imagine such things, lying in bed with his boyfriend on a Saturday, having boxes to unpack because he moved in. It’s a lot to process, sometimes. It’s not bad, just kind of… intense. And mushy, gushy, and full of all the emotions he never expected to feel.

Virgil presses a kiss to the crown of Remus’s head, relishing in the smile that spreads over his sleeping face, before swinging his legs over the bed and heading into the kitchen.

Virgil groans at the sight of the dishes piled high in the sink. It’s his own damn fault; it was his turn to do the dishes (Christ, he never thought about the painfully mundane issues of a relationship like dish duty, or who takes out the garbage, or any of that). It’s… weird, not living alone anymore. He’d been so used to it for so long and, now here he is, existing in the same space as the man that he loves. He must be spending too much time with Roman because he’s turning into such a sap.

Being a sap aside, Virgil really should get these done while Remus is still asleep. That isn’t to say that Remus is some kind of a clean freak, because he really isn’t. It’d just be good to get the choir out of the way.

Virgil turns on his portable speaker, scrolling through his phone for the best music to play because turning music on while doing mundane tasks always gives him a little much-needed energy (which he generally has very little to speak for). He settles for MCR, “Teenagers” blaring as begins to scrub away last night’s pasta-sauce covered plates.

And okay, yeah, the music is probably cranked up too loud. Yeah, Virgil’s mouthing along to the words, singing some of them, and he really should just shut up and do the dishes considering his boyfriend is asleep in the other room. But Remus is such a heavy sleeper, and he’s never woken him up in the past playing music in another room, so why should he now?

Virgil’s absolutely positive that Remus is still dead asleep as he begins to move to the music, his voice gaining in volume as he sings along, unabashedly. It’s unlike him; Virgil’s always so riddled with self-consciousness. But social anxiety isn’t much of a factor alone in the kitchen doing the dishes, so he doesn’t focus on how ridiculous he must look, getting lost in the music and dancing like an idiot.

“Nice moves, hot stuff.”

Virgil shrieks, the sponge in his hand hitting the ground with an unceremonious splat.

“Sweet Frank Iero – Remus! You- you scared the shit out of me!”

There stands Remus, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen and beginning to cackle. Virgil feels a flush climb up from his necks all the way to his ears as he bends down to retrieve the sponge, and then to pause the music. Remus has the decency to wear boxers, considering how adamant he is about sleeping in the buff. He’d probably walk around nude most of the time if Virgil didn’t beg him not to. “We have neighbors!” “We live on the third floor.” “Well – still! You are not walking around our apartment with your dick hanging out.” “Aw, you’re no fun!”

“Sorry for spooking you, scare-bear,” Remus says, though he doesn’t sound all that genuinely apologetic, especially not with that shit-eating-grin. “You know –.” “Stop. Whatever you’re going to say just – just don’t. I’m already about to die from embarrassment, don’t make it worse.” Virgil can feel his blush go from pink to crimson as Remus walks further into the room, his smile going impossibly wider.

“I don’t know what you mean, Virgey,” Remus croons, his hands finding their way to Virgil’s waist, chin perched on his shoulder. Virgil tries to keep his eyes trained on the dishes in the sink, the sponge trembling slightly in his hand, but Remus certainly isn’t making focusing easy.

“Yes, you fucking do.”

“I, for one, think you’re adorable.” Virgil’s cheeks, somehow, go redder.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.” Virgil groans, setting the sponge in the sink and shoving Remus off of him so he can turn around to face him. He’s still got that wicked smile; the bastard.

“Remus…”

“Virgil.”

“I’m… geez, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” Virgil asks the realization that he might’ve been the cause of Remus waking catching up despite the embarrassment. Remus quickly shakes his head, his hair flopping in his face.

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’, “Course you didn’t. Have you ever?”

“Only when I’m really trying to, I guess,” Virgil says after thinking about it for a moment.

“I just woke up at the exact perfect time and didn’t want to make my presence noticed at first.”

“Creep,” Virgil says, but he’s throwing his arms around Remus and pulling him close all the same.

Remus accepts the embrace happily, pressing Virgil into his chest and kissing the top of his head. Remus gives the best hugs. The height difference was something he was initially a bit self-conscious about; but really, what doesn’t make him self-conscious? Quickly, though, he learned to love embraces from his boyfriend. Remus stands a head-and-a-half taller, and swallows Virgil up in his arms every time they hug. Remus hugs with everything he has, tight and protective. Virgil forgets that he was ever afraid of him in these moments, safe and secure in his arms.

“And what of it?” Remus says with a laugh, letting go of Virgil so he’s able to bend down and kiss him thoroughly. Virgil’s hands settle around his neck, a good portion of his embarrassment leaving.

“You’re such a dork.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Remus croons, kissing Virgil on the cheek before pulling away, “You want some breakfast, dance machine?” And there comes the embarrassment, roaring back to life.

“I swear if you’re going to keep teasing me –.”

“Oh, c’mon! Cut me some slack, babe. You’re cute as all hell!”

“Remmmm.”

“Do you want breakfast or not? Bacon, eggs?” Remus asks, trying to distract from his teasing. Virgil sighs.

“That depends: are you going to burn the bacon on purpose like last time?” Remus is silent, his smile devious. “Remus, I swear, if you do, I will go and get McDonald's and I will not share.”

“Ugh, fine,” Remus pouts dramatically, as if burning bacon just for the fun of it (although it can be quite fun to watch it curl up and turn all chalky and black) sounds any better than having breakfast with his boyfriend. “But only because I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too.”

Remus puts the bacon on the skillet, cracking the eggs in a pan and watching Virgil with amusement as he turns the speaker back on, MCR playing once more. Virgil can’t help but laugh as Remus begins to break into dance moves in front of the stove, wiggling his hips and singing along as he flips the eggs.

Eventually, Virgil can’t help but join in. Remus’s just like that; an infectious personality, to say the least. But Virgil’s glad for it. Really, really glad. Joining Remus in dancing to My Chemical Romance in their kitchen on a Saturday morning suddenly feels so natural. Remus makes it natural.

He doesn’t entirely know if he’ll ever be used to it, and he knows he’ll always be at least a little embarrassed about things like this. But it’s nice, and that’s something Virgil can settle into just fine.

=+=

General Taglist:

@nadiestar

@unoriginalgayboyalex

@bella-in-a-bag

@igonnatalknothing

@elizabutgayer

@wishthefish916

@reptilianwithscallions

#dukexiety #romantic dukexiety #human au #sanders sides #remus sanders #virgil sanders #fluff #domestic fluff #remember how virge and Remus both have MCR on their playlists?#yeah me too #this ship is quite fun sometimes #exhaustedfander #exhaustedfander writes

82 notes · View notes

teatimeweirdo · 4 years

Text

It was a cold night.

The gang was quite worried about Buccellati. He hasn't come out of his room all day. Abbacchio, who was cooking dinner for the boys, was pacing around the room for who knows how long and he felt fairly uneasy. For once, Narancia and Fugo weren't fighting, instead they were worried sick as well. Mista, who usally would complain about the missing food around, this time of the day, was unusually quiet. Their new member, Giorno, was silent all day since the person he would usally talk to was unavailable.

Even Trish was unusally tense, she knew something was up. Their Capo never really opened up to anyone, so no one actually knew what was going on.

Abbacchio called them to get dinner, today pasta was served, it didn't taste as good as the food Buccellati would usally serve them, but it was edible. While the kids were grabbing dinner, Abbacchio prepared a plate for Buccellati.

"Doesn't matter if you don't finish everything. I'll be upstairs."

"Can you please find out what's up with Buccellati?" Trish asked.

"Yeah, we're worried about him!" Narancia exclaimed.

Abbacchio just hummed in response and went upstairs, but Giorno saw the worry in his eyes.

Buccellati has been acting weird since he had gotten a phone call this morning. They all were concerned, since Buccellati has gotten a lot of calls but never acted like this after he got them.

Going up the stairs in this usally warm house was quite eerie tonight. When Abbacchio arrived at Buccellati's door he started hearing soft whimpers. It made Abbacchio's stomach turn. Imagining the normally calm and collected capo crying in his room like that made his heart hurt.

He started knocking on the door. "...Can I come in? I have dinner for you." Abbacchio asked.

Whiping his tears away and trying to collecting himself, Buccellati awnserd the door.

"Oh, it's you."

Buccellati disliked the thought of his gang seeing him like this, crying his heart out and being a total mess, his body shaking to its core and his room unorganized, but he knew he could trust Abbacchio, he knew Abbacchio wouldn't tell anyone about this, Buccellati always acted like a parental figure to everyone and he didn't want to break this perception of him, he didn't want them to think he was weak.

Abbacchio entered the room and placed the plate on Buccellati's desk.

"Don't worry, no one else is here, it's just me. I'm the only one listening." Abbacchio said softly.

Buccellati closed the door and went to his desk. "...thank you..." Buccellati said quietly, he almost sounded like he was about to cry again.

"Do you wanna talk about it? Of course only if you want to talk." As soon as those words slipped past Abbacchio's lips, Buccellati felt like crying again, no one except his father had ever asked him if he wanted to talk about his problems.

He wanted to say something, but all the words got stuck in Buccellati's throat, instead he just nodded. He went to his bed and Abbacchio followed him as they sat down. In the end, he managed to choke out a "My mom called."

Why would his mom calling be so ba- oh.

That's when Buccellati started to break down again. Abbacchio just sat there not knowing what to do, he was never good at comforting people, but he tried his best. Rubbing the other's back gently, he grabbed one of the tissues he took up in the room with him.

"...I don't know much about that whole situation, but...I'm here for you, Bruno. It's probably not much, but I'm here."

"My mom called, and I just....." He trailed off, not knowing what to say.

"Take your time."

Abbacchio knew that Buccellati was a very family oriented man, he always saw how sad he was whenever two of his gang members were fighting, so Abbacchio could only imagine how upsetting it was for Buccellati to fight with his own mother.

"My mom called, she- she called me for the first time in 7 years, " Buccellati choked out, "she called and told me that she has a new fiance and needs money for the wedding," Abbacchio could tell that Buccellati became hysterical. "I know it's childish, but I never got over the fact that my parents divorced, and when my dad died, it just hurt even more," He let out a whimper after that, before finally finishing the sentence, "It's been so hard, and I- I don't know w-what to do-"

"Bruno-"

"I just-"

"Bruno, you have to calm your breathing,"

Abbacchio kissed Buccellati's temple in an attempt to calm him down.

".... Leone, could you please get something for me?" Buccellati whiped his tears away with is sleeves. "It's in the lowest drawer of my desk."

Abbacchio got up and went to get the thing Buccellati asked him to get without questions. What he found was something he never expected. Three duck stuffies, laying neatly next to eachother in the lowest drawer of his desk.

"My dad got me them when I was still a baby," Buccellati started, "he actually hoped that one day I will grow up to appreciate the water and the creatures around it as much as he did." The thought of a small Buccellati playing with little stuffies made Abbacchio's heart swell.

His lips curled into a little smile, "They're cute." Buccellati hummed in response.

"My mom actually threatened to burn them once, when she was mad at my dad. I have never been that panicked before." Buccellati chuckled.

"What a bitch." Abbacchio replied.

"Thank you for cheering me up, Leone."

Abbacchio went back to the bed with the duck stuffies and layed down besides Buccellati.

"You're really adorable Bruno, do you know that?"

Buccellati just blushes and lays down besides Abbacchio.

"How can I not know it when you tell me every day."

Now it was Abbacchio's turn to blush. He draped an arm over Buccellati and smiled to himself. What did he do to deserve such a good man?

It didn't take long for Buccellati to fall asleep, after all he has been crying all day. Abbacchio made sure that Buccellati really was asleep before getting up. He went to Buccellati's desk to pick up the long forgotten food, which has now turned cold, and went downstairs to put it away.

As soon as Abbacchio arrived downstairs he was bombarded with questions by Narancia and Trish. He just demissed them for now and went back upstairs.

Once he arrived at Buccellati's room, he was greeted with the most adorable sight he has ever seen. It was Buccellati sleeping and cuddling with his duck stuffies with a child-like innocence Abbacchio has never seen before. His heart melted at the view.

It took Abbacchio a while to tear his eyes away from this beautiful sight, when he was finally able to, he went to Buccellati's bathroom and drew him a bubble bath with the cinnamon soap, which was his favorite scent on Buccellati.

When he was done with preparing the bath, he went to wake Buccellati up. Abbacchio leaned in for a kiss on Buccellati's lips, who's eyes started to flutter open.

"Morning, sleeping beauty. I drew you a bath," Abbacchio says softly.

"You're so cheesy, do you know that?" Buccellati joked.

There it was, that smile, that Abbacchio adored, his heart skipped a beat whenever he saw that smile.

"You should smile more often like this, you know?" Abbacchio smiled. This made Buccellati smile even wider.

"Hop on!" Abbacchio laughed.

"You sure?" Buccellati asked, Abbacchio only nodded, which was the signal for the raven-haired man to hop on the goth's back.

Abbacchio carried Buccellati into the bathroom and locked the door. The ex-cop sat his lover down on a stool since he was still quite sleepy.

"Do you need help with that?" Abbacchio asked suggestively while raising an eyebrow.

"What? Help with what?" Buccellati asked still fairly sleepy. This made Abbacchio smile, he went up to his beloved boyfriend and gave him a sweet kiss on the forehead and left a lipstick stain.

"Don't worry, I'll help you." Abbacchio said while coming closer to Buccellati. This was when the sweet man realized what his lover was saying.

"Yo-You don't have to." Buccellati blushed.

"Too late." The white-haired man said with a teasing smile. He went up to the raven-haired man and tucked on his shirt.

After Buccellati was finally undressed, he went into the bathtub.

"Hey, that's my favorite scent!" the capo exclaimed happily.

"It's not my favorite on me, but I like how it smells on you. It always...smells warm." Abbacchio said while removing his make-up.

"Are you gonna join, amore?" Buccellati asked.

"Sure, " the ex-cop said, already being naked, only having to put up his hair.

Abbacchio got into the bathtub, the warm water feeling nice on his skin. The raven-haired man on the other side of the tub just smiled sweetly.

"Come here." the goth said sleepily, the warm relaxing water made him tired and he just wanted to cuddle Buccellati.

The dark-haired man went over just to cuddle the ex-cop, it was warm and comforting. Abbacchio just wanted to fall asleep in Buccellati's embrace.

After the bath they went to bed, Buccellati laying on Abbacchio's chest, the goth thinking it's funny how usally the roles are reversed, but tonight it was different, the beloved capo just needed some reassurance.

The two of them stayed in this position until they heard a knock on the door.

"Come in." The mother-like man said, which resulted in a grumble from Abbacchio

It was Narancia, who held a small frog stuffie and a teddy bear in his hands.

"I'm sorry to bother you but I couldn't sleep. I was worried about you, Buccellati." The boy said sadly, "Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

Abbacchio seemed displeased but didn't say anything, he knew that his darling needed sometime with his found family.

"Sure, just please be quiet, we all need some sleep tonight, it's been a rough day." Buccellati said as he held his arms open for Narancia.

The three of them layed in bed and a cuddled, they looked like an actual family.

Buccellati was happy, happy that he found himself a new happy family.

#bruabba #jjba golden wind #jjba #jojo vento aureo #bruno buccellati #bruno bucciarati #leone abbacchio #narancia ghirga #jojo narancia

42 notes · View notes

fordarkisthesuede · 4 years

Text

The Tolls of Justice - Chapter 9

Whoooooooooo boy, are you ready for a long, long chapter??? So long it took me over 150 days to write it??? I hope so!!!

If you are sensitive to talk about mental illness (specifically disassociation and mental breakdowns/crying), mentions of medications, and mentions of past deaths [within this story], please read the spoiler tags carefully.

Please enjoy this chapter at your own pace, and know that I love you. ♡

IMPORTANT SPOILER TAGS: sexually suggestive situations; discussion of mental illness[es]; paranoia; discussion of dissociation/depersonalization; hero-complex mention; mental breakdown/crying; car crash mention; thisisfine.jpg meme mention; p*lice mention; emt mention; past-death mention; r*talin mention; r*hypn*l mention; injury/bruise mention; gun/gun violence mention; food mention

Read on Ao3 or continue below:

[Chapter 9 - Strength in Numbers]

John could feel a warm weight on his collarbone as everything in him seemed to echo with his pulse.

Things ached where they normally didn’t. Tenderness sat in one of his kidneys and just over his heart, radiating with each breath. A slightly familiar soreness sat in his hips.

He was practically melted into the mattress under his back, feeling like a pile of warm jelly stuck to a plate by the summer heat, yet he could still tell he had bones and flesh intact.

I’m definitely not in Arkham anymore.

He didn’t need to open his eyes to see Bruce lying next to him, his arm draped around John’s collar and his face buried into the pillow, but it certainly was a sight to behold. Especially when he stirred and moved to kiss John’s cheek like he’d been waiting for the opportunity.

“Good morning,” Bruce said in his ear, not sounding as awake as he seemed. Black hair mussed, eyes darkened like the ocean depths, a real smile floating on his lips - there was nothing about the whole look that didn’t make John’s heart give that funny little shake that only seemed to come with certain experiences with Bruce.

“I’ll say.” He snatched a kiss for himself, taking the opportunity to trail his fingertips up and over the arm over his chest. The curves of hard muscle were practically begging to be pet. “That dance… You really know how to show a guy a good time. Kinda makes the emotional turmoil worth it.”

Bruce turned on his side, his cute sleepily-contented expression moving to something more contemplative as the sheets moved with him, exposing the little black chest hairs and very lickable pectorals of his torso. He was bruised in places, and John eyed the marks his boot heel had made.

“Reeeally worth it,” he purred, rolling to face him and run his fingers over the marks. Bruce grunted when he pressed in, sending a lovely pang of heat to John’s groin. “Did that hurt?”

“You know it did,” Bruce frowned slightly. No, wait, it looked more like a pout... How cute! So cute it made him want to tease him.

“Want me to kiss it better?” He traced over the bruise gently, playing over the little hairs brushing his fingertips. Everything felt so real. Everything was real. Bruce was aaallll his - his to touch, his to love, as real as John himself. “I can soothe all your aches and pains, if you’d like. You just have to tell me where it hurts.”

“What about you?” Bruce asked, making John’s heart shiver as he stroked his thumb over John’s arm. “We got kind of rough last night.”

Why would Bruce want to take that away? John needed this. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I was very into that,” John answered, “You don’t know how amazing these aftereffects are. I feel like I’m floating and sinking into this bed - everything is so...solid.”

Bruce didn’t seem to really like that. He seemed like he was rolling the words around in his head, not touching in a way that was deliberately comforting anymore. He was clearly choosing his next words, because John had inevitably said the wrong thing, again, and now he ruined their morning just as it was starting; Bruce was going to corner him into something unpleasant, and John could feel something in him shrink and bristle.

“John,” Bruce started in that I’m-just-concerned-about-you tone John had long grown accustomed to from everyone else, “why didn’t you tell me you were still struggling with your perception?”

John didn’t have any other option but to answer. “Ha, I can see you just fine,” he dodged, hoping Bruce would drop it and forget he ever asked, “You’re a solid ten-outta-ten in my twenty-twenty, Brucie.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed. John knew that look in his eye - he wasn’t in the mood for messing around. “You know that’s not what I meant. You told me you were having vivid nightmares. Last night, you said you were having problems making sure things were real; that you’d wake up thinking of Ace Chemicals-”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” John said a little too loudly as he rolled over, turning away from the image of barely-covered Bruce trying to push John’s demons front-and-center for him to see.

“You already talked about it,” Bruce admonished in a huff.

“Then I don’t need to say it again!” John shot back.

Silence.

Silence and the vision of an unpowered digital clock on a bare nightstand and a boringly-painted wall with stripes of sun that said it was probably past noon. John could hear breathing, but barely, hearing his own pulse and the quiet guilt piling in his chest more than anything.

Movement next to him, the shuffle of sheets, something thick in John’s chest threatening to choke him inside-out - he took hold of his neck, feeling all the words he’d been holding in there, half-wishing the hallucination of everything would break, and felt the ache of reality as they began to spill out in a strangled voice: “I-I just -” the hand on his shoulder was very real, so heavy and hot – “don’t LOOK at me!” John curled a little more into himself. Warmth lingered as weight left, all real real real. Bruce’s weight settled behind him in a swish of fabric and shift in balance.

“There,” Bruce said, sounding like he was talking to the opposing wall, “I can’t see you.”

He couldn’t bear to look at him directly. Eyes were the windows into the soul, after all. The wall was boring, but it was like talking to some of the Arkham therapists. Less like he was spilling the darkest parts of his guts to the one person who always saw him.

“I…keep thinking I’m still in Arkham,” he said, curling his fingers in the sheets by the pillow, “That I’m... I’m just waiting to wake up there like nothing’s changed, that…all of this has been some whacked-up ha-hallucination. Ha ha ha - that I’ve just been imagining these things! I mean, it’s so unreal, how you and I are working it out, having friends, having this...weird pseudo-family thing. Being…being happy.” His eyes hurt. He wanted to close them, but he’d lose focus, or worse, lose the grip on his shaky feelings. “I admired you for so long, just being with you is like a dream. I could only ever imagine I’d get this far, or that you’d stick with me, or…anything. I can feel everything, remember everything, but it’s like it’s not enough - and the worst part is that I can’t tell anyone this, or… I’ll just get tossed back!”

“You wouldn’t get put back in Arkham, John,” Bruce said softly.

“Ye-ha-ah I would! You think any of the white coats won’t use any excuse to lock me away? Any at all?” John spat, hugging himself a little too hard, aware of how much pressure he was putting on his sides but not caring. “They’d slam me in the hole if I so much as hinted at a relapse!”

“They’re your doctors.” So what? “St. Dymphna’s New Life Home isn’t Arkham -” Same stupid uncaring people, anybody can be bought - “it’s rehabilitation, John, not imprisonment. They know you’re still recovering.” That’s what they all say, at first. “Do you really think I’d let the court send you there without researching them first?”

John’s train of thought broke. He turned to look at Bruce, at the smushed black hairs on the back of his head that had been finger-combed into an angled mess, and wanted to see his face instead.

“I did extensive background checks on the facility, its patient care, its staff – I wasn’t about to let someone send you to another Dr. Quinnzel or Dr. Crane.”

John felt his heart squeeze. He never thought about that. Bruce had reassured him the days leading up to his move, but he’d just taken it as a loving-boyfriend-thing. “Why… Why aren’t you mad at me? I’ve – I’ve been holding out on therapy – practically cheating!” Bruce still just laid there, all quiet and calm. “Come on, just say it! You’re disappointed in me, right?!”

“No,” he answered, “I just wish you told me earlier. You shouldn’t have to hold all that in. Not with me.” He paused, stiffening like he was stopping himself from something. “Can I look at you?”

John took a deep breath, smelling stale sweat and cum and faded laundry-safe bleach. He clenched the cotton sheets under his hands, feeling the fabric and the bittersweet ache in his chest. He was real, Bruce was real, the feelings laid bare last night were real - could he live with Bruce seeing him like this, heart out in the open and primed for stabbing?

Hadn’t he seen the worst of him? John spattered with blood and begging him to believe him like no one else ever had? John at his worst, uncaring and hostile and full of rage and vengeance, covered in blood he’d spilt before Bruce’s very eyes?

He’d sat across from him then, battered and bruised, and told him they were friends, despite just shoving a Batarang into his hand to stop him from doing any more harm. He’d seen John in Arkham, his no-name existence shoved into a single cell on display with his sickness, and he came back. He’d rushed to rescue him from Dr. Crane’s experiments and the temptation to step backwards and take revenge. He kept coming back, over and over and over, chasing after John to save him from himself.

John stared at his back, at the scars on his shoulders he wanted to kiss better, and knew. “Yeah.”

Bruce turned back around, the covers slipping with him, and faced him with all his wounds on display. “I know I kept things from you that I shouldn’t have,” he said as unthreatening and unmalicious as John had no right to expect, “and that I keep doing it. I should’ve told you about me and the Agency, about Tiffany working for me, about keeping us a secret - every time I didn’t, it was because I thought it was for the better.”

John didn’t want him to look at him like that. He didn’t stop holding the sheets, knowing if he let go that slapping his hand over Bruce’s eyes to cover the honesty that was too much like that night wouldn’t go over well.

“You keep proving me wrong,” he said, looking hurt - by himself or John, it was difficult to tell. “I keep hurting you, and I keep making things worse. I know there are things you haven’t told me, and things that you feel you have to keep from me. And I know I don’t deserve to hear any honest answers with the way I’ve treated you, but… I’m not going to run away from you.”

Bruce held out his hand, laying it in the space between their pillows.

He wasn’t running, or judging, or looking confused. He wasn’t angry or disappointed in John for failing in the one thing he was supposed to be doing right. He was just there, with him.

