#so picking a favorite is like. (gestures to whole lair)
Note
Which of your dragons would you say is your most favorite, and why?
this is a very tough decision...
I think most favorite has to be Cup, he's just my silly guy. I adore his colors and his eye matching and even though I really don't have much planned for him, I feel like he's just my FR icon at this point (literally and figuratively). my FR-sona. my guy
but I have so many honorable mentions after him, putting together a strict top 5 list of favs would kill me. so consider these guys all tied for #2
Cozan/Chaxu, Molossus, Aixide, Dyhemo, Rodinia, Pajiha... etc etc etc
#i always end up getting really attached to a lot of my dragons#so picking a favorite is like. (gestures to whole lair)#hey! all these guys rule (to me)!!#i don't get dragons with the intent of fitting an aesthetic or theme necessarily#it's just that a lot of dragons i end up falling in love with probably also fall within a certain theme or aesthetic lol#and I try to work around that. it has made FR a lot more fun for me. that and stained#i just really enjoy making matching sets. something about that is very satisfying to me#featuring cup wearing a new accent... he's got 3 that i like to pretend he wears all the time#rambles#asks
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sleep like the dead
“And now, I, Technus, shall finally have my electronic vengeance on you, ghost child and conquer this puny human world!” Technus shrieked, exiting the portal in a suitably dramatic fashion. The various weapons around the lab shook and trembled from his power and static from his core crackled, raring for a fight with his favorite enemy. Only the Phantom didn’t appear.
“Hmm, maybe I wasn’t loud enough,” Technus mused before starting up again. “Pathetic Phantom! You can only hope your miniscule half human strength will be enough to take on my squiggling mess of the tangled wires of terror!” He threw back his head and cackled loudly, waiting for his nemesis to show and the battle to begin. His laughter petered out after a bit and the lab became silent once more.
“Well, now he’s just being rude,” Technus fumed, floating up through the ceiling. “Don’t ignore my threats, child. I know you’re here, I can feel your cold core.” He stopped once he reached the ghost boy’s human lair, hovering a few feet from the bed where his rival was sprawled out, sound asleep.
“Come ghost boy, it’s time for fisticuffs! I have some new moves and some great catchphrases I’m ready to try out on you!” The technology ghost exclaimed in excitement, miming some punches. Phantom didn’t answer, just kept laying there barely moving save for his soft, shallow breaths. Technus watched as his breath fogged with each exhale, his core’s ghost sense but it still didn’t awaken him. “Child? Have you expired?”
He leaned forward and gently poked the boy’s cheek. It was squishy but firm unlike a ghost’s exterior and he could feel the dense bone underneath. Phantom didn’t so much as twitch. Technus drew back his hand, unsure of what to do. He’d surprised the child while he was in bed before but he always woke up and they fell into the usual routine. But now he’d changed the script and if there was something ghosts didn’t like, it was change. He flew back down to the portal and sped into the Ghost Zone at top speed, searching for someone who would be able to help him understand.
“Wow, baby pop whooped your butt that fast? Either he’s getting better or you’re getting more pathetic, my bet is the latter,” Ember teased as she strummed to herself from a floating rock near her lair.
“The ghost child won’t wake up and fight,” Technus said in a rush. “I went to the human world but no one answered my challenge. I went to his human lair and he was just lying on his bed thing and he wouldn’t move, even when I touched him.”
“That’s not like him, he’s usually more hopped up and ready to fight than a groupie on coke,” Ember frowned, setting aside her guitar. “Well come on, sparky, lets go check the kid out.”
They developed something of an entourage making their way back to the human portal. A few of the locals had heard that the infamous half ghost child was behaving differently and well, curiosity didn’t stop when the cat was killed. Skulker chuckled menacingly under his breath, Youngblood bounced around the adults. Johnny and Kitty had been going to the real world anyway and decided to tag along.
“Were his folks or Jazz home?" Johnny asked, riding his cycle slow enough to keep pace with the group.
“Who?” Technus questioned, “er no, the annoying children always with him were not around for once.”
“Annoying yes but they don’t live- uh occupy the same lair as the brat,” Johnny explained. As a younger ghost who’d held onto his humanity more than some, he had a better grasp of human culture. “His parents, the crazy ghost hunters in the blue and orange jumpsuits. Or his sister, Jazz. She has red hair and is kind of a know it all. They’re his family, they live with him.”
“Oh those weirdos,” Youngblood said wrinkling his nose. “Always loud and shouting about ripping apart ghosts. They’re not even good hunters.”
“Obviously, they haven’t noticed they got a ghost living with ‘em,” Ember added with an eyeroll.
“It’s a very stressful situation, Danny was worried about what they’d do if they found out,” Kitty frowned before sticking her tongue out at Johnny. “Danny’s a good guy, at least he talked to me about things that mattered.”
“Good target practice, you mean,” Skulker declared as they entered through the portal. Instinctively they all looked up to where the ghost boy’s core was humming but sensed no movement. “Alright, I will admit that is weird. Let’s see what the whelp’s up to.”
It was a bit cramped, the five of them crammed into the small room especially when they were keeping their distance from the room’s only living occupant. He had not moved since Technus had last been in here. At their entrance, his breath fogged again and he shivered for a second before settling back down.
“Well, he’s alive at least,” Johnny shrugged before leaning in close to examine him. “Kid looks wiped though.” He picked up the boy’s bony wrist which had been dangling off the bed, his fingers brushing the floor and held it up before dropping it. His knuckles rapped against the ground but he didn’t stir.
“Johnny, leave him alone, he’s trying to sleep,” Kitty hissed, yanking her boyfriend back by his ear.
“Come on, I’m not doing anything bad,” Johnny defended. “But, come on, how often are we gonna get a chance like this?”
“Hmm is human sleep that interesting that the ghost child would ignore all of us?” Technus asked, floating over and laying himself down on the bed. He laid there on the bed next to the boy for a few moments. “I do not believe I’m doing this correctly.”
“Nah you gotta close your eyes and go off to dreamland,” Youngblood said, grabbing a sock off the floor and then some papers from the desk and began stacking them on the half ghost’s head. The boy still didn’t react in the slightest.
“Is dreamland close? Another pocket dimension like the Zone?” Technus, ever the scientist, asked curiously.
“No, you idiot,” Ember sighed before tentatively reaching out and laying a hand on Phantom’s chest. “Yow, man that’s weird.”
“What?” Skulker asked, having been mostly content to watch until now. Youngblood had now piled several more items on the ghost boy’s head but he slept on, unawares.
“It’s just,” she scrunched up her face as she looked for the words, “I know what ghost cores feel like and I’ve been around enough humans to know the signs of life but he’s got both at once. His core flares and fades opposite his heart beat. It shouldn’t work but it does, somehow.”
“He is a most curious specimen, I rarely see Plasmius in his human skin so it’s hard to compare,” Skulker commented. “Of course Plasmius I can understand. He acts like a ghost, thinks like one. But the child, he’s certainly a ghost but he’s also decidingly... human.”
“That’s why we should be leaving him alone,” Kitty frowned, plucking Youngblood out of the air and moving him away from the sleeping teen. “If Danny isn’t waking up with all of us causing a racket then clearly he’s exhausted. We bother him enough, let him rest and fight him some other time.”
“But I wanted to fight now,” Technus whined, rolling over on the bed and resting one arm over the ghost boy’s body. “The Phantom surely wants to hear my latest monologue on how I’m the supreme ruler of everything electronic and beeping.”
“I know I don’t,” Youngblood shrugged.
“Me neither,” Johnny scoffed.
“Or me,” Ember muttered, putting her hands on her hips.
“Just let him rest,” Kitty said shooing the others back and gently brushing some of the kid’s hair out of his face revealing sallow features and dark marks under his eyes. “It’s hard enough being human much less a ghost on top of that; between fighting us and trying to have a normal life I bet he hardly gets any sleep. The least we can do is give him a break before he breaks.”
“I suppose it’s not sporting to kill a sleeping prey,” Skulker pouted. “And it’ll make his defeat more meaningful if he’s well rested and not uh,” he gestured to the Phantom’s general state of disarray.
“Better appreciate it,” Ember sulked for a second, kicking away some pajama pants from the floor. “His stupid human life. I’d give anything to sleep again, just for a minute.”
The ghosts sat in quiet contemplation for a moment, the dead looking enviously and curiously on the silent, sleeping boy, on a world they could only watch but not engage in. The moment was shattered by the front door slamming open.
“DANNO WE’RE HOME AND WE BROUGHT CHINESE!” Resonated through the house. Startled awake, the ghost child leapt out of the bed and hovered about a foot above it for a moment before sinking back down.
“Darn it Dad, I was napping,” Danny grumbled before he opened his eyes and saw several of his ghostly enemies standing awkwardly in his room. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Technus lounging on his bed. “What the-”
“Oh good, you’re awake!” Technus tittered happily, leaning into his personal space. “Ready to hear my spiel?” The temperature in the room dropped rapidly as his core ramped up and spilled over into his eyes which were no doubt glowing a fierce green.
“Get out of my room!” He shouted, reaching over to grab his emergency under the bed thermos but a sock falling from his hair into his face distracted him.
“Hey, just stopping by but we were just on our way out, sleep well, Danny sweetie!” Kitty said dragging the whole group through the floor. His core thrummed in agitation until he felt them cross the portal into the Ghost Zone. He sat there for a moment, shaking and panting from the adrenaline rush before he decided he really didn’t want to know. He flopped back onto the bed and reached over on his nightstand for the bottle Jazz had given him the other day.
“The heck is in this stupid sleep aid?”
#danny phantom#another flash is the pan DP fic#just something about Danny being so tired (also ODed on Nyquil) that he just misses his ghost sense going off#and the ghosts being there and without all the threats of death#just kind of hanging around#looking over him curiously snooping#how often do they get to like see him up close?#he's a freak! lets look him over also stack shit on his head!#and the weird space where you just cant remember being human and what sleeping is like but also being so envious that you cant do it anymore#((also just a note that Danny had all his enemies in his room and slept soundly but woke up in a jolt when his parents got home))#((take that as you will))
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the window
summary: reader gives spencer a really cute holiday gift, and he really, really appreciates it (spencer reid x gn!reader)
word count: 2.7k
author’s note: this was supposed to be a blurb lmao. also anon, u did not specify gender, so this is gender neutral!!! also, this is for the holiday season and isn’t specific to christmas (aside from mentions of secret santa gift exchange). also also, spencer knits canonically.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.
Rolling your eyes, you closed the seemingly menacing pop-up on your screen and continued to finish up your paperwork. A few seconds passed before a second pop-up appeared.
DO NOT CLOSE MY MESSAGES!!!
You heaved a sigh and stood, making your way to Garcia’s lair. Pushing the door open, you skipped a greeting entirely and chided, “Dude, you gotta stop sending scary pop-ups to my computer. People are gonna start thinking that unsubs are hacking the FBI and threatening agents.”
From beneath her horn-rimmed glasses, Penelope tutted and chewed the end of her pen. “You are no fun. Besides, you are forgetting my immensely cool and mysterious origin story. ‘The Black Queen’ was not one of the good guys!”
“That’s true,” you admitted, “but you’re one of us now, so that means no more suspicious messages unless you want to be fired.”
She gave you a contemptuous glare, “Not gonna happen. Also, I’m really shocked that you thought you could distract me from the matter at hand.”
Furrowing your brow, you replied, “I don’t even know what the matter at hand is.”
Garcia’s smirk curled devilishly. “You and Reid.”
Further confusion ensued. “And what about us?”
She groaned and threw her head back, “Oh my god, you really are dragging this out. I know that you did not get him for Secret Santa, but you still got him a present.” The quirking of her eyebrows was enough to indicate that she meant more than what she was saying, and you were hesitant to explore the implications.
“Okay, first of all, it is illegal to look at my credit card history, and secondly, he is my best friend, so yes, I got him a present. Is that a crime?”
“Certainly not...but this does solidify the fact that you’re in love with him.”
“Dear god, Garcia, I am not in love with Spencer Reid.”
The look she gave you was one of utter incredulity. Her disbelief was so strong in fact that she did not deign your statement worthy of verbal response. Instead, she sat there. Staring. And under her rather unnerving gaze, you began to fidget, your resolve slowly dissolving. Squeezing your eyes shut, you relented.
“Okay, maybe I am the littlest, tiniest bit in love with Spencer Reid.”
“Well, duh, but what I really need to know is when you’re gonna tell him.”
“When? Garcia, this is not a ‘when’ question. Actually, it’s not a question at all because never in a million years would I ever tell him.”
“Why not?” she exclaimed, gesturing with her pen still in hand. “You spend almost all of your time together, at work and at home! You guys go to bookstores and museums and cafes. He talks about his silly little statistics, and you listen, and you make your silly little jokes, and he laughs; you’re a match made in heaven! And he’s so obviously into you! That boy writes the definition of heart eyes every time he looks at you.”
Steeling your jaw, you rebutted, “That’s just not true.” Your voice faltered. “Sure, I’ve noticed a certain...affection, but he does not love me in the same way I love him.” You let out a shaky breath before deciding to continue. “Did you know that in all of our years of friendship he’s never touched me? I mean sure, it’s happened once or twice in the field, but that was always an accident. And yeah, I know he has his thing with germs, but don’t you think if he liked me as anything more than a friend, he would have done something by now? A pinky promise, a teasing elbow jab—I don’t know—something?”
Penelope’s face softened, and she tried to recover your confidence. “He’s like that with everyone! He likes his space. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him initiate contact with anyone on the team.”
“But isn’t that the point, Garcia? I’m just like everyone else to him. He wants space from me.” Bitterness roiled in your stomach and dripped from your tongue. “Not very romantic, huh?”
Trying to piece together a counterargument, she stumbled slightly, “No, I will give you that.” She paused. “But I think he’s just scared. Not of germs, not of you, but of his feelings for you. He’s not the most well-adjusted person I know.”
You chuckled lightly, gradually resuming your normally light-hearted disposition, “I would agree.”
“Well, I hope he likes his present.”
The semblance of a tired smile graced your face. “Yeah, me too.”
You turned to walk out and had almost made it out the door when her voice stopped you. “Also, I will stop sending suspicious pop-ups to your computer.”
Peeking back through the doorway, you grinned.“I think it’d be for the best. Texting does exist for a reason.”
———
It had been a really good day. It wasn’t often where an entire day in the bullpen passed only with friends and laughter and love and light, but today was one of them. Snow fell silently outside the windows, but everything inside felt warm like laughing so hard that your cheeks ache and your stomach hurts.
By now, a sort of daze had befallen the team as the giddiness wore on and the alcohol set in, fuzzing eyes and minds. Most everyone had paired off after the gift exchange a few minutes prior, but no one had drifted too far. (Maybe it was the team instinct: never stray too far from the pack, but it was also likely that everyone just enjoyed the proximity to their loved ones, their family.) Garcia seemed to be in heaven, tucked into Morgan’s side on a couch that had been dragged haphazardly into the bullpen, and murmured conversation stretched on with intermittent peals of laughter. Predictably, Hotch and Rossi had sequestered themselves to a nearby desk, their scotch glasses never dry and grins never fading. (Hotch during the holidays was something special. His often frigid demeanor thawed, and out from the ice peeked his former self who wasn’t so serious. (His rare giggles were quite the surprise though.)) Emily and JJ sat on the latter’s desk, discussing anything and everything (except for psychopathic murderers), while you had pulled your chair up to sit beside Spencer at his desk.
“So are you pleased about your gift from Rossi?” you asked, a faint grin playing at your lips.
“I am,” he replied, clearly enthused. “But I don’t think I’ll ever understand how he managed to get an authentic TARDIS key.” His finger traced the edge of the authenticity certificate Rossi had bestowed on him that sat on his desk; the key was already hanging around his neck.
You raised your eyebrows and nodded. “Well, money is a powerful thing.”
“True,” he mused before furrowing his brow. “But that’s another thing, the expense limit is not a suggestion, but he always treats it like it is. Puts all the rest of us to shame.”
“There’s no shame in an inexpensive gift!” you argued. “As long as time or thought was put in, it doesn’t matter.”
“Penelope surely didn’t skimp on time spent for yours,” he said, pointing to the homemade knitted hat and glove set on the desk beside you.
“No, I did not!” she yelled from her spot on the couch, somehow having managed to pick up on your conversation, and you laughed. “Lots and lots of time and love was poured into those!” Her speech was slightly slurred as her eggnog intake began to infringe on her lucidity.
“I know this, and I love you for it,” you beamed at her.
“I love you too.” She proceeded to bury her face in Derek’s shoulder who could only chuckle at her antics.
You picked up a glove and inspected it. “I truly cannot comprehend how she made these. Circular knitting needles are my living hell.”
Sitting up with renewed interest, Spencer said, “If you need help with them, I could lend a hand. I knit my mom a sweater this year, and I think I finally understand how they work if you ever wanted me to show you.”
“I’d love that.” Hopefully, the flush of your cheeks could be blamed on the wine you had had. “Speaking of your mom, how is she? Are you excited to see her?”
The corners of his mouth turned up, and he nodded. “She’s good; her nurse said she’s been doing really well lately. She’s less paranoid, more alert, so I’m really excited. I think this will be a good trip.”
“I’m so glad!” You sat there with a dumb smile for a moment, your mind lagging for a moment (damn wine) before realization crashed onto you. “Wait, speaking of your mom, I have something for you!” He cocked his head to the side as you stood up and went to your desk, rifling through one of the drawers. Pulling out a neatly wrapped gift, you trotted back over and offered it to him. “This is for you.”
He took it, running a hand over the wrapping paper (it was the one with cowboys wearing Santa hats that you had found when shopping together a couple weeks before, his favorite). “(Y/N), you didn’t have to get me anything.”
Shrugging lightly, you said, “Yeah, I know we did the whole gift exchange thing, but I saw it, and I thought of you and had to get it.” And you definitely did not actively seek this out for him in the search for his perfect present. Which is something somebody who is definitely not in love with him would do.
He looked up at you, eyes already glassy and searching your face for something. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but then he met your gaze with unwavering certainty. “Thank you, (Y/N/N).”
“No problem, ya big sap, now open it already.”
Ever the cautious one, he opened it carefully, sliding a finger under the edge of the paper and gently easing the tape up. The small action of unwrapping a present so attentively was just so Spencer your heart swelled as you suppressed the growing grin. From the paper emerged a book.
“‘A Collection of Poems by Geoffrey Chaucer,’” he murmured, smoothing a hand over the cover.
When he didn’t immediately react, seemingly frozen, nerves crept up the back of your neck, and you sputtered out some sort of reasoning. “I know your mom used to read Chaucer to you; you mentioned ‘The Parliament of Fowls’ when we worked the Fisher King case, and it’s in this collection, and I thought it’d be fun for you to take it to Vegas and read it together and—”
Your explanation came to an abrupt halt as Spencer threw his arms around you, enveloping you in a bone-crushing hug. Immediately melting into it, you embraced him with a similar intensity and buried your face in his neck. Something in his touch allowed you to let go, and it felt like the moment you could finally exhale.
A breath you’d been holding for longer than you could remember.
You could smell the cologne that he wore for ‘special occasions’ and his shampoo and something so faint but so undeniably him, and his hand slid up to the back of your head, cradling it in the most tender fashion, and you felt like you could cry. So you pulled him closer, and he did the same.
The hug definitely lasted longer than what most people would find comfortable, but neither of you could be convinced to retreat until you became aware of the silence that had settled over the bullpen. You felt the many pairs of eyes on you, and it pained you to pry yourself off of Spencer. Breathless, you looked around at the shocked faces of your co-workers who sat with mouths agape and eyes wide. You coughed slightly to try to ease the tension and then for some reason beyond your knowledge, you decided to wave at them in the most awkward fashion. Sitting back down, you could feel stares lingering as conversation resumed, and you looked up at Reid who looked like a deer in headlights. You laughed quietly, tugging his sleeve until he received the memo and sat down again.
He cleared his throat and avoided eye contact, glancing at his present. “Thank you for the book, (Y/N/N).”
“You’re welcome,” you replied, your tone earnest as ever. Still reeling from the hug, you faintly became aware of the speed of your heartbeat and unconsciously brought a hand to your chest. You attempted fruitlessly to sort through your raging thoughts, while across from you, Spencer tried to think of something, anything to say now.
He couldn’t really believe he’d done it. His germaphobia remained everpresent, but somehow the emotion welling in his chest at your sincerity and benevolence had overridden it, and he felt helpless in stopping himself. His heart had lurched in his chest as if it was suddenly struck with the need to be in your hands, propelling him forward. But it wasn’t like he hadn’t wanted to. He had wanted to for so long, but he’d never mustered the courage before. There was something so special, so intimate about touch, and so many people gave it so freely, and he just didn’t understand how they could allow themselves the indulgence. The absolute luxury of giving and receiving love. Spencer often felt like he sat by a window, watching his life pass by outside of it, and he had always wanted to open it, to really experience all the joy and all the grief and all the love that was waiting for him, but it was scary to open himself up to those feelings and the hurt that could ensue. So, he usually sat discontented by his window. But today, it was like he’d grabbed a hammer and smashed the glass completely and stepped through to be able to return the love you had offered him.
It felt so good.
But now, he had no idea what to do. He stood there in the midst of the shattered glass, and deep down, he knew had to take the last couple steps to get to you, but he didn’t know how.
His fingers fidgeted in his lap as he analyzed your blank face, trying to find something to give him the next direction when a realization hit him. “I didn’t get you anything!”
Drawn back from the depths of whatever thought you had been stuck in, you met his gaze and shook your head. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. I broke the gift exchange rules to get you something, so you had no way of knowing.”
“But I feel terrible.” His eyebrows drew together, and he frantically tried to think of some way to repay you. “You get me an incredibly lovely and wonderfully thoughtful gift, and I’m the loser who didn’t get his best friend a present!”
“Spencer—”
“Wait!” he interrupted, a revelation arriving. (He knew how to take the last steps.) “When I get back after the holidays, do you want to get dinner with me? Then, we can go to the bookstore on 10th that you love, and you can pick out a book, and I’ll pay.”
Your eyes widened further than you thought possible, and your heart which had only partially recovered was off to the races once again. You decided to take the plunge and ask the burning question. “Do you—um, do you mean like a date?”
“Yeah,” he answered, beaming so brightly. “Yes. Like a date. If you want to.”
You held each other’s gaze, and the warmth that had filled the bullpen all day filled your chests, and you smiled so hard your faces hurt.
So silly, you thought, to have wasted all this time boarding up my affection and keeping it tucked away, safe and useless.
So ridiculous, he thought, to have sat by that stupid window for so many years when the real thing feels so sweet.
“I think I’d like that a lot.”
#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid#anon i hope u enjoy!!!!#this was only written between the hours of 1 and 3 am so if that impacts the quality i am terribly sorry#but i like some of the end of it so we'll see#:)#<3#also am i legally allowed to post a fic that doesn't have a bsf garcia scene? no#all the homies liking this at 3:26 am? i love u
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Doors Will Open (Donatello x Reader)
Rated: G
Gender Neutral Reader, pre-relationship, movie night, tenderness, cuddling, supportive brothers
You surprise Donnie with lembas bread for your Lord of the Rings movie night.
for @blancoluna
Donatello is holed up in his laboratory of mischief and oddities when you arrive at the lair bearing treats. But Mikey is there to greet you, jumping out of the Pit to graciously unload the deep tupperware of cookies from your hands.
His eyes twinkle as he leans in to stage whisper, “You’re my favorite, know that?”
April walks up behind him with a gasp of indignation. “I’m gone five minutes!”
“But, but...” He lifts the box in his defense, “Cookies!”
“Ooh.” April’s eyes go wide and warmth floods your cheeks at their enthusiasm. She rubs her hands together with delight. “Can I grab one for the road?” You nod, of course, encouraging her to take as many as she likes. “You’re my favorite too,” she says with a giddy bounce.
Your laughter draws Raphael and Leonardo from the tunnels, and your excitement for the evening mounts. Rising to your toes hopefully, you try to capture a glimpse of Donatello behind them. The tunnel, however, is otherwise empty. Your heart sinks just a little.
Everyone gathers in the kitchen, welcoming you and trying to convince April to stay, but with each passing minute, the absence of your best friend grows harder to ignore.
“Wheel of Time is in my bag,” you mention to Leo half-heartedly. It’s a book series he’s been begging to borrow for ages. You’re proud of yourself for remembering to bring it, and you don’t want to get distracted and forget.
“Thanks!” Leo unlatches your messenger bag immediately, diving into a confession that only serves to prove what a nerd he is. Apparently, he sped through the Lord of the Rings this week in his excitement for the weekend movie marathon. You nod along with an amused smile. You're usually overjoyed to have the fellow bookworm to talk to, but your attention keeps drifting to the empty tunnels.
A lull in his rambling gives you an opportunity to ask, “Is Donnie coming?” You have trouble meeting Leo's eyes, but you try your best to keep the question sounding casual and light. You don’t want Leo, Raph, Mikey, or April to feel like you don’t value their company, but you brought down supplies for Movie Night under the impression Donatello would be joining in; you don’t want to start without him.
“Oh, I’ll get that knucklehead,” Leo says, stacking the books to carry. “He probably just lost track of time.”
Turning from Mikey's final, futile plea for April to stay, Leo heads toward his room to drop off the books, then to the workshop to gather their missing brother.
The muted sounds of tools and machinery come through the heavy door in clanks and whirrs. But Leo knows Donnie won't mind the intrusion. He raps a knuckle against the small frosted window and gives his brother a shout.
Donatello raises his voice over the buzz of a circular saw to ask, “Emergency?” But the sound of the blade cutting through metal continues without pause.
“No.” Leo won’t lie. He won’t test Donnie’s nerves with trickery, not even when the reveal is something his brother has been looking forward to all week.
“Password?” Donnie counters next.
Leo screws up his face, searching his memories for the right answer. “I don’t know, dude. There’s cookies? And, like, ten hours of movies, so-”
The saw goes silent before the 'shop door opens with a snap. Leo takes a step back to give his brother room.
Donnie’s face pops through the gap, his eyes looking unnaturally large through the magnifying lenses perched atop his beak. “What day is it?”
“Uh, Friday.”
“Y/N is here?”
Leo's exasperated answer hisses through the tunnel. "Yes."
Donatello lets the door swing wide as he pulls off his goggles and hangs them on their hook. “Why didn’t you start with that?” he asks as he tidies up his station. His hands fly over the tables, reorganizing the space for his return. He fumbles his wrenches into their case in his rush. "How long have they been here? Why didn't anyone get me sooner?"
Leo doesn’t hide his grin, so happy to see Donnie this close to admitting his crush. “Oh, so they’re the password, huh?”
Donatello’s blush starts at his neck and rises up to his ears. “That’s not…” He gives a little huff as he rolls his tool cart to its place against the wall. “Shut up, Leo.”
Slinging an arm around Donnie's neck, Leo drags him into the hall. He grinds his knuckles over his little brother's head with a light chuckle. Though Donnie easily squirms free, Leo knocks him with a shoulder, a tease and a mark of support.
At first, Leo had been reticent to encourage his brother's feelings for you, but over time it's become obvious that Donnie’s affections are far from one-sided. Being what they are, that came as somewhat of a shock to him, but it was the best kind of surprise.
Donnie's lucky to have you in his life. And Leo hopes that one day soon, the two of you will get your acts together. It's about time you two admit just how happy the other makes you.
*
You're picking at the edge of the countertop, stomach in knots, when you hear the echo of footsteps draw near. Leo and Donnie enter the main living space pushing and shoving, but there's not a hint of anger on their squabble. Laughter stretches their smiles wide.
You bite your lips together, anticipating the moment when Donatello finds you. There's become a shared second of pause when you meet, though you don't know when that began. You try to prepare yourself for it each time, but it always leaves you breathless.
When Donatello’s eyes fall on you, his laughter peters out and his smile goes soft. Your lungs ache with the breath you've forgotten to release until Donatello breaks the spell. "I was told there would be cookies?"
You gesture to the box, hoping the slight tremor in your hand isn't obvious. "Lembas, actually." It's silly, your newly developed nervousness around him. Donnie is the person with whom you feel safest, most free to be yourself. He's your best friend in the world.
Your crush on him shouldn't change that. But it does. It could change everything.
Donatello's eyes slide to the box and his jaw drops comically. "Are you kidding me? How did you-? Why did-?" His long strides bring him to the table before he has a chance to form a full sentence.
"It's our weekend," you say. A blush colors your cheeks as you catch your choice of phrase. "I mean, Lord of the Rings weekend. Remember?" You fiddle with the ring hanging from your neck, your fingers running back and forth over the elvish script.
"I didn't. I do now! I didn't realize it was Friday until Leo… But Lembas!" He's probably the biggest nerd of you all.
"Go ahead." The mess of crumbs on the counter is evidence Raph and Mikey have grabbed their share. Thankfully, they left some for the rest of you.
Leo skirts around you to take a cookie for himself while Donatello inspects his square of pastry with care. Turning it over in his hands, Donnie hums. "It smells like citrus and almond."
"There's lavender too," you supply gently. It took a few tries and a few tweaks of the recipe you found to get it just right, but you're quite proud of the end result.
"Yeah," he gives a slow nod. "And lavender. I was getting to that." He looks at you in awe. "This is really… it's so cool."
"You didn't even try it." Your racing heart switches gears from nervousness to anticipation for Donnie to have a taste.
"Oh, right." Donatello takes his first bite, follows it quickly with a second, and the cookie is gone. "Wow." Crumbs fall from his lips and you chuckle at his enthusiasm.
"I can make more," you offer as he reaches for another, "if you guys like them so much."
Donnie nods and drops his gaze as he seems to consider it. "...maybe you can make them here," he says finally. "With me, y'know? Show me how it's done."
Your blush returns at the suggestion and you find yourself hesitant to agree to the plan.
Donatello's eyes blink wide and his almost pout is irresistible as always. You can't fathom why you'd give up the chance to be the one teaching Donatello something for once.
With a leap of your heart, you give in. "Yeah, of course. We can swing by my place later and grab the stuff. Could be fun."
"Could be," he agrees quietly.
Donnie meets your eyes again and the moment of stillness between you stretches long--
Until Raphael speaks up from the couch with an exaggerated groan. "Can ya please get over here already? There's a whole mess of movies waitin' for us and you're busy yappin'."
