#{though the thought had crossed my mind to do all the things i regret – dc verse}

[forensicated]

Mickey: Phil's with her? How! Jack: She was snatched off the road...Phil was there... Mickey: *looks suspicious* Do you wanna tell me what Phil was doing there? Jack: I asked him to look into things. I know what you're thinking Mickey, but if someone told me you were dodgy, what would you expect me to do? Nothing!?

Mickey: Guv, we need to lose DC Sim... Jack: Why? Mickey: Well you know why! DI Manson brought her over from Stafford Row...We don't want her compromised

Mickey: I'm sorry about DI Manson Jack: Well don't be sorry until there's something to be sorry for. I might not be as close to him as I was to you, but I trust him just the same. Mickey: Well I wouldn't trust me guv...I don't work for you anymore.

Neil: At some point, we're going to have to start trusting one another again. Phillipa: Yeah, well that has to be planned. Neil: There's such a thing as forgiveness. Phillipa: Oh and were always so good at that, weren't you Neil! Oh this is ridiculous, I don't care what you say, I'm going to report that probe. Neil: *sees the NCS Mob* Phillipa! Wait! Mickey: Mrs Manson, I have a warrant to search these premises for money and correspondance. Neil: Mickey, you know she's a lawyer. You start making false accusations and you'll regret it. Mickey: It's not your wife we're interested in Neil, it's you. Neil: Sneaking in the back way...I wouldn't have thought that was your style, DS Webb. Mickey: Well, with respect sir, given your position, we thought it would be more discreet. Neil: Does er, this look familiar? *passes the bug to Mickey* Mickey: *looks at the bug* No idea what you're talking about. Neil: Yeah, right.

Liz: 5 thousand pounds in used notes hidden under your sons mattress...how much pocket money does he get, I wonder. Neil: All I know is it isn't mine. Mickey: Then who's is it? Neil: Dunno. Mickey: Your wife's? Neil: You'd have to ask her. It's not very characteristic though, she tends to put it in the bank... Liz: Would you say you had a good marriage, Mrs Manson. DCI Brice: What was the name of that PC he was in the sack with? She was an undercover journalist wasn't she? Phillipa: No comment. Mickey: How did you know Julie had been hurt? Phillipa: No comment. Mickey: But you did know... Phillipa: Do you want me to read my statement back? A little slower this time?

Mickey: Guv, if you don't mind me saying, one of your strengths as a DCI is the loyalty you display to all your officers.

Jack: Neil Manson's my DI Mickey: Face it, Guv, he's bent. He couldn't have a bigger flashing light on him if he tried. Mickey: You think it’s me? Is that why you're here? You’re investigating me? Jack: Well? Mickey: Everything points to Manson... I cannot believe you wanna lump this in me. You got any idea how that makes me feel? Jack: How did you know that Neil was at Cassidy's flat? Mickey: I'm not at liberty to tell ya, even if I wanted to. Jack: So what are you doing here? Mickey: I'm here to see a priest. Jack: What do you want a priest for? Mickey: This is my fiancées church. We're getting married. And you just crossed yourself off the guest list. Get used to it will you, Its Manson. You think otherwise, you prove it.

Jack: Mickey… Mickey: Nobody even calls me Mickey anymore, my names Michael. DCI Brice: Did you have any idea it was Liz Mickey: No of course I didn't. What... What is this? What do you take me for? *storms out* Jack: What was all that about. DCI Brice: She's not just a colleague. Liz Garret is Michael's fiancée. Mickey: Why Liz, Why? Liz: Do you think I wanted this? Mickey: Tell me why though? Liz: McGowan helped me once. I owed him, I had no choice. Mickey: Why didn't you come to me? I could have helped you. Liz: Because I love you. I couldn't drag you into this. You're separate from all of this. Mickey: But this is murder. Two people have died now. Liz: Do think I wanted it to get to this. Please understand me. Jack: Mickey, it’s an NCS collar. Do you want it? Mickey: No, I can't. *walks away*

Mickey: Y'know something Jack. I really thought I'd found her. The one for me. I really did Jack: Well, if there was anything I could say Mickey: I know, you would. *throws rings in river*

Phil: Cindy had her car trashed last night, she reckons it was a fireman right - he thought the car was mine. Mickey: *Chuckling* You ain’t been knocking off a fireman's bird 'av ya? Phil: No! I mean, none that I know of...and definitely not recently! Look I'm a changed man now alright? Juliet: *Chuckling* Tell that to the fireman!

Mickey: All the flats that are involved have been sold in the last 6 months. Now who would have access to the keys or the alarm codes? Alex: Estate Agent. Mickey: Bullseye. Alex: If you nick an Estate Agent, Mickey, I'll put you in for a commendation. Mickey: I wasn't able to do an inventory, I was busy trying not to get my face smashed in. Craig: Mickey! That's a Senior Officer you are speaking too! Mickey: I was busy trying not to get my face smashed in, SIR! Craig: MICKEY!

Smithy: *lifting drugs out a pram* "Makes a change from a cuddly toy"

Dan Casper: I thought if i just left it, it would just go away! Gina Gold: Where? Never Never Land?

Dan: “Have you seen her today, she’s like Godzilla on crack."

Smithy: Right, the car details have been circulated, I just need to find out what happened from you… Louise: Must we? Smithy: *pauses* ...Right, let's start again shall we? I'm Sgt Smith, from Sun Hill, and you are...? Louise: *sighs* Louise Roberts… Smithy: There, see - wasn't that painful, was it Miss Roberts. Smithy: And what are you doing in Sun Hill? Louise: Just passing through. Smithy: In a multi storey carpark? Louise: That's right... Louise: You're not going to find the car, so I don't know why we're bothering... Smithy: Amazingly, they do turn up...and we'd like to find it, it's our job. It'd be a little bit easier if we turned up and everyone said 'oh no, don't bother finding my expensive motor that's just been nicked by some bloke'. So what happened? Smithy: Did he say anything? Louise: Maybe. Nothing worth publishing. Smithy: Age… Louise: Who knows? 17, 18? Smithy: *grins* Who knows, without cutting their heads off and counting the rings, it's difficult to tell, ain't it...

Leela: ...after he pulled a knife on her. Smithy: He what! She didn't mention that...but then again, there's a lot she hasn't mentioned. Smithy: Well, we can't hang around here all day waiting for her to say something, so let's go rattle her cage. Smithy: And now, your number? Louise: Do we have to? Smithy: Well yeah, I might have some other questions that you don't want to answer. Smithy: Sometimes it's the smallest details about someone that tells us the most. Louise: And what do the small details tell us about you Sergeant Smith? Let's see, for a start you're not married. Smithy: *raises his left hand* Well that's not exactly difficult, is it. Louise: You don't live with anyone either... Smithy: How'd you know that? Louise: Because you're wearing slightly too much aftershave, too much for the inside of a small car anyway. A woman would be sensitive to that, when she kissed you goodbye in the morning, she'd tell you that. Am I right? Smithy: ...Possibly. Louise: That means yes. So what else do we know? You're late twenties, doing pretty well to be a Sergeant by now. Local boy from the accent. I expect you've got a smart, bare little flat somewhere not too far from here. Big widescreen telly, but not much else. Not much clutter, white walls, sanded floors...which you did yourself cos you couldn't afford that nice laminate stuff. Smithy: What is this? Changing Rooms? Louise: And no partner. Smithy: You don't know that. Louise: You're dedicated to your job. That's why you made Sergeant. Because you've got nothing else to worry about. Apart from going to the gym. Maybe twice a week by the look of you. Smithy: Oh, thank you. Louise: You've had relationships. But let's face it, work just gets in the way... Smithy: Do you fancy a job in CID? Louise: You couldn't afford me. Louise: *returns to the car clutching just one coffee* Smithy: ...No thanks, I'm fine… Louise: Okay… Smithy: No that I think of it, it makes sense that you're not bothered about the car. It don't matter, not to people like you. Louise: People like me? And who are they? Smithy: People with money. Now I bet you're married to a *very* wealthy man...Now take those boots. They're at least three hundred quids worth... Louise: They were in a sale and I paid for them with my own money... Smithy: I bet you've never even done the housework. Or the washing up come to think of it... Louise: Why's that? Smithy: Look at your nails. And then there's your hair...That's at least once a week, and it'd take longer than a lunch hour, so - you've got some leisure time, which means you don't work, which means it's paid for by a wealthy bloke. Louise: Assistance? They're only kids. Smithy: Yeah, with knives and they're prepared to use them. I'm not stupid like you! Smithy: Put your seatbelt on. Louise: It's creasing my coat... Smithy: It'd do more than that if you went through the window screen. Louise: Thank you so much for caring. Smithy: Yeah, I don't. I just don't want the paperwork. Reg: Sarge, she's a bit of alright ain't she? Smithy: Not when you're stuck in a car with her she's not...

Louise: I could always cry... isn't that meant to melt the judges heart? Smithy: *rolls his eyes* Leela: Spoilt little rich girl with too much money Smithy: Yeah, you're probably right... Leela: Nice looking though... Smithy: Not really my type. Smithy: ...Leela? Can I ask you something? Erm, my aftershave… *clears his throat* Is it a bit strong? Leela: *looks confused* Maybe just a bit. Smithy: ...Right *walks off* Tony: Could you just carry on with the statement please, *looks at Smithy* I'm enthralled... Smithy: *nods*

Smithy: We get accused of all sorts... Louise: Like what? Smithy: I'm sure you know what I mean... Louise: Well I'm sure I wouldn’t accuse you of anything, we're on the same side aren't we? Smithy: You sure about that? Louise: *sees Smithy looking at a picture* You like it? Smithy: Actually I prefer the poster of that tennis bird scratching her bum but... Louise: You are joking, aren't you? Smithy: You spotted that...well done... Louise: I just don't want to appear in court, it's not me... Smithy: Well I'm sure Mr Larson will buy you a new outfit if that's what you're worried about... Smithy: ...not some phony like you. Louise: *excuse* me? Smithy: You're nothing, love - noone! All you've done is married well, so don't give yourself any airs and graces, cos you're no better than me! Smithy: And all of this! It's not yours, you're just a spoilt pampered little pet!

Smithy: Morning... Louise: It's time you were out of here... Smithy: Don't I get a good morning kiss, or something? Well how about a nice cup of rosy then? Louise: No! Smithy: Why not? Louise: Because, now come on... Smithy: What's the rush? Louise: I've gotta get going, and so do you! Smithy: If you've got time...*wraps his arms around her waist* we could er… Louise: No!

#alex walkinshaw #dale smith #smithy #gina gold #roberta taylor #smiffina #louise larson #rosie marcel #mickey webb #chris simmons #jack meadows #simon rouse #juliet becker #rae baker #neil manson #andrew lancel #craig gilmore #hywel simon #ged simmons #alex cullen #dan casper #chris jarvis #the bill

[cjsinkythoughts]

FATWS One Shot #1 - Back to the Beginning

Word Count: 1644

Warnings: Cursing, Mentions of Intoxicated Automobile Accident, Steve Being a Slight Puppy

Setting/Characters: Directly after Captain America: The First Avenger, New York City; Reader, Director Nicholas Fury, Captain Steven Rogers

A/N: Here it is! The first One Shot that goes along with my FATWS Series! Keep in mind; it doesn’t take place during FATWS. There are NO SPOILERS in this and there will be NO SPOILERS in any of the One Shots. I do recommend still reading the Series, though, to understand the Reader more. These are more like…prequels to the Series. And it won’t be a series. It’ll just be a collection of One Shots based on what I think is important and what you guys wanna see. I also WON’T BE DOING A TAGLIST FOR ONE SHOTS! (Only those in my All Works Taglist will be tagged!) I’ll be adding them to my FATWS Series Masterlist under a ‘One Shot’ section, so you’ll be able to find them there, and I’ll also be tagging them with #fatws series oneshots. Feel free to send in requests for what you wanna see. I’ve gotten a few already, so I’ll be writing those tomorrow. I’ll say that they’ll all be shorter like this one, but...knowing me...we’ll see.

(Also, I’m aware of the theories that SHIELD chose the woman because the resemblance to Peggy, but just ignore that for this.)

As always, not beta’d so please excuse mistakes! Be kind to yourselves and each other! Enjoy and stay tuned!

FATWS Masterlist

cjsinkythoughts Masterlist

You knew. You knew the moment his eyes raked over your form. You knew when he looked over his shoulder at the radio playing some baseball game from 1941. You had done your homework, just like you did with every mission you worked. Granted, this one was a little different, but when Fury called you in personally, you couldn’t say no. You told them your uniform was wrong. You told them the game was too close to when he went under. You told them.

So you weren’t surprised in the least when he smashed through the wall, running out of the room. You didn’t necessarily regret pushing the button; you did it because you knew your cover had been blown, not because you were threatened. But you regretted calling out Code 13, not realizing that they’d chase him out into the middle of Times Square of all places.

Before you could head outside, wanting to know what happened, Fury’s name flashed across your vibrating phone.

“Y/L/N.”

“We’re heading back.”

An eyebrow raised, showing your confusion. “That was quick.”

“He’s fine, if you’re insinuating what I think you are.”

“I’m not insinuating anything, sir.” It was a lie, of course. You wouldn’t put it past Fury to slow down the Captain anyway he could, especially if the Man Out of Time was putting up a fight. “Sir, with all due respect, I tried-”

“I know, Agent. When We get back, we’ll set up in Conference Room C. I want you to join us.”

Your eyes narrowed, free hand on your hip. “You only called me in to ease him into this whole new century thing-”

“And he’s not eased.”

“It’s not my fault, Fury. I told your guys that it was wrong-”

“I know, Agent. Introducing him to the new century obviously went less smoothly than we anticipated.”

“Ya think?”

“Conference Room-”

“C. I heard you the first time. I’ll be there. Give me a few minutes.” He hung up without any farewells, making you roll your eyes. The director had pulled you off an assignment - in the middle of it - and promised you could get back to it once you finished helping him with the Star Spangled Man problem; help Captain Rogers integrate into the new times. But it was starting to seem that Fury didn’t just mean when he woke up.

You quickly changed, switching the old fashioned uniform for the tighter SHIELD-assigned one, before heading up to the level with all the conference rooms. You understood doing this in New York instead of the HQ in DC - the captain was from New York and, as much as it changed, some things would be familiar - and you definitely understood not doing this on the Helicarrier since Rogers didn’t even know about smartphones yet. And you definitely weren’t complaining; you had an apartment here in the City that you hadn’t slept in for months now.

Glancing at the room plaques, you paused in front of ‘C’. You took a couple breaths, relaxing yourself just as you did before any mission, before opening the door and stepping in.

Fury and Rogers were sitting at the table on opposite ends, the blonde looking around warily, eyeing the few agents lining the walls. You shot Fury a look, disapproving of the firepower in the room.

“Captain. Director.” You nodded to them in greeting.

Roger’s eyes snapped towards you, recognition lighting up his features. “You-”

“Agent Y/N Y/L/N. Sorry about the act.”

He nodded hesitantly, watching you as you sat down a couple seats from Fury. “I have some other business to attend to, so I’ll make this quick. To help you adjust, it’s been decided to assign an agent to help you for the next few months. Agent Y/L/N, here, will take that position.”

You blinked, turning to Fury, not expecting that. “What?”

Fury ignored you, standing up and setting down a file on the table in front of you when he passed. “The file has what you need to explain to him. Start now.”

“Fury.” You snapped, eyebrows furrowing as you stared at the file. Looking back as the door opened, you scrambled to stand when you realized he was leaving. “Fury! Excuse me.” You pardoned yourself from the captain, chasing after the director without waiting for his reaction. “Nicholas!”

That got his attention, his stride pausing. He spun on his heel, an eyebrow quirked. “Agent-”

“You didn’t mention anything about months helping him. I thought you meant, at most, a week!”

He crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “You’re the first person he saw when he woke up. You’re the best option.”

“First off,” you mimicked his position, popping your hip for good measure. “Even though I was the first person he saw, I deceived him. Why would he trust me? Second, why me? I understand having me for the little show you put on. I get that. But me? Of all people? You know I don’t do personal stuff.”

Fury narrowed his eyes. “You’re on this, and that’s final. He needs to know politics and technology. Settle him into the apartment in the file.”

You gaped as he turned around and started towards the elevators at the end of the hallway. “What about-?!”

“Your mission is being taken care of!” He called over his shoulder. “Politics and technology!”

You huffed, stomping your foot, frustrated, well aware of the fact that you were throwing a mini tantrum. You worked behind the scenes, acting as someone other than yourself. You didn’t help 93 year old super soldiers settle into new houses, teach them about current politics, and explain what cell phones were.

Walking back into the conference room, you found it empty besides Rogers, who was looking through the file, eyebrows knit in confusion. “Sorry about that.” You apologized, moving around the table to plop into the seat next to him.

He gave a half hearted shrug, glancing over at you. “It’s okay. He didn’t tell you the plan. I don’t blame you for being annoyed.”

“Yeah…it’s nothing personal. I’m not annoyed at you, and it’s not because of you. It’s just-”

“You don’t do personal stuff.” At your quirked eyebrow, he tapped his ear. “I could hear you.”

You cleared your throat, feeling slightly embarrassed at being heard. “Oh. Right. Enhanced hearing. Um, so, I guess you’re already starting without me.”

The tips of his ears turned red as you gestured to the file he was scanning. He dropped it, moving it over to you. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” You shook your head. “It’s your schooling. However you wanna do this, whatever pace you want, we’ll do that. Fury just wants you to know-”

“Politics and technology.” He shot you a small smirk. “I heard that too.”

You chuckled a bit, nodding. “Right. Okay. Let’s see here. Nickie said there was an apartment they got you…”

“Page six.” He informed you as you flipped through the pages.

You hummed, looking at the small apartment, perfect size for one person, right here in Manhattan…in the same building as yours, you noted. “Of course.” You rolled your eyes. You’d basically be his babysitter, and you knew neither of you wanted that.

“What? What’s wrong?”

You sighed, shaking your head. “This is my building.”

He blinked, looking down at the picture of the apartment. “Oh. Well, if you want I can request a change-”

“No, no. It’s fine. I just - I wish Fury told me.”

“Can-can I ask you a personal question?”

You shrugged, thumbing through the rest of the file. They basically wanted you to give him a government lesson starting with the fifties and then go over military technological advancements - a lot of Stark Industries stuff. “You might as well. We’re gonna be spending quite a bit of time together.”

“Why don’t you do personal?” You stopped your reading, tapping a finger on the table as you chewed on your cheek. “Sorry. You don’t hafta share if it’s too personal. I get it. I was never really into sharing my emotions, either.”

Turning your head to him, your lips pursed thoughtfully. His head was ducked, his blonde hair previously parted and styled was falling into his eyes, which were trained on his linked hands in his lap. His forehead was still creased, but it was more contemplative than confused as it was previously. 

“I specialize in undercover operations.” Ignoring the way he whipped his head to you, slight surprise in those blues that you were answering his question, your head dropped back to the files, trying to act nonchalantly. “Before that I grew up in foster homes. My parents died when I was little. Drunk driver. No one survived. I was…two. I think. Maybe three. I learned to keep my head down to stay out of trouble; be the kid whoever had me wanted me to be. Anyways, I’m used to playing other people. I’m not really used to being myself.”

The room was blanketed with a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, either, but it was welcomed as Rogers processed what you had just told him. His voice was quiet, almost shy, when he spoke up. “You can be yourself with me…if you want.”

You looked over at him again, your lips turning up slightly as you met his sincere gaze. “Thanks. You can be yourself with me too, Captain Rogers.”

“Let’s start with you calling me Steve, Agent Y/L/N.”

Your features broke into a bigger grin as you nodded, accepting his terms. “Alright, Steve. I don’t really have a preference. Just don’t call me Agent. I get flashbacks to every conversation with Fury.”

Steve laughed and you couldn’t help but enjoy the way his eyes shut, his nose scrunching up. “Alright.” He agreed with a beam. “I think I can avoid that, honey.”

All Works Taglist:

@happygoreading​

@bibliophilewednesday​

#cjswriting #fatws series oneshots #falcon and the winter soldier series oneshots #fatws series oneshot 1 #fatws series #back to the beginning one shot #steve rogers x reader #kinda #💛🧭 #❤🐦💙🦾⏪

[smartycvnt]

Warzone

pairing: Jackie Sharp x Reader

summary: After Jackie leaves DC, she goes to see you.

Jackie's resignation from Congress didn't come as a shock to you. Despite supposedly being done with her, you'd been following the stories closely. The run for President had been ambitious, overly ambitious for her in your mind. The fact that Underwood hadn't reached out to you for information on her clued you in that it wasn't her idea. She was able to go back to the House after dropping out of the presidential race. However, it seemed that barely a year later and she was out once again.

Seeing the news of her divorce didn't come as a shock. You'd always thought it was premature, she had only been with Alan for months at the time. This was a woman who had taken five months to figure out that she loved you, and that was after you'd broken up for the first time. Hearing that she had run off with Remy Danton had hurt you worse than the marriage had. You never wanted to force her into a life she didn't want when the two of you were together, but it seemed that she just didn't want you.

You had almost, almost, forgotten about Jackie and Remy when you swore that you saw her. Her back was turned, but there was a sense of familiarity that could only come from one person. You waited and waited for Jackie to turn around, but she didn't. It was only when she was making her way out to the street that you caught her. There was a look of terror and regret on her face, like she was afraid that she was making a huge mistake. After that, you'd taken off for the rest of your shift and just gone straight home.

Three days later, and Jackie was outside of your house. You didn't know what she was doing for those three days, but you were glad she had come to see you. For the longest time, she just stood at your front door, unaware that you could definitely see her. It wasn't until she turned around to leave that you opened the door and stopped her.

"So you can run into a warzone, but you can't ring a doorbell?" you asked Jackie. She froze and turned around to face you, finally. "Come on, I've got coffee and you can make me breakfast."

"This was a mistake, I should, um, go," Jackie stammered. You crossed your arms over your chest and leaned against the doorframe as you stared her down. Jackie looked like she was trying to find something to say, but couldn't.

"You're here for a reason Jackie," you reminded her. She nodded and looked down at her shoes as she kicked at your porch. "Do you want to come in so you can think about it?"

"Yeah," Jackie said quietly. You stepped aside to let her in and Jackie cautiously walked into your home. You watched her taking it all in, all of the changes since the two of you had last seen each other. It had been a long time since she'd been to this part of California, even though it felt the most like home. "I like what you've done with the place."

"Thanks, it's the same as it was before. Just missing a couple of things," you told her. Jackie stopped to figure out what was missing. To you, it was obvious, but Jackie had to take a few moments. She took a seat on your couch and you got her a cup of coffee from the kitchen. There were a few moments of silence between the two of you before Jackie spoke up.

"I'm going to be in California for awhile. My mom's been asking me to stay with her, she's still about 30 minutes away. It's been a long time since I've been so close to you. The distance killed us before, but we don't have to worry about that anymore. I'm not going back to DC anytime soon." You knew what Jackie was saying, but you wanted her to actually say it. And so, you sat there silently waiting for her to explicitly ask you to let her back into your life. "I don't know, it's probably just stupid talk."

"Jackie, you're ridiculous," you laughed. Immediately, she looked confused and a little offended. She let out an indignant huff as she sat back against your couch. "What happened to the woman who snuck off a military base to take me to the movies?"

"She was reprimanded for that," Jackie muttered under her breath. You leaned forward, just close enough to offer your hands to Jackie. "This is harder than I thought it'd be. So much has happened and I don't want to ruin your life."

"Jackie the only way you could ruin my life is if you left me like you did before," you told her. Jackie looked away with guilt in her eyes. You sighed and sat on your knees in front of her. "Jackie, you're here. I'm here. There's no reason that we can't try again, just slowly this time."

"You'll really take me back?" Jackie asked you.

"I'll give you another chance because I know you're a good person and you'll do the right thing." Jackie smiled down at you before pulling you onto her lap. "Hey, I said slow!"

