#you ain’t ever running off like that made my stomach jump insane fic for insane people | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dwaynepride · 4 years

Text

staring out at the setting sun

summary: dwayne sees how close reader is getting to hamilton, and it worries him.

words: 3,845

warnings: spoilers for 3x11 and 3x24

tags: @stanathanxoox @pageofultron @6adb0y @thegoodlonelydalek @consultingdoctorwholock @starryrevelations @thebeckyjolene @diaryofafan17 @specialagentlokitty

a/n: this is part 1 of a 2-part fic. both parts are based off of ‘setting sun’ by lord huron

PART 2

I been waiting for you to come, Staring out at the setting sun You been running around again With that boy you call your friend.

As the music thumps against the walls, Dwayne struggles to move through the crowd of people. Tonight is probably the most busy he’s seen it in a long while, and even the team is having trouble dancing and getting refills on their drinks.

Figures the crowd would hit after wrapping up a case.

Finally, Dwayne reaches the bar and comes around the side. And you hadn’t noticed him yet - you were much too busy pouring drinks and giving people their food. So as Dwayne gets behind the bar, he thinks for a moment that he’ll be able to slip in and lend a hand before you can notice. Pass out a couple beers and prove that his help is needed.

His plan doesn’t quite work out, though. “Dwayne? Why’re you here?” You shout at him over the music.

He winces lightly at getting caught, but there’s no use stalking around now. Dwayne quickly pulls a beer from the ice and hands it to a man while taking his money. “It’s boomin’, tonight! Figured you’d need some help up here.”

And Dwayne already knows what you’re going to say. Still, it pulls a smirk to his lips to hear you say it, anyway. “You worked all day. You deserve to have some fun, not work even more.” You move past him to grab a couple more glasses, but when he looks over, Dwayne can see your smile.

It only emboldens him.

“Nah, I’m happy to help!”

“Dwayne...”

“Don’t forget, it’s my bar. I can always order you to let me help.”

Even over the music, he can hear your snort of laughter. But you finally give in, letting Dwayne handle one side of the bar while you work the other. And Dwayne was being honest, he really did want to help. But maybe he had a hidden agenda. Maybe he just wanted to spend some time with you, even if that means working your asses off.

You and him haven’t had much chance together, lately. Maybe that’s on him.

And yeah, he’s tired. Was almost half-tempted to stay behind in the office and catch up on some sleep, but Dwayne’s glad he decided against it. Working with you again, side by side - it was nice. Sometimes, you both brush up against each other running back and forth, trying to fill out orders and keep the bar patrons happy. Once in a while, someone from the team comes up and Dwayne notices you chatting with them, yelling over the music.

Though, Dwayne needs to be conscious of how fast he’s working. It’s not truly his fault if he gets carried away in looking at you - he just glances over at all the perfect moments. Your hair’s a bit crazy and you’re only dressed in simple jeans and a t-shirt, but it’s more than enough to make him lose his focus.

Strangely, Dwayne can’t recall when he’s been this happy, recently.

It just seems like everything’s been so rough, as of late. Brody leaving the team, dealing with the FBI, learning how to work with Gregorio. And yet, none of that affects him, right now.

The rush lasts for a good few hours until the time winds down to midnight. The music is slower, the team had gone home, and it seems like the people of New Orleans were finally giving Dwayne chance to slow down and really appreciate being in your company.

He comes over to the far side of the bar, where you’re organizing the bills. “You’re doin’ a great job tonight,” Dwayne praises with a big smile. You jump a little, twist your head around, and immediately mimic his smile.

“Thanks,” you reply. “You really didn’t have to help out. I know you probably would’ve wanted to have fun with your friends.”

Dwayne just gives a light scoff at that. “Well, maybe I am having fun with a friend,” he says. You give him a teasing look and go back to counting the bills, but Dwayne really had meant that.

And he knows this isn’t the first time he made a impulsive decision to do whatever it takes to spend time with you. To try and fully understand why he gets such fierce butterflies in his stomach for the bartender he hired only months ago. And the thought of maybe trying to move things to another level....

Well, Dwayne’s much too afraid of losing a friend. And a damn good bartender.

“Chris was trying to telling me something earlier. Apparently Sebastian wants to become a field agent?”

Instantly, your quest elicits a bark of laughter from Dwayne. “Yeah, ‘pparently so,” he answers.

It’s your turn to laugh, head shaking lightly. “It’s hard to imagine him with a gun, fighting bad guys and stuff. What do you think about it?”

Your head turns once again to look at him. Dwayne has to focus on the question in order to speak, and he gives a shrug of his shoulders. “He’s smart. Quick thinker. Don’t see why he can’t be a good agent, with some training.”

“Right,” you reply slowly. And then your smile gets a bit more mischievous. “So, do you think I’d be good agent?”

Dwayne blinks once, and then a little mischievous smile of his own appears. “I don’t know. I don’t wanna be givin’ you any ideas.”

“Ideas?”

“Yep. I’m way too busy to start lookin’ for another bartender.”

Your laughter sounds even sweeter than the slow jazz music from the stage.

Dwayne’s more than happy to revel in it forever, but as the doors of the Tru Tone open up and catches his eye, his easy happiness is instantly sucked away. Leaves a yawning pit in his gut where the warm pleasure had once been.

But that tends to happen whenever Mayor Hamilton is around.

And he doesn’t have to say a word to you. Regrettably, it’s as if you’ve got some kind of radar for the dear Mayor. Always knowing and recognizing his presence in the bar, as rare as it is. Dwayne suspects he only comes here for you (pissing him off is just a bonus.)

It also makes Dwayne wonder just how much time you’re spending with Hamilton to make you so attuned to him.

Dwayne looks to you, noticing how you’ve bounced up on your toes. Trying to keep your excitement underwraps, but Dwayne can see just how pleased you are to see Hamilton. But you don’t move from your spot at the register to greet him. Nor do you call out his name and wave. Because you’re working, and Dwayne knows just how serious you take your job.