Donatello grabs the box of cookies and rummages through the cabinet for Pop-Tarts while you make your way over to the TV. Of course, not even lembas can fill his appetite for sweet pastry.
In the Pit, the lighting is dim. Title screen music rises and falls, drawing you into the fantasy world of Middle Earth.
Leo has taken a seat atop the back of the couch to give Raph and Mikey room on the cushions below. At the sight of your approach, Mikey scoots toward his brothers to make you a place by the armrest.
It's a comfortable fit, even for your favorite position, sitting with your legs pulled up, criss cross. But when Donnie comes in, there's no real room for him. He doesn't seem to mind. He places the plate of lembas and box of Pop-Tarts on the coffee table. Then, without hesitation, he takes a seat on the floor in front of you.
Mikey starts up the movie and the epilogue scenes cast the room in shadows and flashes of light. Donatello settles in against your legs and everyone's eyes focus on the screen.
The film plays and the temptation to reach toward Donatello increases with his every shift. Though he hasn't complained, you think he must be uncomfortable down on the floor. If nothing else, the way he rolls his shoulders probably means he's feeling stiff.
It's dark enough, you could lay your hands on his shoulders, work the knots out of his muscles and neck, without attracting the attention of his brothers. But you don't. As you indulge yourself in fantasy, Donatello shifts once more. He slides into position between your knees and the tails of his bandana catch on the hem of your jeans.
You stare for a moment, unsure if you're allowed to touch. Then, Donnie leans back and smiles up at you and you could swear your heart stops. It only lasts a second before his eyes return to the screen, but it fills you with comfort, confidence, and calm.
Careful not to tug, you take the tails of his mask in hand and lay the long strips of cloth over your lap. With steady passes, the fabric runs through your fingers. It's soft and worn. Stained and fraying on the ends. The movie plays on, but as far as you're concerned there's only this.
You twist the tails of Donnie's mask around your fingers. You tie them into loose knots, losing yourself in the quiet intimacy of having Donatello so close.
Donnie tips his head to the side as you play, turning his body just enough that he can rest his head on your knee.
You bend at the waist and drop your voice as quiet as it can go to avoid being overheard by the others. "You OK?"
Donatello nods, nuzzling his cheek against your knee just enough for you to notice. "It's nice," he says, and you drag the tails of his bandana through your fingers again.
As you sit up, you spare a glance at his brothers. Raph and Leo are sitting forward, elbows on their knees, enraptured by Arwen's race on horseback. But Mikey's watching you through the corner of his eye. He gives you a small, knowing smile before turning his attention back to the screen.
When it's time to switch DVDs, everyone agrees it's time for a stretch.
Donnie's the first one back to the Pit. And he takes it upon himself to lie across all three cushions of the couch with a lazy grin. Mikey doesn't even bother with him, ducking out to meet up with April and leaving his older brothers to fend for spots on the broken recliner and floor.
Donatello makes grabby hands as you return from the kitchen with a pair of sodas. You think he'll sit up, make some room. But to your surprise, Donatello exaggerates his sprawl. He takes the drinks and places them on the floor, then extends his hands toward you again.
You only have a second to register his request before he takes your hand in his and gently pulls you onto the couch with him.
Cuddled up between the couch and your back, Donatello gives a little shimmy and a wistful sigh.
Your heart is racing and you're tingling from your hands to your toes, but fitting against the curves of Donatello's bent knees and soft embrace takes no thought at all. And once you're there, you can't imagine ever wanting to leave.
*
The second Fellowship DVD comes to an end, and Donatello's breath tickles your neck, "One more?"
You shrug into the feeling of his words ghosting over your skin. "I'll fall asleep," you admit regretfully. You're so comfortable in his arms, you don't want to go home. But it's precisely that warmth and safety that are making it so hard to stay awake.
"I won't make fun of you if you snore," Donnie teases. There's soft pressure on your scalp and you're sure that's the feeling of him snuggling into your hair.
"I make no promises," Raph chimes in from the recliner. You'd long since forgotten you had company. The sound of his voice should come as a shock, should have you scrambling out of Donnie's arms. But it's only Raph, and he's picking on you the same as always. And there's a kind of approval in that -- the kind you never dreamed of receiving.
You try to shoot him a scowl, but you're grinning because you can't help it.
*
You were right about having difficulty staying awake. The film isn't on for five minutes before your eyes drift closed.
"Are you asleep?"
"Still listening," you mumble dreamily. Donatello's arms tighten around you and his chin tucks over your head. It's enough to send you adrift into a deep and peaceful sleep.
You wake up in the morning alone but wrapped in a purple knitted blanket you recognize from Donnie's room. You pull it snug around your shoulders as you sit up to check your phone. There's a text from your roommate and emails that can be ignored, but one notification stands out. You touch the media message from Raphael.
Though you roll your eyes at the blurry thumbnail, your curiosity has you pressing play. The video is only 20 seconds, anyway.
It loads immediately and the image clears. You smile at the closeup of Donatello asleep on the couch. The audio is low but you can clearly make out the snuffling rise and fall of his snores. You allow yourself a little laugh as you watch the video play through again. And you don't miss the way Raphael panned to show you and Donnie together dozing comfortably -- your limbs entangled and your face tucked into the crook of his neck.
You're unsure where you two stand and where your relationship will go, but your stomach is full of butterflies and your heart is content.
"Did you sleep OK?" Donnie asks as he comes in from the kitchen. He's brought tea and toast -- a simple but sweet gesture.
You take a moment to enjoy the sight of him bringing you breakfast 'in bed' and tuck your phone away with a smile. "I slept great."
#TMNT x reader#Donatello x Reader#Donnie x reader#gender neutral reader#nonbinary reader#prompt fill#request fill
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Gifted part 5
Spencer Reid x F!Reader
Warnings: Fluff, a tiny amount of angst, mentions of unsubs crimes
That night when Spencer got home he called Y/N to let her know he got home safely, she had insisted he did. But rather than a brief call they talked all night long until they both received calls from Hotch telling them to come in for a case. They rode in together which was not unusual but they were trying to hide their new relationship from the team for now. "Long night, did you get lucky?" Morgan teases Spencer, seeing the bags under his eyes more pronounced than usual. But Spencer just ignores him. Garcia and Hotch brief the team on the case there is a serial killer duo driving across country on a murder spree. They have robbed a bank, gas station, and a diner killing everyone inside and heading west from Kansas on Route 70 with no apparent destination. The last location the duo was seen was in Grand Junction, Colorado so that is where the team is headed. On the jet Y/N and Spencer are sitting side by side that in and of itself it is not abnormal but the arm rest that would usually divide them is up so they sit side by side legs touching, if anyone on the team notices the change they say nothing. “Different states, different venues, different victimology. The only thing these murders have in common is the weapon used and that every location is just off of Route 70.” Y/N says while swiping through her tablet looking at the information they had. “They didn’t hide their faces, they want people to know who they are. If they had hid their faces with them crossing state lines and venues would we have even been called in?” Morgan added in. “Glen Rogers the “The Cross Country Killer” was convicted of stabbing and strangling five victims, one man and four women in California, Florida, Ohio, Mississippi, and Louisiana although he originally claimed he murdered over seventy individuals.” Spencer chimes in. “When we touch down Reid and Morgan go to the latest crime scene, Prentiss and JJ go talk with the victims families see if they know anything, Y/L/N, Rossi and I will head to the local police precinct to bring them up to speed.” Hotch informs everyone.
While the team was investigating in Grand Junction they sent out alerts to other precincts along Route 70 informing them to be on the lookout for anything suspicious. “What is the importance of this highway to them?” Y/N says in frustration watching Spencer map out the geographic profile. “Route 70 crosses through ten states and is 2,153 miles long and crosses through nine major cities in the heart of the US.” Spencer spouts out before turning to see her smiling at him. “What?” “You’re cute.” Luckily none of the other team members were around to hear Y/N comment or see Spencer’s light blush. “Another thing is all the places they have hit; outside of the bank the gas station and the diner are quick stop places they might have traveled a lot beforehand. I wonder what set them off though to go from living an ordinary life to killing dozens of people every few days is a huge escalation.”Y/N continue to question. “It is possible that they have been killing all along but more discreetly and over time the kills became less gratifying and so they escalated. Do you think we should tell the team about us?” That question caught Y/N off guard she was so focused on the case she hadn’t thought about the fact that the team didn’t know. “If you want to but I don’t think it’s necessary that they know everything.” She says not looking up from the file. The phone rings Garcia calling before their conversation could go any further. “Go ahead Garcia you’ve got me and Reid.” “Hello my favorite geniuses I come bearing bad news there has been another hit at a cafe in Richfield, Utah” “They are running out of road if they’re plan is to stay on Route 70.” Reid says. “They must have an endgame in mind, approaching the actual target of their desires. Thanks Garcia” Y/N says hanging up the phone.
A few days later the team finally caught the unsubs holding up a gas station in the last town on the west end of the highway. They never find out the unsubs true motives both declining to answer any questions. The team had just landed back in Virginia Y/N and Spencer had had little time to continue their previous conversation but there was tension surrounding them since then. Although still close in proximity there were no quick quips, no playful banter. While the team is finishing this case's paperwork when Morgan meets Spencer while getting coffee to ask him about it, “What’s going on with you two?” Gesturing in Y/N’s direction. “What? Nothing? Why would you think that something is wrong?” Spencer questions his voice getting higher. “Oh I don’t know for two people who seemingly never stop talking to each other you haven’t said a word to one another in what six hours since we left Utah. And your voice just raised two octaves.” Morgan says. “We can go without talking to each other without it being something weird.” Spencer says trying to keep his voice purposely even. “Well word of advice lover boy just apologize for whatever it is, even if you’re not wrong, it will make your life easier.” “I don’t need to apologize there is nothing going on.” Spencer says walking away with his coffee. When he got back to his desk Spencer couldn’t help but admit to himself that Y/N's silence was bothering him. He knew nothing was wrong. He could understand her reasoning for wanting to keep their relationship private, she was very private about her personal life. It didn’t actually bother him; he just didn’t like hiding things from the team they would find out eventually. He looks over to Y/N, she is focused on the file on her desk working quickly through it. Spencer walks over to her desk, “Hey”. Y/N looks over to him, “Yes?” “Are we okay?” He asks. “Why wouldn’t we be?” “Because we haven’t been talking.” She sets the file and pen down turning to give him her full attention. “We’re talking now. What’s bothering you?” “Morgan said…” but before he could say anything further. “Whoa Morgan said? No, I don’t care what’s bothering Morgan. What’s bothering you?” Spencer starts chewing on his bottom lip. Y/N reaches to grab a hold of Spencer’s hand rubbing her thumb across the top of his hand. “Is it the whole telling the team thing? We can tell them, it’s okay.” Not really thinking about what she had done before doing it, they hear a wolf whistle from across the room. Morgan and Prentiss looking over at them stifling laughs. With a deep sigh, “Well I guess there was no use in trying to hide anything working in close proximity with profilers.” She says. “Sorry, if I hadn’t freaked out they wouldn’t know.” “It’s fine they would have found out anyway.” Sharing a look between them Spencer pulls Y/N’s hand up to his lips placing a gentle kiss to the back of it. “I don’t have to tell you how many germs are on the back of people's hands.” She says with a smirk. “No but for you I will risk it.” Garcia had just come out of her lair to hear the commotion and seeing what had just happened she ran over to Y/N screaming happily grabbing her out of Spencer’s grip to pull her into a tight hug and dragging her back towards her office. “Okay you have to tell me everything.”Garcia says. Y/N looks back to Spencer with a pleading look for help while Morgan and Prentiss are no longer able to hold back cackling loudly.
A few hours later paperwork was done and finally having convinced Garcia that there was nothing more to tell they were ready to head home. During the drive Spencer holds Y/N’s hand as they make light conversation. “What do you think about me hanging at your place while we’re off? I still have some clean clothes in my go bag.” He asks. “What kind of girl do you take me for Dr. Reid?” She says jokingly. “No no that’s uh that’s not what I meant. It’s just I want to spend more time with you.” “So you’re coming home with me?” and Spencer just nods in return. When they arrive at Y/N’s apartment she opens the door and they walk in together. When he walks in he takes in his surroundings, her apartment is surprisingly more colorful than he expected. Her furniture is neutral warm greys and browns, but the patchwork pillows and throw blankets on her couches are a variety of colors . Her bookshelf is organized with books lined up starting at red and ending in violet. It reminded him of Garcia although more organized it made sense why the two are so close. He stands there awkwardly not really sure what to do. “So I’m going to go take a quick shower and you can shower after me if you like. Go ahead and make yourself at home.” She says before heading towards a door Spencer can only assume is her bedroom. Not really sure what he should be doing he sets his bags down and walks over to the bookshelf looking at the books she had. From the books he recognized that she has lots of classic literature, mystery novels, biographies, autobiographies, and what he assumes to be young adult and adult fantasy novels. What does catch his eye is her collection of Twilight novels, five books in total. He reaches for the one with just the twilight name and starts reading. He is half way through the book before he feels a tap on his shoulder. When he turns he sees Y/N hair still wet, smile as bright as always, she is wearing a tank top and pajama pants. “So you decided to give it a try.” “What?” Not realizing she is talking about the book. “Twilight you decided to read it.” He looks down at the book in hand. “I don’t understand why so many people like it. It’s ok I guess.” He says closing the book and placing it back on the shelf. “It’s an acquired taste I guess. Well showers available. I left a clean bath towel and washcloth on the counter for you. I’m going to go make something for us to eat.” Spencer nods before picking up his go bag heading towards her bedroom. He hesitates just looking into the room not walking in yet. When he finally walks in he feels out of place like he shouldn’t be here almost as if he is invading her privacy. Finally relenting he walks in deciding to just head into the bathroom and shower. When he gets out of the shower feeling refreshed the smell of something amazing draws Spencer to the kitchen. Walking into Kitchen he sees Y/N humming to herself as she tastes whatever food she is making. He walks about behind her placing a kiss on her cheek, causing her to flinch. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a me thing “I’ll adjust” as Garcia says. So I decided to keep dinner simple so teriyaki stir fry and rice, are you okay with that?” “Sounds good.” They eat while making light conversation and end their night laying on opposite ends of the couch with their legs tangled together.
#spencer reid#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid x reader#reader insert#Female reader#x reader#criminal minds#spencer reid fanfiction#fluff#bau x reader#BAU Team#Penelope Garcia#Jennifer Jareau#emily prentiss#derek morgan#aaron hotchner#david rossi
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The Best Gifts
How do you thank someone for not only saving your friends and family’s lives, but your future too? Saying it is a good start, but Danny thinks a gift would be nice too.
Danny was bored. He was beyond bored actually. Two days into Spring Break and he has nothing to do. Sam and her family were off on a trip to somewhere in Europe. Tucker has relatives visiting and can't hang out, and Jazz has practically been living in the library to work on some big senior project that will be due when school gets back. Even his parents were gone, some exclusive paranormal conference in New York, and they wouldn't be back until the weekend.
Danny heaved a heavy sigh. No ghosts had attacked for the last four days and now knowing the value of good time management, he had already managed to finish all of his schoolwork. He listlessly tapped his fingers against the kitchen table where he was seated. Playing Doomed solo was an option, but it's nowhere near as fun by himself, and it feels weird to play video games so early in the day. He got up from his seat and paced for a bit. He could go flying, but he didn't want to tempt the peace or any ghosts hanging about. He stopped and drank a whole glass of water just for something to do. Hydration is important, right? He resumed his pacing for several more minutes, wracking his brain for any ideas that could interest him. He would work on a model rocket, but he had finished the one he got for Christmas over winter break.
He stopped in front of the fridge and glanced at the clock on the wall, it's not too early for lunch. He grabbed a box of saltines out of the cupboard and pulled out a handful. Setting the box back on the counter he eased open the fridge door.
"Hey guys, I have a nice snack for you." he said as he checked for any loose ectoweenies. He couldn't help the sad noise that escaped him when he saw the plate with last night's leftovers had been cleaned bare. At least one weenie must have gotten out of the drawer. He placed a cracker on the plate to lure the escapee from hiding. Small, high-pitched growls greeted him as he slid the duct taped drawer open a couple of inches and sprinkled crushed saltine in the gap.
The ectoweenies were kind of cute when they weren't eating his lunch. Jazz was by far the best cook in the family and he had been looking forward to enjoying the meatloaf again for lunch. His musings were interrupted by tiny crunching sounds. "Aha!" he exclaimed as he snatched the miscreant up off of the plate.
"You've had enough of an adventure, time to go back home," he dropped the weenie through the open gap in the drawer. "Ouch!" he yelped as it managed to bite his thumb on the way down. Danny pouted as he stuck his thumb in his mouth to suck on the bite. The returned weenie was growling its story to the others as he toed the drawer closed before using his free hand to reseal the duct tape.
"For some reason, I'm not that hungry anymore..." Danny muttered as he inspected his thumb. Thank goodness for supernatural healing, what was a bleeding cut a moment ago was already reduced to a light pink line.
Danny resumed his pacing for a moment before sitting back down at the table. He rested his chin on his arms as he watched the seconds tick by on the clock.
‘I have so much time and all I can think of doing is watching the clock tick.’ He mused on the irony of trying to make time and when he finally has some, he can hardly use it.
‘I wonder what Clockwork does when he isn’t pretending to try to kill me. To think that he had planned for us to try to escape to the future to see Dan in order to set me on the path of overcoming that future.’ He frowned, ‘Even then I didn’t actually make it in time to save anyone. It was really nice of Clockwork to not only save them, but to set me further back afterwards so that I could keep my secret and do some damage control. I didn’t even get a chance to thank him for his help.’ He rose to his feet and started pacing once more. “I really should thank him. I think I remember where his lair is. It might take an hour or two of flying if nothing interferes… Should I just show up? That seems kind’ve rude. Maybe I should get him a gift? Thanks for saving my family and friends, and you know, not killing me when you could have. Yeah I should definitely bring a gift, that would be the polite thing when just showing up at someone’s home.” His pacing slowed as his thoughts deepened.
“But what gift do you give the ghost who can control time? And also saved you and your family from terrible fates... He said time is like a parade that he watches from above but it was more like he was helping to direct the parade than just watching.” Danny grinned in delight as inspiration struck, “I know the perfect thing!” he said as he dashed out the door at a quarter to eleven, patting his pocket to check for his wallet as he went.
-----
A quick scooter ride later and he was at the outlet stores by the mall. He looked fondly at the video game store before parking his scooter and walking into the music store. He browsed around the aisles, poking at one or two of the display instruments. ‘I remember when we came here so Jazz could pick an instrument in Middle School; I don’t think she’s played since then.’
When the lady at the desk finished with her short line of customers (mostly band kids buying reeds or random accessories), Danny popped out from the shelves to ask her, “Hey, do you guys have the kind of baton that bands use in parades? I’m looking for a gift for a conductor I know.”
She pursed her lips in thought before sliding her chair over to her computer next to the register. “Hang on; let me see if we have anything like that in stock.” Danny tried to keep from fidgeting as she spent a couple of minutes typing and clicking away at the computer. He was trying to decide whether or not to scratch his nose when she turned back to him.
“So we don’t have anything like that in the store right now. You could special order one if you’d like but that would take a while and unless you wanted a gag gift, would be pretty expensive…” At his crestfallen expression she continued, “However, if you would like to get your conductor friend a conducting baton, a good quality one runes about $20-30 and we have a nice selection I can show you.”
Danny’s face lit up, “It’s not my first idea, but that would be just as good!” The store clerk smiled at him and standing from her computer chair, she led him to one of the display cases by the register.
“These are arranged by price and material. This side is the lower end and is mostly fiberglass and cheaper wood or rubber,” she said, gesturing to Danny’s left, “and these are the nicer, more durable ones to your right. My favorite is the rosewood style right there.” She pointed to a medium priced baton with a nice reddish wooden bulb.
“Tell you what, since this is for a gift, if you get one of the wooden ones I’ll engrave a name for you for free.”
Danny grinned at her, “That rosewood one you pointed out would be great! For the name, could you put it as Clockwork?”
She smiled back at him and chuckled a little, “As in, when they’re conducting everything runs like clockwork?”
“Yeah kinda like that, it’s a nickname, so could you capitalize the C?”
“Of course, that’ll be $25.96 after tax.”
Danny paid her and watched as she pulled a slim case from below the counter. She popped the end cap off and pulled out the new baton.
“Looks to be in perfect shape, give me a minute and I’ll have the name engraved for you.” She picked up a small tool slightly thicker and longer than a pen and flipped a switch on the side. A low buzzing filled Danny’s ears as she carefully engraved the name on the shaft in neat handwriting. The tip of her tongue was sticking out of her mouth as she concentrated. She flipped the tool off and stowed it out of sight before blowing on the engraving to help cool it and to remove any dust. She waved it a couple of times before neatly sliding it back into the case and handing it to him.
“There you go, one personalized baton for your friend!” she chirped.
“Thank you so much, I’m sure he’ll like it!” Danny effused before heading out the door with a wave to the friendly salesperson. He retrieved his scooter and helmet and headed back to Fentonworks. The whole trip only took about half an hour.
-----
Once back at home, Danny stowed his scooter and made a quick stop back in the kitchen. He slapped together a peanut butter sandwich so he wouldn’t have to deal with the ectoweenies again. He scarfed it and washed it down with another glass of water.
“Ok!” he said, talking aloud to help psyche himself up. “I should leave a note for Jazz somewhere in case I’m out when she gets home, and then I need to store the gift in my ghost space pocket so I don’t lose it on the trip. I think that’s everything,” he said with his arms crossed and tapping his fingers against his elbow. He nodded and then reached for the notepad next to the fridge to write out a quick note for his sister.
‘Hey Jazz, I’m going for a visit to see Clockwork, he’s the guy who helped me out during the CAT stuff. Nothing is wrong. I’m going to thank him and probably visit for a bit. Don’t know how long it’ll take but don’t worry if I’m not home yet.’
“She’ll probably still worry and tell me that it’s her job as my big sister, but at least she’ll know I wasn’t kidnapped or something. This should keep her from looking for me too. She’s not going to go searching for me in the ghost zone unless I’m gone a really long time.”
He put the note in the middle of the table then grabbed the gift and lightly skipped down the stairs to the lab. A quick flash of light and Danny tucked the slim case into the special space pocket where he normally keeps his thermos and cell phone. Discovering that ability had made his ghost fighting a lot simpler, no more racing to his locker to grab a thermos or trying to discreetly pull it from his bag when he says he’s going to the bathroom. He still keeps a spare in his locker and under his bed. Sam and Tucker both keep a few too. It never hurts to be prepared, especially when it comes to ghost fighting.
He pulled off his glove and unlocked the portal. It was kind’ve funny that his DNA was still recognizable to the Fenton scanner in ghost form. After pulling his glove back on, he slipped through the portal and was on his way.
-----
Danny hummed cheerfully as he flew through the green and purple mists of the ghost zone. He had been so bored, but he found the perfect thing to do! Even better, since his parents weren’t home, he won’t have to worry about being locked in the zone.
He did a loop and waved at some cute blob ghosts before significantly increasing his speed. ‘I might be able to shave off some of my travel time if I fly near top speed, it’ll be good exercise too.’
Danny continued to increase his flight speed until his surroundings blurred and he weaved among the floating islands, rocks, and other debris with minute adjustments to his path. Amazingly enough, he didn’t encounter any ghosts itching for a fight. ‘Maybe it’s because I’m in the Zone, most ghosts that come through the portal have some sort of goal. Most in the Ghost Zone just want to be left alone. It could also be partly the speed I’ve been going, harder for anyone to try to fight me if I’m already gone by time they notice me.’
He slowed his pace down as the floating gears that fill the space near Clockwork’s lair began to appear. ‘I wonder where all these gears come from. He does have a lot of clocks. Maybe he used to have more? I can always ask him later if the visit goes well.’ Danny gently touched down in front of the large door to the lair. He took a deep breath, thinking, ‘I hope he doesn’t mind a visit. Of course he probably already knows I’m coming here, but still.’ and then firmly clanged the doorknocker.
A few seconds passed and then Clockwork opened the door with a slight smile, “Daniel. Please come in.,” he said while beckoning with his free arm.
“I hope it’s ok that I just showed up.” Danny said as he stepped into Clockwork’s lair for the second time.
“It’s perfectly alright. You are welcome here Daniel, I can always make time for you.” Clockwork replied as he closed the door behind them.
‘Did he just make a pun?’ Danny wondered, pausing in his surprise before following Clockwork into a lounge area that he hadn’t seen on his initial visit. ‘Not that I really had much time to look around with everything going on and Clockwork manipulating us for a better future. On the subject of that diverted timeline, I shouldn’t forget what brought me here in the first place.’
Clockwork, currently in adult form, had stopped and was now floating by a flat gear suspended at coffee table height.
“Clockwork,” Danny said, “I really want to thank you for your help with that horrible future. I really appreciate that not only did you save my friends and family; you also gave me a second chance to fix my relationship with Mr. Lancer about the cheating thing. He let me retake the test and actually let me study for it during detentions. He even answered questions that I had about the material!” Danny paused to take a breath, “To show my gratitude for your help and to say thank you for giving me a chance, I got this for you.” He rotated his arm slightly to reach into his sub-pocket and pulled out the slim case holding the engraved baton.
As he handed it to Clockwork he said, “It’s not much but I was thinking about how you said you see time like a parade that you’re watching from above, it felt more like you were directing the parade a bit and I’m really glad you kept it from marching off a cliff…” Danny trailed off, halting his ramblings as Clockwork opened the case and gently withdrew the baton. He phased to his older form as he lightly ran his gloved fingers over the engraving of his name.
“It is a lovely gift, thank you Daniel. It is very thoughtful and especially fitting in your case. I will cherish it.,” he said as he slid it into an invisible pocket up his sleeve. “I am glad that you decided to come by. Due to my actions on your behalf, I have been given charge and responsibility for you. Think of me as your ghostly guardian, or mentor. You should feel free to visit me anytime, whether you have questions, are looking for advice, or just want to spend time in a safe place. Cookie?” he offered as he switched to his child form.
Danny was sure his jaw was hanging loose as Clockwork finished informing him of their new potential relationship. Given that he was currently in ghost form, that could be a lot more literal than normal. He was still trying to process this bombshell when his whole train of thought derailed at the sight of the cookie that Clockwork was holding out to him.
“That cookie is green. And glowing.” he said as he cautiously reached out for it.
“Of course it is, “Clockwork replied, “The flour was soaked in raw ectoplasm before it was baked.”
Danny looked slightly repulsed but curious as he examined the cookie now in his hand, “Is it safe for me to eat?” he asked.
“Yes it is, and actually, on the subject of nutrition,” Clockwork said, phasing back to his adult form once again, “You need to increase your ectoplasm intake if you want to remain healthy while using your powers. The easiest ways for you to do this would be to accept it into your diet, such as with these cookies,” he gestured towards the still uneaten cookie in Danny’s hand, “or you can absorb ambient energy from spending time in the Ghost Zone.”
“Wow, you’re being a lot more straight forward now than when you helped save the future.” Danny remarked.
“When I helped you, my hands were tied by my employers; they wanted me to eliminate you instead of solving the root of the problem. Now that I have responsibility for both you and the alternate phantom, I am able to directly advise you when you have a problem as opposed to the convoluted run around that was necessary to keep the Observants from interfering further.” He shifted to his elder form and concluded with, “Maybe they wouldn’t be so shortsighted if they had two eyes instead of just one.”
Danny smiled slightly at the dig at the pretentious eyeballs. He had encountered them a few times while exploring the zone but hadn’t known what their jobs were at the time. “I know I promised that I’ll never turn into Dan, and I’m planning on always keeping my promise! But, is there anything that I need to watch out for to keep everything on track?”
“Do not worry. The actions that you have taken and the choices that you have made have decisively prevented you from ever becoming Dan. You have committed yourself to doing what is right, and remember, Dan was not just you, he was a combination of Phantom and Plasmius. You have nothing to worry about as long as you keep going as you have been. Eat your cookie.”
Danny nibbled at his cookie and was surprised that it tasted really good to him. It was a sugar cookie with a lemon-lime aftertaste that somehow worked really well. As he finished the cookie, he realized that it satisfied a craving that he hadn’t realized he had. Like finally scratching an itch. Danny ate another ecto-cookie from the plate on the table as Clockwork looked on in his child form.
“So I can visit tomorrow too?” Danny asked.
“Of course you may Daniel, you are welcome here any,” he paused and smirked slightly, “…time.” he finished, shifting to adult form.
Danny grinned at him, Clockwork liked puns too! He floated over to the older ghost and tentatively reached for a hug. Clockwork did not hesitate in holding him tight and completing the embrace.
“You are a good and precious child; I already am anticipating your next visit. Unfortunately, you will need to be leaving soon if you do not want your sister to form a search party. She has finished early at the library and will be heading for home shortly.”
Danny hid his smile against Clockwork’s chest as he felt his hair being ruffled. The ticking of the clock under his cheek was comforting.
“Thank you again for saving my whole world. And thanks for the advice and the open invitation. I’ll definitely be visiting more this week.”
Clockwork gave Danny’s head a final pat before separating, “As long as you fly the same speed or faster going home as you did coming here, you will avoid any encounters and will make it home with plenty of time to reassure your sister and to tell her about your day.” Clockwork shifted to his elder form and with his characteristic smirk, stated, “Later Gator.”
Danny beamed with delight as they floated to the door.
“After a little while, Crocodile.”
“We’re far too gharialous for a traditional parting.”
It took Danny a moment to work gharial and garrulous apart before he could shoot back, “Caiman, these puns are getting old.”
Clockwork replied by waggling his eyebrows and shifting to his child form, “Actually, you will find that they are getting younger.”
Danny laughed and waved to his new mentor as he floated out into the ghost zone proper, “I’ll see you tomorrow, bye!” he shouted as he turned and sped off towards home.
Clockwork shut the door once Danny was out of sight and moved to his time viewing room where Danny flying home showed on the main screen. Some of the smaller screens floating off to the side showed him dropping the ecto-weenie back into the drawer in the refrigerator and eating dinner with his sister.
“There are some advantages to being the master of time, and taking care of such a wonderful and delightful child is definitely one of them. The puns are a bonus too.” he mused with a slight lisp and fingering the baton that he’d been gifted. He watched Danny talking to himself during his flight home.