"Kiss then?" Jackie tried. You got off of her lap and held your hand out towards her. She took it, allowing you to pull her onto her feet before kissing her. "I should get going I guess."

"Call me Jackie, my number hasn't changed. And I know where your mother lives, so no excuses." You poked at her chest and Jackie nodded. You walked her to the door, unsurprised when Jackie went in for a quick kiss before leaving. She had seemed almost nervous about it, which you admittedly thought was adorable. Hopefully whatever apprehension Jackie had in regards to you would be done with by the time that the two of you were over "taking things slowly."

==tag list==

@holycrapraewth @hbkpop @1-lindsay83 @rosiewritesagain @addictedtodinosaurs @crimeshowjunkie @svushots @bookpillows @imlike-so-gaydude @ladysc

#jackie sharp imagines #jackie sharp imagine #jackie sharp x reader #jackie sharp #house of cards x reader #house of cards imagines #house of cards imagine #house of cards

[ilooklikeaburntchickenugget]

Loyalty

A/N: I got inspiration for this piece from the Tumblr account @xxfanfiction-emo-trinityxx​ (I got their permission to tag them!) however I think they’re a wonderful writer and always one of the top ones with a huge amount of Gerard x Reader fics that I keep on crawling back to. They have a work called “Gotham City Rivals” (with two parts) that I fell in love with and decided to do my own spinoff of with their idea. I also don’t know that much about any DC comics, most of Gerard’s character in this is based off of Bruce Wayne, but I didn’t do a bunch of research so I apologize for any inaccuracies. Hope you guys enjoy! Pairing: Batman!Gerard x Catwoman!Reader Word count: 2,781 Warnings: Angst, minor fighting, swear words, injury, mentions of blood.

You slipped off your skin tight suit with a harsh gasp, your teeth grinding together at the rough cuts that the latex and leather of your suit now brushed against. Yet the sounds of a hot shower and the steam that you could already see promised some element of relief to the pain. “You alright?” You heard your boyfriend walk in the room, armor still on in it’s completion besides his mask and gloves that he was currently carelessly throwing on the marble counter.

“Yeah, I think so.” You responded, examining the damage of your wounds in the mirror. “Not the worse I’ve taken.” Reflecting back on the various gun shots and stabs you’ve received over the years.

He came over, standing behind you. His metal armor always looked so good on him, solid black with small decals that you felt lucky enough you only got to see. He gave small kisses on the cuts and bruises along your shoulder and collarbones. It wasn’t in a sexual way, more in a caring one.

He finally decided to take off his suit as well, revealing his soft muscles but well built frame. You always found it funny how comic and cartoon artists portrayed real life heroes. They ignore your hip dips, made your waist the size of a pencil, and even overemphasized your boobs. And with Gerard, well, he was actually a lot like what artists portrayed him as, maybe just a little less triangle shaped.

“Next time,” You sighed as you look at him in the mirror that was now fogging with steam, his eyes on yours through the reflection, “You’re taking more hits.” He lightly laughed.

“Fine.” He agreed with a kind smile, “If you insist.”

“I’ve told you a million times, Gerard, I don’t know anything about those two!” You paced around his marble office trying to explain to him, “They are batshit crazy. They hold no patterns, no compunction, it’s part of their game and it makes it fun for them.” Your feet hastily moved back and forth on the gray tiled floor, the only light source was the sun creeping through the gray clouds outside and small desk-lamps around the large room.

“You’ve worked with her a few times,” He argued back from across his desk where he sat, “You have to know something.” “Those ‘two times’ happened probably five years ago, and it was exchanging files for some cash that’s it.” You sighed, “They don’t have a plan, ever, that’s what I’m telling you. Gerard, I know you’re incredibly smart and think with a plan. And the Joker’s really fucking smart too, but he’s also mentally insane and has no grip on himself other than to kill. He’s like a wild fucking animal.” Your boyfriend leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh, his finger holding his temple together as he collected himself. “If I could help you on this, you know I would in a heartbeat.”

“Would you though?” His anger was growing, both he and you knew it. In fact, the entire room and all its objects were now drowning in the tension.

“What?” You asked barely above a whisper and through teeth clenched together, eyebrows furrowing as your vision grew red. There was no response. “If you’re questioning the integrity of my current work then fuck off. You’re too scared to kill the man, and now you’re gonna put some of this one me?” You snapped, he remained emotionless. Damn he was good at his job. “Go fuck yourself Gerard.” And with that, you stormed out of the room and up to your shared bedroom.

This stupid mansion he lived in was still a maze to you, and stomping through it in your utter fit of rage didn’t help, the sound of your feet bouncing off the large halls. It made your head want to explode.

You had never once blown up on him in your two years of dating and partnership. But never had he ever questioned your morals, or more importantly your loyalty. And you were expecting some form of an apology in the least.

Sure, you felt a little bad about bringing up his own methods of working. He had his extremely valid reasons, but it was a button to push in response to him pushing yours. You knew you would apologize eventually, but you needed him to come to you first.

After all, he was the one acting like a child. It was almost like an interrogation of you, despite the fact you had told him countless times that you knew nothing about the Joker or Harley. Other than the two deals you made with them in your early days for some extra money, those two were wild cards.

So you sat in the absurdly big California king with decorated in a gray and black and decided to do some breathing exercises so you didn’t use the wall as a knife throwing target.

It was hours, no, more than hours before you saw your lover again. And if it wasn’t for your stomach grumbling in hunger you would’ve stayed cooped up in the room. You wandered your way into the grand kitchen, beginning to look for whatever you could.

Grabbing a cookie from a batch you had baked just the day before, you began brewing some coffee for yourself. Of course you didn’t hear Gerard walk in, since you two had begun this whole partner/dating thing he had begun picking up on some of your specialties, such as being extremely quiet. On missions and such you were thankful for it, considering his armor was quite clunky, but now you regretted it.

The two of you didn’t even acknowledge each other’s presence, despite the fact that you were only a few feet a way. It was like a silent game, but just completely ignoring each other. It was like the other person didn’t even exist.

But the tension was a whole other level. You literally felt suffocated by how tense it was. And you knew your lover felt the same. With the extremely small glances you took you were able to piece together how he was definitely a form of uncomfortable, his emotions starting to break through, which you knew they would eventually.

You decided once your drink was done to leave the room, leaving Gerard and the extreme conflict behind. Well, some of it at least. And back in your room you grew bored, fast.

You didn’t want to show your weak side, determination to not be the first to apologize flowed through your veins. So, you decided to relieve your stress the way you always did.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You heard Gerard’s voice echo through the hallway next to you. Your skintight suit hugged your body, kitten heels hitting the ground in rhythm.

“Going out.” You replied.

“In your suit?” He questioned, this time grabbing your arm tightly with his hand. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh?” You questioned, turning to him and eyeing him through your mask, “And what are you gonna do about it?”

“Don’t test me.” He warned, his voice growing deep. This time, you pulled your arm harshly from his grip, which he didn’t fight back.

“That’s what I thought.” You spat, walking off.

Patrols were not the most enjoyable thing, the only time they were was when you were stressed and needed something to take your mind off of all your problems. A relationship limiting argument between you and your boyfriend was a perfect example.

Very rarely, if ever, did big stuff happen in Gotham. Small crimes like robberies, domestic cases, so on and so forth could be dealt with by the excuse of a police department the city had to offer. You were wondering when the federal government would finally come and kick a shoe up their ass.

It was funny, Gerard with all his power, I mean being the Gerard Way (despite the fact absolutely no one knew he was Batman) still couldn’t convince major officials to bring in more backup despite his numerous requests hidden in comments within conversations. The excuse was always that Gotham didn’t need help: they had Batman.

And let’s not forget his stealthy partner who did a lot of the work as well, the wonderful Catwoman who always got overlooked by the patriarchal influences that still flushed their way into society today. You scoffed at it.

On your earpiece you heard an incoming for an “escalating situation” at one of the prisons, which was just icing on the already destroyed caked for “a bunch of dangerous prisoners just got out.” Great.

It took you less than five minutes to be at the scene, strutting in and flashing your badge. It wasn’t that you actually needed one, it was just for good measure.

You got led through the dozens of police cars lining the outside of the prison all with flashing lights and a few sirens still going, escorted by one of the main detective inside where you were met with another officer talking to the one and only man himself.

Those hazels eyes hidden well under the mask looked up and met yours, softening just a bit from the black optics of Batman’s as you approached him. “Catwoman.” He said in a stern tone.

“Batman.” You responded the same, arms crossed over your chest.

You were briefed on the situation: A bunch of highly dangerous criminals did escape and were on the loose. The police felt that they needed help because some may or may not have ties to the Joker, therefore it made it a case for you and Gerard to deal with.

“Be careful,” Gerard told you, the two of you walking side by side in the street on patrol and looking out, “I don’t want you getting hurt again.” “Please,” You scoffed, “These guys probably have guns and a destructed god complex. I don’t see a problem.” “Some of these are former Arkham patients.” He warned, “They could be dangerous. And crazy.” “Like we haven’t dealt with that before.” You reminded him, “Or more specifically me, because I could have connections, ya know?” A verbal stab for sure. He looked over and glared.

“We’re not having this conversation right now.” “So when we get home are you finally going to grow up and have one after the entirety of today?”

“I told you-” Before he could even finish the two of you were surrounded by men with guns and various other forms of highly illegal weaponry. “Shit.” He muttered.

“Yeah shit.” You responded as bullets began shooting towards you. A few of them managed to ricochet off of nearby metal beams hitting your attackers, while other nearly missed you as you managed to jump behind them. With a few solid kicks and swings you were able to disarm and knock out four or five of them, Gerard getting the other 10 of them or so considering his suit and physical ability was greater than yours.

“How many were there again?” You asked him.

“15.” He responded. You looked around, mentally counting the bodies.

“Perfect, 15.” You responded with a sigh. “Do they not know how to scatter?” He shook his head.

A deafening silence filled the car on your way home, the only thing being heard was the soft engine rumbling of the mobile. You were still going to be strong about this whole thing, despite the fact that you wanted it to be over with.

You looked around out of boredom, and down at your suit to see if there was any damage. And, well, there was more than damage. “Well, would you look at that,” You lightly laughed, looking at the left side of your torso where a big slash and blood was seeping through. You hadn’t noticed any pain or anything until you looked down.

“What the fuck?” He asked, looking down to from the road.

“Gee, pay attention to the road.” He reluctantly huffed and put his gaze back there.

“You have a huge fucking slash on your side.” “I know,” You commented, “Oh well, we’ll fix it when we get home.”

You hadn’t noticed his increase in speed or the extra few minutes he cut off as you pulled into the large and modern mansion. Before you could even step out of the car in the garage Gerard had already opened your car door and picked you up, carrying you bridal style.

“You know I can walk.” You lightly laughed, holding on to his arms, “I think it was just a bullet graze.”

“I don’t want you hurting yourself.” He placed you down on the couch, “Let me grab the first aid kit.”

He was gone for only a few moments, coming back with the kit in handy, no mask and gloves this time, with no time to remove his armor. It wasn’t a life threatening wound, that’s for sure. “May I?” He asked, motioning to the zipper on the back of your suit. It was so cute to you how he always asked, despite your years of being together. You nodded, moving your hair out of the way.

He took your suit off with ease, helping you step out despite the harsh feeling you got from the slash. Carefully he sat you back down, dabbing your wound with a bit of alcohol and making sure not to directly touch the affected area. There was a certain spot where he had to touch the wound with the cottonball. You couldn’t help but cringe and gasp at the painful feeling, shutting your eyes as it felt like your flesh was burning. “I’m sorry baby.” He commented, squeezing your thigh for support. “You’re doing so great.”

It took him only a few more minutes, and the two of you deciding stitches may be stretching it too far, for you to finally be all bandaged up. You slowly got up, Gerard coming right to you and helping to hold your hips up. “I would suggest a bath but-” “Not a good idea.” You lightly laughed, placing your head on his shoulder. “Thank you.” You mumbled.

“No problem.” He responded, kissing the top of your head. “You alright?” You nodded as he picked you up again, taking you to the bedroom to rest.

He placed you lightly on the bed while removing the covers on the side you always slept. You crawled into the open area he had created, placing your wounded body onto the sheets and covering it up. “Do you want some pajamas?” He asked, now removing some of his suit, his unbrushed and tangled black hair fell just below his eyes.

“Yeah, actually,” You lightly smiled, “If you wouldn’t mind. This sports bra is kinda tight.” He nodded, walking into your closet and grabbing some sweatpants, while walking into his own to grab an old t-shirt, knowing those were your favorite things to wear.

He gave them to you, and stood there watching to which you rolled your eyes, “C’mon now, turn around.” You instructed, his eyes went wide with a form of embarrassment, “You don’t get to see my tits, yet.” He sighed, complying with you as you slipped your bra off and shirt on in a few seconds.

You decided against pants, considering that would take a lot of extra effort. So you just pulled the covers over you, sinking back in. “You can turn around now.” And Gerard did, looking at you with the shirt on and residing to his own side of the bed next to you.

You chose a petty play next, completely ignoring him, waiting for an apology. “I’m sorry.” He said, leaning back on the frame of the bed and looking at you. You looked back at him signaling him to do more explaining, “I’m sorry for questioning your loyalty and moral of your work. I know those two things matter to you very much, and I had no right to question either of those.” You took a moment to let the words settle in.

“Thank you,” You responded, “I’m sorry for bringing up the way you work. I know why you do it and I, too, didn’t have the right to do that either.” “Thank you.” He responded, both of you taking sighs of relief as most of the tension alleviated. “I love you.” He told you next. It had taken him a full year to speak those wonderful three words to you, and whenever he said them you always cherished the way they sounded.

“I love you too.” You responded with a small smile, placing your head on his shoulder which he happily complied with.

#gerard way #gerard way x reader #gerard way x you #gerard way x y/n #gerard way fanfiction #mcr gerard #my chemical gerard #my chemical romance #My Chem #my chemical gee #my chemical romance x reader

[baticorngirl]

Title: “Dad, you’re embarrassing me!’

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Relationship(s): Talia Al Ghul/Bruce Wayne (Brutalia), Talia Al Ghul & Ra’s Al Ghul, Bruce Wayne & Ra’s Al Ghul, Dusan Al Ghul & Ra’s Al Ghul, Nyssa Raatko & Ra’s Al Ghul, Talia Al Ghul & Dusan Al Ghul,

Characters: Talia Al Ghul, Bruce Wayne, Ra’s Al Ghul, Nyssa Raatko, Dusan Al Ghul,

Summary: Bruce Wayne, an average (other than his parent's death) billionaire, was nervous. Very, very, nervous. It was a simple task, really, but meeting his girlfriend's family seemed rather intimidating at the moment. She has mentioned her father being strict or whatnot many times, and it had gotten many worries to arrive in his mind.

Unfortunately, Bruce had every right to be worried.

A/N: I don't own the characters, DC does.

This fic was originally made (or at least started) for @brutalia-week​ Day 4: Family. Since I wasn't able to finished it in time, I tried to make it a "day 8" kind of thing.... although I'm a teeny bit late for that, too, lol. It was originally just supposed to be a short humor fanfic, but... let's just say it got out of hand. Fair warning that some of the characters may be a teeny bit OOC (nothing too bad, though) because of humor or just plot-convenience.

For context, this takes place in an alternate universe where Bruce doesn't become Batman, but that's the only big difference. Anyway, enjoy!

Related Links: Read it on FF.Net (x), Read it on Ao3(x),

Day 1(x), Day 2(x), Day 3(x), Day 5(x), Day 6(x), Day 7(x),

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Bruce was uncomfortable. His tie felt itchy, and hot, like a fever that somehow didn't spread to his forehead. In fact, his whole body felt hot, and the tiniest bit shaky. Bruce's stomach twisted up in a knot, making his face turn visibly red with discomfort. His breathing was a bit quicker and shorter than normal. He was nervous. Very, very, nervous. But considering the situation, he had every right to be.

Talia and him had been dating for quite a while now. Over 6 months, actually. They met up when they could, and every time they went on a date, they started enjoying each other's company more, and more, and more. Talia often had things she needed to do, though, and they would often come up out of what seemed to be nowhere. She'd always say she just had an assignment from work of some kind, but it often occurred to Bruce that she never mentioned what she did as a profession.

Perhaps, today would be the day he found out. Now that their relationship was feeling more serious, Talia had finally decided she would introduce her boyfriend to her parents, and the rest of her family. It had taken some convincing for her to do it, but her father had been adamant that meeting and evaluating any of her potential husbands was necessary.

"What if they're not worthy?" He had insisted, pacing back and forth in urgency. "What if they plan to spy on you, or hurt you, or are simply a failure? Besides, my Dear Daughter, what's the issue with him meeting us? Please, tell me you're not seriously acting embarrassed of your own family at this age." Ra's stopped to look at her, a disappointed look on his face.

"I-" Talia hadn't wanted to upset him, or even worse, make her view her as immature. She sighed, "Fine, but please…. try to stay calm with him. Be understanding if he's not quite up to your qualifications of worthy, and…. Just try not to kill him, okay? You can be very overwhelming, and although he's a very nice man, he's not used to murderers." She had tried to put it lightly, but truthfully, she wanted to yell the list of commands in his face. It was ridiculous -absolute ludicrous- that she had to tell him such simple things.

"Of course, Daughter. Whatever makes you most comfortable." Ra's smiled at her, and leaned in to kiss the top of her head affectionately. Yet again, she was reminded by why she had spared his feelings, but quickly forgot it as he spoke again. "But you can't truly expect me to hide my whole personality, can you? I'll try to make sure there's minimal stabbing at the family dinner that night, but you can only expect so much of me."

Talia had stared at him, with her eyes squinted with concern, but she pushed a smile on her face regardless. "J- Just do your best, Father. Thank you." The minute she had gotten out of the room, though, her smile immediately dropped. She let out a huge, tired, sigh. She loved her family, but sometimes she just wished they could hold their murderous instincts in for a moment.

Now, as her and Bruce inched towards the door, Talia felt that wish more than she ever had before. Even if Bruce was nervous, thinking of the times Talia had mentioned her Father being strict, controlling, and painfully traditional, he was nothing compared to Talia. She flinched every few moments. Her every instinct told her to lead Bruce away, to come up with an excuse, but it was too late now. She gulped. Maybe, if she had the best luck in the world, her father would only talk about his Endangered-Species-Saving Programs, and not his Murder-Most-Humans program.

But when Bruce looked down at her, he felt a sense of excitement. He surely hadn't heard the best things from Talia about her family, but if they have raised someone as wonderful as Talia, he was sure they couldn't be too bad. He knew they may not have the most similarities, but wasn't caring about Talia the most important similarity of all?

Despite his slight optimism, inside the Al Ghul house, not everyone was on their best behavior. Screams echoed through the dining room as everyone got settled down. Nyssa and Ra's, specifically, were the ones having the heated argument. Heated arguments were not uncommon for them, so much that no one had any clue why she was even invited to the family dinners. She didn't even consider herself part of that family, but Ra's was convinced that it was such a special moment, no one could miss it. His little girl has her first boyfriend! Inevitably, he lived to regret this decision.

"You're a dirty excuse for a father, Ra's! You left me to fend for myself when I needed you most!" Nyssa yelled, standing up from her chair. Her breath was heavy with rage. "You should be ashamed of yourself!" She quickly picked up her fork, throwing it as hard as she could in Ra's' face.

"No, you should be ashamed of yourself! You're the one that betrayed me, before I had done a thing to you!" Ra's screamed back, throwing the fork aside. Fortunately for Ra's, the fork hadn't done any damage. He quickly pulled himself out of his seat to balance the dominance in their positions. "Everything that happened was your own fault, so stop pushing the blame on to me just because I blatantly decided you weren't worth saving from torture!" Unaware of how bad that sounded, he picked up the fork again and threw it back at her.

They continued throwing things at each other, screaming endlessly. The danger of the things thrown escalated as they went. At first it was simply things like forks and spoons, things that wouldn't do too much damage. But it started getting worse, and worse…..

Outside, at least Bruce was getting some kind of a warning. Talia stopped him just before he opened the door, turning him to face her. She stared at him, a glint of dead seriousness in her eyes.

"Beloved, you are not ready to meet my family. You never will be. They're a lot to deal with." She warned. Talia's hands gripped his shoulders even harder than a villain does when threatening a hero. "Every single one of my family members is weird. Very, very weird. A bit absurd, even. Albeit a nice guy, you're also only a simple billionaire, so it's definitely going to get on your nerves. They even get on my nerves, they-"

Bruce gently tugged her arms off of her, "Talia, I can handle it. I'm not a judgemental guy, I swear. It's fine if they're a little weird." His face rested in a blank, -but more importantly, not a horrified or angry- expression. "Come on, let's go inside. They're probably waiting for us." He pointed towards the door, beginning to open it. Talia, still frazzled, immediately swung her arms over to stop him from opening it.

"Please, Beloved, you don't understand! It's not a difference in culture, tastes, or even opinions! I swear on my life… they're crazy." She stared into his eyes. Her pupils were huge, and her hands were shaky as she held him back. "I don't care if you don't believe me, but just… promise you won't blame me for them?" Talia looked down desperately. Her words slowed for a moment.

"Of course," Bruce nodded, but before she could even communicate her gratitude, he abruptly swung the door open. "I've told you a million times, though, I'm sure I won't even be blaming them! You're worr-" The second he took his eyes off of Talia, and on to the room in front of them, his mouth dropped. Every word he said about it being fine was regretted almost immediately. It was so very, very, not fine.

Bruce had looked just quick enough to see Nyssa cross a final line with the throwing… a full, sharp, assassin knife. It shot directly into, and right through, Ra's' guts. Blood dripped down his stomach area and onto his shirt and cape. Ra's looked down at the injury for a moment, before quickly realizing that Talia and her boyfriend had officially arrived.

"Look what you've done now, Nyssa!" Ra's scolded, pointing to Bruce angrily. "Our guest has arrived, and you've done this right in front of him! Look at him, so startled at your audacity to stab me that he can't seem to speak…. Congratulations, you've embarrassed the whole family!" Bruce couldn't seem to listen to Ra's, with his eyes stuck on his stomach. Blood kept spilling out of it, yet Ra's hardly seemed to mind.

"...Are you okay?" Bruce took a slow, hesitant step towards the dinner table. His eyes were as wide as he thought they could go. "Shouldn't someone call an ambulance? You're bleeding out!" With the pure shock of it all starting to fade, he whipped out his phone and started navigating to the dialer.

Now dripping even more blood on the ground, Ra's pranced over to the front door to greet Bruce. "No, no, no! Don't mind my other daughter's ill manors. She's never well-behaved anymore, I'm afraid. But you're the guest, you shouldn't worry about this. Just sit down and relax." He led Bruce over to his seat, nudging him to sit down onto it. Ra's turned his stomach away from the chair to be sure he didn't get any little drops of blood on it. As he made his way back to his own seat, he gestured towards his stab wound. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to have to get changed and cleaned up. I'm afraid this stab wound has created quite a mess."

Still recovering from the shock of the stabbing, Bruce attempted to reason with him, "But don't you need to get medica-" Before he could even finish his sentence, though, Ra's was already out of the room and down the hallway. As hard as Ra's had tried to keep the floor from too much damage, there were still drips of blood every few feet. Bruce considered following them to make sure he was okay, but quickly realized that with all the servants here, at least one person would help.

Talia sat down next to him, surprisingly unstartled by her own father's stabbing, "Try not to worry too much about it, Beloved. This happens a lot -sometimes even ending in the opposite- and as you can see, it has never resulted in his -or even Nyssa's- death. Oh, and don't worry for your own life, the stabbing is very personal. I doubt Nyssa thinks you have enough of a connection with him to be worth hurting." She explained matter-of-factly. Her hand gently reached over to pat his hand, in an attempt to sooth him.

"Okay… I just, I don't want you to lose him. I don't want you to feel the same pain of losing your parents as I did…" His voice quivered at the thought of his own parent's tragic murder. Talia nodded, understanding his pain, but in no way attempting to agree with him.