“I just… I want to be near you,” John admitted, barely feeling the words leave his throat as he wound his thin fingers between Bruce’s, feeling imperfect rough parts where nicks and cuts left lasting marks, “so badly… Not just to be with you. You know how I’ve always admired you.” He still did, and Bruce had to have known that. “You’re always...respected - even if they don’t like you, they listen to you,” he explained, seeing the slight confusion on Bruce’s face at the word respect, “You’re someone people want to be,” he continued slowly, “People talk about you, talk to you, look at you... People don’t...forget you.”

Bruce seemed to understand the unspoken words that used to eat at John’s brain, because he squeezed John’s hand back.

“It’s like… I’m drifting in the ocean, and I keep trying to swim towards the lighthouse - and just when I get close enough, the current pulls me away into the rocks. And I just...want to reach you. Hah, isn’t that stupid?”

“No,” Bruce answered, not looking away for a moment, “But...I don’t think you realize how much closer you are to me,” he said with a little tilted smile and a very low hmph, “If I’m not knee-deep in the water already, I’ve definitely run out to help you.”

“Ha ha - that’s so typical, steering my insane metaphor to suit your hero-complex,” John shot back with the smile he felt tugging at his lips at the mental image.

“I don’t have a-”

“Yes you do,” John interrupted, pulling Bruce’s hand up to give him a peck on the knuckles, “And I love you for it.” Bruce’s mouth was still scrunched a little; he seemed to dislike the idea he had a complex at all. “So – since we’re spilling secrets,” he started, settling their hands between the pillow as he thought of the best way to phrase it, “what’s the other reason you didn’t tell anyone about us?”

“There’s isn’t any other,” Bruce stressed, “I just wanted them to see you as you. If I came home with you and reintroduced you as ‘my boyfriend John’, that would be the only thing they’d think of.” He paused for a second, seeming to rethink. “Well, after Joker,” he added with a slight nod to the side.

“You don’t think they’d have given me a second chance right off the bat, huh?” John puzzled, “Even after what happened with Dr. Crane?”

“That...was a bit of a mess,” he said, looking somewhat embarrassed, “It was an emergency. I don’t think they really saw the best of you.” Bruce held his gaze. “I’ve gotten to see the best parts of you every day. I just want them to experience that.”

John was tempted to make a joke out of that, but a nagging question leapt out of his mouth: “And what if they still rejected me?”

Bruce’s emotions were subtle, but John could tell he’d made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want to answer that. He didn’t like the answer.

Well, it was honesty-hour, and John bared his heart for him, so Bruce could do the same. “Would you still run after me?”

“Yes.”

There was no doubt, no dishonestly, no lingering maybe. He would, as sure as Batman’s armor was black and John’s hair was green and Bruce was a sturdy pillar of reality.

“But what would you do about them?”

Bruce breathed, not really looking at him, hard and stony like he wanted to turn tail with a swish of his bat-cape. John slowly ran this thumb over Bruce’s knuckle, softening him into something John would almost call vulnerable. “I don’t know,” he admitted like it was some shameful secret.

John had never known Bruce to not have a plan. He always had a backup for his backups. It didn’t make sense, it was almost like… “You’re scared of that, aren’t you?” He asked, realizing the answer without ever hearing it, “That’s why you planned everything out.” (It wasn’t excusing it, he reminded himself. Bruce hurt him and he should know it... But he couldn’t watch him suffer forever, and he shouldn’t want to.) “Oh, Bruce. Honey. No one can know everything; not even you. I mean, look at how my life turned out - I don’t think anyone could’ve known how I’d end up. Or even that I’d live this long.” Bruce seemed to be absorbing that, which was good; he wasn’t running away from his own truth. That was progress. A different Bruce in a different time would’ve denied being scared of the unknown at all. “Besides, did you really think they wouldn’t figure it out eventually, with my shameless wolf-whistling?”

There it was: the tiny spark of humor that pushed away the clouds. He didn’t have to smile for John to see it; he could tell. The little change of light, the tiny bits of relaxation in his brow and mouth. “I sort of had the idea we’d make it gradually more obvious.”

“Gradual - me? Do you even know me?” he teased, “I’d take two miles with any inch you’d give me. Especially with those eight you’re packing...”

Good gracious, Bruce was cute when he smiled. Cuter when his little snort developed into a chuckle into his pillow. “Honestly, that was really the most appealing part,” he continued, voice lighter than before but still a little guilty, “I like how you talk. The tension would’ve made it easier to explain why I pulled you away to make out with you somewhere.”

John tittered at the image of a flustered, frustrated Bruce giving in and showing him what-for in some undisturbed part of the manor. “Oh, buddy, I can only imagine what that kind of tension could do for us. I had some good fantasies about us sneaking in those little hideyholes at Arkham, and if they’re anything to go by... Ooh, do you have any secret passages in the manor we could use? Arkham had a few; not counting the air vents and sewers, of course, I mean the real hidden passage kind.”

John watched as Bruce’s eyes widened with the look of just remembering something important as he practically leaped out of bed to search his pants on the floor, clad in nothing but boxer-briefs, his demi-godlike body on display for John to stare at as blood tried to rush inconveniently to his groin. (Oof, he’d put his weight behind him last night, all those heavy moves and hits controlled until the very end, and just thinking about the power locked away under the same strict moral code that Bruce unleashed on the unsuspecting dirt in Gotham made John feel like he was going to melt. Batman was truly a wonder, even out of the suit… And boy, he fucked like it.)

“Bruce,” John managed, sitting up and trying not to drool too obviously, “I never thought I’d say this, but please put on a shirt on.”

Bruce tossed an almost-pocket-sized hardback at John’s lap. “Check the map page.”

And he was being bossy. “You could’ve said please,” John grumbled for Bruce to hear, not disliking how the commanding voice still did things for him. “What are you looking for?”

“I want to know if there are any Owl markings near downtown Gotham,” Bruce answered, dutifully throwing his shirt back on as he checked his phone, “Specifically nests. Please.”

The map page was fairly simple. The illustrator had gone out of their way to make a nice key to detail the “important” areas of worship or decision-making “parliaments” or leader’s houses, versus the hideaways that were “nests” and burial sites of nameless victims. John spied the owl-face stamp on Arkham Island and forced himself to ignore it. He knew - roughly - where most sections of the city were cut.

“Well there’s nothing specific in Downtown - you have to go up and over to see the nearest nest. Which according to our author was one of the last added before the birds went completely coo-coo.”

Bruce did a tame belly-flop next to John - still sans pants - and pulled up his own map of Gotham, looking like it was pulled straight from the Batcave’s supercomputer. John could see the little red pins Bruce had marked on what looked like deaths. “Here’s The Lot, and if the nearest nest is here… Look,” he tilted the phone towards John, showing off the yellow flag he’d made to mark the nest and the newly-added blue lines highlighting pipes, “it’s a bit far, but I was thinking last night about how the woman disappeared from The Lot so fast, and I thought about how the old sewers still connect with the newer parts of the city as it expanded-”

“Wait, last night? When did you have the time?”

“It was after you fell asleep,” Bruce answered simply, “But I realized the sewers still connected everywhere, so they probably used that for a quick escape. It’s not too difficult to get from one section of the city to another underneath it, if you know where you’re going - I had to do it myself a few years ago, back when I was looking to make some smaller hideouts. I didn’t think about it until you mentioned the Court of Owls. I figured they might have had a car waiting on another street, but it could be that they took only a few streets away to get into a getaway vehicle. I checked the saved camera footage last night, and I think it’s a good possibility, considering a couple of promising possible cars parked in the street for short periods of time, but since this nest is just outside of the Downtown area, it wouldn’t be an overreach to say someone took the sewer the whole way.”

John blinked. “Just how long were you up?”

“About fifteen, twenty minutes. I was originally going to tell you when you woke up.”

From zero to all the ideas in fifteen minutes while in a haze of afterglow… He really was amazing. And breathtaking. And completely ludicrous. “Hah ha! So if fist-fighting and hard sex after a long day aren’t enough to stop you - geez, what even are you?”

“I’m Batman,” Bruce answered with a smirk, “I think it’s worth looking at the building itself - that area’s been closed for construction for a while, the city’s put a halt on tearing the structure down due to historical value.”

“Pfft, historical value, sure…” John peeked at the picture Bruce had pulled up: a rather small, plain-bricked theater with a very yellowing sign.

“It was one of the first theaters in Gotham,” Bruce explained, “A historical preservation group is trying to save it. Someone on it could be an Owl. I don’t like to think it’s a coincidence.” He frowned a little at the device as he put it aside, seeming to decide something, and when he looked back at John it was with the same determination as before. “When Jackie brought you here, did you two discuss anything?”

“Only the very basics of what happened with you. She’s been on sessions with me before, she’s used to seeing me angry.” He’d only be asking after the topic of owls for one reason. “You think she’s one of them, huh?”

“She knew I cared about you enough to use me against Dr. Crane, she could’ve figured I would have kept you in the house and used the Gala as an excuse.”

He...supposed. She did crash it, and she wasn’t alone, and it was true how she had a list of dead friends as long as her arm and how some of them had been the result of murder and manslaughter, but... “She didn’t really look like she wanted to be there, though,” John said thoughtfully, “She’d said helping her boyfriend research at the gala was better than -” Research? - “ohh, I see what you mean! Could be, could be…”

“How was she last night?”

“Well, uh, I was kiiinda paying more attention to me, Bruce. Specifically the dark swirling thoughts of how I’ll never be truly accepted and how much of an idiot I was to think I would be. And how much I hated feeling everything around me. But that’s a hole we can spelunk into another time - how about we just go pay her a visit?”

As if on queue, like they were in some ridiculous play themselves, Bruce’s phone began to buzz by his hand, and Tiffany’s face took over half the screen, looking happier than John had ever seen her.

Bruce took a breath, nothing in his expression but the cool, collective sense of duty, and answered, bringing it to his ear so John couldn’t listen in. “Yes?”

John could hear something that sounded like ‘why didn’t you tell me you were okay’, but he could barely hear it over the tinny electronic whistling tune emitting from his own phone, telling him the person on the other end was a mystery.

Unknown contact, but a Gotham area code.

“Clown Funeral Services, where your last ride fits twenty,” John answered cheerfully, “Who’s the lucky bozo?”

“…John, do you answer all your calls like that?”

“Mickey! I didn’t know you had a contraband phone, you rascal! You should’ve told me, I would’ve thought of a better greeting for you.”

“I’m using the hotel’s landline,” the gruff voice of Mickey Williamson answered with a tone of mild bewilderment, “I’m calling because… You know how you were asking about that Ian guy the other day? The one who left after a month?”

“Yeeeah?”

“I saw him leave just a few minutes ago.”

“Ian just left The Lucky Hotel?” Ian Coggs, who Tiffany had been trying to track, who was the only known lead to finding Roman Sionis’ hideaway, was staying here? Was this some kind of whacked-up dream of a coincidence, or was it fate itself following them from the shadows? Either way, Bruce was paying attention, now. “Mickey, if I weren’t in a committed relationship with the love of my life, I’d come out there and kiss you right now.”

Bruce glanced over at him with a jealous squint and raised brow. John just nudged him with his foot in return.

“Um…thanks,” he answered, not sounding like he was really that appreciative of the idea.

John had several questions - What room did he come out of? What was he wearing? Did you see his car? – but figured he’d boil it down to the most obvious one: “Please tell me you overheard detailed plans of where he was going.”

“No, but, uh, I got the license plate of the car he hopped in. Does that help?”

John felt a laugh bubble in his throat, and he didn’t bother to stop it. “Does it-?! Yes, you big galloot! Ha ha ha! Oh, man, hang on a sec’,” he paused and snatched the hotel pen from the floor, where it had rolled with the broken lamp, and put him on speaker so Bruce could hear. “Okay, lay it on me, Mick’!”

“C-P-5-K-1-N-G.”

Bruce was suddenly paying attention, phone partway away from his ear, blinking at the phone in John’s hand as John scribbled the letters and numbers in ink on his palm. John couldn’t hear what Tiffany was saying on the other end, but it was quieter than before.

“Mick’, you’re truly my number two guy,” John praised, “Remind me to buy you lunch one of these days.”

“Thanks. I’ll…remember that.”

The call ended without a goodbye, but John beamed proudly at Bruce, who was ‘uh-huh’-ing seriously into his phone. “Right. Twenty minutes.” A pause, during which John could hear Tiffany’s tone all soft despite the muffled words, and Bruce gave a sigh through his nostrils. “I’ll check.” He put the phone down, muting it and staring ahead with a somewhat tired expression, and then looked back to John. “Tiffany wants to talk to you.”

John definitely did not want to talk to her. Not when he was in such a good mood; not when he’d finally ironed out a bit more of the grievances between him and Bruce. He wasn’t ready to take on more emotional pain. Not now, not later today…he’d prefer not to for the rest of his life.

“Don’t make that face,” Bruce admonished lightly, “she wants to apologize.”

“Don’t tell me how to feel,” John snapped lightly, “I don’t have to talk to anyone if I don’t want to. Especially not someone who was rude to me.” (He knew how that sounded. Like the old John. But it was how he felt, and wasn’t he still John? Weren’t his hands still that John’s? Wasn’t the scar on his hand a sign of the past and present and future blended together?) “Just…not right now,” he added, staring at the faded white line as it covered Bruce’s hand still lying on the sheets. Bruce’s skin always seemed warmer than his own. “Please.”

Depths of blue and black had never looked so non-judgmental as they did today. It must’ve been love. (No, it was. It always was. He’d always known it was, the fascination, the curiosity, the concern, the sympathy and understanding and passion of all kinds no matter how subtle – all Bruce’s love, on full display with a glance.) “You’ll have to talk to him later. Yeah. Bye.” The phone was black when he put it back down. “Tiffany’s informant here said the same thing: Ian Coggs left here five minutes ago, riding in a black sedan with the same plate. Tiffany’s following it – it’s heading west.”

“You’re following after them, aren’t you?”

“I have to.”

No you don’t, John wanted to say, but it wasn’t the truth. Bruce always had to follow through. Had to make that catch. “I know.”

“I’m heading right there, so Iman’s coming to pick you up,” he said, typing away a message in rapid swipes, “I want you two to check out the Nest on the Aylin Street theater. I’m telling her to bring some of my gear for you to use; I think the Nest is just used as an intermittent safe house, but take precautions.”

John was going on an investigation. He was getting responsibility – trust – directly from Batman, while his body ached and tingled with constant reminders of what happened between them last night. He couldn’t have felt more wonderful than if Bruce was jacking him off and letting John film the whole thing. “I won’t let you down!” (Did that come out too enthusiastic? Aw, hell, what did he care?!) “I’ll tell you what – I’ll interrogate Jackie while I’m waiting, too! She shouldn’t be too tough an egg to crack – not when we’ve split it open once already.”

He looked like he was going to protest about the idea, but he softened with a slight sigh and one look over at John. “You’d do it even if I told you not to, wouldn’t you?”

“Just as sure as you would,” John needled with a grin.

“Just…be careful,” Bruce seemed to land on as he slid away and started to put on pants, keeping eye contact for most of it, “I don’t want to catch Roman and then find out you’d been kidnapped because Jackie has a Talon on speed-dial.”

“Ha, that’s cute, you think kids still use speed-dial.”

“John, she’s almost three years older than Tiffany, she’s not a kid.” (“It was only a joke,” John muttered to himself as he made a mental note of Tiffany being twenty-three.) “Besides, my point still stands. Keep your eyes and ears open, and call me or Iman if you think something’s wrong.”

Bruce was edging on babying him again. A twitch of anger came, but John breathed slowly, staring at Bruce’s hard shoulders as he let it pass. There was more than one way to make him understand that he didn’t need that. “The same goes for you, Bruce,” John purred, throwing covers and any minute sense of so-called decency he had away to stroll up to Bruce, feeling proud at how Bruce’s face turned a nice shade of red as he seemed to struggle not to look everywhere he clearly wanted. It was funnier to see it burning in his eyes as John gently straightened his shirt by its ends. He could practically feel the rope on Bruce’s self-restraint. “Dancing wouldn’t be the same without my partner,” he teased slowly, trailing his fingers to the curve of Bruce’s rear, “You know I’ve always got your back,” he emphasized with a gentle squeeze. “You call, and I’ll come after you.”

Poor Bruce was trying so hard to keep himself together. It was so cute. John had to pretend not to see his Adam’s apple bob in his peripheral vision. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will, Batman,” John hummed, pecking him and feeling the brief warmth burst new life in his grin as he slipped out of Bruce’s arms and turned to clean himself up properly, “because I will be, too.”

† † † † †

The time it took for John to redress and down a very sugary cup of the terrible brown liquid that the hotel passed for coffee was small and unmemorable and annoying. The time it took for Bruce to snatch his arm in the hallway, kiss him deep, and wish him luck in a whispered voice coupled with adoration and determination in his eyes was only a handful of a seconds, and yet John felt like he was holding onto them and stretching them into something of an hour as he licked his lips, watching Bruce’s back disappear around the elevator doors with his own call of good luck still echoing in his mouth.

Jackie’s room was right across the hall from his. One heck of a coincidence, in John’s mind, after he ruled out the ridiculous idea of Mickey somehow being in on the whole thing. It was mere luck, and something even Jackie was surprised at when she walked him there last night.

He knocked, deciding on a fun pattern of ‘da, dada-da-da, da-da’, and heard shuffling. Then a pause, and he had the feeling he was being watched.

“Are you alone out there?”

“Aren’t we all?” John joked, rocking on his heels.

Jackie appeared in an instant, familiar dark circles under her brown eyes and her little spackle of freckles in full view. Her eyebrows were lighter than yesterday, her eyelashes weren’t as long, and she didn’t seem to care that she was only wearing men’s boxers and an oversized shirt with an oozing orange skull front-and-center. She looked at his neck, and then his arms, where Bruce’s hands had pressed sweet reality into John the night before. “Where did you get those?”

“It’s not important,” he waved off, not wanting to spill any details of last night, “You’ve got makeup, right? Think I could borrow some of your clown-whitest? I, uh, don’t want to be seen like this.” It was a complete lie, and she might know it – John wanted nothing more than to show off the yellow-purple mark left from Bruce’s hand. “Not by my therapists, anyway,” he added.

Jackie stepped aside. “I should have something. Come on in.”

Jackie’s room was identical to the one he slept in, sans the broken lamp and teeming with the contents of her luggage. She clearly didn’t care about her shoes, as they were thrown in the corner, but her dress was hanging in the open closet next to a neatly-kept tuxedo in a thin plastic sheet. He recognized the stuffed black cat lying sideways on the sheets, being the same one that had sat on her desk in her old apartment. Both pillows were dented and the bed was unmade.

“Sooo,” John stretched, noticing the desk-vanity had a variety of dirty makeup brushes left on it, “Your boyfriend around?”

“He had work this morning; some indie film, he’s been doing it most of the week. Take a seat – do you want coffee?”

John wrinkled his nose. “I’ve had enough hotel garbage water, thanks.”

“I brought my own grounds,” Jackie added, swinging a half-empty bag of hazelnut roast she’d picked up from the corner of the dresser. “And I’ve got good creamer.”

“Is it pumpkin spice flavored?”

“Caramel,” she answered, already heading to the bathroom. John leaned just enough to see and make sure she was doing what she said she was. Coffee was being put in the strainer and sure enough, there were little cartons of caramel creamer on the countertop, along with various sugar packets and jams he was sure she swiped from restaurant tables. “I’ve also got mini-muffins.”

Actual sugar? Owls, schmowls, he wasn’t going to pass up free breakfast along the way. “In that case, Jackie, have I told you you’re an absolute angel?”

“No, but please, feel free to tell me I’m a multi-eyed messenger of God whose physical form is incomprehensible to men,” she answered with a definite note of humor, “It sounds much better than ‘sweetie-pie’ or ‘doll-face’. Though… It is nice just hearing my own name again.”

John wondered how that felt. He’d been called ‘John Doe’ for so long he couldn’t imagine responding to any he might have had before. But he shook the thought away, a new question forming in his head as he scooted towards the makeshift makeup table. The little box on the corner looked like it was chock-full of goodies. “Your boyfriend doesn’t call you Jackie?” He asked, checking the labels - almost all of them had Janus stamped on them in elegant print. Powders and liquids and creams, oh my. It was probably worth taking a quick snap of anything that might help, so he pulled out his phone to whip open the camera app - snap!

“He doesn’t know me as Jackie,” she answered, something too flat about her tone of voice to be what John knew as dismissal, “I’m only Jaqueline to him. And the rest of the world.”

That must’ve been a weird adjustment… What did people say to things like this? He couldn’t just blurt out wow just how little do you trust the guy you like. He supposed joking about all the world being a stage would help, maybe with a French accent, but… Something didn’t feel right. If it were Bruce… “Um… I’m sorry to hear that,” he tried, “Even if you did sort of do it to yourself.”

“...do you think Batman would say that, too?” She sounded slightly...what, mournful? Maybe?

Well, why lie? Why not say what he thought and knew in his heart of hearts? “Probably. If he thought you were bad enough, anyway,” he chose, taking a peek into the trashcan nearby - a hand-sized piece of rubber or thin beige plastic was ripped and thrown in there along with some makeup wipes. Hmm. Picture-worthy, for sure. “You did try to kill a guy - and even if he does deserve to rot, pinning the blame on someone else falls a little high on the bad scale. But he did let you go, so it’s not like he’d think you’re complete scum or something.”

It was quiet, and John, despite knowing he could easily take Jackie down by herself, wondered if he’d said too much. The bathroom alcove was still.

“I’m glad you can say stuff like that,” Jackie answered solemnly, making John slowly move for the butterfly knife in his pocket and waiting for the ‘because it’s the last thing you’ll ever say’. “No one else is that honest.”

John hovered his hand over the knife handle.

“It’s weird how you’re one of the few people who’ve seen the real me,” she continued, not sounding like she was going to come out with a gun in her hand, “Everyone else treats me like some tragic heroine - I just tell people I used to live here and they pretend to be sympathetic.”

She seemed to be spilling out grievances rather than vengeance. John took the opportunity to peek into the dresser drawer. It was like three different men crammed their best outfits in one drawer, minus the shoes. Not exactly the artsy or fashionably-trendy wardrobe he expected from a handsome actor.

He should probably say something to continue the conversation as he poked around, though, to avert any suspicion. Time to see if she could crack. “What, do they think Gotham’s some crime-infested city where bat-people roam the streets and not having mace is practically illegal?”

There came the distinct noise of a choked laugh, and John knew he’d won a point or two in his favor. He pushed some of the material aside, but nothing was hidden in-between them but a few crumpled receipts that had definitely been shoved aside for later. (Bad Italian place, 13th Street gondola, All Stitched Up, good Italian place... Wow, The Two Gilded Cups was pricey - 223 bucks for two people?! And that was discounted, yeesh! Snap, snap, snap - he captured the whole drawer.)

“You know a lot of people thought it was really weird that I carried brass knuckles around?” Jackie asked bemusedly.

“So do I, a knife is way easier to hide on yourself, Jackie.” The second drawer had some of her trademark blend of dark and fall colors - even in underwear - as well as a lumpy plastic bag of used things he was not going to touch. It didn’t feel the same as when he poked through Bruce’s closet. It didn’t have that rush of being somewhere he shouldn’t… Maybe because he was nervous. Bruce wasn’t liable to whip out a Taser or whatever else Jackie might have on hand because he was snooping through delicate places; Bruce would just bottle it up a bit and pout.

“Heh… No, it was more that I was carrying around anything. I think only some of the girls I worked with carried mace. And I was always like, ‘what, you only carry mace? I’ve got three things on me at all times!’”

He could hear actual humor in her tone. See, she’s not going to run out with something in her hand. She’s fine. Just keep it up. “Ooh, what’s number three?” he teased, pushing aside some t-shirts. (She seemed to have dumped her professional-psychologist wardrobe in favor of comfier clothing. At least for her stay here…)

“A derringer.”

John stared at the tiny gun in its tiny Kevlar holster, hidden between a pumpkin-orange shirt and a thin yellow-plaid hoodie. How did these things keep lining up in perfect time for him?

“Oh, don’t worry, I don’t have it on me right now,” she waved off, “It’s tucked away. I won’t… I mean, you’re not - I don’t have any reason to use it.”

“I hope not,” he muttered to himself, carefully placing the fabric back around it closing the drawer quietly. There was a little buzz from the coffee maker, and John hurried to make himself look like he’d been sitting at the desk the whole time. He was glad she wasn’t there to see him wince and wiggle on the seat as aches from last night’s spanking-session sent a wonderful flare to his brain; that would’ve been very awkward to explain away. He distracted himself by poking around a bit more.

The makeup case was interesting. A lot of neutrals were used recently. And often, apparently, if their large portions of missing product were any indication. There were also little hard scraps of paper and a damp washcloth thrown on it. He took one last picture and shoved his phone in his pocket.

The foundation, brow, crease, and blush brushes had been used. John could see the clumps of powder and wet paste. He couldn’t resist the urge to touch the foundation one - smooth goop smeared on his fingers. Decent quality. “Must be a cheap set if your boyfriend has to apply his own makeup before he leaves, huh?”

