Light on - single mom/neighbor fic
Simon Riley/female reader
Prompt: Protective Simon. For the beautiful and talented @lethalchiralium
Simon’s phone is ringing.
Price raises an eyebrow from the end of the table, pausing mid-sentence, confused. Simon’s phone never rings. It’s always on full volume, because he never gets phone calls, except for ones from the 141, and they’re all here. At this briefing.
His fingers find the ringer, ready to silence what he’s sure is a nuisance call, some telemarketer or robot, when he reads your name across the screen.
You’ve never called him before. Unease tightens across his chest, and without any explanation, he excuses himself from the room and the bewildered looks being cast his way.
“Hey, you-“
“Simon?” You sound off. Like you’re trying to be calm, but there’s something lingering on the edge of your voice, something scared. His spine goes stiff.
It’s enough to propel him into action, his fist thumping against the window of the brief room, jerking his head south. I’m leaving, the motion signifies. Emergency.
“What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing. Just… there’s this guy that’s been like, half a block behind me since I got off the train.” He closes his eyes. The fucking train. He wants you to stop taking the train. He needs you to stop taking the train.
“He followed you from the platform?”
“Well, he could be walking this way too…”
“Where are you?” His keys are already in his hand, and he’s running down the hallway, past bewildered administrative staff and everyone else, bursting through the back door and into the truck. His phone chimes with multiple text messages, Price, Johnny, Gaz. All wondering where the hell he ran off to. Only Johnny’s text scratches the surface: Is it your neighbor? He waits another second in silence, hoping you’re trying to get your bearings. “Sweetheart?”
“I’m… I think we’re coming up on seventh and Warsail. ‘m not too sure. I’ve kind been walking in a roundabout way.” We’re coming up on seventh… we.
The baby is with you.
His foot slams the accelerator onto the floor, counting his breaths as he maneuvers each turn in the road. Do you have the stroller? Are you carrying her? Did this guy peg you as an easy target because he knows what Simon knows, that women are more likely to go along with instruction if their child is threatened? That you’d never leave Emmaline behind? That you’d do anything to protect her?
He feels sick.
“Are there other people around?” He’s calm on the phone, trying to visualize the street, the buildings, the alleys. Easy spots where cars could reach the highway in seconds, and then be gone. Cramped alleys that connect to others like tangled webs, able to swallow a human being easy, disappear them into the darkness. It makes his stomach turn over. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel so hard; it hurts.
“Yeah, it’s close to the end of the day, so-“
“Stay where others can see you. Are you sure you’re on seventh and Warsail?”
“Yeah. We’re in that park. I-I… wanted to take Emma to see the ducks.” Your voice wavers. “Simon he’s still behind us.” He’s turning the corner now, a block from your cross streets, and instead of yielding for oncoming traffic like he should, he floors it through an intersection, abandoning the truck still on, half parked in an empty street spot.
“Stay where you are, sweetheart. Okay? I’m coming.”
“You… wait, what? You’re what?” He doesn’t hang up, but keeps the phone against his ear, and takes off down the street in a sprint, fully subscribed to the worst-case scenarios that have been building in his mind, images of you and Emmaline bloody and bruised, or worse. He gets them confused for a moment, memories mixing with the present, two things swirling together until they become indistinguishable, noise and panic roaring too loudly in his head.
It all comes screeching to a stop.
He spots you in the park. You do have the stroller, and you’re by the little pond, headphones in, Emmaline in your arms, her little beanie pulled down over her ears. You’re glancing around, nervous, saying his name into the mic. He scans the rest of the faces, passing over anyone who doesn’t strike him as a creepy git, until he finds his target: a skinny, younger guy lurking on the edge of the fence line, watching you. He hangs up the phone and moves across the park involuntarily, rolling his shoulders, and he vaguely sees you from the corner of his eye, mouth dropped open in shock, faintly calling his name.