“…and I should ask him where those gears around his lair come from tomorrow. Oh! And if the ectoplasmic contamination in Mom’s cooking is actually a good thing for me. I need to learn about more types of animals and things so I don’t run out of puns!” He was flying home with a huge smile.
-----
True to Clockwork’s words, Danny once again didn’t have any unfriendly encounters while he travelled. He had even managed to shave a couple more minutes off of his flight time! He slowed down as he approached the Fenton Portal and slipped through at normal speed. When he popped through he startled his sister where she was fiddling with some ghost hunting gadgets. “Danny!” she yelled, dropping a Fenton Thermos and some miscellaneous inventions that didn’t actually do anything. She threw her arms around him as he transformed back to human form. “I read your note but I was starting to get worried! I finished early at the library so that I could get dinner started.”
Danny gave her a quick hug back before responding, “I’m fine. Actually, I’m way better than fine! I’ll tell you all about it upstairs, do you think you could make meatloaf again? An ectoweenie ate all of the leftovers.”
His sister ruffled his wind-swept hair before tugging him towards the stairs. “Of course, little brother, I’m so glad that you had a good day and weren’t just playing video games or bored the whole time.” They headed upstairs together and Danny started off his story, “So I was really bored this morning. Incredibly bored. Then I got the perfect idea…”
#ahh i finished it#this is probably my longest completed fic now#self edited#fanfiction#danny phantom#danny fenton#clockwork#jazz fenton#lost time#fluff#sweet#danny is a smol boy who deserves love#seriously he needs more than just frostbite as a mentor#he doesn't meet frostbite till 3rd season which i hc as junior year of hs#and clockwork is lonely#phanfiction#thicc fic#being able to see the future is an advantage in pun offs#and in getting ready for visitors#formatted for tumblr
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Title: A Wonderful Institution
Artist: @bidnezz
Pairings: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, various background pairings
Word Count: ~53k
Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, discrimination against Downworlders, reference to rape, Clave-typical homophobia, implied character death, minor character death
Summary: Magnus doesn’t have time for this bullshit. Warlocks are disappearing in New York City—five people in less than three months—and Magnus is determined to find them and protect the rest of his people from whatever took them. He doesn’t have time for politics, and he certainly doesn’t have time for whatever nonsense the Clave is proposing about marrying a Shadowhunter to a Downworlder as part of the new Accords. He doesn’t really have time for a pretty Shadowhunter who’s surprisingly kind to warlock children, either, but, well, he’s always been good at multitasking.
Alec always knew he couldn’t have what he wanted, but he’s spent the nearly four years since the newly-appointed Consul recalled his parents to Idris without explanation making the best of what he can have. When life suddenly offers up almost everything Alec actually wants on a silver platter, he can’t quite bring himself to trust it, especially when it comes with a million caveats and a side of impending disaster. But he knows how to handle disasters, even if the return of the Circle on top of Clave secrets that could destroy the Accords is way beyond the disasters he’s used to fielding. Hope, on the other hand? He doesn’t know what to do with that.
This fic was created for the @malecdiscordserver Mini Bang 2020.
Chapter Ten
“Tell me everything,” Magnus said, ushering Raphael into the loft. “What happened?” He could feel Alexander hovering behind him, the weight of their unfinished conversation trailing along with him, but he didn’t have time to worry about that right now.
“We were supposed to meet up by Union Square Park two hours ago,” Raphael told him. “I was going to show Ragnor the Church of St. Francis Xavier. He’s never been, and I know he’d appreciate the stained glass.”
“Have you tried calling him?” Magnus asked, looking for an explanation that didn’t require utter panic. “You know how he loses track of time.”
Raphael gave him a look that told him exactly how stupid a question that was. “Of course I did. And before you say it, Ragnor always picks up my calls.”
“All right,” Magnus said. “He said something about meeting up with Cat earlier for help on that counter-potion, so we’ll start there. If we can figure out where he disappeared from, that will give us a place to start.”
“And if it’s like the other disappearances?” Raphael asked. “There might not be anything to find.”
“Then at least we’ll have that,” Magnus said. It wasn’t exactly a comfort, but it was something.
“I’ll call Jace and Izzy,” Alec offered. “It can’t hurt to have more people looking.”
According to Catarina, she’d left Ragnor half an hour before he was supposed to meet up with Raphael. They’d figured out what was missing from the counter-potion, and Ragnor had been planning to pick up the final ingredient before meeting Raphael so he could start brewing the potion in the morning.
“Do you know where he was planning to get the missing ingredient?” Magnus wanted to know.
Catarina shook her head. “He said he knew a guy. You know how Ragnor is.”
Magnus did, indeed, know how Ragnor was.
“Since we don’t know where he was between, we should start our search at his last known location and at the place he was supposed to be,” Alec said.
“I can take you to where we were working on the potion,” Catarina offered. “Ragnor has multiple lairs, and I think this one is new. I’d never been there before, at least.”
“And I can help search around Union Square Park,” Raphael said, “since I know the area.”
They agreed that each search party should have a warlock, for ease of portaling, and after some bickering that mostly amounted to Magnus not feeling comfortable letting anyone he cared about out of his sight just then, Magnus took Raphael and Izzy with him to search the area around Union Square Park, and Alec and Jace went with Catarina to look for clues at Ragnor’s lair.
As it turned out, having more people did not help, because there were no clues to find.
“This isn’t your fault, you know,” Raphael said quietly as they searched the east side of the park.
“I know that,” Magnus lied. “I’m just concerned about what this might mean. Dorothea knew that Jocelyn got the potion from Ragnor, which means that could be why he was taken. And now that Ragnor knows how to brew the counter-potion, it’s only a matter of time before Valentine is able to wake Jocelyn.”
“Which sucks,” Izzy said, “but she can’t tell him where the Cup is anymore. At least we know that it’s safe.”
“I wish that gave me as much confidence as it seems to give you,” Magnus told her.
The fact was, this was his fault. He’d known that Ragnor was at risk, and he hadn’t done enough to convince his friend to protect himself. If Magnus had been a better friend, Ragnor never would have been alone to be kidnapped in the first place. Magnus would have been with him. He should have insisted on Ragnor staying at his loft and working on the potion there, should have insisted that he go with Ragnor to see Cat. Instead, he’d been at home, making out with Alexander while his friend had been taken by the Circle.
They searched for three hours before Magnus finally admitted defeat and returned to the loft. He’d gotten word from Alec over an hour earlier that they’d finished searching Ragnor’s lair but found nothing that gave any clue as to where or how the warlock had been taken. Alec had gone to the Institute to file an official report on the disappearance but promised to return as soon as he was finished.
It was strange coming home to an empty loft. After only two weeks, Alexander’s presence seemed like such a natural part of the space, of Magnus’s life. He knew they were going to have to finish the conversation Raphael had interrupted, and he was in no way looking forward to it. He’d been dreading it the entire time he’d been keeping the secret, which was why he’d taken so long to come clean. He knew he should have told Alec before the wedding, should have given Alec the opportunity to back out the same way Alec had given him when he divulged the secret about the former Consul’s betrayal. But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to risk what they’d been building together. In retrospect, of course, it was obvious he’d just been putting it at greater risk.
Magnus contemplated going to bed. He was tired, and it would give him an excuse to put off the conversation with Alec, but even knowing that things could go poorly, he couldn’t stand to be alone right now. And he needed to know, needed to see with his own eyes, that Alec was safe. It was a little ridiculous, he knew. Alexander was more than capable of taking care of himself, and even if he weren’t, they’d spoken on the phone just before Alec returned to the Institute. He knew Alec was fine, and it wasn’t like Valentine or the Circle had any interest in kidnapping Shadowhunters as far as they knew. But after everything, with Ragnor missing and knowing that Valentine had Dot, Magnus couldn’t help but worry.
By the time Alec returned to the loft, Magnus had changed into his favorite pair of silk pajamas and was curled up on the couch with a fluffy blanket and a mug of hot buttered rum.
“Hey,” Alec said, joining him on the couch, “I’m sorry I took so long. Things got a little messy back at the Institute.”
“Clary?” Magnus guessed, forcing himself to uncurl his legs and sit on the couch like a grown adult who wasn’t in the throes of panic.
“Partially,” Alec said. “And Lydia, and having to justify why I decided to pull two Shadowhunters who were supposed to be on patrol to help look for a missing warlock.”
“But Ragnor was our best chance for finding Valentine,” Magnus said, frowning. And now that was lost, too, because Magnus hadn’t tried hard enough to protect his friend.
“Which I told her,” Alec said leaning back into the couch. “And Lydia agreed, but still insisted that I write out a whole long explanation for the Clave so that no one could second-guess my decision, which I get, but...”
“But you hate that you have to justify yourself,” Magnus finished for him.
“Exactly,” Alec agreed. “But I shouldn’t be complaining about work right now. You must be so worried about your friend.”
“I am,” Magnus agreed, “but honestly, it’s good to have a little distraction.”
Alec put a hand on his knee and gave a gentle squeeze. “We already know the approximate area where Valentine is hiding, and you and Clary have gotten us a ton of intel with the portal shard. We’re going to find Valentine, and everyone that he’s taken.”
“Thank you, Alexander,” Magnus said, putting his own hand over Alec’s. “I appreciate your confidence.”
“But you don’t share it,” Alec guessed, flipping his hand over to thread their fingers together.
Magnus closed his eyes, appreciating the gesture both for what it was and the reassurance that Alec wasn’t angry enough with him to avoid physical contact, at least.
“I wish I could,” he said. “But Ragnor was our best chance of tracking Valentine. You and I both know that. And now he’s been taken, and I didn’t protect him.”
“It’s not your job to protect him,” Alec said, “and Ragnor might have been our best chance of finding Valentine, but that doesn’t mean he was our only chance.”
“He was a warlock and he was probably in New York when he was taken,” Magnus countered. “That makes protecting him my job. And,” he added more quietly, “he’s my friend. I knew he was in danger, but I let him convince me that he’d be safe on his own.”
Alec didn’t say anything, simply leaned in and pulled Magnus into a hug. Magnus let himself be pulled, nuzzling his cheek against the soft fabric of Alec’s shirt.
“We’ll find Ragnor,” Alec promised. “And Dot, and all of the other warlocks who’ve been taken. And we’ll capture Valentine and throw a goddamn party when the Clave executes him.”
“I didn’t think you liked parties,” Magnus said, trying for some levity. By the way Alec held him tighter, he didn’t think he quite managed it.
“I’ll make an exception.”
Magnus took a deep breath, grateful for the support that Alec offered, and grateful also that Alec offered it without expecting Magnus to look at him while they had this conversation. Magnus didn’t like to hide from his problems, but some things were easier to say if you weren’t facing the person you had to say them to.
“Alexander,” he said, face still firmly pressed against Alec’s shoulder. “About what we were discussing earlier—”
“I don’t care,” Alec said firmly. “Well, I do a bit. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a little bit flattered that I was the reason you volunteered, but I don’t actually care how we got here.” He pulled back so Magnus could see his face and all of the sincerity there. “All I care about is that we are here, together.”
Magnus managed a shaky smile. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that. I know it might not have sounded like it earlier, but I feel the same way. This isn’t how I would have chosen for us to get together, but now that we are, I can’t regret any of it.”
“I just wish there were more I could do to help you find your friends,” Alec said. “I know how awful I would feel if something happened to Jace or Izzy.” He sighed. “I’m not good at stuff like this. Fighting demons, I can do. But I’ve never been great at this whole comfort thing.”
“I think you’re very good at it,” Magnus told him. “There’s nothing more I could ask for than to have you with me right now. This is exactly what I need.”
“I guess I’m pretty okay at existing,” Alec said with a small smile.
“For which I am exceedingly glad,” Magnus told him. “Although, now that you mention it, there is one more thing you could do.”
“Name it,” Alec said.
Magnus bit his lip. “I don’t want you to feel obligated. It’s just, I think I’d feel better. But you can say no.”
“Magnus,” Alec said, running his hands down Magnus’s arms, “just ask. If it’s too much, I’ll say so.”
“Would you stay with me in my room tonight?” Magnus asked, all in a rush. “I think I’d sleep better if I weren’t alone.”
“Of course,” Alec said, like it was nothing. “Anything you need. Besides, it’s not like sleeping next to you is any big hardship. In case you forgot,” he added with a shy smile, “that’s kind of where I was hoping I’d end up tonight to begin with.”
“That’s a little bit different,” Magnus said, returning the smile. “I hardly think you were hoping for me to cry myself to sleep on your shoulder.”
“No,” Alec agreed, “and I hate that you feel like crying at all, but Magnus, I’m here for you, however you need me.”
“I wish I had the words to properly tell you how much that means to me,” Magnus told him.
“How about you just let me get you to bed, instead?” Alec suggested. “You look as exhausted as I feel, and we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us tomorrow.”
“I think that sounds like an excellent compromise,” Magnus told him.
Hand in hand, they made their way to Magnus’s bedroom.
Morning came, as it always did, far too early for Alec’s liking. This time, though, he woke more comfortable than he could ever remember being, the bed just the right amount of soft beneath him and gentle fingers carding through his hair.
“I’m leaving you for your bed,” he said, cracking open one eye. “We’ve formed an irrevocable bond, and we’re running away to elope as soon as I’m actually awake.”
“I’m pretty sure bigamy is illegal in New York,” Magnus told him.
“We’ll go to, I don’t know, Antarctica or something. Somewhere no one is going to judge us for our love.”
“Alternate proposal,” Magnus offered. “You stay here, and we can share my bed every night.”
“That’s a very compelling counteroffer,” Alec said.
“I was thinking pancakes for breakfast. Assuming you’re awake enough, of course.”
“Pancakes and coffee?” Alec asked hopefully.
Magnus sighed theatrically. “One night in my bed and already you’re getting spoiled and greedy.”
“Is that really surprising?” Alec asked. “I’d think most people would be spoiled and greedy after a night in your bed.”
“Normally, I’d be flattered by a comment like that, but given that you woke up declaring your intention to leave me for my bed, I’m not sure how I feel about it.”
Alec pulled him into a quick, sleep-sloppy kiss. “Obviously, I prefer the option where I get to have you and the bed.”
“And the pancakes and the coffee?”
“Mmm,” Alec agreed.
“All right,” Magnus said, standing. “You finish waking up, I’ll get breakfast ready, and then we can get to work. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that Biscuit has already texted me with several new ideas for using the portal shard to find her mother.”
“Any of them actually any good?” Alec asked, forcing himself to sit up.
“No,” Magnus said, “but I can’t fault her enthusiasm.”
Alec thought he probably could. Alec certainly could. But he didn’t say so. Magnus seemed much more optimistic this morning than he had the night before, when he really had cried himself to sleep on Alec’s shoulder.
Alec got dressed quickly, feeling a little strange going back to his own room for clothes. He wondered as he did so if Magnus had been serious about him spending every night in Magnus’s bed, or if it had just been part of their banter. He wasn’t opposed to the idea at all, but the past twenty-four hours had been a bit intense, and he didn’t want to assume Magnus had been serious if it was just a joke. They didn’t need that kind of misunderstanding right now, not with as much stress as Magnus was under.
Of course, it wouldn’t be any better to assume Magnus had been joking if that weren’t the truth, either. Probably, he should just ask. They’d had enough trouble not saying what they meant already.
“I hope you like apple butter on your pancakes,” Magnus said as he entered the dining room. “There’s this orchard north of Seattle that sells the best apple butter this time of year, and I couldn’t resist.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had apple butter on pancakes,” Alec admitted. “But I love it on toast, and anyway I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to ruin pancakes.”
Magnus gave him a dubious look. “I’m suddenly questioning your taste in pancakes. It is definitely possible to ruin them. Maybe I should just be in charge of pancakes from now on.”
“I’m never going to complain about my husband conjuring me pancakes,” Alec said, taking his place at the table. “This looks amazing.”
It took Alec several seconds to realize that Magnus hadn’t moved. “What?” he asked, looking up to find Magnus staring at him.
“Nothing,” Magnus said, shaking his head and taking his own seat. “It’s just, I don’t think you’ve ever called me your husband before.”
“Oh,” Alec said. “I’m sorry?” he offered.
“No, don’t be,” Magnus said quickly. “I don’t dislike it. I was just surprised.”
Alec felt a small warmth bloom in his chest at the idea that Magnus liked being called his husband. It was still new and uncertain, this thing between them, but after the confessions of the previous night, he was more confident than ever that they were on the same page. Even if they apparently really hadn’t been to begin with.
It was still a strange thing to try to wrap his head around, that Magnus had volunteered to marry him not out of some long, well-thought out plan the way Alec had, but spur of the moment. And that Magnus had volunteered not just to marry for the Accords, but to marry him, even if he’d thought at first that it wasn’t going to happen. What he’d said, though, about not being able to stand the thought of Alec marrying someone else, that still floored Alec. He’d thought of the same thing, of course, what it would be like if he’d been rejected and he’d had to watch Magnus marry another Shadowhunter. He would have hated it. It was reassuring to hear that they were and had been so close in their feelings this whole time. It made Alec wonder if, had things been different and this marriage for the Accords had never come about, they might have ended up here anyway.
“What are you smiling about?” Magnus asked.
“Nothing,” Alec said around a mouthful of pancakes. “These are really good. The apple butter is amazing.”
“We should visit the orchard sometime,” Magnus told him. “It’s beautiful this time of year, with the trees all heavy from fruit.”
“You know, you never struck me as the kind of guy who was into farming,” Alec said.
“I wouldn’t say I’m into it,” Magnus said, “but it’s interesting to see where food comes from.”
“I’m more interested in eating food than seeing where it comes from,” Alec said.
“So I’ve noticed.”
“You know,” Alec said, “for a guy who conjures all of his food and was just besmirching my pancake-making skills despite never having tasted my pancakes, you’re awfully judgmental.”
“Not judgmental,” Magnus corrected. “Amused.”
“I’m glad I entertain you,” Alec said, stuffing another bite of pancakes into his mouth and washing it down a mouthful of truly amazing coffee.
“Cat is going to meet us at the Institute after breakfast,” Magnus told him. “She recorded everything she could remember from working with Ragnor yesterday, and she’s going to see how close she can get to recreating that counter-potion while we work on finding Valentine and the missing warlocks.”
Alec noticed that he spoke about “the missing warlocks” rather than Ragnor and Dot, and wondered if that was Magnus’s way of keeping himself focused on the job rather than his missing friends. It was something Alec might have done himself in a similar situation.
“That sounds like a good plan,” Alec told him. “Can you work with Clary to see how much more information you can get out of that portal shard?”
Magnus nodded. “That was the plan.”
“I’ve got extra patrols scouting the area Iris identified as the likely location of Valentine’s hideout, but no leads there so far. I’m thinking of taking Izzy and Jace down there and checking it out myself.”
“We could go together,” Magnus suggested.
Alec wanted to argue, to explain that, no, really, he could take care of himself, especially with Jace and Izzy as backup. But then he saw the soft, vulnerable look in Magnus’s eyes, the one he was trying to hide behind his own coffee cup. The same look he’d had when he asked Alec to stay with him last night.
“Sure,” he agreed. If it made Magnus feel better to stay together, he wasn’t going to argue. Not now. “It will be good to have a warlock with us if we find Valentine’s hideout so we can have someone to portal us back when we’re ready to make our move.”
“It might be a good idea to start sending warlocks out with your patrols in that area,” Magnus suggested. “If you think your Shadowhunters would be amenable.”
“Some of them would,” Alec assured him. “And I could make sure those Shadowhunters ended up on those patrols. How many warlocks do you think would be willing to partner with Shadowhunters like that?”
“I’ll have to ask,” Magnus told him, “but for the chance of finding Valentine? I’d wager at least a few.”
Alec was mentally putting together a list of Shadowhunters he knew he could trust to work well with warlocks, along with a secondary list of Shadowhunters he might be able to trust if they got desperate, when the world erupted into motion and sound. It only took him a few seconds to catch up to what was happening—he was a trained soldier after all—but those were seconds he didn’t have, not without his weapons, not as badly outnumbered as they were.
And, oh, they were outnumbered. Alec counted half a dozen warlocks, all sporting the distinctive dark veins Iris had explained were a symptom of Valentine’s serum, and twice that many Circle members pouring through a portal into the loft. He barely had time to recognize one of those warlocks as Ragnor, to see the dawning horror on Magnus’s face, before he threw himself at the closest Circle member.
It was an abysmally short fight. Alec did manage to take down two of the Circle members, despite being unarmed while they were armed to the teeth, but he simply wasn’t a match for so many. Especially not when one of the warlocks used magic to bind his movement.
Magnus managed to hold his own for a few minutes longer, but their attackers had clearly come prepared and with a plan. All too soon, Magnus was subdued, as well, sporting a pair of magic-blocking manacles that Alec recognized from his own Institute’s equipment room.
“Take the warlock back to our base.” Alec recognized Valentine Morgenstern from pictures, though he was far older now than any of the photos in the Clave’s files. “Secure him and heal his wounds. I need him undamaged.”
“You will regret this,” Magnus promised darkly. “I won’t be a party to whatever you’re planning, and I won’t—”
“And shut him up,” Valentine told a short, blonde warlock, otherwise ignoring Magnus completely.
Magnus’s voice cut off immediately, and Alec assumed he’d been magically silenced.
“The Clave will find you,” Alec told Valentine. “They know you’re alive and they will destroy you, and the Circle.”
“Spare me your little speech of defiance,” Valentine said, rolling his eyes. “The Circle has survived longer than you’ve been alive, and it will endure for years to come. Not that you’ll be around to see it, I’m afraid.”
Valentine turned to Ragnor. “Kill this one, and leave the body,” he told him. “Make it messy.”
Alec had barely enough time for Valentine’s words to sink in, to register the abject horror on Magnus’s face, before his world exploded into pain. Then, hours or maybe seconds later, went blessedly black.
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Tales from Mount Othrys
Alabaster: The Delicate Dance of Chance II
Author’s note: Are you ready for fluff??? ALL THE FLUFF?! And some angst—BUT MOSTLY FLUFF!?
Alabaster didn’t remember much about getting off the stage. He did remember shaking so violently that he feared missing a step on the side stairs. When the crowd swarmed them, he was vaguely aware of Pax warding them off and navigating them through the mass of people.
Axel made some announcement about taking a girl for the first dance and snatched the hand of Charlie—their five year old mascot—who giggled with glee. This caused an uproar—both that Axel was dancing and that he’d picked Charlie as his first partner. Alabaster could practically hear Lucille’s future squeals about how cute it was.
But, that’s all he could recollect. There was a blank spot, where Alabaster must have shut down from the humiliation and horror of being on stage without any warning. Coherence came when Pax shoved Alabaster to the punch table.
With a few comments that Alabaster didn’t hear, Pax diverted the remaining admirers. Several monsters and campers were still glancing their way, and a few of his siblings waved at him enthusiastically. But, this was manageable. This was distant.
Pax shoved a plastic cup of punch into Alabaster’s trembling hand. His touch lingered over Alabaster’s fingers for a moment, likely noticing the quiver. Pax went on his tiptoes to whisper in Alabaster’s ear, as quiet as he could while still being heard over the music. “Your Mist show was amazing.”
Alabaster jerked back.
He wanted to hit Pax. Though, he knew it was misdirected anger. Who he should be hitting was Matthias or Jack, who likely planned the grand entrance on stage. Or—
The music increased in volume, encouraging shouts of delirium. Monsters and campers tangled on the dance floor. Alabaster had never been to a school dance, but this looked like the nightmare version of what he assumed one would be. They were in a gymnasium with a stage on one end. Tables were scattered along the walls for food, drink and loitering. The back had interactive games, like Pin the Sword in the Demigod: Camp Half-Blood Edition. The center was reserved for dancing.
And, in the middle of that dance floor was Axel Pax, bowing to a thrilled, giggling five-year-old. He handed Charlie off to Chris (likely with strict instructions to escort her off the dance floor, least she be crushed by mingling Cyclopes). Then he turned a smile to Lucille. With the smooth demeanor of a vampiric count, he transferred into the next dance. No one was going to say no to the attractive, typically reserved, stoic and heroic character.
The reserved, stoic and heroic character that caused that nonsense on stage. While Alabaster wouldn’t have been up there if it wasn’t for Jack or Matthias, Axel had forced him into panicked improvisation and showmanship.
“I must disgrace Axel Pax,” he growled.
Pax startled. Over the edge of his plastic cup, he said, “I’m not sure what maniacal soliloquy you had internally, but the rest of the audience is still confused.”
Alabaster snorted. “I’m going to punish your brother. Maybe I can tell Lucille to spread the word that he’s looking for a male partner.”
Pax laughed. He set his cup back on the table and drummed his fingers beside it. “Oh, dancing with boys won’t bother him.”
Axel paused twirling Lucille in front of her girlfriend, Echidna. Echidna wasn’t the daughter of Summanus’ (the god of nocturnal thunder’s) real name, but Pax’s nickname caught because of her prickly personality. Despite this, when Axel offered, and Lucille shoved Echidna towards him, she begrudgingly accepted the dance. She shot a quick glance at Charlie. This was incredible progress—she couldn’t get within ten feet of men a year ago or be separated from Charlie for more than a few seconds.
Alabaster tore his eyes from Axel and examined Pax skeptically. From what he’d seen, Axel had all the traits, and the cultural background, to be homophobic.
The thirteen-year-old shrugged. “This isn’t exactly a no dancing with people wearing the same underwear kinda place.”
A preliminary glance around proved there were girls dancing with girls and boys dancing with boys. It was with such commonality that the gesture seemed to mean nothing about their inclination. Alabaster wasn’t sure how that worked here, since that would have been a social taboo in his Cotillion classes.
Pax’s smile became distant and sad as he watched Axel save Echinda from tripping all over herself. Pax leaned against the drink table. “Besides, between the circus and our sister, he had to learn not to care. She was a crossdresser and made sure we were comfortable with all sorts of people.”
Opening up twice in one night, Alabaster mused. They hardly spoke of their siblings, other than that Pax missed them. Their near death experience must have made Pax feel more relaxed around Alabaster. The younger boy seemed to have something on his mind recently. Alabaster often caught Pax zoning out in the laboratory, staring at Alabaster’s sleeve or spell book. Alabaster had wondered if it was for a prank.
The smile on Pax’s lips quirked into a smirk. His eyes focused back on the present. “Axel doesn’t favor dancing with boys though, unlike me,” he said, giving Alabaster a wink.
Alabaster snorted. “Stop messing around.”
Pax looked away and popped his cheeks. He straightened his posture, released the table, and turned towards Alabaster. “I want to have fun at this party. Your whole vengeance on my brother for ambiguous reasons—”
“Humiliating me—”
“--that’s villainy and great and stuff, but I don’t want you on it all night. You’ve got his weakest link right here.” Pax pointed both his thumbs at himself. “But I’m not going to help you brainstorm ideas unless you really try to have fun tonight. Now let’s go stuff our faces with Nachos and show Morpheus how to really dance.”
Alabaster stared at him. “We have two different definitions of ‘fun.’ The most probable outcome to incur enjoyment is seeking vengeance.”
Pax pouted. He glanced down the refreshments table. “You’re my babysitter. I going to make a bee line to the first nut-based desert I see and shove it into my mouth if we don’t go play on Matthias’ Wii , and it’ll be your fault.”
“I won’t save you from anaphylactic shock if you do that,” Alabaster said. He frowned. Pax would be integral to bringing Axel down. And they were stuck here for at least another hour-and-a-half.
“What’s the best game on Matthias’ Wii ?” Alabaster asked.
***
Alabaster wanted to complain about Mario Party’s reliance on a random number generator and how it devalued the skill level of the player, but that would require him to admit he relied on that random number generator to win. When playing against actual gamers like Matthias and Chris, he knew there would be little hope in him winning in something like Super Smash or Tekken.
Out of the games they played, his favorite was poker. All magic was legal. He won Pax ten Reese’s Sticks before Prometheus came over and threatened his reigning championship. Alabaster’s “pallor tricks” didn’t seem to work as well on the Titan and Prometheus’s bluffing skills were godly. Well, titanly.
Pax decided Prometheus’s impending win meant he needed to eat all of his candy at once, something Alabaster suspected he’d regret in about ten minutes.
Once the Cyclops bouncer wrestled the last six Reese’s Sticks from Pax, he hopped to Alabaster’s side. His brown and hazel eyes twinkled while he rubbed the chocolate and peanut butter off his chin.
Alabaster didn’t realize he’d been smirking with each his wins. Between Pax’s excitement and cheering and Alabaster’s strategizing, he’d forgotten where they were.
Pax snagged Alabaster’s sleeve. “Come on!” he cried before Prometheus could gloat. The tuxedo-wearing Titan spread his long, thin fingers over the cards as Pax dragged Alabaster away from the table.
Once they stumbled from the game sector, Pax stopped short. He gave Alabaster a huge grin, pulling up his shirt to reveal two Reese’s Sticks hidden along his beltline.
Alabaster snorted. “I’m surprised you didn’t steal more.”
Pax winked and dropped his shirt. “We could go back for round two later. For now…” He took a few steps further onto the dance floor, tugging Alabaster’s sleeve again.
Alabaster’s tranquility shattered. He stared at Pax, listening to the thud of the subwoofer and watching the mass of bodies moving behind the Belizean boy.
Alabaster hadn’t realized it, and he would never admit to it, but he’d been having fun. At the thought of merging into that flowing blob of people, monsters, sweat, and social anxiety, fun evaporated. Cold sweat formed on his brow.
“No,” he said, yanking his arm back from Pax.
The younger boy’s pout returned. “I’m going to make you a shirt that says that.”[1]
They stood there, others swirling around them. Someone bumped their shoulders while running by, shouting, “Don’t be lame and have no shame! Warlock, creep out of your lair, dance, and have fun!”
His face went hot with humiliation. When Alabaster raised his wrist to check the time, he found his fist clenched. An hour had passed while they were playing games. Had the passerbyer’s mockery not bothered him so much, he might have marveled over how fast the first hour went. He assumed it would be agonizing.
But, he could tell the next hour would be much worse. He thought about his laboratory and how much he could get done while everyone else was out. After the Roman attack, everyone should have been working to move and restore the building, not throwing a party “in their honor.”
“This is just a thinly veiled excuse for everyone to feel good about acting like idiots,” Alabaster said. “And a waste of time.”