“That’s the indie-film life,” Jackie shrugged, setting the foam cups and a plastic case of miniature blueberry muffins on the table, “Guy’s got to supply the costume, too. But he wears makeup everyday anyway, so I don’t think it’s that big a deal. Let me get my case, I should have Cadaver Paint to blend with some pale skin tones.”

Everyday really explained the missing chunks of neutral colors in the tubes. But something bugged him. A lot. “What kind of film is it?” he asked, popping a muffin in his mouth and peeking at a sealed Janus-brand tub of something called Moddy; it looked like a face mask clay.

“Some action thing. He always says he’s too good to play a small part, but he tends to take them if it’s something he hasn’t done before.”

The Moddy tub was almost empty. John spied another underneath its spot in the case. He pinched a bit of the stuff between his fingers from the open tub - it was almost like Play-Doh, only it made a funny tingling sensation on his skin, like he was dipping his finger in something warm and heavily carbonated. “What is this stuff?” he asked, wiping it off on the wet washcloth.

Jackie brought over a little plastic cutting board that had been stained with almost a rainbow of colors in one hand and tubes of cream makeup and a tiny spatula in the other. “Modification putty. It’s like sculpting clay for your face - you can use it to fill in gaps, add pieces to faces to make them bigger; pretty much anything. It’s good for temporary stuff if you don’t have the money to buy prosthetics. Or hate spirit gum,” she explained, squeezing white face paint onto the board and putting in tiny dabs of pink to blend. He could see Cadaver Paint in old-timey cursive on the white tube – definitely not a Janus brand. “I’m gonna test some spots on you first. You’re gonna be a fun challenge,” she added with a tiny smile. “Hold out your hand.”

John let her test colors, his mind churning like an ice-cream machine. Janus makeup wasn’t cheap. Matt-the-actor did his own makeup. Three different men practically sat in the dresser drawer. The thing in the trash had to have been a bald cap. Moddy could easily be used to cover and expand areas. It wasn’t a stretch to think Matt Chaney was the mysterious man-of-two-criminal-faces. In fact, it was a completely logical conclusion to come to, given everything in the room…

“Matt seems to go through a tub of that stuff every month,” Jackie commented, sponging a second test on his hand as he half-listened. “He has some serious facial scarring from a bad car accident in college. But you didn’t hear it from me,” she said with a sly smile at him. “I only found out because I caught him reapplying it in the dressing room when I was playing Antigone on a shoestring budget.”

John could practically feel his thoughts halt in their tracks as a pun bubbled in front of them. “Ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, you must’ve been a shoe-in for that role!”

Her mood had improved drastically, pride and joy lighting up her face. “Well, I did pop some of a prospects’ tires just in case, but yeah, I was. It wasn’t a good production, though. We did a fun 1930’s version of Romeo and Juliet that was way better; that one lasted a full month. You would’ve liked it, actually, it had gangsters versus cops instead of royal families.”

“So they didn’t take the two houses alike in dignity line seriously, then?” he grinned, seeing the punchline land successfully with her open laugh. “Romeo, Romeo - come out wit’ your hands up, Romeo,” he mocked, earning a sturdier giggle.

“What’s funnier is that was actually a line!”

Compliments, the way to anyone’s confidence, he told himself. “I bet you killed it,” he chose and regretted the second they left his mouth. But there was no fear, no pause, no shift of any kind to indicate she was thinking about her near-brush with being a murderer. Just a normal, non-malicious smile. The nice, honest sort he’d seen on Bruce, like it was a reflex they couldn’t help.

“I did. I even got reviews to prove it – my performance ‘turned a predictable script into a rollercoaster of dark comedy’. Didn’t have to pop anyone’s tires to get the lead, either.” She tilted his hand in the light, inspecting her work. “I think this matches, don’t you?”

It was hard to believe she was involved. He didn’t want to force her into a corner when she could be a bystander; it was better to build her up. “It’s like you skinned me and put me in a tube,” he praised, watching her nose scrunch in mock-disgust even as her smile stayed put.

“So… Did Bruce end up calling you or something?” she asked, sponging some of the foundation on his neck. John could see the bruises begin to disappear in the mirror as he popped another muffin in his mouth. “You seem a lot better than how I left you.”

He was so tempted to be honest. Mostly. He’d kept all the relationship stuff secret for so long. But it would be dumb to say anything when she could, potentially, pass information along. “Something like that,” he answered vaguely.

“Booooo. Come on, John, it’s just me; what am I gonna do, post it on Friendbook? Vlog about it? Run to the Moonrise? I’m practically the only person you can tell.”

Cheerful bonding followed by an I’m-the-only-one-you-can-trust speech? He wasn’t going to fall for that Harley-league talk. No siree, Bob - not this time. Two could play that game of manipulation. “Hmm, I suppose we do look like virtual strangers to each other,” he started smoothly, “Jaqueline Latern doesn’t know anybody real in Gotham… And Jackie Lant doesn’t have any friends left to tell...” That clearly struck a soft spot. “The only ones who know who and where we are are each other… Well, and I guess Matt has half an idea.”

“He doesn’t know you’re here,” she answered, dabbing slower with the less-pleased look of honesty, “He stayed behind to schmooze with some director. I didn’t think he’d take me driving another guy back here very well.”

“Ha! Don’t tell me he’d be jealous of someone like me.”

“Why not?” she put the paint aside and started to mix flakes of white foundation-powder with a pale neutral on a clean section of the plastic. “I lied to him about how I knew a good-looking guy - he’s already fragile with me knowing what he actually looks like. Not that he should be; I like him, you know?” She returned to powdering over the makeshift-foundation with a fluffy brush.

“Just ‘like’, huh?” he teased.

“It’s…more than ‘like’, I think. But I’m not sure how to put it.” Her brown eyes turned soft and contemplative. “It’s inspiring to see him on stage. He has this...presence, and it’s so immersive, it’s real. Some days I’m not sure if I want to just watch him and…I dunno, absorb it all, or if I want to be with him.”

That wasn’t good: John could feel a connecting sort of something in him. Like before, in her apartment, watching her pour her feelings out on camera. He was dangerously close to feeling sympathy for someone who might not be deserving of it. And this time it wasn’t as ironically funny.

“I mean, he’s also full of himself,” she added with a little tilt to her lip, “but he’s still thoughtful. Doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t seem to judge… Well, much.”

He didn’t know what he wanted to do. She hadn’t been a good would-be-doctor, but she might be trying to butter him up by pretending to feel the exact same way he did about Bruce. She might have heard him in those rare moments he talked about him, she might’ve remembered things, she might be throwing him off by making him sympathize with her and thus throw the whole idea of her being involved with Owls away. She might’ve planned this whole damn thing, there was no such thing as coincidence anymore and look where he was, right on the x on the antagonist's set with their guilty evidence in plain view like he couldn’t connect dots together and see the gun in her hand...

But the deepest part of him - the one that said Bruce loved him, that said he should take his meds, that told him he was here when sensory input was in focus - said she was being honest. He almost hated that.

She was putting the makeshift foundation on his wrist, seeming to think about who-knew-what. He snatched her hand, not caring if he got messy, the urge to squeeze hard sitting in his fingertips.

The proverbial cogs turned behind her darting eyes as fight or flight lit up her brain; John’s window to ask the questions that had been on the table since he walked in was shrinking.

“Sorry,” he said, half-meaning it as he let go, “It’s just…” People appreciated kindness, and honesty was usually a part of it - he had to lead with something he was sure she already knew and make it seem like a big deal, and let her talk. “Uncanny - how we feel about our prospective muses. They feel like they’re something otherworldly, but just seeing them makes you feel so real, doesn’t it?”

Jackie’s primitive urges died as understanding kinship seemed to take over.

“Of course, you’ve probably spent more time here alone with yours than I ever have,” he trailed with a shrug and a pout. “Though if I add every hour I’ve spent with Bruce up…” He pretended to count on his fingers. “Do you guys get a full eight hours’ sleep together, or…?”

“John,” she snorted into a smile, “even if he didn’t have a film to shoot, he still scouts jobs and visits his agent. I’m not around for all that. Trust me, you and Bruce have way more time together under your belt than the…” Jackie whipped out her phone and tapped around. “One-hundred and forty-four we’d potentially spend.”

One-hundred and forty-four divided by twenty-four… “You’ve been here six days already?”

“Mm-hmm.” Jackie sipped her coffee. “Matt started shooting on Monday night. I was pretty pissed about that - thank God for those corner gondolas.”

He left her here? That sounded like something Harley would’ve done. “Doesn’t he know how much you hate Gotham?”

Jackie scowled slightly into her cup and took another sip. “He knows I have issues here.” She picked up the powder brush and dabbed it over John’s arm, covering the last of the foundation. It was like John had never been bruised at all. It made the small pink cuts on his arm from where he’s torn the bandage off last night stand out a lot, but he didn’t mind walking around with those. “I mean, what am I supposed to do, tell him how I’m permanently mourning a lifetime of dead friends and my own name? Or how I almost killed a guy just to get out of the debt I sank myself in for a career I didn’t want? People already get weird around me when I get all moody,” she grunted, “He shouldn’t have to deal with all that.”

Aha ha ha hee hee! Now their kinship was ironically funny! “J-Jackie, you - you really do make a terrible psychologist,” he managed, his ribs aching with the rapid movement, “Mine have all been telling me to be open about these things with people, and until recently, I just ignored them! I mean, what do they know? Rejection for us in our cases means spiraling into another nasty bout of bad symptoms.”

He could tell she understood. He could see the dark sense of understanding there. They might have very different illnesses, but they were both a product of Gotham, with him born on the wrong side of its blanket and her forcibly rolled over to it. It was something she and Bruce shared - he couldn’t help but see it, and he felt the urge to both poke it and push it away to see what she’d do.

“But you know, it turns out they’re kind of right,” he continued, deciding to soften her up a little more with the truth, “I’d been hiding my symptoms from Bruce because I didn’t trust him not to be disappointed in me, and it only hurt us. Turns out telling him just opened both of us right up,” he emphasized with a spread of his hands. “I get not telling Matt about the whole attempted-murder thing, but to me, it feels like you don’t trust Matt enough with your feelings, and you excuse it by putting his before yours.”

She definitely seemed softened, if surprise counted as such. “I hate it when you do this,” she said, frowning into her cup and taking a not-very-angry sip. “Though I guess it’s easier to work through others’ problems than your own, huh?” she jabbed, taking a seat on the edge of the large bed.

“Now you’re just deflecting,” he teased, crossing his legs and taking a long sip from his own cup.

“Maybe,” she grunted, “It’s just… Matt and I have known each other a few months, but I’ve spent six days back in this shithole city, and it’s like I hardly see him. Monday was ‘surprise, honey, I have a shoot tonight’; Tuesday was ‘oh I have to shoot until after dark, my bad’! Just constant ins and outs and ‘my agent’s calling me,’ or ‘they need me back on set’ bullshit. I don’t even have the opportunity to open up to him.” She took a long sip as John nodded along.

“Matt’s the reason you’re in town, though, right? Since I saw you Saturday, there must��ve been some good days,” he said as innocently as he could, mentally ticking off the box for Muddy Nye’s and Ian Coggs’ doppelgangers.

“Saturday was supposed to be good,” she grumbled, “That went fucking bust. The best day was...probably Wednesday. We spent most of the day together… I got to see him eat a Peralta’s cruller first-hand,” she answered with a wistful little smile. “He makes a cute mmm-face... And he had this great idea - dress up as the producers he’d met on set, go to a fancy-ass restaurant, and reap in their frequenter-discount while they were stuck shooting a night scene. That was worth it.”

The Two Gilded Cups. Hmm, hmm, hmm. “Well, now I’m curious! How’d you look?”

“You tell me,” she smirked, handing him her phone.

Sonja Townsend, in an ironed pant-suit that Jackie definitely did not and would not have in her wardrobe, beamed at him from the selfie-style picture. Vindication burst in his head like a bottle of champagne - his prime suspect for The Wednesday Nighters’ murders was at dinner that night (according to Tiffany), and if Jackie was the one at the dinner, then it only reasoned the real Sonja was at The Lot.

“Pretty good, huh? I worked off a picture he took; no one suspected a thing,” she chirped, “We had to drop the costumes off at his costar’s place afterwards, but it was fun. We got prime seats, a special discount - even got a free bottle of wine out of it.”

But she had no idea. She had no inkling of what had happened this week. His joy at finally being completely right at something was quickly souring. Jackie was an innocent pawn. Disgust was twisting in his throat and palatable on his tongue. He couldn’t find it in himself to walk away and leave her there while he tracked her lying pig of a boyfriend down and gave him some scars he wouldn’t be able to hide… After all, it was much more cathartic for her to get some hits in.

“Uh, are you okay?”

Of course he wasn’t. He felt angry, and guilty, and really annoyed at how he couldn’t be happy about being right. “You really don’t know who this is, do you?” (He never could understand how Bruce kept so much anger out of his voice. How did he not feel it bubbling under his skin and radiating from his tongue?)

“A Mrs. Sonja Townsend - she and her husband are small-time producers.” She stared him down, searching and annoyingly stony. “Why?”

“She works for Wayne Enterprises.” John forwarded the picture to his phone and tossed hers next to her lap, scrolling through his own gallery. Eenie, meenie, miney, moe - the very-much-alive picture of Muddy Nye pulled from the BatComputer was the lucky first choice in the presentation he was about to throw her. “Have you seen this guy before?”

She glanced at it, recognition flashing in her eyes. “Where did you get that?”

“So that’s a definite yes. I’m guessing you don’t know who he really is, either? This,” he emphasized with a grand gesture of his hand at the picture, “is Muddy Nye, a once-budding member of the False Face Society turned-traitor and presumably-lone-survivor of the East Dock murders on Monday night. He was found chucked in a dumpster on Wednesday.”

He didn’t mind how she pulled the phone towards her to look. She was staring down at it, seeming to take in every detail, with a look John could practically feel. It was almost as if he was seeing her in his place, standing on the railings above vats of steaming chemical soups.

Treat people the way you want to be treated, he remembered. But you didn’t get a co-conspirator - innocent or not - to talk by being gentle, and he needed her to see the same reality that he could feel in the chair, in his pulse, and in the aches of his breath. “You said yourself that Matt’s shoot started-”

“This is a coincidence,” she said, staring back at him with clear denial as she tossed the phone back, “Matt always uses real-life references. What does this have to do with that woman I played?”

He fought back the urge to snap at her to just listen by squeezing his hands and remembering that her excuses were natural in the given circumstances. It was a very Bruce thing to say, really. “You haven’t read the news lately, have you?”

She sucked her teeth with a light sneer. “I stopped reading Gotham news a month after I left.”

Of course she had. Matt probably knew that. Or maybe he didn’t, and he didn’t care. “Well, that woman you played killed seven people in a casino on Wednesday night. Her only alibi is that she was at dinner with her husband.”

The surprise on her face shifted, and if looks could wound, he was sure he’d have a hole in his arm right now. “And you think we had something to do with it?”

No, I think your boyfriend did, he thought. Any hostility would result in a bad time. He had to be careful. “If I did, Jackie, I wouldn’t be talking to you - you’d have a knife lodged in your shoulder to match ol’ Scarecrow’s scar.” She sank a little. Funny how that seemed to be an okay thing with her. “I just need to be sure. When Matt left today, what did he look like?”

“Why?”

“Because someone visited All Stitched Up Alterations, threatened my very nice boss into filling a vest with plastic explosives, and handed it off to Black Mask to try and kill the only good Wayne at his own party - and I’m positive that someone isn’t who they say they are.”

Jackie was still for a moment, staring him down like she used to do at her notepad in the sessions she was ghosting on. Back then, she seemed to be a mile away or more, likely trying to plot her escape to try and distract herself from the way Arkham’s walls practically bled with the compounded toxicity of Gotham. The Jackie right now didn’t seem so different, only that she was doing it in her makeshift pajamas.

She stood, handing him her foam cup with a “hold this” in an oddly steady voice, and John watched as she dug around in what must’ve been Matt’s luggage, sorting through boring men’s shoes, short black umbrellas, and a curling iron to retrieve a rather expensive-looking digital camera. He heard a lot of beeps as she cycled through the pictures. “He doesn’t upload everything,” Jackie managed to say, only slightly shaky on the last word, “but he’s always proud of his work.”

In other words, he was narcissistic enough to leave some evidence behind. John hoped he didn’t like to throw away perfectly reusable costumes, too.

Jackie just stood there, gripping the camera too hard, looking caught between the budding reality that the person she admired the most was as rotten as the residents of Gotham Cemetery and the mind’s emergency exit.

“How about we trade?” he offered, wiggling his phone at her. “So we know for sure what the other saw.”

She blinked. “Alright.” There were a few beeps from the camera, and in turn he pulled up the picture of Ian Coggs. “Just don’t cycle back too far.”

“Ha! Ditto. On three,” he said, holding his phone sideways as she extended the bulky end of the camera at arm’s length, “One…” She didn’t look ready, but then again, who would be? “Two...” There was no time to think about what he would do if she went off the deep end. “Three!”

His phone was snatched out of his hand as he yanked the camera from hers.

Sure enough, there was Ian ‘Nito’ Coggs, tilting his head and trying to scowl in much better lighting than the hotel room actually had, in the same jacket and jeans that John had seen on Wednesday, piercings and tattoos in full view. He’d taken multiple shots, showing off the makeshift tattoos on his hands and neck (the sock and buskin masks still peeking out over the top of his shirt), doing multiple expressions and close-ups, and going back further were similar pictures of Muddy Nye in what looked like a studio apartment.

He’d hit the jackpot, but the same ugly disturbance sat in his mouth even as sparklers lit up in his brain.

He looked up at Jackie, half mad at her for ruining what should’ve been a good moment of catharsis by making him feel sympathy, and wondered if that was how he looked back at Ace Chemicals when the gray-hued truth had smashed the black and white lines his mind had drawn in the shape of a bat.

At last, it was like he could see the yolk for a second time, but it was in danger of bursting and slipping out of the shell and into the bubbling vats. She looked like she might somehow break the phone in her hand like a peanut.

So John did what he thought was best - he gently put the camera down, stood in front of her, and carefully put his hands on her shoulders to bring her back to Earth and away from the chemical fumes.

Jackie looked up at him, a step away from the big red exit sign with its tempting whisper of antagonistic nihilism, and pulled him into a crushing hug.

He didn’t know what to do. He was standing on the floor of the mediocre hotel room, letting her fingers dig painfully into his ribs as she squeezed him, hearing her scream into his shirt. And then choke into a sob and wail-scream like Cannibal Carl when he was desperate for his sense of taste to return at one in the morning.

Despite how this was really real and definitely happening what with all the different sensations he was experiencing, he had even less of an idea of what he should be doing. Still, life was short and fairly pointless and not knowing something hadn’t stopped him from experimenting before, so he reached around to return the impromptu hug and gave a pat for good measure. “It’s okay,” he tried, remembering how comfortable and reassuring Bruce’s hugs were, “Iiit’s okay.” He kept still, feeling a little less awkward as her grip loosened a little amongst another scream. “Cry it out, pumpkin-head, Joker’s right here.” There was a lower wail in response. “Do you want me to scream with you, so you don’t feel left out?”

Her sob choked into a laugh, shoulders shaking like there was no difference at all, and her grip on him loosened substantially. The laugh still came in little bursts as she pulled away, tears still streaking down her reddened face. “No - no, you don’t have to.”

“But I could if I wanted? Because it is really fun, especially when everyone’s asleep...”

She gave another few ha’s and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “It’s past noon.”

“So? We both know place doesn’t have a lot of early-risers.”

She sank back onto the bed with another amused ha-hmm. “When did you take that picture?” she sniffed as John picked the fallen phone off the bleached carpet.

“Wednesday morning, at the alterations place up the road.”

She was getting that bent-over-her-notepad look. “He walked me over there on Monday to drop off my dress.”

Scouting the premises, most likely.

“He chose this place, too,” she commented, wiping her face with downcast sort of sneer, “Said it was convenient.”

“It kinda is,” John noted aloud, taking his seat back in the desk-chair and scooting it closer to her, “Muddy Nye was found in the alley behind All Stitched Up’s fence. Closer to the docks.” He waited a beat as he let it sink in. He knew she didn’t like too much sympathy – it was best to get her mind jogging. “What did Matt do with his outfit on Monday night?”

“I never saw that one,” she shrugged, “only the test shots he’d taken. He said was getting changed on set that day.”

John pulled up his map application and zoomed in on 13th Street until he found the Lucky Hotel. “Do you remember where you went on Wednesday night, to drop the ‘costumes’ off?” he asked, doing his best to think like Bruce.

“Yeah,” she muttered, scrolling right and down and left, and swiping with an occasional pause – he noticed she had scrolled all the way to the Two Gilded Cups, and now was taking turns down streets like she was trying to remember the driving route. Apparently, they took some detours. “Here,” she said, pointing to the corner with the fishmonger and Muddy’s makeshift coffin of rotting fish, “We changed clothes in the car. His costar offered to let him drop them off.” Her face twisted into a teary scowl. “I’m so fucking stupid. I should’ve known something was off when I didn’t see any lights on upstairs. But nooo, I trusted him…”

John remembered the empty rooms above the fish place. That had been Tuesday, but what if… “What’d you guys put the clothes in?”

“A duffle bag. I thought it was something he’d borrowed from the set.”

“Ooh, that’s devious,” he chuckled to himself, “These guys have got balls, I’ll give ‘em that.” She looked confused. “See, Muddy was found here,” he accentuated with a point at the alleyway, “There’s spaces above the fish place. I bet they had that bag waiting in one of those rooms. Wednesday, Matt goes to pick it up, brings it here, you guys play dress up - and once it’s over, he throws it back right where he found it, and someone probably came to pick it up the next day. Probably Sonja herself; she or some P.A. she’s got on a leash came around before I got to work on Tuesday – looong story there - and as far as I know came back after Wednesday.”

“Uh…what?”

“Look, I said it’s a long story. The short, short version is someone close to Sonja dropped off an item at work and it was still there when I left Wednesday.” He sat back on his hands, tapping his feet to help him think. It might be safe for her to check out that place. She wouldn’t be as obvious, and she could probably think up a good excuse to go in the first place. Hmm…

“Well… At least everything else suddenly makes stupid sense,” Jackie muttered, “Earlier, I kept thinking ‘He wouldn’t have brought me with him if he knew Black Mask would crash, right?’ But why else didn’t he want me seeing him on set? Why didn’t he want me meeting anyone he worked with? Why was it sheer luck that he pulled me out of the party to go bone in the bathroom minutes before it all went to hell?”

“So that’s where you went!” John exclaimed, “I thought I didn’t see you during the raid! I thought you just hid under a table or something…”

Jackie seemed surprised at that. “Wait, you went back – did you and Batman team up?” she asked, leaning in with an almost awed sort of look, “Everyone was saying he crashed! How? Did he follow those masked guys there? Did he follow you there?”

It had certainly changed her mood, but he wasn’t about to suggest that… Well, actually, maybe. Hah - why not?! “He came there to see me,” he boasted, “Bruce took me out of my home-away-from-home after the little attempted-murder-by-sniper incident the other day, and Bats was hounding me for clues.”

“You were shot at?!”

“Oh, yeah, that’s another story. Stuff just keeps piling up, really,” John added, tapping his feet together, “Though that does bring up something - you remember the Court of Owls, right?”

“Uh… Yeah, Dr. Crane was interested in them.” She squinted at him, seeming to put the pieces together. “You’re not saying they’re behind the attack on you?”

“Bingo. The mass murders of Black Mask’s crew on the boat and the docks, Muddy Nye and Hubbard Jr.’s murders, the casino slaughter of The Wednesday Nighters – all of it was orchestrated by them, using Black Mask’s inside info. Which is where Matt came in. Oh, and me and Catwoman got targeted, too, but…here I am!”

She seemed… Well, the best thing he could think of was the sort of bewilderment that might come with finding out aliens were real, but also ate planets whole. “O-kay… That’s a lot.”

“Ha ha! Yeah, it’s been one hell of a ride!” he chuckled to himself.

Jackie breathed deep. The tears had long stopped trying to flow, but the tracks could still be seen on her flushed face. “Okay… Ignoring my constant internal screams and urges to bite anything in range, you and Batman are working together on this, right?” She looked at him with a sort of wild, determined hope that made him think she was going to start muttering to herself that everything would be okay.

“Um, yeah?”

“Thank fuck. I know this is all evidence, but you have no idea – that is the only thing stopping me from destroying everything in here right now.”

“Ha ha ha hee he! I have plenty of ideas, actually - you’re feeling like everything you knew is breaking apart, right? It’s like -” he made a fist and slammed it into his open palm - “BAM! There goes your hopes and dreams!” He kicked the air in front of him. “SMASH! Your trust in anything is gone! WHAM!” - he flung himself backward in the chair, exaggerating falling - “Nothing matters anymore! Aha ha ha ha ha haa! It hurts reeeeal bad!” he added, sitting back upright and giving her a light smack on the shoulder, “Trust me, Jackie, I’m literally the only person in Gotham who knows exactly what this feels like.” Did that sound like too much? He wanted her help, but getting it was going to take more than repeating things… Though it was also the truth. “It’s gonna hurt like hell for a while, but I know you’ll pull through!”

