#does he actually have to scoop the brains of the former person out of their own skulls and place his brain in or does he just use some kind

[tariah23]

I fell asleep and woke up from a bad jjk dream where kenjaku took over Gojo’s body- (after reading the new chapter…)

#I’ve thought about it for laughs before but um this is dire #I want a govival but not like this… the manga would literally never end omg #there’s no way they’d be able to defeat kengojo not without Sukuna level skills again and Sukuna is the villain like why would he be on #their side anyway #if he did fight Ken Gojo it would be solely because he’s strong and had a lot of fun the first time #and they’d been working together too so #rambling #I still wanna draw kengojo sorry #but I #don’t want it to be REAL lol #but I have to remember the rules of the culling game #there were two rules implemented stating that the game will only end once every player had been killed except for both getou and megumi #but megumi is nowhere in sight… since his body probably fused with Sukuna so he’d technically be counted as still being alive right… if his #ass does emerge from sukuna’s body um…. he’s gonna be so fucked up #Megumi’s mental state will be In shambles and I don’t want to see it #and like Kenjaku had been beheaded but we don’t necessarily know how he transfers bodies like is it a mental thing or physical one… #does he actually have to scoop the brains of the former person out of their own skulls and place his brain in or does he just use some kind #of jujutsu to bond his will to theirs and he then takes over just like that…? #do the stitches appear on their on once the takeover is complete if he doesn’t do his body transfer thing manually??? like what…

[greensword101]

This is for @barely-nok. I’m sorry it took so long to get some Obake content out for you to consume. I hope you find it tasty lol.

Obake never drank on principle. He needed to keep a clear head and heads were meant for thinking. And thinking meant he could create what he wanted to the limit or even beyond that.

But even sober, his brain would...fizzle if Kei ever so much as blinked at him prettily. Or pouted. Or cheerily threatened to sing “I’m Henry the Eighth , I Am” if he didn’t agree to take a break and - urgh! Just acknowledging the phrase made him feel filthy - spend some “quality time” with a coworker.

Personally speaking, Obake would have preferred the term “expendable” or “replaceable” or “unpaid intern that wasn’t getting extra credit or the merits of knowledge.” Oh, but he would pay anything to get DeciBull out of his sight! And hearing range.

Then again, hearing range would be preferable. Wild cards like Kei were acceptable. DeciBull - or Wil as Kei had casually greeted him by to the former’s chargain -  was more of a Jack; weaker than Obake, but still a threat nonetheless.

If Kei hadn’t taken the car and driven off to God knew where, he would have stormed out of the bar and left that arsehole behind. Maybe steal his glasses and see if the chubby man with a guitar gimmack could find his way back home without falling off the pier.

Wil had barely touched his first bottle and was glowering at his phone for the past half hour. This suited Obake swimmingly, if not for the fact that Kei would know that they hadn’t made any attempt at all and would be tormenting him with that song again! And she would enlist Noodle Burger Boy this time, he was certain. And possibly Trina, though he was certain she would be directed towards Wil instead.

Obake collected himself and recited the longest formulas in the Periodic Table before he rigidly glanced over to Wil.

“I’m surprised you aren’t taking advantage of the karaoke here.”

Wil yelped and fumbled with his phone - mumbling apologies to the bartender as he passed - before gaping at Obake.

“Interesting...” Obake murmured.

“What?” Wil asked bemused.

“You almost looked like an intelligent being for a moment.”

Wil scowled, “Funny.” 

Then a smile crept onto his face. Obake stiffened. He knew he could take the man, he was slimmer and certainly wasn’t sluggish, but bars were always tricky to maneuver around in. Inebriation, sympathizers, or anyone looking for an excuse to be aggressive would make Obake beating Wil up...troublesome.

“Something amusing to you?” Obake took a sip from his own glass to appear ignorant and casual.

“Just thinking how whipped you must be if Kei could make you spend time with me,” Wil leaned in conspiratorially, “Tell me, does she make you sleep on the couch when you misbehave?”

Obake sputtered and and gave Wil a hard stare. Wil stared back undaunted.

“Shut your mouth and have your bloody drink, why don’t you?” Obake snarled and took another, deeper sip from his glass. He was used to dealing with the aggressive and almost territorial behavior Wil demonstrated back at the base. He did not want to be sober to process that Wil was capable of having bloody cheek.

“How can I have my ‘bloody drink’ if my mouth’s shut?” Wil asked innocently.

“Test my patience and we’ll find out soon enough,” Obake growled under his breath. He could do it.  One stab between the ribs and he could slip out in the noise and confusion. He just didn’t want to put up with Kei pestering him when he got back and possibly annoying her with a potential murder.

Wil sniggered and had another swig of his beer. He went back to his phone, but he barely seemed to be reading what was on the screen.

That was...unexpected. But it was a better alternative to dealing with a feral monkey by himself. Obake found himself enjoying the Manhattan more than he expected and finished it off. He was beginning to fish the cherry out when Wil spoke up again.

“Was it good?”

Obake groaned and glowered at Wil, who was starting at his empty glass curiously. What didn’t that fool understand about having a little peace and quiet?

“I don’t typically drink myself,” Wil mumbled into his bottle and drank. He sputtered for a few moments and continued, “I just stick to a beer once in a while.”

“Thank Heaven for small miracles, then,” Obake narrowed his eyes and waved the bartender over, “Another one, if you would be so kind.”

“Me too,” Wil smiled at the bartender and held up his empty bottle. Amazingly, the bartender smiled back and came back moments later with their second drinks. Wil called after him as he walked off, “Thanks, Jim!”

“You frequent this place often?” Obake ventured and helped himself to his second Manhattan. Screw sobriety, it had been so long since he had anything that tasted so good touch his lips.

“I used to,” Wil admitted, “Just for a bite and maybe a bottle. That’s kind of how me and Kei met, actually.”

“A little nip before beddybye?” Obake cooed mockingly at him.

“Crime and I have something in common,” Wil smirked, “We rarely sleep.”

“Tragic,” Obake chuckled and raised his glass in mock salute, “To your insomnia, I suppose.”

Wil raised his beer in kind, “And to good company if I ever get any.”

Now, they both laughed for real. Obake noticed for the first time how pleasantly red Wil’s face had become. Was it the alcohol or the first genuine spark of life he was expressing? If it was the latter, that would mean Kei was behind it somehow.

Suddenly, the good feeling popped like a soap bubble and Obake hid his displeasure by finishing off his second Manhattan. Wil gawked at him.

“You should slow down, Kei is gonna freak if she has to pick us up from the ER because you got alcohol poisoning or something.”

“Kei this, Kei that, you haunt her like a lapdog!” Obake spat out. Damn that woman and her silly, childish notions of fun and damn that boulder she decided would make good company!

Wil blinked and leaned back a little. A moment later, he was glowering back with that familiar hostility, “At least I don’t treat her like a nuisance like you do! Do you have any idea how much she cares about you?!”

“Cares?” Obake snapped his fingers at Jim for another glass and leaned closer to Wil’s face. His nostrils flared and he could feel Wil tense inches away from him. “Why would she have to care about me? If that’s what you call pity, then I’ve no need for it! She can pretend all she wants that we’re all supposed to be some family, but in the end, that’s all it’s going to be. A stupid dream! Why would she care about making me ‘socialize’ with the others or spending ‘quality time’ with her silly boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?!”

Obake jabbed a finger into Wil’s chest, “Don’t play coy! I know you think I’m a prat to her! And I know you won’t believe that she can almost make me feel human! But you don’t have to worry about me getting in the way, Prince Charming! She’s all yours, so you don’t have to worry about me -”

“I’m gay.”

“And I’m Bob, the pleasure’s all...what.” Obake had to take a moment to process Wil’s flat retort.

“Gay. I like guys. I love them. I love kissing them. And I’m already taken.”

Obake opened his mouth and closed it again. He noticed that his third Manhattan had arrived and wasted no time downing it. Wil didn’t repeat how it wasn’t safe to do this time, and he was thankful for that. 

Suddenly, he felt someone standing right behind him and stilled.

“Is he giving you problems, Wil?”

“No worries, Eugene,” Wil smiled at the person behind him, “Just clearing up a misunderstanding over here.”

Obake felt a little dizzy and pinched his nose, “Let me understand this correctly. You have never had feelings for Kei?”

“Platonically, yes. Romantically or otherwise? No.”

“And this whole time, yo - you’ve...” Why couldn’t he find the right words? “You’ve...acted harshly because...?”

“Because she’s one of my best friends and I don’t want her to get hurt,” Wil said firmly. He pointed at Obake with a fiercely protective look, “I can’t help who she wants to connect with, but I won’t stand by and let her get hurt. She’s gone through too much to deserve that.”

“Alright, I’m just going to butt in for a moment here,” Eugene moved from behind Obake and stood to Wil’s left, wrapping an arm across him protectively. He was pleasant to the eyes; tall, broad, dark brown hair and a scruffy goatee. He looked at Wil, bemused, “You weren’t here scooping for another cutie, babe?”

“Wh...why...why would he...?” Obake’s tongue felt like lead. Dear Lord, he could barely speak, he was so embarrassed.

“Because this is a gay bar?” Eugene supplemented as if it weren’t obvious. Obake blinked. Come to think of it, it was rather odd no one had come to bother them when they came in. Did...did that mean...?

Somewhere in San Fransokyo, Kei was laughing herself silly. Obake was certain of it. 

“Everything alright over here?” Another voice, deeper than Eugene’s mischievous and light tone asked.

“Hey ‘Nan! This is an acquaintance of mine,” Wil helped himself to his beer, “and apparently he thought I was stealing his girlfriend until a few moments ago. Bob, this is Kanan. My other boyfriend.”

“Other...” Obake’s head was swimming. This was too much to process...

“Yeah,” Wil said shyly, “We’re...we’re kind of a poly sort of thing.”

As if to prove his point, Eugene promptly gave Wil a deep kiss on the lips that was eagerly returned. Kanan came into view and Obake noticed how dark skinned he was and the ponytail before he decided he was too sober to handle this all right now.

He made to stand and tripped over his stool. And a moment later, his Manhattans returned and splashed all over the floor.

In hindsight, he should have checked how much alcohol was in each glass...

It was about a half hour later when Kei found all four of them outside the bar with Obake being supported by an irksome Wil and amused Eugene. Kanan looked torn between disapproval and laughter.

“Was it fun?” Kei asked hesitantly. Obake took one look at her and sighed. It was his own fault for drinking too much.

“It was something,” Wil supplemented as he helped buckle Obake into the backseat, “And educational, apparently, so that’s a plus.”

“We were there at the tail-end,” Eugene added helpfully, “It was kind of entertaining.”

“You sure you can take care of this?” Kanan asked Wil.

Wil looked at Obake and sighed, “We’ll be alright. Thanks, anyways.”

“See you at the next heist meet, babe!” Eugene blew a kiss.

“Tell Raps and Hera I said hi!” Wil called back as they drove off.

“And here I thought I’d be picking you up at the police station for a bar brawl,” Kei half joked.

“Stay with me, Bob!” Wil shook Obake gently, “Don’t go to sleep. First rule in treating alcohol poisoning.”

“Piss off...” Obake slurred.

Wil sighed and let his head sink against the headrest for a few moments. Why didn’t he just become an accountant like his parents wanted?

“Wil...” Obake said sluggishly, “In..in the...event...I survive this with my memory intact. Would you...do it again?”

Wil blinked in surprise and chuckled weakly, “Only if you watch what you drink next time, lightweight.”

“Momma’s boy.”

“Evil Brit.”

“Four Eyes.”

“Nnnnnnnnnnneeeee~rrrrrrrrrds!” Kei cackled as her passengers bickered with each other without any former hostility from before.

#big hero 6 #bh6 #Big Hero Six the series #obake #kei tanaka #dj parasite #wil welsh #decibull #Eugene Fitzherbert #kanan jarrus #oc #self insert #lbgt #gay #drinking #enemies to besties

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Metallo!Lena AU Part 15

Lena's decision to reveal herself isn't entirely well thought out. In the weeks that follow, the media outlets flood with speculation about her veracity, her intentions, and her whereabouts for the past year. Considering Lena bolted after giving the reporters her name, their confusion isn't entirely unwarranted, but Lena has no intention of giving them any further details.

Reclaiming her name is one thing. Revealing the current condition is another.

"The last thing the world needs to hear is that there's a Luthor running around without a heart. Literally."

Kara rolls her eyes at the weak joke. "Nobody blames you for your brother's actions, Lena. If they knew what happened--"

"They'll say I should have seen it coming. It's all in the family, Kara. My brother killed me and my mother resurrected me. This is my chance to start fresh, so just... let me have it."

The unexpected outcome of it all is that Lena no longer needs to hide. Slowly, she starts to venture out into the city with Kara, both with armor and without, and for the first time since her rescue, she gets to enjoy some of the things she used to.

Like watching the geese in the park, and window shopping in midtown. At first, she's able to get away unnoticed by simply wearing casual outfits, but as the media coverage persists, more and more people start to notice her. It soon becomes clear that Lena needs to make another decision.

"I have to make a statement," she says one night, lying in her bunk next to Kara. They've just come out of a sparring session, and are sweaty and tired, but still Lena's mind races.

Kara looks at her, not lifting her head. "Are you sure?"

"No. But... if I don't, I'll just lose control of my narrative all over again."

"Okay," comes the easy response. "I'll support you, whatever you decide."

Lena turns to look at her. "I'm going to need you to do more than that."

---

"You want her to WHAT?" Alex asks, when they tell her the plan.

Lena doesn't blink an eye. "I want Kara to leverage an exclusive interview with me to get her old job back."

Alex looks like she's going to pop a blood vessel. She eyes Lena, then turns her incredulous gaze on Kara. "And what do you want?"

Kara shuffles awkwardly in place, eyes on her shoes. "I... am okay with it."

It had taken some convincing. Well, not so much convincing as talking Kara out of her own pessimism. Her career was over, she'd claimed when Lena first shared her idea. Supergirl was her job now. She was needed at the DEO more than anywhere else. The world needed Supergirl.

"But what does Supergirl need?" Lena had asked.

Now, Alex doesn't seem convinced. "Really? Because you were miserable there before you quit. Are you really ready to go back?"

Kara shrugs, sheepish and uncertain both. Lena shifts protectively in front of her. "Don't worry," she drawls, "I'm sure she'll still help at DEO if you ask nicely."

"That's not why I'm concerned," Alex scoffs.

"Then why do you care so much about what Kara chooses to do with her civilian life, Director?"

Alex pauses on the verge of retort. Then she rocks back on her heels, making pointed eye contact with Kara. Kara touches Lena shoulder, moving out from behind her.

"Because she's my sister."

Lena blinks in surprise, then freezes as her brain restructures itself to absorb this new information. "Oh. That is... not what I expected."

"What were you expecting?"

"...doesn't matter."

Alex huffs, irritation flaring. "Kara, I don't think I need to remind you of what it was like when you were working at CatCo--"

"I loved CatCo. I still do." Kara's shoulders lift. "Looking back, I don't think CatCo was the reason I was miserable. It's just the part of my life that suffered the most. But--" She looks at Lena, shoulders squaring. "Things are different now. I can't be Supergirl all my life. I need more. I always have."

With a sigh, Alex relents. "Fine. What do you need from me?"

---

James is nothing if not surprised to see Kara slip into his office one afternoon. She's clearly nervous, fidgeting with her glasses and shrinking into herself. Even so, he's glad to see her.

"Kara, hey! Wow, it's been a while. How are... things?"

He knows her secret, but after their breakup and Kara's unexpected departure from CatCo, they'd drifted apart.

"Good, good. Yeah," Kara stammers. "I, uh, I was wondering if we could talk, for a second."

James grins. "Yeah. Of course, of course. Come on in."

He comes around his desk, meeting Kara at the couches. A little thrill rushes through him at their proximity, before he shakes himself out of it. He never got a chance to settle back into frienship with Kara, and he regrets the distance between them.

When they sit, he tries to ease her nerves with a grin. "What's happening?"

Kara smooths her hands on the tops of her thighs, and takes a deep breath. Then, she straightens and turns to face him.

"I came here to discuss the possibility of me getting my job back."

"Your job," James repeats. "Here. At CatCo."

Kara nods. "Yes. At CatCo."

"Oh... I don't know, Kara."

"I know it's a tall ask--"

James barks a laugh. "A tall ask? It's been over a year, and I hate to say it, but Snapper hasn't gotten any better since you left."

"He wasn't why I left..."

"I actually figured it was because of me."

Kara's eyes widen, and her cheeks heat with a flush as she scrambles to deny it. "James, no-- that's not--"

"You don't need to explain anything to me, Kara, really...  but I have to say, a rehire would be a tough sell with Snapper, I'm sorry."

"You don't have to sell him anything," Kara rebuts, her voice steeling. Her gaze took on a hard glint. "You're his boss."

James nods. "That's true, but I wouldn't be doing you any favors by forcing you on him."

"I'm not asking for any favors--"

"Kara."

"You know what I mean. I'm ready to take on anything Snapper has in store, I'm ready to pull weight, and I'm ready to go the distance. And you know the kind of person I am, James. I won't let you down."

James sighs. "I know. But... I just can't do it."

Kara nods, adjusting her glasses. "I can prove to you that CatCo needs me-- will be better to have me on board."

There's something familiar in Kara's voice now, and James realizes that he's seeing Supergirl poking through. Whatever had so shaken her a year ago, she's ready to overcome it.

"And what's that?" he asks.

"Lena Luthor."

James pauses. "What about her?"

"She's agreed to an exclusive with CatCo-- on one condition."

"With you."

"As a fully hired and salaried CatCo employee."

It's the one thing James knows he can't refuse. Every media outlet in the country is clamoring for an interview with Lena Luthor, and here she's been walked right into his office on the wings of the one former employee his editor-in-chief cannot stand. That said...

With a scoop like Lena Luthor, CatCo would survive if Snapper Carr walked out.

James hesitates, out of principle if nothing else. "You really have Lena Luthor on lock?"

Taking out her phone, Kara opens her contacts and with just a few taps of her thumb has a video chat ringing. As James watches, the black comes to life with the visage of Lena Luthor.

"Kara, hi," says the tinny voice. Despite likely expecting the call, the woman is clearly happy to see Kara.

Kara blushes, fiddling with her glasses once more. "Hi, Lena. I, um, I have James here, and he was wondering--"

"Mr. Olsen." Suddenly, Lena Luthor is all business. "I expect Kara has already explained the situation."

James nods. "She has."

"I am willing to work with CatCo, so long as I interview exclusively with Kara Danvers."

"Editorial will have input on the question list."

"Which will be screened in advance, and received with Kara's contract, signed and countersigned."

James doesn't necessarily like being dictated to, but Lena's tone is nothing less than professional. It's as though he's talking to another executive, and negotiation is a tactic he's grown accustomed to.

"We can work with that."

"At 10% above Kara's exit salary."

Ohhhhh... James chafes at that. Kara starts, then flushes-- clearly, she hadn't expected this. But there's no negotiation in Lena's tone, so he chooses to take the high road. He nods.

"All right. We'll be in touch."

previous / next

#metallo lena au #supercorp #catco returns #lena flex

[xnchxntmxnt]

I was listening to random music and Trap Queen (specifically the crankdat remix) came on and my brain went brrr and I can no longer stop thinking about it

anyways birthday ideas-

First a couple dialogue things 😌

~~~~~

"I think I would know if it was my birthday."

"Yuuji, baby, I am begging you, please, please look at a calander."

"... give me my phone."

"..."

"..."

"... oh my god it's my birthday."

~~~~~

"I am going to eat this entire cake because I am an adult."

"And everyone at your party?"

"I bought a second cake for them."

"Of course you did."

"And I'm gonna eat all the leftovers."

~~~~~

I am polyamorous so imma drop one in here-

Being in a relationship w/ Teru and Yachi

Y/n is tall (6'3") (Teru is 5'9" and Yachi is 4'10", just for some comparison

It's Yuuji's birthday so of course, Yachi and Y/n have something planned

It's very simple, just a movie night with some snacks and treats, and a blanket fort for cuddling in

Yachi goes to Y/n's house and they set up quickly while waiting for Yuuji to show up

And it's just a calm happy date night. They quietly celebrate their boyfriend's boyfriend. I haven't thought about what Yachi gives him (because idk, I'm just not good at gifts 🤷) but Y/n got all three of them promise rings

It's something they've discussed before, and Y/n finally decided to do it

Fluffy soft lovey stuffs happens as they put the rings on each other and yeah

They lovely ❤️

~~~~~

One day Teru is just going off about a special interest he has (because projecting v) and Y/n is just watching him and he's like- so in love and so happy to listen to him ramble about something that makes him so happy and just- he just can't stop thinking about how cute his boyfriend is while he just listens (even if he doesn't understand what he's talking about)

~~~~~

Terushima short circuits every time Y/n kisses him out of no where

He has to take a moment to process what just happened and once he does?

Oh boy.

Y/n is immediately scooped up in his arms (doesn't matter what size you are, he can and will at least try to pick you up (unless you aren't comfortable with that)) and he's getting kisses all over his face and neck and shoulders and Yuuji keeps whispering 'i love you' between kisses and yeah

~~~~~

Y/n goes to Karasuno and he's kinda chaotic, but he gets really overwhelmed with people that have a lot of energy and they're really loud.

The (former, because they're out of high school by now) third years have learned how to handle him, but then they find out that he's dating Terushima and they are very worried because- well, he's exactly the kind of person that overwhelms Y/n quickly. Y/n is kind of annoyed that they'd think that his boyfriend would ever intentionally harm him like that so he decides to take a few videos.

The first one is him pretending to sleep (if/when he has to be woken up he's always really frustrated or upset, but he also gets depressed/down on himself if he doesn't wake up before 10 (god can you feel the projection?)) and Yuuji waking him up gently (because he sees it's getting close to 10), making sure he's alright, and just being quiet and soft so Y/n doesn't get upset. Y/n doesn't like eating in the mornings, so he usually doesn't, but Yuuji is trying to get him into doing it so he offers pancakes but doesn't push it and it's just sweet and-

The next video is Teru taking care of him when he's sick and just-

It's just soft and Y/n proving that they match each other. When Y/n is slow Yuuji slows down, when Yuuji is pumped up Y/n matches that energy and they're just really good with each other