Alabaster couldn’t remember how Pax got him to play along with this stupid party. Then, it came back: Axel forcing him into showmanship. The humiliation turned to anger. He didn’t need the younger Pax brother to concoct something against Axel. “I’m heading back to camp,” Alabaster said.
He turned to leave. Pax frantically grabbed his arm. “Wait!” Pax shouted. “Wait—we were having—you’re my babysitter! I’ll choke on tree nuts and get kidnapped by bad guys if you’re not around!”
Considering Pax’s ward, Jack, was a schizophrenic with a history of attacking his family, Alabaster thought his concept of “bad guys” was a bit skewed.
Alabaster scowled. “Ajax, you’re thirteen. You’re too old for a babysitter. Grow up.”
Pax’s eyes widened. The rims reddened. He blinked rapidly and looked away. “We don’t have to dance,” he whispered.
Alabaster yanked his arm back again. “This isn’t dancing. This isn’t music. This is a group of unskilled buskers following a formula to produce ‘musical’ garbage because people don’t know how to express their hormones without it.”
Shock wove their mouths shut.
Musical garbage.
Someone else had said that around Alabaster. He remembered sitting in the back of the family’s Mercedes Bends, visiting his father in the hospital. The chauffer cheerfully turned on music for them. His grandfather fired the chauffer, saying what Alabaster had said: that this type of music was a cheap replica of what real musicians could create.
Just like his grandfather thought Alabaster’s magic was a cheap replica of science that couldn’t save his father.
Alabaster couldn’t believe he’d quoted that horrible man verbatim.
At the “buskers” comment, Pax flinched. Although they’d never told Alabaster directly, Alabaster had guessed that Axel and Pax busked, or illegally street preformed, to get by before Camp Othrys. And Alabaster just used it as an insult.
“Ajax,” Alabaster unfroze his tongue, “I’m sorr—”
Pax turned and bolted into the mass of dancers, towards the stage. A couple nearby exchanged a confused glance at his passing and looked over at Alabaster.
“Ajax!” Alabaster called. Although every cell in his nervous system wanted to reel backwards, he shoved past the couple to go after his friend.
After taking ten steps forward, Alabaster realized that finding Pax would be impossible. There were too many people, too much movement, and Pax was too small and conniving. Considering how many monsters and demigods were over six feet tall, the five-foot-nothing demigod could vanish.
This was irrational. Alabaster shouldn’t worry. Pax was in a safe environment, surrounded by friends, and didn’t actually need a babysitter. They would meet back up later, after both of them had time to let off some steam, and Alabaster could explain that he didn’t mean what he said and that Alabaster had only said those words because he… because he…
Is so incompetent at relaxing, I couldn’t rationally explain my anxiety before snapping.
Alabaster didn’t want to wait to check up on Pax. He despised the thought of making someone feel the way his grandfather used to make him feel. Worse for Pax: what if his and Axel’s father didn’t approve of their street performance? Alabaster didn’t know what nerves he’d struck, and not knowing meant he couldn’t mentally prepare for what damage he’d done.
There were too many people, too close. The music had grown louder as Alabaster made his way towards the stage. The subwoofer rattled him internally. Alabaster felt clammy. With all the laughter and joy whirling around him, he felt isolated and sick. Especially with the stares of confusion at his rushed passing.
A sense of hopelessness threatened to overwhelm him when the music quieted.
With the weirdest transition he’d ever heard, the thud of electronic wound down, like the music itself was dying. The DJ, a dark-haired Titaness wearing a modernized toga-dress, cleared her throat in the echo of the mic. The Eldest muse—Mnemosyne’s voice was silky. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Monsters and Ghouls, we have our first good request of the night!”
Pax withdrew from the raised DJ booth and hopped back to the floor, only three yards away.
After the chime of bells, the calming sound of a stringed orchestra flooded the speakers, soon accompanied by a wind instrument—probably a flute.
Several demigods groaned. One or two whined. Alabaster was horrified at what Pax had done to the rest of the party’s occupants and whether or not Mnemosyne had been mocking him.
Then, all the monsters cheered.
“I love the oldies!” Dr. Thorn, their local manticore, exclaimed. He ejected two spikes into the air in celebration, grabbed a Scythian dracaena, and began the elegant twirl of the waltz. Alabaster didn’t want to know where those spikes would land.[2]
Alabaster would hardly call Tchaikovsky an “oldie” but he marveled that these monsters were eternal and their concept of time differed from their own.
While several half-bloods exited the dance floor, a flood of monsters entered. Jack dragged a rather inebriated-looking Luke out to spin with him. Chris and Matthias hopped by, paused, grabbed hold of each other with mock-serious expresses on their faces, and began a goofy, sloppy shamble.[3] Prometheus ruffled Pax’s hair and said, “Good choice,” before bowing to Mnemosyne.
Their DJ grinned, set her headphones to the side of the sound table, and hopped down from the booth.
In an empty space of floor, Lucille giggled. She kicked off her high heels, hopped up to her toes, and began to dance point, her flowy skirt mimicking the motions of a ballerina’s tutu.
Near the food tables, where most of the confused demigods had gone to stand, Axel bowed to Mercedes, offering their Spymaster his hand. Mercedes tucked her embroidered hijab tighter against her chin. She gave Axel a coy smile and flicked him off with her other hand.
Axel must have just finished dancing with Lou Ellen. She stood beside Mercedes, still bright red in the face from the dance. Alabaster was already annoyed with the inevitable week of Lou Ellen’s squealing. She glanced at Mercedes, glared at the older girl—from jealousy or aghast at Mercedes’ refusal, Alabaster couldn’t care to tell—and shoved her forward, hard.
Mercedes stumbled forward into Axel’s arms, adding a second forced dance to Axel’s count for the night.
With all the commotion around them, Alabaster approached Pax. He paused a foot away from him. “Why’d you pick this song?” he asked.
Pax rubbed his face against his forearm, sniffling back the last of his choked tears. “You—you play it a lot when you think other people aren’t around.”
Alabaster unclenched his fist. “It was my grandmother’s favorite scene from Swan Lake.” One of his favorite memories: when she was alive, she would hum along as she stained glass in the piano room. His grandfather hated that she used the room like that, but she claimed it had the best lighting.
“If you were going to leave, I wanted to make sure you at least liked the last song playing before you left,” Pax said. He looked away, hugging himself.
All the tension eased out of Alabaster. He sighed and wasn’t sure if he was more relieved that Pax had stopped crying or annoyed that Pax had beat him—Alabaster couldn’t leave with such a considerate act.
“How many people know how to waltz here, you think? That aren’t monsters, I mean. It might be hard to find a partner,” Alabaster said.
Pax took a step closer. He puffed up his cheeks, popped them, then quietly said, “I know how to waltz.” He offered a trembling hand out, palm down in the female partner position, to Alabaster.
Alabaster stared. Slowly, he glanced to where Jack and Luke were dancing and Chris and Matthias were… he refused to call that a dance, but awkwardly shambling. It wouldn’t be too weird, right? Everyone knew Luke was a ladies’ man, and Jack and Flynn were a “thing,” and Chris and Matthias were just joking…
And Lucille, after all, was doing a ballet pas seul with a cheering circle around her like she was break dancing.
Alabaster exhaled and took Pax’s hand. He slipped his other hand under Pax’s arm, and positioned it on Pax’s shoulder blade. Pax violently shook as he lowered his free arm atop Alabaster’s. Pax was the perfect height for this, being a foot shorter than Alabaster.
That busker comment must have stung Pax worse than Alabaster thought. To have him shaking like this? He frowned, taking a slow step forward with his left foot. He expected Pax to stumble and mix up his footing. Instead, Pax flawlessly stepped back with his right foot.
They started with a basic box step. He wasn’t sure how much Pax would remember from his Cotillion classes or how easily Pax would be able to reverse the footwork to follow instead of lead. When Alabaster added in a rotation to their box step, and then lifted his elbow and their hands to properly shape their posture, Pax continued perfectly. When Alabaster began to go up on his toes for the “2 and 3” count of the waltz, then down onto his heels for the “1,” to give the rise and fall effect of the dance, Pax mirrored the footwork. By the time Alabaster added in the swing and sway to make the dance have a rolling effect—raising his rib cage when they went to the side, or tilting his body when they went forward or back—his curiosity had peaked.
“You know how to follow really well,” Alabaster observed.
The fluid and repetitive movement of the dance calmed Alabaster. This was a familiar environment. The only unusual part was dancing with a boy. Though… he supposed he’d danced with his male instructor when he was learning.
Pax had stopped shaking. Now that they were in a rhythm, Alabaster could glance down to see if Pax still had tears in his eyes.
The younger boy was staring at Alabaster’s collar—the only part of posture he wasn’t doing correctly. His cheeks were flushed with the movement and, likely, his prior tantrum. A little grin touched his lips at Alabaster’s comment. “Thanks. You’re really good at leading.”
Alabaster raised an eyebrow at him. He’d been expecting some stupid, witty retort.
Pax glanced up. His blush deepened and his eyes shot back down to Alabaster’s collar. “Oh! Um—Lapis and I—my sister—we used to switch places on our Cotillion teacher. Axel, Hiro, and Kouta would play along, altering our names and pronouns to fit according to the day. The instructor never knew if which one of us was a guy or a girl, and she was too scared of getting in trouble for mixing it up to ask Dad. As long as we learned both parts, she didn’t care.”
That sounded exactly like something the Pax brothers would do.
Examining Pax’s facial structure, Alabaster could see how the instructor could mistake Pax for a girl. He had all the features to make a convincing crossdresser: with Pax’s wild, raven hair spilling all over his shoulders, his rounded face, button nose, wide eyes, squishy cheeks, and full lips. He was a little too muscular to pass for the average woman, but Alabaster had seen some ripped female demigods and wouldn’t be shocked if Pax’s sister—Lapis?—were similar.
With the baggy, punk-style jacket he wore, Alabaster could easily imagine Pax as some flat-chested girl half-drowned in her friend’s borrowed clothing.
And with the thought, Alabaster felt his chest constrict. For some reason, he felt horrendously uncomfortable.
Alabaster spun Pax out for an underarm turn.
Nothing would change if Pax were a girl. Then, she would just be Axel’s annoying little sister, instead of an annoying little brother—one that followed Alabaster around the laboratory, cheered when he succeeded in one of his experiments, made him hand-crafted presents, and was always ready with a goofy, lame joke to try to make him laugh.
Why couldn’t Alabaster shake the idea that something would be different?
The song would come to an end soon. Alabaster recognized the crescendo. He hadn’t realized until then that they’d danced through two songs—now it was the Waltz of the Snowflakes. Mnemosyne must have a Tchaikovsky Waltz playlist.
Although the last two songs had been relaxing, Alabaster was eager for the end. Something felt off and he didn’t know why. It wasn’t the same anxiety as before. No, he’d almost forgotten about the others—
Alabaster glanced around, finding Jack had stopped dancing to watch them.
Alabaster released Pax’s hand and took a step back half-a-second sooner than he should have according to the music. Pax stumbled, not ready to stop following.
That goofy smile on Pax’s face widened. “It’s okay. I also get distracted thinking about life, the universe, and everything, and forget how to end a dance.”
“Nice song choice, Ajax,” someone said beside them.
Alabaster jumped, having forgotten how many people were around them.
Mnemosyne climbed back into her DJ booth. The throb of electronic and modern pop thudded back into the gym. Bored demigods cheered. Dancing monsters grumbled.
Axel stood near them, one hand still on Mercedes’ shoulder blade. Although he’d lowered their hands from the dance, his other hand still held hers. He continued talking to Pax, giving Mercedes a half-smirk that would have made half the girls in the gym faint. “You helped me find the best dance partner in Camp Othrys,” he said.
Mercedes did not look amused. Her expression was as deadpan as ever. A lock of curly black hair had escaped the corner of her embroidered fabric. He had to wonder if Lucille forced her into some makeup. Mercedes typically wore the simplest, plainest, and most practical clothing she could, without make up or hair accessories other than her veil.
“Pax One,” she said to the older of the two, “you found a temporary victim of circumstance that is now going to ruin Matthias’ life in Tekken. If you’ll excuse me.” She bowed her head, as though about to vanish into shadow after a spy mission. For a split second, he thought she frowned at Pax.
“Uh-hu,” Axel said. As soon as she removed her hands, he took a step after her. “If I win a round of Tekken against you, I win another dance.”
Pax stared at his older brother. “Axel, you’re awesome and everything, but you’re going to get obliterated.”
Mercedes’ head didn’t move as her eyes shifted between the two brothers. “Listen to Pax Two. He is wise… unless you’re willing to gamble information on this game.”
The offer sounded like a threat.
Alabaster saw a minor opportunity unfolding.
“If you’re going to do that, you should keep Tran around,” Alabaster suggested, smirking at Axel. “Least someone consider lying.”[4]
Mercedes let a tiny smile slip. “The child of Aletheia, Goddess of Truth. Thanks, Torrington.” She nodded her appreciation. “Are you feeling lucky, Pax One?”
Axel shot Alabaster a glare.
At least he’d successfully started his revenge on the older Mayan.
Pax tugged on Alabaster’s sleeve. “We can worry about Axel’s downfall later. Let’s get some punch and go for a walk!”
“My downfall--?”
“Come on!”
***
In two weeks (hopefully) are you ready for MORE FLUFF!?! …. And angst. AND MORE FL—oh, oh, next week is more on the angst side. *ehem* I see.
I hope you guys enjoyed! Thank you for reading :D
***
Footnotes:
[1] And thus, Grumpy Cat was born.
[2] Technically, our spiky friend should be dead by now, but I didn’t know that when I originally wrote this scene and I enjoy having random spikes reigning on this parade.
Also, this was written to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake Suite, Op. 20a, TH 219: Act 1: Waltz.
[3] Okay, I’ll finally admit it, my representation of Chris and Matthias’s whole character are based off family members. <3 you guys.
[4] Call out to my home boy, VCRx.
#Tales from Mount Othrys#TFMO#Percy Jackson and the Olympians#PJO#heroes of olypmus#HOO#Alabaster#Pax#Mercedes#Axel#Fluff#FLUFF SO MUCH FLUFF#IT'S LIKE ME CAT MATED WITH A TRIBBLE AND IT ROLLED IN EXCESS SPIDER WEB DECORATIONS#........................................ ew
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The Battle Roar of Sekhmet
Egypt, 1350 BC
I entered the sanctuary area at the back of our hut with a bowl of gazelle meat. Beside me, my little niece Nebet hugged her miniature drum as if it were a doll. The likenesses of our forefathers and mothers watched our passage with painted eyes, their altars adorned with weapons and the gold flies their valor had earned them in life. But it was the gilded likeness of Sekhmet, she of the lion mask and blood-dyed gown, who awaited our arrival against the wall. Despite the dimming of the sunlight through our hut’s narrow windows, Sekhmet’s amber eyes blazed with the same fire that had emboldened generations of our ancestors.
Many times I had knelt before her as I did now, lighting the meat I laid at her feet. The scent of its burning recalled battle after battle of blazing tents and enemies being speared, shot, or cleaved into pieces. The warmth channeled the sun’s blazing heat, which glossed my dark brown skin with perspiration. Even the crackling of flesh breaking down into ash became the cracking of bones and shields as I yelled the battle roar of Sekhmet in my memories.
This evening I would consult our matron for a different battle. This time, our enemies were not Kushites with ochre-reddened hair and leopard-belted kilts. Nor were they easterners like the Hittites or Babylonians, with pale skin and loosely curled beards. No, they were Egyptians like us, fellow children of the Black Land who had fallen under the influence of the false Pharaoh Akhenaten.
Already they had dragged little Nebet’s father away to slave away in the lair that tyrant had built for himself and his cult of lies. I did not even want to guess what his minions had done to her mother. Only I remained to protect and teach the girl over the past year, and never would I let her suffer the same fate as her parents.
I gave her a nod and she pounded her drum with more unbridled passion than a temple ensemble. Together we sang our prayer for Sekhmet’s vigilance, for her guidance, for the courage with which she would imbue us in the face of war and persecution. The fire on my offering continued to flicker on our ancestors’ faces as their spirits’ voices joined ours in a greater chorus. The thumping of my heart became a rhythm complementing Nebet’s drum, as did the war drums that had thundered before all my past battles. Alongside the music’s growing fury there rose an energy within me that flamed as hot as Sekhmet’s gaze. As she opened her jaws to bare her fangs in my vision, so did I.
It built up from my breast to my throat, ready to be released over a climax of cracking drums and shrieking cries.
Instead came the hoarse bray of a royal trumpet. Then followed silence, and finally the rapping of a bony knuckle on our door.
Nebet embraced the drum with shivering arms. I murmured to her that it would turn out alright, for you could never tell a frightened child anything else. Even I didn’t want to believe otherwise.
Outside the door, as expected, awaited Vizier Ay with his leopard-skin mantle, accompanied by royal guards with spears and cow-hide shields. He greeted me with the usual sneer on his dark, wrinkled date of a face, and the night-black dreadlocks of his wig clashed with the scruffy white stubble around his mouth. But judging from the way his eyes ran up and down my figure, he had more than uppity pride spreading that filthy smile of his.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Egypt’s distinguished champion, Takhaet,” Ay croaked. “I understand you’ve earned yourself a whole swarm of flies, yet your beauty remains unworn after so much combat.”
I scoffed. “Most men say my beauty is enhanced by that. But maybe strong women are too much for you to handle, old Vizier.”
“Don’t you dare disrespect a servant of Pharaoh, young lady!” The Vizier spat into my face and banged his staff against the dirt road. “This business is so important, may I inform you, that defiance could cost you your very life — -or your adorable little niece. Tell me, O Takhaet, was it to our Aten that you were praying to?”
If I were to lie, I could spare myself and Nebet whatever this ancient monster and his master had planned for us. But I could not deny our lyrics had named Sekhmet rather than Akhenaten’s pet demon. Nor could I deny that our drumming had spoken in her favorite rhythms rather than any other god’s. And even if it would save my family, I could never betray the men and women of my village by pointing to them. A painful truth was better than a lie that hurt others.
“No, but it’s neither your business nor Akhenaten’s! You can prostrate before that devil you call Aten all you want, but you can never claw out your subjects’ deepest beliefs, no matter how you try!”
The sneer returned to Ay’s face. “But I can silence them. And I have, many, many times. Why, I must’ve…disciplined more commoners like you than all the barbarians you’ve ever slain, Takhaet. But, this time I’ll be diplomatic.”
I was not surprised when I saw one shriveled hand of his glide back and forth over his crotch. That gesture wrung my stomach like a wet rag inside.
“I know what you’re thinking, withered son of a jackal’s bastard. And I could rip out what remains of your manhood with my bare fist!”
The Vizier stepped back, cackling like a sickly hyena. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean that kind of deal. I meant something that would strike closer to your heart. Get the child!”
One of his soldiers shoved me aside and marched into our hut. Nebet screamed and flailed her arms when he yanked her up between his arms.
“Isn’t this a sweet, plump young piece of crocodile bait!” he said. “Hopefully they’ll leave one piece for my supper!”
“You savage!” I lunged after him, but one of his comrades wrapped his arm around my neck and pulled me away.
“So what shall it be, O Takhaet? Your little Nebet or your loyalty to dead gods?”
I could not allow my niece, all that remained of my blood-kin, to fall into the clutches of men viler and more wretched than any Babylonian or Kushite I ever slew. Too many children, probably thousands, must have already been tossed to the crocodiles at Akhenaten’s behest. If either her father or mother still lived, only knowledge of their child’s survival could keep them going.
Caving into Ay’s demands would keep her alive. It would also further fuel his swollen Vizier’s pride and embolden him to seek out more victims, more children to threaten and kill. Sekhmet could never die, but both Nebet and all the other children of Egypt could.
I answered his dilemma with a kick of my heel into my arrester’s shin.
Breaking myself free of his chokehold, I tore the knife out from under his belt and chucked it into the brow of Nebet’s captor. My niece hopped and clung onto my back even as I caught the soldier’s fallen spear and used it to pole-vault over the rest. On the other side waited Ay’s personal chariot. After knocking the driver out with the spear’s butt, I grabbed the reins and whipped the horses into a neighing gallop.
Driving the chariots was always my favorite part of battle.
Huts, villagers, and trees blurred past me. The wind blew in a cool gale against my face. I couldn’t help but yell with girlish glee as I relived the thrill of a chariot chase, even with all its bouncing jolts and veers.
Nebet, much to my joyful surprise, squealed and laughed with me. “Can we do this again sometime, Aunt Takhi?”
“Next time he comes, I promise!” I said.
Our fun ended with the bang of a thrown spear against the chariot’s wheel. It threw us into the sky over the skidding horses until we crashed onto a hut’s thatched roof. Only by the mercy of the old gods did I catch Nebet before she hit something harder.
Ay’s thugs encircled the hut and hurled more spears at us. As I dodged their throws with Nebet on my back, I observed we had reached the village’s edge. Beyond the outer palisade sprawled a grassy field with scattered acacias, which in turn gave way to forest on the horizon’s edge. The shelter under those trees would be our only hope.
I picked up another spear and vaulted from the roof, over the palisade, and into grass that stretched higher than my knees. I sprinted as if I were racing a cheetah, but Ay’s cursing guards were closing behind me. My calves and thighs flared like a bush fire under my skin. A slung stone grazed my hip, but it made me stumble a couple of steps.
Ahead grazed a herd of gazelles. I ran straight through them, and they scattered in all directions. I hoped their stampede would run over my pursuers, or at least that they would lose us among the panicking animals. I did not hear any men scream death cries, but neither did I see them behind me anymore. It was better than nothing.
I had burned away so much of my energy that evening that I slowed into a panting stagger upon entering the forest. I put Nebet down and collapsed into the low crotch of a sycamore fig tree, letting out a relieved exhale. The darkness under the treetops would be our sanctuary this night, because I had worn myself out for the day.
“Cower all you want in those woods, traitor!” Ay’s croaky voice, muffled as it was by the foliage, was unmistakable. “The leopards shall do our work instead!”
Nebet buried her head in my bosom like a baby nursing her own mother’s milk. Her teary eyes and cheeks reflected even the little waning sunlight that shafted through the canopy. “We’re never going back, are we, Aunt Takhi?”
I stroked her disheveled puffs of hair and gave her my most motherly smile, because I could not give her anything else. Not even a lie. “Only the gods know what lies ahead, my sweetheart.”
“But they failed us. Sekhmet failed us, they all failed us! That old man was right, the old gods are all dead!”
“But his god never existed. Why else would we be able to get away from him? We even killed at least one of his minions!” I wrapped my arms around my niece. “Besides, our prayer got interrupted. What if we were to finish it? This time, we’ll pray on behalf of all Egypt against Akhenaten’s oppression!”
“But we don’t have my drum. Or her idol!”
She was right, we could not go home to our hut’s sanctuary. And Akhenaten had robbed all the temples in Egypt of the gods’ likenesses in favor of that Aten monstrosity. Or rather, all the temples still in use. Egypt’s history, with all its chieftains and kings with their various works, ran many centuries further in the past than those. Many of those past works lay buried under wilderness like the forest around us. “We may not need them,” I said. “I can think of something even better. And it shouldn’t be far from here at all.”
##
The white gaze of the moon, surrounded by innumerable stars, had replaced the sun in a blackened sky. Its light, faint as it was, guided me and Nebet through the maze of sycamore and palm trees. She tightened her grip on my breast with every bird squawk, monkey hoot, or coughing roar of the leopard. I myself felt cold serpents of fear slither up my spine despite the balmy humidity.
A twig cracked. Nebet yelped, and I spun around with hands clenched onto my spear. Across a nearby clearing bolted the shadow of a small antelope. Wait, once we had found what we were looking for, I might need that. With a singular throw, I managed to spear that duiker through the head.
“Is that for us?” Nebet asked.
“It’s for Sekhmet,” I said while hauling the carcass onto my shoulder. “Keeping hanging on there, little one. We’re almost there.”
From the corner of my eye, I spied paw-prints bigger than most leopard tracks on the leaf-littered ground — -tracks almost as big as a lion’s in fact. But lions were creatures of the open plain, not the forest, and Nebet had been scared enough times as it was.
We passed a vine-entangled falcon sculpture with a disc and a cobra mounted on its head. This was the likeness of Ra, the god of the sun which Akhenaten’s devil Aten tried to usurp along with all the other gods. Behind it a stout limestone obelisk towered up into the treetop canopy from a high slanted platform. Between them and the statue of Ra rose overgrown walls with a gatehouse bisecting them.
“This is a Temple of the Sun, like those built during the Fifth Dynasty,” I whispered to Nebet. “That would make it, what, over a thousand years old?”
“Whoah, that’s even older than Grandmother!” Nebet said. We chuckled together.
“It’s older than any of our grandparents, little baboon. Temples like these were built in honor of Ra, and was Sekhmet not born from Ra’s eye? We might speak to her through him!”
We pried open the door in the temple entrance and entered an open courtyard blanketed with undergrowth. The giant obelisk reared on its platform at the court’s opposite edge, with another likeness of Ra chiseled into its based. This time Ra was not all falcon but instead a man with a falcon mask who trod the python Apep underfoot. He did not watch his temple alone but shared it with other animal-masked gods standing along the courtyard’s sides. I recognized Anpu the jackal, Sobek the crocodile, Hetheru the cow, Khnum the buffalo, Sutekh the aardvark, and Djehuti the ibis.
And then there was Sekhmet, she of the lion mask.
Her representation was over thrice the height of the one back in our hut. Not even centuries of erosion, or the creepers wrapped around her, could hide the glint of her ivory fangs or inlaid amber eyes. Under the moon, her glare blazed with more predatory brilliance than I had ever seen on her images.
“Look here!” Nebet had run over to a niche underneath the surrounding wall and was tapping on something wooden. “Drums!”
And she was right. Drums of all sizes had been cached in there, some as small as her own miniature one and others big enough for a grown woman like me. My niece and I could drum together now!
I laid my duiker kill at Sekhmet’s feet and lit it with a makeshift torch. It blossomed into a huge ball of flame that made my previous offerings look miserly for the comparison. And with both Nebet and I holding drums between our legs, we recited our prayer with the full force of our voices.
All our ancestors must have been among the chorus that chanted with us, but the gods around us sang loudest of all. The beats came in many rhythms from both our drums, from my heartbeat, and from my memories. Entire armies thundered beside us, hooting and roaring, women shrieking and whooping like hyenas on the warpath. And as our larger offering crackled under the fire, so too did whole hordes of our enemies have their bones cracked and shields split asunder.
Again, it was building up from my lungs into my throat. I was ready to let it out like I never could at home.
What came was a roar. But not from myself, or Nebet. It wasn’t even Sekhmet’s roar, but that of a real, mortal feline.
There were three of them that had bounded into the temple’s courtyard. They were big and heavily built as lions, but had the hides of leopards, with two having spots and one a pure black coat. The larger of the spotted ones had a short mane like a young male lion’s. I had heard stories of rare crosses between lions and leopards, but never had I seen one on all my hunts. Never mind a pride of three!
Blocking the way between Nebet and these half-bred cats, I jabbed my spear at them with a hiss and snarl. The male of the trio bared his fangs and answered with a deep, coughing roar that froze my flesh to the bone. At his sides his mates crouched, rolling their shoulders with glowing green leopards’ eyes on my niece.
We were outnumbered, but even I could not outrun half-lion, half-leopard felines in the woods at night. All I could do was teach them the fear of humanity. So I chose to charge them head-on.
The male cat met my challenge with the lightning quickness of his leopard parentage and the lion’s brute might. He had me pinned back-first under his paws, the weight of his muscles nearly crushing mine. He would have split my bones had I not gotten one stab of the spear into his flank. It did not fell him, but in his roar of pain he relaxed his pressure enough for me to roll free.
I jumped to make another thrust, aimed at his skull. Again his mixture of lion’s strength and leopard’s reflexes defeated my attack with a swat of his paw that took off the spear’s bronze head. The sudden force of his blow threw me off my footing into one of the statues’ bases.
Nebet’s scream of terror and pain pierced into my heart as well as my eardrums. The spotted female cat had already caught her by the skirt in her fangs! I threw my decapitated spear into the beast’s shoulder, saving my niece from the crunch of death, but the male of the pride had sprung for me. I darted out of his way, letting him collide with the statue behind me, and put Nebet onto my back. I beat away the spotted female half-breed’s next attack with the duiker’s charred corpse and hurried for the temple entrance.
From the head of another idol, the cat with the pure black coat shot down paw-first in my way and slashed its claws across my breast. I reeled back until all three of the pride were circling us like vultures over a kill. I had been a fool. There was no way to beat these cats in battle. The best we could do was break out of their trap and shut them in.
After one kick into the male half-breed’s face, I rushed past him through the entrance’s doorway. Together with Nebet, we slammed the old door closed. Though it throttled back and forth with the felines roaring behind it, the hard wood it had been hewn from withstood their attacks with resilience belying its antiquity.
I scooped my whimpering niece up and mumbled thankful prayers that the night’s violence had not inflicted fatal damage on her. “It’s all right, my sweetheart. We’re safe now.”
“Not any longer, O Takhaet!”
Ay and his squadron of soldiers had found us! Ringed by all their spears and axes, I had spent too much energy to defy them any longer.
“This time, I’ll make it simple. Surrender your dead faith or die!” Ay’s sneer had widened to an open grin of malevolent joy. “Choose rightly, and we’ll bring you home and act as if this never happened!”
It would have meant defeat for my cause, for the traditions I and all the people of Egypt had followed before Akhenaten’s ascent. But Sekhmet and her brethren had failed us twice. No, if those three half-lions were any sign, she must have turned on us, never mind all that we’d done for her. And if my niece’s life was no longer at stake, it no longer mattered whether we swore by Aten rather than the gods who had deserted us.
“How about this, old man?” It was Nebet who spoke. Not even the tears in her eyes could extinguish away the determination in them. “You tried to kill us, so why don’t we do the same to you?”
She tugged the handle on the door. I helped her, and we ran straight through the confused soldiers the moment it banged open again.
The clamor of feline roaring, splintering spears and shields, and the screams and death cries of men echoed between the trees. So did our laughter together.
“You are a clever little baboon, aren’t you? How’d you hatch that one so quick?”
“They came when we prayed to Sekhmet. She must’ve summoned them for something. And besides, you used gazelles on those men earlier.” Nebet was beaming with the fierce pride of a triumphant warrior, a beam I had shown myself many times in my career. Like aunt, like niece.