For a moment, he thinks about keeping you behind the bar. With him. Away from Douglas Hamilton and his way of poisoning everything he touches. But the notion instantly fills him with guilt - Dwayne can’t just abuse his power, like that.

So, hard as it is, he forces a smile on his face and motions to the Mayor with his head. “Go. You’ve been working hard,” he says.

The way your smile goes wide should’ve made the butterflies worse. This time, it just fills him with dread. “Thanks, Dwayne!”

He tries not to stare when you come out from behind the bar to hug Hamilton.

And it’s driving me insane. Does he make you say his name? And you can’t get it off your tongue Little girl, you are not so young

By now, Dwayne should know better than to think he can hide his feelings from Loretta.

She’s able to sniff out the storm cloud over his head in seconds. Always has, and sometimes, it can be a little annoying. Can’t a man brood in peace without being asked if he wants to talk? But today wasn’t one of those days - Dwayne swirling thoughts sometimes makes it hard to breathe.

“What’s wrong, Dwayne?”

That’s all he really needs.

“It’s Y/N,” he says simply. “And Hamilton. She’s been spending a lotta time with him lately, and I really don’t like it.”

His gaze is elsewhere, away from Loretta and the way her brows shoot up in surprise. He misses how she’s nearly smirks, but reigns it in at the last second. And as she steps closer, Dwayne feels her hand on his shoulder. “Have you considered that maybe you want her attention on you, instead of Hamilton?”

The question makes him frown in confusion, and as he looks up to Loretta, he instantly reads her face. And he scoffs at her. “I’m not jealous.” Loretta raises a single brow. “I’m not! I’m worried about her, Loretta. I don’t trust Hamilton as far as I can throw him.”

“Dwayne, she’s an adult. I’m sure she knows what she’s doing,” Loretta says calmly. And her words cause Dwayne to shake his head and look away. “Has it impacted her work at all?”

“....No.”

“Then let her live her life. And if you’re really so worried, keep an eye out for her. Protect her, if you really think it might go that far.”

But Dwayne doesn’t need to be told twice.

If he weren’t already on the Mayor’s ass before, then you just cemented Dwayne’s total focus on him.

Ain’t you worried what i’ll do? And that boy should worry, too Can you face me for what you’ve done? Little girl, you are not so young

Eliza’s death should’ve been the only thing that weighed on Dwayne’s heart.

It had to be enough for him that Javier Garcia lost everything he had. It had to be enough that he sacrificed him in order to nail Hamilton. Not truly getting justice for Eliza had to mean something.

But when the news of Javier’s death came in, Dwayne felt more heavy than ever.

He hadn’t told the team - that can wait until tomorrow. They deserve to have a break, but that didn’t mean he could just forget about it. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet; getting lost in his thoughts and going over the suspects in his mind. Somebody who could gain something from Javier’s death.

The one name that kept popping up was Douglas Hamilton.

And every time it did, Dwayne’s gaze finds you. Happy and vibrant as ever, laughing with strangers up by the bar. Completely unknowing of the kind of man that Hamilton really is. What he’s capable of.

He spent the next few hours mulling over what he should say. Ignoring everybody’s prods for him to go back to his room above the office and get some sleep. No, this was way more important than sleep. And for all Dwayne knew, you could be in danger, as well.

He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if Hamilton hurt you.

You’re the one who’s chatting while the pair of you clean up after the bar closes. Talking about the day - mostly just bitching about how late one of the delivery guys was and you were left waiting for a shipment of beer for two hours. The story really should’ve lightened Dwayne’s heart.

He was just thinking too much about Eliza. And Javier. And Hamilton....

So as you’re leaving that story and melting into a new one, Dwayne finally stops you. A hand grasping your arm, keeping you in place, uncaring around the empty bottles you carry. Your eyes flash up to him, looking confused, and Dwayne reluctantly meets them. “We need to talk,” he says simply.

Slowly, you nod and move to set the empty bottles down on the nearest table. “I noticed you were kinda quiet tonight,” you tell him carefully. And when your eyes come up to meet Dwayne’s once again, careful and troubled, it makes his stomach tight. “What’s wrong?”

Such a loaded question. And even after hours of thinking about it, Dwayne’s not sure where to start.

His hand falls away from your arm, but he stays close. Keeps his eyes locked on yours, hoping to convey how serious this is. “You know the man we’ve been investigating? Javier Garcia? The man who-” Dwayne had a pause and swallow down the lump in his throat. “The man who had Eliza killed?”

He knows you never knew Eliza, but you saw him in the aftermath of her death. A sad and angry and self-pitying Dwayne Pride. Not his proudest moment.

That’s what makes you nod sadly. “He’s dead. Was killed a few hours ago.”

Your eyes blink in surprise, and then shift in confusion. “How? Why?”

“Car bomb,” Dwayne says. “And I reckon he was killed so he couldn’t tell us things. Things that we need to know. That’s the deal we struck with him.”

Dwayne can tell you’re growing more and more confused. Wondering why he was telling you all this. What this all had to do with you. And maybe Dwayne’s just putting off the inevitable. But he takes a breath to brace himself. “I think the person who had him killed was Hamilton.”

Instantly, you pull away from him in a disbelieving shock. Scoffing at his words as if what he told you was completely ridiculous. And maybe to you, it was. “Dwayne, that’s not fucking funny-”

“I’m not tryin’ to be,” he cuts in quickly. “Javier was going to give us information on a lot of bad people. High profile people. And he mentioned Hamilton by name.”

“He’s a criminal, Dwayne! Or was. He’d say anything to keep from going to jail - you should know that.”