(I've actually written both of these so like... I could send or post and tag you in it if you'd like lol)

~~~~~

Aaaaand there's today's offering

I hope you have a wonderful day, lovely 💕✨

-🌌

🌌 ANON MY DEAR I LOVE YOU SO MUCH RIGHT NOW I AM OH BOY I AMSQUEALING LIKE A 6 YEAR OLD GIRL I AM SOFT SHGBAIEH VN I LOVE HIM TO MUCH

yes please send it to me i don't care if it's vis dms or you tag me doesn't bother me either way <333333 gimme the fic i need (i also have @sugasfanfics on terushima brainrot so that's one more thing to send her :))

THE YACHI THING TOO UGH personally im like 90% sure im not poly just becasue one person is socially exhausting enough you want me to deal with 2??? but i read so much (insert ship here) x reader fic its insaen lol I LOVE TERU WITH YACHI AND THEN BOTH OF THEM IS IFHBSIHBF I LOVE im not even bi i just like dudes (again 90% sure) bUT FGSIFLBH I LOVE

anon my dear youre gonna be the death of me one day and i love you for it

#🌌 anon #🌌 anon is a genius #terushima #happy birthday terushima #terushima yuuji #terushima yuuji birthday #terushima yuuji x reader #tersuhima x reader #teru x reader #terushima x yachi #terushima x yachi x reader #this is so sweet evnsdivbasn #anon i love u so much #but stop distracting me from my kagehina fic #IM KIDDING IM KIDDING #PLEASE KEEP DISTRACTING ME

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 108

And we are somewhat caught up!  My queue has run out at least, and I’m astoundingly glad it has, because now I get to thank a bunch of people who have just detonated my inbox with love, and kept me going.

Before I get into the gratitude: If, at any point, a comment a character makes does not make sense, please let me know. Send an ask, even on anon, because I am well aware that everything in my brain does not get a chance to make it in the story (example: Charly’s triangle comment here, and the fact that Noah’s dialogue in the beginning has an actual translation…)

First, shoutouts to @charlylimph-blog​, @baelpenrose​, and @quantumizedinsanity​ for the characters in this chapter and for being very, VERY dear friends to me.  A global pandemic and nationwide protests, along with a job change and a major move, have done nothing to hurt friendships that are already cross-country from each other.

Annnnd to everyone who has been blowing up my notes with likes and reblogs: @dierotenixe(hang in there! i PROMISE!), @iamverypotato​,@itscryptifssil, @steadynightninja​, @thepalemarcher, @feral-possums-in-the-bog​, @26fancyraptors​(MISSED YOU!), @werewolf2578​ (we don’t talk enough, how are you!?), @experimentalspades​, @odd-dream-worlds​, @duchess-katala03​, @pineapplewitchboi​, @dark-choclat-cupcake, @littleshydragon​, and all the others. 

I held my breath, bracing for what I knew was coming. Nothing came after several minutes, to my surprise.  I slowly lifted my head and opened my eyes, focusing on drawing deep, even breaths. Maybe he got bored and wandered off.  Maybe he had mercy on me….

Yeah. And maybe Grey is making genetically modified fish that fly.

Slowly, carefully, I grabbed my fork and lifted a bite of pie to my mouth.  A glance at Charly showed a serious expression, nothing given away. Damnit. I knew she could see Arthur behind me, I was hoping for a telltale giggle, or a warning glance, something.  Right when a traitorous voice of reason spoke up belatedly to point out that Charly was never serious…

“You really will adopt anyone, won’t you?” Arthur asked as he came around to take the chair Jokul had just vacated.

Fuuuuuck…. Busted. “I didn’t adopt him!” I tried to argue. “I actually made a very concerted effort to avoid that!”

Unceremoniously, he snagged Charly’s pot pie, only to have his hand held at fork-point until he let go.  Without even acknowledging the lunch-standoff, he leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. “You tried to ‘avoid’ it by foisting him off on Zach Khan, your… nephew, thing, and his girlfriend. Still adoption-adjacent.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to interact with him.”

“Uh huh. And how will you explain to poor Hannah that dear Ivan’s partner isn’t invited to Insert Winter Holiday dinner, hmmm?”

“I hate you.”

“Lies and deceit,” he rebutted calmly. “You adopted me first. Before anyyyyone on this ship. I daresay you’re quite fond of me.”

I scowled at him, shoving my remaining lunch in his direction. “Here, before you start poaching this direction.”

An eyebrow arched in the general direction of my fish pie. “That looks suspiciously like dairy.  You wound me.” Grabbing my fork, he poked at the lumps of meat. “I would have thought you would be at least a little subtle in any assassination attempts. Have I taught you nothing?”

“Of course you taught me something,” I cooed, jokingly, while I patted his arm. “The fastest way to a man’s heart is six inches of steel through the ribs, slight upward angle.  Cyanide smells like bitter almonds, so always use shortbread cookies to administer it. Three pounds of pressure will tear off a human ear, and even a three year old can bite through fingers,” I recited. “Also, the pie is dairy-free, surprisingly. The ‘cream’ is silken tofu and aquafaba, turns out.”

Charly was choking with laughter, while Arthur finally smiled at me. “See, I told you that you love me,” he gloated before scooping up a scallop and some crust. As soon as he started chewing, his expression changed from one of amusement to something strikingly similar to Mac when I flick water in his face.

“Scallops,” I explained. “I had the same reaction.”

“Heathens,” he managed around the mouthful.  After he swallowed it, he gave the dish a considering look. “Not bad per se, but… There is no fish in this fish pie. What is aquafaba?”

“Chicpea juice.  Usually it’s used as an egg substitute.  I guess they used it for consistency here.”

Charly leaned forward, narrowly avoiding landing an elbow in her lunch. “And how can you tell that’s what’s in there?”

Glancing over at his student, Arthur shrugged. “She has a point. This,” he poked at the sauce, “looks like heavy cream.”

“Tastes kind of nutty, though,” I explained. “Anyway, enough about food. What brings you down here?”

“Galactic Core Curriculum,” he explained. “That’s the excuse anyway. Alistair - Cthulu damn his soul - told me you were eating lunch here after fifteen minutes of questioning. Tyche told me Charly was with you, so I figured lunch with you, lunch with one of my favorite students, plus I can kill two errands with one meal.” Charly stared at him like he had lost his mind, but he ignored her. “When I arrived - lo! What to my wondering eyes should appear, than a certain former cult leader harassing said friend and student! What person could resist such a temptation.” Deflating dramatically, he scowled at me. “Imagine my delight to hear you giving him relationship advice,” he intoned flatly.

“I got him to go away,” I pointed out.

“Before I managed even one strike in a highly one-sided battle of wits.“

“Mr. Farro,” Charly cut off, glaring for all she was worth. “Jokull came in peace, he leaves in peace.”

“Oh, he would have left in pieces. His ego anyway.”

“Fucking triangles, I swear,” Charly muttered, attacking her lunch with renewed violence.

“Anyway,” I forged ahead. “Jokul was here for fifteen, twenty minutes. You had your chance.”

He glanced away with a cough. “I… may have been resisting the urge to vomit.”

“Arthur.”

“Relationship advice is… not in my skillset,” he admitted. “Tell you your partner is abusive? Can spot a mile a way.  Great for getting people out of bad relationships, with concierge crowbar service if necessary. Not great for saving them.”

“Crowbar? Really?”

“You know, for prying people out of bad situations?” He genuinely looked confused, so I left that one alone.

“For what it’s worth, Jokull wanted to talk to you about what he’s going through right now,” Charly added.

“Why in any galaxy…”

I had to laugh at that one. “Everyone treats him poorly,” I shrugged before giving Arthur a pointed look. “He’s having a rough time right now, feels like he has no one to talk to except Ivan, and thought you would have some insight into that kind of thing.”

“What part of this,” he gestured to himself with a fork, “implies anything remotely close to wanting people to like me and therefore actually knowing how to accomplish that.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer,” I muttered. 

Giving me a hard, thoughtful look, Arthur’s entire demeanor changed. “Ah… On a more serious note, though… yeah.  I don’t get why people not liking you is a problem, but you’ve told me before it’s something that bothers you, so it’s feasible it bothers other people.  I’ll make a point not to make it worse.”

Clearing my throat, I pushed the conversation on to the next topic. “You mentioned two errands earlier. One for me, one for Charly?”

“Right.” The relief to be changing topics was palpable. “For you, Councillor, Galactic Core is almost finished. Eino is already considering other ongoing-education programs, and you’re going to need to start scouting educators again.  That late-twentieth through contemporary Terran history course? Big support-base, turns out.”

“You wouldn’t tell me this without a reason,” I pointed out. “And you’re a History teacher. Volunteering?”

“I want it done right,” he admitted. “The idea being bounced around isn’t for a requirement that everyone take the course. Not at the same time, anyway.  History-focused educators only, approved curriculum.”

“Approved?” I asked. “By whom?”

“A committee,” he shrugged. “Eino, obviously. Xiomara, with her background - which, by the way, is ridiculous - “

“We know, we know,” Charly and I groaned.

After glancing between us for a moment, Arthur continued. “And me.”

“Why you?” I asked. “No offense, just trying to understand.”

“No offense taken, I’ll explain that part later, but I promise it’s for a legitimate reason. The point is, Eino and his committee approve the curriculum and number of slots. You and Tyche make the decisions for who is allotted where.”

“Fair point,” I conceded.

“Fine. The area of history I focused on for my Master’s degree has an important component that ties a lot together and makes revisionism harder - wait. What?” I could almost hear the gears squealing as they ground to a halt. “Did you just say yes?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“That was… disturbingly easy,” he gave me a skeptical look.  When all I did was grin, he slowly turned to Charly. “As for you, I wanted to talk to you about the assignment that’s due next Friday.”

“I already turned it in,” she pointed out.

“Which is what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s a week and a half early.”

“Right….” she nodded slowly. “And I made sure it met all the criteria on the syllabus.  Plus I had three different people proofread it.”

“All of which is admirable, and it would be considered a very well-done assignment,” he admitted. “If you didn’t have an extra week and a half left to make it even better.”

“Mr. Farro….”

“You aren’t in trouble, in any way shape or form,” he reassured her. “But I know you are capable of doing better than the assignment you already gave me.  I wanted to offer you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Charly asked suspiciously. “This isn’t illegal, is it?”

“What? No…” he sputtered. “Illegal!?”

“Gotta be sure,” she nodded sincerely.  I was reasonably certain she was giving him a hard time, but it was still hilarious to watch.

Shaking his head, Arthur did his best to recover. “The deal is this: if you stick with the assignment you already sent me, I’ll grade it as it stands. But. If you re-do it and hand it in on the original due date, you’ll be eligible for extra credit for your extra effort.”

“But I still get the grade on the one you already have, either way?” she asked skeptically.

“I’ve already graded it, and you won’t get a worse grade if you re-do it,” he promised. 

“I’ll think about it,” she hedged carefully. “That paper was a lot of work.”

“That’s fair,” he nodded. “What if you sent me an audio recording, instead? No extra writing.”

“I can do that,” she agreed, sticking out her hand. After Arthur shook it, she glanced at the time. “Shit. I gotta go. Sophia, don’t be late back to work, okay? Tyche won’t care, but Alistair may stop letting me have extra marshmallows in my cocoa when I come by your office.”

After she left, I gave Arthur a very serious look.  He tried to ignore it, but after about five solid minutes of The Squint, he caved. “For the love of… She’s smart, okay? You know, I know it. The paper she handed in a week and a half early was much more insightful than anyone else in the class.  They were assigned a research paper on the underlying causes of the breakdown in relations between the Ekomari and Shalt-kri’i.  Everyone focused on political ideologies, trade resources, navigational route control.  Standard causes for war, from a Terran perspective. Do you know what Charly Harper wrote her paper about?”

“Food?” I asked, going out on a limb.

“So close! Cultural differences, plain and simple. Ekomari are vaguely mammalian, and their diet consists of native arthropods. Guess what Shalt-kri’i look like?”

“You’re kidding me…”

“Not even slightly.  And! To add insult to injury, in a very close to literal sense, Shalt-kri’i greet each other as friends by spreading their appendages, a lot like a hug.  Whereas Ekomari show aggression by… standing up on their hindmost appendages and spreading the rest to look bigger.”

“And no one caught this before?”

“Not on the Ark, no.” He spread his arms wide. “No one even considered it.  Sure, the rest are good points, and they did make everything worse, more than likely, but the start?  She nailed it.”

“Then why have her re-write the assignment?” I was honestly confused at this point.

“The way she wrote it, I could tell she wasn’t confident about the answer at all.” He looked about as frustrated as I had ever seen him. “You get her talking about engineering, or pranks, she knows she knows what she is talking about. I want her to know that she is just as right about this as she was about that.”

Hard to believe that this was the same man whose office I had marched into, out for a pound of flesh and the blood besides, because the same woman we were discussing left his class in tears and begged me not to make her go back.  However…

“Honestly?” I ventured. “I want to hear this recording when she hands it in. I’m really curious about this.”

“You think she’ll write it?”

“Pfft,” I scoffed. “I know she will. You gave her a challenge where she can’t lose, but stands a lot to gain. I just hope you’re ready for that sound file.”

“I honestly can’t wait,” he smirked.

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#the miys #humans are weird #humans are space orcs #found family #aspec #science fiction #original science fiction #earth is space australia #humans are space fae #hfy #fiction #original fiction #my writing #apocalypse #aliens #post-apocalypse

[overheardatthecontinental]

Snapshots Chapter One

Super excited to announce that the sequel for Talk has just begun! It follows just a few days after Talk ends with John and Helen adjusting to their new life together.

You can find the first chapter on A03 Here!

Or below... once again, thank you to @meetmeinthematinee​ for your endless support and editing this for me as we begin another journey :) <3

 Something is wrong. He knows it in his bones, it courses through his blood.

 John creeps up the stairs, carefully, eyes peeled as he looks around the dark familiar house. He hears nothing, not even the soft sounds of breathing. He reaches the hallway and it seems to fluctuate in length, keeping him from his destination.

 At last, he makes it to his destination, turning into the doorway to find an empty room. An empty bed.

 No. No, no, no. She was supposed to be there.

 He jumps as he hears a phone ring.

 The tone vibrates loudly, almost menacingly.

 With shaky hands, he reaches to answer.

 An unfamiliar voice taunts on the other end      you’ll never see her again    .

 John slams his eyes closed.

 This isn’t right; this isn’t right.

 When he opens his eyes, he’s no longer in the room. Instead, he’s on an empty street. He can idly smell the sea, tasting the salty air on his tongue. It’s nearly bitter. He scans the horizon and while he does not recognize it, he notes that it is oddly familiar but he can’t place it.

 He spots a house and somehow      knows     that is where he is supposed to go.

 He sets a course for it, unsure of why. His legs carry him there anyway. It’s old and rickety and should have been condemned long ago but he walks up the path and the steps to the door. Before he can knock, a gust of wind blows it open.

 It’s empty. Void of any signs of life. There are no people, no furniture. Only a thin layer of dust on a down-trodden floor.

 Again, he is drawn forward, seemingly of his own accord. He finds an open door that leads downstairs into a basement.

 He descends uncertainly. Nerves and anxiety pour through him even if he can’t understand what he is doing or why he is doing it.

 Then he sees her.

 Helen. His Helen, lying on the concrete floor. A pool of blood dried at her head, her eyes open but empty.

 “No,” he says, surging forward. John drops to his knees and scoops up her lifeless body, “No, no, no, no, no, no. Helen, sweetheart, please. Don’t leave me! You can’t leave me!”

 The voice from the phone is suddenly in his ear,      It’s just business, John.  

 …

 He awakens with a gasp, startling back into the real world.

 The weight on his chest shifts, a small dissatisfied moan escapes Helen as she picks up her head.

     She’s alive,     he thinks as he closes his eyes,      she’s safe.     His breathing is still heavy with fear and fright from the nightmare.

 Fuck, every hair stands on end and he suddenly feels ice cold, even underneath the blankets and the heat from her body.

 He feels her hand cup his bearded cheek and her voice, still ladened with sleep, asks, “What’s wrong?”

 Her voice relieves him all the more, but he cannot get the image of her broken body out of his head. He hadn’t been there and Helen had been taken from him.

 But he shakes his head as he opens his eyes. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

 And he should have known that was going to be the wrong thing to say because he feels the bed move as she pushes up to get a better look at him. Even as drowsy as she clearly was, Helen had a way of staring into his soul.

 “Nightmare?” she guesses.

 John nods.

 She hums, sitting up and stretching before she pushes the covers off. “Come on.”

 “It’s the middle of the night,” he says, glancing at the clock. 3:26.

 “Yep.” She steps into her slippers and leaves the bedroom without another word.

 He glances to the clock again and shakes his head. John climbs out from under the covers to follow her. She leads him downstairs to the kitchen.

 “Sit down.” She tells him, leaving no room for argument. She grabs a saucepan and sets it on a burner.

 John takes a seat at the island, “You have to work in the morning.” He reminds her as he watches Helen take the milk from the fridge.

 “I’ll be fine.” She says, sounding unconcerned as she turns on the heat, “How often do you have nightmares?”

 “Almost never.” At least, none that he remembers. And not for a damn long time.

 She rummages in one of the cupboards and pulls down a tub of cocoa.

 John lifts a brow, “Cocoa?”

 “As a licensed therapist, I can tell you that chocolate holds more answers than Freud.”

 He laughs softly, watching as Helen scoops the powder into the saucepan.

 “You want to tell me about it?” she asks, finding a wooden spoon to stir it.

 He considers the question. He knows if he says he doesn’t want to talk about it, she’ll respect it. But he’s also spent a lifetime keeping things to himself because he didn’t have anyone who cared or who would listen.

 “I was back at your house the night…” he trails off.

 She knows the night. When Helen had been drugged and kidnapped, taken from her bed by the head of the Italian Syndicate, Mateo DeLuca. She was taken and held hostage for two days while John searched for her.

 Helen nods in understanding. She scrapes the milk off the side of the spoon and sets it to the side as she walks over to the island. Reaching across, she takes his hands.

 “Go on.”

 John shivers but nods, “The hallway outside your room kept growing. And I knew something was wrong but I didn’t know what. So I kept trying to reach your room. And when I finally did, you were gone and…” he pauses to give himself a moment to breathe, “I heard DeLuca saying I would never see you again.”

 Helen squeezes his hands in comfort.

 “And then, I was back at the house. The one where he held you. I went into the basement and I found you…”

 Dead.

 But he cannot say it aloud. Closing his eyes, he forces himself to continue.

 “You weren’t breathing,” his voice nearly breaks. He can still see the image of her lying there. It’s been branded in his head, “And you were bleeding. There was this pool of blood and you wouldn’t wake up.”

 She squeezes his hand in support.

 “I kept begging you to come back to me and then I heard DeLuca again. He said,      “it’s just business    .””

 It was a miracle that they had survived DeLuca’s demands. That they even stood there, now.

 If he had so chosen, DeLuca could have killed Helen a thousand times, a thousand ways in the days that he held her hostage. He planned to have her killed even after John had rescued her.

 Helen stands up, taking her hands back as she walks around the counter to where John sits. He turns as she approaches, regarding her carefully. She places a hand on his head and he finds himself leaning into it in comfort.

 “I’m right here.” She reminds him. “I’m safe.”

 John swallows as he nods.

 She was safe.

 But she almost hadn’t been.

 “It’s just…” John trails off, not even sure what he was trying to say.

 “It was scary. It was the first time in a long time that you hadn’t felt in control of a particular situation.” Helen synthesizes.

 He nods, gratefully. Words have never been his forte but she’s always been able to get into his head. To see exactly what he wants to say even when he can’t figure out how.

 “I couldn’t find you.” He mutters, reaching out to touch her. To ground himself to her very presence.

 “But you did.” She reminds him gently.

 After two days.

 And anything could have happened in those two days. He had been so afraid that he wouldn’t find her in time. Or that he’d find her hurt and broken, a shell of her former self…. And it would have been his fault for putting her in danger, for not protecting her…

 “For lack of a better word,” Helen tells him, “it was traumatic.”

 John shakes his head, “I don’t know why I’m struggling so much.”

 “I think several factors are coming into play. The first of which is that I’m going back to work tomorrow. I think you’re probably nervous, even if only subconsciously, that something might happen once I leave your sight.”

 “It’s not subconscious.” He admits, “I’m fucking terrified. I even considered just sitting outside your office all day tomorrow, but I know… I know that won’t actually help.”

 “It won’t.” She agrees. “And I know it’s confusing, but this is a perfectly normal response to going through something like this.”

 Again, he shakes his head. It isn’t right. “You were the one kidnapped. Why am I the one falling apart?”

 Helen leans in and kisses his nose, “Because it isn’t that simple.”

 She steps out of his arms and walks back to the stove. She stirs the pot and John watches the steam as it rises.

 “I don’t understand.”

 “Trauma is relative.” Helen says as opens the cupboard and finds two of her mugs which she had unpacked only days before. “You’ve lived through ordeal after ordeal for the better part of your life. You became numb to a lot of things that the average person might view as traumatic—violence, death.  Chaos and destruction.

 “You’re a veteran,” she points out. “You’ve been in combat situations that others may have found debilitating. Think back… were there people in your unit who were uncomfortable with killing or direct violence? At least in the beginning?”

 Definitely. He idly remembers a pimpled-face boy, still struggling to grow facial hair who had cried himself to sleep the first night overseas. He thinks of another who hadn’t made it through basic training before he was begging to go home.

 “They grew up in comfort—with all their needs met. Food, shelter. Some of them came from loving families, I’m sure. But you grew up fighting for survival. What was bare minimum for them was near luxury for you.

 “Our brains,” she continues, “continue to develop until we’re about twenty-five but the things we learn in the first years of our lives are what really stick with us. They’re formative. What might be traumatic for the average person became your baseline.”

 Helen moves the pot from the burner. Carefully, she pours the hot liquid into the mugs.

 “When I first met you, you were still in survival mode. In some ways, you thrive in it. But, after a while, you formed an attachment to me.” She opens the fridge and pulls out of a bottle of whipped cream—something John had never once had in his home before she moved in, insisting that it was a household staple.

 “Ah, so it’s your fault.”

 She throws him a wink, adding a mountain of the cream to each beverage. Helen picks them up and walks around, taking a seat on the stool next to his, handing him the drink.

 “I do get what you’re saying.” John says once she settles onto the stool and sips at cocoa. “Losing…” he can’t even finish the sentence. His chest feels too heavy, his throat too tight.

 “Losing me, for however short a time, was scary.”

 Scary was an understatement. Terrifying, horrifying… they all fell short of the myriad of emotions that rushed him when he found her house disturbed and Helen missing from her bed.

 “It was traumatic for you. And trauma takes a hold of us. Especially when it’s unprocessed. It shows up in other ways.”

 “Like what?” He wants to be prepared for what may come.

 “Well, the nightmares for one. But it can manifest in all sorts of ways. Flashbacks. Aggression. Sometimes people emotionally shut down, but since that’s you at your baseline, I’m not too concerned.”

 He shoots her a look.

 “Drink your cocoa.” She tells him.

 He resists the urge to roll his eyes and does as his woman demands. It’s hot but still soothing. And he doesn’t want to admit it, but the whipped cream is perfect.

 He sets the mug down and Helen giggles.

 John arches a brow and she reaches out, “Got whipped cream on your nose, killer.”

 She wipes it and John catches her wrist in his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he brings her hand to his mouth, sucking the finger into his mouth. All the while, never taking his eyes off of her.

 Helen rewards him with the smile she saves just for him.

     How close he had come to losing her for good.  

 And yet, if he hadn’t lost her at all, they wouldn’t be here.

 They’d still be sitting across the room from one another, avoiding the heaviness of what they both felt with talk of simpler things.

 And he doesn’t know what to make of that, either.

 “Do you ever…” He hesitates, “Do you ever think about how we might not be together if…?”

 “If DeLuca hadn’t taken me?” She’s oh-so-good at picking up on the things he can’t bring himself to say out loud. But she had proven, time and time again, to be much braver than he was.

 John nods.

 So does Helen, “That thought has crossed my mind.”

 “How do you cope with it?”

 She shrugs, “It is what it is. Radical acceptance. I can still hate DeLuca for what he did to us even if I’m grateful that it got us to this point. Life is complex. So are our feelings. And that’s okay.” She takes another long sip. “Love is beyond good and evil.”

 “Nietzshe.” He recognizes, “I suppose it makes sense. Otherwise, you’d never look at me twice.”

 “I’m going to get a nerf gun and start shooting you every time you make a self-deprecating comment like that.”

 “What’s a nerf gun?”

 “It’s a toy gun that shoots foam.”

 John makes a face of disbelief, “What’s that supposed to do? Because I’ve been shot with actual bullets and I can guarantee you it never changed my behavior.”

 Her lips twitch, “Hmm. You’re right. Negative reinforcement may not be the way to go with you. We could do the reverse—every time you say something good about yourself, I’ll give you a kiss.”

 He arches a brow, “I can just say things I don’t believe.”

 “Fine. This isn’t a quick fix. I expect it to take some time but, eventually, you may start to believe those little affirmations.”

 “So if I say I’m great…”

 “Then I,” she scooches her chair closer, “would have to reward you.” She cranes her neck, and he meets her part way, accepting the softest of kisses against his lips.

 “I could get on board with this.” He says as she pulls away.

 “I’m sure.”

 He sips at his cocoa. It’s still so new, all of it.

 Two weeks ago, he had been sleeping alone every night. It was a good change. The      best     change, but he still wasn’t entirely used to sharing his life. Or his thoughts and feelings.

 And it’s new for her, too.

 Even if life with Helen feels as natural as breathing, it’s new. And there’s a learning curve.

 He had some practice with telling her what was on his mind, but he had spent so long hiding his feelings for her, he occasionally has to remind himself that it’s okay.

 “I love you.”

 “I love you, too.” She rests her head against his shoulder.

 He loves her so much. He’s never had anything like this before. Something so beautiful and complex and utterly breakable.

 Helen is utterly breakable.

 In turn, so is he.

 He never realized just how easy it would be for him to fall apart until he lost her.

 And now, it’s all he can think about.

 Who would he be if she wasn’t there?

 And, a darker thought that clouds his mind,      what     would he be if she wasn’t there?

 He fears something far darker than the Baba Yaga would emerge if he lost her. He shivers and amends      if he survived losing her    .

 He wasn’t sure he would want to live without her, in any context. If DeLuca had killed her rather than held her hostage, John can’t imagine wanting to live.

 He wouldn’t shoot himself or take pills or anything to that active extent… but he thinks he might go mad. Like a rabid dog until someone was kind and merciful enough to put him out of his misery.

 And like she can sense that he is going down a darker rabbit hole, Helen slips off her stool and stands next to him. Her arms wrap around him, squeezing his middle tightly.

 He feels his own arm lift to wrap around her as she buries her face in the crook of his neck.

 “I’m here.” Helen reminds him. “I’m here and I’m safe and I’m yours.”

 He exhales a breath and tightens his grip, hugging her while simultaneously pulling her up onto his lap. He buries his face in her hair, inhaling her soft scent. Like peaches and cream.

 “I’m sorry.” He should be so much stronger than this.

 “For what?” Helen pulls back enough to look at him.

     For this.  

     For falling apart.  

     For not being strong enough.  

     For not being the good man you deserve.  

     For waking you up in the middle of the night.  

 For everything.

 “I’m having a harder time with all this than I thought I would.” He shakes his head, “I got you up at three in the morning because I had a fucking nightmare.”

 “Baby, you don’t need to apologize for being human.” Her hand strokes his beard, “I get it. We had a crazy couple of weeks.”

 He glances down, “Yeah, but you’re not falling apart the way I am.”

 “You’re not falling apart. You’re adjusting. And you’re also forgetting, I mentally prepared myself for this. And I knew you would be coming.” Helen shrugs a shoulder, “And quite frankly, it could have been      worse    .”

 His stomach rolls at what she alludes to.

 The entire two days she had been gone, he wondered what could be happening to her. He imagined every vile and terrifying possibility, prepared to burn down all of New York to find her.

 “But it wasn’t.” She says forcefully, breaking through his thoughts to capture his attention. “And now, we’re here. And we’re both safe.”

 They were.

 He still has enemies, but he is out. And, frankly, no one will care about him if he isn’t in the game.

 So why couldn’t he wrap his brain around that fact?

 “It’ll take time.”

 “How much time?” He asks, wondering if his desperation is audible.

 “I don’t know. Everyone processes things differently. But it could be a little while before you’re able to make peace with it all.”

 “And until then, what?” He’s so used to her having the answers. A part of him knows it's unfair, but the other part just wants Helen to tell him that it will be okay, “I live with PTSD?”

 “Technically, you don’t have PTSD. Symptoms have to persist for at least one month for that diagnosis. Until then, it’s just acute stress.” She gives a small smile, “But I know that’s not the point. You will have to live with it… for now.”

 He had been afraid of that. He didn’t want to live with it. Especially now that he finally had Helen, now that she was finally      his    , he didn’t want to waste time processing shitty memories.

 “But,” she leans her head against his, “You don’t have to go through it alone.”

 John closes his eyes, resting his head. Breathing in her soothing scent once more.

 Because she is right. For the first time in his entire life, he could truly say that he isn’t alone. He has someone in his corner who loves him. And he no longer cares that he doesn’t deserve her. He’s never letting her go.

 Not for the world.

 She’s his for as long as she will have him. And while John would never describe himself as a proud man, he is certain that he’s never begged for anything in his life. It almost surprises him when the words fall from his mouth desperately, “Don’t leave me.”

 “Never.” She promises, “You’re stuck with me, Jardani.”

 John holds her tighter.

 Everything will be okay.

#john wick talk #john wick snapshots #john wick fanfiction #john wick #helen wick #john wick fanfic #john wiction #badass helen wick #therapist! helen wick #retired! john wick #let them be happy

[a-dorin]

split | maul + reader + savage

 word count: 1,289

warnings: angst, cursing 

“How about a fic where Maul and Savage Opress realize that they love the same person?”

"you need to have more fluidity in your wrist," the zabrak snapped, his amber eyes glowing in the dim light, "do you want to die in five seconds during a battle?"

"go easy on her," a rumble captured your attention. 

"she's our apprentince," the zabrak snarled, "it's my duty as her mentor to train her."

"she's my apprentine as well," the second zabrak shrugged, "it's my duty as her mentor to give her support and guidance."

"well-"

"will you two just cut it out?" you snapped, your tone laced with fury. 

the two nightbrothers coughed, their eyes shooting daggers at one another. you exhaled, rubbing your temple, "this happens almost every single fucking day. i know the two of you are siblings, but come on. it's getting ridiculous and distracts me from my duties as your apprentice. half the time i'm baby-sitting the two of you ensuring that you don't rip out one another's throats."