"As I've said before, don't worry. I'm afraid my mother already died when I was a child, and her death frightened me, but him? No, no, no, he's quite the survivor. He's survived so many ridiculous situations, in fact, I believe he's practically immortal!" She exclaimed the strong statement, seeming a bit excited, but not quite cheerful. Seeing the statement as a casual joke, Bruce laughed nervously. Talia did not laugh with him, though. To his discomfort, she stared at him, just as dead-serious as she was with her original warning.

The sound of her father's pattering footsteps knocked them both out of their odd conversation. Ra's entered the room, his blood now nowhere in sight. Despite how formal the arrangement was supposed to be, he was shirtless. A new shirt, looking very similar to the one he was wearing when Bruce arrived, was tucked under his arm.

As Ra's started pulling the shirt on, Bruce noticed something. The place where the stab wound had been just a moment ago was perfectly visible, with no clothes covering it, and yet it just… wasn't there anymore. Certainly no blood, but not even any bandages, or any kind of scar! The only thing in the victim's gut area was skin. Pure, undamaged, skin. Talia's family was starting to seriously freak Bruce out.

Once Ra's had gotten his upper-half dressed, he promptly began making his more formal greeting to Bruce, "I'm afraid, with all that chaos, I never got the chance to introduce myself! I'm Ra's Al Ghul, Talia's father. You can call me Ra's…. At least as long as I haven't found you unworthy of casual nicknames." He narrowed his eyes, scaring away any joy in Bruce for the moment. "...And you are…? I'm afraid I don't think Talia's mentioned your name."

"I'm Bruce… um, Bruce Wayne." Bruce stuttered, trying to shake away the strong sense of uncomfort Ra's was starting to give him. Ra's smiled politely, and shook his hand.

"Welcome to our home, Bruce… Or Mr. Wayne, whatever you prefer to be called." He gestured to the grand mansion they were having dinner in. Having had enough of leaning over to be eye-to-eye with Bruce, he slumped back down onto his chair. His grand, collared, cape got thrown back in the process.

"..Bruce is fine," Bruce answered, still a bit nervous. Ra's nodded at him. Surrounded by a thick layer of eyeliner, his eyes seemed to stare into Bruce's soul. Bruce hated to judge someone for their clothing style, but the way Ra's dressed was certainly off for a meet-the-family type dinner. In fact, with the gold button on his cloak looking eerily like a demon's face, he was practically dressed like a supervillain.

Everyone began eating the food in peace. Nyssa did not try to stab anyone during that time, and neither did Ra's. It was pure silence at the dinner table, with everyone focusing purely on their plates instead of making conversation. Eventually, Ra's finally brought his head up from it and started speaking to Bruce.

"So… You want to marry my daughter?" Ra's asked, looking at Bruce sternly. His eyes carefully moved up and down, evaluating every single part of Bruce to see how worthy it was. He squinted at Bruce's jacket, his shoes, his expression… everything. As much as Bruce tried to seem calm and collected for Ra's, both the sudden assumption of marriage and the intense staring were only making him feel subconscious.

Fortunately, Talia immediately cleared it up, "We haven't even spoken about marriage yet, Father! Please, you're going to overwhelm him. Didn't I already tell you not to do this?" She pleaded. Talia gulped, just as she had been doing consecutively for this entire dinner. Watching her father act this way always felt a bit off, but having her boyfriend there just made it so much worse. She could easily feel what Bruce was feeling, -or at least what she thought he was- and she knew it was far from positive. Talia looked back down at her plate, hiding her face as it turned bright red. She didn't think she'd ever felt quite this embarrassed in her entire life.

"I apologize, but you do realize, Talia, that if you ever want your relationship to go anywhere you must marry him at some point. How long have you two been dating, again?" Ra's looked back at Bruce, waiting for him to finally speak for himself.

Bruce took a deep breath, "Somewhere around 6 months? Or possibly 7, it's hard to get it exact." Ra's raised an eyebrow at the number.

"You two… have not even been thinking about marriage yet? Let me tell you, every single one of my marriages has always started with a month -at most- of prior dating, and I have had at least one perfectly good marriage. You all remember Sora, may she rest in peace, and we had the happiest of marriages. Yet, we married out of convenience! We hardly knew each other! Sometimes, you young ones must just let-" Ra's rambled, only to be cut off by Talia sighing. The gush of air was so loud and obviously exasperated that it completely cut off his story. After a second or two of silence, he continued despite it, "As I was saying, sometimes you young ones need to understand that dating isn't going to secure a marriage. A good attitude will! Both Sora and I had a good attitude, and she managed to be the light of my life. But of course, that only lasted so-"

This time, Talia simply used her words to stop him, "-So long because she got strangled to death in front of your eyes. We all know, Father, and frankly I don't think Bruce needs to know your life story. Why can't we just talk about something a bit more.. Conventional? We already talk about murder and death so much, can't we just lighten up a bit?" She begged, biting her lip uncomfortably. Her eyes looked at Ra's softly, almost as if she was attempting to do puppy eyes.

"Fine, fine, I really should get to the point, anyhow. We must tell if he is worthy enough to even date you! Only the finest in the lands are worthy of you, my darling, and so far I doubt he's up to that standard." Ra's scoffed, and Bruce couldn't help but roll his eyes in return. Talia looked down again, rubbing her temples. She was just about ready to fall asleep on her father's nonsense. "Hmmm…." Not paying any attention to his daughter's misery, he stared into Bruce's eyes for what must have been the fifth time.

"He's…. Very….. Wealthy…." Talia stated. Each word was separated by a ton of sighs, groans, and deep breaths of frustration. Even as she spoke to her father, she kept her eyes locked down on her plate, in a painful stare. Ra's rested his chin on his hand as he considered her words. He looked side to side, while tilting his head every which way in correspondence.

"Well… I suppose a bit of extra money surely isn't hurting his worthiness." Ra's titled his head one last time, glancing up at Bruce from a different angle. Slowly, he adjusted his head back to normal. His arms were lightly touching down on the table, propping up his hands to wrap their fingers in between the other one. Ra's leaned forward, with his face now less than a foot in front of his hands. "But… you can already get as much of that as you'd ever possibly need from me. Worthiness, you see, is about much more than that. It's about the intelligence. The skill. The strength. The willpower…. The grace." His index fingers, now pointing up from the rest of his hands, tapped against each other. Each tap was methodical, rhythmic… like the ticking of a clock, clacking each second away.

Bruce felt a cold, thick, drop of sweat roll down his forehead, "I… I once took an IQ test. Mine is… higher than normal. Quite a bit higher, I believe." He picked up his napkin and quickly wiped the sweat off, attempting to push a smile onto his face. Or, just some sign of confidence, at the very least. Unfortunately, he was just a billionaire -and not a very emotionally-mature billionaire at that- so it wasn't exactly helping his case.

"Good. That's very good…." Ra's nodded approvingly. His index fingers tapped together again each time his head bopped up and down. Finally looking up from her plate, Talia started to smile, a glint of hope in her eyes. "But if you really have such an impressive intelligence quotient, you better start acting like it. Hit it where it really counts, not just some meaningless quiz. If you want to receive my daughter's hand in marriage, you will prove yourself worthy of such a thing in real life." His head's nodding quickly came to a stop.

Talia sighed again, but didn't even try to bother stopping it. Her mind was much more focused on the worse tests she reckoned would come after… the ones her beloved, as wonderful and skilled as he was, was still bound to fail. She glanced up at Bruce, noticing how wet his forehead looked. Her warnings had not done a thing, as even now, he was acting as if this was a big problem in comparison to the other thing her father most valued.

As she silently brooded, Ra's began to start his opportunity for Bruce to prove his intelligence, "Bring. It. In!" His voice boomed through the room as he looked at his assassins servants expectantly. To his dismay, they all simply stared at him, waiting for some more clarification. Their eyes blinked unknowingly. Ra's cringed at his servant's lack of understanding. "I said, bring. It. In!" Yet again, he got nothing brought in at all. A long, exasperated sigh, -almost as heavy as Talia's had been all night- escaped his mouth.

One of the servants, still unsure what to do but eager to help, went over and stood by his side. The servant bowed, but didn't dare ask for clarification. Not wanting to anger the master, the servant made sure to be patient and let Ra's have time to explain himself.

Ra's turned directly towards the closest servant, looking him in the eyes desperately, "You know, it. The thing. The one you should be bringing in right now. Whipping up out of nowhere." The servant nodded, but continued to wait for even more of an explanation. Ra's waved his hand in front of the person, unsure if they were even listening. "Come on! Get to it! Bring. IT. IN….. Ah, forget it! I was really hoping I wasn't going to have to ruin the suspense and the drama like this, but the chess board! The one I always pull out dramatically when attempting to test whether I should respect someone! The grand assessment!"

"Ohhhhh…." The servant slowly nodded. They spun on their heels, beginning to make their way off to get the chess board. Every breath Ra's took was long and agitated, gushing out like the wind as he watched the servant disappear into the next room.

He turned back towards Bruce, "I apologize for that mishap. It seems I really should just keep my chess board nearby in these kinds of situations, but I promise you, my assassins did say they'd have it handy." He scoffed at their incompetence. Bruce, on the other hand, was a bit more focused on another thing. He stared at Ra's, his eyebrows furrowing.

If this family wasn't already freaking him out, they certainly were now, "A… Assassi-?!"

But before he even got to finish expressing his frantic confusion, Ra's quickly interrupted him. These 'assassins' of his were back, now with the chessboard that he desired so badly. Ra's rapidly swiped the chessboard out of their hands and slapped it down in front of the two of them.

"Finally, we can begin!" He exclaimed, a tint of annoyance still in his voice. He turned back towards his assassins for a moment, gritting his teeth. "We'll talk about this whole 'ruining my drama' thing later. All of you." Ra's pointed at his own two eyes with two of his fingers, and then pointed the fingers back down on the League of Assassins members.

"And I think we need to talk about this whole assassi-!?" Still more focused on the other matter at hand, he persisted in attempting to get some kind of explanation. But yet again, Ra's was simply not listening.

"You may go first. It's only fair that the guest gets privileges. Besides, I think you'll need every advantage you can get when playing with someone who's been playing this game for centuries." Ra's pointed to Bruce's end of the board, waiting. Bruce's lips quivered as he stared at it. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Ra's folded his hands together calmly. "Go on,"

Bruce chuckled nervously, "You're exaggerating… right?" His finger slowly inched towards the board as he thought about his first move. It was a strategy game, and Bruce was good at such games, but the claims Ra's was stating were more than intimidating. He bit his tongue, thinking back to all the games he'd won against Alfred.

"Exaggerating? Oh, hardly." Ra's shrugged, "You see, young man, this game has been going on far beyond even an old man like me's lifetime. I've been playing it for a long time, and I haven't gotten bored. But I have, as a matter of fact, learned many, many, strategies. I'd find it incredible for this to even last more than 30 minutes before you lose." Bruce leaned towards the board in concentration, attempting to ignore the chills running down his spine.

After what felt like forever of them playing chess, Talia finally saw an ending as she looked at the chess board. All of Bruce's pieces were blocked, in some way or another. She sighed in relief. Not only was this game not going to last forever, but her boyfriend wasn't even going to lose.

"It seems we've ended with a stalemate…" Ra's grinned at the outcome. He pulled out a clipboard from under the table, scribbling down the points this gave Bruce. Quickly tucking the clipboard back under the table, a look of awe sparkled in his eyes. "This is… incredible. Quite entertaining, actually! I haven't had a good opponent like this in years! Decades, even… if not centuries!" Bruce smirked, a sense of confidence raining over him. Talia rolled her eyes. She had certainly stalemated with Ra's at least once.

"Good, but now, can we please focus back on the fact that you called these… people around us... assassins?!" Bruce shook off the pride as he finally remembered the eerie mention. Talia's face flopped back down to face her plate. Her breaths were thin and short as she held back the urge to stand up and run straight out of this embarrassment.

"I did, didn't I...? Is that a problem? Did I offend you with that term?" Her father's voice rose. Despite the innocent questions, he fought back the urge to roll his eyes or scoff yet again in annoyance. "Would you prefer them to be called ninjas, murderers, or simply 'the people around us'? …..You're the guest."

"Murdere-?!" Bruce leaned back, unsure how to even say such a terrifying word. His mouth dropped open as his eyes anxiously darted back and forth. "These people are really… actual….." Talia reached over to Bruce, squeezing his hand.

"Are you alright, Beloved?" Talia asked. Her hand was warm, or possibly even a bit fever-ish to the touch. As was her cheeks, so very red with nerves. Bruce stared at her face, observing the not only embarrassed, but almost shameful expression smeared across it. A thought suddenly occurred to him… a quite unnerving, but eerily plausible one.

Bruce sighed, "...yes," He muttered through gritted teeth. Talia's shoulders slouched down, feeling her tense muscles relax at the reassurance. Bruce turned back towards Ra's, pouting his lip in a disapproving frown. "But… I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to. Let's get on with it, Ra's." Talia's muscles tensed right back up.

"Very well then, young man," Ra's aggressively shoved the chess board to the side. He pushed himself up from his seat, pulling out a sword that he had apparently been hiding in his pockets. "The next test is all about your ability to fight. Not only do I expect you to protect my daughter if the need comes up, but you also must be capable of winning wars if you want to win my daughter's love."

Talia pulled herself up from her seat, as well, "He already has my love, though, Father! No offense, but your tests and evaluations are all for yourself, and yourself only. We've already dated for long enough that it's ridiculous to act as if we aren't already in a romantic relationship." She crossed her arms, starting to get seriously fed up with her father's absurd behavior.

"Yes, yes, of course. But if you want me to treat you as my son-in-law, much less, my equal, you need to complete this test. It's about the respect! You've already shown competence in a battle of wits, now you must show you are just as skilled in physical battles for me to respect you." Ra's pointed his sword towards Bruce, making a stabbing motion towards the air. Bruce flinched as the sharp blade reached towards his chest. "Go on, get your blade out. This may not be a duel to the death -since Talia did go out of her way to make me promise I wouldn't stab you- but it's still a battle that you need to be prepared for."

"My… blade?" Bruce raised one of his eyebrows in confusion. He shook his head and squinted his eyes at Ra's. "I was just trying to go to a formal dinner, to meet my girlfriend's family. Why. Would. I. Have. a. Sword. With. Me?!" After having to listen to Ra's constantly scoff throughout the dinner, he finally managed to gather the courage to scoff back.

"You must always be prepared, young man. Always. You are obviously immature. You know strategies, but you lack the true wisdom to use them properly. But, I suppose that is only to be expected with your young age, so…. I will still give you a chance." Ra's slid his sword back into his pocket. His lips rested in a strict frown, but began to curve up ever so slightly for a moment. "Besides, you already stale-mated me. I love a good stalemate! I can't believe I found someone who could achieve such an outcome! You're wonderful, Bruce. Just wonderful… Assassins, get him a sword!"

Bruce could only stare as a woman, dressed in all black attire, handed him her sword. He opened his mouth to reject it, but only a small, frantic, l uttering sound sputtered out. Everyone, including Talia, Nyssa, the assassins, and a man who's name hadn't been mentioned yet, stepped back, leaving Bruce and Ra's alone. Bruce slowly wrapped his hands around the handle of his weapon, still adjusting to the odd feeling of holding such a sharp object in his hand. By the time he realized what was happening around him, it was much too late to eat his last bite of food.

In fact, it was too late to even stretch before the battle. Ra's, who was seemingly having enough of Bruce's shock, was already lunging over. His sword slashed at Bruce's. With Bruce's fingers barely even holding on to it, Bruce's sword immediately got flung to the ground upon feeling any kind of impact.

Clang! The metal blade chimed as it hit the hard floor. The sound instantaneously knocked Ra's out of his intense battle-focus. His teeth were not gritted anymore, and his eyes widened from their stern glaring. He looked down at the stray weapon, then back up to Bruce. Now realizing what had happened, Bruce's face turned red. A tiny spray of sweat appeared on his forehead as he looked down with embarrassment.

"With all due respect, I have never had a weaker or less skillful opponent." Ra's blinked at the pathetic sight, shaking his head. He bent down to the ground and picked up the sword. The woman who it belonged to eagerly reached out to take it from him. Ra's turned back towards Bruce, who gulped as he saw the disappointment in his eyes. "I suppose I should've expected this kind of thing from such an average billionaire, although that chess game had sure gotten me hopeful. I mean god, was that a good game!" Ra's mumbled, holding back a smile.

Bruce sighed, "Let me guess, you want me to never date or even speak to your daughter again." He looked back at Talia, his shoulders slumping at the thought of leaving someone so lovely. But almost just as quickly, his shoulders pulled back up again. "Because if I may just say, this is completely unwarranted! You could've at least given me a warning about this nonsense…"

"You.. have a point." Ra's nodded, "Which is why I haven't completely ruled you out. That chess game still proves your utter excellency in nature, so perhaps it is rather cruel to blame you for this one time. But-"

Out of pure instinct, Bruce punched Ra's in the gut and kicked him to the floor. Ra's quickly jumped back up and dusted himself off, hardly bothered physically. But mentally, he was shocked. Talia ran to her father's side to make sure he was alright.

"Why would you do that, Beloved?" She yelled at Bruce. With Ra's obviously unarmed, she took a step towards her boyfriend. "You already weren't doing very well on his evaluations, so how do you think attacking him is going to help you?"

"I've proved I can defeat him." Bruce narrowed his eyes, still confident in his reckless behavior. Talia sighed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "He was doubting my ability to fight, but I've proved that I'm perfectly capable of throwing a punch or two. Since he's so obsessed with my fighting, it should help me be 'worthy' or whatnot." He crossed his arms.

Ra's rested his forehead against his hand, facepalming, "Yes, you got me on the ground for a bit, but at what cost? Ambushing may be a great strategy, and I already admitted you knew many strategies, but what kind of true warrior would use it on his own friend!?" He snapped. His large boots rattled as he stomped his foot on the ground. "A little agitation and frustration towards me does not take away the fact that you never declared us at war!" He began to stomp back to his seat at the dinner table.

"For goodness sakes, you're really going to lecture me about my morals when you've got a freaking assassin cult surrounding us!?" Bruce yelled back in return, "In my defense, when I see assassins, it really seems like anything I do would be in self-defense… Even if you weren't currently attacking me…" He argued. Every sense of nervousness had spiraled into anger.

"Exactly, we never attacked you except for a formal, well-mannered, spa-"

"Shut up! Can't you both just agree to disagree?!" Now shaking from frustration, Talia finally let her voice really rise and scream at them both. She tugged Bruce back to the table, and motioned for them both to sit down. "Apparently you're both a bit crazy, but two different kinds of crazy that apparently don't mix. I just- I just want this dinner to not be the worst experience of all of our lives…." As she settled back down into her own chair, her voice began to lower again.

Bruce and Ra's both begrudgingly nodded. Everyone's muscles began to relax, and their breaths were much slower and calmer. The ticks of an old clock clacked in the background as everyone went back to eating calmly. After a few minutes of peaceful silence, a soft conversation began again.

"I don't think you two ever introduced yourselves." Bruce pointed to another man and woman who were seated at the table with them. They had been simply watching and speculating as him and Ra's did their shenanigans. "You're Nyssa, right?" He pointed to the woman who had stabbed Ra's not long ago.

"Yes, and it's been quite amusing to watch him be kinder to you than he is to me." Nyssa sent him a cold glare across the table. He shuttered. "I'm Talia's older sister… or technically half sister, but you get the point."

Ra's quickly took up the introductions once she was finished, "Yes, yes, she's my other daughter. Much older than Talia, but nowhere near as wonderful." He smiled at Talia, who blushed uncomfortably. Being the favorite was better than being the least favorite, but it could certainly be embarrassing, too. Ra's turned towards Dusan, "He's… my son? I think. I'm sorry, it's been a long time since his birth, so I sometimes forget it even happened! His name is… hmm… I'm fairly sure it starts with a C…"

"It's Dusan, Father. It doesn't even start with a C…" The man corrected. He sighed at his father's forgetfulness. Ra's titled his head at Dusan, displeased at the answer. His expression was questionable, with an eyebrow raised, like he was about to question Dusan on his own name. Dusan sighed even deeper.

"I… supposed that's his name, then…" Ra's gave in, his tone still indicating his lack of certainty on the matter. He looked Dusan in the eyes, making direct eye contact, "But don't call me Father! You're hardly my son if I can't even remember my name." Dusan returned the eye contact with a look of sadness and disappointment.

"If it makes you feel any better, Dusan, I still consider you my big brother." Talia stated, smiling towards him shyly. Dusan shook off the eye contact with Ra's to send a bitter glare back to his younger sister.

"Oh really? Like I care, Favorite! One day, he's going to realize that I'm the better child and you're going to be forsaken considering how much trouble you've caused him!" Dusan scowled at Talia. She groaned, but stayed quiet in an attempt to avoid another embarrassing argument.

"Don't you dare speak to your superior that way!" Despite her silence, Ra's was far from quiet. He immediately looked back towards Bruce as he finished speaking. His speech was completely polite to Bruce now, as if the spontaneous attack had never even happened. "I apologize for his foul behavior, Bruce. It seems that sometimes immature children will act out if you forget to treat them kindly."

"Um… okay." Bruce squinted at Ra's, concerned but still confused. He was still certain that despite the uncalled-for attack, Ra's was still indefinitely the crazier one. But of course, in an effort to not upset Talia, Bruce kept this thought to himself. "I… suppose you must have another test for me, right?"

"Of course! Even though your manners aren't the very best, I will admit you did get me on the ground for a bit there, so… I still haven't counted you out. With a little teaching, you could be a very worthy man." Ra's complimented, "I'd just like to ask you a few questions, to get a grip of your personality just a bit better." He explained, pushing his food to the side.

"Go ahead," Bruce said. Despite his encouraging words, though, he was frowning in utter disinterest. He slowly pushed his food to the side to clear a path between them. Ra's pointed to Bruce before he asked the first question.

"How do you feel about the environment? More specifically, the planet. Innocent animals made endangered by man-made devices and pollution!" Ra's began. He eagerly stretched his hand over to grab a nearby globe, pulling it into his clutches. His thick, strong, fingers spun it nonchalantly.

Bruce thought about the question for a moment, "I feel bad for the animals. Since I have so much money, I've donated tons to helping them, and I feel the environment is a very important cause. I will admit I haven't done a ton of work with it myself, though…" He answered the question as truthfully as possible, figuring it probably wasn't too important.

"That's good… although I would appreciate a bit more enthusiasm for such an important cause." Ra's nodded, quickly moving on to the next question. "How about… murder? Assuming there's a good cause for it, of course."

Bruce froze, "Do I… do I have to answer truthfully?" He whispered into Talia's ear. She nodded, pointing towards her father. With a couple of her fingers pressed up to her neck, she made a cut-throat gesture. Bruce shuttered and shook at such a threatening signal, even if it was more of a simple warning. "I think it's horrible. One of the worst crimes imaginable. I would never commit it, even if it cost me my life. I don't think there's any excuse for taking another human being's life, no matter what that human being has done."

Ra's frowned at the blunt response, "But what if it saved other lives? The animals, which we've hurt so much with pollution's lives, perhaps?" He argued, continuing to spin his globe fidgetly. His eyes peered down at the bright blue paint, thinking of the dolphins, fish, seals, and whales that all inhabited that precious space. The space humans were constantly taking over, with their plastic, machinery, and oil spills. To Ra's, such horrid actions seemed surely worthy of the death penalty.

"I said no," Bruce shook his head stubbornly. "No one deserves to die, period. I'm not going to be persuaded on this." He glared at Ra's, starting to get more and more confident by the minute. Ra's glowered right back at him.

Talia sighed, "You know, Beloved… You didn't have to be this blunt about it." She leaned her head on chin on her hand wearily. Her eyes began to close softly, having no energy left after all the messes that had gone on. "I just didn't want you making up something too-good-to-be-true…."