She looked at his thumbs up and offered a little chuff noise and tiny smile in return. “I don’t know how you’re so optimistic about it. Then again, I don’t have a Batman here to beat some sense into me,” she joked. It faded after a moment. “Thank you for telling me all this, John. And...being here. I don’t think I’d be able to restrain myself if I discovered any of this on my own.”

“Hey, what are friends for?” John nudged, the Speaking of which on the tip of his tongue dying as she scrunched her brow in the confused manner that couldn’t be good…

“We’re friends?”

At least it wasn’t derisive sounding. Or sarcastic. Or anything that made it a clear rejection, actually, but it was best to cover himself... “Well, yeah, we both went through the whole Scarecrow fiasco together – sorta – and you helped me out last night without asking for anything in return. And now that you know what it feels like to have your muse break your perception of reality, I’d say we have a proper enemies-to-friends buildup here,” he finished with a general wave to the empathy-fueled-vibes between them.

“I’d say ‘knowing my track record, this won’t end well’… But you are weirdly lucky. And annoyingly right about some things.” She pursed her lips and blew air up at a stray lock of her very curly hair, slapped her knees, and stood as tall as her legs would let her. “Okay. Let me help you guys. I know Matt, I can find any evidence you might need and tell you anything you need to know – passwords, phone numbers, whatever. He’s too proud to just throw his tools away; I’d bet anything he stashed his costume someplace, probably with his other one for the dead guy. I can find them and either put them here or in my car, whichever’s safer.”

Yahtzee! “And you promise you won’t run off with any of it?”

“Because as much as I’d love to burn everything he ever had to the ground right now,” she scowled, poison practically dripping from her mouth, “I’ve been through enough breakups and psych classes to know that won’t fix anything. The only way I’ll get any kind of catharsis is to see him break – and I guarantee he’ll do that before a judge.” She picked her phone up and tapped around. “Besides, we’re friends, I’ve got nothing to lose, and if I can help out some of the only people worth a shit in this hellhole, I’ll do it. Here, add your number.”

John dolefully typed in his personal number, adding the little joker-card emoticon on either side of his name, and sent himself a text. “Think you can copy what’s on that camera for me?”

“Sure.” She took her phone back. “I’ll send you his MuSec and InstaPic logins, too,” she added as John’s phone gave another short buzz. “Might be worth a look.”

The text was from Iman: I’m out front.

“Looks like I’ve got the red light, kiddo.” John dusted himself off a bit, failing to brush off the empathy that seemed to stick there. He guessed he had to learn to live with this, too, like he didn’t have enough guilt and woe and bouts of sympathy to deal with. “I’ll give Matt a little stab in the kidney for you if I see him,” he joked, taking the edge off himself.

“Your prince is waiting to take you away in his chariot, huh?” Jackie picked up her coffee cup, drained the last of it, and crushed it in her fist, not seeming to care about the drops on the carpet or her hand. “That’s okay. I’ll text you if I feel like I’m going to high-dive off a building or something.”

John snorted into a laugh. “Aw, Jackie, we both -” John emphasized with a light boop to her nose - “know you’re more a danger to others right now. You should really just call me if you feel like you’re going to go off the deep end, anyway, a real voice helps more. And that includes if you get gun-happy.”

Jackie had gotten a little pink in the face, but she looked better, even mumbling a sincere ‘okay’ as she followed him to the door.

“Text me anything you find and I’ll make sure you get a few brownie points from Bats, too.”

“If these come in the form of an autographed photo, I’ll take ‘em,” Jackie seemed to joke, “Oh, and you can do me a favor, since I keep helping you out - tell Bruce to stop and say ‘hi’ before he leaves next time.” He must’ve had the ‘but how did you know?!’ written on his back, or else he froze in the doorway a second too long, because she snorted before he even turned to look over his shoulder. “You make it too obvious. Besides, I know a hickey when I see one, Joke-man,” she elaborated with a smirk. “Stay safe out there.”

With a little wave his way, John was again alone in the hotel hall at a loss for meaningful words, feeling like he was in some weird space where time didn’t mean anything. “Uh, thanks,” he said to the door, unsure if it was the right thing to say.

He breathed in, focusing on the plot of his feet on the out-of-date carpet and the smell of diluted off-brand cleaning solution that seemed to stick everywhere. It might have felt like a strange place, but this was a strange week and he was able to cross multiple goals off his list barely an hour after waking up. He was so damn right about so many things! And he had evidence to prove it! He could take this all back to the rest of them and shove it under their noses and go HA!

“That went well!” he affirmed to himself as he strut into the same elevator Bruce had taken down, “Bruce’ll be so proud!”

† † † † †

True to her word, Iman had been parked and waiting right outside the hotel in a very sleek silver sedan, the tinted window rolled down so John could see her face. Upon closer inspection, the car had no identifying hood ornament. Or really, anything extraneous at all.

People had always joked about how you could always tell an Agent by their shoes, but surely an unmarked car was another dead giveaway.

“Gooood morning, Iman,” John greeted, sliding into the passenger seat, “You ready to do a B-’n’-E?”

“I like to think of it as more of a surprise covert inspection.”

That would explain the dark jumpsuit and the messy bun she’d put her hair in. “What’s the ‘G’ for?” he asked, pointing to the patch over the breast pocket.

“Gotham Construction. Bruce thankfully has a closet full of things like this. Though I don’t know why the ‘G’ on some of them are shaped like this

gear… But it was the only one that fit me. Yours is behind the seat. I also picked you up-”

John was already popping open the grease-spotted paper bag next to the matching jumpsuit, the unmistakable smell of grease and fried meat hitting him like a slap in the face. “A pancake burger?!”

“Egg-sausage-muffin. I’m guessing a pancake burger is exactly what it sounds like?”

“Yup! I’m about ninety-percent sure I didn’t dream that food-truck,” John said, biting into the woefully-unsyruped sandwich. At least it had cheese. “T’ey’re ‘mazin’.” Realizing he was being rude, he swallowed to speak. “But this is good, too!”

“I’ll have to find that truck for next time,” Iman smiled as she merged into traffic. “I’m guessing things went well last night?”

“Mm-hmm!” John flashed a thumb’s up her way while he swallowed another bite. “I’m glad you’re not weirded out about it. I take it this is your way of apology for not telling the others? I mean, you did figure it out before last night, right?”

Iman shot him a look he couldn’t decipher. “I’m not apologizing for anything; I just figured you’d be hungry by now. And just because I figured it out on my own months ago doesn’t mean it’s my responsibility to act as Bruce’s psychiatrist and tell him what to do, let alone tell his secrets for him.”

He didn’t want to tell her she should’ve said it anyways for his sake. “I bet you still hint at him,” he said instead, hoping that was true, “You’re good at subtlety.”

“Only when I think he’s going to do something...” she trailed off, seeming to search for the word she wanted.

“Stupid?” John offered, “Asinine? It’s okay, you can say it - for all his smarts, he has his dumb moments.”

“I was going to say ‘detrimental to the cause’,” Iman finished, not looking at him. “I joined the Agency because I wanted to help save lives. But I’ve always admired Batman’s commitment to pursuing justice outside of the legal limits that don’t always work in our favor - it’s why I came to Gotham on the Riddler case.”

He felt like he was back at the visiting table in Arkham, examining her little movements and steady gaze with as much scrutiny as he could allow. She was holding herself up, all pride and seriousness, reminding him very much of Bruce some days. “I…kinda knew that.”

“Batman’s whole purpose is to clean up the parts of the city where regular law enforcement don’t. I’m proud to be a part of that, even if I’m not in the field,” she noted with a twinge of regret, “But Bruce is Batman, and he’s human - consequently more people know about Batman. If I thought someone, or something Bruce has done was going to interfere with Batman’s work in some way, I’d tell him.”

They stopped at a light - she looked back at him, serious but not reprimanding or upset. It did not calm him at all. He could feel stress blooming in his brain at the implication she was making. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, let alone think – he might as well not be in the car or the city at all, but on Dr. Leland’s bench.

“I know you won’t betray Bruce, John,” she said with all the honesty of the top brass of St. Dymphna, “and I know that he trusts you, but I need to know you can work with us on the same level.”

Relief unraveled the knot in his stomach with one simple tug and let the air out of his lungs in a joyous burst. “Ha ha ha ha ha! That’s all? Whelp, good news – I’m way ahead of you!” John whipped out his phone to pull up the gallery, finding a text from Jackie with app links attached:

MuSec has play scenes with lofi and some sos of Bludhaven. :/ So good luck with that. InstaPic has got a million selfies of his usual looks + stage work at least, maybe prototypes.

“I’ve got all the dirt on our two-timing man on the inside.”

Sos??? he typed back.

Shot on shitteos. Grainy vhs filter + dark filter + indie = ~tortured artist~ lol

“Such as?” Iman asked, clearly waiting for more. John supposed it wasn’t a great start to their team-up to get distracted.

“Name, real face, evidence a-plenty! Guy by the name of Matt Chaney – a real master of makeup with image issues. He crashed the Gala last night with our little pumpkin-headed former-antagonist.” He pulled up InstaPic and logged in, finding rows of Matt’s face in various outfits, makeup tweaked just enough to make him look like whatever character he was playing while maintaining his Hollywood-handsome face. Jackie was next to him here and there, along with other co-stars. “Not that she’s been part of it. Knowingly, anyway.”

“You’ve…lost me.”

“Oh, you never met Jackie, did you… Bruce has her pumpkin mask in the case by Scarecrow’s.”

“Jackie Lant.” Iman scrunched her face thoughtfully. “You don’t think she’s had a hand in with either the Owls or the False Face Society?”

“Nope! Because I was right - Sonja Townsend is our Lot killer. Matt coerced Jackie into dressing up as Sonja, and they made sure Mr.-and-Mrs. Townsend were seen on Wednesday night.”

“And you have proof of that?”

Something about her tone rubbed him the wrong way. The way that started to brew that old familiar feeling in his head that normally lead to…outbursts. “Sonja actually being there is…complicated,” he shrugged, trying and failing not to sneer, “You guys never said you found anything at the scene, so I only have her signature on that alterations receipt. And the relation to the card-carrier. But I know I’m right!” He knew it wasn’t what a lawyer might call concrete, especially since you weren’t supposed to show yourself riled up in court, but that was what brass-knuckle confessions were for. “Here’s Jackie as Wednesday-Sonja,” he emphasized, pushing the picture he’d gotten into her field of view. “And I have the receipt from their little excursion – the time on it puts her squarely there! And I’ve got a gallery of proof that Matt’s Ian Coggs!”

Iman glanced over, seeming to take it in, and returned to driving as usual. “I meant of Matt coercing Jackie. I can stretch my sense of disbelief to include Sonja Townsend masquerading as a younger woman and using her son-in-law’s card to register the room. But it’s hard to believe a young woman who had once planned a murder and eventual cover-up by pretending to be someone just swept up in a psych-experiment-gone-wrong could be coerced into anything. I watched the tape of her shooting Dr. Crane,” she added with an air of one of the Arkham doctors walking him through the concept of ‘consequences for his actions’, “It was cold and calculated; she’s the type to plan far in advance. Neither you nor Bruce had suspected her of tampering with your visiting rights at the time. And if ‘Matt Chaney’ is the one who’s disguising himself as Muddy Nye and Ian Coggs, then there’s no one to say Jackie Lant isn’t doing something similar.”

“I can say it,” John grumbled. Iman didn’t see her try to desperately cover for Matt before scream-crying on him.

“But I only have your word.” The car stopped again. “I want to trust you on this, John, but I can’t trust your interpretation without any proof.”

“You’d trust Bruce’s,” he scoffed quietly, spitefully taking a larger bite.

“You know Bruce would say the same thing,” Iman added gently. “Send what you have to the BatComputer and we’ll look over it together.”

John could easily imagine Bruce asking for evidence, but that didn’t stop irritation from growing and sitting in his jaw. He didn’t know how else to prove that Jackie was exactly as innocent as she seemed without any physical proof, and she was currently trying to gather further proof that Matt had been Muddy Nye.

Hey, send me your InstaPic too, he typed, hoping she had something that concretely put her far and away from any of Matt’s fishy business.

What you can’t see my face on Matt’s page? 9_9

xXPumpkinPrincessXx

Sure enough, Matt’s InstaPic account had Jackie’s face near the top of his friends-list. John decided to check that last.

Matt had a lot of stuff in his direct messages from people trying to impress him with reactions, flirty messages, and boasts about buying tickets to various projects he must have had a role in. John couldn’t really see the appeal of him, outside of his mildly-handsome face and lightweight build – sure, the costumes were nice when he wore them, but Matt had far too many public-facing selfies, the majority of which was just Matt doing normal things. A simple picture of him drinking a smoothie in a tank top got him fifteen-thousand likes, and the ones that featured Jackie or other people he guessed worked in Bludhaven’s theater troupes (an awful lot of women, John noticed) got maybe six-thousand at most. There were some flagged-for-review selfies that definitely edged the line between appropriate and softcore porn that had gotten a few thousand before they were pulled from the public. Ones of him in costumes seemed to get ten-thousand on the regular, with the most-liked in the bunch being a silent time-lapse video of Matt transforming into a near mirror-image of Vincent Price two months ago – even John had to admit that the head-explosion emoticons people had commented with were appropriate…

John blinked, looking at the grid of pictures, and realized that something was missing from the looping .gif of Matt in the makeup chair. Something obvious. Something he’d seen in plain daylight for himself.

“Now that’s interesting…”

“What is?” Iman asked from the driver’s seat. John didn’t look up to see where they were, but they were still moving.

“Matt Chaney didn’t have his tattoo two months ago. The one with the theater masks.” John scrolled down – there were some entries that had been removed for violating the site’s policy, but the last shirtless picture Matt had taken was three months ago. John circled back to the top, looking at the picture of Matt sucking just a little suggestively on the smoothie straw four weeks ago in his plain white tank, and noticed the inked mask of comedy sitting above the fabric line. “But he had it last month.”

“Quite a few of the False Faces had mask tattoos,” Iman commented thoughtfully, “Including the theater one.”

“Oh yeeeah,” John mumbled, “Roman split the gang up into sections, didn’t he? What was that Melpomene-Thalia group assigned to?”

Iman’s mouth curled into a disgusted frown; that was a first for her. Her eyes crinkled and narrowed, like the car in front of her had a racist bumper-sticker. “I don’t believe those are as cut and dry as some of the others.” Her clean polished fingers clenched the steering wheel a little. “One of the masks we captured last night was on the Agency’s watch-list for threatening public officials, suspected blackmail, and grand arson. Another had a previous charge for assault, vandalism, and stalking. What does that say to you?”

Ooh, test time! Threats, destruction, stalking abilities… Put together right it could be a little terrorist group. But unlike Harvey Dent and his little militia, Roman didn’t seem to have an interest in taking a government position or two and using it for personal vendettas; he liked keeping things underground. “Sounds like the right-hand messengers – dish out destruction as your last warning before the boss order’s your death.”

“Exactly. They’re some of the top brass, so to speak. So why leave ‘Ian’ out of the Gala… Just because he was newer?” She tapped the wheel as they came to a stop. “Matt might have done the initiation and gotten the tattoo in Ian’s place, assuming Ian was dead before that. But how long had he pretended to be him? How did Ian get pulled into the gang in the first place…?”

“Probably knew a guy who knew a guy,” John shrugged, thinking of the cronies that had been brought into the Pact. “Word gets around in all kinds of circles. I bet Matt was doing ‘research’ and overheard some of Black Mask’s goons looking to hire. I’d be surprised if he didn’t stalk Ian for a while beforehand.” He drummed his fingers on his phone. “Besides, Ian’s real-life-rap-sheet wasn’t up to their level, so I bet he got put on retainer in case the Bat hit the fan. That, or they drew straws.”

She blinked, arching a brow at him. “Straws? Really?”

“Sure, the guys did it all the time in the Pact! Only hand-picked ones got to have the special jobs, y’know. The light’s green,” he added with a point.

Iman didn’t say anything, but the ‘why didn’t I think of that’ look said enough as she took off again. “I’m guessing Matt wasn’t in the ballroom when Roman showed up,” she said stiffly.

“Nope. Took Jackie to bone in the bathroom. Her words,” he explained at the look thrown his way, “Guy really plays both sides of the field – he could’ve high-tailed it before the masks arrived, but he went and stayed behind to see who survived.”

“He wasn’t there to see the end results, John – he was there to spy on Bruce.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to John before, but it seemed like made sense. “You think?”

“Bruce is a billionaire with some serious social connections and an infamy for throwing money around various charitable causes. I’d be surprised if the Court of Owls wasn’t trying to circle his heels – on paper, he’s a potentially ideal pigeon.”

John’s grin practically split his face in two as he cackled, slapping the door’s armrest before remembering he shouldn’t break things that belonged to friends. “Ahee ha ha HA – a-a STOOLIE thinks Bruce is a PIGEON !”

John could’ve sworn he’d heard something that sounded like a chuckle not coming from him, but Iman definitively cleared her throat as his last laugh petered out.

“Ha ha, sorry – I couldn’t resist. You really think they’re after him for his money?”

“If not, it’s probably to get close enough to kill him,” she continued as if she wasn’t also feeling like icy water had slipped down to her stomach, “He might have had a hand in dismantling the Pact, but even if they don’t put his own criminal behavior during that period or his family name against him, everyone knows he’s close to you – they might want to kill him on principal.”

That was an interesting thought. The kind that jabbed him in the ribs but sent that helpless spark of intrigue into his brain. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am,” he ribbed lightly, “Guess I should’ve taken that book’s quote about the slightest hand being guided by the Devil a little more seriously…”

“Well, I didn’t think about it until this morning, either.”

There was a pause, and John drummed his fingers against his thigh, unsure of what to say. If Iman was right – and there was a pretty darn high chance she was – that meant Bruce wasn’t safe in or out of the Batsuit. And he was already halfway into the suit, following an Owl wearing a literal False Face right into Black Mask’s hiding spot. That…might not end well, if Matt was able to get a message out to the Owls before Bruce or Tiffany body-slammed him.

It was probably a good idea to tell Bruce that. Just in case something over-the-top levels of weird happened. Be careful buddy!!, he started, Jackie’s boytoy from the party is our mysterious double-agent – aka that guy Matt Chaney ur chasing rn. And yeeees I’m uploading everything so just concentrate on plucking his feathers and punching Skullface so I still have a Bat to smooch later. ;p

Iman seemed to be thinking. That, or she was concentrating on the road – they had come to a weirder part of town, where street names were confusingly labeled with similar (if not exact) names one after another. They passed a Rodney St only to see Rodey St right after it.

John decided to scroll through Matt’s MuSec page, which automatically sorted by most popular and didn’t change when the filter was set to sort by date. A lot of it looked like duplicate videos from InstaPic, but the ones of Bludhaven stood out like the Batsignal against a cloudy night sky, most of them looking just as Jackie had described. He ignored the bulk of them, eying date stamps instead, thinking back to the original Ian Coggs’ last day in Bludhaven’s mental care facility.

Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. He guessed it was too much to hope for something obviously linking him to Ian ‘Nito’. The only thing he could discern was that Matt never seemed to take videos with other people unless he was on stage with them. No hangouts with friends, no secret recordings of strangers – just Matt, his career, and his home. Just him, him, him.

It didn’t feel familiar to John at all. He pulled up InstaPic again, scrolling through the group-shots - it was just the same kind of smile on Matt’s face plastered on each one, barely varying between fans and costars, the angle always being a tilted selfie from Matt’s hand. It was almost like the attempt at Bruce’s charming photo-ready smile John had seen back at the Gala. But of course anyone who knew Bruce beyond the surface knew that those smiles were -

…ah.

As fake as Bruce’s past “romances” – maybe some had substance, somewhere, but ultimately they meant nothing.

The MuSec page might have held no criminal evidence, but it sure helped prove that Matt Chaney was a selfish prick.

Now Jackie Lant, on the other hand… One glance told him her MuSec was the opposite of Matt’s. The thumbnails showed clear collaborations and only a couple of standalone videos of her on stage or in her makeup chair. Her InstaPic showed a lot of the same things, but with a UBox link at the top and Matt’s face on every row of images with some different and seemingly-genuine expressions. She had less

followers – 3055 - to Matt’s ridiculous 8055 – but she had likes and reblogs a-plenty on both pages, and where Matt had three uploads all week, Jackie had three or more every day. Particularly of various takeaway outings, the last of which showed a Citizens Against Bats flyer in the window – the bat symbol crossed out in red, of course, and a group meeting advertised for next week with a burner number – and the caption “signs that your restaurant is a front for something shady #OnlyInGotham #atleasttheirpizzasmellsgood”.

The upload times were erratic, but Wednesday highlighted her story of being out with Matt there – any opportunity for a picture of or with him was there for everyone to see. Nothing concrete from a hah-they-weren’t-doing-crimes-together perspective, but from a character one…there was only one conclusion he could draw.

“What’s so funny?” Iman asked from the driver’s seat.

He’d didn’t think his giggling was that obvious. That, or her peripheral vision was really good, even when driving. “I was in a really dark place last night. The itching to hurt myself and anything around me kind of place. And when I saw a car pull around at an opportune time, I didn’t care who was in it – and for someone who couldn’t sympathize enough with the horrible thoughts us patients spilled on the couch, Jackie had no problem putting up with me. Even today! She just welcomed me in helped me out like we were pals. And I didn’t really think about it before, but picture after picture here proves what I could guess - she did it because she was lonely! Ha ha ha - imagine being so desperate for company you’d let me, the mental patient your boss wouldn’t let you talk to without supervision, in your car! Aha ha ha ha ha haa!” The laugh made his lungs ache with pressure, but he didn’t care. “What’s funnier is… I get it! It’s like getting a visitor after being in the Hole: you don’t care who it is; anything’s better than being by yourself.”

“I don’t see how that’s funny,” Iman said coolly, “She didn’t have many friends living in Gotham by the time she left. I imagine she’s had a hard time really bonding with other people due to losing so many in traumatic fashions – and after a traumatic event like last night’s hostage situation, it’s reasonable that she wanted to help you, especially since she knows you already. It would be both grounding and give her a sense of accomplishment and heroism that she couldn’t have fulfilled at the manor.”

Man, Iman sure had a way with words. “Yeah, but you missed the point – it’s me. That’s what makes it funny. If it were almost anyone else…ehh,” he added with a shrug. “I mean, if we only mildly knew one another – like we parted ways after my whole stunt trying to kill Waller – and you saw me stop your car and just hop in it, gnashing my teeth and barely holding myself together, would you just go along with it?”

“Yes, I would,” Iman answered, not a dishonest syllable to be heard, “Though I’d make sure we’d talk to your doctor right away and get you to a safer place than that hotel.”

John hadn’t really expected that answer. He knew Bruce would say yes, but he didn’t like leaving hurt people alone to begin with, and Bruce was less likely to call a doctor and far more likely take care of things himself. John had expected Iman to think carefully before answering with a noncommittal variation of ‘yes’. What a caring gal. “Man, you were wasted on the Agency,” he answered warmly, “You’re way too good for them.”

Iman gave a soft smile in return, which John took as a wordless ‘thanks’. “Is everything sent to the BatComputer?”

He’d forgotten to start the transfer. “Iiit’s still working on it,” John fumbled as he pulled up the share function of his phone’s gallery. Sure enough, the crummy tower signal he was getting told him it would take a while to upload anyway. Sharing the texts was much faster, at least. “Still no response from Bruce, though…”

“Just because he can text on his gauntlet doesn’t mean he should,” Iman teased, “He’ll be fine. He and Tiffany are looking after one another.”

John hummed, wanting to believe that despite the sting at the mention of Tiffany. Bruce usually texted back fast, even as Batman…

The Herold Rite’s Theatre appeared around the corner, tearing John away from his thoughts. Its old playbill sign was yellowed and empty, but the lights surrounding it weren’t broken and the theater’s name was still perfectly legible. It just looked…dreary. Sunburnt paper covered the inside of the ticket booth’s glass behind the thin metal storm shutters. Laminated notices on each of the doors’ shutters showcased the place as under construction, do not enter, yadda yadda yadda, but the fractured plastic and faded ink reminded passerby’s it had been out-of-commission for some time.

“I’m guessing we’re not taking the front door,” John joked.

“There’s a staff exit we can break into around the back.” Iman pulled the car into the shady alleyway nearby. “I’ve already checked for city footage, this place is almost invisible. City inspections haven’t been officially done in a month, and it’s been closed for a couple of years now.”

“So we should expect lots of graffiti and garbage inside, huh?”

“Most likely. I’d be surprised if someone hadn’t tried living in it before now. If anything, we at least have to watch out for rats.”

“I thought owls ate those,” John nudged, getting a chuckle in response.

“I don’t think they’ve gone that native.” She parked just in front of the dumpster. “Get changed, I’ll wait where you can see me.”