"my deepest apologies," the golden zabrak didn't dare to meet your gaze, "i am sorry that you have to deal with this. usually my brother and i don't spat like this."

"i wonder what's gotten into us," the crimson zabrak muttered, shouldering past his brother, "i'm going to rest. i'm sorry, (y/n). as for you, savage, i would watch your tongue."

"yeah yeah," savage waved his brother off, "you forget that i tower over you maul!"

"i think i'm going to go to bed too," you mumbled, "goodnight, savage."

you made your way to your designated hut. it was only temporary, but you were content with it. ideally, in a few weeks, you would be in one of the richest chambers in mandalore, given the finest of luxuries. however, the three of you were stowed away on dandoran, planning and scheming. alliances were still being formed, the brothers hard at work. 

it was all quite impressive really, and you just happened to watch it all unfold before your eyes. darth maul and savage oppress were sith lords, maul the brains, and savage the brawn. the two nightbrothers discovered you one night, heartbroken and alone on coruscant. you were dumped on the street by your former lover, beaten and bruised. maul and savage were just passing through, but maul could sense a disturbance. he could sense you.

savage scooped you into his arms, the only thing you recalled from that night is the way savage held you. it was almost as if the sun came in the night, his golden skin gleaming with his ink. maul decided that it would be best that they rehabilitate you, then begin to train you. after all, the didn't mind your company. 

you were only twenty, but far more mature than most women your age. you were gifted in the field of medicine and science, providing the two men with your insight during your travels. since you had been a medic during the war, you often traveled to planets that were in need, aiding the wounded. the traumas and horrors you witnessed after battles gave you a mature composure, always keeping the level-head. 

since the night savage and maul saved you, you had been traveling with the two of them for about seven months, approaching eight. the three of you were going to depart from dandoran as soon as the brothers sealed the deal with the death watch. it was a powerful alliance, prepared to shake the planet of mandalore to its core. 

letting out a sigh, you sat on the edge of your cot, biting your lip. maybe you had been a little harsh on the boys earlier. after all, they were acting like children. it wasn't always this way. it seemed as if the boys were competing for your attention, always at one another's throat. whenever maul would spend time with you, savage would become irritable. and vice versa. 

however, the idea that the two nightbrothers were competing for your love was silly. besides, you were just their apprentice. masters didn't fall in love with their apprentices. both maul and savage were about a decade older than you. wasn't that a little... weird if they were attracted to you?

commotion filtered through the walls of the hut, your eyes narrowing. surely the two weren't going at it at this time of night. you peeked through the small viewport, and sure enough, the two brothers were outside quarreling, screaming at one another at the top of their lungs. 

your feet planted to the cold ground, your eyes searching for your boots in the dim light. seconds later, you located them, shoving your feet inside. yet, you didn't want to make your presence known to the two instantly. your curiosity was getting the best of you. you needed to eavesdrop first.

pushing open the door, you shivered as a chill ran through you. although it was summer, it was a cooler night than normal. maul and savage were arguing, throwing their hands in wild gestures. luckily, there were no weapons. yet.

your ears searched for their voices, finally picking them out. 

"i don't understand why you're always so hard on her," savage barked, his arms folded across his chest, "she's young, maul."

"which means she needs to pay attention," maul retorted, "she's a bright soul, savage, with an intelligent mind. or have you been too busy gawking at her curves to realize that?"

"her and i have complex conversations," savage scoffed, rolling his eyes, "you're too fucking busy controlling every aspect of her life to notice her favorite foods or the different ways she does her hair."

a quiet giggle escaped your lips. the whole situation was quite comedic, really. never in your life had two men been competing for your affection so avidly. it was quite hysterical hearing them bicker about you. 

finally, maul's tough exterior crumbled away, "savage, i only get so defensive because i-i.. (y/n) is the first woman i have ever met that actually has shown me that i am more than just a sith lord. she's shown me something that i have never experienced before. i get light-headed around her and my palms clam up. i feel a strong connection with her through the force. i-i love her, savage. i love (y/n)."

savage's arms dropped to his side, his eyes wide. your reaction was about the same, your heart racing in your chest, you breath hitched in your throat. there was no way this was real. this had to be a dream. a crazy, fucked up, dream. 

"i have to tell you a secret too, maul," savage murmured, his eyes cast at the ground, "i love her too." 

an audible gasp tumbled from your lips. tears welled up in your eyes, streaming down your cheeks. the two brothers noticed your presence, their expressions shifting from despair to horror. two, deeply hidden secrets bubbled to the surface in the night, splitting you down the middle. it was almost as if everything was in slow-motion, the world spinning around you. 

"i-i-i," you stammered, heart thudding in  your chest, "i can't do this."

"(y/n)," maul stuck out a hand, "wait, please-"

yet you didn't hear the last words of maul's statement. you locked the door of the hut, wrapping your pillow around your head. you screamed, a ear-splitting, horrid scream. maul and savage heard it clearly, their hearts breaking. 

no one fathomed that this was your destiny. no one fathomed that you would capture the attention of two sith lords, their hearts yearning for you. yet, you knew which one had your heart. the one who you fell in love with instantly, from the moment you first laid eyes on him. 

yet, how could your soul intertwine with one, without breaking the other?

tagged: @maulieber​ @smokahuntis​ @maulfrk​ @witchy-goth-unicorn​

#darth maul #darth maul x reader #star wars x reader #star wars #maul x reader #savage #maul

[daybreak-academy-fanfic]

Daybreak Academy: Chapter 91

I’ll Be Home For Christmas

Summary: In which Anora goes home. Word Count: 1,574 First | Previous | Next ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆

It didn't actually hit Anora that she was going home until Brain offered to take some of her bags for her. The past few days, she had prepared three suitcases worth of clothes to take with her. Just yesterday she had given Strelitzia and Skuld their gifts. Strelitzia in particular had been thrown off guard, immediately apologizing that she had nothing to give Anora. In her humble ways, Anora told Strelitzia that it was alright- but the older refused to listen. She promised that she'd have a present for Anora when she got back.

Deciding how she was going to give Ephemer his gift was more of a struggle. A part of her just wasn't brave enough yet to give it to him in person. But she also wanted him to get it before she left. It was Brain's idea -one that she didn't want to do because of the middle man- to give it to Headmaster Ava. Anora had put off handing the gift over until this very morning. Brain reminded her. How dare he. But she did it. Ava was even in her office this early in the morning. It made the small exchange more awkward than it already was.

But at least it was done now. Now she felt bad that Brain was carrying most of their luggage to the taxi.

“Is that the last of them?” he asked her as he took the suitcase she still had in her hands. Anora absently hugged herself before giving an agreeing nod.

“Well then,” Brain decided, “I guess it's time we hit the-”

“Anora!”

The duo blinked before turning their attention to whoever has just called the young woman. A spike of shock hit Anora when she easily recognized Ephemer running up to them. He caught up to them quickly- having to take a moment to catch his breath.

“Ava said… you left me a… present.” he said through labored breaths. “So I… I had to...”

Without another word, he held up a small box. It was covered with gift wrap with a tag on it that held only Anora's name. It felt bad to admit it- Anora almost refused to take it.

“Thank you.” she said regardless. She carefully took the present from him without so much brushing her fingertips against his.

“You can't open it until Christmas, though.” he then informed her. He even gave a small grin. “That'll ruin the surprise.”

Anora nodded as she unconsciously held his present closer to her chest. Ephemer did not leave right away. The two looked at each other, their slow breathing mirroring the other, as they both debating wanting to say something further. Brain had to let out a forced cough to get either of their attentions.

“We need to get going.” he told him.

Ephemer and Anora looked at Brain for a moment, before looking back at each other. They gave each other a bashful nod before Anora carefully backed away. After getting in to the taxi, Anora continued to look out her window at Ephemer. She kept watching him as the vehicle made its way out of Daybreak Drive and to Roue 7-18. Her eyes welled up with tears. When she started crying, the only thing she could feel was empty.

. . .

“I'm still not convinced we left something at the airport.” Brain mumbled to himself. “This is why kids from outside Departure Country usually aren't recruited for Daybreak. The logistics of getting a student from here to there without personal items getting lost is ridiculous.”

Anora only gave him a nod. Her forehead was pressed against the cool window as the sights outside were becoming more familiar. A part of her was incredibly excited. The other part wanted to cry. Brain noticed her silence, looking over at her with a tilt of his head. He studied her for a moment before reaching over to rub the back of her hand.

“You did great back there.” he assured her. “If it were me, I would have thrown it back at his face and tell him to get lost.”

His only answer was a halfhearted hum.

“Come on,” he lightly teased, even giving her a little nudge, “You're almost home for the first time in forever. It couldn't hurt to show a tiny amount of enthusiasm.”

But Anora only shrunk, still refusing to look at him.

“Anora,” Brain finally sighed, “You don't have to look at me, but please try to listen. Ephemer is a thousand miles away from here. He doesn't matter now- your family does. Don't let him, or whatever he got you in that little gift box, distract you from that. You're home now. Not at Daybreak. Not in Departure County. Not anywhere near him or anyone else he knows. You're free.”

For awhile, Anora continued to sit in a contemplative silence. She looked over at him and nearly felt her heart pound in seeing the sincerity on his face.

“Why are you always right?”

Brain let out a light chuckle, fingering the front brim of his fedora and tilting it slightly at her. “Because I make a lot of observations and theories.” he claimed. “Some tend to be wrong. But most of the time, they also tend to be incredibly right.”

Anora studied him for a moment. Eventually, she let out a little sigh and even put on a gentle smile.

“That's the spirit.” he teased before giving her nose a little tap.

. . .

Kieran had been waiting outside despite how quickly the temperature dropped that afternoon. He was already daydreaming about the hot chocolate Ma was making, along with working up the fireplace in the living room, and then wrapping up in a heavy comforter while chatting it up with Anora and the boy she brought home with her. But, for now, he had to wait. The shiver he gave when he finally saw their taxi was from the cold, not excitement. He was excited -don't get him wrong- but the cold was a bit more prominent.

“Razzie!” the 30-something happily declared, barely giving Anora time to get out of the taxi proper before scooping her into a crushing bear hug. The sounds of her exaggerated strangling meant that he was doing a good job. He only let her go when he saw the boy she brought with him come around the taxi. The boy was already carrying two suitcases- no doubt there was more.

“You must be Brain.” Kieran greeted, going over to help him with the luggage.

“Yes sir.” the boy agreed with a nod.

The grin Kieran gave Brain was wide and welcome. “It's a pleasure to meet you, then.” Then, Kieran turned to Anora to say, “Go on ahead inside. Let Ma squeeze some more life out of you while Brain and I get your stuff inside.”

It was weird seeing her cousin and Brain side by side. Anora remained where she was only because the scene seemed so odd. But what about it was so odd to her? Was it because Ephemer should have been here instead of Brain? She couldn't quite place it, but Kieran had a point; Aunt Dawn was waiting for her inside.

After everything had been brought in, everyone met up in the living room to relax. The familiarity of the old farmhouse was enough to let a large part of Anora relax. She was home. Brain was right- nothing else mattered but her family mattered now. And, oh wow, had she missed them.

“So, Brain,” Kieran started to say- his voice was light from the conversation so far, “Is that your actual name, or...”

Brain offered up a smirk. He would have messed with his fedora had he not taken it off out of respect. “Just as real a name as you insisting on calling Anora, 'Razzie.'”

Dawn immediately started laughing. Kieran on the other hand was almost shocked. But that first reaction gave way to a much more cheeky outlook.

“Touché.” he bemused. “Definitely walked into that one.”

“It's so great getting to know you Brain.” Dawn cheerfully said. “But I think it's time to finish off dinner. Anora, would you like to help me?”

Anora, who was wrapped quite snugly in an afghan blanket and barely awake, slowly nodded her head and started to get off the couch. She shuffled behind her aunt as they headed into the kitchen. Dawn had started the main course (a meat and potato stew) the moment Anora and Brain arrived. The warmth of the kitchen mixed with the delicious smell of stemmed beef was almost the final straw in keeping Anora from drifting off.

“Was the traffic bad?” Dawn asked Anora as the former started to get out bowls. Anora shook her head- a small yawn escaping her lips that Dawn almost immediately mirrored. “Oh stop that.” the older woman teased. “Waiting for you guys was so stressful. I think I spent the whole day cleaning the bathroom alone.”

Anora offered a small half smile. Dawn looked back at her and smiled right back.

“Honey,” Dawn then told her, “You brought home another Kieran.”

Anora's heart stopped for a moment. Sure, it wasn't that surprising she had went to Brain because he had some resemblances to her cousin in personality. But was it really enough for her own aunt to notice? A small blush started to form on the young woman's face.

“Guess I did...”

#daybreak academy #chapter 91 #kingdom hearts fanfiction #Anora #Brain #Ephemer #Kieran #Winter 2020 #Season 3

[helbramstrauma-main]

Elevator Operator

Masterlist

Albert DaSilva x Reader

Canon Era

It is not my job to get involved in my patrons’ personal lives, but sometimes I can’t help it.

Word Count: 1971

Ever since I can remember I have been working, if they were odd jobs or stable jobs I always needed to support my family in some way. Whether that is helping people carrying their groceries or working at the bakery, my income was always needed. Everyone in my family works to keep us out of tenant housing. My dad works in the factory, my younger sister works with textiles, my brother works in the mines, and Mom does laundry for the elites on the East Side. However, with all the income we still can only afford a two-bedroom apartment in lower Manhattan. Even then it is iffy, ever since they cut my brother's pay I have been working in the elevator. It is nice, I do not have to go anywhere all I have to do is get dressed and then I wait for people to join me.

Being an essential part of all of my neighbor's day is interesting, I am always in on the drama. People tend to vent to me and I have to listen so I don't get reported for "friendliness", I also get to know who the quite people are and who to avoid. It is a nice job for someone who enjoys talking to strangers but I would much rather work in solitude, or at least have patrons who are not my neighbors. As much as it is nice to have an inside scoop on your apartment building it is also incredibly draining as the lines in between working and not working are blurred. Sometimes I see a neighbor outside of my working hours and I have to keep up the show so it is not awkward when I help them to work in the mourning.

However some neighbors I wish I see more of, for instance, Albert is my favorite person to guide. We talk briefly every day but not about anything personal, it also helps that he is easy to look at.  Even though I do know that he has two older brothers and he lost his mom which is why he works as a newsie. That being said as we talk it does not seem like something to do for the brief time we see each other, it seems like I would actually talk to him outside of the elevator, which I can not say for most of my neighbors.  So when he does not return at his normal time after his shift I begin to worry. Normally when he decides to spend the night at the newsboy lodging house he will mention it in the mourning. However today he never mentioned staying anywhere else. What if he got hurt? It is not my responsibility to make sure my patrons return safely, but I need to make sure Albert is okay.

The end of my shift could not come fast enough when the night boy arrived I practically ran out of the building. Maneuvering my way around New Yorks busy streets I eventually find the place that Albert describes as his second home. The Newsboy Lodging House's lights were on and you can hear the rowdy boys from the end of the street. Once I make it to the door I question if I should even enter. My favorite part about Albert is how he makes it easy to separate my work from my personal life, so I should not get involved in his. However the more I think about the more I realize we do talk about our personal lives. He does tell me things about his family and his work life, as I tell him things about mine. The only difference is, he makes it feel like I am not working.

With a sudden boost of confidence, I walk through the door to the loud area. As I walk in the place quiets so you could hear a pin drop. They look at me as if I am a specimen in a lab, I am unknown to them, well all except one who breaks the silence.

"Y/N, what are you'se doin' here" Albert slurs his words. You can tell he has been drinking heavily, he smells like cheap whiskey and poor liquor management. Albert wobbles his way over to me and the former rowdiness of the room resumes with a few looks my way. "Ya miss me that much, you'se just had to see me again," Albert says, taking a few pauses in the middle as his ability to form sentences is limited at the moment.

I have never seen Albert drunk and I know his family well enough to know if they say him like this, he would be in for it. I have no idea what to do. Our relationship has never been discussed out of the elevator after he leaves he does not think about me, and I think about him for the rest of the day. It is just how things are. I do not know what to say to him though, it is out of place for me to criticize his decisions, but at the same time, he clearly should not have any more to drink. After I have not said anything for a while he hand makes its way around my hip pulling me into a side hug. "Why don'ts you'se have something to drink, enjoy you' self," Albert says into my ear, holding me close to him.

Thinking quickly I say, "I'll have something to drink if you promise to stop drinking". Albert clearly thinks this over for a second before agreeing. Not wanting to partake in underage drinking knowing the wrath of my parents' if they would find out, I decided to fill a shot glass with water. Albert was too drunk to notice. It was nice getting to know the people Albert talks about, even if they are drunk, I can still get a good feel of their character. Albert introduced me to all of his peers with his arm seldom leaving my side. It was nice having the warmth of Albert's body against my own, it was nice being this close to Albert for even a night that he won't even remember.

The night goes by and Albert cannot seem to keep his hands off of me, and I don't stop him. He would occasionally whisper things I could not understand in my ear throughout the night. Even though I cannot comprehend what he is saying it still sends shivers down my spine. However all good things must come to an end, the boys who live at the lodging house spend head upstairs signaling for us to go.

After we say our goodbyes and leave the establishment I am suddenly burdened with the task of getting him home safely. Albert's arm is around my waist as he attempts to find balance for the entire walk back to the apartment building. He is desperately holding on to me pulling me closer every time he trips over his own two feet. Along the way, however, Albert takes it upon himself to whisper in my ear again. This time however his speech is not as slurred as it was in the noisy house, this time I can hear him.

"As anyone eva told you'se how stunning you are," Albert says the first time, however, I do not respond I just keep walking. He is drunk he does not mean what he is saying, do not get your hopes up. However, the whole way to the apartment he continues to whisper in my ear sweet nothings, he continues to flirt. However, I keep telling myself not to get too excited however the success rate of that diminishes as time goes on. I know that I will lay up all night thinking about what he is saying right now.

Eventually, we say our goodbyes and I make my way to my apartment barely able to contain myself with the amount of joy I am feeling. It does not matter to me that he was drunk, for one night I got to live out the scenario that only occurred in my imagination. Even if in my imagination he was not drunk and he meant it, but it was still nice to hear him say the things I have only ever previously thought of him saying. I go to bed but only to lay in it, only to come up with more situations, only to live out what will never happen.

Eventually, the sun raises leaving me to take over my post at the elevator. I walk downstairs to start it up and begin my shift. The day starts out normally until I realize that Albert is going to need my assistance at any minute. He probably will not remember last night, but I do, I remember what he said to me. Do I confront him about it? Do I pretend it never happens? Questions fill my brain again that I am only brought out of my thoughts when I see the light signal that someone has called the elevator. It reads the floor that Albert is on, and I know it is him. Who else could it be? When I reach the floor, I am not surprised to see an extremely tired Albert. His hair is not combed as it usually is, nor is it tucked under his hat. Visible bags are under his eyes, and his usually beautiful eyes are bloodshot. It looks like he did not sleep a wink last night.

A shows a small smile as he enters the elevator only to look down at his feet again. "Rough night last night," I ask as I usually would, but this time I know what happened and he doesn't.

A blush quickly appears and disappears on Albert's face and he looks at me with his bloodshot eyes, that still somehow remains innocent. He looks at me for a few seconds, like he does not know what he is going to say, "Like you'se don't know".  A smirk creeps up to Albert's lips but then quickly fades and his eyes soften. "I didn't want to tell you'se those things last night the way I did. I had everything planned but I messed it up". I understood what he said but I lack the ability to comprehend it. Did he mean what he said last night, was it not the cheap whiskey talking? Does he really feel the same way I feel about him? This can't be real.

"Oh, you don't mean that. Don't feel bad about it," I say defending myself from getting my hopes up. He probably just feels bad, there is no way he could like me.

Albert takes a step towards me suddenly causing me to stop the elevator between floors. His eyes are still softened, showing vulnerability. Albert looks nervous like he does not know what he is going to do next. "I meant everything I said last night" is all he said before taking a step back, before looking down at his worn-out shoes again.

The blood pushing through my veins knowing that he feels the same way about me is giving me the confidence I need to let him know that I reciprocate them. However my body is moving quicker than my brain, words are not coming to me. So what I do is I take two step forwards so our chest our touching, quickly going on my toes I connect our lips for only a second before coming back down and taking half a step back. Albert's eyes flicker over with their usual confidence and his signature smug smirk returns to his lips. He makes up the space between us and reconnects our lips this time for longer. Eventually, we disconnect and all I could think of to say is, "I like you too".

#newsies #newsies broadway #new york #newsies x reader #newsie fanfiction #newsies fanfiction #romanticfanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #albert dasilva #newsies albert #albert newsies #Wattpad #canon era #newsboy #albert dasilva x reader

[redrobinfection]

Coffee, Coffee Everywhere: Extra

<< Previous (Part 21: Epilogue)

AN: Thanks to Seshat_Writting on ao3 for reminding me in a comment about this series and this extra little scene I’ve had rattling around in my brain the past couple months. Steph/Cass is a thing in this ficlet and past Tim/Steph is mentioned. Enjoy!

---

"Aww, man, you guys started the face masks without me!" Steph groans teasingly, toeing the door shut as she steps into the the small studio apartment. The door locks behind her automatically and she rolls her eyes - of course it does, this being one of Tim's places - but admits it's handy as she juggles her keys, purse and one overflowing grocery bag.

Tim pauses in daubing a bit pale purple mask across Cass' chin. They both look up at her from the floor with twin stares of utter innocence. Steph isn't buying it for a minute.

"We didn't realize you wanted us to wait," Tim replies as he scoops another glob of mask out of a small jar. Steph catches a hint of lavender and smirks.

"You better be saving some of that for me," she comments, turning away to kick off her shoes. She turns back to a stare she assumes is Cass' way of expressing "bitch please" while Tim shakes his head at her foolishness.

"Cass bought two extra jars, just in case. Not that we'll need them," Tim replies, sweeping a glance over Steph. "Not unless you're planning to do a full body mask tonight."

Cass wiggles her eyebrows suggestively and Steph punts one of her shoes at the former Batgirl. "Serves you right if I do!"

She might, just to spite them. It's not like she has a lot to hide from her ex-boyfriend and her current girlfriend. Although, she might have to spread those remaining two and three-quarters jars pretty thin if she wants to do her whole body. Hmmm. Maybe she'll just do her face, neck, and chest tonight - just to tease them.

She breezes past them, headed into the little kitchen, and begins unloading groceries onto the counter. "I picked up three bags of limes for the homemade margaritas,” she calls out. Tim gives a thumbs up and Cass does a little happy dance. “I dunno why the pre-made mix isn't good enough for you," she adds in a mutter.

"Fresh is better," Cass responds primly. Tim has finished applying her mask and Cass is unscrewing the lid to an opaque black container, presumably to apply Tim's. Steph wonders which mask Cass picked out for him this time.

"I also made sure to pick up the anti-tequila for you, nerd wonder, for whatever lime-flavored abomination it is that you like to make," Steph continues, pulling out a bottle of gin with a grimace. "Oh, and some more of that metallic red nail polish you liked so much last time."

Tim beams as Cass begins smearing a dark, thickly-textured mask across his cheek. "It's called a 'Gin Rickey'[1] and it's so good! I swear it will convert you to gin drinks if you give it a chance," he tells her.

"Nope," Steph replies, popping the 'p', as she finishes fishing out chips, dip, hummus and veggies. All the best snacks for spa night. Or as Steph likes to call it: Bat-Girl's Night. Plus Tim, naturally. (She figures that if she could be an all-but-honorary Robin for a few months, then Tim could be an all-but-honorary Batgirl from now on and that would make his presence admissible. Babs approved and they've been nice and haven't made him wear the suit yet, the lucky duck.)

"I am good with tequila thank you very- Wait." Steph stares at the mask Cass is currently rubbing across Tim's forehead. "Is that…?"

She stomps across the room and swipes the container out of Cass's lap. "Oh my god it is." She glares disapprovingly at Cass. "A coffee face mask? Really? We just got him off his addiction!"

Tim grins sheepishly. "Well, I mean, I'm not exactly drinking it and it's not like it has any caffeine-"

"It literally says it contains caffeine right here," Steph counters, pointing to the tub. "Why the hell does your skin need caffeine anyway?!"

"Firming," Cass explains, nodding sagely.

"'Wakes up the skin'?" Steph reads. "What the hell? What a load of bullshit!"

Cass ignores her and continues swiping the dark paste of sugar, clay and coarsely ground coffee - real fucking coffee! - across Tim's forehead as he grimaces apologetically.

"Oops, well…at least I'm not drinking it?" he tries again weakly.

Steph pins him with a flat look, then raps her girlfriend lightly on the head. "This was your idea, wasn't it?"

"Yes. It's fine. He's been good. Deserves it," Cass replies without hesitation, reaching out a hand for the tub. Steph sighs dramatically then hands it back.

"I guess..." she concedes, then grins wickedly. "I guess as long as it's his giant, tired-ass eye bags drinking up the caffeine, then it’s all good."

"Hey! They're not that bad!" Tim exclaims.

Cass plops a large glop of paste onto one such eye bag and nods grimly. "Yes, they are."

Tim deflates a little and goes quiet while Cass finishes smearing the dark paste evenly across his face. She sits back with a smile. "All done." She turns to Steph. "Next!"

Contrary to her words, Cass and Tim both rise and wash up before helping Steph apply her mask. On their way back, they stop by the fridge and pull out plastic cups of milky colored liquid with dark blobs at the bottoms. Cass takes a large slurp from hers and Steph perks up.

"Are those boba tea?"

Cass turns around with a shit eating grin and shakes a pinkish-purple one at her. "Yes. Do I win back points?"

"Is that taro?" Steph immediately asks, jumping up to accept the offering of sweet, irresistible nectar.

"Yep."

"Oh, babe, you're the best," Steph replies, stealing a jasmine-tinged kiss off of Cass' lips before punching the proffered straw through the lid and sucking down her own liquid bliss. The tapioca pearls add a pleasant chewy, sweet dimension to the earthy-sweet flavor of the powdered taro root. Steph is almost too distracted to notice Tim creeping away with his own cup, the milky liquid in such tinged just a little too brown for it to be simple black tea mixed into milk.

"Tim. What is that?"

He freezes and turns only his head to stare at her with wide eyes. "Boba tea."

"Yeah, but is it actually tea?" Steph interrogates, expression skeptical.

"Maaaaaaaaybe?"

Cass darts out of the way of the ensuing tussle, which ends, inevitably, with Steph snatching away Tim's cup to steal a sip. She nearly throws her own cup at him when she tastes it.

"I can't believe this! You actually got coffee in your boba tea! There probably isn't any tea in this, is there? Utter travesty!"

Cass chooses this moment to step between them, pass the drink back to Tim, and lay a hand on Steph's shoulder. "Decaf. Mostly milk. Extra boba. Extra ice. He is fine."

Steph's eyes narrow, shifting from Cass who is nodding soberly, to Tim who is sipping warily, and then back again. "This was your idea," she accuses Cass. Again.

The sound of the front door closing shatters the tension. "No, it was my idea," Babs explains as she wheels herself into the apartment. She grins when Cass bounds over, hugs her, then hands her what looks like yet another sacrilegious coffee boba 'tea'. "Cass was just my delivery person."

"Babs, why?! We only just got him off of his coffee addiction!"

"He's been really good about it lately, so I thought he deserved a reward in the form of a compromise. Besides, there's barely any caffeine in that anyway," Babs dismisses, rolling away toward the kitchen.

Steph rounds on Tim. He takes a step back instinctively. She slowly reaches out a hand and smiles gently. "Okay, Tim. I know that you know that that is the gateway coffee to many more coffee mishaps, so just hand it over nice and easy before you end up doing something that you’ll regret."

He clutches it to his chest like and pouts like a three-year-old. "No."

Her expression and tone harden. "Tim. Put the cup down, back away slowly, and no one gets hurt."

He shakes his head and vaults over the couch. Steph leaps to follow. Cass and Babs slurp their boba tea placidly while they watch from the kitchen. Tim streaks into the bathroom and locks the door. Steph rattles the knob and curses that she didn't think to carry any picks on her tonight. It's a simple “pop-in, pop-out” lock so if she can just find a toothpick or a skewer…

She dashes into the kitchen, nearly bowling over Cass in the process.

"He's gonna chug it," Babs predicts in a bland tone as Steph rattles around in drawers..

Cass nods. "Yes." She cups her mouth to carry over the racket Steph is making behind them. "Remember: tapioca, little brother! Don't choke!"

Steph fist pumps when she finds a single toothpick, then vaults the counter. Right as she pops the lock, Tim appears in the doorway, expression triumphant.

"Tim, no!" Steph wails when he raises the empty cup.

He rattles it and grins. "Tim, yes!"  

#my writing #christmasriverswrites #tim drake #batfamily #cassandra cain #tim and cass #tim and steph #stephcass #past timsteph #barbara gordon #batgirls #if you're of legal drinking age in your country (*wink*wink*nod*nod*) the gin rickey will convert you to gin #i converted so many of my college friends to gin via the rickey; it's so light and refreshing #the coffee face mask is also a real thing; there are several well known retailers that offer them but the one that inspired this story #...begins with an ''L'' (as in lake) and rhymes with ''hush" ;) #and yes there is real coffee in the face mask and they claim it gives ''your skin a boost of caffiene'' #long text post #edits 2020.01.26