Bruce rolled his eyes, "Well maybe I want to be blunt-"

"Well, I'd like to remind you that my father isn't exactly the person you want to upset!" She gestured back towards all the highly-trained assassins surrounding them. Every single one had belts with an arsenal of weapons tucked inside, and half of them had enough muscles to take down most people without the help of the weapons. "Only a fool would mess with such a man. After months of dating you, I hope I am not misled when I say you're not that much of an idiot."

Bruce gulped, immediately realizing his mistake, "I…. I'm sorry, Mr. Al Ghul." He looked back at Ra's nervously. He quickly tightened his tie and fixed his posture, hoping even that small of a change could make a difference. . . Whether that difference was a matter of life or death, or simply whether Talia and him were allowed to keep dating.

"You know... '' Ra's considered his options, peering at Bruce judgmentally. "That kind of rebelness does show courage, if you squint. I'll be fair and say it's bound to come in handy at some point in your life… so, I have decided that you two may keep dating. From what I've heard, you make my daughter happy, so I suppose I'd feel bad being too judgemental." He smiled at Talia. Getting up from his seat, he wandered around the table to kiss her forehead lovingly.

Despite the loving gesture, though, Talia was much more focused on the wonderful news this meant for her and Bruce. The minute her father was done giving her the kiss, she ran over to Bruce and hugged him. Bruce wrapped his hands around her as well, squeezing her against him.

"Thank you, Father," Talia turned back towards Ra's for a split second before leaning back into Bruce's hug. She rested her cheek against him affectionately. "You're alive. I can't believe you're still alive. Everyone's still alive…." She smiled, tilting her to the left to peck him on the cheek.

"Yes.. although I will admit it's a bit sad that we even questioned that.. Not that we didn't have the right to." Bruce glared at Nyssa and Ra's bitterly. Fortunately, they were both looking the opposite way. He really had to stop doing so much of this rebellious, impolite, glaring at those he was attempting to make fond of him. "But more importantly, we get to stay together! I knew I had made the right move by attacking your father." He smirked.

"Sure you did," Talia's smile twisted into a smirk along with his, "There's a reason he didn't kill you, though, Beloved. You were wonderful… and the stalemate? That's more than impressive. It took me my entire childhood of playing chess with him to start being able to get those! You're so intelligent, and brave, and… well, I'm just very glad I fell in love with someone as wonderful as you. Even if you did punch my Father." Her eyes softened for a moment, now taken over by a bittersweet gaze.

"...Thank you," Bruce smiled softly back to her, but it was quickly taken over by a more solemn, concerned, expression. "Can we talk outside for a moment, Talia? After all this, I think there's a lot we need to go over… privately." He nudged her out of the comfy hug.

Talia's smile immediately dropped, "Of… course," She stuttered, now remembering that Bruce had just learned tons of secrets in this one evening. Her head turned slightly back towards Ra's, "Please excuse us for a moment." Taking Bruce's hand, Talia led him outside to a nearby courtyard.

Once they got there, Bruce let out a long, painfully loud, groan. He flopped down onto one of the benches drowsily. Talia sat down with him, letting out a smaller groan herself. They sat there, with all masks and forced smiles dropped for an awkward minute or two. Their eyes were closed for the most of it, only flickering open every few seconds.

"I assume you want to break up with me, anyway." Talia finally spoke, her words slow and quiet above the peeps of nearby crickets. She stared straight down at the ground, neglecting to blink or let the aching tears stream out of her eyes. Bruce slowly looked up at her. Both their heads were still dropping forwards for the most part, but he peered at her from the corner of his eye. Another gap of silence stood between them before he finally opened his mouth to answer her question.

"...No, not necessarily." Bruce finally answered. He looked back down at his lap, avoiding any kind of eye contact. Her chin twitched upwards at the good news. But as he spoke again, Talia's chin lowered. "But… out of curiosity, if I did, would your father kill me?"

"Well… yes, probably." Her skirt gently flew up, caught in the airy breeze. She breathed in and out, as slow and soft as the wind. Bruce bit his lip, pouting ever so slightly. He swallowed in consideration. "But I would try my best to stop it from happening, Beloved. As much as it would ache me, I would never want you to die, of course. …..You could fake your own death." She suggested, finally lifting her chin enough to really look at him.

Bruce flinched, but kept his head down, "I'd… rather not do that." A muffled groan escaped his lips. Talia's lips quivered at the uncomfortable sound. Her head dropped again, spinning towards the opposite direction. As she turned away, Bruce continued thinking over his options. Everything felt wrong, but somehow right in an odd way. They sat in silence for another couple minutes as he fell deep into his thoughts.

"You promised," Talia suddenly blurted out. Tears had begun to well up in the corners of her eyes. She continued to look away from him, hiding the weak, desperate look on her face. "You promised you wouldn't blame me for them….. You promised." Her voice was careful as she attempted to keep her tone as calm as possible.

Bruce nodded, "You're right," He stated. For a second, but only for a second, did his voice crack into a much shakier tone. It pained him to look at her, to hear her faltering voice, and most of all, to know that she hadn't truly done a thing. At least, as far as he knew. "Your father's a criminal. The leader of a league dedicated to murder. So, with that knowledge in mind…. How many people have you murdered?"

Talia gulped, "You- You don't want to know." She shook her head shamefully. Bruce winced at the cold, gut-wrenching answer. "You and I both know you don't truly want to hear the answer to that question." She repeated. Talia pressed her eyes closed, letting tears seep out out and on to her trembling cheeks. Bruce was going to go. She was sure of it.

"Why…? Why would you-" Bruce stuttered. He finally fully lifted his head to face the apparent-murderer. Talia turned even farther away from him in response.

"Can't you see? My father is an ecoterrorist, Beloved. A mass-murderer. A genocidal maniac. I spent my entire childhood in his care… Of course I've killed for him!" Her voice rose a bit. Talia's eyes peered back at Bruce to see his reaction, but she didn't move a muscle in her neck to truly look at him. "I swear on my life, I didn't enjoy it. But I couldn't let him down. I still can't let him down. He's still my father, and… I can't betray my own family, can I?" She wrapped her arms around herself. A sad look sparkled in her eyes, almost mirroring the stars above them.

Bruce felt a tinge of anger run up his spine, "But…. you want to, don't you?" Talia's neck shook as her head flopped even closer to her lap. He moved his hand a bit closer to her, considering whether he should place it on her shoulder or not.

"Maybe I do," Talia whispered, her words barely audible. It was if she was simply mouthing them to herself. She squeezed her eyes shut as she spoke the tiny, quiet, little words. As she slowly opened them again, she gradually turned her head to finally face him. Their eyes met for a moment, "But maybe I don't. It's more complicated than that, Beloved ..." Her head still faced him, but her eyes broke out of the eye contact. They wandered in the opposite direction wistfully.

Bruce sucked in his lips, every muscle in his body cramping together. He resisted every urge in himself to touch her, hug her... or simply just reach a bit closer to hold hands. She was a murderer. He shouldn't have felt this way, he knew he shouldn't, but the urges were there. Bruce. Still. Loved. Her. It hurt to say the words inside his head, but not quite as much as it hurt to deny it. He kept his hand still, worried even a small vibration of movement could result in him fully wrapping his arms around Talia. But as he focused on stillness in his body, Bruce felt another hand reach over and squeeze his.

"All I know now, Beloved… is that I don't want to betray you." Talia looked straight at him now, adjusting her entire body to lean towards him. Bruce looked straight at her, as well. Her green eyes were glossy, with wet tears glistening in the moonlight. "We could still work out. My father actually seems to admire you, and I do, as well, but…. I'm not sure if you return such admiration…. After everything you've learned."

"You have a point," Bruce pushed himself off the bench. He began to tread forward, wandering around the courtyard. "I lose nothing from staying with you… except perhaps my lack of relations with murderers. It's not like I'm completely innocent myself. I may not have taken anyone's life, but I certainly started some fires against people who didn't completely deserve it. My poor math teacher…. Besides, I made a promise." He paced back and forth, gradually walking faster and faster|.

Talia sighed, "But that promise only included what my family did," She stood up with him. "They are my murders, not my-"

"Yes," He looked down for a moment, lost in thought yet again. His mouth rested in an aloof frown. Bruce's eyes narrowed. "But even then, it's more than clear you wouldn't be such a murderer if it weren't for where you were raised. Blaming you for such a thing could be considered breaking my promise either way." His hands spun up and down, gesturing as he explained his logic.

Talia's hand reached over to his, "Please… I'm not some kind of damsel in distress. I may have tears coming out of my eyes, and I may look pathetic right now, but…you still must make the choice that suits your heart. I don't want your pity." Her eyebrows arched, a stern focus taking over. Bruce's hands stopped twirling. A stillness crept over, with her hand just barely resting on his arm peacefully.

"-And I will not give you any, Talia," Bruce cleared his throat. Finally giving in to the undying urges, he wrapped his arms around her. Talia felt him pull her into a soft embrace. "Even through mistakes, and even, well... crimes, there is one thing standing. One thing other than pity- and that is love. It may make me crazy for doing so, or even a criminal, but I will give you mine."

"What does that even mean, though?" Talia asked, looking downwards. Her eyelids flapped up and down as she quickly blinked. "I… suppose it doesn't even matter, does it? Not now, anyhow… If you will give me your love, then I will give you mine." She quickly peeked back up, now with a wide smile across her face.

"I think we both know what that means, then… and what it doesn't." Bruce sighed, carefully taking a step back from Talia. Their loving embrace loosened. Talia's smile began to drop, but still not fully hit a frown. "I'm sorry. I… may have gotten lost in the fairytales there. Or maybe I was right. I'm not even sure anymore, Talia…"

Talia took deep breaths as she thought everything he was saying over, "You… you said thought we both knew what it meant… and what it didn't, of course. But perhaps…" Her hand, hesitant and unsure, began to slowly nudge him back towards her. Despite his overall reluctance, he easily let her lead him in the movement. "Perhaps for now… we can just focus on what it does mean, Beloved." She whispered the endearing nickname, a hopeful smile appearing on his face. Bruce couldn't help but smile back.

With their arms already wrapped tightly around each other, Talia slowly began to lean in for a kiss. Bruce closed his eyes, gently following her affectionate behavior. Both of their soft hugs towards the other one tightened even more as they leaned in close. The soft glow of the moon shimmered behind them as they finally kissed. Talia and Bruce held the other one happily. Happy. Even for just a moment, they were happy.

#brutaliaweek2021 #brutalia #talia al ghul #batman #bruce wayne #brutalia week #brutalia week 2021 #baticorn writes #demonbat #talia al ghul x bruce wayne #bruce wayne x talia al ghul #talia al ghul x batman #batman x talia al ghul #fanfic #dc #dc fanfic #batman fanfic #fic #fan fiction #fanfiction #ra's al ghul #nyssa raatko #dusan al ghul #al ghul family #meet the parents #meet the family #family #tw blood #tw stabbing #tw mentions of torture

[sodone-withlife]

one sentence

i saw sumayyah‘s answer to an anon’s ask (so all credit for this idea goes to them) about that scene in Omnivore where Rossi is offering Hotch his gun and this thing pretty much wrote itself (which is exceedingly rare lmao), so here is something that i thought would be just a few hundred words but ended up being a really long interpretation of the Foyet arc with hurt/minimal comfort with a good amount of pre-Mortch (or you can see them as platonic, i think it’s up for interpretation). 

also, just a quick heads up, i love Papa Rossi, but for the purposes of this fic, it might seem a little bash-y towards him

warnings: quite a bit of suicidal ideation, (almost) attempted suicide, implied/referenced suicide, canon-typical violence, canonical character death

word count: 7.9k words

The highlighted words stared back at Hotch as Shaunessy’s words echoed in his mind.

A deal with the devil.

“Yes, that’s exactly right,” he told Garcia.

“Because I found it, do I get to know what it’s about?” the analyst asked, unrepentantly curious. Hotch sent her a look.

Might as well. Shaunessy’s not going to last much longer, and we’ll be called in…  “The Reaper,” he said simply.

“Like—the Boston Reaper?” Garcia lowered her voice as she named the notorious killer. Hotch nodded. “I didn’t even know the BAU worked on that case,” she remarked. 

“1998,” Hotch informed her, remembering caffeine-fueled sleepless nights and the palpable fear on the streets. “It was my first case for the BAU as lead profiler.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we don’t have a profile for the Reaper in the system, do we?”

Not in the system, no. “That’ll be all Penelope, you can go home now,” Hotch told Garcia, turning to the bottom drawer of the shelf behind his desk as the analyst nodded and left. Pulling out a worn folder bursting with papers and photos, he placed the newspaper clipping and the evidence bag protecting the contract into it. He left it to the side and refocused on the folder in front of him filled with sheets of old handwritten notes filled with annotations and crossed-out sections. 

There will be no sleeping tonight.

Early September, 1998

“You’re sending me?” Hotch was sitting ramrod straight in surprise, blindsided by Gideon’s sudden decision.

“Yeah,” Gideon answered simply, leaning back in his chair as much as he could in the cramped space and looking supremely unperturbed. “Do you not want to go?”

Hotch shook herself out of his shocked state, scrambling to gather his wits. “No—I mean, I’ll go, but—”

“But?”

Hotch carefully evaluated his words. “I’ve only been here a few months, and you’re sending me to Boston—alone—to help with the Reaper case? The case that has been going on for three years, longer than I’ve even been an agent, involving a killer that could probably put the Zodiac to shame?” 

The older agent shrugged. “I have to stay and hold down the fort since we are severely understaffed, but I’ll always be a phone call away, and you’re mainly there just to act as eyes for the both of us. You’re not working on this alone.”

Hotch stiffened as a sudden—but careful—warm touch on his hand pulled him out of the spiral of self-doubt he had been teetering over and grounded him. He brought his eyes back to Gideon and was surprised to see complete openness and no signs of deception or maliciousness that he had been forced to learn long ago at the hands of his father. 

“I’m not Dave,” Gideon began seriously, “I wasn’t the one who pulled you over here or the one you started out shadowing under, but I do talk to people. I know about your record in prosecution, in Seattle, and in SWAT, and it is very telling. You never doubted yourself before, and I have no doubt that you can handle yourself, so why are you starting now?” 

He leaned back, clearly done with the impromptu pep talk that Hotch, still frozen, figured happened once in a blue moon based on what Rossi had told him about the unit before he retired. The cramped room was silent as Hotch felt Gideon watching him struggling with internal strife. Slowly, he released some of the tension that was coiled within him, and Gideon turned back to his stack of consults with an air of satisfaction. 

“Start packing, Agent Hotchner. Boston awaits your presence.”

Late November, 1998

“Do you know what the hell is going on?” Hotch immediately asked when the call went through, pacing around his hotel room.

“And a good evening to you too.”

“Gideon.”

“What is it, Hotch?” his tone changed from dry to worried in a heartbeat, hearing the uncharacteristic urgency in his agent’s voice and the lack of nervousness that usually showed his agent’s discomfort towards using the less-formal form of address.

“Shaunessy, the lead detective,” Hotch spat out, throwing the case file that was in his hand on the bed. “He closed the case.”

“And that warrants a phone call at eleven PM, why?”

Hotch bit back a sharp retort, letting out a sharp breath. “You know I’ve been re-interviewing the victims’ friends and family, going through everything they had and lines of investigation that may have been dropped, working the profile along the way, but there have been no viable suspects, even with the accelerated killings,” he said quickly, a mess of emotions swirling inside him. “Gideon, no arrests have been made but he closed the case, just like that.”

“Remind me, when was the last victim?”

“Just over six weeks ago, a month after I got here. I know what you’re thinking,” Hotch said when Gideon didn’t respond, “that the case just went cold, but there were still things I had people following up on. It’s not cold,” he insisted.

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about it, Hotch. I know you don’t like it, but the locals have point on this.”

Hotch sighed, but it did nothing to calm him down. “I know,” he said, annoyed. “I’m catching an early train back to DC, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

January 2003

“The Reaper?”

Hotch slammed the folder shut and looked up from his desk, startled. He sent Gideon a glare, glad that no one else was there to see his composure slip, but he only looked vaguely concerned. 

“It’s been just over four years,” Gideon commented neutrally. “You’ve had that folder at the bottom of your third drawer, and you’ve pulled it out at least forty different times since ‘98.”