“He gave us solid proof. And I can’t think of anyone else who even knew Javier was gonna talk-”

“You’re wrong.” Your voice is hard as steel. Cold in a way that Dwayne’s never heard before, and he’d almost preferred if you started yelling at him. Not watching him with a disappointed look in your eye. “Douglas wouldn’t just have somebody killed. Who the hell do you think he is?”

“I think he’s a man who’s afraid of losing his power,” Dwayne says simply. “A man who will do anything to keep it.”

You’re silent for a moment, taking his words in before scoffing. You take a single step away from him, and Dwayne reigns in his impulse to move closer. “Do you even have any evidence that he had Garcia killed? Or suspects? Anything?” You ask him. Though, it sounds more like a demand.

He hesitates, lips forming a line before he reluctantly shakes his head.

“Then he didn’t do it,” you conclude. “So don’t try to pin this on him.”

With a shake of your head, you finally move to walk past Dwayne, intending to leave. But it’s instinct that has Dwayne reaching out, catching your arm and gripping it tight in his desperation. And he just wishes you’d look him in the eye - make you see how serious he is. Make you see his fear. “Please, just listen. I already just lost somebody very dear to me. And I know this is all very hard to hear. But Douglas is dangerous, and I don’t wanna lose you, too.”

For a moment, you hesitate. And Dwayne thinks that he finally talked some sense into you. Made you see things for how they are.

But then you pull your arm away from him. And Dwayne releases it. “He’s not dangerous, Dwayne. But if you keep accusing my boyfriend of things he hasn’t done, then you will lose me.”

He lets you leave, and even as the doors are slammed shut, Dwayne’s legs don’t seem to want to work. He stands there in his quiet, empty bar. And as much as his motives were selfless and innocent - to keep you safe from Hamilton - Dwayne can help the sharp, piercing pain in the center of his chest at that word.

Boyfriend.

I’m fond of living, but I would have given it all For the girl I loved Oh, is he ready to die for you, baby? Now that the deed is done?

As numb as Dwayne’s spirit is, he wishes his body would feel the same.

He can’t focus on too much of anything besides his aches and the events of the last twenty-four hours.

After everything that’s happened - after all the sacrifices Dwayne has made to get here - he was finally able to reveal Hamilton for the person he is. Finally able to bring some justice to all the wrong that man has done. And Dwayne can barely believe it, himself. He thinks he may be dreaming, but the smarting of his muscles and the light burn of his stab wound made sure that he was awake.

Though, if anything, his heart felt a little lighter. The team made sure of that.

And Dwayne was sure that one of the sacrifices he made was you. He’d been so afraid that his attempts to warn you against Hamilton might’ve caused irreparable damage to your relationship. Maybe he hurt you in some way that you can’t forgive.

So seeing you slowly walk through the sorry excuse for the doors of the Tru Tone, Dwayne knows he must be dreaming. Or at least maybe seeing things because he’s lost more blood that he realized.

Even from across the bar, he can tell you’d been crying. Red eyes and swollen cheeks and such withdrawn body language. So different from how he knows you to be, and suddenly. Dwayne’s own aches mean nothing.

You must’ve heard about what happened on the news. Because Dwayne knows for a fact that Hamilton is not man enough to call you himself.

As you approach, your eyes kept falling away from Dwayne. Looking sheepish, as if expecting him to start yelling and demanding you get out of his bar. But Dwayne says nothing; honestly, he doesn’t really know what to say. So you’re the one to speak up first. “Dwayne, I- I heard what happened. With Douglas. After what happened to the bar...” Your eyes float around the room sadly. He knows you loved the place almost as much as he did.

Dwayne does the same, and notices Loretta eyeing the pair of you.

“I didn’t want to believe Douglas had anything to do with it,” you continue lowly. “But then tonight...”

Again, you trail off. And Dwayne finally sets down the gloves he’d been holding. Cleaning the bar can wait. “You wanna talk?” He offers.

Immediately, you nod. And Dwayne leads you over to what’s left of the backroom. It reeks of smoke and he can’t hardly see much, but it’s private. Quiet. And Dwayne’s barely turned around before you’re on him. Arms around his middle, face in his chest, hugging tight as if he’d suddenly be ripped away.

The way his arms come around you - it’s instinct.

He doesn’t even have to think about it.

Holding you feels natural and right. And after today, hell yeah, Dwayne will admit that it feels good.

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble against his chest. To afraid of seeing his face to pull back and say it clearly. “I should’ve listened. I shouldn’t have brushed you off when you were just trying to protect me. I just- I really didn’t want to believe that Douglas- that he could-”

You’re crying again. Dwayne can hear it in the way the hiccups fracture your words. Can feel your jumps in breath. And his hand eventually comes up to cradle the back of your head, letting his fingers card through your hair. He leans his head down, lips brushing your temple. “I understand,” he says. And Dwayne’s voice is just barely above a whisper. As if speaking louder would break this precious moment. “I’m not mad at you, I promise.”

“...You’re not?”

Dwayne has to breathe to keep from getting too emotional. Your voice was so small. So sad. “No, honey. I could never be mad at you. Never.”

And oh, how he wishes you could really, truly understand the depth of that response. How it’s not just something he’s saying to make you feel better. Wondering if you really knew how wrapped around your finger he is. And Dwayne wonders if he really should be angry, but he finds that he can’t. There’s no hot burn in his gut - only the vicious flutter of butterfly wings.

You and resentment just don’t fit in the same sentence together.

Eventually, your tears slow. And you pull back to finally meet his eyes. Dwayne’s still running on instinct - his hand comes up to fit along the curve of your cheek. His other settles on your hip, hoping to keep you close and with him. The sensation sends sparks of electricity up his spine. And he’s barely focused on whether it’s a good idea or not to be touching you, like this. If now’s the right time.

But you’re not pulling away. Surely that’s a good sign.

And it’s hard for him to believe any of this could be wrong. Because with your arms around his waist, fingers spread over a little area of his back, you seem to be drawing even closer to him. Not pulling away, like you had before. Dwayne hardly dares to breathe.