[incorrigible-rapscallion]

A Serial Killer’s Guide to Men and Manslaughter -- SCRIPT (pgs. 30-44)

[pgs 1-2; 3-7; 7-14; 14-23; 24-30]

EXT./INT. DAVID'S CAR - NIGHT - TRAVELING

David drives throughout the town of Pleasant Grove at night. Achilles sits in the passenger seat.

David white-knuckles the steering wheel and gear shift as neon store signs and street lamps pass over his troubled face.

MONTAGE: DREAMSCAPE #2

David, once again, replays images of day's events--this time featuring his blind date dinner.

Key images that David focuses on are:

   -Thomas seated at their table, waiting for David to arrive    -Achilles rolling on the floor with oddly docile behavior    -Thomas with a cheerful expression    -Thomas with a concerned expression    -Thomas with a vacant expression    -Thomas cutting into the meal's tenderloin with a steak knife

This segues into another sequence of implausible scenarios involving Thomas killing someone during their dinner:

   -Thomas breaking Achilles' neck while the dog waits for a belly rub    -Thomas grabbing the Waiter's pen and stabbing it in their neck    -Thomas lunging across the table to, once again, strangle David

Like before, all of the killings are concluded with a flirtatious wink.

                                                                                              END OF MONTAGE:

David has stopped breathing and Achilles licks at his hand on the gear shift. David then pets Achilles' head, almost aggressively, as he calms down.

David notices that the lights are on inside the PLEASANT GROVE POLICE STATION as he approaches it at an intersection.

David abruptly pulls into the parking lot.

               DAVID        (to Achilles)    Let's do the fandango, buddy.

He exits the car with Achilles and single-mindedness.

INT. PLEASANT GROVE POLICE STATION - NIGHT

David enters an empty yet nostalgically-attractive lobby. It splits in two different hallways. There are small signs above each door that indicate each department, reminiscent of 40s-style administrative offices.

David zeroes in on the "Records and Evidence" sign. He walks forward confidently despite his shoes making squeaky sounds against the antique hardwood.

INT. RECORDS AND EVIDENCE OFFICE - NIGHT

David reaches a room not unlike a library, teeming with shelves of files. There is a WOMAN WITH BIFOCALS humming to herself at the back of the stacks.

David clears his throat. The Woman doesn't respond.

               DAVID    Excuse me, ma'am?

The Woman still doesn't respond, but instead shakes her hips at the song she is humming. Eventually, after an exaggerated lip sync performance, the Woman notices David with a start.

               WOMAN WITH BIFOCALS    Cheese and crackers!

The Woman comes forward to a banker's desk. Her name tag is upside down and reads, "Dotty."

               DOTTY    What can I do for you, honey bun?

               DAVID    I'm here to request any cold case files that you might have for missing persons.

               DOTTY    It's awfully late for something like that. Usually we need something first, what is it called...?

               DAVID    A release request?

               DOTTY    No, not that...Actually, yes. A release request.

               DAVID    Can I get one started then?

               DOTTY    No.

               DAVID    Why not?

               DOTTY    We don't have any, what did you say you needed?

               DAVID    Missing persons reports, specifically any that are on "Cold" status.

               DOTTY    We don't have any of those.

               DAVID    Any of what?

               DOTTY    Missing persons, cold cases.

               DAVID    I don't understand. You mean to tell me that in all of these records, there is not one missing person file? Or a cold case?

               DOTTY    No.

               DAVID    What do you mean, "no"?

               DOTTY    No, we don't have any missing persons. This is a safe town. Nothing ever happens here.

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON (O.S.)    What seems to be the problem?

Sheriff Livingston enters holding two coffees.

               DOTTY    Oh, nothing darling! This young man just wanted to see, what did you say you wanted?

               DAVID    Missing persons reports.

Sheriff Livingston strides forward and places one coffee on Dotty's table. She uses her free hand for Achilles to sniff before patting him on the head.

               DAVID    I think you can gather why I might want to look into them, Sheriff.

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    Please, call me Hannah. Everyone does. As a matter of fact, I wanted to catch you after the town hall last night. I was serious when we met at the park; I'm incredibly interested in picking your brain on the criminal mind. We don't get a lot of action here in Pleasant Grove, so it'd be nice to "talk shop," as it were, with someone from the big, bad city.

               DAVID    I just have an overactive imagination. Nothing special.

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    On the contrary, I think an imagination is something that is uncommonly special. Dotty can relate to that, right Dotty?

               DOTTY        (searching for her glasses, which she is already wearing)    Hmm?

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    But back to your request. You said you wanted to look at missing persons reports?

               DAVID    That man at the town hall seemed to think that the whole county is rife with unsolved crimes. Why would he so fervently believe that if, as you say, you don't "get a lot of action here?"

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    I've never seen that man before. I think that he just wanted to cause a controversy over pure speculation. It's possible that he was a journalist from Pleasant Valley wanting a scoop on us for whatever reason.

               DAVID    Regardless, I'm curious about the missing persons that he brought up. Dotty informed me that you don't have any.

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    That would be correct. All of our cases are closed. I've gone to great lengths to make sure that we, as a department, provide answers for families that are looking for them.

               DAVID    What does that mean?

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    We have a large forest and mountain ranges that are prone to landslides surrounding this area. This means that all the deaths and disappearances in our town have reasonable and natural explanations.

               DAVID    What does the State have to say about your lack of hard crime reports?

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    They've been more than understanding about our situation. We, quite tragically, had a fluke electrical fire break out in our old department building. All of our old files, including our former sheriff, went up with it. This room contains all the documents that we were able to recover.

David takes note of the singed file-folders on the shelves and Dotty, as she has gone back to humming in the stacks.

               DAVID    I suppose that is, as you say, a reasonable and natural explanation. Since you have nothing here to offer me, I'll be on my way.

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    As will I. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have some paperwork to take care of--burning the midnight oil today, right Dotty?        (Dotty continues humming and dancing)    Please don't be a stranger, David.

               DAVID    Likewise, Sheriff... Dotty...

David waits for Sheriff Livingston to leave. She doesn't, instead clearly waiting for David to leave first. They are at a standstill of manners.

Sheriff Livingston breaks with an amused smile and salutes Achilles as she exits the room.

David promptly pulls out his notebook from his back pocket and begins writing:

   "Sheriff--expert liar, covering her tracks?    "No records, no suspects, no victims    "Pleasant Valley?"

David exits but Dotty, who has been humming and dancing, removes her glasses and keenly watches him as he leaves.

EXT./INT. DAVID'S CAR/PLEASANT GROVE - NIGHT (TRAVELING)

David opens the door to the passenger side and Achilles takes his usual spot. David climbs in and stares out the windshield into the darkly lit park across the street.

He turns the keys in the ignition. He pulls onto the main road through town and glances over at Achilles.

EXT./INT. DAVID'S CAR/PLEASANT GROVE - DAY (TRAVELING)

When David looks back at the road, it is daytime.

He comes to the intersection that houses the Wright Place Butchery and the cafe at which the RHS ladies sit, kibitzing.

This time, David takes note of the RHS ladies ogling him. He grimaces and turns back to a city and mile sign at the intersection.

The sign reads: "Pleasant Valley 36 / Pleasant View 52"

David continues on, the scenery still as picturesque as before. Once again, David drives through winding roads on a mountainside. A beautiful cloud formation hovers in and around the area.

EXT./INT. DAVID'S CAR/PLEASANT VALLEY - DAY (TRAVELING)

At last, David enters the town of Pleasant Valley.

Unlike the quaint feel of Pleasant Grove, Pleasant Valley is upscale and styled after mid-century modern architecture.

David locates the City Hall and police station easily.

David parks and locks eyes with Achilles.

               DAVID    Let's go get some evidence, bud.

INT. PLEASANT VALLEY PD - DAY

This police station has an art-deco design. It is bustling with activity, but no one pays David and Achilles any mind. David navigates his way to the Records and Evidence department.

A SULLEN STUDENT wearing beatnik clothing and reading a pulp novel sits at the intake counter.

               SULLEN STUDENT    State your purpose and reason for existing.

               DAVID    Purpose? To catch a killer. Reason for existing? Still trying to figure that out.

               SULLEN STUDENT        (smirks, but doesn't look up from their book)    You're the first guy to actually give me an answer.        (finishes page and sets it down)    What can I do ya for?

               DAVID    I'm here to start a release request for any missing persons or cold cases that you have on file.

               SULLEN STUDENT    No need. You can look at anything you want as long as I supervise and the documents don't leave the building.

Sullen Student slinks off into the deep filing area.

               SULLEN STUDENT (O.S.)    Also don't take any pictures or scans of anything. You can take notes, I guess. And sign in, I forgot to mention that.

               DAVID        (signing the sheet on the desk)    What got you into police work at such a young age?

               SULLEN STUDENT (O.S.)    I needed the volunteer hours.

Sullen Student enters with a push cart of filing boxes and comes around in front of the counter.

               DAVID    Volunteer hours?

               SULLEN STUDENT    For Honor Society. I'm the president. Sullen Student goes back to their seat behind the desk and continues reading their book.

David sets up shop at a neighboring table and opens the first box labeled "Status: Cold. 2010-[blank]"

The file on top contains a supplemental homicide report.

               DAVID        (mumbling)    Let's do the fandango.

               SULLEN STUDENT    Whatever floats your boat, dude.

MONTAGE: GATHERING EVIDENCE

David focuses on the descriptions of the case. He starts a new page from the back of his notebook and begins copying down information.

Key phrases jump out:

   Mixed weapons used; unknown relationship to victim; unknown circumstance proceeding murder

David flips to the next file and begins creating a list of information with tallies for similarities between them.

Key phrases jump out from the other cold case files:

Cutting instrument used 

Strangulation used 

Blunt instrument used 

Hands, fists, feet, etc. used

All the files that David is interested in have unknown relationships and circumstances proceeding the murders.

By the end of the box, David has compiled a list with the most common methods used: strangulation and mixed weapons having the highest number of tallies.

David starts back into the stack again, this time making a list of the victims' occupations.

Key phrases jump out:

 Real estate owner

 Dentist 

Dairy owner 

School district superintendent 

County recorder 

Justice of the peace 

And-- most damning of all--the former elected city sheriff

David gives a shout of surprise.

                                                                                              END OF MONTAGE:

               SULLEN STUDENT    Whoa, you alright there?        (sitting cross-legged on the floor, petting Achilles)    I tried to ask earlier for permission to pet your dog, but you were kinda out of it. I get that way too sometimes. Hyper-focus and all that.

               DAVID    Hyper-focus... Could you tell me your perspective on what happened to the former sheriff?

               SULLEN STUDENT    What's it to you?

               DAVID    I'm catching a killer, remember?

               SULLEN STUDENT        (not so sullen anymore)    So here's the thing--no one believes me, but I think that this whole place, this whole city I mean, is corrupt. I'm talking mafia-level conspirators. It's the only makes sense. I've watched a ton of organized crime documentaries and there is definitely something shady going on here. For instance, think about all those files you just looked through--yeah, I've read them too.        (leaning forward intensely)    Almost all of those cold cases are eerily similar, right? They all have immediate dead ends. It's almost like the investigators didn't want to follow up on these cases. They're covering their tracks by sheer negligence. I think the last sheriff got in their way or made someone mad, so he had to get the axe. But everyone here doesn't seem to notice; they are all super happy with everyone's replacements. But not me, I see the truth of it all. And it's definitely the mafia.

               IRATE MAN (O.S.)    Don't tell me you're trying to convert yet another poor soul into your tin foil hat club, Casey Andrews.

Irate Man enters the room. He carries a folio and a stack of developed photographs.

               CASEY    Awww, I hadn't even gotten to the best part yet with the mind control chicken nuggets and secret bunker under the football field!        (taking in David's shocked expression)    I'm kidding. That would be crazy.

Irate Man greets Casey from the floor with a one-handed yet intricate secret handshake.

               IRATE MAN    Sorry, do I know you?

               DAVID    No, but we were at the same town hall meeting a couple of nights ago. In Pleasant Grove.

               IRATE MAN    Ah, right. I remember your dog. You probably remember my... cross-examination of Sheriff Livingston.

               DAVID    That's one word for it. You actually inspired me to investigate the missing persons reports in town. Or, lack thereof.

               IRATE MAN    It's freaky, isn't it? All those files and not a single missing person. Even though our newspaper here in Pleasant Valley has printed a number of disappearances and suspected homicides in the area. Strange stuff. Name's Mick, by the way. Mick McMillan.

Mick sets his folio on the desk and David stands in greeting.

               DAVID    David...Truelove.

               MICK        (shaking David's hand like it's a contest)    Huh, you should write bodice-rippers with that kind of last name.

               CASEY    Actually, he writes crime thrillers. He's pretty prolific too.

               MICK    A novelist, eh? I'm not too big on reading fiction, more of a "just the facts" man myself.

               DAVID    Understandable. Now, what do you think is happening around here? Casey says that it's--

               MICK    --the mafia, right?

               CASEY    Well, it is! You just refuse to see the truth right in front of your eyes!

               MICK    I'm interested in answers, that's all. I am a private investigator and I've been hired by a "concerned citizen" to uncover the systemic issues with all these supposedly solved cold cases. As cliche as it sounds, every town has its secrets. I'm simply attempting to unravel them.

               DAVID    Sounds daunting. But you also didn't answer my question. What do you think is going on? Mick shares a dark look with Casey.

               CASEY    Go on, tell him. He's legit. He's been pouring over these documents all day just like we both did.

               MICK    I think...that there is an active serial killer in this area.

David schools his expression and closes his notebook tentatively, hiding it behind some papers on the table.

               MICK    I know, I know, that sounds outrageous. Casey's mafia conspiracy is probably more likely to happen than a murderous psychopath rampaging across Pleasant county. But... actually, let me show you what I'm talking about.

Mick pulls a desk lamp over to his folio folder and takes out his stack of developed photographs. Casey and Achilles get up off the floor and observe what Mick has to offer.

               MICK    I listen to the police scanners as much as the next guy. But whenever a call is placed on any hard crime activity or disappearance, I try to head out to where the action is. This is what I have to show for it...

Mick selects a photo from the stack. It is of a crime scene, but the focus is on the crowd that is gathered around the cordoned off perimeter.

               MICK (CONT'D)    You know what they say about serial killers liking to stay behind and put themselves in the hubbub after the fact. Well, I've noticed that there are a couple of guys that could be our unsub...

Mick fans out other photos which he has circled familiar faces in red ink at different crime scenes.

All the faces are unfamiliar. Except for one--Thomas Wright. He is caught on film at three sites.

David breathes heavily and Achilles whines. He scruffs Achilles' fur in order to hide his reaction.

               MICK    I believe that these guys are the biggest break I've gotten so far. I've already met with two of them. They seemed pretty normal and had credible alibis for being sighted at multiple crime scenes. But I haven't ruled them out until I meet with the other three.

               DAVID    That's reasonable, I suppose.

               MICK    Say...you haven't noticed any of these fellas in and around Pleasant Grove, have you?

               DAVID    Sorry, no. I just got into town a couple of days ago. I'm taking care of some...estate things.

               MICK    Then I recommend that you keep your eyes peeled. I stay mostly on this end of the county but it would be nice to have boots on the ground in the Grove community, if you know what I mean.

               DAVID    I don't how much help a novelist will be then for your investigation. I was just curious about looking into a real mystery.

               MICK    Can't fault ya about that. Say, here's my number and email. Get in touch if you ever want to take your little mystery a step further.

Mick picks up one of the photos with Thomas' face on it and scribbles his info on the back.

David takes this as his cue to begin packing up the documents in their respective boxes.

               CASEY    Hey, don't worry too much about making sure it's all neat and orderly. I'll take care of it tomorrow. It'll give me something to do other than wait for the sweet release of death.

Casey places the boxes back on the push cart and takes them behind the intake counter. Casey turns off the lights to the filing room and closes down the intake window.

David hurriedly straightens up and waves goodbye before exiting with Achilles.

Casey walks back to Mick, who affectionately ruffles their hair.

               CASEY    Dad, you're ruining my cool! And I worked so hard at it!

Casey notices David's notebook still sitting on the desk.

               CASEY    It looks like Mr. Truelove forgot this. We should've gotten his number...

Mick inspects the outside and inside flaps for contact information.

               MICK    Hmm, no address... Oh, now that's interesting...

Mick turns to the page in which David had jotted down his initial observations of the shop owners when he first arrived in Pleasant Grove.

Mick focuses on the most important line:

   "Mr. Wright--serial killer"

#a serial killer's guide to men and manslaughter #netflix call me #hannigram #hannibal s4 #nbc hannibal #hannibal #screenplay #screenwriting #script #original work

[vinylexams]

INTERVIEW with Brian Cook of SUMAC, Russian Circles, Botch, These Arms are Snakes, and Roy 

Brian Cook of the MANY gnarly bands listed above took time to answer a bunch of questions that had been burning a hole in my mind for years earlier today. Did you know that aside from playing bass in some of the heaviest bands currently in existence, Brian is also an avid record collector and he also runs a very similar page where he posts all of his records and writes up a bit of history and personal context with each one? A man after my own heart! I’ve dropped a link to his Tumblr below and you’d be a fool not to go check it out and follow his work there.

https://bubblesandgutz.tumblr.com⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

I really appreciated having a chance to talk to a very talented musician who also places a LOT of importance on physical medium and the recording process. All too often I get submissions from bands who either don’t know the in’s and out’s of the vinyl format or they took a lot of shortcuts and deprive their art a chance to really shine in the ways that vinyl allows. I picked Brian’s brain about his approach to creation of physical musical media as well as his history as a collector (and even tried to convince him to get These Arms are Snakes play my big gay wedding reception!). Thanks for taking the time to tell your story to us, Brian!

You've been a member of several incredible bands over the past few decades (Botch, Sumac, Russian Circles, These Arms Are Snakes), all of which have released pretty much everything they've recorded on vinyl. How important is the vinyl medium for you as a musician and creator?

Thanks for the kind words. It's really important to me for my music to have some sort of physical format. I realize that mode of thinking might seem sort of old school or outdated, but i've always been enamored by music as a kind of historical artifact. When I was younger, that meant it was important for me to have an actual Dead Kennedys cassette as opposed to a dubbed version from my friend. It was like the difference between owning a painting versus owning a xerox of a painting. When I became a musician, it was a sign of validation. By having a record with my name on it, I had created something that would potentially outlive me. And now in the digital age we've convinced ourselves that everything lives forever on the internet, but it's not true. Myspace just lost all their music. I've written for a lot of online music outlets that have closed shop or simply deleted old posts. Meanwhile, I have a trunk full of old zines that outlived the supposed permanence of blogs. So while the digital age is great for convenience and scope, creating a physical recording is really the more reliable way to make sure something exists for more than five to ten years, or however long it takes for the newest technological fad to become obsolete. Vinyl seems to be the longest lasting format, so it's my preferred medium. But if my music exists on tape or CD, that's fine too. 

Do you approach your recording and production processes with specific formats like vinyl in mind? If so, what do you do differently? Absolutely. The main concern is that we're dealing with the time constraints of vinyl. For bands like Russian Circles and SUMAC who have really long songs, it means we have to be careful how we sequence our records because we can easily exceed the 22-minutes-per-side rule. We've also been told by pressing plants that it's better to have long drones in the middle of an album side than at the beginning or end because there tends to be more surface noise at the beginning of a side and more warble at the end, and drones don't do much to mask these imperfections. But while one can complain about the limitations of vinyl, there are also issues with digital formats that can alter the way an album is put together. For example, the digital version of Empros has a longer drone at the end of "Batu" than the LP version, partially because of vinyl's limitations, but also because digital outlets like iTunes don't recognize records with long songs as full albums unless at least one track is longer than ten minutes. So we stretched it out on the digital version so that we'd be compensated appropriately for our work, but condensed it on vinyl so that we didn't compromise the sound quality.

Of all of the albums you've contributed to, which one stands out to you as the one you feel most connected to?

Probably Geneva by Russian Circles, if I had to pick one. We wrote that record over the span of several months at a house in rural Wisconsin. It was one of those ideal scenarios I'd always dreamed of---hunkering down in some isolated retreat and just immersing ourselves in the writing process. I've never walked away from an album feeling as accomplished as I did with that one. It just felt like we'd achieved something that had previously been out of my level of expertise. I think we've made better records since then, but I don't think I've ever felt as successful in making the sounds in my head translate to the recording. With regards to my other bands, I feel that way about Botch's We Are The Romans, These Arms Are Snakes' Easter, Roy's Killed John Train, and SUMAC's What One Becomes. But Geneva will always hold a special place.

How did you get into vinyl collecting and how does it play a part in your life?

I started buying vinyl around '92 because it was cheap. My first LP was Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet's Savvy Show Stoppers. I bought it for $2. Then I discovered 7"s, which was the dominant format for hardcore and punk bands at the time. Throughout high school, I mainly bought 7"s because i could buy 3 or 4 a week on my allowance. And let's be honest... most hardcore bands in the '90s had better 7"s than full albums. But vinyl was so dead at the time that you could also go to thrift stores and scoop up the entire Creedence Clearwater Revival discography for the cost of one CD. Even new vinyl was cheaper than their CD counterpart back then. So it's a bit of a drag now considering that vinyl is currently the most expensive format, but I still get a thrill from going to record stores, digging through crates, and coming home with a new LP. I can't say I buy that many 7"s anymore though.

What do you think about the relatively recent resurgence of large-scale vinyl production and collection?

It certainly has its advantages and disadvantages. I buy a lot of reissues just so I can have a clean, good-sounding copy, so I appreciate the resurgence in that regard. At the same time, the vinyl boom has made used record shopping a bit more of a drag. I don't know how many copies of Neil Young's Harvest I saw in used bins throughout the '90s and '00s, and then when I finally decided to buy a copy five years ago, it seemed like they'd all been snagged and the reissue was going for $50. When the Zeppelin discography got reissued a few years back, I mentioned wanting a new copy of Physical Graffiti to my husband. He went to our local indie record store in Brooklyn and asked the owner if they carried it and he totally balked at the question. "Why would we carry a reissue when you can buy a used copy of that in any record store for $5?" he said. My husband was like "every used Zeppelin record you carry is beat to shit and goes for at least $20... what the fuck are you even talking about?"

If you had to pare down your entire collection to no more than three albums, which would you keep?

What's the broader context? Like, are those the only three records I can listen to for the rest of my life? Or is it just a matter of only being allowed to own three records? If it's the former, I'd probably choose Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks, Miles Davis' In a Silent Way, and a Can album... either Ege Bamyasi or Soon Over Babaluma. Ask me tomorrow and I'd probably list off a different three. If it's the latter... like, if i'm merely holding onto records because the actual artifact means a lot to me but I can still listen to music in some other capacity, then I'd probably go with the His Hero Is Gone / Union of Uranus split LP, Undertow's At Both Ends, and Sticks & Stones Theme Songs For Nothing, just because those seem like a pain in the ass to replace and they're important records to me. I have records that are worth way more money, but I'm not someone who buys records because they're valuable. 

Do you have a "white whale" record you still haven't found?

Not really. For ages I resisted the urge to buy used records online, but I've since relented. The record that finally broke my ordering embargo was Hack's The Rotten World Around Us. They were a band from Adelaide, South Australia in the late '80/ early '90s who sounded like a grungier version of the first couple Swans records. Super heavy and scary. I got turned onto them through a 7" on Alternative Tentacles, but the LP was never available stateside. The first few times I toured Australia i went to every record store I could find in hopes of finding a copy. No one had ever heard of Hack. The singer was in another band called Grong Grong, and members of that band had gone on to be in King Snake Roost, Lubricated Goat, and Tumor Circus (with Jello Biafra on vocals), but no one had heard of them either. In my mind there was this rich underground of Australian noise rock from that time period that was still vital and valid, but the reality is that it was largely ignored and forgotten. I eventually found a copy online and bought it for $20. A year later i found a used copy in Boise. Oh well. I'd love to find Acme's To Reduce The Choir..., or an original copy of Popol Vuh's second album, or the Neu! 7", or the Greenlandic prog band Sume's Sumut album.

Hypothetically how much money would I need to raise to get These Arms Are Snakes to reunite to play my wedding reception? My family will hate it but my partner and I will be very happy, etc.

We still talk about doing some proper "farewell shows" since we bailed on doing them back in 2009/2010. Granted, now they'd be reunion shows, but in our hearts they'd be our proper goodbye. We're putting together a vinyl release of various odds and ends for next year, so maybe that'll give us an excuse to finally book something.

#vinylexams #vinyl #vinyljunkie #onmyturntable #nowspinning #sumac #botch #thesearmsaresnakes #seattle #taas #roy #russiancircles #briancook

[peraltasames]

home is just another word for you

Pairing: Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago

Desc: While moving into Amy's apartment, Jake stumbles upon the letter she wrote him while he was in Florida.

Notes: this is the first chapter of my new one-shot collection! title from ‘you’re my home’ by billy joel

Read on AO3

“Alright, this is the last box!” Jake shouts loud enough to be heard across the apartment, ripping the tape off the large cardboard box full of miscellaneous knick-knacks and items that he refused to part with. He’s positive Amy only let him keep them because she feels a little bit bad he had to give up his apartment (even though hers was the obvious choice) but the image of a Die Hard poster among her fancy china cabinets and antique furniture is just too good. Besides, they’re both excited to make it their apartment versus simply her apartment that he’s living in.

“Awesome, babe!” He hears Amy’s voice from the kitchen, where she’s unpacking his pretty limited supply of cutlery and appliances.

With the realization that he’s one box away from fully cohabiting with his favourite person in the world, Jake smiles to himself as he begins to pull random objects out of the box a little faster than he did the last few.

“Okay, magic eight ball, where should you go?” he mumbles to himself, glancing around the room at the nice, soft aesthetic Amy’s created with her choice of decor. “Yeah, maybe in a drawer for now.”

He strolls over to her desk, opening the drawer filled with documents and various writing utensils and stationery. He plops the ball in next to the stapler, his eyes barely glancing over some of the highly-organized papers and catching an envelope, mostly obscured by an insurance form, with the FBI seal in the corner.

His interest immediately piqued, he glances behind him to make sure Amy’s still in the other room and picks up the envelope, which isn’t sealed. Inside are two folded sheets of paper, the second falling to the desk as he reads the first one.

Detective Amy Santiago,

I would like to inform you that Detective Jacob Peralta is still in Witness Protection and will continue to be for an indefinite amount of time. I am unable to update you on the case, but I assure you the Bureau is doing everything we can to find Jimmy Figgis. Since it has been six months, I have decided to allow you to write a one-page letter to Jacob, which I will read to him and subsequently incinerate. Please enclose your letter in this same envelope and deliver it to the address you were given before Jacob’s departure, it will be passed on to me.

Marshal Haas

Taking in a sharp breath, he realizes what the other letter must be. Given the fact that the Nine-Nine came down to Florida to help catch Figgis only a few days after the six-month mark, she must’ve never had the chance to deliver it. His heart begins to beat faster as he reads the first line - his name, in her perfect, neat handwriting.

Dear Jake,

We both know brevity isn’t my strong suit, and since it’s impossible to fit six months into one page, I’m going to try to give you the highlights.

Charles and Genevieve adopted a four-year old, his name is Nikolaj and Charles never stops talking about him but he’s actually pretty cute. Rosa’s good, she says to tell you she nodded slightly (I assume you know what that means). Gina is...Gina. Terry and Sharon and the kids are doing well. We got a new captain today, he’s a complete idiot but at least it’s only until Holt comes back. Everyone misses you guys so much.

I’m doing okay. As okay as I can be without you, I guess. It’s really hard sometimes. It’s always hard, but some days are worse than others. I haven’t been doing much lately other than staring at the phone waiting for the call that you’re coming home. I know you’re safe there, but please don’t do anything reckless that could jeopardize that no matter how long you’re gone. I want you home so badly, but if he finds you I’m never gonna get that call. I need to get that call.