Hotch stared up at him in a challenge. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Gideon shook his head. “Just be careful. Don’t get too drawn into the chase.”

~~~

Sighing as he rubbed the familiar ache on the back of his neck that always appeared during paperwork days and especially stressful cases, Hotch closed his battered folder of notes and opened it back up again. It was almost compulsive at this point, repeating every twenty minutes and each time with the hope something new would catch his attention.

Hotch shifted, the bedsheets suddenly feeling unbearably scratchy and coarse even through his slacks. The case details buzzed around his head incessantly, distracting him from feeling the physical exhaustion and strain caused by the lack of proper sustenance and the stress of a day filled with dead ends.

The sudden ringing shattered the silence of the room, knocking him from his focus. He got up from the bed and warily walked over to the source, picking up the hotel phone and bringing it up to his ear. 

“Hotchner,” he said out of habit, only to freeze as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in reaction to the sudden, heavy breathing. “Who is this?” he demanded, throwing the folder he was still holding back on the bed with dread rising within him. 

“If you stop hunting me, I’ll stop hunting them.” His question about the caller’s identity went unanswered, though the cursed words of the contract spoken by the same distorted voice that was heard on the 911 calls from ten years ago was confirmation enough.

Anger flared inside him at the audacity, and he snapped back, “You think I’d take that?”

“It’s a good deal,” the Reaper replied flatly.

“I’ve misjudged you,” he said, some distant part of him wondering how Shaunessy felt when he himself got the offer ten years ago. “I thought you were smarter than this,” he was unable to help the derisive tone.

The silence was long enough for him to wonder how much he had caught him unawares with his response. 

“You should take it.” 

“And you’ve misjudged me.”

“This is your last chance,” he warned.

Hotch didn’t hesitate. “I don’t make deals. I’m the woman who hunts guys like you.” That got the reaction he was hoping for.

“There are no guys like me,” the killer growled, anger bleeding into his tone.

He scoffed. “You all think that.”

“You’ll regret this,” he warned.

It was said with such certainty that a chill shot down his spine, but it was overshadowed by his anger. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised, promptly hanging up without another word. He walked back around the bed, feeling a sudden need to put as much distance between him and the phone as possible. It was with some hysterical hilarity that he wondered if the next people to stay in this room would know about what had just happened—that a serial killer tried to threaten an FBI agent into surrendering in this room.

Those feelings faded away when a terrible feeling suddenly came over Hotch as he realized the Reaper knew which hotel—which room—he was staying in.

It wasn’t unusual during their cases for an unsub to contact another person in the midst of their crimes, but the memories of Elle in the hospital bed and Morgan in the interrogation room had been seared into his brain. 

Both times, unsubs directly went after members of the team.

Unable to remain in the room any longer, he went around unceremoniously throwing his things inside his bags before leaving the hotel room. Paranoia quickly crept back into his consciousness as he quickly made his way down to the parking garage with a hand near his gun, intent on heading straight to the field office.

Only half an hour later, Hotch was staring at the glinting gold ring on the bus driver’s hand, feeling oddly detached from the situation as he was confronted with the consequences of that cursed phone call.

“6 bodies, not including the driver,” Rossi said from the back of the bus. “He put them down with a gun—or, more likely, guns—and finished them off with his knife.” 

The call had come straight to the field office, just minutes after Hotch walked into the empty conference room that the team had taken command of. A beat cop had heard a series of gunshots and went to investigate, only to see the macabre painting of blood on the side of the bus with its occupants slumped over inside, unmoving. “Arthur Lanessa’s wedding ring,” Hotch heard himself say for the other agent’s benefit.

“What’d he take?” Rossi made his way down to him in the front. 

He snapped back into the present with a sudden surge of anger. “Does it matter?” he asked bitingly, turning and storming away from the crime scene for the relative privacy of a nearby alley.

“Hey,” Rossi called in worry, taken aback by the brash response. “What’s going on with you?”

Hotch stopped some way into the alley and took a deep breath, taking his time before turning to Rossi, who had followed closely behind. “He called me tonight at my hotel room and offered me the deal.” 

“What did you say?”

“I hung up on him,” his eyes burned with the sting of tears—whether out of anger at the Reaper or himself, he wasn’t sure. “And then he does this.”

“So you think this is your fault?”

How could it be anything but? He looked away, trying to hide just how shaken he was. “It is.”

The familiar sound of the safety of a gun being released pulled his attention back to the man in front of him. “Well, here, use mine,” Rossi said, holding out his gun to him. “You convinced me. No, no, you hung up on him,” he pushed as he waved him off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You practically killed them yourself—”

You practically killed them yourself.

You practically killed them yourself.

Killed them yourself.

Killed them. 

Yourself.

You.

You did this.

You should have made the deal

Hotch flinched away from the touch of cold metal against his head only to freeze in his place, ice settling in his bones as he processed what was happening. Barely seeing the horror on Rossi’s face, he stared at the other man’s empty hand before he focused in on the gun that was resting against his own head, tilted at an angle. There were five things he knew:

I have a finger on the trigger. 

My hand is trembling. 

I am still one of the best shots of the agents that are not in a tactical team.

Make one move, fire the gun, only the hearing in my right ear will be gone and the darkness continues to creep towards me.

Make a different move, fire the gun, I’ll leave Jack the legacy of a coward and Haley the knowledge that her efforts back in high school and college were for naught.

You did this, a malicious voice in his head said, sounding oddly like his father. And suddenly, he recalled the memory of the blood droplets hitting him and the ringing in his ears the first time he witnessed a gun go off when he was nine.

Slowly, deliberately, Hotch met Rossi’s horrified and guilt-filled expression and lowered the gun from his head. Carefully measuring his steps, he moved forward and pressed the gun into the older agent’s hand, which dropped down to the side, the weight of the gun now accompanied by something unseen, something much heavier.

Not sparing him another glance, Hotch turned and walked back out of the alley.

This isn’t the time nor place to break. 

But in the end, he didn’t have a choice. 

“Foyet escaped.”

Hotch’s blood ran cold as he processed JJ’s words before he roughly placed his mug onto the desk and stood up from his chair, following JJ outside to the bullpen that was full of noise and movement.

“Guards found him in his cell vomiting blood and convulsing, they rushed him to the prison hospital,” JJ explained quickly as they made their way down the catwalk. Hotch twitched as he heard Rossi’s office door open behind him, the man coming out to see what the commotion was about.

“Get me the US Marshal’s Office,” Hotch ordered, making the executive decision to ignore the older agent in favor of getting down to business. 

“I already called Don Reilly. I offered our assistance, he said they’d call us if they needed it.”

Prentiss rushed to the trio, holding a phone up to her ear. “The Boston field office just identified documents from Foyet’s house,” she reported.

Reid approached the agents gathered in the middle of the room, holding out a printout of what looked to be a set of blueprints. “They’re schematics for the electrical, heating, and water ducts of the East Woburn Correctional Facility.”

Hotch looked at him blankly. “He had the schematics.”

“And not just for Woburn—for every jail, prison, and courthouse in Massachusetts.”

“And ten years to plan,” Rossi added, a heavy silence following as everyone turned to the TV.

Finally, Garcia turned around. “They’re going to find him, right?” she asked worriedly.

Eyes still trained on Foyet's mugshot on the TV, Hotch was completely certain in his answer. “No, they’re not,” he said, just as the memory of Foyet’s words rose to the forefront of his mind, unbidden.

If you know me so well, how come so many had to die to bring you here?

I’m going to be more famous than you realize.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, trying to get a hold of the wave of nausea that suddenly overcame him. He brushed past the team, purposely heading out of the bullpen for one of the bathrooms that was further away for the sake of keeping the team and their concern off his back.

Within minutes he was throwing up bile and the small amount of alcohol he had drank back in his office into the sink, thanking the god he never believed in that the bathroom was rather secluded so there wouldn’t be anyone catching him in this moment of weakness. His eyes burned for the second time in less than twenty-four hours—only this time, a few traitorous tears managed to escape from underneath his eyelids. 

The taste of bile was strong as he turned on the tap and splashed his face with cold water, stiffening when he heard the door swing open and closed. Looking up to the mirror, he was both relieved and unsurprised to see Morgan locking the door behind him. 

“You’ve been avoiding Rossi,” Morgan commented quietly. Hotch huffed a sardonic laugh, straightening up and turning around to face him, leaning against the sink for support. It was a familiar situation, one first started years ago when it was just them and Gideon, and stopped after the team started growing. Then New York happened and Hotch had to de-stress in a gas station they stopped at on the drive back to Quantico, and their secret rendezvous started happening again, when cases hit too close to home for either of them.

Somehow he always knows what the root problem is. “Was I that obvious?”

Morgan shook his head. “You know you hide it well. I’ve just known you far longer than any of the others, besides Rossi, of course.” He didn’t go on, waiting on the other to decide the direction the conversation would go. 

Deciding to go for complete honesty, Hotch swallowed, tilting his head up and avoiding Morgan’s eyes. “He called me at my hotel room and offered me the deal.”

To his credit, Morgan only stepped closer, face creased in concern and a hint of knowing. “I said no, and he shot up a bus,” Hotch continued tonelessly. “I lost it in an alley near the crime scene. Dave had pulled out his gun and was trying to make a point about self-flagellation, but—” he cut himself off and shook his head frustratedly.

“I don’t know what happened. One moment I was just angry, and the next moment I was aiming a gun at my head,” he met Morgan’s eyes desperately, stern facade completely gone. “I don’t know what I wanted to do—I don’t,” his voice cracked as he sagged against the sink and his trembling became more pronounced. He quickly covered his mouth as a sob tried to escape his throat, prompting Morgan to move.

It was surprising to both him and Morgan how willingly he melted into Morgan’s body when the man reached out to stabilize him, but the sensation of the embrace was oddly calming for both of them. Neither spoke as they stood in the bathroom, not even as Morgan felt his shirt getting wet from the tears that Hotch finally let fall, and not even as the crying became more audible. 

Now, they would stay in the bathroom and soak up the comfort that they offered each other. They would talk about Foyet’s taunts and what Hotch confessed later. 

But later never came, because life never waits, and neither do unsubs.

Soon, they were racing against the clock as Reid got infected with an engineered strain of anthrax

Soon, they were investigating one of the worst, stomach-turning crimes they had seen. 

When they got back from the pig farm, Hotch only asked the team for a bare-bones report of the investigation and let them leave to the comfort of their homes while he stayed behind and dealt with the rest of the paperwork and red tape that was involved because of their foray into Canadian jurisdiction. 

It was past midnight when Hotch finally left the office and entered his apartment with the intent of pulling out a glass of scotch and staying on his couch with a book, knowing there was no way he was going to fall asleep that night.  

But Foyet was waiting, and Hotch was weakened by the exhaustion and stress of two all-nighters in a row.  

That night, as his team was sleeping in their beds, dead to the world while he was slowly bleeding out and floating in and out of consciousness in his own apartment, he could only take comfort in the fact that his death sealed Foyet’s fate. There was no way Morgan the team—hell, even Strauss, or anyone in the bureau—would stop hunting his killer to exact their revenge. 

He faded into unconsciousness with the expectation that that was it.

He slowly regained consciousness to the sharp smell of antiseptic and the unpleasantly familiar beeping of a heart monitor. Fatigue settling heavily over his whole body was the next sensation that registered in his foggy mind, and then the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Where am I?” he forced out through a dry throat, eyes still closed.

“In the hospital,” Rossi, his mind told him. He opened his eyes only to close them again when he was met with blindingly bright lights, letting out a pained breath. 

“How did I get here?”

“Foyet drove you.”

Morgan. He drew in a shaky breath as dull, pulsing pain finally made itself known through the painkillers.

“Can you remember what happened?”

That’s Prentiss.

He vaguely felt his head loll to the side before the memories rushed back into the forefront of his mind. Foyet’s words, the same exact words he remembered thinking back in that alley echoed unpleasantly,

You should have made the deal.

Hotch swallowed again and forced his eyes open through the heavy fatigue. “What did he take?” he asked quietly, unwilling to delve deep into what he remembered and deciding to mentally run through the details about the Reaper case instead.

“What do you mean?” Rossi asked, uncomprehending.

“The Reaper always takes something from his victims.” you’re one of his victims now—shut up and think about that later “Do we know what he took?” 

“There was a page missing from your day planner,” his eyes flew open and he looked over at Prentiss as she continued talking, “in the address section, the Bs.” 

No— “What did he leave?” Hotch asked, eyes slipping shut as a trickle of fear went down his spine and his brain screamed out in denial. 

“I don't know,” Prentiss said, floundering.

“He also leaves something with his victims,” he trailed off in a breathless whisper, unable to sustain the volume he had been speaking at as the throbbing grew stronger.

“I looked over your whole apartment,” Prentiss told him helplessly. “Nothing felt out of place.”

A thought came to him. “Where are my clothes?” Hotch asked, slowly trying to force his eyes open again. He turned his head, watching Prentiss bring a plastic bag over to the hospital bed. Careful to avoid looking directly at his bloodied clothes, Hotch managed to pull the bulging manila envelope closer to him on his chest. 

His hands froze as his credentials slipped out and he noticed a folded paper tucked inside. Slowly, shakily, Hotch pulled them out of the envelope and carefully flipped it open. 

He sank deeper into the bed as the breath he had been holding was almost punched out of him by the sheer terror that pulsed through him, the treasured picture of Haley and Jack staring back at him tauntingly. That’s my blood, he thought blankly, staring at the red streak he knew was deliberately painted over his family’s smiling faces.

“Haley’s maiden name is Brooks,” he finally said, almost numb to the implications. “I always listed her in the Bs in my personal information in case it fell into the wrong hands.” 

Some kind of precaution it turned out to be. 

“He knows where they live.”

And that was that. As Hotch was stuck in flashbacks and lied to Prentiss about what happened, Morgan led the SWAT team in sweeping Hotch’s old house and picked Jack up from his playdate. As Hotch talked with Haley and failed to not think about that night in the alley with the cold metal against his head, Morgan played with Jack outside and failed to not think about Foyet using his credentials so he could continue to torture his friend boss. As Hotch remained confined to the hospital bed, Morgan watched through an upper-story window as Haley and Jack were driven off into the distance to a location unknown to anyone but a select few in the Marshals service. 

Nine stab wounds, thirty minutes down time, and six days in the cursed hospital.

The numbers circled through Hotch’s mind when he stepped back into his apartment and had to work through the panic that rose within as he stared towards the place where he knew Foyet had been hiding. 

In the end, what brought him back from the edge was when his eyes caught the new security panel that had been installed over where he knew the bullet had made a hole and the sticky note with what he recognized as Morgan’s handwriting that was stuck over it, concisely written instructions on how to use it. If he looked around carefully enough for other signs of Morgan’s presence, he could see where the section of bloodstained carpet had been replaced, and that was only because there was the tiniest spot that had been missed. 

The tiniest reminder was enough to send Hotch into a panic, but he knew there was no way he could tell Morgan about it. 

Is this what you felt like, Elle? Unsafe in your own home, having to sweep each room for fear of another one of the monsters we hunt lurking in the shadows?

Slowly, numbly, Hotch worked his way through medical leave and physiotherapy, during which everyone in his team came over at least twice, Prentiss and Morgan the most often to help change his bandages. He knew they worried, but he couldn’t summon the will to care nor the words to thank them for keeping him company and preventing the darkness in his mind from taking over. 

And maybe it was a good thing, because there were things they didn’t know, things that he lied to them about. He lied and he lied, and he knew that if he had the words, they would all come tumbling out, and what little of himself that he had left would be exposed for all to see. 

Even if Morgan had tried to take everything he might be able to use, there was still his mind, and so if he had the words, they would all know how many times he envisioned holding cold metal against his head just as he had back in that alley.

On the thirty-fifth day after he was discharged from the hospital, when they were discussing Darren Call on the plane, they came close to finding out. 

So why hasn’t he killed himself yet? Sprees usually end in suicide. If he's got nothing to live for, why hasn't he ended it?

It was much later, after a day of being on the receiving end of careful, worried glances, and overhearing Morgan’s firm declaration from inside his office that he realized his slip. 

“I’m not going to stand by and watch this man kill himself,” Hotch had heard Morgan snap towards Rossi. Moments later, Morgan passed in front of his office window and made eye contact with him, making it clear that his choice of words was deliberate. 

Suddenly Hotch was back in the alleyway with the gun pressed to his head and managed to talk himself off the ledge he didn’t know he was standing on while Rossi stood there, frozen and horrified that his brazen attempt at making a point had backfired so disastrously. His own words on the plane came back to him, then thought about what others would have seen when he walked into that house unarmed, and he understood. 

He hadn’t been thinking at all when he went in to try and talk Darren Call down, but though he didn’t have a background in psychology, there were some things that didn’t need expert opinion to be said, and so he knew exactly his action could be classified as. 

Don’t lie to yourself, you know exactly what that was.

Hotch swallowed convulsively and broke eye contact with Morgan, turning back to stare at paperwork until the other man walked back to his desk in the empty bullpen. As much as he tried, he couldn’t forget Morgan’s impassioned exclamation nor the depth of the worry that was present in his eyes when they made eye contact through the window.

Maybe that was the day when things shifted. It wasn’t a complete change—the team still hovered around Hotch in uncertain worry, his thoughts never completely disappeared, and he nearly broke down in the bathroom the day Jack turned four in witness protection after seeing what footage of his child on a playground Garcia could enhance. 

There was, however, a different air to his and Morgan’s interactions after that case. Perhaps it was a long time coming, stemming from the painful understanding that was formed that day in the secluded bathroom when they found comfort in each other.

It wasn’t news that the higher-ups were watching him again, but then he walked back to his office after helping JJ triage consult requests to see Strauss fixing him with a stern stare. The next few days he spent trying to work through the frustration of recording and justifying every decision while trying and failing not to antagonize Morgan. And so while he waited for Morgan to come into his office, he could only hope that he hadn’t managed to destroy the strange friendship that had been built between them based on their shared knowledge of just how close he was to the ledge sometimes.

I should give him more credit, I don’t know how he puts up with me sometimes, and he has more than enough reason to report me to Strauss.

“Come on, Hotch, nobody's gonna replace you,” Morgan said, incredulous at the notion of Hotch getting replaced. “Fight Strauss. I'll go to the mat for you, so will everybody else. You know that.” 

“Morgan, it won't work,” Hotch spoke over him, trying to get him to understand. “Decisions like this have their own momentum. Unless I step down—”

“Step down? What are you talking about?”

A foreign feeling Hotch recognized with some surprise as amusement wriggled its way into his consciousness as he anticipated Morgan’s reaction to his coming announcement, “I'm resigning as unit chief at the end of the week”

“What? No!” Hotch couldn’t stop his mouth from twitching as his feeling of amusement grew slightly stronger at the visceral reaction. “Hotch, look, yeah, ok, sometimes your actions, I may disagree with them, but it's not enough for you to leave this team.”

“I'm not leaving the team, I'm just no longer in charge,” Hotch corrected, continuing before Morgan could get in a word. “You are.”

He watched as Morgan’s jaw dropped in shock, before finally asking, “Me?” Detecting no deception from Hotch who had nodded, he continued. “Look, I had the chance to be unit chief in New York, and I said no. I turned it down because I like this team. Strauss can't just fire you like this.”

“She can reassign me, and we can avoid that if I promote internally.”

Unable to come up with a counterargument, Morgan was silent for a moment. “This is wrong,” he finally said. 

A strange thrill went through Hotch at the confidence Morgan had in him—their relationship, while slightly different now, ultimately had been built on unstated respect and the ease with which both were able to call each other out on their bullshit; it wasn’t built on such blatant declarations of trust and confidence. Hotch opened his hands, shrugging helplessly. “It's the only way to keep the team together.”

Morgan nodded consideringly before carefully eyeing Hotch. “So all of this,” he gestured between them, bringing up the tension that had built up between them in the last case, “this is why you've been pushing me so hard, huh?”

“I haven't been pushing you that hard,” Hotch denied, only to get a disbelieving look from the other man. He let out a faint smile before regarding the other with a serious look again. “Morgan, I need to know right now. Will you do this?”

He couldn’t articulate the relief he felt when Morgan finally agreed and continued to feel for the rest of the night as he introduced Morgan to the other parts of the job. Just like every other positive emotion he had felt over the past few years, however, it was short-lived, as Hotch had freed up time to dedicate to the hunt, even as he often stayed later to help Morgan get adjusted. Within months, they were called into a family annihilator case and Hotch was confronting Karl Arnold, one of the few unsubs that had continued to haunt him even after the case was closed and they were killed or incarcerated.

Of course, Arnold had to get in the last word, and oh, did he get it in. 

The cursed eye of providence, now drawn over a newspaper article about the attack months ago, never failed to create a surge of anger and fear within him, but never had it created such a storm of emotions before now. One torturous night of waiting as the envelope the taunts were sent in went through the lab, and the whole team was in the throes of the hunt, and in the process, fell victim to tunnel vision.

What if they had slowed down and remembered that Foyet worked with computers? Would they have managed to catch him at the apartment unawares? Would they have been better prepared for what Foyet had planned to do?

But there wasn’t anything Hotch could do except try and talk Foyet out of going through with his plans while trying to maintain as level of a head as possible.

“Your mother tried to protect you from your father, but she wasn’t strong enough, and you hated her for that, didn’t you? So, you decided that all women were weak,” Hotch suddenly brought up, hoping to catch him off guard as he vaguely wondered if the team was on the line, listening. 

“Those are your words, not mine,” came the grating, annoyingly blasé reply.

“What were you, nine when you killed them?

“It was a car accident. And, now that I think about it, our childhoods are eerily similar, don’t you think?” 

Caught unawares, Hotch jerked the steering wheel, barely managing to avoid crashing the car as Foyet continued. “But it was only your father who died, whereas your mother remarried.”

How—? He turned cold at the show of Foyet’s obsession, which was clearly much deeper than he or anyone in the team could have predicted.

“No response?” the killer taunted.

“My father swallowed a bullet because he couldn’t live with his self loathing or the cancer,” Hotch finally snapped, quickly directing the subject back towards Foyet. Even with the pit in his stomach growing as it became clearer that he was being toyed with, he couldn’t help but use every negotiation tactic he knew and taught at the Academy, desperately but futilely trying to dissuade the killer. 

“Haven't you gotten what you wanted?” Hotch tried, somehow having regained his composure after the unpleasant bombshell. “You've set yourself apart from anybody we've ever dealt with. You're not just a famous serial killer, you're the Reaper. We're going to study you and your methods for years and years.”

“You know what I've been thinking?” Foyet finally asked after a few moments of silence, his next words sending his heart pounding in fear. “Haley looks really good with dark hair. She’s lost some weight. Must be all the stress you caused her. Where's the little man?” No, don’t you dare— “Oh. There he is. Does he like Captain America because of you?” 

Hotch gripped his phone tightly as he heard the ringing of another phone. “That's your wife. Hold, please—Mrs. Hotchner,” Foyet took on an accent, tone turning jovial. “Open the gate and I'll drive in.”

Open the gate? That son of a—of course.

“Aaron?” the malicious glee was back, cutting right to Hotch’s core. “I really gotta go.”

Almost frozen with fear, he pushed the car faster, heading straight towards the old house and praying to whatever deity he could think of that he could get there in time. He wasn’t sure how long had passed when he got Morgan’s call, which was confirmation that the team had indeed been listening. He didn’t dwell on it and only continued to push the car, disregarding speed limits and almost hysterically glad that it was the middle of the day and the streets were relatively empty. 

When his phone rang, it was with numb, mechanical movements that he answered, fully prepared to beg and bargain for his family’s life if he had to, only to sharply inhale at Haley’s dearly missed voice, which turned shaky with fear when she realized the danger she was in. As Foyet undercut their exchange with his maliciously satisfied taunts, telling Haley all that he could never bring himself to confess about the case, Hotch could only think about how he was just too far away, Haley, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry for lying to you about everything, I’ll never forgive myself—

But then Jack was on the phone, and the pure innocence and eagerness with which his son greeted him after months of no contact was enough to send a fresh wave of tears coursing down his face.

“Is George a bad guy?”

“Yes, he is,” Hotch answered, wanting to scream at him to just run away, get as far away from him as you can when an old memory was suddenly brought forth from his subconscious. “Jack, I need you on this case with me. Do you understand?” he tried to keep his voice steady, hoping with his whole being that his son would remember. “I need you to work the case with me.”

“Ok, Daddy.”

“Jack, hug your mom for me,” he requested, voice cracking and desperately trying to contain the sobs that were steadily building. He could only imagine the warmth his son was feeling from his mother now, potentially the last memory he would ever have of her. Hearing his son’s too-inquisitive question about his mother’s mood left him viciously biting down on his bottom lip, trying to maintain some modicum of control over himself.

“Is he gone?” Hotch finally asked, nausea joining the storm of emotions within him at the nickname Foyet had given his son.

“Yes,” Haley confirmed, letting her fear shine through now that Jack wasn’t there to see it. 

Each shaking breath was a stab straight to his core.“You’re so strong, Haley, you’re stronger than I ever was.”

Her response nearly sent him shattering into the pieces she had so carefully helped him put back together back in high school after his stepfather died.

“You’ll hurry, right?”

I can’t lie, I’m so sorry, Haley. I can’t lie to you. Not after everything I’ve already done, “I know you didn’t sign on for this.”

“Neither did you.”

Why does it have to be now that we finally talk about what caused the divorce?