“Dwayne?”

You breathe out his name. It sounds like heaven. “Yeah?”

“When the bar’s back up and running, do I still have a job here?”

And despite his numbing of his spirit and the effect you’re having on him, Dwayne doesn’t even try to hold back his small bout of laughter. Neither do you. “‘Course, you do. Can’t imagine this place without you with me,” he replies easily.

Honestly, those words came out without his consent. A vulnerable look into his true feelings; much too bold and honest to pretend like it was anything else. It nearly scares Dwayne enough to make him break away. To prompt him into some kind of damage control.

But you don’t give him the chance.

You’re on your toes, and you’re kissing him. Soft and slow and sweet, and it’s a gut reaction to kiss you back with the same warm affection. You just feel too good and too gentle after these last few days of being so hard and angry at everything. It feels like he lost a piece of himself in the hunt.

Now, it’s easy to believe that maybe you were just holding that piece for him.

Your fingers press into his back, holding onto him even tighter when Dwayne tilts your head up to kiss you deeper. Faintly, he hears commotion in the other room. Other people might’ve finally showed up to help. Frankly, Dwayne can’t imagine caring, right now. Because you gasp against his lips, exhale a shaky breath, and Dwayne feels like he might die if he lets you go.

For just a few more moments, he can forget about the tears still falling down your cheeks.

I’m just waiting for night and the fading light of the setting sun.

#ncis new orleans x reader #ncis nola x reader #dwayne pride x reader #dwayne pride imagine #douglas hamilton x reader

91 notes · View notes

violetsmoak · 5 years

Text

Appetence [1/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn't expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #cemetery #haunting #relics

Canon-Compliance: Alternate Universe; Jason still died but was not found by Talia when he was resurrected. All other events mostly follow the same chronology as New Earth continuity, with mentions made to events in New 52

Author’s Note(s): My attention span was really terrible today and I couldn't focus on either of my two other fics even though the next chapters of both are completely planned out. So I'm posting the start of the third (and final) story that I'm doing for the JayTimWeek/Month challenge. Also, I'm really excited about this one. I spent more time planning this than either of the other two and I can't wait to hear what you guys think!I've got work stuff to do tomorrow so there may not be anything updated until Friday.

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

________________________________________________________________

The Bat-Signal cuts through the dark and hazy clouds lingering above Gotham City, and for a split-second, Jason Todd has the urge to drop everything and race for the roof of the GCPD Headquarters. It’s hard to ignore the nervous jump of excitement in his stomach, the phantom sensation of a domino mask on his face and the heavy drag of a cape at his shoulders.

Which makes no sense, since it’s been at least five years since I even wore that shit.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, the smoke mixing with the familiar summer smog, Jason turns his back on Gotham’s literal beacon of hope and steels himself against nocturnal threats of his own. The city is for the caped crew—because apparently, the Bat has a posse now, he thinks with only a hint of a bitter sneer—and Jason has been fighting in a different arena for quite some time now.

He takes a final drag of the cigarette, and then grinds it beneath his boots, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. It’s a weathered and worn thing that reminds him of one Willis Todd wore in one of the few memories Jason has of him that doesn’t involve alcohol or fists. He thinks it’s less pretentious looking than a trench coat and probably gives off fewer ‘creepy motherfucker’ vibes like the sartorial choices of certain other people. It’s also less likely to snag on things when he needs to make a quick exit while digging up graves.

Yeah, it’s a thing in his line of work.

Gotham Cemetery is a sprawling necropolis, as dark and forbidding now as it was the night he dug himself out of his own grave. Half a decade of Gotham-style tender, loving negligence has left the somber green hills overgrown and the majority of the old tombstones fallen or rotting.

You’d think in a city with the highest homicide rate in the country, the mayor would spring for better maintenance. Then again, it’s Gotham. The dead don’t pay taxes, so fuck ‘em.

Which…enough said.

Gotham and the world think Jason Todd-Wayne is dead and has been for five years now; in a way, it’s the truth. He’s no longer anything like the boy that was beaten to death by a psychotic clown, no longer the shrimp who fastidiously dyed his hair black and jumped into someone else’s cape and pixie boots just so he didn’t have to be his own screwup self anymore. He outgrew wanting to be Dick a long time ago, outgrew wanting to be Bruce, too, and embraced a whole new other set of skills to put him apart from them.

Most occultists and even homo magi need to put conscious effort and intent into calling up or even seeing a spirit. Ever since Jason died and then mysteriously got better, the dead appear to him as blatantly and a solid as the living.

John told him he was a fool to come back here.

“Someone with your gifts, they’ll drive you bloody mad,” his mentor warned him when he left London. “And I ain’t talking about the dead ones, neither.”

“You’re just saying that because Batman wouldn’t hold your hand that one time,” Jason retorted, shrugging off the concern. He is Gotham born and bred, his blood is in those streets, and he has always wanted to come home, even if it wasn’t necessarily to a stately manor or its inhabitants.

He clenches his fists.

Inhabitants that wasted no time in replacing him after he died. Jason was rotting away in fucking Arkham, and Bruce was shoving another kid into the tights.

If it didn’t involve seeing him, I would hunt him down and break his jaw.

He surveys the graveyard proper. The everyday observer considers cemeteries to be places of peace and eternal rest; quiet, if a little bit spooky. To Jason, they’re as gruesome as any major battlefield.

Spirits pack the way before him; some of them look relatively normal if dated by their clothes; many others are disfigured and bloody from whatever killed them, whether natural or unnatural. They clamor and crowd, eternally shouting to be heard, or screaming as they relive their deaths in their own personal purgatories.

In the beginning, that din almost drove Jason insane. Bruce’s teachings kept him rational as long as it could in the months after he woke up, and then John’s training helped him temper his own awareness further. By now, he can function almost normally, automatically filtering the voices out as he goes about his daily business; it’s only in places like this, where the dead outnumber the living, where it’s harder.