“All right, you win!”
A gagging Ay, with wig fallen off and a blood-sprayed leopard-skin mantle, had tripped on his cane behind us. “I’ll tell Pharaoh you surrendered, and have your whole village left alone. Truth be told, that bloated fool would rather laze around in his new ‘palace’ than run his kingdom as he should. Sole representative of Aten’s will, my smelly ass!”
After helping him up, my niece and I nearly exploded into laughter from the hilarious irony of it all.
##
When we returned to our village after daybreak, the people welcomed us with cheers, hoots, and songs of praise. The headman thanked us for driving back the tyranny of Akhenaten and his false god, promising to reward us with the greatest feast the village had ever known.
And so it was held that evening. Hundreds of drums cracked and rumbled as we roasted whole cattle and antelopes in Sekhmet’s honor, firelight dancing to the many rhythms. Hundreds of men, women, and children sang her praises, adding to the drumbeats with clapping, stamping feet, and the banging of spear butts and walking sticks. This time, I did not need memories or imagination to enhance the music. It was real, it pulsed all around me, and it even made me dance beside the flames.
Finally, I could let it flow from my lungs, up my throat, and out of my mouth. And for once, it was my own voice from whence came the battle roar of Sekhmet.
#Takhaet#short story#short fiction#writing#fiction#historical fiction#ancient egypt#egyptian#kemet#african#original characters#ocs#black woman#women of color#woc
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How about prompt 110, “You don’t even know me.” It could be from the early days of Gosalyn's adoption?
Gosalyn finds it hard to like much about life.
And then she ends up with a superhero for a pen pal.
This got a little out of control! 11k words later, and it’s finished. I tried my hand at the new Darkwing Duck, so it was definitely unfamiliar territory, but I’m glad I tried it out. Totally a great writing exercise. But definitely not something I was prepared for at all.
And for other people, send me more prompts! I’m ready!
.
When Gosalyn turned three years old, she decided that her favorite color was going to be green.
It was such a revolutionary discovery that she felt it necessary to announce. She stood in front of the door when her father came home from work, planting her hands on her hips. “My favorite color’s green!”
Her father moved past her, touching her head in greeting.
“Dad!” She chased after him. He’d moved into the kitchen and was rifling through the fridge. There were some clinks and clatters. When he reappeared from behind the door, the light of the fridge casting shadows across his face, she tried again. “Green,” she said. “It’s my favorite color!”
“Okay,” he said. He closed the door and used the edge of his shirt to help twist off the bottle top.
“My room is pink,” she said, pointing towards the stairs. “I want it green .”
Actually, lots of what she owned was pink. Her large closet was all pink dresses. Her carpet was pink. There were dolls on the shelf (pink), and fancy glass ornaments she wasn’t allowed to touch (pink), and a little chandelier hanging from the ceiling (more pink). When she’d been old enough to pick a favorite color (three years old and finally given a color chart at preschool) she’d decided it was green, and her large room felt like it belonged to someone else.
Everything Pink was someone else’s.
Her father closed the fridge door - “Then paint it green” -and brushed past again, stalking through the house and up the creaky stairs, out of sight.
Later, she’d try to tell her mother, too. “Greens my favorite color,” she said from the table.
Her mother pushed over a platter of sweet potatoes. Her bracelets shone gold in the evening burn outside. “Alright, honey,” said her mother, pointing to her plate. “Eat your dinner.”
They’d lived in a large house in a large neighborhood. There weren’t many kids, and a lot of her time was spent on her own.
Which was fine.
Besides, she’d had her grandfather.
He came over every other Saturday and took her out. Museums, ice cream stores, movies, they’d done all they could together. And the world outside her (pink) room had expanded into one of beauty and wonder and likes and dislikes.
She learned that she liked mint chip ice cream.
She hated sour cream, but loved regular cream.
Baseball was the best, and hockey was the worst.
She’d spent hours with her grandfather looking at dinosaur bones in the Museum of Natural History, towing him through to see space exhibits and science experiments.
He knew what she liked, and she was grateful for it.
“I like green,” said Gosalyn while she ate mint chip on a cone.
“Green is a fantastic color, Gosalyn,” her grandfather praised.
She’d beamed.
When he’d dropped her off that night, she leaned into a hug. “You know me,” she told him.
He’d looked down at her. “Of course I do.”
“No,” she said. “ You know me.”
Her father was at the door then, a bottle in his hand, gesturing her through with dark eyes. When she’d run up to him, his dark eyes turned on her.
The world went Pink, but she stood against it. “I like dinosaurs,” she declared, little fists at her sides.
“Inside,” growled her father.
So she went.
When Gosalyn turns four, she finds out that she likes more things;
She likes tapioca pudding.
She likes hot dogs and hamburgers and cake.
She likes soccer.
Hockey is okay, now.
She likes new colors; orange and red and yellow.
She likes sneakers and pigtails and winter and summer.
She tells her grandfather when they meet, every other Saturday. He listens and nods and indulges. He tells her what he likes (chocolate, painting, watches ) and she agrees with half of them.
“Mom,” she says later on that year, just weeks before her seventh birthday. “Can we go to a baseball game for a party?”
Her mother pulled her (pink) sheets up to her chin. “Honey, you know I already booked the dance studio for your birthday.”
“But I don’t like dancing. I like baseball.”
Her mother sighed. “Gosalyn. We can’t change things. If you wanted to change parties, you could have told me earlier.”
Gosalyn sat up fast, and her covers (pink) fell down to her waist. “But I did tell you. Last month, remember? Do you remember, mom?”
“Gosalyn. It’s bedtime.”
“But I told you,” she said again. She curled her fists at her sides. Her chest was too tight, and her mind buzzed with an awful pink. Like her room. Like it wasn’t hers. “I told you! I did !”
“Gosaly,” said her mother, pushing out the word like it wasn’t her name.
Like it was Pink.
Gosalyn watched her mother leave, turning out the light.
Gosalyn turned five in a dance studio. Her mother took pictures and laughed and spoke to parents and didn’t notice when Gosalyn had hidden beneath a table and kicked the wall until her toes hurt.
When they’re driving home, she’d sat in the back silently while her mother talked to a friend from the little bluetooth in her ear.
It’s only when they’re pulling into the driveway does Gosalyn speak.
“It’s like you don’t even know me.”
Her mother looks in the rearview mirror. “What, Gosalyn?”
Gosalyn pushed open the door and ran into the house.
Drake Mallard knew exactly what he liked.
He was on the cusp of turning thirty eight, and he’d spent his entire life modeling himself after the one thing he liked more than anything else.
Drake Mallard liked Darkwing Duck.
Loved Darkwing Duck.
Breathed and exuded and carried Darkwing Duck.
Everything he’d done was modeled after one, perfect, wonderful phrase that had shaped most of his life.
WWDW
What Would Darkwing Do
The thing was, Drake Mallard was useless . Drake Mallard was a nobody from the middle of the country who wore pink shirts and baseball hats. Drake Mallard was almost forty years old, and only had a few lousy acting gigs to show for it.
Drake Mallard was a nobody.
And then, Drake Mallard was Darkwing Duck .
He signed posters.
Took pictures with fans.
Did everything Darkwing would do.
There’s an empty feeling inside him that he mentally pokes at. It’s settled between his ribs, wrapping little vines through his veins. It’s been there for some time.
He doesn’t worry too much about it.
When the job happens, it would fill itself up.
And so he accepted the job offer and treated himself to a night in. He watched reboots of his old hero on the screen of a laptop and ate pizza straight from the box. His hero, Darkwing Duck, soared across the screen, taking out evildoers, saving the city, crying out absolutely novel worthy punchlines.
He’d done it alone, too. Returning to an empty lair to revel in his good deeds and days won.
There was no reason Drake Mallard should need any more than that, either.
When Gosalyn is five and a half, Darkwing Duck got a reboot, and she’s gone for good.
He’s better than anything she’s liked before.
Ice cream.
Dinosaurs.
Maybe even the color green (which is big for her).
She and her grandfather collect everything they can on him.
Newspapers and posters and action figures, and she keeps everything in a box under her bed.
“He’s the best,” she tells her grandfather, showing him her collection. He was the only one allowed to see it. “And one day, I’m gonna meet him!”
“I believe it,” he told her, nodding seriously.
She turned on him, fisting his jacket between small hands. They were on the back porch of her parents large home. It wasn’t a Saturday. Her mother had left for a retreat somewhere far away and her father hadn’t shown up after work, and so they’d done what they’d always done.
“Gosalyn,” her mother said over the phone, calling their house from the car. “Listen. I won’t be back until tomorrow and your father…” she paused, and Gosalyn heard her breathe out quick. “I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”
She fiddled with the telephone wire, sliding down to the floor and kicking off her (pink) shoes. “Okay…”
Her mother continued, barely phased by the weight on her daughter’s voice. “But listen. I figured everything out, alright? I pulled some strings-”
It was a laughable phrase. Her mother did more than pull some strings .
She pulled many strings.
Every string.
Gosalyn’s whole life was amounting to pulled strings, and she was suffocating in knots.
But finding out her grandfather would be coming over was a welcome surprise, and when he’d shown up at the door, she knew that at least one good thing would come out of unraveling the strings the world had set before her.
And so they’d sat on the back porch and discussed superheroes while Gosalyn somersaulted and dirtied her pink dress and couldn’t have cared less what her mother or father said about it.
Things were good when her grandfather came over.
There weren’t any strings when he was there.
“Bravo!” he shouted, clapping when she’d landed an exceptionally good (and muddy) little flip. “Darkwing Duck couldn’t have done better!”
If there were strings, they only held things together.
The miracle happens when Gosalyn turned six, and her grandfathers company, Waddlemeyer Technologies, managed to book a celebrity endorsement and host.
Gosalyn nearly lost her mind when she found out who it would be.
“DARKWING DUCK?”
“Yes!” Her grandfather laughed, lifting her off the ground. She had her arms wrapped tight around his neck. “I don’t know how the lawyers got in contact with him. But they did, and here we are-”
“And I get to meet him!?”
“You get to meet him!”
She shrieked and hollered and did three miserable flips in the backyard until her mother stomped out and told her not to dirty her dress. She ran back, barely looking at her mother -who barely looked back- and hung off her grandfather like a lifeline.
Like all the pulled strings had collected on him.
“Do I get to talk to him?”
“You might.”
“I’ll get to tell him what I like!” She bounced up and down. “I like so many things ! Do you think he’ll listen? Do you think he likes things, too?”
He finally managed to sit her down long enough to let her know that she’d get to at least see the caped crusader. And if she got a chance to talk to him, he’d do everything he could to make it happen. She swung her feet and squealed. And when that got too hard, she jumped up, yelled “ be right back! ” and ran up the stairs, returning with her Darkwing Box. Everything was spread out onto the back porch, carefully and with some reverence.
He helped her, sorting through the mish mosh of her hero.
“I’ll bring this with me,” she breathed. “Maybe he can sign it all!”
“Pick one thing, alright?”
She didn’t hear him. Or maybe she did and didn’t care. “I have so much to tell him!” Her hands trembled, and she sat on them. “I’ll tell him about ice cream. But only the mint chip kinds.”
“Obviously.”
“And dinosaurs .”
“He’ll love that.”
“And baseball and hockey and soccer- do you think he likes sports?”
“I think he loves them.” Her grandfather looked through the box, rifling through more of the toys and cutouts, picking out a few and smoothing them on the porch
She stood by, still so tiny in stature, straightening the wrinkles from her (pink) shirt. Her fingers twisted and twined, and her eyes ( green ) watched her grandfather carefully. “Hey, grandpa?”
He hummed, looking away and back towards her.
She swallowed. “If I told him what I liked, do you think he’d remember?”
He smiled, putting the papers back down. “I’m sure he would. And then: “Why don’t you write a list?”
She writes one that night.
In green ink.
To Darkwing Duck,
My name is Gosalyn Mallard, and these are the things that I like.
The color green.
Soccer.
Dinosaurs.
Anything green.
And sometimes orange.
But not pink. At all.
I want you to have this list so that you can know me, because one day I’m going to be a hero, and heroes should know each other. My grandfather knows me, and he’s really nice. But I want someone else to know me, too, because that would be cool. Do you like anything? You can tell me! Even if it’s secret, you can tell me, because I’m great at keeping secrets, and there’s no one I would tell them to.
Except maybe my grandpa.
But he’s really good at keeping secrets, too.
Love,
Gosalyn.
Drake Mallard hadn’t even wanted to do the stupid job for Waddlemeyer Technologies. But his agent had assured him that the paycheck that would come from it would pad his savings for a rainy day, so he’d said yes.
“But only for a few minutes,” he said. “I took this job so I could play a hero! Not sell some guys random electronics.”
“It’s Waddlemeyer Technologies . He’s one of the biggest tech moguls we’ve got in the city. And besides,” said his agent. “The producer for the studio works alongside him.”
“Mr. McDuck?”
“Waddlemeyer built a lot of the security systems around the man’s house.” His agent shrugged, handing him all the details in an envelope. “Apparently it’s one of the best security systems out there, and he wants to thank the man by sending you out there.”
Drake looked down at the envelope. “This wasn’t what I signed up for,” he said again. “I did this job so I could inspire kids . Maybe help a few out. Deal with Lady Danger! Maybe bump into the unexpected!””
“Yeah, well, welcome to Shobiz.” He snagged the costumes hat from where it lay on the trailers couch, handing it to Drake. He saluted with his coffee and walked to the door “This is the most dangerous thing you’ll do here. I’d stop expecting it to be, if I were you. Nothing here’s unexpected.”
And so he goes, doing his best to not expect anything. Sitting alone, waiting for someone to prep the green room, he holds onto his hat between fidgeting fingers.
He’d been expecting more from this whole thing. Expected him to at least change a few lives the same way Jim Starling had changed his.
“No expectations,” he reminded himself, sitting back in the wheely chair they’d given him, kicking the floor, rolling back a few inches. “ No expectations .”
The vague, empty feeling inside him returns twofold, and he rubs at his chest right over its place.
He’d gotten into this alone. He’d surge forward alone. He’d survive alone.
He’d inspire alone.
Someone knocked on the door and let him know the green room was ready for him. He donned his hat and thanked them before striding out towards his Expectation-Less Destiny.
And that was exactly what he’d meet.
(Destiny, as it would turn out, had bright red hair)
(He wouldn’t expect that, either)
She meets Darkwing Duck.
The first time Gosalyn meets Darkwing Duck, it’s more of an accident that she meets him. Or maybe just good timing.
Her grandfather had told her that day that she may not have been able to meet the hero at all, but that he was happy to deliver the letter to him. He’d brought her along so she could at least watch the hero praise Waddlemeyer Technologies for their breakthroughs in crime prevention.
That hadn’t been enough.
It had only taken her a single “I’m gonna go find a bathroom,” for her to be cast away on her own.
She found him coming out of a conference room. His back was to her, and he was fiddling with his mask, his hat tucked under her arm.
When she’d shouted his name -” Darkwing! ” he’d nearly jumped to the ceiling, scrambling to put his mask back onto his face. “Oh gosh! Oh my gosh, it’s you!”
He turned, his hands clutching the shirt over his heart. “Jeez, kid, give a warning why don’t you?”
She was too caught up to recognize the blunt words, the snipped tone, the wary stare. Gosalyn jumped up and around, note tight between her hands. “I love superheroes,” she squealed. “I- I have everything of yours! In a box! Under my bed!”
That at least got him snapped out of his reluctance, and he preened, head high. “Well isn’t that nice. You bring anything to sign?”
She stopped jumping. “No. I didn’t think I’d be meeting you.”
“Ah. A stowaway on a mission, then.”
She didn’ t know what it meant, but it sounded fun, so she nodded. And then, remembering at the last moment, “but I brought you this!” Extending her trembling hands, she offered up the little scrap of paper and green ink.
“You know I have an address for fan mail, right kid?”
“It’s not fan mail, doofus. It’s a list!”
“… a list?”
“Of the things I like! So you can know me!” She struck a pose. “I’m gonna be a hero like you one day. I want to see if we like the same stuff!”
He didn’t look as much like his pictures up close. He was softer. A little rounder. His eyes were tired, and he didn’t smile much. His hands twitched every so often in little, nervous movements.
Moving closer, she caught the smell of peppermint shampoo.
His voice drew her back, the hero unfolding the bit of paper and squinting at the blockish lettering. “You just wanted me to have a list of things you liked?”
“Mmmhm. So I can see what we both like.” She nodded. “No one really knows what I like. So I thought I’d tell you. You know. Like… like mint chocolate chip ice cream. That’s my favorite.”
She’d only known him for a few minutes, but the smile that hesitatingly bloomed was the first real one she’d seen. “Yeah. That’s my favorite too.”
“It is!” “That or coffee.”
Gosalyn stuck out her tongue. “Not coffee.”
“My favorite, my choice, kid.”
“That’s gross.”
Darkwing snorted before looking up and down the hallway. There wasn’t anyone there except for the little girl, who looked about ready to burst. He sighed, gestured toward her. “Come on. I have to go to the green room before the conference. I’m not sure where you’re supposed to be, but we can call security there. And-” he waved her note, “you can tell me more. I’m sure there’s stuff you didn’t write down. Maybe we have more in common.”
She stuffed her fists against her mouth to hold in the shriek, scampered forward, grabbed his hand (much to his shock, if his face said anything), and pulled him along.
Gosalyn liked many things.
And Darkwing listened to them all.
She wasn’t sure why he listened. And from the way he kept shaking his head, like he was waking up from dream after dream, he wasn’t much sure, either.
But he listened.
She talked about soccer. About green. About pink dresses, giving hers a terrible little pull. She talked about hockey and dinosaurs and sports and science.
She showed him a few of her best superhero kicks and punches, and nearly broke a lamp, but he caught it in time. Which was way cool.
At some point, she stopped to take a breath, considering him quietly for a moment. “Does anyone know what you like?”
He stuttered. Stumbled. Said something about how heroes couldn’t have friends so no one was there to listen to things he liked. “I don’t like many interesting things. It’s all boring outside of the suit.”
“Oh,” she’d said, racking her brain for six year old things her teacher had taught her. The first grade classroom was a very good place for this sort of thing. Gosalyn was never good at the friend thing. She beat everyone at everything, and her whole class was jealous.
Still, her teacher had told her once that the best way to make friends was with open arms. And not with a fist, her teacher had shrilly exclaimed, pointing to the boy who’d dared her to punch her. Which she had.
It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t take what he gave.
Gosalyn shook her head, looking at the superhero in front of her, standing by the lamp she’d nearly broken. “Even if you’re boring,” she said, “would you tell me?”
He stumbled again.
But in the end, he did.
It turned out, there were plenty of things he liked.
“Western movies,” he told her. “And knitting.”
“You knit ?”
“I’m a great knitter.” He wiggled his fingers. “Ask anyone. I can knit a sweater and stop a villain at the same time!”
“That’s stupid.” Her face contracted. “You said we should get dangerous , but that’s not dangerous! It’s dumb !”
“No. It’s practical , little miss.” He sniffed. “Your parents should teach you about knitting. Or manners. Or both .”
Gosalyn shrugged. “They don’t really like many things.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.” He stood, stretching, His back popped and his shoulders cracked. He gave each one a quick roll. “I mean… they like you! So that’s at least one thing, right?”
“I… don’t know.”
She didn’t notice him moving until he was kneeling beside the chair.
Peppermint swam around her, and beneath that she could smell toothpaste and coffee and ash. There were wrinkles around his eyes and at the sides of his bill that crinkled when she made him smile.
“Oh come on. They’re your parents .”
She wanted to lean forward and press her face into his shoulder.
Instead, she sat on her hands and shook her head. “I don’t think they like me much.”
The same wrinkles deepened at that -his face an absolute stew of origami concern- and he opened his mouth to protest when her grandfather opened the door.
“Gosalyn!” He was pink in the face, which was never good. Her grandfather rarely got angry with her, no matter how many soccer balls she kicked or how much mud she splattered. Still, she’d wandered away, and her own face flushed when guilt settled itself behind her ribs. “You can’t just wander off- I am so sorry , sir.”
Darkwing waved him off. “It’s alright. We were just talking.”
“Yeah,” she parrotted. “We were talking!”
Her grandfather breathed in deep. Let it out slow. “He’s got work to do. Say goodbye.” To Darkwing, he grimaced. “Thank you again. I’m sorry if she was bothering you-”
“What, her? No! We had a good time. She kept me company.”
“Yeah!” crowed Gosalyn, confidence renewed. “See! We had a great time!”
Darkwing snorted. “She’s sure got a lot of spirit. I’m sure she’ll be the next big hero in this town.” He winked down at Gosalyn. “I’ll check your list again. Maybe we’ve got more stuff in common.” The letter went into his pocket, and he stepped forward to shake her grandfather’s hand. “If I need to deliver anything to her,” he told her grandfather, “I’ll send it your way.“
He watches them leave, waving to them as they go.
Drake Mallard -Darkwing Duck- hadn’t noticed when the tendrils around his ribs slowly back away.
But he noticed when, just a few minutes later, they slithered back into place.
He rubbed at his chest again, getting up when the manager came to get him, leading him towards the stage, trying to push away the feeling he’d yet to name.
WWDD he thinks to himself, as he’s pushed out. What Would Darkwing Do
Gosalyn couldn’t hear her grandfathers chiding as he dragged her out of the greenroom past the final words that spun round and round and round.
I’ll send it through you …
“Did you hear?” she said, interrupting her grandfathers lecture about lying and bothering superheroes. “Darkwing Duck is going to send me letters! Me !”
“He’s a busy man, Gosalyn.” Her grandfather sounded tired and worn as he walked them both through the lobby of his industries building, waving to a security guard and a secretary, flashing his badge. “I don’t know if he’ll be able to-”
“He said he would,” he protested, swinging off his arm. “So he’s going to! And you’ll give me whatever he sends me, right?”
“Gosalyn…” He squeezed her hand. “You know he’s just an actor-”
“ Right ?”
Her grandfather looked like he wanted to say something.
One look at her eyes stopped him. Instead, he squared his jaw and nodded. “Right,” he said.
And that was all.
And then, suddenly, it wasn’t. Because two weeks later, on the second saturday of the month, her grandfather is at their door with something in his hand. “You’ll never guess what showed up on my desk,” he said, sounded like he truly couldn’t believe it himself.
She didn’t remember to say hello as she snatched the letter and ran up to her room.
Dear Gosalyn,
Thank you for your letter.
We have a lot in common as it turns out!
I also like mint chip ice cream. And dinosaurs.
I don’t know a lot about sports. Sorry.
My favorite foods are waffles and hot dogs. I hate pancakes.
Is this enough for your list?
DWD
P.S. You’re absolutely right. Heroes should know one another, and I’m sure you’re going to be one.
Darkwing Duck hadn’t known what to do when he’d met Gosalyn Waddlemeyer.
Her grandfather had reached out through his lawyers to see if he’d be willing to endorse new security systems. There’d been a nice cash sum attached, and there wasn’t a recently unemployed actor who’d be stupid enough to say no to a savings cushion.
And that’s when he’d met Gosalyn.
She’d been made of fire, popping out the top of her head in the form of obnoxiously red hair.
She’d worn bright pink, but resented everything about it.
She’d called knitting stupid, and nearly broke a lamp.
And then she’d given him a letter.
The first one he’d sent out as an in-character joke. People sent fan mail. He was willing to oblige.
And then they’d kept coming. And he’d kept sending.
What do you like , she’d asked. And for the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t sure how to answer. It had been a long time since anyone asked that. He wasn’t even really sure what he liked outside of acting and his Darkwing Duck collectables.
Drake Mallard, he reminded himself, was a nobody.
Drake Mallard was a person who collected stuff to hang on a wall.
Drake Mallard didn’t have many friends, drank too much coffee, liked playing mini golf, and snored too loudly when he slept.
Behind a mask, he was better.
And yet, behind paper, without a mask? Drake Mallard could at least shine through a little. Enough to be recognizable again.
So he’d thought.
And he’d written.
And he’d kept writing.
Gosalyn’s next letter ended up being a little more thorough than the first. She filled it with costume ideas and superhero phrases. She told him all about how hockey had been terrible at first, but was getting better.
She told him about pink.
My parents aren’t very good listeners, she said. I don’t think they know me. My room is pink and my clothes are pink. Sometimes I don’t see my dad for a long time. My mom is home more, but I never see her either. I don’t know what they like.
She stared at that long enough for her heart to begin aching pink. Then she shook her head, and instead delved into a long list about what her grandfather liked.
At least she knew that.
She wasn’t sure how her grandfather managed to get that letter along to him. He said that his lawyers knew the studios lawyers, and they’d managed to work it out from there.
“I hope you said lots of nice things,” he said, on their next Saturday together.
She nodded. “I told her all about you,” she promised. “About your favorite ice cream and books.”
“Good. I’d hate to live in a world where Darkwing Duck didn’t know my favorite ice cream color.”
Some part of her thought he might have been joking, but she didn’t have time to explain that it was a very serious thing. If superheroes didn’t know what you liked, then how could they save you.
Her grandfather becomes a messenger of sorts, and every other Saturday is met with a reply.
.
.
.
Gosalyn,
Pink is a great color! My favorite shirt is pink. I wear it all the time when I don’t wear my superhero outfit.
Give pink a chance, that’s all I’m saying.
.
.
.
Darkwing Duck,
Pink is bad. Pink isn’t mine. Everything I own is pink.
Have you treid wearing green? It’s much better.
Gosalyn
.
.
.
Gosalyn,
I still think you should give pink more of a chance. But until then, I’m happy to inform that I’ve gone out and bought a green jacket to go over my pink shirt.
You’re right.
Green is great.
Darkwing Duck
“Who are you writing,” her mother asked her one Sunday afternoon, putting down the phone and leaning over the kitchen table.
“Darkwing Duck.”
Her mother looked at the page. Scanned it.
“Hm,” said her mother. “You know he’s just an actor.”
“No. He’s real ,” she said. “He fights crime.”
“Hm,” her mother said again. “You spelled tried wrong.”
The letters piled up in the box beneath her bed. She always used green ink. He used purple or black or blue. She showed them to her grandfather, who read them all with careful eyes.
“Why did you write this one?” He held up a letter she’d written two weeks before.
Darkwing Duck,
My dad is never home, and my mom isn’t either. I’m going to try and use the house for practice! I’ll get super dangerous!
What kicks do you like best. I’ll do those.
Gosalyn
She read it again and shrugged. “Because I want to be a hero.”
“But why did you write this ?” He pointed to the first line, jabbing his finger against the page.
She did a little kick, landing awkwardly on her foot with a vicious cry of, “ Let’s get dangerous! ”
“Gosalyn? Why did you-”
“Because it’s true,” she called over her shoulder before trying another kick. “And a hero is always honest.”
She didn’t see her grandfather snap a picture with his phone.
Drake Mallard always been happy to answer fan mail as Darkwing Duck before. He felt more comfortable behind the character. Confident. Himself. But this had been different. The lists of likes had turned into a child’s life being torn and twisted, and he’d clung to the letters, not sure what to do beyond replying.
He’d wanted to be a hero. Wanted to inspire children on lunchboxes and posters.
And then he’d met Gosalyn.
Gosalyn, who hated pink, loved ice hockey, and could say the entire alphabet backwards three times fast.
Gosalyn, who felt alone.
Suddenly, faced with the embers of a child mid-extinguish, he wasn’t sure how to be a hero anymore.
Writing back seemed like the only thing he could do.
And whenever he did pen a new letter, sitting down at a desk, responding to questions about little, dumb things like favorite dinosaurs or ice creams, he forgets about the cold spots settled in his chest.
Suddenly, Darkwing Duck wasn’t quite as much there as he was before.
He tried to write that down in a letter to her. Tried his best to stay in character, where he was most comfortable. Hiding behind a hat and a mask and a cape and a character he’d auditioned for and gotten the part.
Gosalyn, he wrote.
My favorite things are crime fighting and wearing a cape .
He looked down at that for a while. Darkwing Duck like Danger! And fighting! And backflips!
Drake Mallard? He liked mint chip and t-rexes.
He erased the page and started again.
Gosalyn,
I love dinosaurs and mint chip ice cream with extra whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles and, sometimes, sour gummy worms (my favorite candy).
I also love mini-golf. It’s just about the only sport I can play.
Darkwing Duck
The next time her mother and father were out, there was a new woman knocking on the front door.
“Hello there. You’re Gosalyn, right?” She wore a nice suit, and her hair was dark and curled, and tied up tight. “Your grandfather sent me over. Are your parents home?”
“No.” She glared. “You know my grandfather?”
The woman took a pad of paper out of her pocket and wrote something down. Then she smiled at Gosalyn again. She had a nice smile.
Then again, if Darkwing Duck taught her anything, most villains did.
“I do! He’s been talking to me for a few weeks. We’re good friends. He said I should come talk to you.”
She leaned on the door, closing it just enough so that the woman couldn’t fit through if she’d wanted to. “My parents aren’t home,” she said again. “I’m not supposed to let you in.”
“That’s right. I won’t come in unless there’s an adult.” She smiled again. “I’ll come back later. With your grandfather. Does that sound alright?”
Gosalyn nodded, then closed the door.
The lock clicked into place.
Darkwing Duck,
There was a lady at our house asking questions. My parents weren’t home, so I didn’t let her in.
I think she was a reporter.
How do you talk to the press? You’re so good at it!
Gosalyn.
.
.
.
Gosalyn,
Lots of practice.
I used to be an actor, so I always had to pretend to talk to someone.
What sort of questions did she ask?
Darkwing Duck
.
.
.
Darkwing Duck,
She asked me why I was home alone.
She asked me about my dad.
And my mom.
She asked me if I was safe.
I told her they weren’t home so she couldn’t come in, but then she went around the house and looked in the recycling. She says she’s going to come back later, but I told her to scram, because I’m not supposed to talk to weird strangers. It was scary.
What do you do when things are scary? I bet you do everything on your own. You’re good at that. You said you didn’t need anyone.
If I’m going to be a hero like you, I need to do things alone.
I don’t need anyone, either.
Gosalyn
“Drake, come on. We’ve got filming to do.”
His agent was a taller man. Broad shoulders and slicked hair, he loomed over Drake in his little trailer. Drake sat at the fold out table, scribbling back to the latest of Gosalyn’s letters.