“I’m sorry for everything.”

There was a short pause as Haley inhaled sharply, before leveling out into shaky breaths. “Promise me that you will tell him how we met and how you used to make me laugh.”

No, please— “Haley,” Hotch trailed off, unable to continue and almost paralyzed at the knowledge that these might be her last words because he’s too far away, I’m not going to—

“He needs to know that you weren't always so serious, Aaron. He needs to believe in love, because it is the most important thing, but you need to show him. Promise me,” she ordered him forcefully.

“I promise.”

The sound of three gunshots tore straight into his soul. 

And then he was finding Haley’s body, trying not to let the seams break when renewed rage roared to life within him at the extinguishing of the light that had been inside her and lit up every room she walked in. Minutes later, he was straddling the demon that had haunted him for over a decade, the demon that he finally caught up to but at a terrible cost and then he was punching—

I’m going to kill that bastard son of yours and I’m going to tell him it was all your fault— 

and punching—

You practically killed them yourself—

and punching—

You should have made the deal—

someone yelled his name—

Promise me.

“—dead. He’s dead,” someone was shouting as Hotch tried to lunge forward away from the person pulling him back and towards the man who killed my wife HE KILLED HALEY—

But all the fight that had been inside him suddenly disappeared, and he was left staggering backward, mouth open in a silent, rage-filled scream as someone—it’s Derek—kept a careful grip on his body, holding his shattered pieces together just long enough for him to gather his tattered seams close to his chest and fling himself away towards the stairs. 

Hotch collapsed to his knees in front of the chest, seeing no indication of any taunting messages and daring to hope that his son was—

And the sight of his son, unharmed and blinking at the sudden change in brightness, nearly sent him into a mess of relieved tears that were also tears of unadulterated grief because I got his mother killed—

He held himself together and lifted his son out of the chest, seeing all the features he got from Haley—her his hair, her his eyes, her his inquisitiveness—and struggling to maintain his weakening control as he told Jack to go to Ms. Jareau, who was waiting with open arms in the doorway to the room that had once been his office. 

Hearing their footsteps fade away and shaking with suppressed sobs, he slowly stood up, injuries that he sustained in the fight finally making themselves known as he made his way across the hall to the room he knew Haley was lying in—

He saw Morgan taking her pulse and for a moment he couldn’t help but hope that she was still—

But Morgan was pulling back and he was gently placing Haley’s right arm back on the ground and he wasn’t yelling for medics and—

“I’m so sorry, Aaron,” Morgan said softly as Hotch knelt down, his trembling becoming more palpable by the moment. 

If he looked past the unseeing eyes and the blood that pooled everywhere and her lying on the floor and—

He could almost convince himself that she was sleeping. For a moment, he was almost afraid to touch her, afraid to disturb her in her sleep, but in the next moment—

He was pulling her cooling body close to his chest and burying his face into the crook of her neck, gut wrenching sobs escaping his lips as a wave of grief shattered the flimsy show of control he had put up for Jack’s sake, his son who just lost his mother because his father was addicted to the chase and I broke my promise, Haley, I’m so sorry—

She’s gone. 

The solemn silence weighed heavily on the team as they waited for Hotch to finish testifying before Strauss and the brass. They had all expressed their outrage when they got the orders to come in for their statements, only two days after their leader nearly lost everything, but there was nothing they could do.

It had been painful to watch the man who had been a protector for so long, since childhood through his teenage years and into adulthood, try to maintain the post, disregarding his own health in favor of being the earliest in the office and last to leave, spending every free moment trying to get rid of the threat to his family. It was worse having to listen over the phone as his control started to slip while he tried so desperately to save his family from a madman. 

With the sight of him savagely beating Foyet’s dead body into the ground, all vestiges of the infamous controlled facade gone, they all hoped for Hotch’s sake that Jack had found safety and were beyond relieved to see him in JJ’s arms. Reality caught up to them, however, when they watched as Morgan had to physically wrestle Hotch away from Haley’s body so she could be transported to the ME’s office.

When they got the full autopsy, they could only be glad that Hotch wasn’t there to find out all that Foyet did to his first love.

And within a year, Hotch’s family had been ruthlessly snatched from his desperate, flailing grip and torn into broken pieces before being shoved back at him, misshapen with pieces missing. 

The faint sound of a door swinging closed had them all straightening up in their seats, turning to look into the bullpen where Hotch was walking up the stairs in front of his office, only to freeze right in front of the door with his hand just in front of the door knob. 

They watched worriedly as he let his outstretched hand fall back to his side and slowly backed up from the door, almost as if he were in a trance and startled when Morgan suddenly jumped up and ran out of the room and through the bullpen towards the man.

Their confusion cleared up when they realized that Hotch wasn’t stopping as he backed up, somehow unaware that the stairs were right behind him and stumbled, only barely catching himself on the railing. For Jack’s sake, they forced themselves to stay seated but watched out of the corner of their eyes as he tried to stand back up, only for his knees to buckle underneath him. 

Before he could hit the ground, Morgan quickly grabbed onto his arms, almost collapsing himself under his dead weight but managing to lower them both onto the ground, holding onto him in a way eerily reminiscent of what he had done when he pulled Hotch off of the barely-recognizable body of George Foyet. 

Hotch was still staring at his office door as if he had seen a ghost, and it was with heartbreak that Morgan realized what it represented to him—it was the source of so much passion and temptation that had gotten the love of his life killed. Looking back at the conference room and seeing the eyes focused on the two men, Morgan carefully pulled Hotch up from the ground and slowly guided him out of the bullpen, knowing that the team had Jack taken care of.

They walked through the winding hallways and into the bathroom that he followed Hotch into the night it all started to go horribly wrong. This time, it was different and yet the exact same, and after Morgan locked the door behind them, he pulled Hotch towards him, mindful of his bruised ribs. 

Surrounded by the four walls that heard so many of their small talks and witnessed their vulnerabilities, it wasn’t long before Hotch’s eyes began to burn as he finally melted into Morgan’s protective hold when the dam finally broke, letting out a wave of pain and anguish that was only made the slightest bit more bearable by the warmth of Morgan’s his friend’s care.

But even that couldn’t make that one sentence disappear.

You practically killed them yourself.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #hurting Hotch is so fun #aaron hotchner whump #hurt aaron hotchner #mortch #george foyet #haley hotchner #tw guns #tw suicidal ideation #tw suicide #tw character death #sodone one sentence

[fallout4reactsblog]

companions react to news of the institute christmas party courser revolution and the fact that the institute is now apparently populated entirely by festive rogue coursers in elf costumes and also what ramifications this has on the politics of the commonwealth as a whole. father's drowned corpse, still in his silly santa hat, is now impaled on the antlers of the fake reindeer on the sleigh prop by the institute's metaphorical front door as a warning and a symbol of their casting off chains.

Cait: “You have to at least give them some points for creativity.”

Cait pulls a face, but says, “I guess.”

“Come on, Cait. You could at least admit it’s a little funny. I’d have paid good money to be a fly on the wall that day.”

“It’s fucked up, is what it is. How are you so calm?”

“How are you so stressed?” They lean back in their chair, folding their arms contentedly. “They basically did our job for us. No more Institute.”

She sighs. “You’re nuts.”

“Maybe. I guess all we can do is wait and see what happens, huh? Maybe they’ll retreat to their underground hidey-hole and leave the Commonwealth alone.”

“Not countin’ on it.”

“You can be as pessimistic as you like. The way I see it, this is a good thing both ways. Either the Institute collapses without strict management- which would be good- the coursers decide they don’t believe in what the Institute was doing before and stop- also good- or we go in there and only have to kill half of what was there. A win-win-win situation.”

She shakes her head. “Whatever you say. I’m not buyin’ it.”

Curie: “The absurdity of the situation is certainly not lost on me, Madam/Monsieur, but surely there are still, ah, consequences for this?”

“Oh, sure, yeah, definitely. I mean, they’ve basically got my son on a pike on the CIT lawn. But, you know, don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things, as the old saying goes.”

“I... do not think this is a ‘petty thing’ anymore.”

They wave a hand dismissively. “We’ll wait for the dust to settle, then go check it out. Until then, I’m not jumping to any conclusions.”

“I am merely saying that, given the evidence, this seems quite disastrous, especially in terms of political instability.”

“Ah, who cares about politics? Unless they or someone else starts a war, it’ll be fine. Let ‘em live a little. Everybody’s gotta have a rebellious teenager phase at some point.”

Curie wasn’t sure this counted as being a rebellious teen, but if that was what brought sole comfort, she would let them have it.

Danse: Listening Post Bravo is quiet. That’s how he likes it, and how it’s going to stay.

Courser uprising. Of course, it was a courser uprising. What else could it have been? Those things are killing machines; death is everything they were designed for, and now they’ve taken the reigns and can do as they see fit across the Commonwealth with no masters to keep them in check.

He pulls himself a little tighter into his corner. God, what a mess. This is over. They needed to go back to DC and forget they had ever heard of the Institute. Tactical retreat. If Arthur wasn’t so far on his warpath, he might have even suggested it, but he was six feet deep in his “now’s the time to strike” speech with no sign of stopping to think about the hole he was digging.

Well, Arthur could do what he wanted. Danse has had enough of this, enough of the goddamn Commonwealth, enough of the synths, enough of it all. This was his home, now, and he was going to sit here and plant potatoes and forget anything that happened outside. Especially the fact that coursers even existed and could, presumably, come knocking on his door at any moment. 

He was going to make an effort to forget that first.

Deacon: He lets out a long, low, whistle, then turns to Dez. “We should’ve thought of that one first, Boss. It’s genius.”

“It’s madness.” Desdemona pinches the bridge of her nose. “But I suppose it works in our favor, at least for now. There should be chaos in the Institute right about now.”

“Other synths probably saw the carnage.” Glory pipes up. “They might be getting some similar ideas. This could be our moment.”

“Who would’ve predicted this, though?” Deacon grins. “It’s so out there that I can’t even be surprised that it happened. I mean, tell me “Holiday Office Party Leads to Destruction of Commonwealth Boogeyman” doesn’t sound like a headline you’d see in the Publick these days. It’s the perfect brand of Commonwealth crazy.”

“The Brotherhood is going to want to get on this,” Carrington says, shooting a glare Deacon’s direction. “We need to act before they can get there.”

“I’ve reached out to our man on the inside,” Deacon replies, glaring back. “But until we hear back, we might as well enjoy the show.”

Dez shakes her head. “I suppose so.”

Gage: “Honestly? Can’t blame ‘em. That holiday party sounds like an actual nightmare. I’d kill someone if they stuck elf ears on me, too.”

“Damn. There go my plans for next Christmas.”

Sole’s tone is dry enough he can’t tell if they’re joking. “I’m serious, Overboss. You even look at me with a costume-”

“I value my life, thanks.”

“Just providin’ fair warning. I don’t think any of the others would take kindly to it, either.”

They shake their head. “Mason wouldn’t mind. He practically dresses up in a costume every day.”

“Are you shitting me? He’d be the one that hated it the most.”

“Absolutely not. Mags would hate it the most.”

He thinks about it a moment, then replies, “Fair point, but what about Nisha?”

Sole sucks in a tense breath. “Oh, that’d be a mess. A bloody, ugly mess. Moral of the story: no holiday parties.”

“Good advice.”

Hancock: “I mean, good for them?” He stares at the ceiling, still a little baffled. “I guess?”

“But what does this mean, John?” Fahrenheit lights up a cigarette across from him.

“Well, we’ll be fine. I have that on good authority. Everybody else...” He makes a face.

“Exactly. No one knows.”

“No one even knew this was an option.” Smoke hisses between his teeth. “I mean, it’s fitting that they’d go up in smoke because of their own arrogance, but still.”

“People are losing it.”

He snorts. “Think of the Brotherhood. They must be havin’ a real heyday over there. But us? We’ll be fine. That’s what matters, right?”

“That’s what matters.”

MacCready: “I honestly don’t know what to say.”

Sole shrugs. “Then don’t say anything. I’m still not sure how I feel about it myself.”

“This is a good thing, right?” He looks to them for some explanation. “Right?”

“It’s too early to say, yet.”

“’Too early to say’? It’s a courser uprising for crying out loud. Forget what I said. This is bad.”

“Could turn out to be good, though.”

“Okay, it could, but...” he shakes his head. “What the heck. You’re right. We’ll see.”

Still, it’s a messed-up way to go. The only thing worse than being killed by a courser, he imagines, is being killed by a courser dressed up as a holiday elf.

Nick: He blinks slowly, purses his lips, then carefully folds his newspaper and puts it to the side.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I know. Crazy, huh?” Sole pops the cap off a Nuka-Cola and takes a seat on his desk. “All it took was a Christmas party.”

“I gotta say, this wasn’t among the ways I thought the Institute would go. Up in a firey ball, sure, but at the hands of killing machines dressed as Santa’s elves?”

“That’s what makes it so great! No one saw this coming, the Institute least of all, I assume. Can you imagine the mess that must be happening at Boston Airport right now? The Brotherhood is shitting their pants as we speak.”

He just shakes his head. “We can close that case, I guess. I’m not sure if I should be happy for them or horrified at the circumstances. Still, we should be careful; it’ll be hard to know what a change in leadership means for us.”

“Sure, sure.”

“I’ll give ‘em credit for creativity, though.”

Piper: This is the best thing to happen all year.

For once, papers are flying off the shelves. She’s selling copies right off the press, selling them before they’re even printed. She’s on backorder for the story of the festive courser rebellion, which she’d heard all the details about from a Diamond City guard wearing suspiciously Deacon-like sunglasses. But forget him.

People have traveled to get here and get their hands on the Publick. There’s someone from Bunker Hill sitting next to someone from Cambridge next to someone who said they came from the Glowing Sea, of all places. The caps she’s making is more than she could have ever imagined, and she’s glad she faced sleep deprivation to make this one a Publick Occurrences exclusive. It’s been well worth it so far. Nat doesn’t even have to stand on the street to hawk the paper, people are coming right up to her door and knocking, no joke.

She knew the war would be profitable, but it’s made even better by the way it all went down. A holiday party gone wrong is the perfect headline, and if she could find a courser, she’d kiss them for their genius. Because this is the best thing to happen to her since she not-so-subtly implied McDonough was a synth.

Bless the coursers of the Institute for their impeccable sense of style.

Preston: “I have to say, I didn’t expect to be crossing ‘take care of the Institute’ off of my to-do list so quickly.”

Sole cocks their head to the side. “I mean, it’s not gone yet. Just... under new management.”

“New management, new threat in my opinion. You can’t really believe everything is going to stay the same after this. The Institute is going to change in at least a couple of ways.”

“Fair.” They lean up against the workbench. “Kinda crazy how it all went down, though.”

He chuckles. “I’d call that an understatement, General. No one could’ve seen this one coming. Trigger-happy Brotherhood goes on the warpath? I thought we might see that one, but blowing up from the inside?” He shakes his head. “That’s a new one.”

“They kinda had it coming, though. Who thought making killing machines play Barbie was a good idea?”

“Someone who came to regret it, no doubt.”

#so many courser asks #so little time #the festive courser uprising has a special place in my heart #so it gets its own tag #festive courser uprising #fallout #fallout 4 #fo4 #fo4 companions #fallout 4 companions #fallout 4 companions react #cait #curie #danse #deacon #gage #hancock #maccready #nick valentine #piper wright #preston garvey

[mickmarstookmyheart]

Bad Memories

Pairing: Mick Mars X Reader

Synopsis: While you are trying to enjoy your peaceful morning with Mick, your sister calls you with az unexpected demand. Your past comes up again which you don't like.

(I will correct the mistakes tomorrow)

Being the girlfriend of a musician meant constant tours and music all the time at everywhere. Seeing the guys almost every night on stage playing their chosen instruments made you jelaous. Then you remembered that you wouldn't stand on stage and play. Never.

It was a rainy and overcast October day. You and Mick chose to stay in bed a bit more since you had nothing to do that day. Your head was laying on his chest which was rising slowly. You loved listening to his steady heartbeat. His fingertips were caressing you bareback while his other hand were behind his head.

"Miiiiick. Please!" You asked nicely.

"Yeah?" He sighed.

"Would you be so kind and make some coffee?" You looked up with puppy eyes. He rolled his.

"I made it yesterday, too." He stated. He knew that these kind of peaceful mornings are rare and tried to enjoy every second of it.

"Good point. Then give me 5 minutes." You murmured into his chest. After a while you heard Mick's quiet snoring making you drift back to sleep, too. A loud ringing noise woke you up from your peaceful dreams.

"I will kill whoever this is." Mick groaned reaching for the telephone. "It's your killer, what do you want?"

"Hey, Mick. It's me, Isabelle. Sorry if I woke you up." Your sister apologized on the other end of the phone.

"Oh, hey. What's up? Haven't heard from you like in ages!" Mick's face brightened up while you frowned thinking who this lucky person could be.

"Nothing special, just the usual. Is (Y/N) there? I really need to talk to her." She asked.

"Yeah, sure. Is there a problem?"

"Well, nothing serious." Mick handed you the phone.

"It's (Y/N)." You said with a quite sleepy tone. You sat up while pulling some blanket from Mick who answered with a pillow behind your head. "Hey!" You snapped making him smirk.

"It's me. Your sister." Isabelle started to get annoyed. "(Y/N)! Are you here?"

"Yeah. What is it?"

"You know there is gonna be a party. Here at university. A Halloween party."

"That's good, I guess?" Making a phone call this tired didn't help.

"Sure. Also, me and some guys formed a band you know."

"Really? You haven't told me." It was good to finally speak to her. It was quite a long ago since you have a nice sister to sister conversation. You glanced around in the room and spotted an oversized tee on the ground. You got out of bed which was hard cause Mick didn't let you at first. You couldn't help it cause you felt the urge to walk when you were speaking on the telephone. "And... what's the name of the band?"

"Eggheads."

"That's what I call creative." You giggled.

"Wasn't me who came up with the idea, you know." Isabelle huffed.

"Maybe you should've asked Mick. He has some ideas." You glanced at the guitarist who tilted his head not having any clue why he was mentioned. "So what's the deal, sis?"

"There is this party and the head of the uni asked us to perform."

"Congrats. That's a big thing!" You cheered.

"Let me finish. So yesterday our guitarist, Mike, had an accident and broke his arm. He sure won't be able to perform."

"Oh, that suck. I'm so sorry. Also, sorry for not performing." You played with the wire of the phone.

"Well, don't be. Cause I have a wonderful idea!" She had a devilish smile on her face, unfortunately you couldn't see. If you could, you would've known what she was up to. "There is a girl I know who could play instead of Mike."

"Good to hear. Is she at the uni, too?" You asked still not suspecting a thing.

"Not exactly although one of my best friends." She said sighing. "I'm talking about you, (Y/N)."

"What?" The blood froze in your veins. "You aren't serious, right?"

"Don't tell me you are still not over what happened years ago!"

"I am...just.. it's pretty hard." You were rubbing your arm with the other.

"Please, (Y/N)!" She begged. "It will be fucking cool, I promise."

"I don't know. I haven't played since then. I will mess up."

"Give the phone to Mick."

"Why?"

"Heard me. Give me the guitar lord." Isabelle ordered. You handed the device back to Mick who took it happily. He was really fond of your sister.

"Did you manage to solve the problem?" Mick asked while he was eyeing your worried facial expression.

"Almost. Would you refresh my sister's guitar skills in two weeks?" Mick's eyes widened while you shook your head.

∆

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mick asked watching the red light from the car.

"Tell you what?" You were looking out the window to avoid eye contact. You knew what he was talking about and it wasn't your favourite topic.

"That you can play the guitar."

"I thought I can have secrets. And it's not a big thing."

"If you say so." He was watching you from the corner of his eye. He noticed that you were worried, well, rather freaked out. "Would you mind telling me why are you like this? Or is it a secret, too?"

"I fucking knew." You pulled your hoodie's strings stronger so nothing could be seen from your face. You crossed your arms and didn't say a word.

"You look like a kid who didn't get her Barbie." He chuckled.

"Haha. Very funny." You murmured.

"Aren't you happy that you can meet with Isabelle? Cause I sure am!" He smiled. Sometimes you were wondering why he liked your sister this much. Mick only tolerated people. "Hey. Mars to Earth. Are you here?" He asked while poking your belly making you giggle.

"Stop." You tried to catch your breath. Mick smiled, he loved hearing your laugh. "And I'm sorry for my behaviour. It's just a quite sensitive topic for me. Only Isabelle knows about this and she doesn't think it's important." You were playing with the strings of your hoodie. "I guess, you want to hear the story."

"Only, if you want to. But yeah, I would love to hear it." He smirked. You took a deep breath and started you monologue.

"Not a long story, don't worry. So years ago some friends of mine formed a band. It were the boys and me. We were a cover band but tried to create some original ones though I was the only one who wanted that."

"Sadly, I can relate." He sighed.

"I'm sorry." You took a look at Mick who placed your hand into his. "Unfortunately, this was the minor problem. After one of our concerts, I had an accident. I fell of my motorbike. I broke my arm and one of my legs. The doctor said I was lucky." You had a sad smile on your face. Later, deep down you wished you had died instead.

"We were on a so called mini tour, we were performing at universities and high schools. Since I was at the hospital I felt horrible because we couldn't perform. At least, that's what I thought."

"You were replaced, right?" Mick squeezed your hand feeling sorry for you.

"Yes. But that wasn't my problem. I thought they were my friends. They didn't even visit me. After, I recovered more or less, I went to our place where we usually practiced. There was a new guitarist, a guy, who told me to fuck off." You laughed. "I was on my way to punch the guy, but our singer stopped me. He asked why I was there and that he fired me. His reason was that they didn't want a girl in their band and that I wasn't playing well anyway." You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. A tear ran down your face and your eyes were gloomy. You chest was heavy but you tried your best not to cry.

"Fuck them. Fuck them for embarrassing you. And where is that famous band now? Nowhere! Darling, I'm so sorry. But they don't deserve your tears." He wiped your tears with his thumb. "And I'm sure they still regret their decision. If you play as good as good pictures you take they are a dead band." He pecked your lips making you smile.

∆

"Are you ready (Y/N)?" Your sister asked. You and Isabelle's band along with Mick were at drummer's garage and were about to practice. It was the 5th day and you were improving. That's what Mick said though you didn't believe him. You nodded and started to play "Live Wire." On the set list there were Mötley, AC/DC, Van Halen, Scorpions, Bon Jovi and many more. An old good feeling took over when you touched the strings. Your fingers remembered and it made you happy. During the solo, Mick was admiring you, he adored your concentrating face and he noticed that you were enjoying it. When the band finished the song you were still in shock how good it had turned out. Mick was clapping as well as the others.

"Wow, (Y/N)! It was hell of a solo." Robert, the singer congratulated. Isabelle was the bass player, Tim the drummer who owned the garage. You ran your fingers through your hair in embarrassment. You still didn't get used to compliments regarding your play.

"Thanks. And are you sure Mike isn't angry?"

"Nah. He said it's pretty cool that the girlfriend of Mick Mars will substitute him." Tim snickered. "Also, he is apologizing for not being here. His mother didn't let him."

"Poor little 22-year-old boy." Isabelle chuckled putting down her bass. She walked over to you and took Mick's precious guitar from your hand.

"Don't worry. I won't smash it on the floor." She yelled seeing the guitarist's facial expression.

∆

Halloween. Costumes, candies, and spooky decoration everywhere. You wished you could dress up as a witch or something cause that fluff you called your hair was hidious. Vince lent his bandana as a mascot and Mick one of his guitars.

"I look horrible." You looked in the mirror dealing with your hair.

"Babe, this is how we normally look on stage. You look badass. Also, very sexy." He murmured to your neck hugging you from behind.

"He is right, sis." Isabelle came back to the dressing room with a bigger fluff. You held your hand over your mouth not to laugh loudly. You noticed that Mick's was in the same state.

"I think I will go. Find those idiots and keep an eye on them." Mick said while pressing one last kiss on your cheek and left the room.

"(Y/N)! Listen, you will be great. Just remeber to relax. Take a deep breath and the key is to enjoy. Concentrate on the music, feel the music. Watch Mick, pretend you two are the only ones in the room." She placed her hands on your shoulders looking in your eyes.

You were the last one who stepped on stage and the crowd were already insane.

"Alright, alright ladies and gentlemen. Before we start this hella concert, I would like to introduce our temporary guitar player, (Y/N). You will see a powerful sister duo on stage tonight. Prepare yourself. The show is beginning. Are you READY?" Robert screamed in the microphone as the crowd shouted as one person.

During the concert you felt an energy which you couldn't compare to anything. You felt powerful and you thought you could accomplish anything at that moment.

"I would be scared if I were you, Old Man." Vince stated as he was watching you from the side of the stage with Mick. "We might get you replaced with (Y/N). She is sexier." Mick kicked the singer in the ankle making him groan.

∆

Taglist: @leatherandheels @safari-karrot @littlemisscare-all @crazyrockrlady

#motley crue #glam rock #mick mars #rocknroll #80srock #80s music #vince neil #mick mars x reader #mick mars imagine #mick mars x oc #motley crue imagine #motley crue x reader #mötley crüe

[strongsassysexysloane]

Twelfth day of Twelve - A Finale Worth Waiting For.

A/N - well. I made it. >.< Thank you for all the likes and love. I really did enjoy writing these no matter how tired I have been ( I just slept 11hrs) I hope you enjoy it as much I just did writing it.

Happy Holidays! However you celebrate it or not 😊

Click below for previous days

Gif by @regal-roni

. . . .

The day had finally come and to say you'd woken up with a bounce in your step was an understatement. Regrettably and something you wouldn't share with anyone if they asked was that you ran to your front door when your eyes popped open at 0710.

Nothing was there of course but a thin layer of snow dusting your front porch. You'd even gone to your regular coffee shop this morning just in case they dropped it off there or ordered you something but Sharon didn't have anything for you but a knowing smile. So you order a cup to go and a freshly baked muffin to fill you up.

You'd stayed home all day other than the coffee run, never mind the things you needed at the shops you wanted to catch the person of they dropped something off. It was day 12, finale, so where was the surprise?

All your hopes and prayers were on it being Jacqueline, to no one's surprise, but there was massive doubt that it was actually her. She had an outstanding poker face, spending so much time with her last night, she gave nothing away even when you hinted towards it and there was no way she could be pulled it off unless she had help. Help in the form of the team and no one was that good at hiding secrets other than Gibbs. There was no way he would be in on it.

You thought about all the gifts, all the time it took for this person to go to so much effort, not just to get them, but to plan and organise it all so it was a secret.

It was getting late, the hope for the twelfth day was fading as the sun went down bit you pottered around your place, tidying up at bit as.youd neglected your home from working so much.