Jason reaches up, adjusting the noise filters in his ears—mechanical devices that need regular winding but are still more reliable than anything running on electricity of batteries. They’re like steampunk hearing aids, only instead of magnifying sound, they drown out the constant moan of the ghosts when he can’t do it himself. Just one of many methods of protection he’s learned over the years. Some are physical, like the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist or the bottle of holy water in his pocket; others—spells and symbols and mantras—are carved all over his body in tattoos and blood writing. Anything to keep the otherworld away.

“Personal space is a key to a medium’s sanity,” John told him once. “That and a good bottle of single malt scotch.”

Jason ignores the moss-covered path that winds through the larger and more prominent mausoleums. He deliberately doesn’t search out the one in the distance bearing the Wayne crest—

(Still remembers the feel of his fingernails splitting against the wood of the coffin, choking on clumps of soil and insects.)

—and instead seeks a small structure much farther away. It’s in the furthest part of the cemetery, the shabby section almost hidden by overgrown willows. Half of the name above the doorway is obscured by vines, but it’s easy for him to make out the name etched into the stone with bold letters.

HAYWOOD.

According to the public record, Sheila Haywood’s body was returned to Gotham at the same time as Jason Todd’s. Bruce paid for her funeral and internment, which was just as well since she had no other family, and then she was promptly forgotten about.

By everyone except Jason, it seems.

It took some doing and a few weeks tracking down everyone that had worked at the same refugee camp as his mother, but he’d finally managed to collect what possessions she left behind. A colleague of hers had put them aside when there appeared to be nothing of actual monetary value in them.

A gold coin, small bone carvings of stylized animals, dainty trinkets of garnets, amber and lapis lazuli, a compact mirror, some seashells, a decorative fan, quartz paperweight, and a brightly colored feather. There was a picture of Willis in there, too, young and almost Jason’s double. No picture of Jason, though, but he hadn’t expected it.

He kept the picture but left the rest in the small wooden box, which he now removes from his messenger bag and sets down in front of the stone bearing his mother’s name. He follows that with various tools and ingredients. Black candles arranged in a star shape around the box, a chalice, a jar of detritus—teff seeds, driftwood and soil, all from the place where she died—that he sprinkles around in a circle, a handful of smooth obsidian stones to mark a pentagram joining the candles, the dagger John gave him for his last birthday, vials of oil and holy water.

Murmuring a few protection oaths, he shrugs off his jacket, leaving his arms bare, and then digs out a pack of matches to light the candles; flickering shadows dance across the mausoleum walls. He takes up the chalice to combine the water and oil, and then reaches for the dagger.

Hate this part.

Training to ignore pain doesn’t mean it goes away, and he grits his teeth a little as he draws his blade across his forearm, not deep enough to nick anything vital, but enough that the blood runs easily into the chalice. Without bothering to bandage the wound, Jason holds up the chalice in front of him and centers himself.

“Phantasma inrequietum, te voco,” he intones. “Eloguiorum mei audi: Sheila Haywood, te nominas!“ The stagnant air in the mausoleum starts to pick up. “In nominee creatricis, te impero, hic locum decede.” Hand over the top of the chalice, he swirls the liquid within, and then tips it into the open keepsake box. “Per sanguinem hominis et per sanguinem filii tui, non remane et apage! ”He strikes a match and lobs it into the box, not even flinching as the whole thing flares into flame; he intends to watch it until it burns to nothing.

“That’s not going to work, you know.”

“Jesus fuck!” Jason explodes, whirling to the right and glaring at the interrupter. “What did I say about sneaking up on me? Or just—showing up around me in general?”

The apparition in front of him doesn’t look impressed.

Sheila is still beautiful—or, at least, the side of her body that isn’t covered with third-degree burns and sections of pulverized bone—and still sharp. Cold, untouchable and self-interested.

But unlike the way she was before, she’s all-too present in Jason’s life now.

“Goddamn it,” he snarls, and against every lesson John has ever given him, lashes out and knocks the candles and detritus hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. “What the hell. I’ve done everything. You had last rites, your body was cremated, I just torched the things that had any value to you, why the hell won’t you just move on?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” Sheila replies, as always.

Jason scowls. “And of course, you can’t just tell me.”

She gazes at him balefully, and he runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Sheila, we’ve been over this. You can’t stay here. One, you know spirits that stick around past their time go Dark Side, and I really don’t want to have to exorcise your spectral ass. Two, it’s fucking creepy for a twenty-year-old guy to be followed around by his mother wherever he goes. What the hell is keeping you here? What more do you want from me?”

“Your forgiveness,” she tells him patiently.

“I already forgave you. Years ago.”

“You still call me Sheila.”

“That’s your name.”

“I’m your mother.”

“Who sold me out and got me murdered.”

“See? You haven’t forgiven me.”

“I have. I’m just stating a fact, Jesus…”

“Apparently the cosmic balance doesn’t agree enough to let me move on,” the ghost says dryly. “And to think, I used to be an atheist.”

“This is total bullshit,” Jason snaps, grabbing his jacket and stalking out of the mausoleum in frustration.

Three years of this mediumship crap, and neither he nor John have ever been able to figure out why the ghost of Jason’s dead mother won’t stop haunting him. Wards and sutras that keep even the nastiest spirits away from Jason don’t even phase her, and she’s inexplicably coherent.

And persistent.

As Jason stalks back through the cemetery, he can sense her in his periphery, gliding along beside him, unconcerned with his irritation.

“Can you just…stay away from me? Like you did in the beginning?” he grumbles.

“You were just learning how to communicate without going insane. I wasn’t about to disrupt that.”

“How considerate of you.”

“I try.”