I love you so much. I love you more every single day. I worry about you constantly - please remember to drink water and eat vegetables and get some exercise. I know this must be so hard and scary for you, but hopefully it won’t be too much longer. I can’t wait for you to come back to me.

Love,

Amy

What breaks him, making him collapse into the chair beside him and sending tears down his cheeks, is not the heart-wrenching words she wrote for him months ago - it’s the faint stains on the page in the shape of teardrops.

While he was in Florida, slowly deteriorating and feeling his former self slip away along with his hope of returning home, she was sitting at this very desk crying over his absence. Missing him, worrying about him, loving him more every single day.

“You need some help finishing with the-“

He turns slightly to face the figure standing in the doorway. In pyjama shorts, a loose black tank top, and with her hair pulled back in a ponytail that’s now messy from hours of moving boxes, she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Jake, what’s wrong?” She scurries over to him, frowning. “Why are you crying?”

He doesn’t realize his eyes are puffy and his cheeks are wet with tears until she’s standing right next to him, her hand cupping his face. He lifts the letter in his hand for her to see, her eyes widening as he finally looks up at her.

“Oh...”

“I never knew about this,” he chokes out, reaching out for her from where he still sits in the chair and resting his hand on her waist.

“I know,” she says, her hand moving from his face to rest on his shoulder. “We went to Florida the next day. I never delivered it.”

He nods, wiping his tears away with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Yeah, I just meant I- I didn’t know about this at all. About how hard it was for you.”

Her face, initially etched with concern, now flashes with a look of pain and loneliness at the memory of their separation. Even now, when they’re approaching the mark of him being back for as long as he was gone, he still sees this look sometimes when someone mentions Florida or WitSec in general.

“Of course it was, Jake,” she says quietly. “After I got used to being with you, not being with you wasn’t really an option anymore.”

He knows the feeling. There are too many memories clogging his brain that he wishes would fade of eating soggy burritos in the hot tub or staring at the photo of Amy in the storage unit because it was all he had.

“C’mere.”

Needing to be close to her, he tugs on her waist and turns her around so she gently falls into his lap. Her arms wind around his neck while her head finds his shoulder. He kisses her forehead for the version of himself known as Larry Sherbet, who wasn’t sure at times if he would ever be able to do that again. Larry would’ve given anything in the world to hold her like this during the hot, sleepless Florida nights.

“Thanks for coming home to me,” she murmurs, her lips pecking his collarbone.

“Thanks for waiting for me to come home,” he responds, his arms around her body clutching her a little tighter. “And thanks for being super cheesy in that letter, because I’m totally gonna bring it up all the time now.”

She slaps his arm half-heartedly, still relaxed against him. “Hey, you would’ve been cheesy too if you were allowed to write one.”

“Definitely, but we will never have proof of it,” he says, hand stroking her leg. “Unless you ask Captain Holt how many times I whined about missing you after I had downed a bottle of whiskey and he’d searched my living room for bugs and cameras again.”

He says it like a joke, but she only hugs him closer and buries her face in his neck. He supposes the thought of him drunkenly talking about how much he misses his girlfriend does seem pretty sad. It was pretty sad.

“I love you, roomie,” he murmurs.

“I love you too.” She pulls away to face him properly, leaning in for a quick kiss. “Although, we’re not officially living together until you finish unpacking that box.”

“Okay, okay, okay...or, hear me out, what if we unpack it later and have sex now?”

He looks up at her with big puppy dog eyes, employing his foolproof method of stroking her inner thigh gently with his thumb.

“Jake...I really want to get this done,” she says, but he can already hear the willpower fading in her voice.

“Does it really matter if we have sex with or without the Die Hard poster hung up?”

She bites her lip. “Well, I guess n-“

Taking that as all the approval he needs, he scoops her up and walks her over to the bed so conveniently close to them. The bed that is now their bed, in their room, in their home. He admitted to himself a long time ago, however, that home was wherever she was - specifically, in the moment that she kissed him in the back of an ambulance in Coral Palms and Brooklyn suddenly became just a place on a map.

#otp: you're not allowed to fall in love with me #b99 fic #b99 #peraltiago #peraltiago fanfiction #so my obsession w writing them has reached new heights clearly #this fic is probably gonna have like 50 chapters lmao #myfics

[terresdebrumestories]

Clark Kent, of Krypton - 1/4: Kal-El

FANDOM: DC’s cinematic universe. RATING: Mature. WORDCOUNT: 20 404 (Fic total: ~98k words) PAIRING(S): Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne (main focus is on Clark, though). CHARACTER(S): Kal-El | Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Jor-El, Lara Lor-Van, Kara Zor-El, Zor-El, Martha Kent, Alfred Pennyworth, Diana Prince, Barry Allen, Arthur Curry, Victor Stone, John Stewart, J’onn J’onn, plus a quick cameo by Lois Lane. GENRE: Alternate Universe (canon divergence), transition fic with romance. TRIGGER WARNING(S): A great deal of anxiety and self loathing, especially in parts one and two. Some descriptions are heavily inspired by my experience of dysphoria-induced dissociation. SUMMARY: Batman crashes on Krypton a few days before the Turn of the Year celebrations and Kal-El's life takes a sharp turn to the left, on a path that will ultimately lead him to becoming Clark Kent.

OTHER CHAPTERS: [II. Shadow] [III. Superman] [IV. Clark Kent] ALSO AVAILABLE: [On AO3] [On Dreamwidth]

AUTHOR’S NOTES AND THANKS: Seven months of work and nearly a hundred thousand words! How's that for a first foray in a fandom, uh? I'm actually pretty proud of myself on that one, and I hope you all will enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! But before we start, there's a number of people I need to thank:

@susiecarter​, for getting me into this pairing (seriously, go read her stories!), cheerleading me through the writing process, and then betaing the whole monster in absolute record time!

@stuvyx​ for the AMAZING comic pages which you can find here and here, and for the banners used in the official @superbatbigbang masterpost. Go shower her with praise for her work! :D

The Mod Squad @superbatbigbang, whose instructions and work were impeccable and easy to understand even for me and my silly brain

The OfficialMovieSoundtrack channel on YouTube, for compiling the complete Wonder Woman score: I listened to this more than any other music while writing CKoK.

The jewish nerds of tumblr, who’ve been (and still are) spreading the word about Superman’s origins and the character’s original meanings and principles, which in turn had a rather large influence on Clark’s personality in this fic. I hope the bits with Martha will come off as respectful as I tried to make them.

And lastly, a tiny thanks to DC and Mr. Snyder, for deciding to cast Henry Cavill and his jawline as Clark Kent but also making him just not-how-I-wanted enough (and in the right way) to spark me into telling this story.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Lord Bel-Lor exclaims in lilting Council, with a hiccup of delighted surprise. “I would have expected the whole of El to know of this by now.”

 Kal-El, strategically stationed close to one of the potted plants meant to shelter the refreshments table from the dancing area, presses his lips together while the young Zod dignitary tries very hard not to sound too eager about incoming gossip. Kal swallows around a lump in his throat, but remains silent. His aunt and uncle’s Turn of the Year ball is one of the most important events of the year, and it wouldn’t do for him to cause a fuss.

 He stands in place, fingers tightening around his drink, and darts a quick look around. Lady Ona-Set has found her customary seat a few feet to his right, advanced age and a rather poor sense of rhythm having long ago banded together to keep her from the dance floor. Further to the left, close to one of five internal balconies, Lady Ra-Ny and her spouse have gathered a small but agitated-looking group of Worker dignitaries from Lot and Zod’s delegations. They seem to be engaged in a rather heated debate, hushed as it is. But the rest of the guests have, for the most part, elected to dance or make good use of the balconies allowing them to gaze over the minuscule shapes of their lavish homes, several thousand feet below.

 There was a time when El’s elite lived closer to their rulers. A long time ago, the Citadel of El was filled with habitations floor to mountain-high ceiling: the royal family lived in the last few city-wide floors, the lords and ladies shared the following quarter of the space, and the common people divided themselves between the Citadel grounds and the Outside. Then the Lords and Ladies of the Principality rebelled against King Hyr-El, who resolved the situation with a bloodbath first, and the destruction of a solid third of the Citadel’s inner buildings second.

 Ever since then, the Stateroom of Peace has floated, alone, in the vast emptiness left by the old families’ houses; the new Citadel Lords and Ladies made new homes on the Citadel Grounds, and pushed former merchants to become Mountain Lords and Ladies in city-domes of their own. The Stateroom—which, as its name implies, is used for every Guild Council meeting and many other official occasions—also serves as a ballroom for religious occasions such as the Turn of the Year, during which all of Krypton celebrates yet another cycle of close collaboration between Rao, the Helping God, and his brother-husband Vohc, the Builder. These are, at least, the Stateroom’s official uses.

 There is, however, a third—and chiefly preferred—activity that takes place here: gossiping. Kal has been privy to much of it throughout his near-thirty years of life, and he is largely unsurprised to find his family once again at the center of attention as Citadel Lord Bel-Lor proceeds to share the latest news of the Citadel Princes and Princesses of El.

 It goes like this: two days before this very ball, a mysterious spacecraft crashed on Lady Mon-Ka’s property. The precise patch of land in question, bordering the Citadel, had been deemed unfit for cultivation and left in disuse for quite some time, rarely visited and even more rarely monitored. Perhaps that was why no one raised the alarm—or perhaps, as Lady Kam-Leang remarks, Lady Mon-Ka was simply suffering from the effects of the energy depletion afflicting all of Krypton, and could not afford to keep her sophisticated surveillance system in a functioning state. Whatever the reason, no one at the time thought to investigate the craft.

 “No one, that is, but the Shadow of El,” Lord Bel-Lor says with a storyteller’s instinct for dramatics.

 Kal drains his flute of liquor in one go while the Zod dignitary dutifully asks about the Shadow of El. Lord Bel-Lor declines to delve into much detail, aware as he is that extensive knowledge of the Shadow won’t garner him any favor at court, but there is more than enough there to earn several exclamations of surprise and one shocked ‘No!’. The Shadow of El, he explains, is a disturbance to the peace, a master criminal helping other criminals escape well-earned justice...but alas, the people of the Citadel have taken a shine to them.

 “Something to do with old legends,” Lady Lin-Na says in a disdainful tone. “You must have heard of the Dark Sun.”

 “Only in passing,” the Zodian admits. “I hear they are causing some trouble.”

 “Inconsequential,” Lady Lin-Na dismisses, several other voices humming in approval, including her husband's. “But they did find their name in one of our old legends, in which Rao must go through a magical sleep, and a darker version of him—Rao’s dream self, if you will—takes it upon themselves to help protect the world during the sun’s long absence... Because the Gods may not interfere in the affairs of mortals in person, the Dark Sun casts a Shadow of themselves on Krypton, so that it may fight the monsters trying to take over the world.”

 Several voices try to be the first to express their disapproval and disdain towards the very idea, Council and Ellon overlapping in the conversation until Lord Bel-Lor clicks his tongue to reestablish silence. Kal-El picks up another drink—his third this evening—and ignores Lady Ona-Set’s judgmental glare as he sips at it, knuckles white around the stem.

 There is no true way to tell what exactly transpired in that disused field. What is known, however, is that by the time Lady Mon-Ka was made aware of the smoking ruins on her property, the Shadow of El had scooped the spacecraft’s pilot out of the wreckage and taken them to the Citadel. They appeared on the main external balcony with an alien in their arms and the light of the sun behind them, striking Lara Lor-Van and Jor-El almost dumb with awe. And the Shadow of El commanded them to take care of the alien, for the spacecraft had reached Krypton on the day of Vohc’s comet, and its pilot might therefore be an envoy of the God.

 Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van, known throughout El for their piety, took the alien in. By the time Kal-El emerged from his labs six or seven hours after dawn, groggy and sporting wrinkle marks from his pillow all over his face, the entire household was scrambling to accommodate both this badly-injured and unexpected new responsibility of theirs, and the ire of Zor-El, Citadel King of El and rather exasperated older brother, who had no patience for his younger sibling and sister-in-law’s latest religious fancy.

 “I fail to understand,” the Zodri dignitary says in hushed tones while Kal braces himself for the inevitable turn of the conversation from this point on, “why Citadel royals would comply with a criminal’s instructions.”

 “I forget sometimes,” Lord Dar Ran-No says with a smile painfully obvious in his tone, “how little of our internal politics is understood outside of El.”

 Kal listens to the giggles that follow the word ‘politics’ and resists the urge to mime gagging into his glass. It isn’t so much Lady Ona-Set he worries about—she has little affection for Bel-Lor, or any of the Citadel Lords for that matter—but rather the foreign delegations taking part in the celebrations. What the Zodri envoy is about to discover will make its way into every available ear before the end of the night; no two ways about that. Kal can almost hear General Dru-Zod teasing Zor-El about it already. At the very least, however, he does have the power to avoid bringing even more attention to himself with an untimely departure. With a deep breath, Kal forces himself not to empty his Ulian liquor in one go, choosing instead to soothe the tense ache in his neck with a slow overview of the room.

 The dancing is slow tonight, even by court standards, and most of the guests are still busy digesting the vast array of refined dishes they spent the better part of three hours sampling over the luxurious buffet. The light, as red as El’s famed sunsets, sparkles over jewelry and shining fabric. Lady Ra-Ny, her spouse and their group have retreated to one of the internal balconies, Warrior-looking men scattered in close proximity while Zor-El stands in the middle of the group. All over the dance floor, people laugh, voices loud and smiles sharp with the delight of mostly harmless gossip.

 Behind Kal, the chuckles have faded, and as Dar Ran-No feigns reluctance to share his knowledge, Kal prays in vain for the ground to open up and swallow him.

 “Something you must know,” the Citadel Lord says in a delighted tone that makes Kal slouch even further than he usually does, “is that Their Majesties have never been the sort to resist...scientific curiosity.”

 More giggles, and Kal overhears two voices sharing the title of a certain book in hushed Ellon.

 “A very specific sort of scientific curiosity,” Lord Bel-Lor chimes in, improper meaning exactly as clear now as it always is.

 More laughter. Kal doesn’t quite screw his eyes shut, but he does look down at the ground, feeling redder than the sun. In his armpit and in his ears, blood pulses with the sharp painfulness of shame, and he forces himself to relax his grip on his flute of liquor or risk breaking it. It takes everything he has to use a polite tone to send away the servant offering him a drink, instead of begging them to leave him alone.

 “I must admit,” the Zodri dignitary says with what sounds like genuine curiosity, “I am quite incapable of guessing what you are driving at.”

 “Do you truly not know?”

 “To be fair, Lord Bel-Lor,” Lady Kam-Leang says in an indulgent tone, “the young man doesn’t look much older than the Prince himself.”

 “Prince Kal-El? What does he have to do with his parents’ scientific endeavors?”

 At least two people snort at that, loud and undignified, and Kal’s face heats up even further, stomach sinking fast and low in his belly. Dar Ran-No’s voice sounds tight when he explains, in the usual embarrassing amount of detail, what exactly Kal has to do with his parents’ scientific endeavors.

 “That is revolting!” the Zodri dignitary exclaims, in a strained hiss that sends cold shivers down Kal’s spine. “Who would even conceive of something so—so—”

 “I believe it has been called primitive.”

 Kal somehow restrains himself from muttering unflattering things into his drink, but only just. To his left, Lady Ona-Set sits with her eyes closed, head tilted toward Kal, mouth hanging slightly open; but the lady shows no sign of drooling. Old she may be, but the gene for degenerative hearing has been eliminated from the collective gene pool for almost seven centuries, and she has always had a reputation for gossiping. No need to encourage that particular trait with entertaining dramatics on his part, especially when she can’t possibly be having any trouble hearing when Dan Ran-No continues:

 “Primitive or no, it was in direct keeping with their previous endeavors...and neither of Their Majesties has ever made a secret of it. When the—what was the word they used for it? I forget.”

 “The birthing,” Kam-Leang supplies, voice curling with a sort of fascinated distaste around the archaic word. “That was what they called it.”

 “Right,” Bel-Lor acquiesces with a scoff, “the birthing. Both Prince Jor-El and Princess Lara Lor-Van had been religious before, you must understand, but after the—uh—the birthing, they became quite convinced the child was a miracle of the Gods. A gift from Rao himself.”

 “Surely they didn’t—”

 “Oh, yes, they did,” Bel-Lor all but squeaks; Lady Kam-Leang and her husband both hush him.

 Kal winces at the sound, fully aware that this particular piece of gossip has lost none of its power in the twenty-nine years since his birth. He doesn’t even need to put any particular effort into picturing the looks on the Ellon nobles’ faces: wide eyes and delighted grins, vaguely hidden behind fluttering fans and flutes of sparkling Nyen wine. They have sported it at regular intervals throughout Kal’s life, and he can only assume the Zodri envoy likewise looks very much the same as every other dignitary ever has: as enraptured as his predecessors were by the scandalous yet fascinating story of the last natural birth of Krypton. There is, however, more to this story, and this time Kal does down what is left of his liquor before they speak again, wishing for all the world he’d thought to grab some of the fermented torquats Dru-Zod brought along as a gift. At least he would have had something good to chew on while waiting out the night’s agony.

 “They tried to have the child blessed by the priests of Rao—”

 “They were, of course, refused,” Lady Kam-Leang states with piercing finality. “The official reason was that to give the child such a name was an affront to the Gods no priest could ever be tempted to forgive—”

 “Truly?” the dignitary asks, genuinely puzzled. “I fail to see the problem with it.”

 “Because you are unfamiliar with Ellon,” Dar Ran-No says, “or you would know ‘Kal-El’ is the light of the sun.”

 “Although,” Lady Kam-Leang remarks, “things would perhaps not have been so bad if they hadn’t gone further still. For years afterwards, Their Majesties and their followers—yes, they do still have a handful of them—insisted on calling their offspring a miracle. A herald of great things to come.”

 Kal is...acutely familiar with that line. It is old habit, by now, to swallow the bitter shame that comes with it.

 “I heard rumors,” Lord Bel-Lor continues, “that Their Majesties wished to attempt birthing a second child, but it seems the Gods intended for the prince to be a one-time phenomenon.”

 “Some people in the Guild of Believers have whispered that this must be a divine punishment for the Els’ arrogance. I do not know that I agree,” Dar Ran-No says in a slightly pinched tone, “but the lack of a second ‘miracle’ did certainly temper Jor-El’s dreams of having a messiah for a son.”

 “But of course,” Bel-Lor adds, picking up where his fellow Citadel Lord left off, “if the other rumors are true, and Their Majesties are being plagued with a much more biological problem….”

 At least one person chokes on a drink. Another one, perhaps two, coughs. Kal assumes the high-pitched, quickly-aborted laughter belongs to the Zodri dignitary, although he wouldn’t be able to swear to it. Face burning even as the rest of him turns to ice, he makes a tremendous effort to keep his gaze on the ground and take deep breaths until the corners of his eyes stop stinging. Inside his chest, his heart throws itself against his ribs like a wild animal trying to escape a cage, and Kal has to blink several times before he can bring the patterns on the floor back into focus.

 The balconies are overcrowded, the object of too many mocking eyes and surrounded by the imposing silhouettes of Nyen Warriors. But they are the only place where Kal can hope to find a little fresh air—and peace, if he can be allowed to make use of the one occupied by his uncle and his friends, rather than any of the other four—until he has remained here for the full four hours required of him, and is allowed to retreat to the safety of his labs.

 He braces himself and, carefully avoiding Lady Ona-Set’s suddenly alert gaze, begins to make his way around the ballroom.

“Good morning, Kal-El,” Krypto says when Kal emerges from his labs, with no sleep under his belt and Kryo on his heels. “Their Majesties wished me to remind you of the king’s visit tonight.”

 Kal nods, always more tongue-tied than he’d like in presence of his mother’s hunit. Krypto has always been pleasant to him, programming far too stringent to allow even for the impression of disrespect in its tone; but it is an extension of Lara Lor-Van, and that is enough to keep Kal on his toes.

 “I remember,” he tells the hunit, “thank you. In fact, I was on my way to wash up and rest. I should like to be fit for polite company tonight.”

 “Good,” Krypto says the same way it always has, the one that makes Kal feel like he’s still a little boy. “Lady Lara also wishes you to know the doctors have officially released our guest from bed rest.”

 “Oh,” Kal says, heart rate picking up. “I suppose that is good news.”

 It will mean one more person to keep in mind, one more presence to navigate around in the palace, and Kal’s head aches just thinking of it—but it is still good that the alien didn’t die. They cannot, after all, be held responsible for Kal’s issues.

 “Quite,” Krypto replies in its usual toneless voice. “Their Majesties ask that you remember the name of House El must not be tarnished. Dinner should be served at the customary hour.”

 Stomach sinking to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, Kal nods around the lump in his throat, head lowering almost of its own volition. He stands still as Krypto, ever unaffected by displays of emotion, extends him bland wishes for satisfactory repose and floats away towards the main rooms of his family’s apartments. The Lesser House of El may have lost much of the respect they once enjoyed, after Kal’s birth, but their living quarters do still occupy a solid third of the Citadel’s upper dome. Even living here his whole life, Kal has gone numerous stretches of several days—once as much as two weeks—without encountering his parents. The sight of Krypto leaving him to go and report their conversation to his mother is as familiar an image as Kal has ever known.

 He stands alone in the corridor for a moment, breathing in and out at consciously regular intervals while Kryo asks if he’d like a massage to be added to his personal agenda for the night. He nods, of course: a little help relaxing can’t hurt, after all, and he is going to need every ounce of confidence he can get today. That, and his sore arms will definitely thank him.

 “Your heart rate is elevated,” Kryo says after a short silence.

 “I know,” Kal says, heart picking up its speed again as he tenses in anticipation of Kryo’s predictable remark:

 “I am compelled to let you know your current readings are quite far above average.”

 “I know,” Kal says again, and breathes in deep to avoid snapping at it.

 It isn’t the hunit’s fault, after all, that these reminders were programmed into it. Some things, Kal has changed over the years; but he never did figure out how to make the hunit less judgmental without messing up its programming beyond repair, and so the tone has stayed. It's proven useful in the long run, in that Kryo's unaltered demeanor hides all the things that aren’t the way Kal’s parents wanted them to be, but it doesn’t mean the hunit is never annoying. Kal has practice with this, though, and so it is simple—if not effortless—to keep his tone in check when he says:

 “Don’t worry, Kryo, I’ll be fine tonight.”

 “You are a prince of El,” Kryo says, automatically beginning one of the most irritating conversational routines in his repertoire. “You are—”

 “Bound to interact with strangers from time to time,” Kal cuts in, “yes, I realize.”

 “Irrational behaviors due to feelings of inadequacy—”

 “Kryo. You are well aware I dislike it when you talk about me like this.”

 Kryo goes quiet, but doesn’t apologize. Contrition is not a state hunit were ever designed to emulate. They are far too matter-of-fact for that. Kal, for his part, breathes in deep again, and forces his shoulders to unwind as he finally walks away from the access stairs to his labs and strides toward his rooms. He has Kryo perform a general scan to locate the rest in the household—only in the part of the Citadel assigned to Kal’s parents, however—and is all but scolded for it. The other hunits of the palace are complaining, it seems, about the frequency of pings of that nature they tend to receive.

 “It is never a good thing to render house hunits dissatisfied.”

 Hunits are devoid of emotion, incapable of satisfaction or dissatisfaction by design. What Kryo is truly saying is that Kal’s use of household scans is above average and will therefore be reported; but the emotional vocabulary makes the whole thing sound just a tad less pathetic, and so Kal sighs and nods rather than correct the hunit. Besides, his higher reasoning functions are begging further out of this conversation with every step he takes toward his bed. No point in trying to argue in these conditions. He is in the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn, his entire being crying out for sleep, when the black-and-gray silhouette of his parents’ guest stops him.

 The alien, standing by the guests’ library, is tall by Ellon standards, though the people of Zod might find them of average size. Their anatomical model is familiar enough to be reassuring: four limbs with hands and feet, shoulders on the broader side but still within the limits of what Kal would call normal. The muscles seem too well-defined to be natural, although Kryo maintains that all staff accounts state the alien looks perfectly Ellon-like under their clothes. Kal has never seen them out of their clothes, though, and so the impressive shape of the alien’s body retains all its power as far as he is concerned.

 The main difference between him and the alien lies in the head. Where Kal’s is somewhat round at the top—though perhaps a little squarer than average around the jaw—with the ordinary short round ears of Kryptonians, the alien’s has two protruding appendages at the top, aligned approximately above where ears would be. They jut out of the alien’s cowl in menacing straight lines and narrow to frighteningly sharp-looking points. Kal...believes Kryo when it says the alien doesn’t actually possess ears—or horns—that look like this. The hunit is, after all, unable to lie to him. But that knowledge doesn’t quell the eerie feeling of strangeness that tightens Kal’s chest every time he looks at them.

 The alien’s most noticeable feature, however, is not so much their silhouette as their stance. There is no hint of groveling in it, none of the wary tension displayed by visiting envoys from neighboring planets. Not that those envoys cower, exactly, but they are always clearly conscious of the galaxy’s painful history with Krypton, and therefore never fully at ease. This alien—Vohc’s alien, as Kal has heard some call them—carries themselves with the easy authority of a Citadel Lord in the king’s confidence. Back straight, head high; no hint of doubt in their own worth, their own place, their own right to remain.

 The sight of it shrivels something already small and wrinkled in Kal’s soul, makes him want to shrink back in the darkness and hide from the alien’s presence...for, sent by Vohc or not, this alien certainly does seem capable of things Kal couldn’t even dream of; and the thought of being found wanting compared to someone who, according to the court, does not even have the decency to be from the known universe, let alone Krypton, is… distressing.

 It is, therefore, unfortunate that acting on that self-effacing impulse would bring more shame to Kal’s house than his continued failure to prove himself worthy of attention.

 “Good evening,” Kal manages after a deep, steadying breath, pulse hammering away so hard he can feel it in his clasped palms. “May I help you?”

 In front of him, the alien’s head tilts to the right in what must be—might be; hopefully is—a sign of incomprehension, and Kal almost gives into the impulse to slap himself in the forehead. The alien is not from any recognizable planet, let alone a known species. They did not respond to any of the local languages stored in the House’s courtesy translators, never mind Council or Ellon. Why, then, Kal would be silly enough to assume they would understand is certainly a mystery for the ages. Not the first of its kind, it is true, but painful nonetheless.

 Swallowing a sigh, Kal draws on his vague memories of learning Council as a child and starts again:

 “I am Kal-El,” he says in Ellon.

 He waits for a few seconds, taps his fingers to the middle of his forehead, and repeats: “Kal-El.”

 “I am Batman,” the alien says.

 The words are clearly unpracticed on their tongue, the gesture all wrong. No one in El would tap their chest to indicate personhood, after all. Still, these things can be forgiven; it is the alien’s grammar that poses a significant problem. None of the politeness markers fit their position: a nobody—for all anyone knows, at any rate—addressing...well, essentially another nobody, but of royal blood. Many at court would have had Batman’s hide for that sort of an affront, accidental though it may be.

 Batman is lucky, though: Kal has dealt with much worse than people addressing him as if he were a lower-ranked but still respected guest. It is easy, then, to quell the sliver of pleased surprise—and the subsequent shame at how readily swayed Kal is—rising in his chest; to muster a stiff smile and a nod and, when Batman does not seem willing to communicate any further, flee toward his quarters.

It takes Kal a long while before he can fall into a nap, and then it takes an even longer time for him to wake up properly once the evening comes. It isn’t that El’s simple tunics of straight lines and slashed sleeves take all that long to put on, really. It’s just...well, frankly, it’s just that Kal is somewhat clumsier than average. He tends to bang into furniture and trip on his own feet more than other people do, and existing in a near-constant state of sleep-deprived grogginess does not help. Science is worth it, he knows. It doesn’t make it any less awkward to step into the Fire dining room almost three minutes late and watch six pairs of eyes turn to him.

 Kal’s uncle, King Zor-El, is a proud man, taller and bulkier even than his brother Jor—a rare build, for Thinkers. He sits in state at the head of the table with an ease Kal knows he would never be able to replicate, gaze a strange mixture of fondness and disappointment. Force of habit, perhaps. Either way, Zor-El does not say anything about Kal’s tardiness. A simple raise of his eyebrow; the pinched look on Kal’s parents’ faces, the amused gaze that passes between Sol Ka-Zod—Kal’s aunt—and her stepdaughter...all of these are familiar enough to be set aside. Not easily, not quite. But they are set aside, and that means Kal is free to look around the rest of the room, and marvel.

 The Fire dining room is one of the smaller, cozier rooms of similar function in the Lesser House of El’s apartments. At the back, a fire burns year-round, for the rooms closest to the center of the dome tend to be colder, and fire has always been Rao’s way of welcoming guests. In front of the fire sits the table, around which Kal’s family has arranged itself amidst the flowing lines of curved columns, floral motifs carved into the very bones of the building.

There, to the right of Kal’s usual chair, sits Batman. Their back is still as impeccably straight as it was this morning, their shoulders just as steady, their jaw just as strong. This time, however, the slant of their lips, below their cowl, curls into something...well. Perhaps not quite a smile. Not a smirk, either. But there is the seed of an expression there, Kal is fairly sure, that could become either of those things; and it is such a novelty compared to the usual reactions he garners that as he seats himself Kal can’t help but blush, looking down at his hands until he feels in control of himself again.

 The meal is well underway by the time Kal comes back to himself, silten salads half-eaten and roasted keltar being rolled into the room. To Kal’s right, Batman has taken their gloves off to eat, and their hands look very much like Kal’s hands—a little bigger, maybe, in keeping with their owner’s size, but nothing strange. Nothing that would be out of proportion for a Kryptonian, at the very least. They catch the eye somehow, at least as far as Kal is concerned. Batman’s silhouette was so imposing this morning, so surprisingly regal for someone people have barely hesitated to classify as a barbarian; it is hard not to be surprised when it turns out they eat like a regular person.