The jumpsuit was loose enough to cover John’s clothes; he didn’t like the idea of taking anything off in Iman’s car (even if the windows were tinted and she was waiting with her back to him by the driver-side door) so he simply zipped it over everything else, tossing his St. Dymphna phone in the center armrest for safekeeping. The coveralls were annoyingly baggy to the point where he found himself pulling at the bunches of fabric around his waist and trying to figure out if he could tuck them in as he trailed behind Iman’s flat thuds of proper work-boots.

The sun was clearly already in early-summer mode, beating down on his shoulders the second he’d stepped out of the car – it didn’t matter that the sun wasn’t actually shining in their dark little corner, of course. It was omnipresent and tearing through layers of brick to hit him, specifically, like a punishment for looking where he shouldn’t. At least it felt like it.

John rubbed the back of his neck, the heat of his palm not helping. He didn’t know why he felt...paranoid. He was here, right now, growing steadily sweaty with stupid layers and summer heat, and he had a right to poke into business if it was his. Which this definitely was. He looked over his shoulder, not seeing so much as a camera, and looked around the roof edges for any sign of life.

Of course there was nothing there, because for all the strides he’d taken, his brain still liked to trick him.

Iman bent before the door with a very used-looking toolkit. John wondered at what to say.

He pushed the ideas of ‘Should we really be here’ and ‘Do you think they roost on rooftops’ away. “Didn’t you normally just kick the door down?” he joked lightly.

“I thought it would be best to be stealthy about this.” The lock clicked. “Besides, it’d be a waste if I didn’t get to actually use this after all the practicing I’ve done,” she boasted, tucking the kit away in one of her very deep pockets.

“You’re not gonna start wearing leather and cat ears on the job, are you?”

Iman pulled a face somewhere between amused and disturbed. “No. At least I hope not.”

The theater was even drearier inside. It reminded John of the Old Five Points, minus the working lights and water, and plus the smell of buttered popcorn practically soaked into what was left of the carpet. It felt as damp and dark as it looked, mold and mildew creeping in his nose to mingle with popcorn only a few steps in.

Iman passed him a small clip-on flashlight, having her own clinging to the pocket with the gear-shaped ‘G’. John clipped it to his jumpsuit’s collar, remembering how Bruce had a similar one on his cape when they had explored the mausoleum last year. Only now they were dependent on only the flashlights and not on loud EDM and glow-stick-filled pumpkins to guide them.

“There don’t appear to be any heat signatures in any of these…” Iman turned her head slowly, seeming to scan the hallway of supply rooms like a robot.

“Ooh, did you steal Bruce’s special contacts?”

“I borrowed them – with permission. Same goes for these,” Iman emphasized with a smile, handing John a few Bat-decorated goodies. A small can of tear gas, two Batarangs, and a palm-sized remote taser . John ran this thumb just over the edge of the thin blade, excitement prickling at his temples. “Hopefully, we won’t have to use them. These are strictly loaner pieces.”

John tucked them all away, no longer hating the roomy coveralls. “Oh, no worries, I get ’cha.”

“You can’t keep them,” she added pointedly.

“I wouldn’t dream of it! And I’m sure you wouldn’t keep them in your car for a rainy day and write the loss off as a misadventure,” he needled, “Not that I’d say anything if you did.”

Iman looked like she was definitely noting that to herself. “Let’s start checking rooms. I’ll take the right side.”

“You got it.”

Graffiti of all kinds was plastered on the walls, mostly tags covering parts of worn-out posters or stickers. Which would’ve been fine, if it hadn’t been clear that someone had gone to the trouble of drawing thick black lines over the middle of them all, regardless of size. It reminded John of censor marks over people’s eyes in photos. Some were darker than others, showing the paint can was running out but still usable, and it brought to mind the tics made on the asylum walls, counting days like they mattered.

A couple of Bat-symbols not unlike the one shown from the G.C.P.D. roof were scattered around, all but one in bright yellow crossed out. The paint had dripped from the wing and tail end before it dried. John took a picture of it, feeling like he’d seen the beacon itself, and then opened the supply room it was next to, finding replacement seats stained with something dark he didn’t want to think about and two very broken popcorn makers shoved inside.

A prop room was next, so cluttered he didn’t think he could walk three feet into without getting impaled on a plastic spear. He spied a copy of his clown smiley-face tucked away by a familiar red-pyramid-and-floating-eyeball that had been crossed out with a large ‘x’, but decided against taking a picture of it. He wasn’t sure if he liked his logo there, sitting among the scrawled-out bats…

“Nothing here.” Iman had seemingly found a cleaning closet with a crudely-drawn pentagram and ‘hail satin’ still legible by the door.

“Ha, talk about your false idols,” John cracked as Iman followed his line of sight, “Now, velvet - there’s a fabric I could worship!”

“Personally I don’t think there’s anything better than a cashmere sweater, but I don’t think I’d hail it,” Iman shot back with a chuckle.

John peeked in a blank dressing room, seeing nothing but a costume rack with two moth-eaten dresses, a dressing table with half its bulbs missing or broken on the floor, and a lot of molding cardboard boxes, most of which had been upturned and whatever contents inside torn apart or left on the floor. John spied a broken beer bottle and a suspiciously familiar sort of stain on the wall. “Nooothing here.”

“John, come look at this.”

John went over to her side, passing two doors that clearly didn’t open, and peeked over her shoulder at what looked like a dressing room. This one had more dust-covered boxes and a foggy vinyl sheet hanging over a long rack of costumes shoved in the back, with just enough room to walk. It looked like just another haven for moths and dust. “It sure is a room of gross moldy boxes,” he commented.

“No, look – that costume rack is half-full.”

“So?”

“So there’s a pathway back there and the people who trashed this place didn’t think to take a look?”

“Ah-haa.”

Iman went straight for the rack, carefully stepping around boxes as John examined the ones that seemed open, finding old promotional trading cards for an old sci-fi film with big-brained aliens sitting on some boring looking documents in one. Another had costume pieces, which he almost didn’t bother with until he saw a flash of purple, and then the instinct to rifle through things fell in his hands. He tossed things out and shoved everything aside in a flurry of colored fabric and plastic and pulled out what he could only think of as the best hat he’d ever seen.

A violet-colored and practically pristine wide-brimmed fedora. John couldn’t help but let out an ooh and turn it over in his hands. It was almost, if not exactly the color of his long coat back at the cave. It was like it was made for him. Even the dark fabric band on it was more deep green than black.

“John - don’t. You don’t know where that’s been.”

“Aw, come on, it’s clean! And look, it has a real label inside!” He flipped it to show her the faded gold print, hoping to turn her concerned frown upside-down. It did not, and he could practically hear what she was going to say next. “Fiiine, I’ll keep looking for evidence,” he groaned, putting the perfect hat gently back in the box. “I’ll come back for you later,” he muttered to himself.

His phone buzzed in his pocket – another text from Jackie:

Camera pics uploaded to my share drive: https://bit.gt.gd/S3272019F?=RO

Sorry it took so long. Kinda forcing myself to feel like this rn lol

She tacked on a picture of a dog calmly sitting at a table surrounding by a raging fire, staring at their coffee mug like nothing was wrong. John snickered to himself.

Ha ha ha ha!!! You’ve done it!! You’ve boiled this whole week down into a single classic meme!!! He texted back, Thanks pumpkinhead, I’ll pass these on to Bats!! ;D

“Was that Bruce?” Iman asked as John forwarded the link to the BatComputer’s catch-all.

“Nope. The other photographic evidence finally came in,” he answered, resuming his search.

The last visible open box held a lot of plastic badge holders – the kind that he’d seen the Arkham and St. Dymphna staff use to display their ID’s. But behind the boxes, not covered in a speck of dust… “Now what do you suppose a perfectly good printer is doing in a place like this?” John asked rhetorically.

“Probably making ID’s to match these.”

John peered over at the costume rack –polo shirts, dress pants, and bullet-proof vests hung there with an array of logos.

“Gotham Construction, Janus Industries, G.C.P.D., Gotham E.M.T. – Wayne Enterprises…” Iman grumbled, her thoughts seeming to swirl behind her brow. “Is there a laptop or tower connected to that printer?”

“Nope. There’s only…that thing near it.”

She peered over his shoulder. “That’s a signal repeater. It’s an older model.” She looked at her phone for a moment, poking around. “We can probably trace the router signal; the network its broadcasting isn’t from the surrounding buildings.”

John snapped a picture of the setup. “What, you think they have an Owl-themed computer set up somewhere?”

“That’s possible, but I was thinking more like a tablet or laptop that’s making the IDs. They’re portable, easily hidden or disposed of, and can easily support the software. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were trying to take down security systems or using social media to recruit, too – but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

He snapped a picture of the rack of clothing, too. “You really think they’ll leave that laying around in here?”

“I’m more hoping they have. But I bet we’ll find the nest if we find the router this signal is coming from.”

The room next to it was wide open and all but beckoning them inside, a spray-painted black bat flying above the door. It was another dressing room, but it looked cleaned out – the makeup table was dust-free and had all its bulbs, and there was a minimal amount of boxes in there.

Iman walked in, heading straight to the lone garbage can and squatting to take a better look. “At least we know someone used this one for more than making fake IDs.”

John took a look at the table. A smear of a peach-toned neutral was left on the surface otherwise wiped off with what smelled like cheap makeup remover. “And they left a mess.”

“That’s good news for us,” Iman chuffed, “Looks like they tossed their contact in the wrong place. It doesn’t look tinted – probably corrective.”

John watched as Iman pulled tweezers out of her pocket and prepared to tuck the evidence away into a small plastic bag. “Someone came prepared,” he muttered enviously, looking around for anything that could be considered useful.

The streak was likely residue from Sonja’s makeup, since Bruce thought it was connected to The Lot. She might have changed in there, too, both heading in and out… If Bruce were here, he could likely use his amped-up forensic skills and handy-dandy gear to analyze the chair, but unless Iman had a pocket-sized version hidden on her, that was a moot option. What he did have was an imagination and a penchant for peeking in places he normally shouldn’t.

The only working drawer had a mish-mash of makeup in a rainbow of powders, pencils, and various flesh-toned pastes sitting next to a tub of Moddy and an empty bottle of Janus Clear-Away Makeup Remover. The tiny brushes and sponges besides them were all, unfortunately, clean as bristly whistles.

John eyed the streak on the tabletop, picturing someone sitting there and wiping foundation away…

Actually, the smear on the surface went all the way around to the edge, like someone had spilled or squirted too much from the bottle. And there was one broken bulb at the corner of the lined mirror, like something had knocked into it…

“Hey, Iman – the Lot shooter, were they left handed or right handed?”

“Left handed.” Iman stood next to him, examining the table. “She carried her purse on her right shoulder and opened the room door with her left hand.”

“And Jackie’s right handed, further proving my side,” he rubbed in, “So if I dropped it here,” he tried, miming dropping a bag on the table and sliding his hand on the left to crash the bottle of foundation into the bulb, “it might’ve fallen over.”

“There’s scuff marks by the chair,” Iman pointed out, “She was wearing heels, I wouldn’t be surprised if she slipped after wearing them for so long. Especially if she’s not used to them.”

“So, like-” John popped into position, miming a fall while keeping his balance on one leg – “whoooops!” He spread both hands, as if knocking things over while trying to catch himself on the table. “Crash!”

Iman kneeled to the right of his leg. “There’s a tube of foundation under here. And it looks like...” She reappeared a moment later with a poker chip held in her tweezers. “Good thinking, John.”

John straightened, pride inflating with a self-esteem boost.

“Looks like a promotional chip – they leave them in the rooms for guests.” She turned it over, exposing the logo – it looked a series of sticks in a fist. “It’s definitely from The Lot.”

John took a picture of it. “Five bucks? Cheapskates.”

Iman tucked the new piece of evidence back where she had picked it up from. “I’ll just make a note of this one.”

That was…unusual, to say the least. “Uh, why?”

��Because the Lot killer wore gloves; this just proves that they stopped here. If the G.C.P.D. does a raid later, they can point to it as evidence. Even though it’ll be labeled as circumstantial, it’s something noteworthy.”

“Buuut you’re taking the contact lens…?”

“So I can run a DNA match, if there’s anything on it. I’ll just put it back later.”

“Iman, that’s cheating,” John said with a titter, “I knew I liked you.”

There didn’t seem to be anything left in the room for them to search, so they moved on, turning the corner and finding locked or obstructed doors or rooms stuffed full of garbage from squatters one after another the closer they got to the stage entrance; the graffiti continued with them, countless symbols of anarchy censored out, the bat symbols disappearing altogether as the wireless signal Iman was tracing got stronger.

Iman pushed open the stage door, a dreadful squeal ripping through the air. John expected a pigeon or two to fly from the holes in the curtains up to the burnt, partially-dilapidated ceiling barely illuminated by a few leftover construction lights running on power-saving mode. The projector screen that had clearly been added after the initial build was still hanging stubbornly from the shoddy catwalk. The whole place smelled strange, must and mold mingling with a smell like cigarette burns on sheets.

“There should be a trapdoor under the stage for performers,” Iman commented as she led the way, “I’ll bet that’s where our nest is.”

John followed her, glancing out over the open stage and feeling something hitch in his stomach at the sight of the rows and rows of empty seats. They stood sturdy against the test of time despite the occasional moth-eaten holes, all silent and dark, not a flutter of movement among a single seat all the way up to the rafters. He could see the black, shadowy area in the back where the fire had seemed to start and trail away up to the ceiling. “Why is this place so creepy?”

“Because you’re expecting an audience when you go on a stage, and there isn’t one,” Iman said, prying at a section of the floor with a small crowbar she had pulled out from her jumpsuit. She grunted, prying hard at the section of floor that was suspiciously less dusty than the rest. “Can you give me a hand?”

He couldn’t resist. The joke was right there. “Sure!” He clapped his hands together. “Good hustle, kid! I like your realism!”

“Very funny,” she grumbled, prying again.

“Ha ha, sorry – but you walked right into it!” John moved to the opposite side of the trapdoor, stomping hard on the end he was sure was meant to go down. One foot wasn’t enough, but he felt a shift, so he stomped harder as Iman pried. “Ugh, come on, move!” He jumped on the end with both feet, realizing too late it was a bad idea as the floor gave away.

He landed with a hard thud on the balls of his feet, automatically bending at his knees and finding himself still stumbling to his side and knocking over something tall with a fwump and clatter of wood. “I’m okay!” he called up, rubbing his newly-bruised elbow, “But I definitely didn’t stick the landing!”

Iman landed next to him with a soft plat of boots, hands already steadying him as he rose back up. “Are you sure? Can you rotate your ankles?”

“Ha, it’ll take more than a poorly-placed coatrack to take me down.” He squinted at the little green light in the corner of the room over her shoulder. “At least we found your mystery-router.”

The wireless router was plugged into an outlet that looked like it had hastily been rewired, sitting by an open door that was obviously made to blend into the wall. There didn’t seem to be any lights strung up anywhere for easier viewing.

“Hopefully we’ll find what they were connecting to it, too.”

Their clip-on lights illuminated some of the room, showing another costume rack with several empty hangers and not a piece of clothing in sight. An old map of Gotham could be seen among a throng of paper tacked on the walls. A few plastic grocery bags holding emptied, bug-attracting food containers and the squashed couch shoved in the corner with a cheap blanket made it feel like it was a squatter’s den; the difference was the large picture of an owl that had been carved on the wall over a century ago, it’s clawed feet bared viciously at them.

“Seems like more of a burrow than a nest,” John commented, spying a cockroach scurrying to hide beneath one of the makeshift garbage bags, “‘No amenities; makes Arkham feel welcoming. Zero stars.’”

At least that made Iman laugh a little, which toned down the creepy vibe and widened the smile on John’s face.

Iman seemed to gravitate towards the wall of paper, so John followed suite. Mug-shots and stolen police forms were front-and-center, faces crossed out with a black ‘x’.

“Ugh, and someone’s crossing people off their little list,” John grunted in disgust, looking over the crossed-out faces. “Hey, that’s the guy who got stabbed in the eye on the Chandis!”

“That’s not surprising, Randolf Barron is over here. And Jack Whendleham, Kirby Noltz… It looks like everyone found on board the ship is here.”

“Plus a few gals from Poison Ivy’s gang… I know that guy’s in with the 8-Bits… Little Nel from the Rossi family? I thought he left Gotham seven years ago.”

“He did,” Iman grunted, “He was released from prison on good behavior; the Rossi’s blew up his car when he decided to leave the mob. He changed his name and moved to somewhere on the East coast. I think we can officially cross off any personal grudges,” she continued, shining her light elsewhere, “since Selina Kyle’s picture is also over here.”

Hers was the only one unmarked, and one of three on the whole wall that weren’t official police photos. John (thankfully) did not see his own face up there.

Iman turned to face the old wooden office desk behind them, so John followed along.

A knife was sitting on a pedestal there, clearly some kind of ceremonial dagger with the image of an owl bearing its claws and spreading its wings up the handle. The filing drawer was ajar and the surface was partially littered with highlighted and circled article pieces about Batman, even the Gotham Moonrise picture of Batman, Joker, and a somewhat-concealed Jim Gordon standing at the back of an ambulance.

Only where Joker was supposed to be, there was nothing but crooked edges– John had been cut out of the picture entirely. “Looks like our Owl’s a jealous rival Bat-fan, too.”

Iman flipped through the other half of the papers. “Looks like they stalked Selina for a while,” she mumbled, “They found her rental contract for her gallery and got a copy of the blueprint.”

John peered over at it – exits were marked and security shifts were scribbled on the printed map. Pictures were called for; he made sure to get the whole wall of photos.

Iman pulled open the top drawer slowly, revealing several charging cables in varying degrees of broken and two bottles of medication with the labels torn off. She shook the bottle to take a closer look at them without opening it. “White powder, pullapart capsule type… NVR R20. And I don’t have a signal down here. I wish I knew a pharmacist.”

John perked up. “Ooh, wait! I know that one…” he trailed, mentally sorting through the list of all the drugs he’d ever used, traded, or stolen, “Ritalin!”

She hummed thoughtfully, putting the bottle back and taking out the other, with little dull-green capsules rattling around. “And what I’m fairly sure is R-2 - Rohypnol.”

“I don’t remember seeing anyone up there being drugged before they died. That we know of, anyway…”

“They could be using it as a counteractive to the Ritalin, if they take a high enough dose. Some cocaine users take Rohypnol to come down easier. Anything in your side of the desk?”

John pulled open the first drawer. A few more paper copies of police reports and photos, with Harvey Dent’s picture on the top of the pile. His police report and a messy copy of his Arkham admittance sat underneath. “Looks like our next set of fresh victims include some more notorious Gothamites; ‘Big Bad Harvey’ is in here.” He flipped more, spying ‘Cannibal’ Carl Whistley and Victor Zsasz. “And some of the guys from my floor…”

“I’m not surprised, at this point,” Iman commented, wedging open the stuck filing drawer.

John flipped further, and felt his heart jolt horribly. “And Bruce.” He was sure he wasn’t imagining the photo in his hands of Bruce Wayne at the podium during his publicity stunt almost two years ago, where he announced devoting his money to fixing Arkham before he was almost run over. Everything felt too real. “I can’t believe they’re using this photo.”

John had found the whole segment amusing at the time, mulling over how handsome he seemed, all clean-shaven and acting all daring by getting out of the way just in time like he’d done it before, wondering to himself just how much danger Bruce could actually handle, how much they could both put themselves in on the outside together…

John scoffed at himself. “I really should’ve put Bruce and Batman together when I saw him dodge that van like it was no problem. But I thought ‘nah, Batman’s a completely different person!’ But I also thought Bruce would fit in with Harley’s ideas about stealing a potential cure for our little problems – shows how much I knew.” He flipped the picture over, spying the very shoddy record of Bruce’s time with the Pact laid out in a photocopied police form. “Looks like you were right about Bruce’s Pact past coming back to bite him; his form’s in here.”

“At least we know he’s not a current target,” Iman said, not comforting John very much, “This person seems like they want to finish what they started before moving onto something new. And if they were after Bruce now, they would’ve followed him straight to you a dozen times by now. We know that’s not the case,” Iman soothed with a light hand on his shoulder. She took it away a moment later. “And there is some good news – we have their tablet,” Iman added, holding up a tablet computer that was far too thick to be new. “Which means we can get out of here and reconnect with Batman and Robin.”

“I don’t know about the Robin part right now,” John pouted, walking out alongside her, “but I’m all for leaving the Gallery-o’-Death.”

Iman tucked the tablet into the fabric belt around her waist and dug her foot into the makeshift foothold nailed to the wall who-knew-how-many years ago. John looked away, not wanting to be weird and watch her as she hoisted herself up to the edge of the opening, but didn’t want to turn around entirely in case she slipped or needed a boost.

Just as he folded his arms and tapped his fingers against the healing cuts on his forearm, he heard an odd hiss.

He looked up too late – Iman slipped back down, coughing as she landed on top of him, sending them both to the ground in a bruising heap.

John grunted, trying to sit them both up and ending up sliding backwards instead as Iman struggled to not collapse back on top of him, coughing into her hand and trying to wipe away something from her face. “Hey – are you okay?!”

She didn’t look like she was. She was blinking hard, taking in sucking breaths, and doing a bad job of trying to point upward. John followed her finger towards the only exit.

The light was blocked out and there came a soft thump as a tall dark figure with broad shoulders and the painted wooden face of an owl with short horns protruding from the top of their head faced him, the eyes glowing white in the light.

The Owl-man tilted his head, as if regarding John like a curious animal, and light blue mist puffed out of the thick metal tube wrapped around his outstretched arm before John could move away.

John coughed and sputtered, tasting salt, and saw the world around him tilt on its axis as he tried to move backward, Iman’s weight collapsing onto his legs with a sighing breath.

There was little room to move and Iman was suddenly heavier than normal, but John still fumbled for the Bat-stamped taser in his pocket, hoping he could throw it or shock the Batman-knockoff when he came close enough.

He thought he might throw up from the sudden blurry movement of everything. His fingers wouldn’t move the way he wanted them to. Everything felt like it was teetering nonstop.

He felt the taser in his hand. Heard boots on the floor as he blinked away the awful seesawing layout.

He could feel the button trigger under his thumb, he just had to get his arm to move...

John blinked hard, feeling a familiar tug of his conscious towards the void at the back of his brain as he tried to focus on the closest thing he could, the bare coatrack lying on the floor.

“You shouldn’t be here,” a low, hoarse voice whispered to him in the dark, as it had done a hundred times before...

† † † † †

Notes: John's path to a better life outside of Arkham is a rocky one filled with the kind of problems he's very tired of dealing with. But unlike Bruce, who channels his issues into his drive to keep Gotham and his loved ones safe via detective work and kicking criminal butt, John finds it difficult to sort through his problems because he mainly needs emotional support. He and Bruce both have to face harsh things in this story, but John's journey is always the driving force behind it's very creation. It's interesting to really look at the parallel between Bruce and John right now: John has few people who's supportive of him (and would have less if "the player" made bad decisions regarding his new friends) and desperately needs it, and Bruce has a very steady group behind him 24/7 but still struggles with wanting to be alone; John struggles to hold onto reality and needs to remind himself that Bruce is always there for him, and Bruce just wants the escape from the world that John brings but can never seem to have him around long enough; Bruce is almost overly-protective over the people he works with and John is a little over-confident in people's abilities to take care of themselves. (Though both have problems taking care of themselves, ha ha!)

Have some fun facts!: 1) In this storyline, if Iman wasn't around, John would've gotten a Ryde; in the Villain route, John's clown-posse would've picked him up…or maybe he drives his own clown car? 2) If Jackie wasn't around, John bumps into Matt directly at the Gala, steals a car to go to the Hotel/the Theater, and searches the hotel room by himself. Jackie's part of Sonja is instead played by an innocent nobody Matt is dating and John doesn't get as upset. 3) I debated the "destined hat" John finds for, like, an hour. I think BtAS had Joker in a bolero, and I am a sucker for that style and making loving homages. I ended up with a fedora because it leans more with John's budding mockery of a classic detective. 4) You know, I mentioned the villain route…yes, Bruce has the option to fuck Joker (/cheat on Selina, if applicable) last chapter in that route, too, because who am I to stop you? ;) He and John do still have their little heart-to-heart here, but since the story plays out a little differently, it's missing the heart-wrenching confession John gives and the acceptance he gets, and is instead a convo/argument centered around John's and Bruce's possessiveness over one another. 5) If there's no Robin or Iman, Alfred is actually who alerts Bruce to BM's hideout, even if their relationship is rocky and regardless of which John you have. 6) If by some miracle Jackie is here, but your John's a villain, their interaction is a lot more tense and there's no real friendship forged. 7) The camera feature John has wouldn't be allowed all the time - like you couldn't take pictures of Bruce's butt, or the inside of Iman's swanky ride, for example - but I think there would be spots, like the Theater or Hotel Room, where you'd have free range. If I were making this a real game, I'd probably sneak in a bunch more Easter eggs: references to Condiment King, Bat-Cow, fandom members' usernames… What would you guys add?