“Look, I’ve had enough of the ghost-stalker thing for today. I went out of my way for this, you know. I didn’t even want to come back here. And now I’m back to the fucking drawing board.”

“It may not have been a waste of a trip,” she replies and vanishes.

“Oh, you can fuck off when it’s convenient for you,” he grumbles, though he already senses what she was speaking of.

Several yards away, a small boy, maybe eight, is clinging forlornly to an angel headstone. Translucent tears stream down his cheeks, but every now and again his face shifts, like a television caught between two channels, and his mouth widens into an unnatural smile.

Jason could have gone the rest of his life without seeing that smile again.

Still, he sighs and heads toward the kid.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low and maintaining a safe distance from the boy, whose head whips up to stare at Jason in sudden fear.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice thick with tears.

“I’m Jason. You okay, kid?”

“I can’t find my mom,” the boy murmurs, wiping at his face. “I keep going looking, but I forget the way home. And then…I always end up back here.”

He sounds on the verge of tears again; it’s something Jason can understand.

With the puzzling exception of Sheila, who appears to come and go as she pleases, most ghosts are stuck in certain patterns and paths when they die, frozen in an infinite loop until they break themselves out of it or until some arbitrary higher power decides they’ve suffered enough. And for some reason, Jason can break them out of it.

“You could always try again,” he suggests. “I think you’ll manage it this time.”

The boy shudders. “There’s scary people here.”

No arguing with that.

“I know. I see them, too.” Jason glances at the headstone, scanning the name and dates. “Your name’s Cole?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re missing, there are probably people looking for you. They might have posted something online about it. I’ll check it out, but it could take a bit.” He holds up his phone, glad to see it’s at full charge and bars; that’s hit or miss around so many ghosts. “Can you hang around here until I’m done?”

The boy nods, silent, face flicking back and forth between sadness and the unnatural smile.

Fucking Joker…

Jason does a quick search of the kid’s name, pulling up obituaries in the Gotham Gazette in the past year. It doesn’t take long for an article to pop up concerning the Joker’s latest escape and a list of the dead.

He narrows his eyes, startling the kid.

“It’s fine,” he lies. “The internet is just really slow.”

“Or our phone is really bad,” Cole tells him with the blunt honesty of a kid that grew up constantly surrounded by functional technology.

“Everyone’s a critic…”

Another quick search for the parents, phone lists and social media, and he’s got an address. Crime Alley, of course. He brings it up on his map and enables a view of the street, holding the phone out to the boy. “Is this your house?”

Relief settles and settles over his face. “Yeah.”

“What if I helped you find your way home?”

Cole makes a suspicious face. “I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers.”

“Which is really smart. But you see, I’m not really a stranger.”

“Oh yeah? Why not?”

“Well, I’ll let you in on a secret.” Jason bends down, conspiratorial, and Cole’s eyes gleam the way any kid gets when hearing a secret. “When I was a little older than you…I was Robin.”

The boy gapes. “Like…Batman and Robin?”

“Exactly.”

“No way!”

“Way,” Jason smirks, crossing his arms. “And I’ll tell you all about it on the way to your house. Including the time that I stole the wheels off the Batmobile.”

“No way!”

Despite his scandalized disbelief, the kid is obviously hooked.

Jason’s heart clenches a bit at the open curiosity on Cole’s face, the reality hitting him that this boy will never have a chance to do anything mischievous or fun ever again.

From one dead boy to another, this sucks…

As he leads him out of the cemetery, Jason starts to tell the little ghost about his life. He edits out the less pleasant bits, like dying and returning to life half brain dead with the ability to see and hear ghosts.

He figures a good story is the least he can do for the boy.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

#jaytimweek2019 #jaytimweek #jaytim #jaytimbingo2019 #fanfic #jaytim fic #jason todd #tim drake #prompt: supernatural #romance #drama #mystery #angst #cemetery #haunting #relics

50 notes · View notes

bluerene · 6 years

Text

river, part three [starx]

Hellooooooo

Finally wrapped up part three! Phew, got a little lost in writing it, especially because I want the characters to feel real and I don’t want to get wrapped up in too much plot. I wanted to get this out of the way before I put up Chapter 5 of Liability, so that I can continue editing and writing with a clear conscience <3 Parts one and two are linked here and at the bottom in case a refresher is needed.

take note of the following: stubborn laptop + late writing = formatting issues. bear with me, edits shall be made. Story is post-tokyo, sans kiss, slightly aged up Titans...lots and lots and LOTS of love for @fireflyxrebel who never fails to gush and fangirl and make me cry with her insanely kind words. Show her some love, she’s written some pretty incredible fic. <3 <3 <3

I invite and appreciate critiques, requests, reblogs, and reviews! even the tiny ones :) <3

without further ado, part three, my friends.

A couple of days passed and I was still a little lost on how to plan the date. I was out of practice as it was, it had been a while since I’d had to put in the effort to impress a girl. And I don’t mean that like, “I’m a fucking champ at getting laid without even trying”. I honestly have no idea where to begin.

It couldn’t be outside; we would meet too early in the day and I wasn’t about to greet her maskless. That ruled out a picnic or a restaurant or the movies. I couldn’t take her to the botanical gardens or go stargazing on the beach.

I didn’t think it would be a good idea to bring her back to my place. She’d probably kill me anyway, thinking that I was presuming.

Eventually, I settled on an old planetarium that was partially in the process of being remodeled. Construction had been halted for about a month already, due to some issues between the co-owners. Didn’t matter to me, I had a spot and I had an idea.

Starfire and I hadn’t talked much since our conversation a few nights ago. She wanted to keep our communications lowkey and preferred that we text at night when the other Titans weren’t around to peek over her shoulder or express interest in who she was speaking with. It made things easier for us both, especially because I worked long hours during the day. Not that she knew that piece of information. If she did, she’d never quit on the little redemption story she’s trying to write me into.