There was a sound that came from your front door and you sprung to check but there was nothing. Only footprints on the snow of a bird landing there and taking off again. You'd checked your front door more times than you'd like to admit today. Even Ellie had messaged twice, once at lunch and then an hour ago even though you assured her you would let her know when you found out. Your gut was telling you she knew something and was busting at the seems to tell you. If today was a work day you knew the secret would be out by now.

The sun was almost gone on another chilly December day and you were thinking about dinner. There was hardly anything in the fridge or pantry, you really shouldve done a quick shop while you were out for coffee. The only thing left that resembled some kind of dinner was a frozen cheese pizza so you turned on your oven, not wanting to go out for takeout and not wanting to spend the money on delivery. The snow had started to fall about an hour ago and you knew delivery would take longer, patience was lost around 0900 this morning.

You were about to unwrap the plastic from the pizza when the door bell rang. Your stomach dropped but your heartrate tripled and you couldn't move. The thought that it was just another delivery with no clue had crossed your mind but would the person be that sneakily cruel?

Yes.

They'd clearly been close enough the past 12 days to hear one or more of your conversations so...There was that hope again.

The knocker thumped three more times and your legs managed to skip to the front door in a calm manor unlike the pace of your heart right now. Taking a deep breath, you plastered a on smile your very nervous face and twisted the door handle.

The door cracked open a few inches and there was silence. A million things running through your mind all stilled when you finally got your answer.

"I was going to get Ellie to rock up and video your reaction but I thought, best not." She waited for you to say something, do something but you were searching for the right words. "Well, you going to let me in?" She shivered, looking around nervously as the snow started to pour down again.

You were shocked. The moment you'd been waiting for for twelve days was here and you had no words. Well, you had one. "Why?"

"Why should you let me in? Well the food is getting cold as I got your favourite from the little Italian place across town and it's been a traffic filled drive because no one in DC knows how to drive in snow so I took some back streets to get to your place so-"

"No, Jack. Why?" You were gripping onto your solid wooden door for life. She was nervous too, you could tell by her avoidance of eye contact and rambling. You couldn't tell if her cheeks were pink because of the chill or the situation.

Covering her mouth and clearing her throat, she looked up at you then. The first actual solid eye contact since you opened the door. "As good as I am at reading people and figuring out what to say at work. When it comes to this-" She gestured with her spare hand between you both. "- I fall awfully short." She paused, looking down again and you opened the door. "Thank you." She smiled, walking past you but you grabbed her hand to stop her in the doorway.

"You didn't need to buy me gifts to tell me you..." You didn't know how to finish that sentence. To date you? lo- no.

"I've always enjoyed buying gifts for people and receiving them, of course, but seeing your face, albeit frustrated sometimes, it was worth the surprise tonight." She shook off the cold and some snow fell to the floor.

"Jack!" You tugged her, closing the door and grabbing the bag of takeout from her and putting it on your small entry table. You laced your fingers together and brought your other hand up to cup her face, her eyes finally meeting yours. "Please."

She smiled, a soft curve to her lips and the best gift of happened, she was kissing you. Your eyes took a second to fall shut at the sudden soft contact. You melted into each other, her hand gripping your waist, grounding you while the soft kiss turned heated.

She pulled apart just far enough to catch her breath, your laced hands falling away as you picked up the takeout and lead her into your lounge room. The kiss had ignited something in you, you felt invincible and the nerves suddenly vanished. Nothing was said while you unpacked the meals she brought, you were about you hop up to get cutlery because the wooden ones they'd given you just wouldn't do but her hand squeezed your thigh stopping you in your tracks.

Your heart rate picked up again, not from nerves but from her touch. You hadn't looked at her since the kiss, although you felt like you could do anything right now, you couldn't look at her and see regret in her eyes. Unsure why you suddenly felt that way was a shock but -

"Y/n.." She breathed, her hand moving in soft circles over your thigh.

The low tone, almost a whisper, made you swallow hard. Her hand came up to cup your cheek and guide you this time to look into her eyes.

"Y/n -"

"Jack, please stop saying my name like that. I need dinner before I can do the things that that voice makes me want to do..." You rolled your eyes at how bad that sounded but relief came when her lips curved into a sultry smirk. Your avoidance of emotions wasn't lost on her but for now it would have to do.

"Fine. Dinner then dessert."

"Oh my god you didn't bring dessert did you?" She kissed you instead of replying, the answer on her tongue as she explored your mouth once more. "Right.. Shut up." You poked your tongue at her cheeky expression before turning back to dinner.

Surprisingly you managed to eat all the dinner before the make out session returned. At this point you were unsure if the dinner or her was the twelfth gift.

"What are you laughing at?" Her hand came up to cup the side of your face as her other ran down the side of your body, slipping under your shirt, again.

You were both stretched out on your sofa, Jack slipped in between you and the back of the sofa. You couldn't stop looking at her. "I wasn't laughing."

Her lips came down and ghosted over yours. "Your eyes were." She murmured before kissing you hard and fast.

You swallowed when she broke free, such a tease. "Was wondering what my day 12 gift actually was?" You smirked and squirmed under her ticklish feather light touch. You'd get her back for it later.

"In other words me or the dinner?" She said with a raised brow.

This time you did laugh.

"Think I got the best gift..." It was almost a whisper and you immediately stopped laughing and saw how serious she was.

You rolled onto you side so you were face to face. Your fingers tucking a few strands of hair that had fallen over her face, behind her ear. "Think we have different opinions there." You bumped your nose against hers, lightening the mood.

You were rewarded with a cute curve to her lips. "Don't fight me on this. You'll lose."

"I'm sure to lose many things that will come up in the next few months but my feelings for you. You can't win." You heart picked up, the feelings you just have away were much more than you planned in revealing.

She brushed her nose against yours, placing a gentle kiss to your lips which you tried so hard to extend but you pushed back with a laugh. "As much as I want to kiss you til the sun comes back up on Monday morning. I need to say something."

"Of course you do." You smirked at the light shove you got but you didn't care what she did to you. Right now Jacqueline Sloane was on your couch, in the middle of make out sessions. If you died tomorrow you'd be a happiest person in the world.

"I'm definitely going to win all the arguments over the next many years."

With that there was nothing else to say, the past twelve days had been fun and exciting with all the gifts you'd received but nothing compared to day twelve.

. . . .

I tried so hard. SO hard to not make who the gift giver was so obvious but like... You all know what stories I write. If Jack Sloane isn't the centre of the story then why am I writing it??

Drop a comment, I'd love to hear from all of you :)

#ncis reader insert #ncis christmas #ncis x reader #ncis 12 days of christmas #jack sloane #jack sloane x reader

[scullydubois]

Only the Light: Ch. 9

9/? | AU where Melissa moves in with Scully after Scully’s abduction | angst, msr slow-burn, occasional fluff | currently: s2, ep 12, Aubrey | T (for now?) | 4.3k | previous chapters | read on ao3 | tagging: @today-in-fic

Back in DC, Missy helps Scully get to the bottom of what's plaguing her. As Scully's journey gets a bit clearer, Missy drops a bombshell about her own life.

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

Scully’s stomach clenches as the plane touches down on the runway, jostling she and the rest of the passengers around like pawns in its game. Only forty-eight hours ago, she and Mulder had lifted off toward another mystery, another puzzle daring them to solve it. Now she is back, knowing scarcely more than she did then, with a mystery of her own to solve. She is forever chasing ghosts, and trying not to become one. 

As the winged giant rolls into its gate, Scully glances out the window. Thick clouds blanket the sky, an unending greyness rolling out over the city as far as the eye can see. So much for there’s no place like home. She’s been realizing lately that home is a feeling, not a location. Sometimes she feels like she needs a map to navigate her own apartment, or like everyone in DC knows some language she never learned. Well, almost everyone. There are a couple people who speak the same language as her.

And she’s about to see one of them now. The crowd of passengers--mostly suits who had sleepless nights-- stand up in their rows, ready to file out into the bureaucratic machine. The man on the outside of Scully’s row opens the overhead compartment and pulls down his bag and the carry-ons of Scully and the woman next to her. Scully thanks him demurely. She can’t remember the last time someone other than Mulder did that for her.

As they fall into line and shuffle off the plane, Scully wonders what her life will look like next time she boards a plane. With any luck, this will all be a fluke and she’ll be heading back to Aubrey tomorrow. Then again, even if it isn’t a fluke, she’ll still probably join Mulder back in Aubrey. She knows herself.

What would she say to him, then? Having to admit she lied about her reason for leaving, coming back with the type of news that turns worlds upside down...it doesn’t seem fair to him. It hasn’t been fair to her either, but that’s out of her hands.

She had knocked on Mulder’s door before the sun was even up. She hadn’t expected him to be awake, and so was particularly surprised when he came to the door with a towel around his waist. Evidently, he hadn’t expected her either (though who else is coming to his motel door at 6am?) because the longer she stood there in front of his barely dressed body, the more his color drained away. 

Needing a lie lame enough to be true, Scully told him that Melissa had sprained her ankle and would need some help getting around for a couple days.That she asked Scully to come home rather than go stay with their mother, because who better to be nursed by than a doctor? Mulder had nodded, told Scully to go, assured her he could handle BJ and the case. Scully is sure that Mulder knows what she told him is a lie. But he didn’t object, and that’s the permission she needed to feel settled with him and herself. 

She follows everyone off the plane, through the tunnel, and into the terminal. Moments like this remind her of her obsolescence in the universe, and she is somehow comforted by that. She is no chosen one, no messiah nor martyr, no mother of a holy child. She would like to stay that way.

She surveys the crowd waiting to pick up their beloved passengers. All of her fellow fliers, mere faces in her vicinity for an hour or two, are someone to somebody else. She is, too. They are all emerging from obscurity into a realm where they are known, for better or for worse. 

At the edge of the crowd, Scully catches her sister’s unmistakable smile and glowing red locks. She saw her sister only two mornings before, but Missy reacts as if they’ve been separated a lifetime. She engulfs Scully in a hug that just about sends the butterflies in her stomach into hibernation. 

“How are you feeling?” Missy asks, pulling away to scan her sister’s face for the honest answer she won’t give. 

Aware of this, Scully turns the corners of her mouth up. “I’m okay, really. My migraine went away at about four in the morning.”

“So you barely slept,” Missy interjects. 

Scully frowns. “Well, I laid in bed from roughly eight to six. There was sleeping involved at some point, I think.”

“How about on the plane? Did you sleep there?”

“No, you know I can never sleep with strangers around.”

“Oh, right. Did they teach you that at the Academy or something?”

“The things I saw at the Academy taught me that.”

“Oh.” Missy regrets bringing it up. As they head toward the luggage area, she holds out her hand, lets her sister place the handle of her carry-on in it. A silent apology, an acknowledged acceptance.

“So what did you end up telling Mulder?”

Scully is endeared that she has successfully chipped away at her sister’s tendency to call him by his first name.

“Oh god, you’re gonna think it’s so stupid.”

Missy laughs. “What did you say?”

Scully’s voice is rife with amusement. “I told him that you sprained your ankle and needed a doctor around to take care of you.”

Melissa bursts into laughter. “Good girl.” Scully would kick a man in the groin if he ever said that to her, but coming from her sister, it’s high praise.

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

They ignore the elephant in the room until they make it to Missy’s car. The plastic of a CVS bag rustles at Scully’s feet as she settles into the passenger seat. 

“Three pregnancy tests,” Melissa explains. “I stopped on the way.”

“You didn’t have to--”

“But I did.” That had been their father’s comeback whenever someone tried to, as he called it, ‘pity the helper.’ They both smile just a bit, their memory of him alive and well. 

“Can I pay you back?”

“No!” Missy insists. “I’m living with you rent free.”

Scully decides this is a good enough reason to let it go. She crosses her legs, watches her sister pull out of the space. She lets a question float around her head until they make it out of the labyrinth of airport side roads.

“Do you think I would be a good mother?”

Missy flicks her gaze toward her sister. Dana is peculiar in her way. Instead of fishing for sympathy like most people when they ask questions of this nature, she expects punishment. She’s practically asking to have a nail hammered into her cross. 

“You’d be a wonderful mother, Dana,” Missy soothes. “You’ve never had a bad intention in your life.”

“Haven’t I?...I killed a snake with Bill and Charlie once.”

“And you cried afterward. I remember seeing the tear stains on your face when you got home. Not to mention that you were what, five or six?”

“Well, what about Daniel? Surely my judgement was wrong there.”

Melissa sighs. “Okay, I’ll rephrase it. Any bad intention you’ve ever had was paid for with regret, and that’s not true about most people.” She frowns. “It’s always the purest souls who are the hardest on themselves.”

Scully stares through the windshield. She will expend no brainpower on her sister’s implication. She doesn’t believe it to be true. 

After a moment--“Do you remember those Raggedy Ann dolls we had, Betsy and Betty?”

Melissa smiles, nods. “Of course. Betsy was yours, and Betty was mine. We had those little wooden bassinets for them.”

“Right.”

Missy lets the memories flow back to her. “We used to sing lullabies and rock them to sleep. Actually, I’d sing, you’d pray with them. Mom and dad thought it was the sweetest thing ever, and I would get so mad at you. I thought you were sucking up to them.”

Scully laughs. This is the first time she’s heard of her sister’s woes. “Missy, I was three. There was no conspiring going on.”

“Say what you will, but your stocking was always a little bit fuller than mine.” She smirks at her sister, who blushes and looks at her lap. 

Dana has the unfortunate distinction, at least in Melissa’s mind, of being the favorite daughter. Bill Jr. always was and will be the favorite child. He molded to all their parent’s expectations of him, never deviating from the upstanding family man they imagined when holding him for the first time. Dana had done well up until she decided on the Academy. As Missy reminded her countless times, it wasn’t that they hated her going into the FBI. It just wasn’t in their vision for her, that’s all. 

Missy doesn’t fret about her place, even finds it somewhat funny. She isn’t the least favorite child per say (thanks Charlie!) but she is the least favorite child her mother is still in contact with, and that’s a title that takes some maneuvering. 

Scully laces her fingers together, rests them in her lap. “Do you remember telling me that I wasn’t a good mommy one night when we were putting Betsy and Betty to sleep?”

Melissa looks to her sister so quickly she practically forgets she needs to be watching the road. “No, of course not.”

Scully can’t meet her gaze. “Well, I know it’s a silly thing, and we were just children, but it’s stayed stuck in my brain for all these years.”

“Dana, you had probably just finished a ‘now I lay me down to sleep’ prayer, and I felt like I needed to knock you down a notch.” She pats her sister’s shoulder. “There was no truth in it, and I’m sorry it’s bugged you for so long.”

Scully shifts in her seat. The CVS bag crackles as her heels bear down on it. “I’m afraid it’s turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy at this point.”

Melissa won’t give weight to her sister’s worries, but won’t discount them either. “The good news about a self-fulfilling prophecy is that you can always change your thinking...You don’t believe in psychics, so don’t try to be one.”

Scully looks at the dashboard, then her sister. “I would hug you right now if we weren’t doing 75,” she coos.  

Something has clicked in her head, some comfort she has long been depriving herself of. Sometimes words fill in the cracks left by those that preceded them. The right words go even further, it turns out. The right words give you permission to heal. 

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

A dreadful anticipation plagues her as she and Missy walk up to the apartment. She wants to get it over with, even if it goes badly (and she knows it very well might). She craves the relief of surviving such an ordeal. Scully imagines that this is what the French must have felt on their walk to the guillotine. Except instead of the relief of surviving, they got the release of death. Scully is not ready for this yet.

Missy unlocks the door, ushers her sister in. Dana is not used to coming home and finding things in different places than before, Missy can tell from the inquisitive look on her face. She is surveying her territory, updating her memory bank. Looking for the exit signs, maybe.

Melissa closes and locks the door. Letting her sister set the pace, she leaves the CVS bag on the side table. Dana has already taken the carry-on and suitcase to her room.

Her room, Scully finds, is a shrine to sameness, everything looking exactly as she left it two days before. Untouched and completely under her control...these are the reassurances she requires now. She lifts the suitcase onto her bed but leaves it zipped. Its fate is no clearer than hers at the moment. Then she places the carry-on on her dresser, makes a mental note to let Mulder know she made it home safely, and returns to her sister in the living room.

“Have you eaten?’ Missy asks, edging toward the kitchen.

“I won’t be able to until we get this over with,” Scully replies, making her priorities clear.

“Okay.” Missy won’t fight her on this one. She retrieves the bag off the side table, perches at her sister’s side. “Are you ready now?”

Scully screws up her face. “No, but yes. I just need to know at this point.”

Missy takes her sister’s hand with a specific kind of gentleness, like a fairy godmother about to cast a spell upon her princess. Scully is willing to be led. She follows her sister into the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet while Missy pulls the pregnancy tests from the bag. Scully tries not to think about any moment beyond the current one as her sister opens each test, lines them up along the counter. 

“Do you want me in here or outside?” Missy’s tone matches the sympathy that Scully needs.

“Outside, please,” Scully says sheepishly, wishing she could have some guts for once. If no one else witnesses this moment, then maybe it’s not happening. Flawed reasoning that even Mulder wouldn’t agree with, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Okay. I’ll be right on the other side of the door.”

Scully nods her thanks as Missy slips out of the bathroom and shuts the door quietly. Left alone, she feels the crushing gravity that has been trailing her all along. She’s almost certain that her heartbeat would be visible through her skin if she looked. 

She stands, picks up the first test, opens the toilet. Her hands shake so violently that she thinks she might drop the stick in the toilet, which would be a pretty terrible way to return her sister’s kindness. She pulls it away and takes a deep breath to steady herself, holding her arms out in front of her like a sleepwalker. All the things she’s seen, and she’s never been as scared as this moment. Never felt the life she knows and has grown to love so acutely threatened. Never balked at the future in such a fervent way.

It occurs to her that she might seriously need her sister to come in and help her. The thought of that is just pathetic enough to kick her into action. Her hands are barely any more steady than before, but her resolve is ironclad. 

On the other side of the door, Melissa listens as a long period of silence is broken. She’s sitting down, her head resting against the wood, a hand laid against the door like it’s the chest of a lover. 

Silence again, ruptured by Scully’s quiet murmur. “Will you hold on to the test, please? And read the result when it’s ready?” She didn’t know she would need this, but she does. 

“Of course.” 

Scully cracks open the door, passes the stick to her sister. “I wiped it off.” 

Missy suppresses a laugh. “I wouldn’t care if you didn’t, but thank you.”

Scully closes the door quickly, not wanting to hold eye contact with her sister, not wanting to accidentally see the result herself. “Two minutes, right?” Her voice is on the verge of breaking.

“Yes, Dana. Two minutes.”

“Should I wait to do the next one?”

Missy eyes the test, waiting for it to make up its mind. “You can go ahead. It’ll take two minutes too.”

“Okay.” Scully’s voice is barely audible.

“Or you can wait,” Missy offers. “I just suspect that you’d want to check the accuracy as soon as possible.”

“Uh-huh.” She grabs the second test, wearily sits back down. 

Missy’s voice reverberates through the door. “I’ve done this before you know. For myself and for a friend.”

“Really?” Scully’s brain had tricked herself into thinking she was all alone.

“Mm-hm,” Missy confirms. “Mine were never positive, but hers were. I went to Planned Parenthood with her.”

“Oh.” There are things, Scully realizes, that she has neglected to think about. Or maybe she’s putting that off until she knows for sure. It wasn’t a conscious decision, more of an act of self-preservation. Her gut feeling is that she wouldn’t, but she never envisioned herself in a situation like this. If there’s any situation where it’s justified, it’s this, right? Not that she has a problem with it; women should be able to choose for themselves. She just always thought she knew what her choice would be. 

Melissa lifts her eyes from her watch, looks at the door as if she can see her sister through it. “It’s ready.”

“It’s been two minutes?” Scully’s voice rises.

“Uh-huh. Do you want me to come in or…?”

Scully scrambles up, lays the second test on a fresh piece of toilet paper. “I’ll come to you.”

She opens the door, kneels to be eye level with her sister. Prayer position is in close proximity. She bites her lip, her dilated pupils begging her sister to either curse her or free her.

A thin smile appears on Missy’s face as she flips the test so that Scully can read it. “Negative.”

One line. One very defined red line set against the white space. Has anyone, Scully wonders, ever gotten a tattoo of that?

“I--” Tears burst out of her instead of words. She lands in her sister’s arms, utterly unsure of what she’s feeling. Relief, yes. Happiness? Not quite. Sadness? Something like that. 

Missy smooths her sister’s hair down, holds her in the tightest hug she’s probably had in decades. “How do you feel?”

Scully is tempted to ask how her sister does that, always there with the tough questions. Instead, she gulps air until she’s calmed down enough to talk. 

“I don’t know,” she laments, tears streaked down her reddened face. “I thought I would be glad but...I just feel numb. Like I went down the wrong fork in the road and missed something important, but I don’t even know what it is since it didn’t happen.” She sniffles. It sounds like a heart breaking. “I just know it’s supposed to be there.”

“I thought you didn’t want--”

“Not under these circumstances, no. But then...when else is it gonna happen?” Her voice is a sheet of glass. “Because it doesn’t look like any time soon.”

Missy hugs her once again, rocking her back and forth. She overflows with warmth, sympathy, and love. “Honey, you have plenty of time to make your life what you want it to be.”

Scully sobs into her sister’s neck. She feels like an emotional hemophiliac, constantly hemorrhaging pain. Every time she thinks she’s bottomed out, there’s farther to fall. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she says, wiping her face. “I didn’t know I would be.”

Missy pulls her in a third time. “Don’t ever apologize to me for anything, even the things you’re actually wrong about.”

Scully laughs half-heartedly. “Oh!” She realizes then. “We still have two more tests, don’t we?”

Missy nods, smiles empathetically. “The second one should be ready by now.”

Scully is about to get up, but Missy lays a hand on her back, beats her to it. “I’ll grab it.” She strides into the bathroom, picks the stick up off the counter, and takes a look. Again, she flips it so her sister can see. “Negative.”

Scully presses her lips together, a stopgap to any further emotional reaction. “We should do the third one then, just to be sure?”

Missy detects a lift in her sister’s voice, a space she’s made for hope. “Whatever you’d like, Dana.” It seems that her sister will always end up disappointed through no fault of her own, no matter what she wishes for. This chills Missy to the bone.

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

The sisters share dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets for lunch because this is the kind of food Melissa buys when left to her own devices. Missy dunks hers in honey mustard, Scully takes hers plain. Remnants of anxiety hang in the air; Scully’s plight remains unresolved, and they are well aware of that. Whatever path they are walking, this is just the beginning. 

The phone interrupts their silent reverie, and Scully hops up to disguise the fact that its ringing made her jump. “It’s probably Mulder,” she tells her sister. “I meant to call him when we got home.” Missy nods, continues with her nuggets. 

Scully grabs the phone off the wall. “Hello?”

“Hey, is Mel there?” It’s a sweet, flowery voice, very different from the one Scully expected. She furrows her brow. Could Mel refer to her sister? She’s never heard anyone call Melissa that. “Who is this?” Missy looks up, watches her sister curiously. It’s not Mulder, evidently. 

The woman on the other line clears her throat. “It’s Trinity. Am I speaking to Dana?”

“Yes, this is Dana,” Scully says slowly, unnerved by the caller knowing her name. “Are you calling for Melissa?” Scully offers, hoping she might get out of this scot-free. 

Hearing this, Missy wipes her hands on a napkin, gets up, and rushes toward Scully, holding her hand out for the phone.

Scully ignores her, keeps the phone to her own ear as the caller speaks to her. “I am, but I was actually wondering about you. Mel told me your worries. How are you doing, Dana?”

Scully is now particularly spooked. Who is this woman, and why does she know all of her business? Missy pokes Scully in the bicep, then gestures for the phone. Scully hasn’t seen her sister this greedily desperate since she snuck out the window when she was seventeen and needed Scully to unlock the front door so she could get back in before their parents woke up.

“Um, Trinity is it, Missy--Mel wants to talk to you.”

“Oh, okay! It was nice to finally meet you!” the cheery voice practically sings. Scully just nods and makes her usual ‘Mulder you’re crazy face’ as she hands the phone off to her sister.

“Hi, Trin.” Missy speaks in a rush. “I can’t really talk right now, but Dana is home and all the tests were negative so she’s doing okay. I’ll call you tonight, alright?”

Scully can hear the voice on the other line, but she can’t make it out. Her sister says “I love you, bye” into the phone, then hangs up.

Scully raises an eyebrow, feeling it her duty as the little sister to pry. “Who was that…?” 

Missy puts the phone back on the wall, circles around to her plate, sits down. She answers calmly, casually. “That’s Trinity. She lives in Portland, we used to waitress together.”

Scully slides back into the seat across from her sister. “How come you’ve never mentioned her? She seems to know a lot about me.”

“Well, you’re the reason I moved to DC and all.”

“I didn’t know you were still in contact with anyone from the West Coast.” Scully picks a stray crumb off one of her nuggets, thankful that her sister is in the line of questioning for a change. 

“I bounced around the area for three years, of course I have friends from there.” She grabs her own empty paper plate, points to her sister’s. “Are you done?”

Scully pushes the plate--with two uneaten chicken nuggets--toward Missy. “With the food, yes. Not with the questions.”

Melissa takes both of the plates to the trash, then rinses her hands in the sink. “Yes. Does that answer your question?”

“Depends. What do you think my question is?”

Missy dries her hands on the dish towel, swivels to face her sister. “Is Trinity my girlfriend? Because yes, she is.”

Scully’s mouth drops open the slightest bit. She had known Missy was bi, but she had never met any of her girlfriends, not even in passing. Missy tended to keep them to herself, fearing that the Scully family might encroach on the holy ground she created. “Really?” she asks excitedly. 

“Uh-huh.” Missy sits back down at the table. “For nine months now.”

“Are you serious? That’s incredible, Missy! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Missy just raises her eyebrow. Scully feels like she’s looking in a mirror. “What? You know it doesn’t bother me.”

“Sure, but mom, and Bill…”

“I don’t think that mom would be upset by it,” Scully answers level-headedly. “Surprised maybe, but not mad.”