 It wouldn’t do to stare, however, and striking up a conversation right now would mean talking over the main guests, an ill-advised course of action.

 “I don’t think the Melokariel Proposition will ever be accepted,” Kal’s father is saying when Kal finally dares to raise his eyes away from his plate. “Nor do I think it should.”

 Kal darts a glance over the table, unsurprised to find his cousin raising her eyebrows quite high into her glass of Ulian liquor. The reaction is, Kal supposes, understandable. As the first in line to take over the throne of El, Kara has been invited to every single one of her father and uncle’s twice-weekly dinners since the tender age of twelve, and is therefore even more familiar with Jor-El’s way of gearing up for a fight. Or, well. A debate, as he calls it.

 Notorious for his incompetence and disinterest in politics, Kal returns Kara’s gesture nonetheless. He might not know the ins and outs of this Proposition as well as she does, but he does know his parents, and the thought of another family argument beginning is about as annoying as it is stressful by now. At least he knows he won’t be asked to participate. Kal’s horrendous lack of social acuity, cultural refinement, or specialization has been exposed, discussed, debated, and condemned more than enough for a lifetime; he isn’t keen on sparking that particular conversation again by asking about the Proposition or, Rao forbid, trying to change the topic. He will get through this in silence, like he always has, and count himself lucky for it.

 “Ever the retrograde, brother,” Zor-El says while a servant takes his empty plate and replaces it with the largest keltar of the lot. “If I were to listen to you, we would be working our way back to the days of primitive savagery.”

 There is no need to look up to know Zor-El has nodded in Kal’s direction, the circumstances of his birth ever a sore point for the family. He dares a glance to the right instead, and blinks when he finds Batman looking down at the table coil they were handed along with their meat. There is nothing strange about the tool that Kal can see, though accidents do happen, so he turns back to the left when his father, having most likely run through his usual defenses of Kal’s conception—helped along by his wife, of course—snaps:

 “In any case, the fact that Krypton does not possess the necessary resources to—”

 “We have talked about this before, Jor,” Zor says in a warning tone. “Krypton will not debase itself by going around begging colonies for their scraps.”

 “Ex colonies,” Kara points out, mild but clear. “The Green Lanterns saw to that.”

 Queen Sol Ka-Zod elbows her stepdaughter in the side, but Kal has never seen his cousin heed that particular warning before. His aunt cannot be faulted for the gesture, as it is unseemly for an heir to the throne to dissociate herself from the ruling monarch so openly—even if only at the family table; but then again the only thing worse than that would be for Kara to have no opinion at all. As it is, the jab passes, and the conversation returns to its topic of choice for the past nine months or so: the Melokariel Proposition.

 Kal, knowing no one will think to ask for his opinion on the topic, takes a look to his right again, and freezes. Batman, despite maintaining as dignified a posture as can be, is making an unimaginable mess of their food. Bits of it have strayed from their plate; the rest stains both their hands and their forks...and that is when Kal realizes this should have been an entirely predictable outcome. What were the chances, after all, that Batman learned to use proper cutlery on whatever backwater planet they came from? The cost of forgetting your manners—and therefore, your place—is high on Krypton, however, and Kal is too well-aware of this to sit there and do nothing. He reaches over, ready to take action, when Zor raises his voice:

 “Mining the core is the only way to survive,” he says in a tone full of rebuke, catching Batman’s attention without effort.

 “So say Peacekeepers,” Jor retorts—too loud, too fast. “They have always been quick to demand and slow to think, but—”

 “Jor!” Kal’s mother exclaims, half reproof and half horror, at the same time as Zor warns:

 “It would do you good to remember which Guild your queen came from, brother.”

 Despite the fire, the atmosphere of the room grows chilly, and Kal has to force his fingers to relax as he closes them around his fork and table coil. He tilts his head to the side when the alien looks at him, left hand extended palm up toward Batman, coil hanging between his thumb and forefinger, and asks, “May I help you?”

 Batman looks at Kal for a few moments—or at least, they keep still, with their optical lenses pointed in the appropriate direction—before they nod. Kal nods in return and, in a practiced gesture, lifts the keltar’s nearest limb with his own fork, loops the coil around it, and slices it off the animal’s body by spreading his fingers. Batman makes no sound, and does not give any indication that they watched Kal's actions particularly closely, but when Kal outfits them with a coil of their own, Batman imitates the gesture almost perfectly, and then repeats it with diligence. There is something surprisingly circumspect in the way they move, as if trying to master the gesture in as little time as possible. It seems strange, to Kal, who tends to observe things for far too long before he makes a move, but it works in Batman’s favor, and they are eating cleanly in no time. Just in time, in fact, to hear Kal’s father snap:

 “If Tsiahm-Lo does vote in favor of the Proposition, he will truly lose the right to call himself the Wise King of anything, let alone Laborers!”

 “Jor-El!” Sol exclaims, obviously shocked.

 Even Kal’s mother doesn’t dare speak in support of her husband after that sort of claim, and it is easy for Kal to feel the assembly tense—even down to Batman—as Zor leans forward and says in a low voice:

 “I would guard my words if I were you, Jor. There are those who would consider such a statement dangerously close to treason.”

 The table is grimly silent for a moment, fragile balance poised on the edge of a knife, as Kal watches his father reconsider his words, swallow, and say:

 “Forgive me, everyone. I don’t know what came over me. Obviously, I misspoke.”

 On the opposite side of the table Lara, Sol and Kara all look distinctly relieved, though Kal can’t quite manage to relax his shoulders. He hunches in on himself a little closer instead, ignoring the way Batman’s attention seems to have moved away from their food and toward the conversation on the more interesting side of the table.

 Kara is the first to speak again.

 “If nothing else,” she says in a firm tone, “I don’t believe anyone should consider the Proposition without also considering its alternative.”

 The rest of the table mumbles their assent, until Sol and Lara join in and, soon enough, the debate veers away from the Melokariel Proposition itself and onto the merits of Krypton’s old colonial programs. Kal, who has little interest in joining that discussion either, presses his lips together and turns back to his food for the rest of the meal. Batman requires almost no further help, except when dessert comes and they seem more than a little perplexed by the singing flowers set atop the cakes.

 “You can eat them,” Kal says when Batman clears their throat and tilts their head toward their plate.

 “You?” Batman repeats, head tilted, while gesturing with their hand like they’re bringing something to their mouth.

 It isn’t the gesture Kal would use to signify eating, but context makes it easy to interpret. Kal repeats the verb for Batman’s benefit, rectifiescorrections their pronunciation to something more understandable than their first attempt, and starts thinking.

 There is no telling when—or if—Batman will leave Krypton. The Shadow of El passed along no word of anyone else in the alien’s spacecraft, and no one has reached out to El looking for a lost companion since the day before yesterday. There is a possibility—how much of one is impossible to tell, but the chance is real nonetheless—that no one is coming to rescue them. If so, they will need to integrate. They cannot possibly be expected to remain incapable of communication forever, and the odds of anyone volunteering to take them to a neighboring planet are minimal at best. As for waiting for his parents to think of Batman’s well-being...Kal would frankly rather not. And yet Batman will need to adapt and find a place in Ellon society.

 They will need to speak, Kal realizes. To learn the things they don’t know, to figure out the rules and customs of this place—for otherwise they leave themselves open to ridicule, contempt, or worse. As a man with experience dealing with two of these things, Kal finds himself loath to leave Batman to deal with them alone. Not when he knows he can, perhaps, do something about it.

 Kal is no expert linguist. In point of fact, he isn’t even a teacher. He is willing to help, though, and willing to spend some time trying to figure out the best way to help Batman around...which, he guesses, makes him the only choice available. It might be a bad idea. He has other things to do, after all. Responsibilities he cannot shirk. He is a Citadel Prince of El, though, and those responsibilities do extend to taking care of guests.

 He might not be the best choice for this, but if no one else will make time for the task, he will.

Raising his head at breakfast the next morning only to find Batman standing in front of him with the same serious expression they have always displayed is a surprise for Kal. He would say that he hadn’t expected the alien to seek him out quite that fast, but the truth is he hadn’t expected Batman to seek him out at all. Besides, it is long past breakfast time. Kal is still there, it is true, but that is only because he tends to work all night and barely emerges from his labs in time to ingest something before he collapses on his bed and sleeps most of the day away. Batman can’t possibly have missed that fact. Can they?

 Whatever the reason, the alien does not seem ready to stop looking at Kal in a way that makes him feel as though his use of his table coil is being assessed and found wanting. This is not, it is true, an uncommon sentiment for Kal. Most of his life has been spent in self-conscious discomfort. But the familiarity of the sensation does nothing to prevent a blush from rising into Kal’s ears until he feels like they are about to catch on fire.

 “Excuse me,” he tells the alien in an attempt to relieve some of the tension, “may I help you?”

 Batman remains stock still for a moment. Nothing in their expression shifts exactly, except perhaps for a certain sense of...looking for something. ‘Hesitation’ seems like too strong a sentiment, somehow, though it comes closest to what Kal perceives. Deliberation, then. Batman indulges in a few more seconds of it before they nod and take a seat in front of Kal. Behind him, Kal feels Kryo hover closer, perhaps out of a sense of misplaced protection, but the hunit does not do anything else.

 Meanwhile Batman has extended a hand and is pointing at Kal’s table coil, saying something in what Kal assumes is their birth language. He blinks, still a little too groggy to process this in a timely manner, and he is fairly sure he sees Batman’s lips tighten—a sure sign of exasperation on a Kryptonian—before they point at Kal:

 “I am Kal-El,” they say. Then, pointing at themselves: “I am Batman.”

 They point at the coil again then, and Kal blushes harder when he realizes the question was actually quite simple, and he should have understood it right away. He pushes past it, however, and answers with flaming cheeks:

 “This is a table coil.”

 “This is a table coil,” Batman repeats, pronunciation quite close to Kal’s.

 “Table coil,” Kal repeats nonetheless, just to make sure the alien will understand that only these two words designate the object they are asking about.

 That, and to make sure Batman won’t mispronounce it and accidentally refer to a very intimate part of the anatomy by accident.

 Batman, as has been the case so far, proves themselves a diligent learner, and manages a perfect rendition on the second try. Kal beams. He doesn’t stop to think, then, that Batman may not have been asking for a full vocabulary lesson when he points at his fork and says:

 “This is a fork .”

 “This is a fork,” Batman repeats, eyes fixed down on the table.

 Kal nods, grin widening despite himself, a thin bubble of pride growing in his chest.

 “This is a glass .”

 “This is a glass.”

 Kal walks Batman through several other eating implements—a plate, a spoon, a napkin—ever more pleased when Batman keeps getting the pronunciation right in two, sometimes three attempts at the most. They name all the items set on the table, eventually, and Kal imagines things will stop there for a moment, but then Batman points at the table itself and says, “This is….” with a tilt of their head.

 “This is a table,” Kal informs them. Then, because he can’t think of a better way to explain the question, he seizes his glass again and, with a tilt of his head similar to Batman’s, asks: “What is this?”

 Batman nods at that, mouth slanting...well, not into a smile, maybe, but a more relaxed angle, at least. Something that seems to hint Batman has finally found something worth considering in Kal, and, well. It would be a lie to say it does not affect him. There is something—giddy, almost, but also rewarding about this. About knowing he is useful here and that what he is doing right now will be—perhaps ‘appreciated' is the wrong word. Batman would be well within their rights to consider teaching them the language a demonstration of basic courtesy on the part of their hosts. Even so, whatever Batman learns and remembers this morning will be useful to them in the future. The sentiment is exhilarating. It loosens Kal’s shoulders, make him more willing to smile as he tries to mime the concept of a room in order to explain the word ‘parlor’.

 By the time they stop, almost an hour later—and then only because Kryo reminds Kal today is the day of his annual health examination—Kal has had time to fill his chest with so much satisfaction at a job well done he feels almost no self-consciousness at the gesticulating he has to engage in to explain that he needs to leave. Batman nods, somewhat less stiff than they usually seem to be, and then says two words—at least it sounds like two distinct words—in their language.

 Kal, caught off guard, nods back, close-lipped and tenser than he would like to be, and doesn’t look back as he leaves the room at an appropriately sedate pace, Kryo hovering at his elbow. He is in the process of trying to breathe his heartbeat into something more acceptable when the questions—the sudden uncertainty—become too much to handle, and he asks, “That probably meant thank you, didn’t it? No reason for them to—”

 To what, exactly? Mock Kal? Judge him? Insult him? None of these possibilities make any rational sense. Context, and Batman’s attitude, both point towards the alien’s words being some form of thanks but—but what if it wasn’t? Kal is familiar with his mind's tendencies. Its ability to twist even the most innocuous things into catastrophes has been a part of his existence for as long as he remembers, and he knows better than to listen to it without reserve.

 But still, a persistent part of him asks, what if he made a fool of himself this morning and did not realize it? What if Batman was only indulging him and could not hold it back any longer? What if they found Kal the dullest, most profoundly boring creature they have met in their entire existence, and are now determined to avoid him at any cost? The chances are slim—very slim, even—but….

 “You are panicking again,” Kryo says in its usual dispassionate tone.

 Kal does not hush it, but he does think about it. These concerns of his are...irrational, most of the time. He knows this. Not always, though. Kal has made a mess of things without meaning to before, has been found wanting in many and varied respects—numerous times, even—and Batman...well. It did seem, for a moment there, like Batman didn’t completely despise spending an extended period of time in Kal’s company. That is a good sign. But others have pretended as much before, and Kal should have remembered that; should have paid more attention to what he was doing, put more care into remaining—unobtrusive. Yes, that would be the right word. He knows how dull he is after all, should keep it in mind lest he keep making the same mistakes he made today—too solicitous, he’s sure, treating Batman like an imbecile or...or whatever else he did, really. It will come to him, he knows.

 “Kal,” Kryo points out again as they round a corridor towards the palace doctors’ offices, “you are panicking again. Calm down.”

 Never has that particular command been of any help in the past, but Kal has long since given up on trying to get it out of Kryo’s programming. He bites down on his instinctive rejection of the advice and breathes in deep instead. Then he asks, “Would you calculate the probability of what Batman said meaning ‘thank you’, please?”

 “Situational elements suggest an 85% chance that that would be an appropriate translation of their words,” Kryo replies. “The scarcity of available data means linguistic calculations might take as long as four weeks to process. Do you wish me to proceed?”

 “No, thank you,” Kal says.

 Eighty-five percent, he tells himself even as he knocks on the door to the doctor’s office. That doesn’t sound so bad. Granted, there is still a fifteen percent chance he misread the situation entirely. A fifteen percent chance Batman was seeking him for very different reasons—although he cannot fathom what those reasons might have been—and he only managed to annoy them beyond belief. Fifteen percent chances are more than enough to send his heart racing; more than enough to half convince him he should, perhaps, consider shutting himself off from the world for good, if only it would ensure he never made that sort of mistake again.

 “Good morning, Your Majesty,” the head physician says when she opens the door.

 She gives Kal a familiar once over, takes his expression in—and this time, Kal knows he is not imagining the exasperation. Sighing, he follow her lead and tries to steel himself for the upcoming assessment and the myriad of little embarrassments that come with it.

  The examination goes well enough, except for a few awkward bruises and wounds Kal has to admit he got from lugging heavy objects around in his labs—“If you’ll beg my pardon, Your Majesty, I know people lighter than these plants of yours,” the doctor says. Kal gives her an awkward smile and changes the topic; something new to be needlessly embarrassed about. The plants are nothing big, truly, nothing anyone would find really remarkable. Kal is known for being chiefly interested in botany, though, and most people do not associate this with sprained ankles or bruised ribs; so every instance of someone finding out must be followed by an uneasy reminder that Kal does not live a dangerous life at all but is, rather, ridiculously clumsy...and getting clumsier as the years go by.

 Still, he does escape the doctor’s office eventually, relief more than palpable in every single one of his veins. Then he gets to his laboratories, settles down behind the floor-to-ceiling, one-way window, and proceeds to lose himself in work.

 He is in the middle of a—lengthening—break several hours later, when Kara’s voice rings from the top of the stairs and bounces against the spherical ceiling of the comparatively minuscule room:

 “I might wish to update your security protocols,” she says, her footsteps gradually losing themselves in Kal’s small forest of growing plants. “They barely reacted when I approached the door.”

 “Of course they did,” Kal says without looking away from his current notes, “they know you. Besides, it wouldn’t do to give anyone the impression I’m trying to hide something in here, would it?”

 Kara hums from where, if the rustling is to be trusted, she is poking at Kal’s morose-looking keva vines. Not that he takes poor care of them—he hardly does anything else with his days, after all. But Krypton’s atmosphere has been profoundly changed by the ever-more-intensive mining projects grinding away at its soil, filling the air with more dust than many plants find it possible to survive. Some biomes have been able to adapt on their own in the northern parts of the planet, where mining activity has been subdued by the lack of remaining material worth the effort. But El is one of the least-affected Principalities. The worst of the work is yet to come, here, and while the king—in his wisdom—has remained steadfastly convinced no problem could arise from an intensification of industrial production, Kal has always been more...anxious.

 It was easy to combine this with his scientific curiosity and indulge in the sort of pet project none of his family members could truly disapprove of, despite his lack of formal education on the topic. Kara, for her part, has never quite seemed to understand Kal’s enthusiasm for his test subjects, and barely bothers to feign an apology when she accidentally snaps a leaf off a luat bush.

 “They seem to be doing better,” she says with a polite smile even as she places the broken leaf back into the luat’s force-field, the atmosphere set to mimic a seventy percent air pollution rate. She wipes her hand clean with a nearby rag before she continues: “Perhaps you are finally succeeding.”

 “We did move from a five percent survival rate to ten,” Kal replies without mirth.

 “Ah. Well...at least there is progress?”

 Kal tilts his head in concession, and then stiffens when Kara finally walks up to his desk and leans over his shoulder. The working lights, brighter than any other in the lab, must obstruct her view: she reaches for Kal’s papers, and although his first instinct is to grab after them, he knows better than to attempt it. Kara has, after all, been training all her life never to take no for an answer. Not at face value, in any case. Kal hesitates. Fidgets. At last, when he is sure Kara must have completed at least her second reading of what notes he has, he can’t help but ignore the skepticism in her expression and ask:

 “What do you think?”

 Kara’s lips purse into a doubtful expression, and she chews on her tongue for a second. Curbing her answer to sound more diplomatic, then. Perhaps Kal should warn her to get rid of the tell.

 “I can’t say that I have much expertise in linguistics,” Kara says at last.

 Biting down on a sigh, Kal reaches for his notes again, and meets no resistance from his cousin. He eyes his teaching plan for what must be the hundredth time today, and thinks.

Batman’s species is unknown on Krypton. Taking care of them has worked out all right so far, but nothing says they won’t be confronted with unexpected problems later on. They must be able to satisfy their basic needs on their own, which means they must be able to obtain food, drinks, sleeping accommodations and hygiene products. This implies naming said items, and learning how to ask lower-ranked individuals for services and thank them appropriately afterwards. Other things will come, such as asking for and understanding directions to various places, greeting individuals of various ranks and, of course, learning to make some form of conversation with the royal family without provoking an incident.

Kal is in the process of revising what he should focus on first and which verbal form to prioritize—desperately trying to remember his first lessons in any language in the process—when Kara sighs, sits on his desk next to him and asks:

 “How long do you believe this will take?”

 “A few months, I suppose?” Kal hazards. “They seem to be a fast learner, and they have more pressing motivation to learn Ellon than I did to learn La’u—”

 “I never understood why you even chose to learn La’u when you didn’t have to,” Kara interjects with a wink.

 Being ten years Kal’s senior means Kara was well into her La’u lessons by the time Kal started grasping the basics of Council, but he did hear his tutors rejoice about his prowess enough to imagine the sort of pains it must have caused Kara to learn it. Frequency-based languages are a struggle for anyone more used to words, but the fact that La’u uses deeper frequencies for more polite speech can hardly have helped Kara and her light voice. In any case, Kal himself struggled enough with the language that he cannot fully blame his cousin for her surprise.

 Still, the specifics of La’u are not the point, and Kal continues:

 “Hopefully they at least know what conjugations are, but we cannot be sure, and if they do not, it could add months of teaching in order for them to grasp the basics. And after that—”

 “After that?” Kara exclaims, but Kal is surveying his teaching plan again and only half paying attention to his cousin when he says:

 “Do not worry, I only intend to teach them Court Member forms, at first. That should serve them well enough until—”

 “Kal, I wasn’t—don’t you think you are taking on quite a lot of responsibility with this?”

 Something shrivels in Kal’s chest, a hopeful seed squashed to the ground by a distracted boot, and he hunches in on himself before he even realizes it. He does attempt to deflect the question with a shrug, but Kara would not be Kara if she could be satisfied with a non-answer of that sort.

 “Kal. You are a Citadel Prince. You are a busy man—”

 “I do believe you are confusing our timetables,” Kal mutters, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

 “Even so,” Kara insists, after clearing her throat, “your plants take up quite a lot of time and work, especially the nocturnal ones.”

 “I am well aware,” Kal tells the piece of paper he wrote Batman’s lesson plan on, “but even so, I am not half as busy as you are. I think I should be able to handle this.”

 With a shake of her head, Kara clicks her tongue and rises from the desk, walking to the disused elevator shaft that crosses Kal’s lab and knocking on it with her knuckles. “You know I believe in this project of yours, Kal. There is a reason I wanted to get involved. I know you will continue to give it your best effort—but I also worry you might be taking on responsibilities that are not yours.”

 “Batman is a guest under my family’s roof,” Kal points out, trying to keep his tone mild despite the sudden spike of irritation in his chest. “I do have responsibilities—”

 “There are plenty of tutors in our service—”

 “I’m quite aware,” Kal replies with more bitterness than he thought he had in store for the memory of his old teachers. “I remember my time with them, and I would rather spare Batman that.”

 “I know you did not enjoy your basic studies,” Kara starts, “but perhaps if you hadn’t been so difficult, things wouldn’t have been so hard for you.”

 Kal gapes for a moment, breath stolen by the sharp stab of pain in his chest at Kara’s words. She means well, he knows. And perhaps...perhaps, in some ways, she is right. It is possible—not probable, but possible—that Kal caving in to his teachers’ demands to specialize in the learnings of one Guild would have made his youth easier. It isn’t the done thing, after all, to ignore traditional limits the way Kal does. To defy genetic marking and engage in activities best left to those who were engineered for them. Still, what was he supposed to do?

 The very source of his fame is that Kal does not have any Guild markers in his genome. That he is, in fact, the only Kryptonian to have lived without them in centuries and, if the way his life has gone so far is to be taken as an example, for centuries to come. Why Vohc allowed him to be created—why Rao did not do him the mercy of never allowing his mother’s pregnancy to come to term at all—is a mystery for the ages. Still, the fact remains that he would never have been accepted in any Guild, no matter how well he studied. Believers, Workers, Thinkers…none of them would have wanted him. Why else would Kal’s teachers have scoffed when he asked if he would ever be allowed to learn any of the Guilds’ languages?

 It is most likely that Kara believes what she is saying. She has always been kind to Kal, and treated him as an equal, if something of an incomprehensible one. But the truth is that Kal’s tutors were ever unprepared for him—and he was a son of Krypton. How they would react to an alien, Kal would rather not find out. Not, in any case, if it means taking the risk of making Batman feel the way Kal did during his training.

 Taking a deep breath, Kal forces himself to straighten his shoulders as much as he can and, sidestepping the ever-delicate subject of his former tutors’ treatment of him, says, “Perhaps you are right. Even so, I have already invested time and effort in this project. I should very much like to bring it to fruition. I have talked with Batman—”

 “Is that his name?”

 “It is. Though we cannot know for sure whether they are a he—or if this concept even exists where they come from.”

 Kara concedes the point with a nod.

 “They seem to be an interesting person,” Kal continues. “I would like to get to know them better, but I cannot do that unless they learn to communicate with us and I spend some time with them. Teaching them Ellon seems like the ideal way to accomplish both of these things.

 Silence falls around them, and Kara fixes her gaze on Kal for a long time, a skeptical moue firmly set on her lips.

 “Very well,” she says at last, sighing in defeat the way she would never allow herself to if Kal were anyone else. It fills his answering sigh with gratitude. “Although I fail to understand what makes him—them—more interesting than any of the other aliens you have met and failed to befriend before.”

 She kisses Kal’s forehead before she goes, not noticing how still he has gone. He has to be still. He would cry if he weren’t, the shame of his own inadequacy catching up with him with the force of a laser blast. He tries to explain it later, only to himself—only in the privacy of his own head—but he can’t quite put it into words without finally breaking down into sobs: the way it felt to have Batman see him as a simple stranger, rather than a well-established failure .

 It is, sadly enough, a practiced routine to ignore Kryo’s bland inquiries about his health.

  It takes Kal some time, after his and Kara’s non-fight in his lab, to realize she must not have come to see him so they could discuss his newfound interest for the art of teaching. In fact, it takes him a full night of reflection—earning him several bruises and possibly a cracked rib that could otherwise have been easily avoided. Kara is busy all of the next morning, and Kal uses that time to sleep like the dead for a while longer, before he goes to visit her in the upper levels of the royal palace.

 “I understand,” she says when Kal is done apologizing, eyes on the floor as if he were still a little boy of ten trying to live up to his adult cousin’s expectations. “I suppose I wasn’t at my best myself.”

 Kal nods, struck mute now that he has said his piece, and waits for Kara to set what she was working on aside and add:

 “I wanted to ask what you thought of the Turn of the Year Ball. You did not dance much.”

 “You know I mislike it,” Kal says with an embarrassed shrug. “It accomplishes nothing save providing the court more fodder for gossip.”

 He glances up just in time to catch Kara’s knowing look, and feels himself blush. It shouldn’t be an embarrassment, for her to know what the court has to say about Kal. He has been a source of gossip for longer than he can remember, after all, and she must have been aware of this long before he ever began to suspect there was something wrong with him. Still, discussing a source of humiliation is not the same as being aware of its existence, and for a moment Kal finds himself quite unable to speak.

 “I understand,” Kara says with the same soft tone she always uses in these conversations of theirs. “I imagine you wanted some fresh air after that.”

 “I tried, but the main balcony was rather occupied,” Kal remarks, forcing himself to take his hands out from behind his back, only to twist them together again at his front. “Lady Ra-Ny was there.”

 “Well,” Kara says, her tone as mild as her eyes are sharp, “she does like her space. Did you see who else was there?”

 “Lord Ko Li-Van of Ul, Lord Nej Tar-Plak from Po—along with his lady wife—”

 “Ce-Qod? I thought she was too sickly to travel.”

 Kal gives a nonchalant shrug, dragging his eyes back down to the ground, heart hammering in his chest.

 “So did several others in their assembly,” he says. “One must assume she made an effort for the sake of the opportunity to meet your father.”

 “Indeed,” Kara replies, thoughtful.

 Kal glances up and finds her looking down at her work, though her pen hand is not moving.

 “It seems quite a lot of Worker Princes and Princesses were hoping for the honor of meeting our king, this week. One can only wonder why.”

 She looks up then, straight into Kal’s eyes, and he shrugs.

 “Perhaps they were simply hoping to present him with well-wishing gifts for the Turn of the Year. I did hear some of them trade ideas among themselves. I believe Shadow’s limbs were invoked more than once; or, failing that, some form of garment patterned with Dark Suns.”

 “Well, thank you, Kal,” Kara tells him after a long silence, features and shoulders as stiff as stone. “You always do pick up the best gossip.”

 Kal, who knows the way his cousin looks when she needs to think on something, nods, and makes his way back to his family’s level of the palace.

  Once he is back in his family’s dwellings, Kal decides it would be best not to put off his teaching project. The prospect of approaching Batman might be mildly terrifying—though the memory of their willingness to tolerate Kal helps—but it is a necessary step for anything to happen. Besides, teaching or no teaching, it would not do to leave Batman to their own devices like an inconvenient visitor one tries to get rid of, having been followed home.

 He finds Batman, after some searching, in one of the smaller libraries of the palace, not too far from the guests’ quarters. Neither the apartments nor the library have seen much use in many years, and the silence around them is enough to set Kal’s nerves on alert, but Batman looks unbothered by it. They've taken a seat by one of the curved windows, relaxed pose incongruous in contrast to the stiffness of their clothes—perhaps Kal should see about having something else made for them—with a book on their lap and something close to a scowl on their mouth.