“Just a minute-”
“The director won’t wait a minute. And you know how stingy McDuck is about his filming time. Any extra and it’ll be on you.”
Drake looked at his reply. It was pithy. Barely what it needed to be. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to respond to something like what she’d sent.
He turned toward his agent. “There’s this little girl who’s been sending mail. She sent me… well- just listen .” He read it out loud, emphasizing the alone and don’t need anyone . When he was done, he looked up at his agent.
“How would you respond to that?”
His agent shook his head. “It’s fanmail. Have one of the studio interns write back.”
“No. This is different. I know this girl. I remember her- she asked me…” he gave it a shake. “How would Darkwing reach out. What would Darkwing do if he thought someone he knew was in trouble.”
“It’s fanmail. Send her a signed picture. Come on.”
Drake gave the letter one last look before donning the rest of his costume and following the man out.
I don’t need anyone, either , she’d said.
“Drake!” His agent again, motioning. “You coming? Or are we charging you for time wasted.”
Without much else to do, he followed.
Gosalyn turns six years old, and begins to learn that she likes many more things.
But she also learns there are things she doesn’t like.
She didn’t like it when her father began coming home earlier and earlier.
She didn’t like the clinking sound in the fridge.
She didn’t like his shouting.
She didn’t like her large house.
She didn’t like it when her mother vanished.
She didn’t like the color pink.
Especially when her father had come home from work to see her writing a letter. He grabbed her arm, hard. “Who’ve you been writing!”
She pulled on her arm. “Darkwing Duck.”
“ Who .”
Let me go -”
“Who’ve you been writing,” he growled again, squeezing her arm harder. His eyes flashed, staring down at the page. “If you’ve been telling that woman anything-”
“I told you!”
“Your grandfather,” his voice dropped low. “He’s been telling that woman things. Now they’re asking me questions. If you’re in on it, too-”
His next tug seared, burned. With a shout, she sprang, and her foot cracked against his knee. He fell, and his hand released just enough for her to wiggle free and run through the kitchen, up the stairs.
When she looked at her arm, the yellow downy feathers had been crumpled and were beginning to fall away from his hand. The skin beneath had turned pink.
That was the year where she began liking less and less.
Her entire world was turning Pink…
(dresses)
(rooms)
(bruises)
…and she let’s it push her out.
Darkwing Duck,
You said to get dangerous.
I don’t want to get dangerous.
I want
She didn’t finish that letter.
She sent it anyway.
That was the year that Darkwing Duck moved off the screen and into reality. And Gosalyn couldn’t have been happier.
It was a blip through all the pink when the news had blared on from her father’s office, and she stood by with her back pressed to the wall, listening while the reporters shouted back and forth about criminals being apprehended by what they thought might have been Darkwing Duck.
“It’s amazing,” one of the reporters said. “Matt, you have to see this. Three crime bosses, dumped on the police steps. He left a note. Signed it Darkwing Duck and everything.”
“And this is of course two weeks after the studio filming Darkwing Duck collapsed and both actors seemingly vanished,” another reporter chimed in. “Bodies were never found, but we did speak to a small child from the McDuck family who said-”
The TV changed channels and clicked off.
Darkwing Duck,
I knew you were a real hero!
I told everyone, but they didn’t believe me!
And if you want, you can come get me! I can be your sidekick, if you want! We can do everything together. And I can show you everything that I like, and you can show me everything that you like.
Does that sound good?
I’d be a great sidekick! The best sidekick. And I could live in your secret lair and everything.
I know you said that heroes worked alone and whatever, but maybe we could do things together!
That sounds good, right?
Gosalyn
She’d give that note to her grandfather and tell him all about it.
Her grandfather was looking worn. He was less fun to be with when he came over, too. He asked questions upon questions, writing down answers. Everything she sent was captured in a picture first, even though she said he couldn’t show anyone else, because they were secret.
“These are important,” he explained. And then, after a moment, “Gosalyn… things might start to change a lot around here.”
“I know!” She did a little kick (she was getting better at those) and punched the air twice. “Darkwing’s gonna come soon. I’m gonna be his sidekick!” She turned around and did another punch. “You can come too!”
“Thank you, honey, but I mean…” he struggled for words, searching through the air. “People might come by and ask questions again.”
“About what?”
“About your mom and dad.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s their job.”
“Can I tell them about Darkwing, too?” She grinned, punching some more in front of her, drawing her fists back. “I want to tell them all about being a hero! That’s better. My mom and dad are boring.”
“Okay. But… Gosalyn. You need to tell them. I’m buying a house now a few cities away. And after you tell them, we’ll go there.”
“What?” She punched forward again. “But I don’t want to go. Darkwing can’t find me if I go.”
He sat down next to her, and when she tried to punch again, he caught her fist. “You have to tell them the truth, okay? You can’t tell them about being a sidekick. You have to tell them about your mom and dad.”
“But this is the truth! I have to stay! So Darkwing can find me !”
Her grandfather swallowed and shook his head.
Her mind began to swim pink.
“He was an actor, Gosalyn. That was his job. I don’t know who’s playing superhero right now-”
“It’s Darkwing .”
“I know. Gosalyn, I know . But I need to worry about you right now, not him. And when people come by, you need to tell them-”
“I’ll tell them about Darkwing,” she pulled back. “I want to talk about things I like !”
“I know-”
“No one asks me about what I like!” Everything was pink. The world was swimming pink.
Nothing was hers.
“I don’t want to tell them about them! I don’t want to leave! Darkwing needs to find me!” Angry tears sprung into her eyes, and she stomped her feet on the deck. “He’s going to!”
“Gosalyn…” He rubbed his face. “Just… tell them what you can. Alright?”
“I will,” she snapped. “I’ll tell them everything.”
He stopped asking after that.
He took the letter with him when her mom got home and her grandfather could leave again. Her mother glared his way, but he didn’t say anything. He just waved to Gosalyn, pocketed the letter, and got into his car.
“Stupid,” her mother spat, grabbing Gosalyn’s hand and dragging her into the house. “ Meddling . Trying to see things that aren’t-” She let go of Gosalyn’s hand and stomped around the house, wiping down nonexistent dust off everything, muttering about people who shouldn’t stick their noses in other people’s businesses.
An hour later, overcome by her apparent anger over snooping people, she grabbed her keys and left.
Gosalyn stood in the living room and watched the sun go down and the rest of the house turn dark.
Darkwing Duck,
I think I am very alone.
Gosalyn
Darkwing’s lair was little more than the back rooms at an abandoned factory. He’d told Launchpad that they could have just used his house, but the driver had insisted that they’d need a secret, even if it was temporary.
“We’ll find something better, DW,” Launchpad promised. “But if you’re going to do this superhero thing for real, then we need somewhere to meet where no one will suspect! What’ll happen if some neighbor sees Darkwing with the keys to your apartment?”
It was a good point. He couldn’t just stroll in, and too many trips through the balcony might look suspicious.
So he agreed, and they found the little space to call their own, and for the first few weeks everything was fine.
Until he found the letters again.
He’d kept them all in a manilla envelope, and when the studio kicked him off, everything he’d owned had been thrown away. Collecting it all had been a chore, and Launchpad had been kind enough to give a hand.
Thankfully, he’d been a small enough actor before his break that no one knew much about who he was, and so he’d walked off the movie lot with armfulls of things and not much of a hassle beyond that.
And he’d found her letters again.
There wasn’t any way of responding to them. Not anymore. He flipped through them, remembering the face of the sender.
Bright red hair and yellow, downy feathers. Too small, but looming. She’d throttled life around her with such force, knocking down lamps and listing everything she’d ever liked.
He flipped around the letters, watching the chronology turn her into something even smaller than what she’d already been.
His ribs ached and his lungs squeezed.
“Darkwing?” Launchpad was back, another armfull of posters from his trailer clutched to his chest. “You good, DW?”
“What? Oh. Oh, yeah.” He put the letters down. “Let me help you with that. You know - I got this poster when I was ten years old. Starling even signed it! See?”
And the letters are forgotten for a time.
.
.
.
But not really.
Darkwing Duck,
I talked to more people at the house.
They are scary.
Gosalyn
.
.
.
Darkwing Duck,
You haven’t written me back.
Gosalyn
.
.
.
Darkwing Duck,
I’m not sure what to write if you don’t write me back.
Gosalyn
.
.
.
Darkwing Duck,
I don’t want to be a hero anymore.
Heroes write people back.
Gosalyn
.
.
.
Darkwing Duck,
I’m sorry I said that.
You’re still a hero. I watched you on TV last night when the reporters were talking about that crime you solved. It was great. I saw you have your own sidekick now. That’s good.
Heroes shouldn’t be alone.
Gosalyn
When the Saturday of her grandfather arrived again, he didn’t have a note.
“He stopped sending them,” he told her. “I’m sorry, Gosalyn. I checked, but-”
Gosalyn locked herself in her room and wouldn’t talk to any of the people who her grandfather had let into the house. She could hear them looking around, talking quietly, taking notes. Heard them drive away.
When it got later, she fished the box out from under her bed. She took out letters, one at a time, and lay them on the floor. They watched her, all purple ink and careful penmanship.
“I’m alone,” she told them, like they’d know what to do. “I’m alone .”
Darkwing had always prided himself on being alone.
She didn’t know if she could do the same.
I want … she’d written, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying to claw the answer out to the surface.
I want.
I want .
I want …
(family)
(love)
(home)
… nothing.
Gosalyn picked up each little note and put them back into the box. She slid it beneath the bed again.
Drake Mallard, now Darkwing, wasn’t sure what to do.
Which royally sucked, because asking WWDD at that moment was not helping. And if he was going to be Darkwing Duck, it sort of felt apt to at least have an idea.
He was Darkwing Duck now. Darkwing Duck, who was strong and willfull and didn’t need anything! Who always got back up. Who was important, and good, and important.
Who was absolutely lost when it came to the issues of one small girl.
He told Launchpad about it, sharing coffee on the roof after they’d taken down a small drug ring that had begun to operate on the west side.
“So…” he said, “I wanted your opinion on something.”
Launchpad drained the rest of his coffee and reached for the box of donuts he’d put next to his knee. “Sure, buddy! Anything!”
“There’s… this girl.”
Launchpad’s eyebrows rose. “Gotta tell you. I’m not the best at that sort of thing.”
“ No , not like… she’s a little girl. A kid. Seven years old. A fan.”
“Ah.”
“I met her when she was younger. Her grandfather owned this company when he was alive, and I did a job there, and she ran into me. Totally a fan of the show. I was happy to talk to her. But then she gave me this letter, and I wrote back and…” he shrugged. “We wrote for a whole year.”
“That’s good. Right?”
“It was. But then- the letters got… bad.” He stared at his feet. “Custody issues. Bad home. The girl was reaching out, and I didn’t know what to do about it. I still don’t know what to do about it. And now that my place at the studio is gone, I don’t get them anymore. I don’t even know if she’s still sending them.”
“Hmm…” Launchpad popped the rest of his donut into his mouth. “So what’s the question.”
Drake looked off over the city. The light pollution from below clung to the buildings and burned away at glass and metal. “I don’t know.” He flicked a pebble off into towards the street below. “Darkwing would have known what to do here. He’d probably have a twelve step plan in place. Something to do with getting the people who’d hurt her. Finding evidence. Solving a crime.” He punched the air. “You know. Something like that.”
His friend nodded. “Well, it sounds to me like you’re worried.”
“I mean- I am .”
“So why don’t you go see her!”
“What?” He blinked, shaking his head. “I can’t just swing down and see- I don’t even know where she lives!”
“No. But you know where her grandfather works, right?”
Drake blinked again. He grinned, and reached for a donut. “Launchpad,” he said. “You’re a genius.”
Mr. Waddlemeyer wasn’t sure what to think when, upon locking up his lab for the night, he was met with Darkwing Duck standing in the empty hallway just outside.
Mr. Waddlemeyer blinked. “Um,” he said.
Darkwing Duck rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey,” he said with a little wave. “So… I think I’ve been talking to your granddaughter for a year .”
“Um…”
He smiled again, awkward and unsure, rocking on his heels. “And anyway, I’ve been sort of worried about her. And my sidekick -nice guy, super cool- said I should talk to you about it, since you’d probably know her better than I did. Or. Definitely know her better. But…” he laughed nervously. “You know.”
Mr. Waddlemeyer stared at the superhero for another moment.
He definitely wasn’t what the man expected.
Waddlemeyer had been watching the news on and off. He’d sort of thought the hero who was dumping villains on the steps of every precinct in town would have been a little more like the old TV show he’d grown up with.
Self assured.
Big headed.
Showy and bursting with bravado.
This Darkwing is… not.
He’s a little more jittery. A little more rattled.
The Darkwing he remembered from Television had also, if memory served, never spent time with children long enough to seek out their relatives and ask about them.
“You’re worried about my granddaughter?”
Darkwing nodded.
“Why?”
The hero looked a little lost for words. “Because… I want to be someone kids look up to?”
“You broke into a lab to ask my about my granddaughter. This isn’t about looking up .”
Darkwing swallowed. His fingers tangled in his cape. “I guess,” he said finally, “it’s because she sounded like she needed someone. Sort of. And she wanted someone to be a hero. And…” his feet shuffled. In the dark of the hallway, he was swallowed by shadows. “I want to make sure she’s alright.”
Waddlemeyer watched him another moment. And then he turned and unlocked the door to the lab.
“I’ll brew some tea,” he said.
Darkwing hesitated a moment before following him through.
The hero and the scientist talked through the night and early into the morning about the girl.
About how she was lonely.
About how she was afraid.
About how that little fire her grandfather so loved (but no one else could stand) was beginning to fizzle out.
About how she was turning off and away.
“Her mother, my daughter,” Waddlemeyer tells him over a cup of chamomile, “never wanted to be a mother.”
“Oh.”
“But she became one. And Gosalyn sort of fell into things.”
Darkwing curled his hands around the mug. “Her letters got sadder,” he said. “I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“That’s for me to figure out. And I am,” the older man said. “I’m figuring it out.”
“How?”
“Social services.” He sat back, shoulders slumping. “I began calling years ago, when she was two or three, but we didn’t have much then. Actually, most of what I got was after you showed up again on the screen.”
Darkwing, who’d been taking a sip of his tea, nearly choked. “ Me ?”
“Mmm. I don’t know what it is about you. But as soon as she saw you…” he snapped his fingers, “she lit up. And when you wrote her back? Things got easier once she began looking up to someone. She grew away from her parents. Her parents grew larger. Social services began to pay attention. And thus, the dominos fell.” He sighed, blowing steam across the mug and onto his hands. “Now it’s only a matter of time.”
“And you’ll take custody.”
“I love her. She’s a good kid. Spirited, and a little explosive. But she’s good. And,” he added after another sigh, “there’s no one else.”
His face was long, and worn, and tired, but it brightened up enough for him to say, “just a few more weeks. They said by her eighth birthday. That’s around the corner. They’ll lose custody, and I take her.”
Staring down at his mug, Darkwing nodded. He put it down and slid his hat off his head. “I couldn’t get any letters to her anymore,” he said.
“I know.”
“Did she keep sending them?”
Her grandfather put his own mug down. He stood up and rounded the chairs towards his desk, rifling through drawers. “I wasn’t sure what to do with these, actually,” he said. “The woman from child services already has pictures, but she let me keep the originals. They got… helpless.” He grimaced, staring down at a few.
From behind fingers, Drake could read some of the words:
Alone
Help
Pink
Waddlemeyer handed them across towards him. “Take them. I don’t want them. I’ve read them enough times. Sad things.”
He took them carefully. “Thank you.”
With a hum, Waddlemeyer sat back down. “If you want to respond, just leave them with me. On my desk, or something. You can obviously get it. When they hand over custody, we’ll be moving out. Fresh start and all that. Might be the last time you hear from her.”
Behind a purple vest, Darkwing’s ribs squeezed. He nodded anyway, looking down at the familiar green writing.
A year.
He’d been talking to this child for a year .
Felt he knew her. What she liked. Who she was. What she needed.
And she’d be gone.
Safe , his mind reminded him. She’ll be safe .
“Darkwing?” He looked up from the notes towards Waddlemeyer, who was watching him carefully. “You were an actor, weren’t you?”
“I… was.” His shoulders tensed. “No one really knows my name, so-”
Waddlemeyer snorted. “I barely remember your name. Don’t worry about secrets. They’re safe with me. But… going from an actor? To this? I know you said you wanted to be a hero but…”
“I know.” He tried to laugh, but it came out weak. “I guess it was just- it came easily.”
“Easier than being an actor?”
“Somehow, yeah. It just… came easily. Darkwing would have done something like this,” he tells the man. “I mean, I’ve modeled my whole life after the guy! Darkwing would know what to do.”
“What would Darkwing do?”
“Probably keep writing,” he said, honestly. “Maybe after things clear over I can actually write her again, somehow. Let her know that Darkwing is still on her side. Watching and helping her. Keeping all his citizens safe.”
“Ah.” The older man nodded. “So Darkwing did the safe thing, then? Very easy to do behind a mask.”
Darkwing wasn’t sure how to answer that. So he let it fall into silence.
They finished their tea, and Darkwing left out a back window.
He sat on the roof of the building for a time and watched the sun come up, feathering over the deep sky, and coaxing it away with fire.
“Safe,” he reminded himself. “You’ve got nothing to do with this. She’ll be safe. That’s all you need.”
On patrol two weeks later, Darkwing would be the first to see the morning newspaper thrown out of the truck.
Waddlemeyer’s heart attack was front page news.
It had only taken a few minutes for Gosalyn’s life to be thrown up and out. When her mother had answered the phone late Friday night and said one word before staying quiet, listening.
Her face had gone pale.
There was a jingling of keys and her mothers quick feet. Gosalyn had been off in the living room when she’d hurried past, and she’d followed. She’d never seen her mother convey more than distaste.
To see this -fear- scared her.
“I have to go.” Her mother unlocked the car, opening the front door. That was all she said. “I have to go.” And then; “Hospital.”
“ What ? Why!”
But that was all her mother would say, running out the front door, closing it behind her.
Gosalyn had thrown it open, hearing it slam as she flew down the steps. She hadn’t put shoes on over her soft, gosling feet, and she felt the concrete tear and pinch. Running outside as her mother pulled the car out of the driveway. “Mom-” she called after, panting, running fast as she could in her pink dress down their too-big lawn. “ Why !”
She wouldn’t get an answer.
Not until her mother came home and sat her in the kitchen and told her.
“I’m sorry,” said her mother. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t cry.
But Gosalyn did. Retreating into her room, she screamed and howled and stormed and whirled and raged and snapped and broke .
There was Pink all around her, and for once it didn’t just push away.
It swallowed.
It drowned.
Pink was in her hands. Pink was thrown across the room. There was the sound of shattering as she grabbed whatever she could find and hurled it towards the pink walls and the pink ceiling and the pink carpet.
She listened to everything break around her, and that only made her throw things harder when it wouldn’t drown out the awful heat - tumbling, collapsing, fracturing - behind her eyes.
Alone.
He’d left her alone .
They’d all left her alone .
How the box ended up in her hands, she wasn’t sure. But there was paper everywhere. Purple ink. Green, unsent ink. Forgotten ink.
She grabbed it by the handful, fisting each letter.
It took so little effort to tear everything in half. And then tear it again.
She kept ripping. Kept mangling. And only stopped after-
(gosalyn)
(darkwing)
(alone, alone, alone)
-the pink carpet was scattered with shredded paper.
And then she sat.
And she breathed.
Staring at the mess around her. Broken glass. Punctures in the wall. Ruined paint.
Tears collected and burned behind her eyes as she slipped down to the Pink carpet, feeling bits of glass and plaster pricking her fingers. From downstairs, there wasn’t a sound. Her mother had left again.
She ran her hand along the torn bits of paper.
And the fire that had so quickly burned her bright simmered away, and Gosalyn was left in little more than ash.
The last letter she’ll write will be for herself.
She knows he won’t respond. But she doesn’t care. He hadn’t responded for some time, anyway.
Her pen stilled on the page. It trembled and shivered. Her letters were wobbly and odd. The paper was crumpled and the pen barely had any ink in it, so she’d had to switch out her green pen for a pink one. Darkwing Duck,
My name is Gosalyn.
And I don’t like anything.
The next day social services would be at the door.
Gosalyn would go without a word.
Darkwing Duck heard about everything from the newspapers, and he’d shown them all to Launchpad, waving them around his sidekicks face. “Did you see this ? Foster care! She wasn’t supposed to go to foster care !”
“That’s usually what happens, DW.” He shook his head, looking upset. That was the great thing about Launchpad. When he looked upset, he meant it, and it did at least a little something to quell Drake’s anger.
But not much.
He searched through the paper for more clues, but came up dry until he’d reached the obituaries section. Waddlemeyer had died a few days before, but his name still popped up under their events.
“The funeral…” he looked up at Launchpad. “What do you think the chances are she’ll be there?”
“Look, DW… I know you’re upset. But she’ll get through it. And you didn’t really know her.”
“But I do know her,” Darkwing said. “I know her enough! And she might need- she said she needed heroes, right? That’s what she said she wanted-”
“Maybe we should focus on some other stuff now, like-”
“Do you think she’ll be there?”
Launchpad fiddled with the buttons on his jacket. Nodded.
Darkwing goes to the funeral because it’s what Darkwing Duck would do.
He would stay just far away enough to keep himself distant, but close enough to seem heroic. He was a man of the people, but a loner at heart. He appeared to let people know he was there.
He did things by himself.
So that’s what Darkwing does.
The second time Gosalyn and Darkwing meet, it’s after her grandfather’s funeral.
It’s not a long meeting. It’s not a good meeting, either.
He’d taken the shortcut to St. Edelberts Cathedral, hopping from building to building, sliding down fire escapes, landing square in the alley besides the church.
She came out on her own before anyone else had left. The door opened, and he could hear the organ playing from behind her before it closed again, and she was covered in silence.
She looked small. Too small sitting on the marble steps.
There’s no paper or ink between them. Just space and air. He emerged from the shadows of the alleyway, and she looked up and… there they were. The both of them. And so when she stares at him like he doesn’t exist, like he might just evaporate into a purple smudge when she blinks, he’s not sure how to handle it.
“I’m so sorry.” He tries his best. It’s all he can do. Stepping forward through the space.
She’s on her feet fast as she could be, tripping over the one behind her.
“… Darkwing?”
He tried for a smile. It fell flat. “Hi… hello.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to say…” he fumbled, hands turning to fists where they still sat in his pockets. “I wanted to say I was sorry. And… if there was anything I could do-”
She shook her head. “I’m going away, soon.”
“I know.”
“My grandpa died.”
“… I know.”
She swallowed hard, looking away for just long enough that the light from the church caught the sheen of her eyes. “You never wrote me back…” There’s a vicious betrayal behind her voice. “I wanted to be your sidekick. I told you that… that there were bad things, but you never came.” She looked back at him again. “You were supposed to be a hero.”
His lungs twinged. Something in his chest snapped. “I couldn’t do anything.”
“ Why ?”
“Because that’s not what heroes do. We really don’t have much control over social services, kid. That stuff- it’s all up to normal people. The government. Not people in capes.”
“Then what do they do?”
“They… I don’t know. Stop bad guys. Keep people safe. Watch out for crime. Stuff like that.”
The hurt around her thick. “But I needed you.”
“Your grandfather… he did everything.”
Her pigtails slapped the side of her head when she shook her head. “But now he’s not here. And I’m going somewhere else, far away.” She sniffled. “I don’t want to go far away. I wanted to be here. I wanted to be a hero .”
He moved closer, hands finally falling from inside his pockets to move forward, outstretched. “You can be!”
She shook her head again. “I don’t want to be, anymore.”
His hands fell.
She backed away, up another step. “You stop bad guys, and you fight crime. But… but you can’t even write a letter. You can’t even stop bad things from happening.”
“Gosalyn, I’m sorry .”
“You’re just a stupid guy.” She wiped at her eyes quickly before anything could fall. “A stupid, dumb guy, wearing a stupid, dumb costume who wants to be alone . Well- well being alone sucks .” Her voice was rising, fists tightening. “And if that’s what being a hero is, then you can keep it.”
“Gosalyn, please . If I could-”
“Go away.” Her sleeve was up again, wiping her eyes. “Go away .”
She went back into the church.
He stood there for a while, listening to the faint hum of the service from inside.
The empty feeling settled in deep.
For once, Darkwing Duck was the one who felt like an absolute nothing.
Launchpad is a fountain of soft wisdom.
It only takes a few days to extend a hand towards his friend, who throws himself into work tirelessly to push away some sort of hidden hurt.
“DW?”
Darkwing, perched on the top of a fire escape, grunts.
“DW, not to complain… I mean- I love doing this crime fighting bit with you. But do you think, maybe, we can talk about the funk you’re in.”
“It’s not a funk .” Drake took out a pocket tracker he’d been using lately, turning dials to pick up on what the warnings police had been broadcasting all night. Something about a car theft from the upper east side. He could handle that, easy.
“No. I’m sure it’s not but… you know…” he shrugged. “Ever since you went to see the girl-”
“That’s over,” Drake said. “She didn’t want to see me.”
“Yeah, well, she’s a kid . Kids say that stuff. Trust me! I work with a few!”
Drake was quiet a moment, looking over the city. “I barely knew her,” he said, finally. “So it doesn’t matter. She’s in good hands. The city’ll take care of her.”
“She could be in better hands.”
Drake looked down at Launchpad, who was leaning on a railing, picking at the rust casually. “I told you what she said.” The words still stung when he thought back to them. “She doesn’t want a hero. I didn’t write her back.”
“You couldn’t have.”
“Yeah, well…” He scrubbed his face. “What use is Darkwing Duck if he can’t help one lousy kid.”
Again, Launchpad went silent. And he stayed that way for a while. The two of them watched the lights flicker and pulse around them. Across town, a siren roared to life. Cats mewled in the alleyways. Everything smelled a little like after-rain and plaster.
“You know…” Launchpad sat back from the railing, brushing dust off his hands, “not to push you or anything, but maybe Darkwing Duck can’t do anything. Still doesn’t mean that Drake Mallard can’t, either.” He reached out and took the police scanner from Darkwing’s hands, pressing a few buttons. It burst to life. “Come on. Robbery on 32nd. You wanna hit it?”
Drake Mallard nodded and followed after him.
When the suns just coming up the ridge, the lair in sight, Launchpad grabs his shoulder and squeezes it. “You know,” he said. “I keep thinking about Darkwing Duck. The original one. Jim Starling one.”
“Yeah?”
“He was alone a lot. That was his thing, you know?”
Drake did know. His entire life was modeled after the guy. Down to everything he did, said, believed. “That’s who he was. The lone ranger type, you know?”
“Yeah. Well. I was thinking. There were a few episodes where Darkwing got home, and looked sad. Because he didn’t have anyone. And I always sort of thought that was alright, because that’s who he was.” Launchpad gave his shoulder another rough squeeze. “Just saying. There might be more to life than that. You know?”
Drake Mallard loves Darkwing Duck.
It’s what he knows. It’s what he’s comfortable with.
(It’s what he hides behind)
Darkwing Duck would know exactly what to do here. Darkwing Duck was tough. Resilient. Firm. Always got back up. He’d probably write the kid back and tell her that.
“Get back up,” he’d say. “You’re strong. You can do things alone. Get back up.”
He stood in the empty lair.
What about Drake Mallard, a well-stomped-away voice squeaks into existence. What can he do?
Gosalyn wasn’t sure what to think when they told her she was being transferred into a new home.
“He’s never been in the system before,” the woman, Patty, told her as they drove down the lazy roads of a cookie-cutter street. “Actually, he’s sort of new to everything. New house. New job. He seems nice-”
“So did everyone else,” Gosalyn mumbled.
House after house had politely requested she be taken away when they realized she liked to practice backflips in her room and in the backyard. After she’d broken one too many lamps. After she refused to talk about what she liked and didn’t like, and spent hours locked away.
Patty looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Give them a chance,” she said. “You don’t know what they’re like unless you give them a chance.”
They pulled into a driveway of a little white house.
The man sitting on the steps was wearing a pink shirt. He waved when Patty walked over the lawn, fingers tugging nervously on his buttons. Gosalyn stood back.
Patty turned around. “Gosalyn, stop being difficult. Come on. Come say hello!”
Gosalyn ground her teeth and stomped up to him. She glared, arching her back to look at him. “Your shirt’s pink,” she said, voice low and rough. “I hate pink.”
Patty’s face turned a nice shade of pink at that moment, and she looked about ready to yell something down to the little girl about being polite and kind and this is why people keep sending in complaints and can’t you just please try to be nice for once!
She didn’t get a chance when the man by her began to laugh.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know. You like green, right?”
Gosalyn stared at him.
Then he reached into his pocket.
Gosalyn blinked.
Stopped.
Breathed.
“Sorry it took me this long to respond,” he said, holding out the letters. “Drake Mallard had to take off the mask, first.”
Patty doesn’t know what to say when the little girl falls against the Man in the Pink Shirt.
He’s not Darkwing Duck. He tells her that.
His name is Drake Mallard. A former actor and a current superhero.
He wasn’t much of anything special behind the mask, though.
“You don’t know me very well,” he admitted, looking just as nervous as she did. “You know Darkwing. And I’m not really him. I’m someone else.”
“Oh.”
“But I really did want to help you,” he added. “And I really am done with being alone. So I thought, maybe, we could try the whole family thing out together?”
“Oh,” she says again. Her bag is in her new room and they’re sitting on the floor of the living room, facing one another, a box of pizza between them. She looked down at her hands. “Well,” she said. “If I gave you a list of things I liked, maybe you could tell me what you liked. Maybe we’d have stuff in common.”
Drake Mallard laughed. “I think that’s a great idea.”
Gosalyn Mallard turned eight years old and decided that her favorite color was definitely green.
Her favorite dinosaur was the stegosaurus.
Her favorite sport was probably hockey.
Her favorite shirt was the jersey stuffed in the back of her drawers that she saved for special occasions.
And her favorite person was surprisingly not Darkwing Duck.
But the man behind the mask (who loved some of the same things, except for knitting and sewing and baking) definitely was.
He made great cookies.
He knew how to tuck her in.
They painted her room green.
Somehow, he knew just the right way to hug.
It was also the year she decided that things were worth liking again.