If I had to pick a favorite thing to write this time around, the first is John's conversation with Bruce because I've been building to it, and the second is Jackie Lant! My Halloween baby, my pumpkin-pie, my darling depressed mess! I was planning her breakdown with John ever since the start of the story, but it was nice to craft her and John's bonding points over time.

Next chapter (which hopefully will be less than 3 months from now) we join back with Batman and Robin. Considering the timing of everything I've planned, it might be the first chapter that has both Bruce and John's "perspectives" in it… That, or I'll have to split it into two chapters. In the meantime, wear your mask, wash your hands, donate to BLM any way you can, and take care of yourself. (⌯˘̤ ॢᵌ ू˘̤)യ♡

28 notes · View notes

a-solitary-marshmallow · 4 years

Text

Alone - Chapter 3

Lup remembered getting sick.

She remembered feeling an itch in her lungs, and Taako looking terrified, and being so very hot. She vaguely remembered trying to comfort him. She would get through this. She wouldn’t leave him alone. She would fight her hardest to stay with him.

That was the last thing she remembered, when light burst behind her eyelids and she felt herself reforming on the deck of the Starblaster.

Lup’s eyes flew open, taking in the darkness of space around them. At the helm Davenport was looking around, as if trying to figure out how he’d gotten there. He’d been piloting the ship, right?

No, Davenport had kicked the bucket before she did. Did Taako fly the Starblaster? He must have, if they were all back.

Taako. Shit, Lup had died, hadn’t she? Taako’s hand was in hers but it was cold and limp. Lup whirled to grab his shoulders.

“Oh my gods, Ko, I’m so sorry! I said I wouldn’t leave you and then I went and got sick too, fuck.”

Taako stared at her with tear-filled eyes. Stared at her like she was a ghost. It was a look she’d never seen on her brother before, and it scared her. Lup shook him gently.

“Koko?”

He didn’t respond and Lup shook him harder, her voice cracking.

“Taako!”

He lunged forward and wrapped his arms around her. Lup squeezed her brother tight as he clung to her, sobs bubbling up in his chest. Gods. She’d really fucked up this time. Lup hugged her twin as tight as she could and buried her face in his hair.

“Hey, Koko, it’s okay. I’m here. We’re all here.”

Soft footsteps. Lup lifted her face to see the rest of the crew watching with concern on their faces. Magnus stepped forward and reached out to touch Taako’s back, then hesitated.

“What happened?” He asked.

“Um. Well, we all carked it.” Lup very carefully did not let go of her shaking brother. Holy shit, Taako was crying in front of everyone. Like he didn’t even care anymore. “Pretty early in the year, actually.”

Magnus winced. “Damn. I kinda hoped you guys would both make it.”

“Nope. Just Ko.” Lup glanced up to Barry. The sight of him alive and well made her heart sing, but right now she had bigger things to deal with. “Care-Bear, help me take him to his room?”

“Um, yeah, sure Lup.”

With their combined guidance, they led Taako to his room. The door hung open. It was exactly as it was the last time Lup saw it, early last year. Exactly, except for the thick layer of dust. What the fuck? Had Taako not even been in his own room?

Apparently not, because Taako was walking directly past to go into a different room – Barry’s.

“Ko?” Lup said gently. Taako jumped.

“Oh. Uh, yeah, right. Gotta give Barry his space huh?” Taako’s voice shook. His hand was very cold in Lup’s. Taako gave her a brittle smile and Lup returned it before turning to a rather confused-looking Barry.

“Bar, do you mind if we take this to your room?”

“Sure.” Barry shrugged, and Lup walked forward, pulling her brother and her boyfriend with her.

Taako immediately went to the bed. Lup and Barry watched as he pulled himself up and hugged his knees to his chest, with none of the flamboyance Taako usually embodied.

“Can we join?” Lup asked. Taako nodded. She crawled up to join him, pulling his head into his lap to play with his hair. Barry hesitated, uncertain. Lup motioned him over and he sat on Taako’s other side with one hand on his leg, the other hand held in Lup’s.

Gods, Taako was still shaking. Lup paused to gather her thoughts before asking quietly, “Was it that bad?”

“It was kinda shitty.” Taako muttered, which made Barry snicker. The soft human shuffled closer until his shoulder was nearly touching Lup’s with Taako curled up between them. It was a testament to Taako’s upset that he didn’t complain or kick him. “Really quiet without all you dipshits around.”

“Gee thanks.” Barry said dryly. “By the way, was that a calendar I saw on the way here?”

“Shut up Bluejeans, calendars are for weaklings.”

“Sure, sure. But hypothetically, if someone had made and filled out a calendar in the last year, is there a reason they would have stopped filling it out part-way through?”

Taako shifted on Lup’s lap. “Well the months-long winter with no day or night cycles might fuck with someone’s sense of time. Just a theory.”

“Hmm.”

Lup ran her hands through her brothers hair a few times before saying, “I’m sorry I left you. I really tried.”

Taako made a sound that didn’t sit well with her – a bitter noise. Lup’s ears flattened.

“What’s wrong?”

Taako shook his head stubbornly. “Nothing.”

“Taako we’ve lived together for a hundred and fifty years. I know when you’re lying to me you little shit. What’s going on?”

Taako turned his head away, but now Lup was getting worried. Well, more worried than before.

“Taako.” She said warningly.

“Ah, fuck, whatever.” Her twin muttered. “No big deal, ‘kay? Just didn’t want you to suffer. Your boy-toy over here made it look painful.”

Lup stiffened.

“I mean, dying from a fever sucked big-time.” Barry said. “I don’t get it. Lup?”

Shit. “Taako, tell me you didn’t.”

“You were dying!” Taako defended. “Sorry if it pisses you off, next time I won’t-”

“I’m not mad because of me, who fucking cares?” Lup shouted. Taako’s ears flattened. “Gods, Taako, you shouldn’t have to – shit.” She tugged at her hair. Her vision was blurring as tears welled up. “Taako, I love you, I couldn’t – you shouldn’t have had to do that. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Barry demanded. Taako threw an arm over his eyes so he didn’t have to look at them.

“For making me kill my fucking sister. Gods, Barold, read between the lines will ya?”

“Um.” Barry said. And then, “Oh. Oh.”

Lup groaned. Just imagining it – a year alone, a year knowing you had killed your best friend, and yeah, sure, it was a mercy killing but… “Shit, Taako.”

Her twin glared up at her. “Oh, like you can say you wouldn’t do the same thing for me?”

Lup flushed. “That is entirely besides the point.”

“Will you guys just shut up and hug me? It’s been like a year, Taako deserves a fucking hug already!” Taako snapped. It would have been bratty if his voice hadn’t cracked, if his eyes weren’t swollen and red-rimmed from crying, if he wasn’t still shaking. Lup kicked herself. Sure, she could be upset and mad at herself later. Right now her brother was hurting.

Lup pulled Taako back into her lap and ran her fingers through his hair, Barry leaning against her side and rubbing Taako’s arm soothingly. What a teddy bear. She loved Bluejeans so fucking much.

Taako buried his face in her jacket and kept shaking.

“Hey, Barry, can you- um.” A voice hesitated. Lup glanced up to see Magnus’s burly silhouette in the doorway. “Are we doing cuddle piles? Can I join?”

Lup waved him over and Magnus hurried to join them with a gleeful smile. He crashed onto the bed next to them, sending the bedsprings creaking, happily settling in with his torso laying across Taako’s legs and his arms reaching up to wrap around both Lup and Barry. That did not look comfortable for the big guy. Magnus was warm and solid and Taako grumbled a greeting, patting the human’s arm blindly.

“Thanks for the soup.” Magnus added to the half-buried elf. “Sorry for kicking the bucket before I got to finish it. I promise it was really good.”

Barry made a sound. “Hang on, did you die in the middle of a meal?”

“I was very very sick!” Magnus defended. “I lasted longer than you anyway, Denim in Distress.”

“Hardy ha.”

Magnus perked up. “Oh! Hang on, we need to get the others in here! CUDDLE PILE!” The sudden yell made Lup flinch.

“You can’t seriously think that the others will-”

The frantic tapping of footsteps cut Lup off and then Lucretia flew through the door and tackled someone (maybe all of them, at this point it was hard to tell) in a hug. Magnus laughed in delight and reached up to catch her before she slid off the bed. Lucretia stared at them, wide-eyed and red-cheeked.

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry. I just, I didn’t know if you’d want me to join and then I heard…”

“Of course we do, ‘Cretia.” Lup cajoled. “Get in here. We’re cheering up Taako.”

Lucretia’s smile was less shy than usual, bright and glowing. “In that case, how can I resist?”

She slid herself next to Magnus and rubbed slow circles on Taako’s back. Soon they were joined by Merle, who quirked an eyebrow before flopping straight onto the pile, and Davenport, who entered under the guise of looking for the crew and joined for the sake of ‘team bonding’. Like Lup couldn’t see the content smile on his face.

Yeah, things kinda sucked for Taako right now. But the Starblaster was filled to the brim with life, and for the first time in months he slept a deep, dreamless sleep.

“Did it.” He mumbled, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. Someone hummed sleepily and someone else muttered something about responsibility while a third person told them to shut up and enjoy the moment. “Fuckin did it.”

#the adventure zone #taz balance #taako #lup #the starblaster #the stolen century #part 3 #my fic #my writing #alone

18 notes · View notes

randombtsprincessa · 5 years

Text

Achilles Heart || 1

Author: Randombtsprincessa

Characters: Jeon Jungkook x Reader (2nd POV) x Kim Taehyung | Other Characters

Chapters: Prologue

Summary: After a year of blissful romance, albeit secret, Your dreams of solidifying the foundations of your relationship with famous Idol Jeon Jungkook crash and burn on the ground of his admission of wanting to call it quits. Desperate to keep him yours, you offer the terms of an Open Relationship. While you still have him to warm your bed after a night of frolicking, what happens when you yourself want to explore the open ends of your relationship? Will you find permanence elsewhere or will Jungkook keep you as his?

Warning: Is the heartache accompanying the unwilling discussion of an Open Relationship involved? Yes it is.

Also, That Date is the date in the Prologue!

A/N: The original chapter was supposed to be longer, introducing more characters and stuff but I decided to cut it a bit short to focus of the MC’s state of mind. The next part could be chapter 2 or chapter 1.5!

I would like to thank @yoonia and @solastia for inspiring this one.

PS: I’d love some feedback!

2 Weeks after That Date

You had left the window open last night, the cold morning air seeping into the room, chilling it as you buried yourself into the warm bed further.

Your eyes refused to open, the blissful tendrils of sleep still latched to your eyelids.

It wasn’t until you felt the man next to you move that consciousness knocked on your door.

You turned around sleepily, fingers reaching out for the smoothness of skin, meeting its match on equally exploratory hands.

The smile that tugged at your lips was soon engulfed into a lazy and sloppy kiss, a mere brushing of the lips, too heavy for any further action.

“Good morning, beautiful,” you heard, whispered into your ear, waking you up.

Your smile remained, mind a clear slate when you finally opened your eyes, meeting his. “Good morning,”

Jungkook’s teeth peeked through when he smiled; the thin shirt he was wearing to bed riding up slightly around the waist, where you wrapped your arm, letting you fit yourself snugly against him.

This was bliss.

Saturdays, he took off for you, spending the weekend with you, happily lying in bed with you curled up in his arms. He would talk of his week; slipping in and out of sleep as you trailed patterns on his skin, the sound of his voice lulling you.

Even as Jungkook tightened his hold on you, turning on to his back, the position that he was used to for this weekly tradition, you close your eyes.

There was something about his warmth, the hints of vanilla of his cologne that clung to his skin that had become reminiscent of home.

You were home and you didn’t want to leave.

Your traitorous mind kept trying to dredge up memories, but you pushed them away aggressively, instead focusing on Jungkook’s voice.

He was talking about a new track, some new beats he was playing along with to add to it.

You wanted to say that you were engrossed but your mind had turned to static.

Your eyes drifted to the dressing table placed across the room, finding a studded photo frame, bearing a picture of Jungkook standing with his arm wrapped around you. His grin lit up the room when he was absent, a memorabilia that made you smile when you got ready for a day without him in it.

“Baby,” Jungkook grumbled, pulling you out of your reverie.

You slid your head up against his arm, finding him staring down at you with a frown. “Hmm,” you answered.

“Are you ok? You seem out of it. I called you three times.” He asked.

His hand fumbled under your top, a silk shirt of his that you had stolen, simply because it felt marvellous against your skin. “You don’t have a fever.” He said slowly.

You smiled at his concern.

“I’m fine, love. I’m just still sleepy.” You said softly.

Jungkook kept his gaze on you, seconds ticking by before he yawned. “Alright then, let me up, I need to use the bathroom.” He shoved at you playfully.

Normally, you would’ve been playful right back, attempting to straddle him, make him forget his morning needs for a few more minutes of cuddling and making out but the way your body had weighed down into numbness, he found it easy to completely push you away.

You wondered if he would see the difference but you watched from the pillows as Jungkook got out of bed with ease, stretching once, twice, thrice to the sides and then padded across your carpeted floor to the en-suite, the door shutting behind him with a click.

You stared at the shut door, your fingers and toes moving to an invisible beat, mapping out seconds as they passed.

Falling back finally, you let your eyes stray to the clear ceiling, the fan above you acting as a metronome as you counted the spins of a slow moving blade.

With the soft white noise accompanying you, your memories dredged up images again, images that had been with you ever since they were made, poking and prodding at the fringe of your consciousness. No matter how much you pushed them away, they found a way to sneak back in.

You watched yourself in the sight of your reminiscence; standing, shivering a little once you’d managed to stumble out of the restaurant. Your hands shook ever so lightly, the past hour seeming other worldly.

That did not just happen.

I did not just agree to let my boyfriend coerce me into an open relationship.

The strong, independent woman in you raised her head fiercely, adamantly refusing to believe that you had propositioned something like this to Jungkook. Why would you do this? It was definitely not what you wanted. You couldn’t picture yourself sharing Jungkook with anyone else.

On the other hand, a pitiful shape was conjured, taking the brunt of your progressive scolding.

It shrivelled up in one corner of your imagination, huddled up but vehement in its own protests.

There was no other way, it told you.

Jungkook would’ve left you. This is the only way you can keep him.

Unsurprisingly, the small, pathetic figure won in the end. You wiped your tears, raised your hand, waiting for a cab to come to a stop in front of you and climbed in.

Jungkook had given you justified space, and you planned to use it productively.

Of course, that plan failed, when you step foot in your now empty apartment, crashing to the couch and curling up. The morning after, the thick black streaks of smeared mascara mocked you for thinking you could get away with this with anything else but a shattered heart.

That first morning you had tried your best to ignore the idea that you were now in an open relationship. You knew it was your idea, but you still felt too committed to Jungkook, too…exclusive.

You wondered how Jungkook was going through, remembering the glint of glee in his eyes and after a wild thought of him already being out to celebrate with Namjoon and his managers, all pretence had flown out of the window, reducing you to a puddle of slow tears streaming down your cheeks.

You have to be strong, you told yourself. Jungkook would baulk at the first sight of weakness on your part, bringing up his former idea of breaking it off and you wouldn’t even have the excuse of the open relationship to lure him in with.

The second day was spent in anger.

How could Jungkook even think of saying yes to your stupid idea?

How did he even think that you were really fine with being…with being some sort of figurine in his collection?

Is that all you were to him?

Permanence; which he never had to fear losing because you would always wait. Because you were stupid enough to love him so deeply that you couldn’t see anything else but him…

Maybe you were that pathetic, your judgement of losing the one thing to anchor your heart now sounded poetic.

The last day, you found yourself wrapped in a blanket, in front of your TV, your work long forgotten as you mindlessly watched TV soaps you would usually find irritating.

You supposed there was something therapeutic about the dramas, acting as a barrier to your own thoughts with their garble.

With the onset of evening, you glanced to the black screen of your phone, knowing there were messages you had to answer from your friends, family, work…

All, except Jungkook…

No, he was still firmly giving you space. Space, that was now slowly driving you mad.

You sighed, promptly replacing the cover of your ice cream tub and standing up with your phone.

It was time to have an overdue conversation.

5 Days after That Date

You had foregone the choice of your usual cafe, picking one that was a stranger to both of you.

You figured there was no point in tainting your café with the conversation you were about to have. You didn’t want to walk in for a coffee and be reminded of the time you spent sealing your fate as a proverbial door mat.

Arriving early, you spent a good five minutes, choosing a seat that would be far away from the busy tables, ordering your simple latte and wrapping your fingers around the light pink cup.

Glancing once at your phone, you waited…

Jungkook arrived on time, bringing in a gust of cold air in with him when he opened the door, looking around shyly. You wanted to be in awe of the wide eyed lustre he possessed, making himself familiar with his new surroundings with childlike movements.

Maybe it was the weight of what you were about to do, but you found his punctuality an extra thorn at your self-esteem.

It looks like he’s eager to get on with this.

Jungkook finally turned his head in your direction, finding you easily and his face scrunched into the smile that was yours – only yours. Not for long though, you told yourself, managing a half hearted tug of lips at him as he walked quickly over to you, bending down to hover over you.

You couldn’t find it in yourself to raise your head to receive his customary kiss though, keeping your attention focused on stirring your drink as he paused, before slowly pressing his lips to your hairline. Withdrawing, he lowered himself into the basket seat in front of you.

Silence ensued as you allowed Jungkook to order his own drink, going for a simple chocolate and banana milk combo.

With a few sips in him he finally chose to frown up at you.

“So, you wanted to meet about something? You haven’t said a word and I’m getting kind of worried now.” He flicked his bangs out of his eyes, chucking nervously.

You took a deep breath.

Here goes everything…

“Yeah, I wanted to talk about what I said…that night.” You said. Your voice was quiet, even though the café was way under populated; you didn’t want to get any louder than you had to.

Jungkook looked confused for a split second before his expression cleared.

“Oh…that…”

Yes, that, you thought bitterly, the thought that had you nearly jumping in your damn seat out of excitement.

“I appreciated you giving me time and stuff but I think it’s best if we get this out of the way – fast.”

You prided yourself on your pretences. You could do this without getting emotional. You just had to treat your love life like a professional deal.

You had this.

“Y/N…”

Jungkook put his elbows on the table, looking at the pale filigree designs before up at you.

“Look, what I said that night…I didn’t – I mean, I spoke to Namjoon Hyung. We both agreed that, you know that it was stupid. That dumb meeting, it was nothing, it meant nothing.”

You said nothing; you didn’t even look up at him.

What was that supposed to mean? If the meeting meant nothing, then why would he even bring it up? Why would he look so…so elated? Was he lying then? Or was he lying now?

“Babe,”

“It doesn’t change anything.”

“What…?” Jungkook was leaning forward now, looking intently at your stubbornly down-turned face.

“It doesn’t change anything because this already came up once, didn’t it? What’s going to happen when it comes up again? Are you going to just keep lying to me, your company…yourself?”

“I’m not lying about anything to anyone. I love you,”

“And yet you were going to break up with me,” I pointed out.

Jungkook closed his eyes, swallowing obviously before looking down glumly. “I didn’t think that you would take it like this.” He said slowly.

“I’m doing this for the both of us. You can be at peace with your career and I…” you trailed off, wondering what benefits this idea gave you. Nothing really jumped up.

“Look, offer’s on the table…literally. We just…we just need rules.” I whispered.

Jungkook’s eyes flared.

“Rules, what the hell for do we need rules? This was supposed to be a ruse! You don’t really think I’m going to…” He stopped quickly when he noticed his rising volume, settling back to lean on his chair.

He looked flushed, irate; watching me with narrowed eyes.

“I’m not going to cheat on you, Y/N!”

You gulped the last dregs of your drink, setting the cup aside and closing your eyes, to deliver the fatal blow to your heart.

“It’s not cheating if I’m letting you.”

Now, laying back on the plush surface of your bed, you wondered if the rules had been enough, if they had covered all the bases.

“Be honest, if you want more with someone else; then let me know.”

“Keep boundaries…you can’t bring your dates to our home.”

“Talk to me…you did before, you can after this as well.”

“If…if you’re going to sleep with someone, be safe…and come home after it.”

“If it’s not too much to ask, I’d still like to be a priority.”

You’d looked up after reading out the short list of rules you’d thought of the night before to see Jungkook looking nauseous.

“Y/N…this is…I don’t even know. The rules are all fine. They are thoughtful but…do you really think we need them? I mean I love you, I can’t think of a future without you in it. I am not going to fall for anyone else. Of course I won’t bring anyone home, and sleeping with someone else…I just can’t do that. And of course, you’d still be a priority. Please, baby, just…just toss the rules. I’ll tell Namjoon we did this and there won’t be anything more after that.”

“And what about when your company wants you to appear in the dating scene?”

“I’ll lie to them! God, you understand me, won’t you understand me then?”

You looked away, scrunching the paper up in your hands.

“Just…I can’t shake the thought that…”

Jungkook growled something under his breath.

“You just can’t accept the fact, that I was being stupid that night and let it go?” he snarled.

“I saw you,” you whispered, watching as his anger fade into confusion. “I saw the way your face lit up when I mentioned having an open relationship. You liked the idea. Please don’t insult me by saying I don’t understand. I have known you for two years, Jungkook.” You pushed the sheet of rules back at him.

Jungkook gaped at you for a few minutes, glancing between you and then at the sheet before groaning, dropping his face into his hands.

“Fine, if this is the only way you see…then we’ll do it.”

“So, babe, I was thinking a quick breakfast before we have to head outside?”

You shook yourself out of your thoughts to see Jungkook pulling out clothes from your closet.

Maybe, maybe he did mean what he said about only being with you, while agreeing to the rules to make you happy, in true Jungkook style. He hadn’t uttered a word about that date or the day you met up to discuss the terms of your new relationship. He hadn’t changed a damn thing about how he treated you.

Maybe, you could get out of this on a positive end.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #taehyung fanfic #taehyung angst #taehyung smut #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts angst #bts #jungkook #taehyung

202 notes · View notes

carbonated-chicken-broth · 6 years

Text

Happy Valentine’s Day || Gabriel x Reader

Gabe is my favorite l'il angel and I had to write about him because I can see him as one of those “boyfriends” that goes all out on Valentine’s Day with one of those massive Teddy Bears and a fuck-ton of chocolate.

Type: Fluff (I know, I know, but I'm in a cutesy mood so suck it horn dogs!)

Reader Gender: Female

Warnings: Kissing...? Also Gabriel in general, so innuendos and all that jazz. Oh, and language. And cliché.

Word Count: 2,000+

"I think I'm gonna clock out!" you called over your shoulder to Sam, who was set up in his usual spot at the long wooden table in the dining/research room, immersed in whatever was on the screen.

He hummed in response, taking his eyes off his laptop for a moment to direct his steely gaze at you through those wise-looking eyes of his. "Not gonna go...um...wipe some broken hearts off the bar floor?" he teased, quirking one eyebrow as his scruff-lined lips twisted into a smile.

You chuckled sleepily and shook your head, noting how your joints cracked and realigned at even the smallest movement. "I'll pass. Dean can get enough work done out there for the both of us. Besides," you added as an afterthought, "I'm tired as hell."

"I hear you," Sam responded quietly, sinking back into his work.

You sighed heavily and plodded down the semi-elegant hallway to your room, stretching your arms over your head as you went and letting out a satisfied groan when something popped. All you wanted was a nice, warm shower, and maybe some peace and quiet. Maybe even a beer and a movie if you got bored. Yeah, some BAB sounded great right about then. It was Valentine’s Day, after all. Great day for porn.

With that thought in mind, you swung open the large, mahogany door with the intent of flopping uninterrupted onto your bed when-

"And how's the cutest little human in the world?"

"Gabriel! Get out of my room!"

There he was, the peskiest of the four archangels, sprawled out on your covers with a wide grin etched across his handsome face.

"How about no?" he snickered, sitting up and smirking. "Besides, it's Valentine's Day!" he added enthusiastically, opening his arms as if to augment his stating of the obvious. "What kinda boyfriend would I be if I didn't stop in on my favorite human to give 'em a proper date?"

You groaned and pinched the bridge of your nose, irritated beyond belief and sensing the stirrings of a migraine. "You're not my boyfriend, Gabriel. And I'm really not in the mood to deal with your shit right now. I just wanna take a shower and lie down and maybe get some shut-eye before Dean comes back with someone and makes sleep impossible."

Raising one eyebrow, the smirking archangel sat forward, his whiskey eyes gazing straight into yours with an air of smug unpredictability that had the reverse affect on his counter. "Mind if I join you?"

"Fuck off, Feathers."

"Rude," he pouted, cuing yet another eye-roll.

"What do you want, Gabriel?" you asked sharply, crossing your arms and lifting your chin in an attempt to convey a semblance of confidence, even though his presence made your insides squirm like worms on LSD.

"You, naked, covered in rose petals,” he chuckled, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively in a way that never failed to make your heart do a little dance (often a frantic sort of “OH SHIT THOSE ARE SOME SEXY EYEBROWS” jig).