 Kal steps closer, and recognizes the cover of The Adventures of Flamebird . The character is a rather popular hero in El legend: a servant of Rao who went around the world helping those they could—for their gender was never revealed, if indeed they had even had one—and did so well on their quest that the Sun God himself gave them a home atop the highest mountain of the world and allowed them to call themselves Xen-El: Xen of the light, under the protection of the Helper God himself. The story itself was nothing truly original, merely a collection of legends that had lived in El for millennia before Kal’s great grandparents were even conceived...but Kal spent many a solitary hour poring over this book, devouring Flamebird’s adventures, their discovery, and their friendship with Nightwing, who rose in service of Vohc and became the first true Thinker of Krypton.

 The book itself, in fact, shows the wear of such a love. It is creased and bent where multiple sets of hands were cajoled into holding it open for Kal...and later on, from many instances of bringing it along on official travels or solitary explorations, until the order was finally given to find it a home in the guests’ library. Kal’s lips twist with the memories. There are entire sentences of the work still carved into his mind. They are not, unfortunately, the ones his parents wanted him to learn—these were lost to time, but Kal retains the vague impression of certitude coming from them, the edge of despair creeping into their voices until they could no longer cling to the hope that Kal would, one day, reveal himself as Rao’s heir and lead El back to its former glory. Nonetheless, some parts of this book Kal could recite without looking at them, and he cannot help but smile when he sees such a beloved item in the hands of someone he hopes to come to know and respect in the future.

 Batman must be attempting to teach themselves Ellon with this book. It is a commendable effort, and something Kal might have attempted in their situation, but if the alien’s face is anything to go by the experiment is not quite yielding the expected results. Then again, as far as Kal knows, Krypton’s alphabet is quite unique in the galaxy, so unless Batman is somehow familiar with something similar, it is hardly a surprise that they are finding it hard to make sense of.

 Stepping closer, Kal clears his throat and says, “I might be able to help with that.”

 It is unclear whether Batman was already aware of Kal’s presence or if they simply have commendable control of their body’s reactions. Either way, they give no sign of surprise that Kal can see. The window does offer quite the vantage point over the library, it is true. Its round frame dominates a circular room, covered floor to ceiling with the yields of thousands of years of book collecting. The truly rare editions, made of organic fibers rather than the synthetic paper everyone uses nowadays, are of course stored in the master library. Still, this particular collection is nothing to blush at, and Kal inhales the dusty smell of many books collected together with a form of reverence, even as he waits for Batman’s response.

 The alien, for their part, hasn’t moved at all since Kal entered, as if waiting to see what might happen next. The image puts Kal in mind of a predator surveying its hunting ground...although, perhaps, with more benevolence than most. It would seem...unlikely, to most, for a royal guest to keep track of people’s comings and goings around here. Then again, those same people would also deem it impossible for Kal to notice half as much as he does, and so he does not entirely dismiss the possibility.

 He endures Batman’s scrutiny instead, resisting the urge to flush and hunch in on himself even further than he already does. Thankfully, after a long moment of contemplation, Batman says something in their own language—Kal could slap himself for expecting anything more, really. Of course, Batman wouldn’t be able to answer. That is the entire point of this conversation, isn’t it? Rao, Kal. Keep up.

 “I would,” Kal starts, and winces again. Simple words, in this situation, must be best. He tries again: “I want to help you speak Ellon.”

 Batman stays silent again, the cowl obscuring their expression in a way that leaves Kal at a complete loss. He does not have the strength to wait as long as he did the first time around, though, and so he steps forward, points at The Adventures of Flamebird and its colorful pages, and says, “This is a book.”

 He might, possibly, have imagined the way Batman’s lips quirk into the not-quite-smile Kal is beginning to suspect is their best approximation of an encouraging expression. Regardless, no rebuttal or rejection comes, and Kal allows himself to sigh in relief when Batman dutifully repeats the word. Then, Batman gestures for Kal to sit down next to them and Kal takes a place on the windowsill with rather more giddy enthusiasm than he’d expected to feel.

 “May I?” he asks, hand hovering over the book.

 He waits for Batman to push the collection into his hand and flips through the pages to the beginning of Flamebird and the Secret Lake . There, he points at the illustration and says:

 “This is water.”

 “Water,” Batman repeats with a small nod.

 Kal beams at them before he can think better of it, then flips through a few more pages to the part where Flamebird serves one of the old Lords of Krypton to prevent a servant from losing their place in the palace; points at the picture of a glass, and asks:

 “What is this?”

 “This is a glass,” Batman says.

 Kal grins again, and goes through several more illustrations, naming objects and checking back on Batman’s memory at regular intervals. It is easy to find the material he needs, the book so beloved it feels like he might be able to find specific pages without even looking. At some point, he drops it in his excitement, and thanks Batman when they pick it up for him, but otherwise a solid half hour is spent on nothing but new vocabulary. Until, that is, Kal realizes he cannot possibly expect Batman to memorize all of this without any sort of support.

 He manages to refrain from apologizing—although only because knows Batman would not understand the words—as he rises from his seat and goes to fetch Batman something to write on. He is not, technically, supposed to use the blank books stored at the bottom of the shelves, but then no one ever does, and he does not think they have been counted even once since he was born. He finds one with a black cover and the El coat of arms in silver embossing on the front, the lined pages inside ideal for a long list of vocabulary, and brings it back up to the windowsill.

 “Thank you,” Batman says, and Kal gasps and blanches.

 “Oh Rao, no, no! You can’t address me this way, you have no idea how much trouble—”

 Kal cuts himself off, face and neck heated enough to cook on them. Of course Batman has no idea what they've done. Kal should have anticipated this, even: they did run into this particular problem before. Kal...well, he does not mind what is technically disrespect. Quite the contrary, in fact. But others? Oh, others definitely will mind, quick though they are to forget Kal is a Citadel Prince when their lust for gossip overtakes them. Batman, of course, is unaware of the problem, and does not have enough understanding of Ellon for Kal to explain it to them as of yet, not without running the risk of confusing them for a long time to come—which means the situation calls for some social gymnastics.

 So, Batman is an alien. In theory, this would make them lower-ranked than any Kryptonian, let alone an Ellon in their own Principality. They are, however, also a guest of the royal family, however reluctant their hosts. This, in turn, will protect them from quite a lot of negative reactions, despite Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van’s disgrace. Servants’ modes of speaking are, of course, quite out of the question; but Batman cannot be allowed to address Citadel Lords and Ladies like equals either, or they will end up in a world of trouble. Which means they probably ought to talk like a Mountain Lord then, or at least as if close to them in status. It is, after all, unlikely that they will run into anyone ranking any lower than that while they are staying in the palace, and if they are to visit other parts of El...well, hopefully, they will wait until they can communicate better before they attempt it.

 “Let’s try again,” Kal offers, once his grammar is decided. “’Thank you’.”

 “Thank you,” Batman repeats, something in the way they move making Kal wonder if they have picked up on some of the social cues involved.

 Regardless, they do not seem eager to question the new, quite different version of the phrase, and Kal beams again, hard enough to push the embarrassment of his earlier mistake almost out of his mind. He ignores the lingering traces of it for the time being in order to pull Batman’s notebook open, pen a rapid sketch of a glass in the left hand margin, and label the drawing in his most careful schoolboy handwriting. He hands Batman the pen when they tap his wrist, and repeats the word when asked, impressed when Batman adds notes in what looks like two different alphabets of their home world.

 They archive the rest of what Batman has learned so far in the same manner, Kal flipping through the pages of The Adventures of Flamebird between words, finding his favorite illustrations without much effort, even though it has been years. After the words come sentences, and Batman puts them through the same process as the rest, writing down both the way they are to be pronounced and what Kal assumes is a translation below the Kryptonian letters. Then, after a while, Batman speaks again, in that strange language of theirs.

 Kal turns back to them, only for them to point down at the book and repeat whatever they were saying. The words, obviously, are entirely opaque, but the sentiment behind them seems easy to interpret, and Kal decides to go out on a limb in order to answer.

 “This is one of my favorite books.”

 He clutches the book to his chest with a wider smile than he remembers sporting in years, excited to meet someone whose reaction to the stories does not range from fond amusement to open disinterest for a collection of children’s tales.

 “Favorite books,” Batman repeats, and Kal beams again, closing the book to point at the cover.

 “They are Flamebird,” he tells Batman. “The legends say they were the very first El of Krypton.”

 Batman looks—not invested in the topic, perhaps, but mildly interested, if their mouth is any indication. No more disinterested than before, at any rate. And Kal—Kal has had few occasions to discuss a book he is passionate about in his life, his family not much for fiction. This, most likely, explains how he manages to spend over three hours talking Batman’s ears off about the book and why, in the end, even the mortifying certitude he must have bored the alien almost to tears isn’t quite enough to prevent him from seeking their company the next day.

  Batman progresses much faster than Kal expected. It takes them only two weeks to remember the numerous words Kal plied them with during their first lesson—something of a mistake, perhaps, to throw so many words at them and expect they would remember them all so soon—and then only about a week after that to grow quite at ease in asking for what they need at the dining table. Where before Kal used to remain silent while his parents or the rest of his family discussed one topic or another, he is now able to put this time to good use helping Batman improve their mastery of Ellon with an enthusiasm he does not remember feeling for the rest of his work before.

 He does not neglect his studies, of course, and Kara eventually stops feeling the need to ask if he is still fit to take care of his nocturnal plants. He does, however, spend most of his afternoons in the guests’ library with Batman, learning bits and pieces of Batman’s language through their alphabet of sound, and engaging in more and more complex discussions about Flamebird and the various legends surrounding them.

 He convinces Batman to let themselves be measured—with their uniform on—during the second week, and presents them with a black and cowled variation on the latest fads in Ellon fashion, the slashed sleeves of their new tunic opening up to reveal lighter gray underneath, and the strange motif of Batman’s original outfit embossed on a breastplate similar to what even Kal has taken to wearing on a regular basis.

 “Thank you,” Batman says when they receive the gift, although Kal is rather unsurprised to find their expression as mild as ever.

 “You are quite welcome,” he says. “I know the old one is cleaned every night, but I also know how uncomfortable it can be to wear the same thing every day.”

 He cannot be sure Batman truly glances up at him at the words, covered as their face is, but he does get the impression of it nonetheless. They have, after all, been spending almost all their time together these days—save for the one evening his uncle received a small group of Worker Princes and Princesses in the Stateroom of Peace, and Kal put his family’s absence to good use, excusing himself early to work on his nocturnal specimens. Such proximity makes it easier to understand someone’s expression, limited though their shared vocabulary may be, and so Kal is, perhaps, not caught as wholly off guard as he could have been when Batman asks, “Is this Nightwing?”

 Despite having anticipated the question, Kal blushes. It is one thing to draw inspiration from a legendary hero for a friend’s outfit, it is quite another to have them pick up on it. Not that Kal is too concerned about anyone else understanding the reference, seeing as Nightwing had fallen into disrepute long before he was born.

 “Perhaps,” he hedges, though it does not feel like Batman believes him.

 Nightwing was once as popular a legendary character as Flamebird, at least in El. He was, after all, the very first Thinker, and Thinkers are El’s favored Guild. Many Els have been engineered to be Thinkers in the past, and Kal’s family members are no exception. Why, his father even married into his own Guild, a rather unusual choice for royals. But where Nightwing, and his patron God Vohc, was once revered and respected as a leader of the people and a Builder of great things, later centuries turned him from ambitious to proud, from charismatic to authoritarian, from an instigator of beneficial change to an agent of chaos.

 In El, at least, it is Rao who now presides over the Gods, guiding them with his light to follow the rituals set thousands of years before by early Ellons. Flamebird, too timid and too tangled in the story of Nightwing, has also been largely relegated to the role of fairytale character, following in Rao’s footsteps with unwavering loyalty and teaching the young how to make their parents proud. A worthy goal, Jor-El used to say when Kal was little; and Kal’s destiny, his mother would add. To make them proud. Not that it did them—or Kal—any good but then the future is a hard thing to predict, and Kal did not turn out to resemble Rao in the slightest.

It was, perhaps, quite inevitable that Kal would never meet anyone who shared his preference for the older versions of the tales.

 “I like it,” Batman says at last.

 The tears catching in Kal’s throat are a surprise but he does, thankfully, manage to keep them from falling.

  Weeks turn into a month, and then another beyond that. Batman continues to progress in Ellon at astonishing speed, his—not their, as he tells Kal at the end of his first month on Krypton—ability to pick up on a word’s meaning and the complex grammatical structures of Ellon beyond anything Kal has ever heard of. Not, of course, that many people are willing to discuss much of their lives with him, language learning included, but still. He did read a few books on the theory of language acquisition, after all, and from what he sees either Batman comes from an especially quick-witted species, or he is even more exceptional than Kal suspected.

 Eventually, Kal’s parents start talking to him a little. Nothing more than idle conversation in between more important errands, but it is still progress, and an occasion for Batman to practice his skills with someone other than Kal. It...worries Kal, in the beginning. A selfish reaction, he knows—but Batman is smart, with a dry sense of humor Kal can’t help but grin at, and prone to engage in the sort of verbal sparring that makes Kal feel more alive, somehow. Talking to him—existing next to him—is a breath of fresh air. It is the very first time Kal has met someone who doesn't merely tolerate him, but rather, for some reason, seems to appreciate him.

 So it is...understandable, perhaps, if not honorable, that he fears losing this once Jor and Lara start addressing Batman over the dining table. He won’t do anything to stop it, of course. Knows better than to keep someone he has come to care for more than he ever planned to from making new friends and building himself a life on Krypton and in El...but there is still a part of him that sighs in relief once it becomes obvious something about the Prince and Princess of El’s conversation displeases Batman. Not much. Not enough for him to shun them entirely. Just—just enough for Kal to pick up on it and feel selfishly, shamefully glad.

 Kal is, in all honesty, not as good a person as he wishes he could be.

 Nevertheless, Batman does not desert Kal, and when the time comes for him to be invited to one of King Jor’s minor receptions, he appears on Kal’s doorstep long before they are to join the rest of the palace’s occupants for the descent into the Stateroom.

 He looks—well, Kal has always known Batman looked good, even in the strange, almost goofy outfit he brought from this Earth of his. Shoulders like his cannot be disguised by what is clearly thought of as a set of armor. The softer fabrics of El’s ceremonial outfits, however, the elegant work of the decorative breastplate and the geometrical embroideries—all of these combine to reveal a body no one would have to blush at. A body Kal may well be thinking of a tad more often than he is supposed to, hidden as it is behind its layers of clothes.

 “I would offer my assistance,” Kal says when he has made sure he isn’t staring, “but it seems to me like you have everything under control.”

 “Contrary to what everyone seems to think, there are things I am quite able to handle on this planet.”

 Kal chuckles despite himself, and hides the smile that lingers on his face by busying himself with the fastenings of his tunic. It has only been a week since Batman started talking to him as an equal and while Kal should, by all accounts, maintain a proper distance between him and someone so insignificant in Kryptonian society, he finds he does not want to. What does it matter, that Batman is a nobody from nowhere, if he is Kal’s friend?

 “Well, the outfit suits you well,” Kal tells Batman as he finishes putting his breastplate in place.

 “Black does seem to be my color,” Batman agrees, a dry blankness to his tone that makes Kal smile again, “even when everyone else satisfies themselves with the darkest khaki s I’ve ever seen.”

 It takes a bit of time for Kal to understand what khaki means and provide a decent translation. When that is done, though, he cannot help but agree with Batman as to the rather monochromatic state of Kryptonian fashion. Most fabrics that Kal is familiar with are dark and muted, as if the light had been leached out of them, so that the solid black and gray of Batman’s outfits seem almost bright by comparison. It is a good look on his friend, though, and Kal finds himself toying with the idea of saying so as they move to join the rest of his family at the entrance to the Way Down.

 “It is a fancier name than it needs,” Kal admits, rubbing at his neck in embarrassment, once Batman asks about it. “But it is the only way to reach the Stateroom of Peace from here, so….”

 “The only way?”

 “There are the service elevators, I suppose,” Kal says with a shrug.

 There used to be five of those, actually, disseminated at various points around the palace, until the lower botany labs were built and one of the shafts had to be closed; one of Kal’s ancestors disliked the coming and going of servants so close to them. Nowadays the serving staff use the four remaining—small and uncomfortable—service shafts, deliveries are made through a specific balcony, and Kal’s family uses the Way Down, voices echoing against the room-wide walls of polished metal. The feeling of it is rather like sitting in an egg meant to welcome forty adult Kryptonians, and Kal cannot help but wonder how much of his discomfort every time he goes down rests on that particular architectural choice and how much is simply due to what he knows he will have to face downstairs.

 “You live in a fortress,” Batman says after a pause.

 His gaze is still firmly set forward, his shoulders unmoved. Yet there is something in his tone that squeezes at Kal’s heart, a sort of tightness he isn’t sure he can figure out on his own. It leaves him nervous and tense, more hunched than he would like as he fiddles with the hems of his sleeves.

 His father, when he notices it, pulls Kal's hands apart without a word.

 “It is unbecoming,” Kal’s mother says with a shake of her head. “You must rid yourself of this habit, Kal.”

 Kal leaves his cuffs alone and mumbles an apology, though he can’t help but try and explain himself.

 “No one is as fond of these occasions as they would like to appear,” Jor-El replies as the seven of them step into the elevator, “but you cannot shame our House with that sort of ridiculous behavior.”

 Resisting the urge to wrap his arms around his midsection—a much bigger embarrassment than simple fiddling—Kal nods at the ground. It is, in all honesty, a good thing that Batman is here. Kal has no desire for his friend to realize how pathetic he can be just yet—or perhaps ever—and so it is easier to keep his shoulders straight than it would usually be. Besides, while Kal has no illusion about the interest people may find in him—very little, if any—Batman still hasn’t tired of him. In fact, the alien has treated him with something not unlike a form of fondness, like tolerating a faulty but well-worn hunit. It isn’t much. Kal knows it isn’t much. It is, however, better than he remembers ever knowing elsewhere, and it helps him keep his self-consciousness at bay as he takes a small step away from his family and toward Batman.

 They both stay quiet during the ride down, Batman having learned by now not to expect too much conversation from Kal’s parents. Brilliant scientists they may both be, but they are not teachers, nor very patient. And so, despite the keenness of Batman’s mind, behind that strange cowl of his, he has been forced to content with Kal as his only company...until, that is, rumors of his progress reached the Citadel Lord and Ladies, and he was invited to this latest function.

 “Are you always this nervous?” Batman asks just before they exit the elevator.

 Kal would like to have the conversational skill and the confidence to answer ‘often enough’, but in truth it is not that much of an exaggeration to say, “Yes.”

 Batman, thankfully, is not prone to clicking his tongue, shaking his head or, indeed, acknowledging his emotions or opinions in any voluntary way at all. This is good, because while Kal is slowly learning to read the alien—the man, he should probably call him—it makes it easier to pretend Batman doesn’t think he is being ridiculous for this. Kal squares his shoulders instead, breathing in and bracing himself just as the doors to the Stateroom open and the members of the royal family are introduced by order of importance.

 The Stateroom, far too vast for this fairly intimate assembly, has been divided in two for the night. At the front, closest to the exit of the Way Down, stands the royal table, at which Batman, Kal, and the rest of the family will sit on display for all the court to see for the duration of dinner. Then the assembly will move to the back of the room for the evening’s first dance—a mandatory exercise, Kal has been informed—and the other points of interest. There are professional dancers, two magicians, three jugglers, and one woman whose business is in fire; Kal would rather spend the evening admiring them all than dance for even a few minutes, but that is, unfortunately, not an option.

 By Kal’s side, Batman seems decidedly unperturbed by the crowd, the noise, and the myriad of occasions one has to embarrass themselves in this sort of public setting. He moves the way he has always done, head held high as a king’s, back unbowed, step unafraid. He behaves, in fact, more like a prince than Kal knows how to.

 As soon as the first nobles have paid their respects to the king and come to engage the mysterious resident of the palace, Batman slips into an almost liquid version of himself. His mouth stretches into a smile, the set of his shoulders mellows, and even his voice softens enough to become almost unrecognizable. It is like watching the man become another part of himself entirely, and Kal would gape if he were not as aware of their audience as he is.

 He follows Batman at a distance instead, watching him charm Citadel Lord after Citadel Lady, easy and practiced despite the still-obvious gaps in his vocabulary. It is a talent Kal could never cultivate, and a deep sense of shame settles in his chest, almost obscuring the pride he feels in his friend’s talent. The assembly, predictably enough, pays him little mind. Kal is used to that treatment, however, and while it is never pleasant it is easier, with Batman here, to push past the stopping power of indifferent disdain and listen to the gossip circulating in the room.

 If, that is, multiple talks of financial transactions can be considered gossip. Kal is...too well-known as an incompetent to join any of the conversation, but mining projects seem to be all the rage in El, and more than one Lord or Lady is already considering what to do for the king’s birthday, in six months’ time.

 Slowly, Kal trails Batman through the dining half of the Stateroom, wondering if this was how Kara felt when she was first allowed in polite society twenty-five years ago. They make small talk with many people, Batman coming up with a new way of calling Krypton grandiose for each pair of ears that would not accept anything less, and answering countless variations of the question: “What is your favorite thing in El?”

 No one, Kal notices, asks whether Batman misses his home planet at all. Not that he would answer—in Kal's experience, attempts to make the man open up about his emotions go about as well as punching the wall of the Citadel and expecting a door to open. Still, Kal cannot help but think the asking of that question matters, perhaps even as much as the answer. He might be biased, of course. Trying to bolster his own importance. Even so, he is glad he had the mind to ask this, at least once.

 They make their way back to the front of the room, where the dining bell will soon call them and the rest of the royals. Cold golden light shines over the room in waves, like a winter sun filtered through water. It gives the whole scene an eerie look, as if seen in a dream, though Kal does not remember it feeling like this before. Eventually, he and this mellowed version of Batman catch up to a small group composed of Kal’s family, all caught in conversation with General Dru-Zod.

 “You don’t like him?” Batman asks, tone flat enough to almost turn it into an affirmation.

 “I don’t believe he is very fond of me either,” Kal mutters in return, trying and failing to sidestep the question.

 He is under no illusion that Batman missed the evasion, of course. Still, the man has the kindness not to laugh at the childish sentiment, though Kal can’t help but feel like he wants to. Batman approaches the conversational circle, but Kal knows where his own place in this particular configuration is and stands by a nearby table instead, just far enough behind his parents to affect ignorance should any courtly eye wander his way. He can’t be sure Batman glancing at him through the lenses of his cowl is anything more than a figment of his imagination, but he does give a little shrug just the same. Just in case. It is good, after all, for Batman to have more interesting things to do than content himself with Kal’s company all day. This evening will do him good, and if it means he makes better friends than Kal in the process, well, it will have—it will be alright. Perfectly fine.

 As it is, though, none of the speakers pay Batman much attention, and Kal watches General Dru-Zod as he clinks his glass against Zor-El’s first, and Kara’s second.

 “To a most excellent deal,” he says.

 The small circle sips on what Kal assumes is one of the Zodri wines the general is so fond of, unbothered by Batman’s empty hands. The silence settles around them as they savor the taste, Kal’s uncle swishing the wine around his mouth before declaring it absolutely delicious. Kara sways after her second sip, closing her eyes and saying, “Forgive me, this is perhaps a little strong,” as if Kal hadn’t seen her drink men twice her size under a table.

 “Strong wine for a strong future,” Dru-Zod replies, self-assured. “This proposition is a boon from the Gods!”

 “This proposition hasn’t been signed yet,” Kal’s mother counters in a quiet, yet firm voice.

 Around her, the air tenses. Batman, caught between her and Dru-Zod’s piercing gaze, remains unmoved, while Kal’s shoulders bunch together even as he looks away. He knows these people’s faces well enough by now: there is no need for him to look at them to imagine the pursing of his cousin’s lips, the frown on his aunt’s face. The tightness of his uncle’s jaw when he hisses, “Sister.”

 “I am but speaking the truth,” Lara replies, still in an undertone. “You and all your Laborer friends may rejoice all you want, but none of your pretty gifts will amount to anything if Tsiahm-Lo changes his mind at the last second.”

 “Gifts have nothing to do with his decision,” Kal’s aunt replies in a mild, somewhat miffed tone. “His Majesty is perfectly capable of making his own choices, and no one here has any close contact with him.”

 “Not directly,” Kara remarks.

 Kal almost hears the air grow tense after her words. He cannot fathom Batman’s expression has changed much...nor that anyone else looks very pleased. Not with the heaviness of the silence around them. Still, he keeps his eyes turned away from his family, sweeping in wide arcs over the Stateroom and its crowd of milling nobility, the performers entertaining the crowd until the royal family finally feels the need to eat. Lady Ona-Set, robes swishing around her, wanders between tables, no doubt lamenting the excessively modern arrangements of cutlery.

 “Nevertheless,” Jor says with a tone of finality, “it would do Tsiahm-Lo good, rethinking his position. The Melokariel Proposition is pure folly, and my father—”

 Lady Ona-Set must have stirred some dust: something tickles at Kal’s nose and he finds himself sneezing three times in rapid succession.

 “Perhaps we should not speak of this where a foreigner can hear,” Kara interrupts Jor, switching to Council.

 “Perhaps you are right,” Dru-Zod replies, “although there is nothing much more to be discussed. Krypton has been stagnating for far too long, and this project will serve to revive it.”

 “You are a fool if you believe that,” Jor retorts with enough feeling to turn Kal’s head towards him, “and so are the Wise—”

 “Jor!” Zor and Lara hiss at the same time.

 On his chair, Kal stiffens. It is not done, to openly disagree with the Wise Council. Their hearing is quite keen and their new militia, specifically trained in Kandor to help unify the planet under one rule, has lengthened the reach of their arm. El holds some power in Krypton’s politics and retains its own police force, still—as does Zod and the distant Principality of Quod—but even Kal has heard whispers of how briefly prisoners taken by the Council’s militia remain in Ellon prisons. When, that is, they visit them at all. Even for royals, it is not done, to openly disagree with the Wise Council.

 For a moment, Kal thinks his family members will attempt to resurrect the topic and keep the conversation going. They spend a long time looking pensively at their glasses instead and then, without a word, the king leads his entourage up to the main table.

 The meal starts quietly enough, but the conversation on Kal’s right picks up again by the time the first dishes are brought out. To his left, Batman eyes the various foods with a tight pinch to his lips, and Kal smiles, even as he points out his favorites as well as one thing he is not very fond of but believes Batman might enjoy. They are well into the meal—in silence, for Batman is not one for idle chatter—when Batman asks, “What does your grandfather have to do with the Melokariel Proposition?”

 Kal almost chokes on his glass of water, and has to reach for a napkin with some urgency to cover the blunder. He is flushing, he knows it, and his heart is pounding hard when he answers with a question of his own.

 “Whatever do you mean?”

 “Your grandfather,” Batman repeats without looking away from his food, perfect profile insufficient for Kal to figure out what he is thinking. “Your family was talking about the Melokariel Proposition earlier. Your grandfather was mentioned, but I fail to understand how he is related to it.”

 For the barest moment, Kal gapes. He is, after all, widely known for his disinterest in the Melokariel Proposition, and his utter inability to change that fact. That Batman would have questions about it had never crossed his mind, let alone that he would come to Kal of all people for answers.

 “I’m afraid,” he says with some difficulty, cheeks burning with too-familiar shame, “you misunderstand me. I meant I don’t know what the Melokariel Proposition is.”

 Batman’s head turns toward him. The man’s eyes are invisible, and yet Kal still wishes he could squirm away from them.

 “The Melokariel Proposition,” Batman repeats. “I have been here more than two and a half months, and I’ve heard it discussed at least twice a week since then.”

 “Then,” Kal admits, shoulders drooping almost of their own accord, “you have a better mind for these sorts of things than I do.”

 There is no change in Batman’s posture, no indication in his expression or on his face that what he has just heard displeased him. This does not in any way prevent Kal from feeling like a great divide has suddenly opened up between them.

  Kal collapses at the door to the elevator shaft in his labs with a grunt of relief, and takes a couple of minutes to get his breathing back under control. His outfit rearranges into more palace-appropriate garments with a tickle, the slick feeling of dirty water and blood sending his stomach reeling. He wishes sometimes that he could just use one of the regular elevators for these outings of his. The scrutiny that would bring him, however...it would be ill advised, at best. And an unnecessary complication besides. So, abandoned shaft it is, though the necessity of the scheme does not prevent Kal from snorting, from time to time, as he tries to picture his parents’ expressions should they learn of this habit of his.

 “Avoiding servants?” Kryo asks when Kal slowly pushes himself to his feet.