I could picture her, gorgeous eyes wide, our hands clasped together, asking me why I did what I did. If I ever let it get there, I wouldn’t be able to resist telling her. And that was something I wasn’t willing to risk.

I thought about not going on the date. Never giving her a time or place, or worse, blowing her off completely. Prove to her I’m as terrible as I want to be. Kill the hope she has for me.

But it’s Starfire. I could never do that to her.

I kept thinking about all of our interactions over the years, brief and non. The first time I had her pinned to the wall, her expression shifting from confused to furious before I could finish my suggestion. The night we found ourselves trapped in a LexCorp vault, her fingers gripping my arms as we were squished into a corner, surrounded by various menacing devices. Her look of wonder when I caught her from a nasty fall a few months back, the surprise in her eyes when she realized I wasn’t Boy Blunder.

Jesus Christ, I was totally gone, wasn’t I?

Fuck.

I had a job I needed to do that night. I’d trip an alarm and get her attention, pull her aside and tell her the whole thing was off. It was stupid of me to suggest in the first place. And it was stupider of her to accept.

I preferred to not compromise the assignment, but she’d already made it clear that it was difficult to sneak out at night. Once the Titans finished patrol, they returned to the Tower and went into total lockdown. If a window or door was opened or broken, Cyborg would get the alert. That had been news to me, and I realized that their security had probably been heightened since the theft of the suit and everything else that followed.

That evening, I broke into a private laboratory. Wasn’t too heavily guarded, I counted five, maybe six security officers stationed around the perimeter of the building, and three patrolling the halls inside. Lots of cameras, but I could mess with the feed by transmitting an older tape on a loop to the surveillance room. I was careful not to use my belt while I made my way to the main lab. There were energy sensors set up all over, designed to bring attention to any odd bursts of power that might be expelled across the premises. I fucking hate scientists sometimes.

No confrontations occurred. A+ for me. I made it into the central lab with ease, keying in the numbers my client had instructed me to use. It was a circular room with several stations, each one cluttered with tools and paperwork. Red lasers crisscrossed the area, but there were little pockets of space around the tables. Towards the back of the lab, there were wide glass windows mounted on the paneled wall, but it was too dark to see what was behind them.

“Here we go,” I muttered, cracking my knuckles and shaking out my hands. One run, not too challenging.

I leaped forward, careful to avoid the scarlet lines that cut through the air. Every action was precise, my hands and feet never lingering on the ground for more than a few seconds. I used the momentum of each handspring to push myself forward, each jump allowing me to twist through the air, clear of any obstacles.

I stumbled a little when I landed, bracing myself against the wall, relief washing over me when I realized I hadn’t tripped any alarms.

I ran my fingers along the grooves in the wall, pulling gently to see if any would budge. There was supposed to be a door to the main office somewhere…

I heard a faint click, and the panel I was gripping hissed open. Sweet.

I was in and out pretty quickly. My day job taught me some pretty cool tricks, including how to hack an “impenetrable” firewall. I accessed the desktop and downloaded several encrypted files onto a pair of flash-drives I’d brought with me. One for the client, and one for me, so I could see what I’d gotten myself into. Shut down the computer, slipped out of the office, closed the door - easy. Getting the Titans here, isolating Starfire, and keeping what I came for - that would be hard.

I darted through the lasers, flinching when the klaxon alarm screeched. I shoved the door open and hit the center of my belt quickly, teleporting to the roof. And then, I waited.

----

I had been lying on the sofa with my legs hooked over the side, deeply engrossed in a romance novel when the Titan alert rang. I glanced up, unsurprised to find Robin glaring at the console.

“Red X,” he said scathingly, turning to address the rest of us. I did not listen to what he said, my eyes immediately finding Raven’s.

I did not wish for X to come to any harm. Perhaps I was being foolish, but I would feel I had failed him if I did not follow through with our arrangement.

My anger flared for a moment - it was unfair that he had not even considered my offer, or at least avoided thievery prior to the date.

“Clorbag,” I grumbled, crossing my arms.

“ - all of us, so Starfire and I can go instead.”

I snapped to attention, “What?”

Robin shrugged, “Nothing was reported stolen, so I don’t think all of are required for this one. You and I can bring him in. It’ll make up for Monday night.” He gave me a half-smile when he said that, quiet butterflies awakening in my stomach. I rarely felt that way around him anymore.

“I do not think-”

“Awwww, ain’t that cute,” Cyborg grinned, nudging Beast Boy, “takin’ down criminals together.”

“I would like to go alone if that is okay,” I said meekly.

Robin tilted his head, confusion evident on his face, “What? Why? Starfire, you can’t go without backup.”

“I will be brief, I promise, I would simply like to have the ‘words’ with him.” It was not a lie, I planned on speaking with him, although it may not have been what Robin thought.

“Red X does go pretty easy on her,” Raven added helpfully, “if you want, I can go with. Keep an eye on her.”

I disliked that phrasing, but I was grateful for her assistance.

Robin pursed his lips, “I don’t want-”

“We do not have the luxury of time,” I interjected.

He sighed and hung his head, “just go.”

I nodded and flew to Raven’s side. Moments later, her powers engulfed us, carrying us to the location Robin had instructed us to investigate.

“Alright,” she said upon arrival, placing her hands on her hips, “what do you want me to do here?”

“Accept my humble gratitude with a hug and keep the security officers busy while I find X.”

She rolled her eyes, “The second one I can do. Save your hugs for later. Keep him out of trouble.”

I did not smile - it seemed that he could not help but get himself into trouble time and time again.

Raven spoke with the guards, which allowed me the opportunity to fly around the building. I could not find any broken windows or weaknesses in structure, which made me wonder if he had left the building at all.

As I floated higher, I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye.

Of course he was waiting on the roof.

I landed softly, allowing energy to flood my eyes with fury. This was truly disappointing to find.