Drake Mallard was almost 40, came from nowhere, and wasn’t much of anything special.
But apparently, a year later, after Gosalyn (officially his, last name and all) handed him a list of THINGS I LIKE that had his name right at the top, he figured that being Drake Mallard may not have been the worst.
Drake Mallard has friends. Drake Mallard has a new house, with a nice kitchen, and a good place to knit.
Drake Mallard has a daughter, who breaks a few lamps, and never cleans her room, and winds her arms around him before she goes to bed, mumbling little embarrassed I love you’s into his pink shirt.
“Love you too, slugger,” he always says, sending her up.
Darkwing Duck never had that.
Taking off the mask and balancing the time between gets easier.
Apparently, asking what Drake Mallard would do had benefits. Because Drake Mallard knew how to read bedtime stories, and Drake Mallard knew how to foster kids, and Drake Mallard knew how to patch up scrapes, and make a pie, and host eight year old birthday parties.
Drake Mallard definitely knew how to sign adoption papers, and then realize, moments later he had.
Drake Mallard could realize he was in too deep and had absolutely fallen head over heels for a little girl.
Darkwing Duck couldn’t have done all that.
They begin finding that they like life a whole lot more when they’re a family, exploring the world together. They don’t know each other as well as they could. Not yet. But they have time.
And so they crumple up all their old letters and lists of ice cream and colors and dinosaurs and slowly-
(ever so slowly)
-start again.
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Pieces of April [8/?]
AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099044/chapters/50202530
Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason’s second life takes an abrupt new turn and he’s faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.
Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)
Warning(s): Past Jason/Isabel, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who), I’ll add more warnings/tags as I think of them.
Canon-Compliance: Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro. Jason and Isabel Ardila
Author’s Note: Exactly what it says on the can. I’ve had this idea kicking around my head for a while, getting in the way of finishing the next chapter of Philtatos and I figured if I started jotting down the basics of it, I could stop thinking about it.
________________________________________________________________
Tim drives to one of Jason’s safehouses in the Bowery, about halfway between his apartment and the bar where he found Jason earlier. The place is a rundown, fire-damaged building with boarded-up windows and a sign out front advertising cheap studios.
“Do you need any help?” he asks as Jason gets out of the car.
“Just how much stuff do you think I need?” is the irate response before Jason vanishes into the dilapidated lobby.
Tim scowls at his back.
Someone remind me why I’m helping this jerk again?
The memory of the very tiny human still in the nursery at Gotham General makes his facial muscles relax.
Right.
Given the circumstances, Tim supposes he can overlook Jason’s inconsistent moods. He needs someone to lash out at right now while processing, and it’s not like Tim isn’t used to it. Better him than the criminals of Gotham; Jason’s pretty good these days about not using lethal force, but he might not care so much if he goes out without his head on straight.
Speaking of going out…
Tim surprised when Jason actually returns to the car ten minutes later instead of just vanishing. As he indicated earlier, he doesn’t have very much with him, just a worn duffel bag that he tosses in the backseat of Tim’s Porsche before having himself back into the passenger seat.
“Hope there aren’t any severed heads in there,” Tim remarks lightly as pulls away from the building. “I just had the seats redone.”
Jason rolls his eyes. “A guy makes one grand statement and they never let him forget it.”
“You don’t want people to forget it.”
“True,” he agrees with a sharp grin that is anything but humorous.
It’s a short journey back to Tim’s place, but he still drives around the block to use the secret entrance to his base of operations.
“What, I’m not good enough for your front door?”
“Be my guest. Say hi to Vicki Vale when you do, she’s usually lurking nearby.” When Jason shoots him a sharp, questioning look he elaborates, “An occupational hazard of being the face of WE is having paparazzi camped out around my place every now and then. I figure you don’t want your face showing up on the front of the Gotham Gazette.”
“Yeah, that might have been worth mentioning when you offered your guestroom.”
“Guess it’s a good thing like all responsible Bats, I have an underground secret hideout.”
He pulls into the back alley and flips the switch that activates the hidden ramp; the ground falls away and leads down toward the carpark. Tim won’t lie, he enjoys the way Jason’s eyebrows go higher the further in they get. The rest of the Family doesn’t come here—even during citywide emergencies, the agreed-upon convergence point tends to be the original Batcave—so Tim doesn’t have a lot of opportunities to show off.
And maybe showing off to his former childhood idol is something that doesn’t go away, no matter how many years or murder attempts.
That subbasement is nowhere near as large as any of the Caves, but there are two other cars and a half-dozen motorcycles in various states of modification parked in a circle. Tim eases into the only empty space and cuts the engine.
“Welcome to the Nest,” he says as he gets out of the car. “It goes three floors up not including this level. Outside it looks like just another apartment building behind my place, so no one would expect an actual secure installation inside.” He gestures as he speaks. “Ground floor’s got my crime lab and containment units, the second floor’s all training stuff, and the third’s the communication’s hub. There’s even aerial access, but I haven’t had to use it yet.”
Jason shakes his head. “Must be nice to be Dad’s favorite.”
“I wouldn’t know, you’d have to ask Dick.”
“Is that a popcorn machine?”
“No self-respecting hero’s lair should be without one,” Tim quips. “Come on, the living area’s this way.
They head up the stairs to the main level, and Tim doesn’t miss the appreciative glances Jason casts his tech and gear. He opens his mouth to offer to hook Jason up—extend the olive branch, so to speak—but stops himself; he doesn’t know if, after this whole baby adventure is over, Jason’s even going to want to stay in Gotham.
He slides open the hidden door, revealing Tim’s apartment. It’s the same deliberately clean open-concept room as he left it, except for one change. Across from the aquarium that hides the entrance switch, Tam Fox is reclining on the divan in the living room, one hand holding a glass of wine and another flipping expertly across her tablet.
She startles at the sound of the secret door sliding open, and that movement makes Jason tense, fingers ready to grasp for a weapon if need be.
“Relax,” Tim tells him, unsurprised when Jason does the opposite. “She knows everything.”
“And that’s reassuring how?”
“I trust Tam with my life, and to put my interests above WE’s or Bruce’s,” he explains. “Since at the moment you and I are working together, that means she puts your interests above WE and Bruce’s too.”
“She can hear you and knows how to speak for herself,” Tam quips, putting down her glass and standing up. “Who’s this?”
“This is Jason, the friend I was telling you about.”
Tim can almost hear Jason scowling at that; he trusts new people about as much as Bruce does.
Funnily enough, they both make the exact same face.
“And since when is there wine in my apartment?”
“Since you sent me scrambling around Gotham running errands, you generously decided to buy me a bottle of this very nice Riesling,” she replies, studying Jason. “When you said you had a friend with an emergency that required diapers, I was expecting Batgirl. Or Wonder Girl. Or Pru. Or, heck, even that Lynx-woman.”
“Lynx?” Jason repeats, shooting Tim a disbelieving look. “Ghost Dragons Lynx? There’s no way you have that much game.”
“Then he didn’t tell you about what almost happened in Paris,” Tam informs him.
“Anyway,” Tim interjects. That’s all he needs is for Jason to hear about his own near brush with fatherhood. “This is Tam. Officially she’s my personal assistant, but I think ‘friend and confidante’ covers the relationship a lot better. And Tam, this is—"
“Jason Todd,” she says immediately, her eyes fixed on the other man in disbelief. Tim is momentarily caught off-guard. “It took me a minute, but I recognize you anywhere.”
Okay. I didn’t expect that. Though I probably should have. The Foxes were invited to all the same benefits and events Mom and Dad were. She probably knew or knew of Jason.
“Tam,” Jason repeats, tilting his head to one side and frowning at her for a moment like he’s trying to place her. His expression clears. “Tam. Tamara. Fox, right? You knocked Ned Davenport into a potted plant during Bruce’s birthday party one year.”
For once this evening, Tim is the one to feel a little bit off balance. Jason never talks about his time at Wayne manor in anything but unpleasant terms. And yet, Tim knows from Alfred’s stories that there were happy times and that once, Jason was as much a part of life at the manor as Tim or Damian.
“He deserved it for ‘accidentally’ grazing my boobs when he passed by. Three times. And—and that’s not the point! You died!”
“I got better,” he replies with a bitter twist of his mouth.
She gapes for a moment, then reaches for her glass and downs the remainder of it.
“I’m going to become an alcoholic before I’m 25,” she tells the empty glass in a resigned tone before turning back to Jason. “Okay. I don’t even question this stuff anymore,” she informs him. “He could show up tomorrow with the Devil himself and I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Kid Devil, maybe. Lucifer doesn’t like Gotham. He's more of a beach-party kind of guy."
Tam stares, clearly unsure if Jason is being serious or not; Tim actually isn’t sure either and decides to change the subject.
“You want something to drink?” he asks as he heads for the kitchen. He doubts Jason will notice or care, but his mother raised him to be polite even to people that don’t like him. “I doubt you want anything alcoholic after everything today, but I think I’ve got Zesti—”
“Water,” Jason says absently, looking around the apartment. Now that Tam has been proven as a non-threat, he’s clearly more interested in assessing his surroundings.
He notices the large pile of boxes and bags by the stairs at the same time Tim does.
“What the hell’s this?”
“I called Tam and said it was an emergency and that we needed a few things.”
“This is not a few things.”
“Well, you don’t know how long you’re going to need them,” Tam replies. “Congratulations, by the way.” Tim can’t see Jason’s expression, but doubts it’s a good one from the way Tam quickly adds, "Or no congratulations? Where are we on the whole 'congratulations' thing?”
I don’t think either of us has the energy to get into what happened with Isabel just now. Redirection time.
“Did you have any trouble picking up the stuff?” Tim asks as he gets two glasses from the kitchen cupboard.
“Trouble?” she snorts, and her voice instantly goes from bemused to annoyed. “Do you know how hard it was to get all of this delivered without someone seeing me? Or seeing that it was baby stuff? That’s all I need now is Vicki Vale adding cradle-robbing and teen parenthood to her stories about us.”
“What’s Vicki doing this time?” Jason asks.
“She’s been trying to prove Tim’s Red Robin for the better part of a year,” Tam says. “She tried to get me to confirm that last year when all those ninjas tried to kill us, but I panicked and said we were engaged just to distract her.”
“Talk about taking one for the team,” Jason mutters.
Tim glares at him, and if he shoves the glass of water into his hands a little more forceful than he needs to, oh well. “She trots out that dead horse whenever Tam and I happen to be in the same room together.”
“Which is doing wonders for my career,” Tam deadpans. “People already scream nepotism because of who my father is, but now I’ve been reduced to either Tim Drake-Wayne’s assistant or Tim Drake-Wayne’s fiancée.”
“Hope he’s paying you overtime,” Jason says and wanders over to the intimidating tower of cardboard and plastic. He makes a face. “How much of this shit did you order? There’s like a lifetime supply of diapers here.”
“Trust me, that’ll last a month if you’re lucky,” Tam informs him. “My nieces and nephews did nothing but eat and poop for the first year of their lives.”
Jason appears vaguely horrified. His gaze rests on something else. “Is that a car seat?”
“How else were you expecting to bring home a baby? Carry her on a subway?”
Neither man has a response to this.
“Oh, this is going to go well,” she sighs. “Neither of you has any idea what you’re doing, do you?”
“That would be putting it lightly,” Tim acknowledges, and side-eyes Jason. “We should probably sit down and talk options, but that can wait until tomorrow if you want.”
“Tomorrow,” Jason agrees, and he sounds so exhausted and lost, that Jason takes pity on him.
“Come on, then. I’ll show you to the guestroom,” he offers and starts up the stairs. “It’s right next to the bathroom, if you want to shower. The water pressure here’s not great—” He shrugs, as if to say, ‘Park Row, what can you do?’ “—but it’s unlimited hot water.”
Surprisingly, Jason follows without comment.
“I’ll be here,” Tam says, and there’s an undertone to her words that suggest she’s not going anywhere until Tim explains the whole story.
And isn’t that going to be fun…
________________________________________________________________
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#jaytim#jaytim fanfiction#babyfic#accidental baby acquisition#enemies to lovers#slow build#tim drake#jason todd#tam fox#angst#drama#snark#tam doesn't get paid enough for this
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Time Traveler’s Oliver and Company AU
About the AU (x)
Other Drabbles (x)
___________
Part 3:
Dodger Has a Soft Spot
Charlie and Quincy had got back to the warehouse later than they even wanted to be. Much later. It was well past eleven and they had left around four in the afternoon. The two were not happy with their meeting, but at least it was successful. They were in for the job.
Melissa looked up from the computers at the two. “How’d it go?”
“It went.” Charlie answered. “How’s everything here? Backing up?”
“Should be done by morning.” She stretched her arms over her head.
“Evidence?”
“Rose did a great job at breaking everything.” Melissa smiled and held up a box of very small computer bits.
Charlie nodded. “I like her already.”
“Where is she?” Quincy finally asked.
Melissa gestured to their little ‘lounge’ area a bit aways from the computers. “She’s asleep on the couch.”
“Cool. Just have her keep at the breaking shit in the morning then. I’m out.” Charlie nodded.
He yawned and headed back out of the warehouse. In his defense, he did enough as it was and always deserved to go to bed. That left everyone else to do nightly watches of their lair and the computers.
Melissa stood up then. “You’re staying tonight.”
“What?” He blinked in confusion. “It’s Doug’s turn technically tonight.”
“Yeah, well I covered for him and now you’re covering for me.” She smiled and pulled on her jacket.
“Come on, Mel-“
“No.” She looked over to Rose, still sound asleep on the couch. “She seems to trust you. Either you take her home or you stick around to watch her.”
He opened his mouth to argue with her some more but he couldn’t. He huffed. “Fine.”
She patted his chest. “Atta boy. You’d be surprised, she’s a cool kid.” She grabbed her purse and gave him another look. “Make sure all of these back up, they should be done by morning.”
“Yes, Mel.” He rolled his eyes and slid out of his own jacket.
“Goodnight, Quincy.” She sang to him as she walked out of the warehouse.
“Night, Mel.” He answered with a sigh.
Great. Another sleepless night watching computer screens. His favorite thing in the world. Usually he’d blast music throughout the warehouse, but he couldn’t for once. There was a sleeping guest a few feet away.
Part of him wanted to know what they had all talked about while he and Charlie were out. Probably nothing of use anyway. He walked over to their ‘lounge’ area to check on her. Rose, Melissa had said her name was, was sound asleep in a very uncomfortable position. Her arms were crossed tightly across her chest while her legs were bent off to the side. To any unsuspecting person, she looked like she just fell asleep by accident and not on purpose.
Quincy took his jacket and draped it over the sleeping teenager. She didn’t stir at the object being placed on her. He took it as a good sign that she’d be out the rest of the evening.
Her backpack rested against the bottom of the couch, half spilling over as if she was looking for something and it just knocked over from gravity. A flat wallet was on the ground and as bad as it looked, Quincy picked it up. All he wanted was a last name. Melissa said her first name was Rose, if there were a last name attached to that he could find out everything he needed to know.
Thankfully there was an ID in the main sleeve of the wallet when he opened it. Davis, Rosalie. Perfect. He clicked it back shut and put it back in her bag. He had a full name now and a whole evening to mess around.
He made himself comfy in the silent warehouse in front of a computer that had already been backed up and got to work. All through the night he searched the web for any information he could find out about this girl to get a better understanding on where she was coming from.
At some point throughout the night, he had fallen asleep in the chair. He looked more uncomfortable than Rose did on the couch.
Melissa was the first at the warehouse the following morning. It was almost 7:30 and she was wide awake and ready for the day ahead. She had a travel carrier of three coffees with the fourth cavity filled with sugar packets and creamers. Though Lila was usually the designated ‘mom’ of the group, Melissa was usually good to take care of Quincy. Usually.
She made her way into the warehouse as quietly as she could. It was early after all and if she knew Quincy as well as she did, he was probably asleep in a very uncomfortable position in a chair. Surprise, surprise, he was. Instead of waking him up with the temptation of coffee, she walked right over to Rose.
The teenager was still asleep on the couch as well, but Melissa was more likely to wake her than Quincy. He always got so grumpy with her when he was awoken. That and she saw Quincy’s usual leather jacket draped over her like a blanket was cute. She was right, he did have a soft spot for her.
Melissa set the coffees on the table in front of the couch and gently shook Rose awake. “Good morning, new member.”
Rose stirred and made a little noise from being awoken. “New member?”
She laughed softly and grabbed one of the coffees from the container. “Welcome to the team, according to Charlie that is. Coffee?” She offered the cup to her.
Rose nodded and took the cup without question. She finally set her feet on the floor and the jacket shifted. That was when she realized that it was his jacket on her. Wow. This guy was truly something else.
She set the cup back on the table as Melissa took her own over to the computers to check on them. The screens read that everything had been backed up, that was probably when Quincy fell asleep. He was good at that.
Rose added a few sugar packets to her coffee and stirred it together before letting it sit for a few minutes to cool off. She stood up and grabbed the jacket again and slid into it. September was usually chilly but in the warehouse it made it a bit colder than she would’ve liked. After all, he did lend her the jacket again.
Melissa walked back over to Rose. “You probably won’t get a proper introduction, but welcome to our little hacker ring. Anyone who annoys Quincy without even trying is a friend of mine. He’s a good guy, probably one of the best ones you could run into.”
Rose nodded and finally took a sip of her coffee. “This is a nice change of pace than what I’m usually used to.”
“Which is what?”
“Finally fitting into a group. The other foster homes I was in were not the greatest in the world so this is just a real nice change of pace.”
Melissa smiled warmly to her. “Don’t worry, we’re all a family here. We have each other’s backs through everything.”
“I need that sort of environment for a while. Or as long as you’ll have me around that is.”
“Oh, I think you’ll be sticking around for a while if you’re willing to stay.”
Rose smiled. “I’d like to.”
“Hey, if you stick around long enough you’ll be able to do things like this that won’t get you yelled at.” She smiled and winked at her.
With the third coffee cup in hand, Melissa walked over to a still sleeping Quincy and kicked his foot a few times. It was like watching a fool poke a sleeping bear. Partially it was entertaining, until it awoke.
“Get up. You were supposed to watch the computers back up to make sure it went smoothly, asshole.” She kicked his foot again.
He grumbled. “I did, fuck off.”
“I brought coffee.” She handed it off to a half awake Quincy.
“Thanks.” Now he was awake.
“Everything went okay with the computers then?” Melissa asked, taking a seat next to him at a different computer.
“Yup. Fell asleep the second they backed up completely.” He checked his watch and groaned at the time. “God, how are you awake right now?”
She smiled to him. “Easily. I did wake up to a lovely text from Charlie for instructions for you.”
He rolled his eyes and took a sip of his coffee. “Great. I love when he doesn’t text me.”
“He knows you’ll ignore him.” She reminded him.
“He’s right. What’s he want?”
“He said to take Rose out for a field test. Something about finding this big shot company owner named Daniel Slater. He’s the main target that our client is after. He said you’ll know what that means.”
Quincy nodded. “Yeah, I got it.” He stood up and twisted his back enough to hear a few pops. While popping his back he caught a glimpse of Rose who had been sipping on her own coffee on the couch, poking at her phone. “Come on, kid, we’re heading out.”
She looked up, partially startled by a now awake and alert Quincy… or Dodger? Whatever his name was. She clicked her phone off and shoved it in her pocket before getting her stuff together.
Melissa smiled to him. “Play nice and try not to scare her off.”
“Would I ever?”
“Yes.” She gave him a look. “You would.”
Rose slid out of his jacket before hoisting her backpack onto her shoulder and grabbing her coffee. She walked over to him. Without another word, Quincy began to head to the door after seeing she was there.
Melissa waved to the two as they exited the warehouse. “Have fun!”
Quincy waved her off as if it were nothing to him. He opened the door for her and she walked out first. Oh damn, the warehouse was cold but being outside by the docks were colder. Quincy had joined her outside and immediately she handed him his jacket back.
“Thank you.”
They traded off, a jacket for her to hold his coffee cup while he put it back on. “You can stop doing that at any time, ya know?”
“Habit.” She explained.
He held his hand out for the coffee back and she graciously handed it back. With that, the two headed back into the city for her first real job as a hacker’s assistant? She didn’t know exactly what she’d be doing.
“We got work to do, but we have to make a stop first.” Quincy explained.
She merely nodded. After all, she had nothing better to do.
They had walked in silence for a few minutes as they walked passed dock and various machinist workers of sorts. The entire time they were walking towards the city, Rose couldn’t shake this guy’s relationship with Melissa. It was so snarky and yet so full of love. Hell, they weren’t dating from what everyone else had said, but she’d be damned if they didn’t need to kiss immediately.
She smiled to herself a bit and decided to strike up a conversation. “So, what’s the deal with you and Melissa?”
He groaned loudly. “Oh god, I knew someone would bring that up yesterday.”
“I was told you weren’t dating.” She then smiled to him.
Quincy rolled his eyes. “We are not dating and do not plan on it.”
It was Rose’s turn to roll her eyes. “I’ve heard that story before. Look, I just met you all but I’m not blind.”
“We’re not dating.” He said again.
They returned to silence, but only for half a block or so. Rose stifled a laugh before singing, “Sha la la la la la my oh my, looks like the boy's too shy, ain’t gonna kiss the girl. Sha la la la la la, ain’t that sad. It’s such a shame, too bad, you’re gonna miss the girl.”
He shot her a look that was both amused but trying so hard not to be angry. “You think you’re funny?”
“Yeah.” She smiled proudly.
“You are going to be the biggest pain in my ass.” He groaned again.
She didn’t say anything in response for a few seconds before singing again, this time softer than before, “Sha la la la la la, don’t be scared, you better be prepared. Go on and kiss the girl.”
“I get it. Your voice is pretty but you need to not.” He shook his head. “I think you just gave me at least seven more grey hairs because of that. Thank you for putting me in an early grave. I appreciate that, kid.”
“Glad I can help.” She smiled proudly.
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Dungeons and Arcana
Chapter 6: The High Priestess
“Asra, I know you want to know what’s going on with you, but we’re going to stay with M.C. for now.” Lucio says as someone continues to knock on the bottom of the table. “Because the customer is getting impatient. M., what do you do?”
Asra looks at M.C., who seemed to be contemplating their options. “Does the door have a peephole?”
“It does have a peephole.”
“I look through the peephole.”
“Roll perception.”
“It’s a… 12.”
“A mysterious figure is standing in the glow of the lantern outside. Their graceful hands are twisting together anxiously as they wait. Even in the dim light, you spy jewels glittering along their fingers. You don’t immediately recognize them.” The knocking gets more insistent.
“Well, I guess I open the door for the presumably rich person. Well, yeah, I do open the door for the graceful, rich person.”
Nadia pulls her hands out from under the table and the knocking stops. “As I come in, I unwrap my shawl. ‘Forgive me for the hour, but……I will not suffer another sleepless night. Please. You must read the cards for me.’”
“Roll wisdom, M.C.” Lucio taps at his computer.
They roll and grin. “Today is a good day. 18.”
“You now recognize the figure in front of you is the literal Countess.”
Asra snorts, watching as Nadia and Mordy start facing each other as they start to talk and getting more expressive as they get into it. It was fun to watch.
“I.. uh, well! ‘You’ve come to the right place!’”
“‘So I’m told. Your reputation precedes you. Beggars and nobles alike… The people of this city whisper your name in wonder. Though in my dream you were….. Different. No matter. I come with a proposal.’ I look around the shop, trying to get my bearings as I talk to them.” She doesn’t even wait for Lucio to tell her to roll and rolled her d20. “Uh…. that’s an… 11..”
Lucio snorts, but grins. “You see a quaint little shop. There’s a little counter with a glass top, showing samples of crystals, glass jars full of something, and some kind of dust-like substance. There are lit candles and a few fabrics draped on top of it. On a stool nearby, you see some kind of leafy green plant. The wall behind the counter has what looks like a cabinet built into the wall, some various items hanging on the knobs of a few of the many, many drawers in the wall. On the top shelf of the cabinet, there’s many more glass jars, an animal skull, and a few candles…” He glances at Asra and M.C. “Is there anything else there?”
Asra grins. “There’s a few tapestries and rugs that give off a slight magical feel with their design, but not much else.”
“Fabric hangs from the ceiling, connecting the lanterns together.” M.C. supplies.
Lucio nods, typing away again. “And that is what you currently see around the shop.”
“‘You mentioned a dream?’” M.C. asks Nadia, bringing them back on subject.
“‘Yes. An unwelcome ability I have come to possess. My dreams are haunted by visions of a future waiting to unfold. But the future I saw, the one that brought me to you… …is one I will not allow to pass. Tell me, magician. Will you hear my proposal?’” Nadia leans against the table, bringing a flair of nobility and power that she has perfected over the time that they’ve been playing together.
“‘What’s your proposal?’” M.C. asks, resting one arm on the table, getting very interested in all that Nadia had to tell them.
She smirks, playing it up. “‘Not very talkative, are you? Nervous, perhaps? You needn’t be. I require very little of you. Be my guest at the palace for a short while. You will be afforded every luxury, of course. It is as my dreams foretold. I ask only that you bring your skill… and the arcana.’”
They’re silent for a bit, probably deciding what will further the plot. “‘I am at your service, Countess.’”
Nadia and Lucio both smile, making Asra worried about what Lucio has planned for the campaign. Was it another traitor based game? He did seem to like those the most. All the drama as each of the players tried to figure out who was trying to betray the other characters.
This was going to be interesting.
“‘You have chosen wisely, magician. I will alert the guard to expect you tomorrow. But before that… I want to see these talents of yours for myself. Shall we do a reading?’”
“I usher her to the back room.” M.C. makes vague ‘move move’ motions with their hands.
“The two of you go to the back room, sitting across from each other with the cards on the table between you.” Lucio says, clicking on something. “What do you do?”
“I look around the room.” Nadia rolls her dice then frowns. “.... 8.”
Lucio grins. “It’s room with many tapestries and fabrics spread about the room. You don’t notice the skull they have, probably because you sat down as you got into the room.”
She chuckles and shakes her head. “Probably for the best that she doesn’t see a human skull.” She stops laughing for a bit, bringing back the aura of nobility. “I gesture to the cards and say, ‘Go on.’”
M.C. shuffles the cards again, then pulls one off the top and sets it down.
Asra smiles. It was his favorite card in the whole deck, the Magician. An orange fox with magenta-purple eyes, in a white outfit with light purple and gold shirt collar, and covered their shoulders with a purple-red cloak. Each of the corners held different items of the minor arcana and behind them was blue flames, along with a flame texture resting above it to make it give the illusion that they’re surrounded by the flames. He really liked it.
“‘... The Magician.’” They look up as Lucio starts the whispering noises again and walks over to them, again.
“‘How very appropriate.’” Nadia looks over the card. “‘And what does he hold for me?’”
Lucio whispers in their ear.
“‘You have a plan.’” They say.
“‘Go on….’” She leans forward, needing the answer.
They think about how to word what to say as Lucio keeps whispering in their ear. “‘One that’s long in the making. Years upon years. Now, you seek to set it in motion.’”
“‘And? Should I move?’”
“‘Yes. Act now. Everything has fallen into place.’”
“‘Say no more.’ Then she gets up and leaves the room.”
“I follow after her a few seconds after, surprised that she’s leaving so suddenly.” M.C. laughs.
“She’s putting on her shawl back on. ‘Your fortunes are simple. Much the same as others I’ve heard. And yet… you are the first to pique my interest.’”
“Rude.” They laugh. “I’m not like other fortune tellers.” Almost everyone laughs at their joke.
Nadia tries to get back to the moment, but keeps getting interrupted by the others giving small quips of their own and her own laughter. When she manages to control her breathing and the others going quiet. “‘Ahem.’ She’s standing by the door.”
M.C. didn’t seem to immediately understand what Nadia was getting at, still winding down from the jokes. “Uhhh.. what?”
“She’s standing by the door. She wants to see if you’ll open the door for her or not.” She restates and elaborates.
“.. oh!” They chuckle and rub the back of their head. “Yeah, I’ll open it.”
“‘Until tomorrow, then. Pleasant dreams.’ Then she leaves, walking into the night and using the darkness to disappear like a badass.”
Lucio looks at her. “Roll for performance?”
She rolls and grins, tapping at the table in what appeared to be her trying to restrain her excitement. “17!” Everyone cheered for her.
He laughs. “You disappear into the mist, which is acting like something out of Silent Hill in its thickness.”
Asra noticed M.C. write something down. ‘Did Nadia confuse me for Asra???’ He noticed Lucio pass Julian a note, but couldn’t read what was written on it.
“So M.C., what are you doing?” Lucio asks, a mischievous glint in his eye.
They seem to pick up on that he had something planned. “....... standing in the shop, questioning my interaction with the countess.”
Julian spoke up, mouth covered and talking like he was trying to be intimidating. “‘Strange hours for a shop to keep.’”
“They immediately look around the shop.”
He was obviously smiling behind his hands. “‘Behind you.’”
“I turn to the voice.” They announce.
“You are staring at what is essentially a plague doctor, complete with an intimidating white mask with red glass eyes and a dark cape, looming against the door.” Lucio says, nodding towards Julian.
He was grinning. “‘Now, sources say this is the witch’s lair. So who might you be?’”
“I attempt escape!” M.C.’s already rolling.
“‘Up up up. Not so fast.’”
“M.C., roll for dexterity. Julian, roll to contest it.” Lucio grins.
“I got a 9.” Julian sighs.
M.C. looks up looking amused, yet disappointed. “... I got a 4.”
“Oh my god!” Everyone laughs, in different stages of disbelief.
“So..” Lucio laughs, trying to get his words out. “So Julian, you watch as the stranger tries to dart out of the building, but you grab their wrist and pull them against your body in an attempt to keep them from running.”
“‘Tell me where he is and I’ll let you go.’”
“I wish to struggle again!” They roll again as Julian does the same. “13!”
“.......” He laughs and rubs his face. “I got 7.”
“I throw my head back and hit him in the face before running away.” They laugh.
“While escaping, you managed to knock his mask off. Are you running anywhere in particular?” Lucio asks, trying to look innocent.
“.... No, not really.”
He grins wider. “So you run into the backroom-”
“God dammit!” They groan, while the others laugh. “I should have chosen a room..”
“I run after them and try to catch them again.” He’s rolling his dice again and they respond in kind.
“Since y’all are running, use dexterity.” Lucio smiles, leaning back.
“3..”