 “Always a success,” Kal replies, and does not watch Kryo bob up and down in acknowledgment.

 His entire body is sorer than it has been a while, bruises growing on top of bruises. Tonight was not a good night. Multiple incidents; he’ll have to tell his family tomorrow. A dozen plants dead. Significant structural damage—well, no, that he can’t share. They would want to see it if he did, and it isn’t as though Kal could show them. In any case, it will be at least three days until Kal can afford to leave his work again.

 Three days might be pushing his luck a little, Kal knows. Two would arouse less suspicion. But the truth is, this is not an effort Kal is willing to expend, not when his only wish is to lie down and sleep for an entire week undisturbed. He may have to, at some point—Batman still has questions about the workings of El in particular and Krypton in general, and Kal is still the only one willing to answer him. Even that, though, has lost quite a lot of its appeal.

 Teaching Batman about his surroundings used to be a breath of fresh air, a dream of spring in the middle of winter. Ever since the ball, though, Batman has been—it feels like something broke. And—it makes sense. Somewhat. Kal was—he has never been an interesting person to begin with. A subject of morbid fascination, maybe. A specimen for the study of Krypton’s society. A cautionary tale for those foolish enough to dream of following into Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van’s hubris-filled footsteps, reminding them that wishing for Krypton’s next great leader will only get them someone like Kal.

 An interesting person, though? Not really.

 The thought twists at Kal’s gut, but he swallows the hard truth nonetheless. Tears won’t change things that are, and so he gulps them down and makes himself face the facts while he walks to the showers at the back of the labs. He is uninteresting. That, he knew. But at the very least, Batman used to find him—useful. Tolerable, maybe. A companion of limited worth, but still preferable to complete solitude and then...well, then, Kal did not see Batman for almost two weeks.

 Three weeks in, and they have finally resumed their usual study sessions, but it is easy to see the tone of them has shifted. There are as many questions as there have ever been, as many topics to touch upon. Batman still teaches whatever English Kal is willing to learn. But where before these moments flowed like long exchanges between friends, it seems to Kal Batman is now merely perusing a list of references, gathering information to examine it at a later date. Seeking pointers to guide his solitary studies rather than answers from someone he trusts. It is—it makes sense. Kal should have known it would happen. Batman has figured him out and moved on. He should have known. He should have. He should.

 But he did not, and tonight more than ever the thought twists inside him, clawing at his throat and the corners of his eyes in a way it hasn’t in the three months and some weeks since Batman crash-landed on Krypton.

 It is no use, spending so much time thinking of this. Kal knows this, and tries to push the thoughts out of his mind as he steps under the shower. Clearly, Batman was unwilling to bother with someone uninterested by the topic of the Melokariel Proposition. That is that; no more to say on the subject.

 Although it does, of course, beg the question of why Batman has become so invested in that project in the first place. What does an alien who did not even come from this galaxy care about a strictly Kryptonian affair? Everyone, after all, keeps repeating the truth that no neighboring planet will be affected, let alone Batman’s distant and unknown solar system. Why, then, has the man developed such curiosity about it? That he did not know of Krypton’s existence even while passing by it close enough to crash on it after an accident, Kal can believe. Light-speed spacecrafts are all equipped with automated pilots, and Batman did say he was traveling on business, attempting to reach friends who had required his help. The lack of help, too, is unsurprising. Batman did not have any way to communicate for a long time, and no one—not even Kal, he realizes, wincing—thought to offer help in getting him back home.

 But why would he grow so passionate about the Melokariel Proposition as to reject Kal on the sole basis of his lack of interest in it?

 “Would you like me to order some breakfast to be brought up?” Kryo asks when Kal emerges from his shower in a hurry and immediately shoves himself into his now-anthracite tunic.

 “In two hours, please,” Kal replies. “I have something to do, first.”

 It must be the space making him paranoid. It must be. There is too much of an echo, down there, too much darkness, like a cave of insanely regular proportions. Still, the doubt clings to Kal’s skin as he strides across the space, drooping leaves brushing at his face and arms as he goes on, wishing desperately for answers—or, failing that, for some way to stop thinking altogether...two things he might, in fact, be able to find in the same place.

 The Adventures of Flamebird has always been a source of comfort to him, well-worn pages and cover a soothing sight of their own by now. It would do him good to hold it, to lose himself in the myriad of tales it contains and the distant, unknowable lands of Krypton in its earliest days. It would ease his mind; soothe him enough, perhaps, to let him sleep and forget the night’s casualties, at least long enough to survive. And since the book has been residing in Batman’s bedchamber for several weeks now, perhaps Kal will manage to seize whatever feeble courage he has and ask some of the questions that, he can tell, will not leave him alone otherwise.

 He has no desire to do it. Kal is many things, but brave is not one of them, and the fear of losing whatever shreds of Batman’s friendship he still has stops him in his tracks at the bifurcation between the guests’ quarters and the royal apartments. He is, however, a Prince of El. Not the most glorious of them, and not a particularly good one, either; but if he suspects something strange is going on in the palace, it is his duty to examine it. He must do this, and he must do this fairly—he cannot let his desire for friendship blind him to whatever reasons Batman might have to research a planet-wide project involving so much energy...and if those reasons come with ill intent, then Kal will have to stop the man. Friend or no.

 Kal knows his duty, he truly does, but he cannot deny that relief washes over him, a few minutes later, when Batman does not answer the knock on his door. For a brief moment, the urge to forget about all of this seizes him, and he almost turns back. But tonight has been a bad night, and a dozen pe—plants have been lost by his fault. Four of them only saplings. He should have—done many things. He did not, and now they are lost, and that knowledge is what spurs him on to push Batman’s door open. The book can wait, though Kal will miss its presence tonight; his questions cannot.

 Making no noise across the carpeted floor is an easy feat, with shoes as light and supple as socks. Even then Kal is wary. Batman, he has learned, sleeps lightly. And, these days, most likely in short stretches. The first, Batman has admitted to him directly. The second, Kal is forced to assume from what he has seen of the man. He naps at random times, and is irritated and bad-tempered when left to sleep longer than he meant to. He has the uncanny ability to fall asleep anywhere, without needing to adopt an even vaguely horizontal position. All of these are symptoms Kal recognizes from his own poor sleeping habits, ways to get some rest between his nightly work and the demands of a princely life. It is neither healthy nor agreeable, but Kal has grown used to it, and he is at least capable of recognizing the signs of it in another, when faced with them.

 All of this, of course, can mean only one thing: something has come to disrupt Batman’s sleeping patterns since he distanced himself from Kal. Something that probably can’t  be the fault of any other Kryptonian, for Kal is still the only one to speak to Batman with any regularity, and he knows perfectly well no work was given to the man besides making sure he does not accidentally insult his hosts, or his hosts’ guests. The question now is to find out what, exactly, that something is.

 Kal, stomach heavy as a stone, crosses from Batman’s living quarters into his bedchamber without a sound, relieved to find the man asleep with his back to the door. He is snoring, too, soft and regular, and Kal allows himself a relieved breath before he creeps closer, knowing Batman well enough by now to realize nothing of importance in his Kryptonian life will be kept out of his reach.

 Batman’s Earth outfit rests on a dummy by the bedside, mended torso, yellow belt and all. To the right of that, immediately left of the bed, the crimson glow of the moon washes over a pile of books—some Kal recognizes, some he doesn’t—with some kind of sharp-looking weapon and, at the top, a bracelet of some kind sporting the all-too-familiar symbol of the Green Lanterns. Kal can’t help but stare at it for far longer than he should before he grabs it, shoves it into a brand-new inside pocket of his tunic, and has to put all his focus into exiting as quietly as he came in.

 He stops outside of Batman’s quarters for a moment, grateful for Kryo and its never ending watch as he tries to sort through his thoughts. A Green Lantern! In the palace! If anyone knew this—no. Better not think of it. Not, at any rate, until Kal has decided what to do about this information. He is not thinking clearly, he knows. Cannot possibly handle this information with the amount of care and objectivity it requires on his own, not without several days to ponder it, and he does not have that kind of time. This in turn can mean but one thing: he needs counsel, and not from Kryo, which does not know the meaning of affection. No, he needs someone whom he can trust, and someone who will understand, at least in part, the dilemma he finds himself in.

 With a clear path in mind at last, Kal sighs, braces himself, and sets off toward the upper levels of the royal palace.

  Kara’s pillow slaps him in the face with enough force to disorient him for a moment, and Kal only owes the lack of a second blow to the sharpness of her reflexes. She hisses imprecations at him for a while, until he pulls out Batman’s bracelet and cuts her short. Without a word, Kara reaches for the item, scowling when Kal pulls it out of her reach on reflex. She sits up straighter and asks:

 “Where did you get this? I swear to the Gods, Kal, if you contacted the Green Lanterns—”

 “Do you truly think I would be so foolish?” Kal hisses back.

 There are those on Krypton who have managed to get in touch with the Green Lanterns and remained on the planet, but Kal has never contacted any of them directly, though he is working with them after a fashion. The Green Lanterns’ name may only serve as a curse in the higher circles of Krypton, but the general population is hardly fond of them either.

 “Then where in Vohc’s name did you find this?”

 “Batman’s room, as a matter of fact,” Kal admits.

 Kara mutters something that sounds a lot like ‘Rao help us’ with the deepest scowl Kal has ever seen on her face. He supposes he cannot blame her for it. She looks him straight in the eyes then, still frowning, and Kal has to force himself to hold her gaze, to show her without words that he is not entirely careless but merely out of his depth.

 Eventually, Kara’s face goes through a complicated movement and, with the twist of her mouth that signals questions too delicate to be dealt with immediately, she asks, “Are you sure no one else knows?”

 Kal nods with a sigh of relief. He can’t know for sure what Kara’s advice will be, but whatever happens next, at least he can have some control over the situation, and maybe—hopefully—spare Batman the worst outcomes. Colluding with the Green Lanterns would send him to jail, at best—and not an Ellon one, at that. Kal may not be an expert on the topic, but he knows his uncle: there are not many things in this world that tighten Zor-El’s jaw with a mere mention, and the people who leave El for Kandorian cells tend not to come back.

 “Good,” Kara says.

 “Do you think the Lanterns could have sent him here on purpose?” Kal asks, heart in his throat. “I don’t think so, but I—I don’t know that I can tell what I wish to be the truth apart from what really is.”

 Kara clicks her tongue as she scoots to the edge of her bed and crushes Kal into a brusque hug.

 “They would have to be stupid to do that,” she says after she releases him. “Much though Krypton’s power may be….”

 “Diminished?”

 For once, Kara’s distinctly unimpressed look leaves Kal mostly unaffected. Krypton has been steadily declining for several centuries now, and the Wise Council’s reach has only grown upon Krypton these past decades, not beyond it.

 “Let’s call it that,” Kara begrudges after a beat. “Nevertheless, we are still a force to be reckoned with. It would be foolish of them to come look for trouble our way when we have respected the terms of the Treaty. Especially with Leaark and Axor at each other’s throats, at any rate.”

 Kal does not know what is going on between those two planets exactly, although he understands some kind of blood feud is involved. Still, it does not take a genius to grasp why the Green Lanterns would be keeping an eye on that rather than spying on a long-dormant enemy who has made no effort to communicate with the rest of the galaxy since the Independence Wars. The thought releases something in Kal’s chest, but only for a short while.

 Just because Kara sees things this way, after all, does not mean her father would agree, to say nothing of the Wise Council. Kal wouldn’t expect them to care whether a friend of the Lanterns came to Krypton by design or by accident. And Batman...well, even assuming he was lying when he said he knew nothing of Krypton when he landed there, his species, his planet, and even his solar system have no presence in Krypton’s database. There is nothing, intergalactic law or otherwise, to forbid Batman from associating with the Lanterns from Earth, so why should he be punished for it?

 But then, of course, there is also the matter of his latest activities.

 “I think,” Kal says with a heavy heart, “we still need to keep an eye on him.”

 Relating his reasoning to Kara only takes a few minutes, but Kal still feels like he has been speaking forever by the end of it. It is the right thing to do, he knows. Even for Batman’s sake—it wouldn’t do to let him involve himself in something as fraught as the Melokariel Proposition without at least a warning. That thought, however, does not do much to ease the feeling that he is betraying a friend, and he knows he has been too obvious in his worry when Kara loops an arm around his shoulders again.

 “Perhaps you should have a conversation with him, and take his version of things into account before we decide what to do about him. If he is planning to do harm to Krypton, we will need to stop him...but I see no need to punish him if he is only an unlucky traveler a little too curious about things he does not understand.”

 Kal nods, too afraid to voice the thought weighing on his mind: Batman seems too smart not to have any notion of what he is doing. Kal is still hoping all of this is an unfortunate misunderstanding, but already his heart sinks with the possibility of tragedy.

 “He hasn’t been friendly toward me since your father’s latest ball,” he admits, glad that he manages to keep the tears clogging his throat out of his voice. “I doubt he would listen to me even if I tried to broach the topic...and it is too risky to have that conversation in the more public places of the palace.”

 “Well,” Kara sighs, settling back under the covers, “the other you, then.”

#DCU #Superbat #superbat big bang #Clark Kent #Bruce Wayne #My Posts #SBB 2019 #DCU Fic #Fanfiction #fic: Clark Kent of Krypton

[everyonesawhoregrace]

The Good Side

Part 4

tag: @wefracturedmotivation  @reyloshipper-starwars    ok i keep on trying to add the other tags but it isn’t working so i will private message each time i post to whoever wants me to. x 

read 3 here

read 2 here

read 1 here

enjoy xx

The following day was expected to go easier as the last few. My mind was still racing at the fact that I got an apology out of Tommy fucking Shelby. Magic is real, and in the palms of my hands clearly.

I went home with the thought of him, thinking about silly things like his parents and his family life. The wedding ring meant he was married which made me think of his lady. I got to imagining the life of Tommy. Pictured everything a certain way without my actually knowing a single thing about him.

On my way to work, I felt a bit off. A little nervous than before, and it was an emotion I can only describe as the sign of me knowing I’m going to see Tommy soon.

I was excited. Shy. Nervous.

All the things I would normally feel, had I been crushing on someone. Was I crushing on Tommy? I don’t bloody know. Scratch that, I do fucking know. The answer was yes.

He has eyes the colour of the sky on a summers day. The face of a God who came straight from heaven. The voice is a man who can scoop me up into his arms.

I could almost hear my nagging subconscious, he choked you, with intentions of killing you. How can you be interested an a woman beater?

All questions I should ask myself. But as I swept mascara through my lashes and put on heels, was I thinking about that? Fuck no.

“Good morning Alene,” the warden Grant says to me. He smirks, blushing at me. He’s a little red man with a bald head. A bastard who tries to glance under nearly every woman’s skirts. “You look ravishing.”

“God.” I roll my eyes. “Can’t a woman wear heels and a little blusher without being ravishing?”

He laughs. “It’s just that usually you look quite dead.”

I get it, I’m being an arsehole. I deserved that.

“Can I help you with anything?” I ask, pushing my things into my little locker. I look down at Grant, who clears his throat.

“Yes actually,” he licks his lips. “A gentleman is here from the church. A member called father Hughes.”

“Okay?” I close my locker. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“Well he asked for you specifically. I assumed maybe you two were acquainted.”

“Acquainted?” I almost laugh seeing as I haven’t been to church in over twenty years. Never once picked up a Bible either. 

“Yes. He said he attending your wedding.” Grant looks at me as if I am some sort of mad woman, he’s almost certain this person attended my wedding when I know he didn’t. 

I turn and stare at Grant. My wedding that happened nearly ten years ago? The same wedding that only a handful of close family and friends were invited to? I almost laugh, that’s impossible. 

A voice is sounded from afar and before I can even turn my head does Grant smile widely and spin me around to face the person. “There he is, father Hughes, I found her.” Grant, in his cunning ways disappears in the back, leaving Hughes and I alone. 

Only then do I begin to imagine this man as the perpetrator who hurt Thomas in such a way. 

“Hello.” He says, extending a hand. 

I am hesitant at first, his smirk alone is something that makes me worried. Not taking his hand, I look up into his lifeless eyes, “You told Grant you know me?” I tilt my head, “I don’t recall us ever meeting.” 

“Perhaps you can allow me the privilege of rejogging your memory.” He mentions the hallway. “Lets walk, shall we?”

Not denying him, and knowing I must make my rounds soon. I take my medical kit and head out, with him following close behind. 

“I’m sorry to hear about your ex husband.” He tells me, hands behind his back as he walks beside me. 

I notice that we are heading downstairs, he seem to know exactly where we are going, which makes me question his intentions. Downstairs is of course where Tommy is. 

I keep my cool, despite having a meltdown. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He scoffs. “Come on now Alene,” He has his head up, confidently taking strides beside me. “Your husband who you seemingly loved, gave up on your marriage the moment he found out you couldn’t do your job as a woman.” He murmurs, revealing only what my immediate family know of. He leans in, “A woman who cannot reproduce is everything but woman, isn’t that right?” 

I stop the moment he stands before the doors of Tommy’s room. I face him, spinning around so that we are literally face to face, and he is not able to wither himself into Tommy’s room. My face burns, I want to crawl into a ball and hide away from the truth. But how can I? 

You’ve got more to give, that’s what my sister said when she got news that I was unable to reproduce a child of my own. The love my former husband and I had for each other was no match for the true love he had of wanting a child someday. Heartbreaking really, it was an ordeal that broke us. 

“How do you know this about me?” I ask, looking up at him. “Who did you have to manipulate in order to find that out?” 

He smirks, “Your secrets are nothing in a holy house such as the church. As a matter of fact,” He puts his hand out, and with the back of his hand, he runs it over my cheek. I pull back, denying him. “Your mum was not a hard lady to confess. She practically showed up in confessional every day. She told me about your father, and how much he hit her. Told me that you took a liking to him. Daddy’s girl. While you sister preferred the company of your mother.” He nods, as if to confirm everything. 

My face gives it all away, mums always been an avid and devoted Christian woman, she’s always praised Jesus, despite the many difficulties he’s brought to her life. An abusive husband who ended up in jail at least for half of his life. And then two snotty daughters, one who hated her - me, and one who loved her endlessly - my younger sister Gabby. I take a step back, hitting my back against the metal bars that protect us from Tommy. 

“My mother only has one weak spot, and thats from you no good, lying Christians who feel superior to the innocent and feebleminded.” I hiss, “You used her weakness to your advantage, but let me tell you something Father. I know just as much about you as you know about me. These underlying details of molestation and sexual assault that goes on behind closed doors of the churches. And although I cannot bare children, something tells me I won’t go to hell for it.” I reveal, looking into his eyes. “But you might, for knowing the things you know. And I’m not saying you partaking in such horrendous crimes against children but, if you do, I hope you die slow and painfully.” 

He frowns so deeply and shaken, I think he might hit me, Hughes stares down at me. “You’re stronger than your mum, you should be proud of that.” He says, nodding once. “Perhaps thats why, I heard there is a man here who you’ve been tending to.”  As I stand there looking clueless of the fact that Father Hughes could potentially be the man Tommy was warning me about all along. “A man named Tommy Shelby.” 

“I don’t know who that is.” I reveal, trying to keep my calm. My medical kit is hooked around my fingers. I want to throw it at him, and run away. I press it close against me, creating a divider between myself and Hughes. 

“No?” He smiles. “You’re not lying to a man of God, are you?” 

“Fuck God.” I snicker, rolling my eyes. “And fuck you, you can shove all of that exploitation and trickery up your arse for all I care.” 

Hughes gets uptight, upset, he puts his hands up but I am too quick for him to touch me in any sort of way.

“Don’t you dare put your fucking hands on me!” I snap, not too sure what I plan on doing with my hands in a knotted fist. “I swear, I’ll scream.” 

Again, this amuses him. “Scream! Oh the inmates would love that I’m sure. A beautiful young lady like yourself crying out, it’ll only arouse the beasts.” 

Shaking my head, I look up at him and sigh. “Hughes, please, your being quite ridiculous and I have work to attend to-” I try to walk around him, but he blocks my body from moving. 

“Tell me where Tommy is.” His chest puffs out. 

“Who the hell is Tommy?!” I lie, just before he lunges at me.

Of course, me being thinner, shorter, and much more equipped of my surroundings, do I maneuver myself perfectly so that I duck under his arms and around him. I am quick to spin around but the moment I do, my cheek comes right in contact with the back of his hand. A slap to the cheek that nearly makes me sink the floor, my medical kit breaks open, and the first thing I set my eyes on, I reach for. A pair of scissors, harmless really unless I angle it right into his artery, killing him. But Hughes is on his feet and pushes his foot into my flattened hand, I cry out, looking up at him for mercy but he leans down and covers my mouth with his hand. That smirk embeds itself into my brain, like a cancer that won’t go away. 

“Listen ‘ere girl, you think you’re protecting the lad...”

My eyes widen at the figure behind Hughes, Tommy stands behind the bars, looking at me as if I’m a schoolchild whose gotten hurt. He pities me. I look back at Hughes, making sure to keep his attention on me. I swallow, tears in my eyes. 

“This’ll only backfire and if I find him somewhere in this prison,” Hughes looks up and around before bringing his gaze back down to mine. “I promise you, Alene, I will break each one of your precious fingers and you’ll be nothing .” Hughes warns me. “Do you understand?” 

I nod, yelping like a dog the moment he pushes down on my fingers before finally letting go and I fall into a fetal position. I suck in a breath, grinding my teeth together as my eyes water. Pain pulses through my fingers, I can see my middle finger and ring finger just oozing of blood, I try to move my pinky, but I cant. I’m bent too far, I take my wrist with my other hand, looking at my fingers to conclude that I’ll be out of work for days. Hughes walks away from me, and I let out a loud scream filled with regret, sadness, anger, desperation, I don’t know, but as I look down at my semi-squished fingers do I hear the bars slide open and his feet in my eyesight. 

I am lifted up into his arms, and I weakly open my eyes to see Thomas’s blue eyes glisten. He stares down at me, murmuring something, but I can only hear a buzzing in my ear. I’m in shock, I know this, but as the tears roll down my cheeks do I stare at his moving lips. 

I got you, I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re going to be fine. I’ve got you, Alene. 

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby have my babies #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagines #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #peaky blinder imagine #peaky fookin blinders #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders imagine #everyonesawhoregrace

[moviechats]

Way Too Early Predictions: Oscars 2020

Hello. It’s me, again.

I know we’re still digesting Hollywood’s Biggest Night and reminiscing about the past few months of Awards and Honors (just me....?). But it’s time to put that behind us. We’re looking towards the future now.

I always enjoy award season, even if it is disappointing and I’m left bitter and defeated. But guess what? We always have next year to look forward to. And now we’re going to take a sneak peak at what may be on the horizon for 2020.

It’s time...for my Way Too Early Oscar Predictions

During the Oscars this year we were treated to a nice little teaser for Martin Scorsese’s latest film, the Irishman which will most likely be competing next year. I’ve been following this film since it was announced, ready for the Oscar potential that comes with any Scorsese film. Right now, all that’s listed for a synopsis on IMDB is, “A mob hitman recalls his possible involvement with the slaying of Jimmy Hoffa.“ I mean...sign me up right there. The cast also features Oscar veterans, Al Pacino and Robert De Niro, as well as Joe Pesci and Harvey Keitel. It’s been a hot minute since Scorsese’s last Best Director win and even his last nomination. The only thing that slows this train down for me is the fact it’s been scooped up by Netflix. I still don’t think Netflix movies should be considered for Oscars and I absolutely hate watching movies at home that should be seen in the theater. Unless Netflix releases this into theaters and acts as a distributor, I may not be as hyped about this when it’s actually released as I am now. But...I’m still super into this and wouldn’t be at all surprised if it becomes an award show darling.

Potential nominations: Picture, Director, Acting, Screenplay

Speaking of another film starting it’s campaign early...

The first full trailer for the Elton John biopic, Rocket Man just dropped this past week and you know after the success of Bohemian Rhapsody they’ll be setting their sights on awards. Taron Egerton seems a high prospect for a Best Actor nomination and I’d love to see this nominated for costumes (the same way I wanted Bohemian to be nominated...iconic looks!). I’m super excited about this one since I just caught Elton on his last tour and, to be honest, I love any movie about musicians (but don’t classify them as musicals!). Several articles have already claimed Taron has started his campaign for award seasons (after he showed up to sing at Elton’s annual Oscar party), and honestly why shouldn’t he? The only foreseeable problem (besides the possibility it could always be terrible...we’ve only seen the trailer) is that it comes out in May. In entertainment terms, it’s practically an eternity between May and true Oscar season. I mean, A Star is Born came out in October (although it premiered in August at the Venice Film Festival) and lost steam so fast, by the time January rolled around it seemed like a distant memory. I’m not sure this could pull off a Best Picture nomination. It will probably depend on what else is nominated and how many films they decide.

Potential nominations: Picture, Acting, Screenplay, Costumes, Cinematography

It’s not a biopic, but another film based on a true story coming in hot is  A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, a film featuring Tom Hanks as the iconic Mr. Rogers. It’s not a biopic about Rogers’ life, but rather a true story revolving around his friendship with journalist Tom Junod. I’m personally glad it’s not a biopic or biography-type movie, since we already had the phenomenal documentary released this past year. Tom Hanks has already started generating Oscar buzz even though all we’ve been granted is a single photo of him in character. That’s all we need, though! Tom is the perfect choice to play the kind and gentle Rogers and a Best Actor nomination is probably on the horizon. It’s also directed by Marielle Heller who helmed one of my favorite films of 2018, Can You Ever Forgive Me. I sincerely hope the Academy fixes their screw up of 2018 and nominates her next year. I’d like to say it’s a lock, but since she’s a woman, who knows (yes I’m throwing shade at the Academy. I’ll do it all day)? With a November release date, they definitely have awards on the brain.

Potential nominations: Actor, Director, Screenplay

The film that I’m personally the most excited for is Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. I love Tarantino films and really just Tarantino in general. When the announcement about this film was initially made, it mentioned the Manson murders and, despite my love for Tarantino, I will admit I rolled my eyes and thought “not another one.” But the synopsis has shifted, now listed on IMDB as “A faded TV actor and his stunt double strive to achieve fame and success in the film industry during the final years of Hollywood's Golden Age in 1969 Los Angeles” with Wikipedia mentioning all of this taking place during the same time as the Manson murder. So now I’m more intrigued. Where does Sharon Tate fit in? How do they Manson murders come in to play? Oh my goodness I already can’t wait for this film. As if that wasn’t enough, our main leads are two former Hollywood “It” men, Brad Pitt and Leonardo DiCaprio. As far as I can remember, the two have never starred in a film together which is insane. The film also boats a cast that includes Margot Robbie, Dakota Fanning, Al Pacino, and Kurt Russell. With all those names, it seems likely that someone will land an acting nomination. There’s probably going to be stiff competition, but I’d love if Leonardo snagged another Best Actor (or  even Supporting Actor) nomination and it’d be great to see Brad Pitt maybe even win. Hollywood loves Hollywood and they seem pretty fond of Tarantino, so I wouldn’t be surprised with a Best Picture nod and maybe even a Golden Globe win. Tarantino has also won the Original Screenplay Oscar twice, so a nomination seems almost given. This also marks his ninth movie, which if he sticks with the plan, will be his second to last before his retirement (or long hiatus. I have a hard time believing he’d be gone for long). If he starts playing that up again, it could help boost him to a nomination, if not a win.

Predicted nominations: Director, Acting, Screenplay,

Some other titles being tossed around...

Harriet, about the life of Harriet Tubman, has started gaining steam. I haven’t read too much about it yet, but given the powerful figure it’s about, it seems ripe for Award Season. Predicted nominations: Best Picture and Best Actress.

The Report made quite the splash at Sundance. I have mixed feelings, since I usually find any films about our government not directed by Adam McKay to be boring and dry. Listen, we live with the government, we don’t need to be reminded of what’s going on. But this one does have two of my favorite people, Adam Driver and Annette Bening, and started generating Oscar buzz as soon as its premier was over. I’d die if Adam Driver makes another trip to the Academy Awards and I don’t know what I’d do if he wins. Annette Bening may be our Glenn Close of next season, as she has also never won an Oscar and it could be her time. Predicted nominations: Picture, Actress, (supporting) Actor, Screenplay

Little Women will be Greta Gerwig’s next feature film, following on the success of Lady Bird, which saw it’s own Oscar acknowledgement (although it left empty handed). I’ve never been a fan of the story, but to be honest I’ve never read all of it. I’m giving this a chance since I love Greta and the cast includes her darling Saoirse Ronan and everybody’s boyfriend Timothée Chalamet, as well as Emma Watson, Florence Pugh (my favorite fresh face) and Meryl Streep (an Oscar staple). Could this be incredibly boring? Yes. But it could also be an award season favorite since it is a period piece. The Academy loves those.. Predicted nominations: Picture, Director, Screenplay, Costumes.

These are just some of the titles that have been thrown around so far. After my least favorite year for film in a long time, I’m looking forward to this new crop. Tarantino, Scorsese, Gerwig, a film with Adam Driver, and biopics abound! I’m so ready for 2019. Here we go.

#Oscars #Oscars 2020 #the Irishman #Quentin Tarantino #Leonardo DiCaprio #Brad Pitt #Tom Hanks #Greta Gerwig #the Report #Adam Driver #Way Too Early 2020