You felt heat creep up your neck and gritted your teeth, balling your hands into fists. "Gabriel, I swear if you’re-"

"It's just a joke, Sweetcheeks!" he exclaimed, holding his hands up in surrender, before muttering, "I'd prefer syrup, anyway. Sweeter."

"Gabe..."

"Fine," he sighed, his smirk softening to a smile, "I'm here to help you loosen up a bit. You look tense."

"Yeah, I wonder why!"

"Aw, c'mon," he whined, scooting to the edge of your bed and pouting up at you. "All I wanna do is cuddle! I won't bother you for the rest of February if you say yes." At least he was asking for consent. How generous.

"You're bribing me now?" you snorted, trying to sound casually annoyed to hide how flattered you were by him. He always did that to you; he twisted you into confused knots until you didn't know how to feel.

It wasn’t as if being with him would be a huge issue. Dean wouldn’t like it – he hated Gabriel, even more so after the T.V. land escapade – but after a while, he’d adjust. Sam wouldn’t be so vocal about his distaste, probably even supportive. He was already third wheeling one frustrating couple. What could be the harm in adding another?

No, the problem was with you. You didn’t want to tie yourself down to an archangel if it only meant a quick (though undoubtedly amazing) fuck and decades of heartbreak. He was so wild, you doubted he’d be up for a long-term relationship, and you weren’t sure you could handle a one-night-stand, as tempting as that option was.

Gabriel’s eyes twinkled, intrigue written across his face. He had an air of smugness that tended to linger around him but seemed unfounded at that moment. Quickly (and suspiciously), he cut off your thoughts: "Is it working?"

"Nope," you lied, walking over to your dresser to give yourself something to do other than stand awkwardly and in a state of slowly depleting gobsmackery in the doorway. If you were going to have to deal with Gabriel, you would definitely be dealing with him in comfy clothes.

"Why are you making me work so harrrrrrd?" the ever-childish archangel whined, tilting his head and watching you open one of the mahogany drawers and rummage around.

Sifting through your clothes, you groaned again, pulling out one of Sam's giant flannels (red-checked and soft) you’d stolen a while back. Winchester clothing was just more comfortable; even their boxers. You were tentative about wearing men’s underwear in front of the perverted archangel stationed on your bed but you know what they say: fuck it.

"Because giving you what you want is like feeding the animals," you said distractedly, moving to your bathroom door (you had one separate from the boys’ because they took long showers and sometimes menstruation couldn’t wait an hour) and calling over your shoulder, "We cuddle once and then you never leave me alone!"

You could feel his eyes drilling into you as you slipped inside, carefully locking the door behind you even though his bothering to use it would only be out of courtesy and therefore very unlikely. You waited for a few seconds in case Gabriel was planning on breaking in, before pulling your shirt over your head and tossing it on the sink.

Lo’ and behold, there came the flutter of wings from directly behind you, the cool breeze from invisible wings tickling your nearly bare back. "But I just wanna cu- wow you are...wow."

You blushed heavily and spun around, ready to give him a piece of your mind, only to realize that he could see straight down your bra. With a yelp, you grabbed the first thing you saw – a towel hanging on the door behind him – and held it against your practically naked torso. "Gabriel, what the hell!?"

"I just wanted to keep talking to you," he whined, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief and other emotions that you could recognize but didn't want to name.

"So you came into the bathroom with me?!"

"What's wrong with that?"

"You're joking," you told him flatly, agitated, "You see nothing wrong with this? I'm half fucking naked, Gabriel!"

"I noticed," the archangel smirked, wiggling his eyebrows again. "You're hotter than I imagined."

"Than you imagined?" you snapped, your face flushing, "The hell is that supposed to mean?!" Oh God, did he…holy fuck, did he get off thinking about you? Christ, you couldn’t win with him!

"Oh, you know what it means, Sugar~" Gabriel purred, taking a few steps forward so that his chest brushed against your forearms which pinned the towel to your quivering body.

You blushed furiously, your eyes widening as you gazed breathlessly up at him. A strangled moan clawed its way out of your throat and past your clamped lips. After a beat, you finally found your voice, or some of it. "Shut up, Asshat!" you growled, wrinkling your nose and taking a step back.

"Make me~"

"Okay!" you snapped, stepping around him, "I get that it's Valentine's Day but I’m really not in the mood!"

Gabriel sighed, gazing after you as you opened the door and slipped out, pulling the giant, tunic-like flannel over your scatterbrained head to hide your torso. ‘Sexy fucking angel,’ you thought, remembering vividly the way he could morph from innocent puppy-dog to I'm-gonna-fuck-you-'til-you-can't-walk in under a second. ‘What gives him the right.’

"I just wanna help you relax," he whined (a tone he’d been taking quite a lot lately), watching you flop down on your bed and moving to sit on the end.

"Leave me alone," you commanded, burying your face in the pillow and shutting your eyes right. You felt the bed creak next to you and you turned your head, coming eye to whiskey eye with the pesky archangel.

"No."

You groaned, turning your face to hide a blush as your heart fluttered from the proximity of his body to yours. Finally, you got up the courage to say it. "Fine."

A grin spread across Gabriel's face. "What made you change your mind all of the sudden?" he asked innocently, the smirk on his face audible to your reddening ears.

"Shut up."

"Aww," he chuckled, his arm snaking around your waist as he pulled you against his chest, "Have I ever told you how cute you are when you're pissed off?"

You gritted your teeth and rolled your eyes, your mind on hyper-alert as he pressed closer, breath dancing over your neck. "Every damn time you see me," you snapped agitatedly. It was true, you had a tendency to get riled up when he was around, for obvious reasons. He seemed to find it amusing, which did nothing to help your flustered state.

"You really are adorable," he said, sounding almost genuine.

You blushed and shook your head, glaring at him over your shoulder as your heart did backflips. "I am not, Gabriel!" It sounded so childish you had to fight to keep from cringing.

"Don't deny it," Gabriel chuckled, poking you nose. "See? You're like a kitten dumped in ice water. I just wanna hug you and kiss every inch of your skin and listen to your voice say my name over and over and over again..." He sighed, taking in a breath and pulling back a bit, gazing adoringly at you.

Your face felt like it was on fire from all the heat rushing through it, and your eyes were wide as saucers.

"I-I...uhm...I mean that's-wow..."

The archangel's eyes twinkled mischievously, and he leaned in to press his forehead against yours, whispering, "Plus, you're adorable when you're flustered."

You swore you thought your heart stopped for a second. It skipped a beat or two — or five — at his words.

He chewed his lip, waiting for a response of some sort, of which you seemed incapable. You gazed at him like a tourist at the Statue of Liberty, your eyes wide and your lips parted as thoughts rushed through your mind like hot pockets through someone's dietary tract.

His stare was what caught you; his deep golden-brown eyes simultaneously grounded you in reality and sent you off on tangents of mental fantasy.

"So, are you gonna kiss me or not?"

Gabe's mouth dropped open; it was his turn to look dumbfounded. "What, (Y/N)?" he asked, raising one eyebrow.

You rolled your eyes. "You wore me down, okay? You win. Now do me a favor and finish what you started!"

A smile spread across his handsome features as he lifted himself up on one arm and cupped your face with his hand. Gently, he drew your lips up to his. Your lips met and instantly you felt right, somehow. Complete. You could feel heat radiating off of him, like somewhere inside him was a burning fire; his grace. Softly, his lips moved against yours as his fingers dragging up to card through your hair. A small gasp rose in your throat. It was magical, caring, even loving.

You stayed there, frozen in his arms, for a few minutes before realizing that sometime soon, you’d need to breathe. Pulling back, you gasped, your chest heaving against his. "Oh, I forgot," he chuckled.

"What?" you asked incredulously, breathless, "To breathe?"

"Maybe..."

"Christ, Gabe," you groaned, glaring at him with amusement dancing in your features. "How have you survived this long?"

Gabriel shrugged, grinning sheepishly. You knew that he was set on you being the adorable one, but the way he smiled was pretty damn cute. His eyes crinkled slightly, shining like pools of liquid gold. It struck you how just last year the pair of you had been enemies, and now there you were, lying in bed with him. The bed you had just kissed in.

"You're hopeless," you sighed, resting your head back on the pillow.

He tilted his head, propping himself up to glare jokingly down at you. "Ouch. Harsh."

"But accurate, Mr. Century-Old-Archangel."

‘Mr. Century-Old-Archangel’ chuckled, pulling you closer with one arm and brushing a few wayward strands of hair out of your face. "Cutie."

"I'm not cute!"

"Whatever you say, Sugar. Happy Valentine’s Day."

"You too, Gabe."

----------------------------------------------

Yeah, yeah, it’s super cliché. It’s Valentine’s Day. Deal. Have a swell day/afternoon/evening/night/whatever else! Happy Valentine’s Day!

~Ev

#Gabriel x reader #supernatural #Happy Valentine's Day #my-weirdassart-fandomtrash #gabriel/reader #cliche #also old work #so that's my excuse for cheesiness #also im a hopeless romantic #slave to my muse #no this is a lie i just want to cuddle gabe on valentine's day and you shouldn't judge me for it

60 notes · View notes

mythicalsecretsanta · 6 years

Text

Three Tales of Winter Magic (T)

This gift is for: @summer-mclaughlin From your Secret Santa, @mythosethan

Link to AO3, or read below:

Snowflakes

It was Tuesday night and that meant one thing -it was Rhett’s turn to take the trash out. He begrudgingly grabbed the bag and walked outside - bracing himself for the cold and windy night. He tossed the trash in the can and felt the cool breeze of a North Carolina winter.

As he made his way back into the house, he suddenly felt something fall gently onto his head. He looked up and realized that it had begun to gently snow.

This was quite the rarity in North Carolina so it took a second to register. He looked up toward the sky and a few cold, wet snowflakes landed on his nose. His eyes grew big and his jaw dropped. He ran back into the house and grabbed Link by the hands.

Link protested as his stubborn boyfriend dragged him into the cold night without a coat. He protested the whole way there until he saw it - the white flakes gently falling from the sky. He could barely believe his eyes.

Rhett kissed the top of Link’s head which was increasingly becoming white with snowflakes. Rhett imagined what Link might look like when his hair actually did go gray or white and smiled. He truly wanted to grow old with this beautiful man. He took a deep breath and decided that it was time.

He reached into his pocket and dropped to one knee. He held up a ring box from his pocket.

“I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment and I think this might be it.”

Link gasped, and, without waiting for Rhett to ask, screamed, “Yes.”

They kissed as the snow fell around them and held onto one another to keep warm against the hard wind. Rhett felt Link shiver in his arms and said, “Why don’t we go inside and warm up?”

Link gave a mischievous grin and said, “I know I have a couple of ideas on how we can do that!”

Rhett laid on the couch reading, when the smell of something burning hit him. He set his book down, and walked into the kitchen.

There he found Link desperately trying to remove very burnt cookies from the oven. Rhett approached his very frustrated and disappointed husband.

Link said, “I just was trying to surprise you! To prove I wasn’t bad at baking. I thought they’d be perfect for Christmas Eve. But now look!”

He pointed to the tray of blackened cookies sitting on top of the oven.

Rhett wrapped his arms around Link and kissed him on the forehead.

He asked Link, “Can I do anything to make you feel better?”

Link looked up and grinned, sliding his hands down Rhett’s body.

Link whispered, “Well, maybe.”

They both tumbled into the bedroom, covering one another in kisses, burnt cookies completely forgotten.

They fell onto the bed and clothes were quickly stripped off and tossed aside. The two lovers were together, thrusting against one another as limbs tangled and lips battled. It was sheer ecstasy.

They lay side by side, stroking one another and fumbling toward the edge of oblivion. After they had both released, they lay sweaty and spent in one another’s arms.

Rhett smiled and said, “This was way better than any cookies.”

Link smiled and nodded before drifting off to sleep.

The First Christmas

Link watched as his husband and two year old daughter baked cookies in the kitchen for Santa. It was Christmas Eve, and the house was brimming with excitement. It was Emma’s very first Christmas with her newly adopted family, and she was loving every minute. She had been bubbling with excitement ever since the tree had been put up. And now it was so close to the big day when Santa came. The girl could barely contain herself.

Rhett looked down at the toddler and said, “Now that the cookies are in the oven, you’re gonna have to go to bed soon. Remember, Santa can’t come to the house unless you’re totally asleep.”

She nodded, and looked over at Link. He made his way over to her, and scooped her up in his arms. She giggled and hugged Papa Link tight as he carried her into her room. He helped her get into her reindeer pajamas, and tucked her into the small warm bed. As Link read Emma her bedtime story, he could hear Rhett pulling the cookies out of the oven and putting presents under the tree. Luckily, she seemed oblivious to anything but the story.

Emma began to drift off, and Link gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead. He tucked her stuffed bear under one arm and turned off her bedroom light. He crept out to meet Rhett in the living room. Link looked at the beautifully decorated tree and smiled. The presents were overflowing, the cookies had bites taken out of the them, and milk had been sipped. Everything was set for the magic of Santa. The two dads crawled into bed and held each other right as they slept.

Link awoke in the early morning hours of Christmas, still wrapped around his husband’s body. He laid silent and still for a moment, enjoying the view of Rhett’s peaceful slumber. When Rhett’s eyes began to flutter open, Link planted a kiss on his husband’s lips.

Link whispered, “Merry Christmas, Rhett.”

A smile flashed on Rhett’s face, and he sleepily replied, “Merry Christmas to you too, sweetie.”

Link got on top of Rhett, and they shared gentle morning kisses. Link began to slide his hands down Rhett’s bare chest, and kiss along his neck. The door quietly creaked open.

Their two year old daughter stood in the doorway with wide eyes proclaiming, “Santa came!”

Link grinned down at Rhett and said, “Well, you heard the young lady, time to open presents.”

He hopped off of Rhett, and took Emma by the hand and led her to the tree. The whole way there she babbled about how Santa had eaten the cookies she made and even drank the milk. He smiled thinking of Rhett setting the stage for the magic.

They sat in front of the tree together, and waited for Papa Rhett to emerge from the bedroom.

“You know Papa is a little slow getting up sometimes, but we should wait for him.”

Just as Link was finishing his sentence, Rhett emerged from the bedroom, yawning and stretching.

Emma exclaimed, “Papa Rhett! Santa came!”

She ran over to him and threw her arms up. This was her signal that she wanted “upsies.” Rhett picked her and held her high in the air as she giggled hysterically.

As soon as she had been adopted, she had begun to ask for upsies. She quickly came to realize that Papa Rhett gave the highest and best upsies, and since that day, she had devoted herself to being his daddy’s little girl.

Rhett carried her back over to the tree and placed her on the ground.

Rhett said, “Emmy-bear, why don’t you start opening presents from Santa?”

He sat next to Link on the loveseat, and they cuddled under a blanket. They watched their beautiful daughter tear open presents and delight in toy after toy.

The two snuggled together watching, as Emma played with each and every toy with delight.

Link laid on Rhett’s lap and said, “How did I get so lucky?”

And Rhett replied, “I wonder the same thing everyday.”

#mythical secret santa 2017 #rhink #rating: t #type: fic #submission #gift swap

22 notes · View notes

rhapsody-under-pressure · 7 years

Text

Save Me pt 7

“A-abusing? John what the hell are you on to make you think that Freddie’s that thick to stay with someone who’s going to do that to him?” Roger asked, John immediately regretting his harsh tone as soon as he saw the confused and hurt expression upon his friend’s face.

He pursed his lips, wishing that he hadn’t said anything, at least not right now with Roger as fragile as he was right then and there. What else was he supposed to say? That he felt Freddie was alright and that he wasn’t going to have to bear the sight of him looking worse whenever the hell he decided to come home.

“Look at him, please, whenever he comes home.” He repeated, slowly starting to beg for him to listen or to at least agree. “Tell Bri even, just so that he could watch out for him too.”

“John he’s not a child.” Roger countered. “Remember that. You don’t need to be so worried all the time-”

“Really? So if Brian was being beaten by his old girlfriend would you be okay?!”

He bit back his anger as soon as he saw Roger physically wince at his words, his face going impossibly paler at whatever was going through his mind at his words. His form went stiff, his jaw clenching for a second before he shook his head, agreeing in a barely audible whisper.

Why was it so hard for him to see this? Hadn’t he seen that bruise on his face that he claimed was a shaving accident? Hell even the one on his arm was visible if he didn’t wear a shirt or pulled his sleeves up. If Roger was as observant as he wanted to claim he was, then he should have at least noticed that he wasn’t the same when talking about his boyfriend or being around him.

“Why can’t he see what the hell he’s doing to him?” John asked aloud, thinking back to that night when Freddie had come home from Bret’s house after their fight. He had looked petrified and refused to let him see any of the injuries his boyfriend had left upon his body. Even the last time he had seen him, he wouldn’t let him see any of those marks he’d left before he came in. It’s like he was protecting them from something, like he couldn’t handle him or any of them seeing him in such a compromising situation.

“I-if he’s really in that sort of situation, maybe Bret’s threatening him o-or something.” Roger suggested shakily, as though he was still trying to comprehend what he was alluding to.

“Then why is he acting so fucking stupid?” He hissed, slamming his fist down on the arm of his seat. “It’s not like they’ve been together for a decade or that Bret’s the greatest guy in the world!”

“To him, he was.” Roger said sullenly, his eyes falling halfway shut as he yawned quietly. “It’s been a little over a year and you know how Freddie is with relationships. He latches on so quickly to whoever he finds even the slightest attraction to. He probably just sees him as, well, a godsend. Someone who actually does care about him, even if it’s for a short time.”

The room fell silent, Roger staring blankly at the ground while John stared up at the ceiling, emptily gazing at the blank wall while the clock ticked softly in the background. He didn’t want to admit that Roger was right, it just wasn’t right for him to think that someone as smart as Freddie and someone as beautifully romantic as him could consider this worthy of his love and attention. Someone who bloody harmed him because he wasn’t listening or got on his nerves. Merely thinking about it was sickening, let alone him knowing that it was the reality his love was in.

“John, until he does come home, there’s nothing you can do.” Roger finally said. “Going after him over Bret’s house will just end badly. Wait until he comes home. If you…If you feel up to it, talk…talk to him.” He said drowsily.

“God, that’s just hell. I’d rather go back to high school for another four years then speak to him.”

John pushed himself into a better position and ran his hand through his hair, trying to calm himself back down. He still couldn’t believe that Roger had started to argue with him over this, like he was being crazy for thinking this. He couldn’t possibly know everything. You gotta remember that.

“I’m sorry for snapping.” John finally told him in a much softer voice. “I just worry about him.”

He looked towards his friend, seeing the top half of his face visible from behind his arm, his eyes now gently shut as his breathing drastically slowed. He did get to see a small smile form before his head fell slack against his arm. John managed to push himself up, soon grabbing the blanket Roger had brought out to the living room to throw on him while he had been sleeping and laid it across his body.

Sleepiness took over once again, his body crashing down onto the couch next to him as he curled up on top of the rough cushions. He tried his best to force hopeful thoughts into his mind. Quick images from the past of how Freddie was when he could be himself and not something his supposed partner wanted him to be. That’s what he wanted back. That’s what he wanted to see when he came home. And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that all they would get was the exact opposite of what he wanted to see once again.

…

Water came spilling out of the faucet as he splashed the warming water onto his face, trying his best to remove the lingering sleep that stuck to the corners of his eyes. The sound of rumbling thunder and bullets of rain crashing against the building was only making him more keen to go fall back down onto his bed now that he had pushed himself off of their couch. Roger was still fast asleep in his seat from the last time he had seen him and Brian was still missing from their apartment just like their singer. He sighed out of annoyance, shoving the recurring thoughts out of his mind to the best of his ability as he grabbed the nearby bottle of shaving cream, letting the contents foam up on the palm of his hand before quickly spreading it along his face, the sight of seeing the thick stubble day after day growing sickening as it reminded him of just how much he had started letting himself go once again.

He grabbed his razor, ignoring the intruding thought of seeing their singer holding his own and coming up with the excuse that it had been a shaving injury that had caused the bruise upon his face and not his brute of a boyfriend. After bringing it up to his face he could only imagine what on earth was going on with the two of them right now. He could only hope that he was wrong about it all and that they were, unfortunately, getting along like they had been together for a decade. Despite his best attempts, he couldn’t help but fall short of believing what he wanted to be the truth. Freddie was stuck with him and he knew deep inside of his heart that he wasn’t going to be okay when he came home, both physically and emotionally.

Almost as soon as he finished shaving, the door to their flat closed, the sound being just barely audible from the bathroom. He threw another handful of water onto his face, quickly grabbing the black towel that was hanging up next to him and dried his face off, soon rushing out of his bedroom and headed down the hall, desperately hoping to see a familiar face after so long.

“Come on baby, it’s almost ten o’clock.” Brian’s soft voice called out, John faintly hearing Roger groan as the chair creaked beneath him. John held his hand up to his mouth to hide his grin behind it, watching as their guitarist continually shook Roger’s limp frame in his seat as he tried his best to seem as though he was still asleep.

“Hey John, help me get him up, will you? This lazy sack won’t get budge.”

“Ugh…Five more minutes… Come on, lemme sleep Bri.” Roger begged sleepily, pulling his blanket up to cover his face from the invading light from above him.

“Not today love, come on, you slept long enough. You even told me two days ago that you wanted to go to the studio.”

“Yeah…Yeah I know just not this early. Plus, it’s Deaky’s birthday tomorrow, I don’t wanna be exhausted then.”

Brian didn’t let him get another word out before he moved his hands under his arms and scooped him out of his seat, John giggling softly as Roger let out a soft whine of disproval at his partner’s actions.

“Get up Rog, else I’ll help him by dousing your bed in ice water.” John told him playfully.

“Fuck you, I’m tired.” He growled, adding a weak smirk as Brian continued to carry him down towards their bedroom.

“Now that’s no way to talk to the soon to be birthday boy, now is it? I might let him dump ice down your shirt if your act rude again.”

“Aggghhh…” Roger groaned, as soon as they disappeared behind their bedroom door, John making his way back to his own to finish cleaning himself up. He shed his two-day old outfit, kicking it into the small pile of old clothes and turned the shower on, the sound of the water hitting the basin almost mimicking that of the rain outside. A quick shiver passed through his body as he held out his hand to test the water that was still ice cold.

The heat from the shower and the added steam that filled the room once he got out felt oddly calming, mainly to his still stiff muscles after sleeping crookedly upon their couch. He could already hear the other two chatting about in their kitchen while he tossed on his clothes, grabbing his towel once more to dry any extra moisture out of his hair before he headed back out.

“You in the mood for coming today John? You haven’t recorded much since we got back from the tour.” Roger asked as he made his way down the hall.

“Neither’s Fred. Has he come back yet?”

Roger’s face paled as he looked in his direction, John instinctively shaking his head to get Brian’s thoughts off of their singer. He couldn’t tell him what he thought. It’d just bring up more questions and all Brian did know was how he felt about relationships, let alone who he’d like to be in one with. Guilt fell over their drummer’s face as he replicated the action with a shrug.

“He’s probably still frotting about with his boyfriend. Someone should give him a bloody call sooner or later.” Roger commented, Brian huffing in agreement as he downed his glass of water.

Desperate to get off the subject, John agreed to come down to the studio with them. Maybe it’d be a good thing to help get his mind off of their singer since he knew he couldn’t do anything from their flat or at all.

“Come on, just sit in the back of our car.” Roger offered, motioning towards the door as his lover headed over to grab his coat. “Oh, just gimme a minute Bri, I just wanna talk to John in private for a second.”

Brian’s face darkened for a moment, but he merely nodded and headed out the door, grabbing the keys from one of the hooks in the process. He turned to face the older man, seeing that worried look upon his face before he shook his head and looked back towards him.

“John, I know you’ve still got Freddie on your mind. Look, he’s alright. Even…Even if what you think is happening is the reality, there’s not much you can do until he comes home, at all even. I think it’s great you’re coming to the studio. Just, don’t let it worry you too much. You can’t change anything right now.”

While he knew Roger’s words were meant to calm him down, all they did was rile his nerves back up. How could he even mention to him how helpless he was in that situation right now? He already knew how useless he was with all the shit in his life and Freddie’s life too. He despised it with all his heart and Roger sadly wasn’t helping him with his comments. But he couldn’t bring himself to snap at him. He was trying to help and after seeing him act so hurt over whatever happened yesterday in the morning, there was no damn way he could shoot him down when he was trying to be positive and hopefully recovering from his previous ordeal.

“Yeah…Thanks Rog.” He told him as he opened to door for him, watching him tug up the back of his shirt to cover up his neck as he disappeared around the corner. John sighed in defeat, wishing that he had the nerve the day before to ask what really was wrong or what happened between him and Brian while he hadn’t been around. He looked down the hallway outside their apartment, expecting to see their drummer sitting at the top of the stairs yet saw nothing. Without another thought, he turned around, grabbed the key out of his pocket, and locked the door behind him.

…

“No, no it’s like this John.” Brian said, pointing to the correct chords on his bass after he put his instrument down on his stand. “You’re playing the one string beneath it.”