They sounded like they were going to sob through their laughter. “I critted!”
“Are you serious?!” Julian stands up and looks at their dice while, they start laughing harder.
Nadia leans over, laughing as they nodded. “That is a one. First one of the game.”
“Your puns aren’t helping!” They laugh, sliding down in their seat.
“So, MC runs into the back room and gets caught by the the intruder by the scruff of their clothes.” Lucio says through his laughter.
“‘You’re a slippery one.’” Julian giggles.
“I look back and try to struggle away.”
Lucio clicks something. “You see his face and I want you to make a wisdom roll.”
“That is a.. Seriously?!” They groaned and laughed. “That’s a 15.”
“You recognize him.”
“I do?”
“Yes.”
There was a soft ding and they looked at their phone. They mock gasp. “I do.”
“‘Oh, you recognize me? Then you know the trouble you’re in.’” Julian grins.
“‘Doctor Jules?’”
“‘Haven’t heard that name in years. Quickly now. Where is the witch?’”
MC raises their hands. “‘I’ll talk!’”
“‘Go on.’” Julian leans forward, staring at them.
“‘Master Asra is gone.’”
Julian has an unimpressed look, truly putting his drama lessons to use. “‘Obviously. Where to?’”
“‘I wish I knew. He’s gone on another journey. He didn’t tell me where.’”
“‘I see. Well, if you don’t know, and I don’t know… Why don’t we ask your magic cards?’” Julian looks around, as if assessing the room. “‘This is where you do your fortune telling, isn’t it?’ I sit down in a chair and try to look fearsome. ‘Go on. Don’t be shy.’”
“I sit down.” M.C. shuffles and draws a card. “......... Death.”
Lucio didn’t get up to tell them anything, instead playing the audio of what sounds like blood pounding. Maybe a heart beat?
“‘Death? Death?’” It was hard to tell if Julian was still in character, until he gave a bitter, icy laugh. He was still in character. “‘You’ve got to be joking. Death cast her gaze on this wretch and turned away. She has no interest in an abomination like me.’ Then he hits the table and leaves the room.”
Lucio stops the noise and raises his eyebrow at him, obviously curious.
“I guess I follow after him, at least to make sure he’s not breaking my shop.” They shrug, putting the cards back together.
“‘You’ve been hospitable, so I’ll let you in on a secret. Your witch friend will be back for you. He’s taught you his tricks. You may even say that he cares for you. But when he returns…’ Then I put the mask back on. ‘Seek me out. For your own sake. That creature is far more dangerous than you know. Well then. The hour is late. Don’t let him fool you, shopkeep.’ Then I dramatically close the door and leave.”
“Roll for closing the door.”
“That’s, uh, 11.” He looks to Lucio.
“So you try to do the cool closing of the door, probably trying to make it look like you weren’t there and that maybe they had imagined it all, but the door slams as you disappear into the early morning fog.”
“That works for me.” Julian laughs, earning some giggles from the others.
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let me be there
Prompt: Music. Prompt from this generator.
No one ever taught Chris how to sing, not properly. He just sort of picked it up. One minute he was humming along with the car radio and the next, he was shuffle-stepping his way across the stage in community theater. Funny how that works.
It’s not like his parents are tone deaf; his mom sang in the church choir, for instance, long after she stopped believing in God. Or the Church’s version of the All Mighty, anyway. And his dad still air-guitars his way through traffic, jamming along behind the steering wheel in the early AM Boston rush.
But neither of them is a singer , neither of them thinks in scales and verses and rhymes. Where Chris got that from, nobody’s sure; but what he does with it, the life he’s made himself from it, there’s no mistaking that it’s all him.
*****
He meets Seb in the Dakotas, one of them, on the back end of a national tour. He’s not playing stadiums yet, just good-sized clubs, nothing crazy. His EP went viral and his LP’s rock solid on the charts; he’s making a name for himself, is Chris. He’s right there on the doorstep of big fame.
Seb doesn’t know any of that, doesn’t have the faintest idea who he is or what he’s doing in Pierre, why he’s standing in the back of an honest-to-god honky tonk on the far side of town. Chris had needed some air after his show, needed some time to himself, and a tour bus full of stir crazy claustrophobes offered...not that. They weren’t due to leave until four, though, and it was only quarter to one and so Chris had taken off in a taxi, asked the driver, a rough and tangle dude in a creased cowboy hat, to drive to whatever bar was his favorite and have a drink or six on Chris.
Which was how he’d come to be leaning against the bar at the back of The Dry Well, beaming up at the stage, watching a couple of local guitar pokes go to town on some Hank and some Johnny, a little Merle Haggard and Crystal Gayle.
The place had the sleepy feel of overnight coming, of one beer too many, of cigarette smoke caught by the open windows and tugged out into the dark. And dark it was, too, all around; The Dry Well was a sentinel, a kind of stalwart, standing between human and prairie, between civilization, such as it was, and the long flat plans lulled to sleep by the wind.
Chris was on his second whiskey, straight, and he wasn’t smoking only because Rob, his base player, had stomped on his one and only last pack.Tsk tsk, Rob had said the night before, grinning, grinding the Marlboro Reds under his boot. No smoke till Brooklyn, kiddo. Them’s the rules. And you wrote ‘em.
One more week and he’d be home free, could drag down as much as he liked, but goddamn if he wasn’t impatient, if he wasn’t dying to feel that featherweight in his fingers, see the flare of flame each time he drew breath.
God, he thinks, throwing back the last of the Jack, the last few dates are always the worst. Ready to be home but still thrilled to be loved every night, to have his own words sung back at him by crowds of people he’ll never know but who’ve memorized lines he wrote when his heart was breaking; when he was on top of the world; when he was in a pit of his own making. Maybe it should be terrifying, to hear himself stripped down every night, to feel people sing out what once was his most tender marrow, but for Chris, it’s exhilarating even now, after two months’ worth of shows.
He’ll be home for three weeks and then they’ll be out again, gone, off to Europe and Asia and a few dates in South America--his first international swing. It’s hard for him to believe it, to picture it, he and the band standing on stages in Tokyo and Prague and Buenos Aires, watching people stand up and sing along.
He gulps a little and sets down his glass. Bites back the jitters. That’s the plan, anyway. Who knows if it’ll actually go down that way?
Scarlett, his drummer, is certain it will. Mackie, his piano man, isn’t quite so optimistic.
And Chris? He scrubs a hand over his eyes, breathes in hard to pick up some smoke. He’s not sure yet. They’ll just have to wait and see.
There’s a tap on his shoulder. “Hey,” somebody says behind him. “You’re dry. Want another?”
Chris half-turns his head, expecting to see the blond bartender from earlier--all muscle and teeth and surfer-boy charm--but it’s a dark-haired guy with sharp blue eyes and a quirked eyebrow instead. His surprise must show on his face, even in the gloom, because the guy laughs a little, shaking his head.
“No, you’re not hallucinating,” the guy says. “Chris went off shift ten minutes ago. Had a date. I’m a soft touch; told him I’d clean up tonight.”
“That was nice of you.”
A shrug. “He worked late for me last week. I owed him. Anyway, he’s a damn good bartender and they’re not easy to find in this town.” He grins, a slow slide that takes up his whole face. “Not easy to keep, anyway.”
Chris blinks. “Oh. So, this is your bar?”
The guy pats the counter, gives a cute, scrunched-up smirk. “It is.”
“Oh,” Chris says again. Something about the man makes him feel itchy, kind of pleasantly nervous. Or maybe that’s just the empty stomach booze. “It’s, ah. Uh huh.”
Blue eyes sets his elbows on the bar and leans over a little like he’s sharing a secret, lowers his voice below now Skynard-shaped din. “You still haven’t answered my question, man.”
“What?”
The guy points. “You want another round or not? That glass of yours is looking awful lonely.”
“Honestly?” Chris says, because it’s that kind of o’clock in the morning. “I would kill for a cig.”
That smile again, like warm caramel. “Technically, this is a no smoking bar.”
Now it’s Chris’ turn to throw up an eyebrow. “Dude, come on. Seriously? This place is like a dragon’s lair.”
“Technically. I said technically .” The man pats his pockets, then reaches under the bar. “As in, everybody else breaking the rules is one thing. Me, upstanding owner that I am? I know better than that.” He comes up with a soft pack and a lighter, nods towards the back door. “Come outside with me and protect my reputation.”
Outside, the night is cool and still, the first hints of winter creeping up over the plains. It’s dark beyond the dull streetlight, the last sigil between the bar and what feels like the wild, and Chris tips back against the building for that first hot glorious drag.
“Been awhile?” Blue eyes is looking at him, clearly entertained.
Chris’ eyes are watering and his lungs feel like sandpaper. God, it’s fantastic. “What makes you say that?” he chokes out.
The guy looks away and lifts his own to his lips, take a short pull. “You sounded like you were kissing somebody you hadn’t seen in a long, long time.”
Chris laughs, the long of the night, the whiskey, the heady furl of tobacco too much to let that shit go. “You’ve been listening to too much old country, man, spitting out corny shit like that.”
“Seb,” the man says. “‘You’ve been listening to too much old country, Seb.”
“Yeah,” Chris says, waving his ash away, “that. And I’m Chris.”
Seb takes his outstretched hand, shakes it, and Chris squeezes back. “Nice to meet you, Chris.”
“You, too.”
They smoke in silence for a while, the thrum of the music inside neatly boxed up behind them. If Chris listens close enough, reaches back with his hand, he can feel the notes vibrating, the drunken edge of the song leaking through. But he doesn’t want to hear music right now, doesn’t want to think about songs; he just wants to be right here with Seb, right now.
And Seb seems good with that, too.
“Can I ask you something?” Chris asks after a while, as the filter approaches.
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Aren’t you a little young to own a place like this?”
“Believe it or not,” Seb deadpans, “I am over 21.”
Chris laughs. “Not what I meant, now. Come on.”
Seb chuckles, too. “You mean, I’m too young to run an old fogies bar?”
“I mean, yeah. Pretty much. Don’t get me wrong, I do like it. A lot. I just”--Chris gestures with his cig, a drag of fire between them--“can’t help but notice that you’re like 30 years younger than most of your patrons.”
Seb shrugs, easy. “It was my mom’s place, truth be told. I kind of grew up here. Haven’t had the heart to change it, that’s all.”
“Oh, geez. Your, uh, mom, did she--?”
“No! No, man. Heh! No. She’s fine.” Seb gives him a grin. “Just got tired of it, that’s all. The hurly and the burly of it, you know. The grind. She lives on the other side of the city, near the college. Alive and well, I promise. She comes in sometimes when she’s bored, gets tired of running around the garden or whatever.” A sharp kick of his cig, a short flare towards the asphalt. “I mean, she doesn’t actually garden. Would probably be happier if she did. She’s the kind of person who needs like six hobbies, you know? Just to keep herself out of her head.”
“Ah,” Chris says. “Yeah, yeah. I get that.”
“What about you? What do you do?”
“Me?” A rush of blush up Chris’ throat, a sudden, unexpected sort of shy. “I, ah. I kind of sing.”
“Oh, cool. As a like a job or a hobby, or--?”
“A, um, a job.” He has the weird urge to hide his face in his hand.
“Wow.” Seb turns to face him, one shoulder edged into brick. “That’s pretty damn impressive. You must be good.”
“Got a good band,” Chris says, like he always does during interviews or press events when people pay him a compliment. “Believe me, that goes a long way.”
“Sure, but I’m talking about you. Great band ain’t worth shit if the front man can’t sing.” Seb jerks his thumb at the wall. “Trust me. I know.”
“I’m”--Chris takes one last hit and toss the filter on the ground, grinds it under his heel--“I do all right, I guess.”
Seb laughs. “I’m not gonna ask you to prove it, don’t worry.”
“I didn’t think that you were.” A pause. “Ok, I hoped that you wouldn’t. Was hoping real hard.”
“Are you from here? You don’t sound like you are.”
“No, from back east. Boston.”
“So you’re here for a gig?” It isn’t really a question.
“Yeah.”
It’s quiet for a minute; even the noise inside settles. It’s just them, for a moment, and the waning hours of the night.
Seb’s fingers find the edge of his shirt, a hint of warmth against his arm. “Are you gonna get back out this way, you figure?”
The weight of those fingers makes Chris’ lids heavy, heavy. Heavier still. “Not for a while, no. Maybe next year, I don’t know. Kind of depends on how things go.”
“Things?”
“The record. Depends on how the record does over time. It’s doing pretty good now, it’s just--yeah. It depends.”
Sebastian squeezes his wrist, sears his skin somehow through his clothes. “You always undersell yourself like this, Chris?”
“Like what?”
“I’m guessing you don’t when you’re on stage. I bet you fucking glow under the lights, huh? Don’t you, babe?”
Chris shivers and twists his arm until their hands catch, until their palms are pressed together, their fingers folded. “Can I ask you something, Seb?”
“Sure you can.”
“Would you kiss me?”
“If you want.”
Chris tugs him closer. “Would you take me home, or somewhere? I’ve only got a couple of hours. Maybe less.”
Seb makes a soft, hurt sound, the kind that sinks between Chris’ hips, the kind that makes his whole body alight. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Would you--?”
Seb smiles, stretches it up and over Chris’ chin. “Whatever the question is, babe, the answer is yes.”
“But,” Chris says, grinning back, his arm snaking around Seb’s neck. “I thought you had to close tonight.”
A snort and a smooch, messy on Chris’ throat, silly and wet. “You let me worry about that,” Seb says. “Huh? This is my goddamn bar.”
Chris dips his head and they’re kissing, hot and stupidly tender, out there in the dark, out there under the stars.
*****
Later, when he's tucked up in his bunk on the bus, he stays awake past sunrise; watches the light creep up the streets, devour the rough, brown fields, settle up high in the sky.
"Hey," Rob says, popping up over the edge, his chin cutting into the mattress. "Where were you? I thought Scar was gonna send out the dogs."
"Just needed some time alone. You know."
"Uh huh." A beat. "Well. Nice to see you smiling, anyway."
Chris turns his head. "What? I smile, man."
Rob's mouth twitches. "Sure you do, kiddo. But it's been a long time since I've seen you smile like that."
You can call me, Seb had murmured, his lips nudging Chris' ear. If you want to.
You'd better believe it.
And you can come back any time you want. A kiss, firm and breathtaking. By which I mean, you'd better.
He'd taken Seb's face in his hands and leaned back, grinned up into those mid-July eyes. How does three weeks sound?
Oh, good. So goddamn good. I mean, two days would be better. An hour, come to think of it, best, but--
Chris had laughed, made Seb taste it, licked that smug little smirk off his face.
"Yeah," Rob says now, poking Chris in the shoulder. "Exactly. Like that."
He hops down, scuttles off, and Chris turns to the window, a line of notes running wild inside his head, and he falls asleep with them on the tips of his fingers, dreams of a stadium crowded with people singing Seb--Sebastian's--name.
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Can cancer kill an angel? ✘ Dark!Barry | Savitar Imagine ✘
✘ A/N: I want to make a parte 2 for it, actually, I believe I’ll, then we can see Savitar helping reader and she thinking that she’s crazy.
Thanks for my beta as always, @lyss-91
✘ Request: Hi can u pls do a savitar!barry x reader where he has a soft spot for her due to the fact in the future shes the only one who care for him while the team didnt accept him? They eventually become lover but she died. So in the past he cant help but want to be close by with reader n secretly help her. He want to change her future too. Make it angst pls. Thanks.
She moved away from his cold yet soft lips, her apology on the tip of her tongue like a sentence that it had been a mistake, the judge was her mouth, and she was about to declare that lie so true in her mind by his lack of reaction.
Instead, he approached her and captured her lips in his, offering sweet freedom to the kiss.
It was the first time that Barry Allen’s time remnant felt pure in what seemed like an eternity of filth. As if the speed in his veins was asleep and woke up to the adrenaline alarm that only she could provide.
True love, no matter how clichéd it sounded, was more efficient than any V9.
(Y/N) helped him arrange something inside himself, without even noticing, at that moment. In fact, she never left Barry alone, preventing his sadness from becoming routine and not letting life run out of him. But (Y/N) did not bring him back.
She never let him go.
Savitar woke up sweaty, and typically alone in his lair. He ran his hands through his hair falling into his functional eye, his heavy breathing evidenced his turbulent mind. Those dreams with (Y/N) were like a bittersweet tragedy: remembering pleasure and pain at the same time as love itself.
Fortunately, soon Savitar would not need to sleep, because Gods don’t need something so trivial. And his dreamy memories would not bother him anymore, because you would really be by his side. This time, he would save you. Nothing, not even death, could stand in his way to be with you. Gods do not fear death, they are not crushed by it; they manipulate it. Shaking his head, Savitar ignored the onset of the anxiety attack as he remembered the circumstances of your end, it was no time for that, this reality would be only a nightmare soon.
Tried, tried and tried to have the luxury of sleep for a few more hours, but it was impossible. He looked around, Killer Frost was nowhere to be seen, probably too busy with her own dilemmas in the middle of the night.
Savitar knew that on nights like this, awakened too early by the salt which his own subconscious insisted to playing on his open wounds, he wouldn’t be able to sleep without calming down. Being sober looked like a private punishment, and maybe it was. Savitar could not get drunk with alcohol, like the little ants affectionately called humans, but he could get drunk with something far more destructive and pleasurable than a bottle of inlaid chemicals.
In less than 10 seconds, Allen was inside your apartment, watching you sleep peacefully.
How could an angel like you be so defective inside and no one notice? But it was okay now, gods take care of their angels. And he would take care of you.
“He looks at her sleeping, that’s creepy!” You rolled your eyes as crossed your arms, and Barry giggled in answer to your little revolt. “What? If you ever do that, I’ll kill you, Bartholomew.”
Savitar laughed humorlessly as he embraced that old recurring memory as a son embracing his abusive father. He wondered if your opinion would change due to the circumstances or if you would just kick him out.
He touched your arm carefully, and finally felt his skin against yours, even in such a simple gesture, was a painful relief. Like a person picking up a beautiful rose full of thorns; the pain was worth the feel of the touch without gloves, without protection against any kind of intensity.
Just like he remembered, your eyes opened sleepily, but soon they were clever and your features became red alert. You moved away from his touch with surprising agility, he didn’t remember this particular detail: when you were afraid, you act on impulse.
“I didn’t come to hurt you.” Savitar declared his unchanging truth, the only concept that would never change, a dogma that he would insist on preaching until the end of time.
“Says the psychopath who invaded my house in the middle of the night and wants to kill my friend. Got it.” Irony had always been your favorite weapon anyway, even those not-so-intentional stabs he had missed.
“I’ll save you, my goddess. I promise.” Savitar swore to himself, though the words were addressed to you. It almost seemed like you were making a pact with the devil. And as fast as it had come, the god of speed was gone. Leaving only the sensation of a kiss on your forehead and your mind in confusion.
Save you from what? Why did he care about you? Why didn’t he hurt you?
Your eyes widened in sudden clarity, you whole body grew colder than Killer Frost’s with this foreboding conclusion.
Did he know you had cancer and wanted to save you from it?
Why?
#savitar x you#savitar imagines#imagine savitar#savitar x reader#savitar imagine#savitar#dark!barry x reader#dark!barry#imagine barry allen#barry allen imagine#barry allen headcanon#barry allen imagines#barry allen x reader#barry allen#earth 2 barry allen x reader#barry allen x you#the flash headcanons#imagine the flash#the flash imagine#the flash x reader#the flash imagines#the flash#the flash x you#sebastian smythe#sebastian smythe x reader#sebastian smythe x you#sebastian smythe imagines#sebastian smythe smut#barry allen smut#imagine sebastian smythe
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Written for @littlekiwifrog as a part of their “IT turned good AU.” If you haven’t checked it out yet, I highly suggest you check it out! Without further ado, here’s the first written installment of the comic! Feedback is appreciated and applied! Hope you enjoy!
The paper boat bobbed dangerously in the gutter, the heavy rainfall pummeling the already wobbling craft as it raced through the torrent of rainwater. Georgie Denburough chased after it without hesitation, his green galoshes sloshing through the puddles collecting in the street and spraying water in every direction. He hardly cared about the weather, his face sporting a wide grin as he tore down the muddy street, weaving between parked cars with ease. The sound of rain on their windshields had to be one of his favorites.
His yellow hood fell over his brown eyes that glimmered with a childish delight. Rain dripped onto his face, but it was the last thing on his mind, his gaze fixated on the paper boat speeding out of his reach. He scrubbed at his face to try and clear his vision, his legs pumping as the boat continued to pick up speed, the paraffin coating causing the water to bead on the smooth paper.
He was so absorbed in watching the boat, in fact, that he failed to notice that he was sprinting head-on at a traffic sign that blocked a good portion of the road until it was too late for him to stop. His head collided with it first, his legs sprawling out from beneath him and leaving him to stare up at the imposing white and orange striped beam. He couldn’t hold back a glare as fat raindrops splattered across his cheeks.
“Stupid.” He grumbled crossly, pushing himself to his feet and trying to ignore the stinging pain in his knees. His jeans were soaked through now, water running through his fingers and plastering his hair to his head. He looked up through the rain just in time to see his boat begin careening dangerously close to one of the entrances to the sewer.
He scrambled to get to his feet and hurtled forward, powerless to do anything but watch as the boat began to tip into the opening. His heart froze in his chest. “NO!” But it was too late. The boat swung back and forth as if waving at him before toppling into the inky blackness that made up the sewer.
He dashed over to it and peered over the edge, hoping against all hopes that it had managed to get stuck against the barrage of water. His boat, however, wasn’t what he saw when he leaned forward on his knees, not caring about the huge puddle forming around him.
A pair of piercing blue eyes gleamed in the darkness. He staggered back a few feet and fell back as a rasping voice began to echo from the depths of the sewer.
“Hiya Georgie!” It piped up. A face slowly came into the light, beginning with a bright red nose before revealing the white and red striped cheeks and wild orange hair of- a clown? Georgie blinked, his racing heart slowly beginning to calm itself as he gazed at the odd apparition. “This yours?” His vision slowly drifted down to the clown’s gloved hand, the white fingers clutching-
“Hey, my boat! You caught it!” The clown grinned widely, its two buck teeth protruding in a jagged fashion from between its lips.
“Sure did!” It replied with a grin that stretched just a little too wide to be considered normal. Georgie didn’t take note of it, deciding to ignore the tightness that found his gut as the clown offered him the boat. Before it could open its mouth to speak once more, a thought surfaced in Georgie’s mind.
“What kind of a clown are you?” He could’ve sworn the clown’s eyes flashed with a yellow light that lit the water pouring into the sewer. Once he blinked, the light was gone, replaced with the inviting blue irises that seemed so harmless and friendly.
“Only the best!” It proclaimed proudly, its wild hair seeming to bounce along with it. “Name’s Pennywise! The dancing clown!” The smell of popcorn seemed to resonate from the grating when it said that. Georgie leaned closer.
“M'name’s Georgie!” He proclaimed, his brain still struggling to process what exactly he was seeing.“So, what are you doing in the sewer, then?” It propped its head upon one of its hands and used the other to trace lazy circles in the growing puddles. Georgie finally got a view of the clown’s rumpled costume, the dusty and somewhat ruffled collar making it look like his head was just one size too big for his body. Once again, Georgie chose to ignore the hungry, predatory look in its eyes.
“Storm blew me away!” It proclaimed sadly, continuing to twiddle the fingers of its right hand in the rushing water. “Blew the whole circus away! All the rides, and popcorn, and balloons-“
"Balloons?” Georgie chimed in excitedly, inching closer to the odd clown.
“Well!” The clown leaned forward and began to gesture with its left hand, tipping its head slightly to the right. “Can’t have a circus without balloons, can we?” Georgie had to say that he agreed. “But y'see, I’ve been down here all alone, with no one to-"
The noise of radio static suddenly crunched through the air, jarring Georgie away from the sewer and his new friend. Bill’s voice was heavy with static, but it was still unmistakably his.
"Georgie, Mom says dinner’s almost ready, over!” He looked down at the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt and grinned widely. He was quick in tugging it out of his belt loop and pressing it to his ear.
“Comming, over!” He was about to leave when a sound from the sewer caught his ear.
“Y-You’re not leaving without your boat, are you?” Georgie’s gaze fell to the name of the paper creation in the corner, the words: SS GEORGIE nearly obscured by the clown’s white-clad thumb. “Bill’s gonna kill you…” He furrowed his brow and thought for a moment, waving his hand dismissively before standing.
“You can keep her! Bill and me can make another one!” The clown’s expression turned somewhat bitter at his words. “Maybe she can keep you company so you won’t be so lonely down there.” He added as an afterthought. The clown cocked its head like a dog as he waved goodbye. “Bye, Mr. Penny!” He walked through the rain with one hand gripping his walkie-talkie, hardly feeling the cold breeze that whipped through the air. “Bill! I met a funny clown in the sewer, over!”
He hummed happily as he waited for his older brother to reply, making an extra effort to splash in the huge puddles on his way back, determined not to let a minute of puddle-jumping get away from him.
“What?” There was a pause for a minute before- “J-Just get home, Georgie, over!”
“I’m coming, over!” Georgie responded before stuffing both of his hands deep into the pockets of his rain slicker. He chanced a glance over his shoulder back at the sewer grate. He could’ve sworn a pair of yellow eyes tracked his every movement from under the cover of darkness. But, like before, once he blinked, they were gone.
“BILLY! I’M HOME!” He hollered upon slamming the door open, ditching his soaking boots and slicker in a messy heap in the boot room. Bill looked down at him from atop the stairs, his face still slightly red from the fever that had rendered him useless.
“Juh-Georgie, you shouldn’t y-yell!” Bill cautioned, striding down from his bedroom and wiping at his half-lidded eyes. “Mom d-doesn’t like it when you s-s-slam the door either!” His brown hair was the very picture of a bedhead, his nose more than a little bit red from sniffing. His expression softened and within a few seconds, he was standing beside his brother. “How’d she sail?” He questioned.
“Great!” Georgie affirmed. “You’d have loved it, Bill!” Bill ruffled his hair affectionately.
“D-Did she sur-survive her maiden voyage?” He asked. Georgie’s mood deflated like one of the balloons Mr. Penny had talked about.
“I gave her to the clown in the sewer.” He admitted sheepishly. Bill sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes sliding closed before opening, half-lidded and skeptical.
“An-Another one of your imaginary friends?” He questioned tiredly, his fingers moving to massage his temples. Georgie shook his head no.
“Penny isn’t imaginary, Bill!“ He searched his brother’s face for some spark of belief. Bill raised his eyebrows. "I saw him!” He insisted. “For real!” His older brother snorted his contempt.
"Right.” Georgie wanted so badly to argue. He wanted to drag Bill out to meet his new friend, but a little voice inside told him not to. So, he swallowed his anger and stalked to the dinner table, prompting a sharp cry from his mother at seeing the purpling bruise on his forehead. Even as he scrubbed himself off and held the ice pack to his head (which really wasn’t that bad) he couldn’t help but think about the clown. He knew Penny had been real, he just knew.
He just had to prove it.
Penny could hardly believe he’d let the stupid kid slip away. He tugged on his fiery hair and curled up tighter against the concrete wall with a snarl of noise. His long legs splayed beneath him, one foot dipping into the murky water beneath him. He didn’t care. He clutched the boat to his chest and traced the lettering with a clawed finger, the gloves of his disguise long since discarded.
He extended his hands and let the small vessel hang in the air, his eyes wide and glowing with their natural yellow hue. It was pathetic, really, that a simple boat would cause him such a headache. It floated above his outstretched fingers without bobbing, the water running off of it hitting the disgusting gunk below with small splashes of sound. He watched with a dull interest.
He’d unfolded it, refolded it, and still, he failed to see anything remotely… special about the SS Georgie. It was simply a lost paper boat drenched in paraffin. That was all. But somehow, it seemed different. Like it was so much more than that.
The kid had given it to him without so much as screaming. It would’ve been so easy for him to have reached up and dragged the little brat as he kicked and screamed into his lair. One quick bite would’ve done it, the kid wouldn’t’ve been able to get out of his grip. He would’ve squirmed, thrashed, screamed, bled. Lifeblood would spill into the jaws of whatever form he took, and then he’d snap his head back and finish-
No.
He stopped his train of thought and jolted upright as if he’d been shocked.
Where the hell did that come from?
The boat fell back to his hands and he banged his head on the wall, causing him to let out a sharp gasp. His heart hammered against his ribs, an emotion he had tried to stifle bursting in his chest.
Fear.
But… What was he afraid of? Georgie? No. That- That wasn’t right. Georgie was just a kid. He’d killed… oh, he’d killed… how many kids? Hundreds. Georgie was nothing new. His gaze fell upon the boat once more and he ran his fingers over it again. The boat? Once again, he felt that he was wrong, but if that was true, what was he scared of?
The boat was a gift.
Why was that thought so daunting?
Why did it seem so impossible?
His clawed hands shook profusely against the paper, the boat fluttering in his grasp. He wanted to throw it. He wanted to watch it fall into the water and to never see the thrice-damned thing again.
He snaked his arm back and felt his elbow pop at the unnatural angle, his face splitting into a wide grin in response to the slick noise. His hand brushed up against the wall and he pitched it forward, but as he watched the boat plummet, he suddenly felt so very alone. A yellow flash lit his face and the boat froze in the air, inches above the disgusting slime that tried to pass for water.
His shoulders heaved with ragged breaths, the ruffled collar of his costume bouncing in time with his movements. The boat drifted close to his head and he fell back with a sigh, crossing his arms against his chest and letting his legs sprawl out in the air.
It was pathetic, really.
One stupid little human boy reducing a monster to an emotional mess, but here it was. That, of course, is when it clicked.
Georgie wasn’t afraid. Georgie had honestly cared for Its safety and had thought that It was- what was the word? Oh yeah. Georgie had thought he was lonely, which was ridiculous. Georgie’s voice continued to ring in his head, making him seeth with an anger so petty, it infuriated him all the more.
He scowled at the boat and tugged at his flaming hair, lips puckering in a sideways frown. Oh, this new child was confusing. He head ached just thinking about the kid.
“Stupid.” He spat, actually spat, drool dribbling down his chin. He wiped it off in disgust and began to stalk off down the tunnel, snatching the paper boat roughly from the air as he did so.
It’d just have to work a little harder at scaring this one, that was all.
Nothing more.
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