He had been peering over the edge cautiously, but once he was aware of my presence, he shot up and faced me, a hand hovering in front of his belt. He relaxed when he realized I was the only one.

“Starfire.”

X’hal, I cannot explain how much I enjoyed hearing him say my name. It was strange, there was a gentle lilt to his tone, a soothing quality that calmed me. My eyes dimmed slightly, but I did not relinquish the blaze completely.

“Red X.”

“You sound unhappy, beautiful. Am I not what you wanted?”

I was taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. I had only heard it once before, on an occasion I doubt he even remembers.

We were battling the Hive Five. I had been knocked out of the air, and in my panic, forgot to fly. I still relied on Robin, back then, and often put myself in his way in hopes that he might catch me.

I squeezed my eyes shut as I neared the ground, bracing for the impact that never came.

Arms had caught me. I had touched his chest and quietly murmured, “Robin”. I felt him chuckle, and in a low voice, whisper, “not quite, Cutie.”

My eyes opened to find my savior was someone else entirely.

“Red X!” I squeaked.

He set me down gently, and in the same tired, bitter inflection, replied, “Sorry to disappoint,” before shimmering into the midst of the fight.

It hurt to hear him speak that way.

“I am disappointed that you thought you could continue to commit crimes, despite our-”

“Agreement? Starfire, you made this happen. You pushed me into it. I didn’t want a date,” he said sourly.

I raised my eyebrow, “this was not your goal? Then please, X, explain the flirting. Explain the constant requests. Explain the kindness you show me, the compassion you show only me.”

“I’m teasing, cutie. It’s what I do. I mess around. I steal, I cheat, I lie. Get over it.”

His words sounded rehearsed and detached. I had been on the receiving end of such words before.

“I do not accept that.”

He shrugged, “your problem, not mine. See you around, cutie.”

I growled and launched myself at him, throwing my arms around him as his fist hit the center of his belt.

He yelped in protest, but it was too late.

We landed in a tangled mess on soft carpet, my hands still gripping him tightly as he fumbled around in the dark.

I loosened my hold and rolled away from him, feeling my surroundings until I found a wall. I leaned against it and rose.

“Where are we?”

He cursed, but did not move to turn on the lights, “my apartment.”

That interested me.

“Oh, wonderful. Perhaps now you will be willing to sit and talk.”

“Nothing to discuss. You’re leaving.”

“You think so?” I asked, stretching my hand out hesitantly. I found his arm and curled my fingers around his hand.

“I’ll make you leave,” he said tonelessly, removing his hand from mine. He moved closer and settled his palms on my biceps, wary of holding me too tight.

“I would like to see you try,” I retorted.

He made a little noise of frustration and dropped his hands, “Jesus, Starfire, why are you being so difficult? It was stupid of you to ask, it was stupid of me to accept. Let it go. I can’t be what you want.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“Does it matter?” He asked incredulously, “Bottom line, nothing’s different. This...whatever, never happened.”

“But you wanted it to.”

“Of course I did,” he exploded, backing away from me, “how could I not? But I’m not an idiot. You can’t be around someone like me. You can’t make me change, you can’t ‘fix’ me or make me think you’re interested in me so that you get what you want. Heroes and thieves don’t play nice.”

“You have,” I pointed out, trying to ignore the pain his familiar words brought me.

He let out a bark of laughter, though it was clear he found no humor in this, “you got me there, cutie, that changes everything.”

My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, the faint shapes of the furniture surrounding us becoming more evident to me.

X was leaning against a...couch? An armchair, it seemed, once I squinted. I kept my distance, drawing circles on the wall behind me absentmindedly.

“I am more than just a hero,” I said finally, “I have heard your words before. All this talk of being one thing...humans are so much more complex than that.”

“You’re more than just a hero,” he agreed, “but beautiful, I am what I am.”

“Not without purpose.”

“What is it with you? Give it up already,” he snarled, “why do you trust me so much?”

“You have had too many opportunities to hurt me and my friends. Instead, you have protected us. Protected me,” I paused, “I will not push you to be ‘fixed’. Trust means I must have faith that you are doing what you must.”

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“I still want the date.”

He tilted his head, “what?”

I gave him a tiny smile, “I have often heard the phrase ‘do not mix business with pleasure’. I should not have coupled my heroic agenda with my personal agenda. Our date shall commence as planned, with no talk of you joining the Titans.”

He shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the collar of his suit, “Ah, cutie -”

“You have already admitted you would like to date me. Is it so farfetched to think I could feel the same?” The words spilled from my mouth before I could stop myself. I flushed, thankful for the darkness.

He stiffened and fell silent. I could almost see him working through my words, deciding if he should believe me or not.

“No,” he said finally. I was relieved to hear amusement trickling into his tone, “I guess not.”

“Wonderful. Please take me back to the laboratory, now,” I stretched out my hand expectantly.

He took it and tugged me into him, settling his arm around my waist, “anything for you, beautiful.”

We landed on the roof of the building far more gracefully. He released me from his grasp quickly, laughing quietly when I stumbled into his chest.

“I am not used to chemical transportation,” I said apologetically, blushing yet again.

“You should get going,” he said, jerking his head in the direction Raven and I had come from, “your teammates are probably wondering where you are.”

“That is likely. I thank you for your honesty tonight. I shall see you Saturday,” I lifted into the air and glanced around for Raven. I was certain she sensed my disappearance and return, and would no doubt be very cranky and concerned.

“Starfire,” he said quietly, pulling on my ankle gently.

I frowned and dropped beside him, “yes?”

“Don’t kill me for this,” he breathed. He flipped up the bottom of his mask quickly, revealing a smooth, square jaw and a mouth that was quickly pressed to mine.

[end of part three] part two part one

#starx #starfire #red x #teen titans #fanfic #raven #robin #beast boy #cyborg #blue writes #YOOOO PART THREE #river

25 notes · View notes