“Hey, mate. C’mere.” He shouts, half the people in the vicinity startling in his direction. Everyone seems to move away, like a magnetic force, pulsing outwards as he overtakes the guy with an easy grab to his upper arm. “You like stalking women with babies?” He hisses in his ear, voice low with barely contained rage. The guy is younger than him, but rail thin, and coked out. Probably looking for money. Simon jerks him closer, and he actually yells for help, like he’s a victim. It’s enough to ground the situation, making Simon realize he has an audience, and he grits out a final warning before shoving him away. “I ever see you around my girls again… I’ll fuckin’ kill you. Piss off.”
“What did he say?” You’re frantic, rubbing Emmaline’s back in a circular pattern, over and over like you’re trying to calm her, even though she’s perfectly content. It’s you who needs soothing, he realizes, and he takes your hand without questioning it, letting his instincts guide him in regard to you without overthinking it.
“He was high, love. Looking for money.” He doesn’t want to scare you but… he doesn’t despise the idea of instilling some hypervigilance. Maybe this will convince you not to take the train.
“Oh my god.”
“Think I scared him off for good though.” He looks around, and then slips off his mask, wide thumb stroking a soft touch on Emma’s cheek before giving you a gentle squeeze. “It’s alright now.” You visibly relax, but don’t let go of his hand, tilting your face up to his, all bright and beautiful, still coming down from the adrenaline of your fear with a whisper on your lips, meant for only him to hear.
“Our hero.”
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Witness Protection
There’s a dead guy in the alley and it’s not Danny.
Ok, technically there are two dead guys in the alley but honestly, Danny feels like they’re way past semantics.
Because, once again, there is a dead man in the alley.
Danny is fairly sure the guy’s been murdered. The bloody mess that is the guy's chest is a pretty good indicator, but the bloody knife that's still stuck in the guy’s guts is really what makes it for the teen.
Danny might be freaking out a little bit. Because, while he is used to dead people, they’re never this newly deceased, or for that matter, this gruesomely murdered.
Before his breath can quicken too much, Danny makes himself take a deep breath.
Say what you want about Danny, but he hasn’t spent his high-school career moonlighting as a teenage vigilante without learning a thing or two about staving off a panic attack. Feeling more calm, Danny focuses back on the issue at hand.
I should call the police, says something in the back of his head that sounds like Jazz.
If I call in the murder I’ll be on the suspect list, retorts some other part of his brain he’s choosing to call the Sam part.
No advice from an imaginary Tuck though. Even in his own mind he can’t imagine a Tucker that hasn’t already passed out cold at the sight of a dead guy.
Which, fair. Danny is kinda considering the option, as he’s feeling a little faint himself. It is way past time he got out of here. At least he's figured out just how to do it.
Anonymous tips are a wonderful thing, made all the more wonderful by the presence of payphones in Gotham.Danny is officially handing this off to the proper authorities.
Boy is he glad he doesn’t have to be involved anymore.
A few streets over, a hooded figure rounds a corner, their breath coming fast as they clench their bloody fists agitadely. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone there, and yet. This is an unexpected setback.
The hooded figure leans back against the alley wall to catch their breath. Nothing to do about it but fix it. And as these things go, this is an easy mistake to fix. The face of the black-haired blue-eyed hurdle floats to the front of their mind.
It should be child’s play.
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Strange courtship gifts
The last thing anyone would expect is for the Joker to believe in the supernatural, but apparently Gotham was in luck, because the clown was about to make a deal with the King of all ghosts to revive his prized foe.
Said King was not happy about the request, nor did he care about the clown's feelings, but he knew it was a necessary evil. Or at least, that's what Clockwork told him; of course, Danny didn't intend to do anything for free.
The Joker got his wish, Bruce came back from the dead and Danny wondered what he should do with the clown's soul. With a shrug he decided to put it to the best possible use and wrapped it in a little bow before handing it over to Jason Todd.
Jason thought it was a joke, a cute guy giving him a gift out of nowhere and claiming that the frozen ball in his hand was the Joker's soul? Yeah, right.
However, John Constantine came through Gotham and it became obvious that it wasn't a joke and that the cute guy was more than just a regular guy. It also came with the feature that Bruce returned to the living, which made him strangely relieved.
And fuck, reckless or not, Jason needed to find the guy again and steal the air out of his lungs, because that weird ball was the best gift he'd ever been given in his life and it might as well be an engagement ring.
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