He sighed, repeating what Brian had just shown him before they tried the instrumental part again. Roger was absentmindedly tapping on his hi-hat while occasionally kicking the bass drum. He rubbed his eyes, trying to bring his mind back into focus so that he wouldn’t keep drifting off into what he wanted to think about and discuss at the moment.

“Sorry, I’m just not focused right now.” John told him as he tried to bring his eyes back into focus on his instrument that rested against his lap.

“Look why don’t we take a break?” Roger finally asked, pushing himself up in his seat and motioning towards the clock. “It’s been nearly four hours and we’ve been working since we got here. I’m starving anyway.”

Brian looked towards his partner, a glimmer of curiosity passing over his eyes before slight worry entered. “I-I mean I don’t mind taking a break. I can go get lunch if-”

“Yes!” John finally said, hoping that their guitarist would oblige so he could discuss something with Roger once more. “Just…Well I mean if you insist.”

Brian placed his guitar on the nearby stand, saying that he would be back soon and got back up, Roger uttering a quick goodbye before he left the room. In an instant, John tossed his bass onto the seat next to him and got up from his seat, hurrying over to Roger’s place and latching onto his shirt.

“John-What’re you-”

“Just follow me, I gotta talk to you about something. I don’t want Bri hearing this.”

“You don’t-need to grab-me!” He argued, fighting with his hand and finally yanking him off of his shoulder.

“Well…Just, just come on! It’s important.”

Their drummer glanced up, apparently sensing the urgency in his eyes as he stuffed his sticks into his pocket. For once he was glad he was willing to listen. He couldn’t bother keeping everything in the dark anymore. Roger might actually listen to him or give him better advice if he knew what Bret was doing behind Freddie’s back. Even if it was just a guess, he had to get something more to be able to handle all of this on his own without Freddie finding out.

He opened the back door to the studio, letting Roger enter before he shut it behind him, listening for a split second to make sure no one else had come in the building unannounced. Roger laid back on one of the couches and kicked his feet up onto the table, fixing his belt as he made his way over to the opposing couch.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, John freezing in his spot. He hadn’t exactly thought about ever getting this far or telling anyone but Freddie about what he thought was going on. How was he supposed to bring this up? He couldn’t just straight up say that Bret was possibly cheating on Freddie, especially since Roger already assumed that he was being paranoid about his safety while he was with him. Bringing that up might make him seem like he was trying to break them both up and ruin everything. There had to be a simpler way of doing this. But what on earth was there? Discussing something as important as this without either of the two people involved being there was difficult enough, let alone having to deal with an accompanying sense that this was all going to backfire for him if he slipped up in any way.

“John, is this about Freddie again?” Roger asked him as he looked towards him with worry and slight exhaustion.

“Sort of…But not about what I said earlier.” John admitted, looking away from their drummer and down at the ground. “Just, he’s been acting weird, as I said. I was just wondering, what were his relationships like before I, well, came about?”

Roger seemed taken aback by the out of place question, as was he for letting that be the first thing he asked. Their drummer rubbed the back of his head as he shrugged in response. “Well, he didn’t really have many. At most there were two before you came in. Both with girls at the time. I guess it’s confusing as all hell for him to figure out what he wants. Anyway, I forgot the first one’s name, it only lasted like a month or two and they didn’t really hit it off. But, oh fuck what was her name, something like Marie. She was the one he had the more stable relationship with.”

“He…He really seemed to like her. She seemed to like him too. But she, she hurt him in the end. Left him for someone else eventually.”

“How’d he react?”

“Hurt. Expectedly so. He really did love her. But she told him he was too eccentric and volatile with his emotions for her.” He paused, his expression twisting into one of disgust. “Little tramp couldn’t bother working anything out. Anyway, after that, well you know everyone he got with afterwards. All those broads he’d tow into the flat until only a few years ago did he branch out a bit more. Bret’s only what, the third guy he’s shown us?”

“I guess…” John replied, thinking back to when he first met their singer. He’d seemed oddly shy and closed off at the time. Had she just left him and that’s why he was so off around him then? He knew it wasn’t from him being a new person, Freddie never got that silent around people he had just met. Shy yes, but not so nervous like that.

“What’s he like with…People not being loyal to him? If he’s ever dealt with that.”

Roger cocked an eyebrow at him, folding his arms across his chest and eyeing him with a fiery interest in his question. “You mean cheating?” He asked bluntly.

John winced at the word, the face of the mysterious man filling his mind as he thought back to what he had seen all that time ago. “Yes…What’s he like with cheating?”

“Not good. No one is really. He doesn’t get angry, least not from what I’ve seen. Marie kinda cheated on him back then…Broke him up really. He tried acting fine and pushed her away afterwards even with it being a few days. As said, he gets kinda sullen but comes back in a few months and chases after someone else, like he always does.”

“Cheating’s always a touchy subject, regardless of who you ask. I mean, I can’t imagine what he must’ve felt like afterwards. I’m just going off what I’ve seen or heard from him. But you know him, he’s so closed off with relationship drama. Won’t even tell you his first kiss!” Roger said, trying his best to lighten the air around them after giving his heavy explanation.

“Tsk, least he’s had one with someone he likes.” John replied, ignoring the sting at his reveal while he leant forward and laid his forearms on his legs. “Just, you think he’d act badly if it ever happened again?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“I dunno…It might be different if it happens with someone else.”

“Well I doubt he’d act happy about it! He’d probably rehash everything again and latch onto someone else if this thing with Bret doesn’t work out. Kinda seems like it is though…” Roger told him, looking as though he regretted what he said as soon as it left his mouth.

John shrugged it off, not wanting to delve into that again. His mind was back onto what he should do regarding Freddie’s lover. He couldn’t tell Roger now. It was nearly definite that he wouldn’t believe him if he brought up just seeing Bret that one night all those weeks ago. He needed to see him again. If he could get a single sight of either of them, then he’d confront them, even if it meant that it’d be Bret begging him to keep silent about what he was telling him. He had to fight back a smirk at the thought of that brat on his knees, hands clasped and pleading him to not tell Freddie because he caught him in his little lie.

The door closed to the front of the building, Roger immediately turning his head towards the door and getting up from his seat.

“That all you wanted to talk about?” He asked as he straightened out his shirt.

“Yeah, yeah that’s it. C’mon, let’s get back out there before Bri thinks we’ve left.” He said playfully, trying his best to lighten their drummer’s mood before he headed back out there to see his lover again.

…

The day steadily passed. Music was constantly playing from either the prerecorded tracks that Brian and Roger had worked on in the past or from them working on Brian’s new track that excluded Freddie’s involvement completely. With the time slowly coming along six o’clock, each of them had begun to feel the effects of working all day and were now arguing over what could possibly be a single.

“Oh come on, Roger you’re gonna be laughed at by everyone for writing a song like that!” John said.

“Well who cares about that?! It’s not like we’ve never dealt with any annoying ridicule from the music press before and I couldn’t care less what those ‘edgy’ little prats think about it.”

“You sound like you’re fifty years old.” He stated. “Besides, we’ve yet to see what Fred’s got to offer.”

“And you. What songs have you even churned out? Least I’ve got something done and so does Bri.”

“Ah yes, stomping around takes so much work.”

“Hey! Least it’s something. What’ve you even got?” Brian interjected once his song came under fire.

“A bit of a song. You guys already found one if I recall.” He retorted, Brian’s gaze looking away from him while Roger held his ground.

“If I had to guess it still isn’t done yet?”

“Well no-”

“My point. So, leave mine alone.”

He rolled his eyes and kicked his feet up on top of the coffee table while Roger gave a smug smile as he took pride in his victory. He wished he had brought that new song he’d left folded up in his bedroom, least that would’ve knocked the smirk off of Roger’s face so that he could be in Roger’s current position.

“When do you think Fred’ll bring something in? He usually has four songs done by now.” Brian asked as his partner shifted closer to him, closing the already miniscule gap between them, his eyes starting to take on a sudden darkness as he sighed out of exhaustion.

“All I know is he’s got something he’s working on. Some piano thing again.” John told them, his heart jumping at the giddy memory of watching him play for him.

“He better bring it in instead of fooling around with his boyfriend all the time. Hell he’s been gone nearly three days already.” Roger commented after he shook his head to try and come back to their conversation.

John huffed in response, trying his best to not notice the little twitchy movements from their drummer. “Besides, he’ll probably get in here soon. I bet he’s got another stored away in his room.” He said, desperately trying to get off the subject of their singer before he snapped again.

Roger caught on and nodded, checking his watch and sitting up. “You guys gonna drive home together or are you guys gonna hitch a ride with me?” He asked, shifting in his spot for a few seconds as though he was in a rush to get out of there.

“I’ll meet you home. Just leave the door unlocked.” Brian told him.

“Same here.”

Roger didn’t respond before heading off, his gaze suddenly looking far more distracted as he dragged himself out of the room. Brian looked as though he was regretting his decision but remained quiet, still continuing to stare at the door for the next few seconds.

“You wanna finish up that bit on your track?” He asked as he reached for his bass on its stand to try and bring him back into the present and away from whatever was rushing through his mind.

“Sure. The riff doesn’t sound right anyway.” Brian replied as he snapped back into focus.

For the next hour they continued playing, pausing only to bicker about whether it sounded right or not, which always ended in Brian winning since, in the end, it was his track. The room echoed with loud guitar chords and low bass notes mingling together to form a sort of American-esque tune. Only when they finished playing through it for what felt like the thirtieth time did Brian finally sit back down with his guitar falling off to his side. John placed his back on the stand, bringing his hand up to rub the growing exhaustion out of his eyes.

It’s been three days John. Just shoot his flat a call. At least then you could know if he’s alright. He reiterated in his mind. The thought wouldn’t go away unless he did something or Freddie just appeared at the studio door right now. Unfortunately, he knew he had to choose the former and stood up.

“I’m just gonna do something real quick. If you want, you can wait in the car.” John suggested to their tired guitarist, who merely nodded before reaching for his case.

John headed to the back of the room and opened the back door, entering the back room once more and headed for the phone at the back. He hoped he remembered the number Freddie had given him ages ago in case any of them needed to reach Bret or him if they were at his house, although he had tried forgetting it as he figured at the time that it wouldn’t last more than another month or two back then.

He dialed the number as best he could remember, biting down on the tip of his tongue as his fingers nervously twitched along the phone. Before anyone could pick up, he hung it up and stared at it, still tightly gripping it. Just do it, like he’s going to care. But what if Bret picks up? What’re you going to say then? That you just wanted to speak to Freddie you idiot. Like that’s such an uncommon thing to say. He berated as he sighed heavily. He dialed it once again, holding it up to his ear and toying around with the wire near the middle.

Ring after ring passed. Every passing second began gnawing at his patience as he considered hanging up again since he knew that it’d be ridiculous for him to wait there until someone picked up if no one was truly home.

Finally, the ringing stopped. A voice sounded in the background that was barely audible or understandable past that it was a man’s voice. An unfamiliar voice replied that they had “picked it up”.

“Hello?” They asked in a dreamy voice.

John froze, unable to get anything out now that someone had actually picked up. Why did you even call? You hate talking on the bloody phone! He criticized. “I-I’m just looking for Freddie.” He said in a small voice, bringing his hand up to hit his head at how stupid the statement must’ve sounded.

“Freddie?” The other man asked, his previous dazed tone being replaced with curiosity.

“Y-yes? I’ve t-the right number, right? Bret Vanderbilt’s correct?” He asked.

“Well…Yes. He does live here and he’s in the other room if you want to speak with him.”

The mysterious person paused and pulled the phone away slightly, his voice growing fainter yet still audible enough for him to hear what he was saying and now to hear the other man’s voice much more clearly.

“Bret baby, someone’s on the phone for you.” He said lovingly.

“Well who is it?” Bret asked in an uncharacteristically sweet voice. John’s expression grew sour at his voice, earning an eye roll at his words as he continued listening in on their conversation.

“No clue love. But someone just was asking for this other bloke. Forgot what his name was.”

“Ahw, you’re such a forgetful little thing.” Bret said in that sickeningly fake tone. It reminded him of how he treated Freddie at the start of their relationship. However, he knew by now that it wasn’t at all genuine.

“Oh just talk to him!” The other guy exclaimed. “I wanna spend some time with you before I’ve got to go again.”

“Why you little tease! Ahw, give it here babe.” Bret said playfully.

The realization slapped him the face as soon as the words left Bret’s mouth from the other end. Before he could get on the phone with him, he slammed the phone back down onto the base and backed away from it, desperately hoping that it wouldn’t start ringing again. It’s not, how the hell would he even get the number? He asked in an attempt to calm himself back down. He should’ve known it as soon as that mysterious voice came through the phone.

That lying, cheating bastard. He seethed. There was no doubt in his mind that the guy who was currently over Bret’s house was the very same one who he had met all those weeks ago outside the corner store. Even if it wasn’t, having two people he was cheating on their singer with wasn’t exactly helping Bret’s current situation. As much as he had hoped, it didn’t bring the expected relief he had hoped to feel once it was confirmed. All it brought was a sickening feeling of guilt that he hadn’t told someone sooner that mixed with the growing anger within him.

Oh God where’s Freddie? He thought. Now that Bret’s secret partner was over his house, surely Freddie wasn’t still there or even coming back. That prick waited until he left. How heartless can you be? He continued. You gotta tell him. You can’t let him stay with him if he’s being that unfaithful and beating the hell out of him while he’s at it. He told himself as he sunk down into one of the spare seats they had back there.

Why on earth wasn’t he feeling any happier? Surely this sort of news should’ve made him ecstatic. If Freddie ever found out or Bret broke up with him, it’d mean that he was open for him to try once more to come out to him. But there wasn’t an ounce of joy. There never was whenever Freddie broke up with someone or they left him instead. Every single time it happened he’d be forced to see him look so broken and upset over another failed romance that all he did instead of taking a shot at getting with him, he’d comfort him and try to make him feel any better than he was.

Because you know his happiness is more important than yours. You’d rather have him go off with someone he truly loves or at least be there to help him when it goes awry than act as some rebound to benefit yourself. He thought to himself. Fortunately, this time he didn’t feel worse after thinking to himself. That voice was right. As much as he had wanted to feel great about finding about Bret’s disloyalty, he couldn’t find anyway this was going to end well for any of them, especially Freddie.

John stared at the wall for the next five minutes, running over a multitude of ideas of what on earth he could do. When nothing came to him, he headed out the back room. He reached out for his jacket, pausing as he imagined the hurt expression upon Freddie’s face if he relayed the news to him about his cheating partner. What if he thought he was lying? He’d never believe what he told him unless he saw it for himself. Hell he wouldn’t bother telling any of them that he was hurting him, let alone would he even begin to handle another person cheating on him at the same time.

He has to catch him in the act. He’s not going to believe you. His mind convinced. His shoulders fell slack as he rested his head against the wall. I swear to God I’ll beat Bret’s sorry ass myself if he comes over again. He swore as he yanked his coat off of the hook and tossed it on. Without wasting another second, he tossed the door open and headed out into the cool night, walking towards his car that was softly rumbling with light music playing from the radio as Brian laid reclining back in the passenger seat. He fought back his anger as he opened the car door, slamming it shut and tightly gripping the steering wheel.

“You okay?” Brian asked drowsily as he pushed him and his seat up.

“Fine.” He said bluntly. “Just fine.”

Brian backed off, leaning back in his seat as he pulled out of the driveway. He didn’t bother thinking over this anymore. It was all just going to end badly if he brought it up to him anyway. Bret was just going to break Freddie’s heart no matter what, and he couldn’t do anything to prevent it.

…

“I’ll bring it in when we go in next time. I’ve just had it left on top of my nightstand.” John told Brian as they walked up the stairs to their apartment.

“Have you got a title for it yet?” He asked.

“It’s…I dunno something about wings.” He replied, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and trying to bring his focus together again.

“John you sure you’re alright? You’ve sounded off all day.” Brian asked again.

He was about to respond with a harsh “No.” But cut himself off before he let it slip. Brian had to put up with Roger being like he had the day before. He’s just trying to help. He doesn’t need to people in his life being hard on him. He looked up at their guitarist, seeing an odd lost and worried look in his eyes.

“Yeah…” He answered in a softer voice. “I just didn’t get a good sleep last night.”

Brian looked as though he was going to continue the conversation. Instead he just nodded, his gaze remaining dark as he hurried up the last of the stairs. John trailed behind him now, watching him throw open the still unlocked door and walk into their flat. He closed it behind him as he came inside, Brian heading over to the kitchen and turning on the stove, the small blue flame flickering to life as he turned the sink on, filling up the copper kettle and soon placing it on top of the burner.

“Sorry for going out last night.” Brian said suddenly. “I needed to…To get out for a bit.” He admitted as he leaned against the counter.

“No need to be sorry.” He told him. “Whatever was going on with Roger must’ve worn you out anyway.”

Their guitarist’s face fell as he looked down the hallway. “Hm…Yeah, whatever it was wore him out pretty badly yesterday.” He said as he turned back around and searched through the cabinet for a teabag. “You want anything?”

“Whatever we have is fine.”

Brian pulled out two beige mugs from their cabinet and set them down on the counter, placing a bag of black tea in one and a chamomile in the other. He brought down the sugar bowl and set it down next to the two mugs, grabbing a small spoon from the drawer as he waited for the water to boil.

“What was bothering him yesterday? He didn’t seem right when he came out here last night.” John asked again, still hopelessly trying to figure out what was bothering their drummer.

“He came out here last night?”

“Yes? Why else do you think he was out here earlier?”

“Ah well…Fair point.” Brian said as a light blush came up on his face. “Well, he just didn’t sleep right from what he told me. Felt kinda tired all day long to be honest.”

“Well yes…” He began. “But did something happen? He even seemed off when he left earlier.”

Brian’s face twisted down into a grimace as he shook his head. “No…Nothing bad. Just a bad night.” He repeated, soon tapping his fingers on the countertop.

John gave up on his attempt to figure out more, knowing that he wasn’t going to tell him something unless Roger was in the room with him. Maybe he could ask Freddie when he got home. Probably he had some kind of insight onto why Roger was getting so antsy lately yet refused to be purely honest with him and possibly Brian. Even with the tiny amount of the conversation he had actually heard the day before, it didn’t seem like he had gone into a great amount of detail about what was bothering him.

“Just, make sure he’s alright. He was really quiet last night and didn’t seem up to talking about it.” John suggested. At least Brian knew more than he did and would actually be able to help out their drummer from whatever was bothering him for the time being.

“Never really is…” He confided. “He’s not a big talker when something bothers him, you know that. Always puts other people’s stuff above his own when he can.”

He nodded in response as Brian turned around to take the kettle off of the burner, the steam starting to cause it to whistle violently as it shot out in a straight line towards the cabinets, leaving behind a fog that spread across the wood and soon turned into little droplets. Brian poured the water into the two cups and carried them over, laying the black tea next to him and the chamomile on the side closest to the chair that still had the blanket Roger had used from the previous night draped over it. He headed back over and grabbed the sugar bowl, laying it between the two cups with the small spoon next to it for them to use when needed.

“What were you doing back at the studio while I was in the car?” Brian asked. “You seemed to take a while.”

He shrugged, bringing back the debate from earlier about whether or not he should bring up what he found out about Freddie’s boyfriend while he had gone off. With that thought coming back into play, he glanced towards the coat hangers, hoping to see some kind of evidence that Freddie had come back home. Yet it remained the same besides their coats being hung up and shoes laying in random spots. Freddie’s was still hung up in its usual spot and nothing else of his had been moved.

“I just…Shot someone a call.”

“Was it Freddie?”

John’s insides shrunk at Brian’s question. It had been his original goal but failed abysmally. In return, all he got was that present guilt that he wasn’t trying to tell Freddie about his boyfriend’s disloyalty to him, even though he already proved it with laying his hands on him.

“Yeah…I rang Bret’s house just to ask if he was gonna head to the studio at any point and no one picked up. Trust me, I sat there for two minutes.” He lied, knowing that he couldn’t tell the whole truth this time around. Not until he had some kind of interaction with Freddie about his cheating lover.

“Probably still went out to do a bunch of shit again. God those two are still such lovebirds.” He said playfully. “Fred might have himself a keeper if it keeps up like this.”

“Lovely.” He said bitterly.

Brian leaned forward and stirred the two spoonfuls of sugar into the cup of tea, leaning back against his seat while he took to mixing him own inside his mug. He inhaled the savory yet sweet scent that wafted up from the mug in his hands, the heat warming his palms. They sat there in bittersweet silence, John relishing in the serenity yet despising the awkward air that began forming as they tried their best to keep busy with their drinks.

You gotta tell him. He’s Freddie’s friend too. It’s not like he’d go and blab anyway. Besides, Roger would keep him quiet about it. He told himself as he downed more of his drink. God but you can’t just bring it up to him. He’s already got enough on his mind with whatever’s bothering Roger and you know he’s got some kind of worry with you too. Adding Freddie into the mix would kill him.

Brian sat his now empty mug on the table, his busy stare locking onto the coffee table as he laid back onto the couch, his own internal debate keeping him silent. John didn’t bother talking to him at the moment, whatever was bothering him was more important than his own worries and ideas about their singer’s predicament. He bid their guitarist good night and headed down the hallway, adding a quick look towards Brian and Roger’s room across the hall, tuning in for a second to see if he could catch any sounds. Alas, nothing came through. The whole flat was silent besides his feet shuffling across the floor and him closing his own bedroom door behind him, allowing him to lock himself out from the rest of the world and enjoy his own solitude.

…

Bullets of rain slammed against his window, howling winds and rumbling thunder soon following as he pushed himself up in his bed and glanced outside, unable to see much besides the clouds that were filling the sky. He looked towards his clock, groaning at how early it was still and that he had been woken up from nothing once again. Nevertheless, he tore his blankets off, shivering for a second at the sudden cold that hit his body, and got out of bed.

“Almost five in the morning and now you decide to get up.” He growled as he shifted his t-shirt around and untied the knot to his pajama trousers.

As it had been the night before, the flat was still silent. No other soul was moving about, not even any chatter from behind the other door came through their still closed door. Another shiver made its way through his body as he rubbed his bare arms in an attempt to warm himself up. He walked over to the thermostat at the end of the hall, cursing Brian for turning it down again after he went to bed and put it up a tad more, since he wasn’t that much of a fan of seeing his breath indoors.

John turned away from the thermostat and headed towards the kitchen, pausing as he noticed something new standing up on top of their counter. He rubbed the remaining sleep out of his eyes as they finally made out the shape of a white card sitting near the edge. He headed over, picking it up and turning the horizontal card around, seeing a simple design of four little candles etched onto the front, two of them yellow and two of them blue and each of them with a little orange flame on the wick. Happy Birthday was written underneath it in black in an elegant script.

A small smile made its way onto his face as he opened it up, his thumb running along the unmistakable writing that belonged to their frontman. His scribble took up the top half of the card in a dark blue ink while the bottom half had those same candles now blown out with the caption Now make a wish! written underneath it. The simplicity made his smile grow. However, his focus was now on Freddie’s little message at the top.

Happy birthday Deaky! Sorry I wasn’t around much for the past few days, Bret’s been keeping me at his flat the whole time! I didn’t have much time to get you something better but I hope you enjoy this little card I got. Enjoy your day dear ♡

Freddie

John felt a few tears start to grow out of the corner of his eyes, the fight to keep them there growing harder as he continued to read over the little card their singer had left him. He looked down the hallway, now seeing that his door was shut instead of left open like it had been for the past two days. Relief crashed over him as he walked down the hall, skipping his room and the other two’s and pausing at the front of Freddie’s door, holding his closed hand up to it. He held it there for a few moments, debating whether or not it was worth waking him up to thank him personally. Before he knocked, he pulled it back, cursing himself for being too nervous to do so and figuring it was best that if he was sleeping, he should get what he needed.

Instead, he headed back to his bedroom, softly shutting the door behind him and sighing softly as he laid against it with the card clutched against his chest. He hurried himself back to bed, crawling back under his covers and pulling them over his legs. He perched himself back against the headboard of his bed and stared at the small gift again, gently laying it against the closest open space on his nightstand, letting his index finger run across the little candles on the front before he let the rest of his body slip back underneath the blankets.

Thank God he made it home. He thought as he turned onto his side and stared at the card again, now taking notice of the sparkles that decorated the small candles on the front. He allowed his gaze move across to his door, a small part of him still hoping he’d go and thank their frontman personally instead of risking him rushing off with Bret again before he could do so. Yet with his returning exhaustion, he fell slack under the covers, shutting his eyes and getting himself comfortable once again. With little resistance, he fell back into his old slumber, the smile from earlier still lingering upon his face.

#Queen #Fanfiction #Deacury #Save Me #This one's sorta slow but I needed to write this part #I hope you like it

14 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

theitachiguy

Beyond The 3D

chaotic-citrus

roll for initiative

keith-ah

Keith😵‍💫

fuckyeahpipesofpan

Pipes of Pan

soulzillagamedevelopment

Rhythm Retro