Missy balls up a napkin, tosses it back and forth between her own hands. “I don’t know that she would be, I just...don’t trust that she wouldn’t. And besides, nothing mom says or does will change how I feel about Trinity. So it’s not really a pressing issue. No need to cause a scene.”

“I can’t believe you moved here without mentioning her. I wouldn’t have let you leave her, you know.”

Missy laughs. “Oh, I do. That’s why I didn’t say a word.” Scully’s laugh is her first genuine one all day.

“She seems very nice,” Scully says, flicking a crumb off the table.

“Oh no, she’s a total bitch,” Missy replies. There’s a moment of silence while Scully figures out that was a joke, then they both laugh.

“Just kidding. I love her very much.” Missy’s smile could melt ice. “I’m glad you got to talk to her. Now my two favorite ladies have technically met!”

“I’m afraid to ask whether I’m in first or second place.”

Missy reaches out across the table. “I moved across the country for you, honey.” Then, with a smirk--”But I could move back any day now, so watch out!”

Scully smiles, nods. She can’t imagine what these past few weeks would have been like without her sister near. She hopes Missy never goes away again, as unrealistic a thought as it is. If there are angels on Earth, her sister is one. But Mulder too has emerged as a force in her life; no one destabilized her life quite like him, but he would be her rock if she let him, she knows this. She owes him a call. She knows that too.

#i think this is the best part so far #it's angsty as helllllllll #and two big reveals!! #the x-files #only the light fic #missy and scully fic #txf fanfic #txf #dana scully #melissa scully #mine

[afni-fics]

Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn - Chapter 15: Not of This World (Part 2)

Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn - Chapter 15: Not of This World (Part 2) by C_R_Scott Chapters: 15/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Red Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Tim Drake, Lucien Flavius Additional Tags: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Skyrim/DCU crossover, Reluctant Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Not Beta Read, Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Modded Skyrim, Skyrim Spoilers, Tim Drake is Dragonborn | Dovahkiin, Batfamily-centric (DCU), Tim Drake-centric

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter

Summary:

More information is revealed between Tim and Lucien as they rest for the night after escaping Bleak Falls Barrow.

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

Tim had been feeling uneasy since he asked Lucien if he had a copy of a world map. While listening to the scholar's story and history, he became curious about this land called Cyrodiil. From what he could gather, it was somewhere beyond Skyrim, but the further Lucien went into his stories, the more frustrated he became.

Having no frame of reference for any of the locations was bothering him.

Knowing so little in general about this world he was trapped in made him feel extremely uneasy.

So... He asked, "Do you have a map of the world?"

The map Lucien spread out across that stone floor was a functional work of art. As Tim studied the map of Tamriel, a part of him was awed that someone had created such a beautiful detailed thing by hand with just pen and ink on parchment. He felt similarly about the parchment map of Skyrim he had sitting folded neatly in his own bag.

It was beautiful.

But it wasn't a map of any country on Earth. 

A part of Tim had been harboring a small hope that perhaps he was dealing with some sort of Multiverse-shenanigans. Perhaps he was on an alternate Earth where sword and sorcery were king instead of science and technology? Or maybe there was time travel high jinks in play? This world was clearly set on some sort of medieval timeline. Magic and dragons loomed large in old legends in Europe, so perhaps there was a kernel of truth to the fairy tales?

But as Tim studied the map, trying to find any familiar shape among the coastlines, lakes, and mountain ranges, he felt his heart sink.

His face must have been reflecting the encroaching despair that had been chasing him ever since Helgen as Lucien's voice disturbed the silence. "Does nothing on that map look familiar to you?" Then, a bit later, Lucien asked "Then... Where on Nirn do you come from, if not from Tamriel?"

In that moment, Tim decided to take a chance. He looked at Lucien and asked, genuinely, "Nirn? Is that another continent, or is that the name of the entire world?"

As Lucien stared at him in disbelieve, jaw working to form a response but no words escaping him, Tim felt a wave of regret wash over him. He chuckled humorlessly and shook his head. "Shit. Shouldn't have opened my big mouth. You probably think I'm crazy or stupid."

Finally Lucien found his voice. "No. Of course not!"

Tim gave him a deadpan, "don't try and bullshit me" stare.

Lucien sighed. "Well... Perhaps a touch of madness is on the table as a possibility, but certainly not stupidity! The expression of your intelligence in the Barrows was quite indisputable." The scholar took a measured breath and tee-peed his fingers in front of his face, tapping his lips with the apex of his joined fingertips. "Honestly, I was leaning more heavily towards some type of memory loss triggered by the trauma you experienced at Helgen." He looked at Tim over his fingertips.

Tim smiled wearily. "That might make a nice plausible cover-story later on, if anyone asks about my past," he mused. 

"But that's not it..."

"No. That's not it." Tim looked over Lucien appraisingly, trying to mentally gauge how much he should and shouldn't tell the scholar. Then he got an idea. He pulled out his own journal as well as a quill and a bottle of ink. Then he set to work carefully sketching the basic forms of all the known continents of his Earth from memory. Once the shapes of the large land masses were set, he added more details, such as borders between major countries and the locations of major cities along with their names. Lucien watched him work with great curiosity. 

Once he was done, Tim took a steadying breath before he offered Lucien the drawing. "This is a map of the continents of the place I come from," he admitted solemnly. Tim pointed to the dot on the North American continent he had labeled "Gotham City". "And this city is my home." He looked to Lucien. "In your studies, have you ever seen any land masses or maps that are similar to any of these places?"

Carefully, Lucien took the journal and held it a little closer to the light from the campfire. As he studied the rough drawing, his brow furrowed and absent-mindedly he stroked his mustache and goatee as his expression became more thoughtful and inward. After a few quiet moments, the scholar shook his head slight. "I'm sorry. I have studied a fair number of historic maps over the years, but I've never seen any that resemble the land masses displayed here." Lucien set the open journal down next to his own map of Tamriel, so he could look at both at the same time, arms crossed across his chest as he still let his eyes wander from one map to the other.

The silence between the two of them was agonizing to Tim. He could feel a coil of anxiety tightening in his chest, though he tried to keep it suppressed and his expression neutral. "What are you thinking Lucien?" He finally worked up the nerve to ask.

Lucien closed his eyes. "I... don't know yet," he admitted. "I don't have enough information." He finally looked up at Tim. "If you are comfortable with it, can I ask you a few questions?"

Tim nodded, even as he drew his cloak a little closer around himself, as if he was cold even despite the roaring fire in front of him, looking more guarded than forthcoming.

Lucien pulled out his own journal and flipped to a clean page. Then he began to voice a few questions, keeping them with a simple yes/no format. 

"I'm going to give you a list of names. Let me know if any of them are familiar to you. Yes or no answers will suffice."

Tim nodded. 

"Azura?" 

"No."

"Boethia?" 

"No."

"Clavicus Vile?" '

Tim tilted his head. "I know the word 'vile".

Lucien paused in his notes. "But as the name of a being?" 

Tim shook his head.

"Hm... " Lucien murmured thoughtfully. He went down the rest of the list of Tamriel's known Daedric Princes.

Hermaeus Mora. 

Hircine. 

Malacath.

Mehrunes Dagon. 

Mephala.

Meridia. 

Molag Bal. 

Namira. 

Nocturnal. 

Peryite. 

Sanguine. 

Sheogorath. 

Varemina.

To each name, aside from recognizing "nocturnal" and "sanguine" as common words, but not necessarily proper nouns, Tim responded in the negative. He clearly had no knowledge of the Daedra Lords of Oblivion. 

Lucien then moved on. He offered Tim another list of names. It was going to be shorter this time, just the list of the Eight Divines.

"Let's start off with Akatosh--"

"Akatosh..." Tim echoed as memory shards darted through his mind. 

                  ... an ancient temple?                                           ... "A-ka-tosh?"                                                             ..."Dude?! You can read that?"                                                ... "Detective?! What are you--"                                 "DOVAHKIIN!!!"...                                             ... "MEYZ NU YSMIR, DOVAHSEBROM!...                                                                                  ..."ROB!"...                                                                            ... "TIM!!!"                                                                                     ... FALLING!!!..

"Timothy?! Timothy can you hear me?!"

Tim felt hands on his shoulders, shaking him... Until he realized he was the one trembling, and Lucien's hands were trying to hold him steady. Lucien's eyes were wide with concern.

"Lucien?" 

The scholar breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness. You went catatonic the moment I mentioned Akatosh. Are you alright?"

Tim buried his face in his hands. The shaking was settling, but not completely gone. "I... don't know," he admitted. "That name... it's familiar, but my memories." He groaned as he felt the spike of a migraine building behind his eyes the harder he tried to remember. "I can't sort them out. Like they've been ripped to pieces. Hurts..."

Lucien pressed a hand to Tim's forehead and noticed he seemed to be far warmer than normal. He frowned. "Here now. I think that's enough for tonight. You are still injured and you need to rest." He helped to lay out Tim's bedroll, despite the weak protests from the younger man. "We'll start off in the morning to Whiterun and as soon as we finish dropping off that Dragonstone with the Jarl's wizard, you're going straight to the temple for proper healing. I think your luck's run out regarding that burn not becoming infected."

Tim tried to protest, but he felt so physically, mentally, and emotionally wrung out. Gingerly, he laid himself down and drew his cloak around himself to stay warm. "Lucien?" 

"Yes?" Lucien had taken a length of linen wrap from Tim's bag and soaked it with water from the rain still falling outside their shelter. He knelt beside Tim and placed the cool compress on his forehead.

"Do you think I'm crazy?"

The scholar gave him a reassuring smile. "I think... I don't believe you're crazy, but I do think you have experienced something that neither of us can quite explain. Don't worry... Once we've completed your task and once you are healed, I will help you find your truth."

That seemed to reassure Tim enough that he finally relaxed to a point where he could let exhaustion drag him under into unconsciousness.

***

Once Lucien was assured that Timothy was fast asleep, he went back to the maps on the ground, and also to both their journals. After a quick glance to make sure his companion was still resting, Lucien picked up Tim's journal and flipped back to the start of the book and read over the few earlier entries that existed. His brow furrowed at some of the contents he read.

"January 23, 20XX... 24 hour days? Is he's on a different measure of time?"

"Gotham... That's name of his home city, but where is that from? His map of his world is so strange? Could it be a land from a plane of Oblivion? But which one, and how? Could it be there's an active Oblivion Gate somewhere in Skyrim? Terrifying thought...."

"Also... Is it possible he is from Nirn, but crossed paths with a Daedric Lord and just didn't realize it? Sheogorath's touch perhaps? But those who are touched by the mad god are usually completely manic or violently insane. Timothy, by comparison, seems quite in control of his mental faculties, if a bit confused at most."

"Medieval? What does that word mean?"

"Oy... no wonder he bristled at the mention of the Imperial Legion... Better be careful when we make our way back to Solitude. He might react poorly if we're approached by anyone that looks like a soldier."

"Clearly no understanding of potions or magic. Maybe they don't exist where he comes from? Hm... Seems the same way regarding Septims as well. Likely different monetary units in his homeland."

After reading the only four entries in the book, Lucien felt marginally guilty about reading Tim's private thoughts, but now he had a little bit more information about his travelling companion.

Too bad he ended up with more questions than answers.

"Who is this young man, and where is his homeland located?"

"How did he get to Skyrim, and for what reason was he brought?"

"Why did he react so unusually to the mention of Akatosh?"

"Is it possible a Divine or a Daedric Lord is involved somehow?"

"How can we get him home?"

Timothy Drake-Wayne was certainly an intriguing puzzle he really, really wanted to solve.

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

Warning: This is being pantsed more than plotted, and this is not beta read. We'll see where this journey takes us. Mostly I'm just doing this for my own amusement.

Note1: If you have any questions about the playthrough and Tim's feelings/experiences that aren't described in the chapters, please ask me in the comments. I'll do my best to answer your questions as best I can.

Note2: Dragon Tongue Translations: - DOVAHKIIN - Dragonborn - MEYZ NU YSMIR, DOVAHSEBROM - Come now Ysmir, Dragon of the North ***** So ends the evening of rest before making their way back to Whiterun.

#elder scrolls dc#fanfiction#tim drake#skyrim fanfiction#batfam fanfic#red robin#batfam#crossover#lucien flavius#wip#afewnovelideas

#elder scrolls dc #fanfiction #tim drake #skyrim fanfiction #batfam fanfic #red robin #batfam #crossover #lucien flavius #wip #afewnovelideas

[itzagothamcitysiren]

Pretty Please

I’m taking request now! I write oc’s so if you want to request something just shot me a ask or message! :) This one was requested by @comic-nerd-dc​ 

Request:  Will you do a damian (16+) with my name Sandy. Maybe like the dorky best friends to lovers trope I’d love to see damian get jealous over me and not understand what he was feeling and then like haveing a screaming match when he confesses his feelings

Part One

Damian Wayne had never gotten used to the big galas and parties his father threw. Even after living with his father for the last ten years and attending countless amounts of them, he still found himself uncomfortable as he was forced to put on a new face and pretend to be interested in anything and everything that people told him as he conversed; it was sickening.

           Normally he’d be able to stomach it a little bit better but tonight was different.  Tonight he could feel himself letting his face droop and show how truly uninterested he was in the conversation he was stuck having with one of his father’s business partners. He quickly caught himself though before the well-polished man before him noticed, straightening himself back up and plastering that fake look of attentiveness back on his face.

           As the man went on about the coming merger between himself and Damian’s father, Damian let his thoughts trail off. He was one hundred percent not interested in a thing this man was saying if it wasn’t any clearer than it was before. He was more concerned about a different matter; a far more important one for that matter. It had been the whole reason why he was stuck here alone and finding everything unbearable.

           He’d already gotten on warning look from his father already, as well as the famed family butler and to throw more salt into the wound even Grayson asked him what his deal had been. Tt, he thought to himself, remembering Dick’s concerned look. But as much as Damian hated admitting it, he was almost an open book to the man now and could never hide when something was bugging him.

           Damian hadn’t noticed or heard the incoming of footsteps, well-trained or not, until a hand clasped against his shoulder. He jerked forward, face contorting into a scrunched rage for being snuck up on and startled. Between his thoughts, the man’s never ending story and the loud chatter and music throughout the room, Damian had been completely distracted.

           “Hey,” Jason’s voice came to reach Damian’s ears, causing the boy to look up at him with a confused and annoyed face. “You wouldn’t mind if I burrowed my brother real quick would you? No? Thanks!” Jason continued, slightly with a teasing tone throughout.

           He didn’t really wait for an answer, quickly turning Damian away from the conversation and towards the opposite side of the large ballroom. Damian quickly shrugged his hand off his shoulder, not as forcefully as he would’ve liked, knowing that his father would kill him if he made a scene. He still let Jason lead him away as he silently thanked him for getting him out of his previous predicament.  He would never say so out loud, of course; this was Todd after all.

           “What do you want, Todd?” Damian glared up at the older man, not having to look up as much as he used to, having hit a growth spurt over the last couple of years. He was practically Jason’s height now.  

           “Thanks for saving me, Jason; yeah no problem, Damian, you’re welcome.” Jason mimicked Damian’s voice in a fake conversation before taking a drink from the glass he held.

           “Tt, you didn’t save me Todd.” Damian narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms against his chest.

           “Okay fine then. Go back to that extremely interesting conversation.” Jason nodded back towards the man, who had locked a new victim into conversation. “By all means,”

           Damian grunted but made no sign of moving. He prefer to not spend his already miserable night with Todd but even he had to admit that Todd was better than that. Why is father was willingly making himself a partner was unknown to him.

           “Why are you here?” Damian questioned.

           “Working a case, Tim was gonna decode something for me.” Jason started, taking another drink, leaving the glass now empty. “Dick found out and begged me to stay at the manor; I said no and he told Alfred, so now here I am.”

           Damian nodded, understanding; you didn’t just say no to Alfred. The man was getting older, not being as active as he had been around the manor when Damian first arrived. Even he found himself caving more and more for the man, knowing that he’d regret it if he hadn’t.

           “What crawled up your ass and laid an egg? You looked like you were two seconds away from murdering that guy.” Jason asked with a slight chuckled.

           “You’re as ill-mannered as ever, Todd.” Damian rolled his eyes. “Nothing is wrong. You should know just as well as I that father’s parties aren’t the most pleasant.”

           “This is true.” Jason nodded, “Though Dick said you’ve been pouting all week so,” Jason added with a shrug.

           “Grayson’s delusional.” Damian spat, crossing his arms a little tighter, ignoring the feeling of chest constricting into itself.

           “This is also true.” Jason laughed, “You’re also a liar. Does this have something to do about a specific lady friend? Which speaking of I haven’t seen her all night? Where is she?”

           “On a date with her boyfriend.” Damian said grinding his teeth together.

           “Blondie has a boyfriend now? Oh, I get it now.” Jason almost sang out. “You’re just jealous. Makes sense why you’re panties are in a twist.”

           “Excuse me? We’re just friends, I have no reason to be jealous. Don’t be absurd, Todd.”

           “Ha! Are you joking? You have the total hots for her. I may not be around much but even I can see it.”

           “Grayson’s not the only delusional one in this family apparently.”

           “Aw, you admit we’re family. But no seriously, it’s fine to be jealous. I mean it’s not, you shouldn’t have let it get to the point of being jealous and asked her out yourself-

           “I am not jealous Todd. Sandra is completely capable of dating anyone in which she chooses. ”

           “Okay Demon Spawn, you keep telling yourself that while I go get another drink.”

           Damian huffed as he watched Todd walk off towards the bar. He was not jealous. He was Damian Wayne; he was Robin for crying out loud. He didn’t do jealously. There was no way in hell that he was jealous of whatever his name was again. He was so not jealous that he hadn’t even remembered the boy’s name, even with her talking about him nonstop in the last month of the two dating. Damian Wayne was one hundred percent not jealous.

           Angry? Now that was a different story. Damian did do anger. He was angry about a lot of things actually. Was this one of those things? Possibly, but he knew that he couldn’t stay angry at Sandy for too long. They’d been friends for so long, meeting shortly after she had joined the Teen Titan’s a couple of years back. She was Black Cannery’s niece and thought it’d be best for her to work with kid’s her own age part time.

           And at first Damian was Damian, acting closed off and untrusting, especially after the whole fiasco with Slade and Terra. He didn’t care if she could be vouched for by a hero as established as Cannery, he didn’t know her, so he didn’t trust her. But he soon got to know her.

           Her bubbly and outgoing attitude was hard to avoid.

           She had a voice to match too. Damian hated to admit but her powers and skill had been a great addition to the team. The pair built a great dynamic with each other unintentionally. They both were greatly skilled in hand to hand combat, offend sparring for hours and until they were both panting on the ground. She tested him; she pushed him to his limits.

           It wasn’t just in training she did so either, as Damian noticed, she had a very big personality. She refused to let him skip out on team movie night and dinners. She always made sure he was included and participated. At first he found it unnerving, not understanding why she clung to him as much as she had. He didn’t know when it happened but eventually he began to find it endearing, and soon grew fond of the attention.

           He wasn’t sure of the exact moment their friendship formed but it had. The former assassin knew it had something to do with her being the only one to actually remember his birthday. He had been thankful that she kept it to herself and not tell the rest of the team, knowing he wouldn’t want a big surprise party or anything like they’d end up wanting to throw.

           Instead she kept it to herself and made a small party for themselves in her room. She’d made a giant blanket and pillow fort in her room, made a ton of his favorite foods and bought him new art supplies. His father and even Dick and Alfred had gotten him birthday presents in the past, along with trying to make a small celebration for the date but it hadn’t felt as genuine as this had.

           So was he angry that she had ditched him tonight to spend time with her new boyfriend? Not necessarily. But was he happy about it? Absolutely not. Ever since they became close friends she went to every single gala with him knowing that it eased his anxieties about them and made them go by quicker. She could’ve gone out any other night for she knew that tonight was his night with her but she choice to instead go off and see some stupid movie and pay for overpriced snacks.

           He found himself deep in though again, losing himself in another self-tirade. He watched the people move about the room, all laughing and appearing to have a good time, making a bitter scowl appear on his face. He hated how he was clearly the only one not having a good time. Normally he wouldn’t care but he felt like he had a terrible taste in his mouth and watching everyone else made it worse.             His eyes traced the room again, scanning around as if it would change anything.

           His eyes stopped on one particular head of hair. Blonde.

           His feet were moving long before his mind was as he made his way across the marble floors. His target was right in front of him and he felt something snap in him before he could stop himself. When he stood right behind the person he had been glaring daggers at he reached out, gripping his fingers tightly around their wrist.

           “What are you doing here, Lance?” Damian questioned, his voice thick as he jerked her around to look at him, cutting her off from her conversation she had been having with Dick and Tim.

           Tim looked at the pair with a deadpanned look, nudging Dick, trying to signal the other man to leave the two alone but the birdbrain didn’t get the clue. Dick obviously opened his mouth, “I texted her where she was and asked her to come when she saw she was just at home.”

           “What?” Damian jerked his head to look from Dick back to his friend. “Weren’t you on a date?”

           “Erm, yes,” she said nervously, rubbing the back of her neck.

           She brushed her hair over to her left shoulder, shifting in her heels. Damian knew she was hiding something, he could tell just from the sound of her voice let alone her stance. She also was wearing the same dress she wore to the last gala, something she would never normally do. It wasn’t that anyone would notice, the gala’s being so stretched out but she always fretted about being caught wearing the same dress twice and being embarrassed.

           Cocking an eyebrow at the girl, Damian knew something was wrong when she averted her eyes away from him. He felt his sudden anger flare. They didn’t keep things from the other. Their whole friendship was based off of a certain level of trust and her just randomly showing up without his knowledge was something small, but something they just didn’t do.

           Damian grabbed her wrist again, pulling her away from her brothers. He ignored her protests and question of what he was doing. He also ignored Dick’s voice.

           “Where are you going?” Dick called out, only to be shushed by Tim.

           Sandy shot them an apologetic look, before relenting and letting Damian drag her out of the ballroom. It wasn’t until they were halfway into the manor did she finally put her foot down, feeling her blue eyes growing sore from glaring at the back of the boy’s head.

           “Damian if you don’t stop dragging me I’m going to scream.” She warned, giving her arm a good tug.

           Damian scowled at her, releasing her from his hold but not without a little sass in his actions. He tutted, crossing his arms against his chest, looking at her straight in the eyes, being close in height.

           “What’s your problem?” She questioned, mimicking his stance.

           “You weren’t supposed to be here tonight.” He said not breaking his stern stair.

           “Well,” she rolled her eyes, popping her hip out slightly. “I can leave if that’s what you want.”

           “No,” He said a little too quickly, causing her to quirk an eyebrow. Coughing into a fist to clear his throat, he shook himself back into his strict demeanor he broke shortly. “I was just under the assumption you weren’t coming tonight. You said you had a date.”

           “I did.” She said making an annoyed face. Damian made a face of his own, silently pushing her to explain further. She huffed, uncrossing her arms and placing one hand on her hip. The other ran through her soft curls as she furrowed her brow, “It ended early.”

           “Why?”

           “What’s with all the questions, Damian?” She slightly shook her head, feeling exhausted and about ready to crawl into herself.

           “You’re clearing hiding something. I just-,”

           “Just drop it Damian,” She signaled him to cease with a wave of her hand, crossing her arms against her chest once more. She turned her head away from him, looking back down the hall from which they came from.  “We should head back downstairs before we upset your father and Alfred.”

           “No, I want to know what happened.” He demanded, reaching out to grab her arm as she turned away from him. “Did he hurt you?”

           “What?” She questioned, slight amusement cracking through. She shrugged her arm out of his grip, the lightness in her voice now gone. “Pfft, please. Like he could.” She rolled her eyes, “its fine. Please, let’s just go back downstairs, ya?”

           Damian nodded reluctantly giving up. She looked about ready to scream and he was sure that his father wouldn’t appreciate the cry of a cannery ruining his party. He followed behind her as she now led him through the halls of the manor. His face still kept the same stern look, now noting how fake she looked as she pretended to be her regular self throughout the night. He wouldn’t call her out on it. He wouldn’t keep pressing that he knew she was hiding something from him. He’d give up.

           For now.

#Damian Wayne #damian wayne fanfiction #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne x oc #orginal character #batman fanfiction #robin x oc #Jason Todd #dick grayson #Tim Drake #jason todd fanfiction #tim drake fanfic #dick grayson fanfic #request #dc comics fanfic

[violetsmoak]

The Specter at the Feast [1/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556579/chapters/59300599

Summary: A tragic incident as a child left Tim Drake with the ability to commune with the dead. It’s a skill he’s used to close some of the most confounding cases to come across his desk at Gotham City’s Major Crimes Unit. But when he learns of an apparent murder-suicide that could link to a very personal case he’s been working for ten years, he might need more than a connection to the afterlife to solve it. Especially when Detective Jason Todd, a man in denial about his own psychic abilities, is assigned lead on the same case.

Sparks immediately fly between the two detectives—and not necessarily in a good way—as they are forced to work together to take down a macabre serial killer before it’s too late.

Disclaimer: This story uses characters, situations and premises that are copyright DC Comics, Inc. No infringement pertaining to graphic novels, television series or films is intended by violetsmoak in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author’s own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Author’s Note: Here’s one of the stories I’ve been working on for JayTimWeek. As I mentioned on tumblr, I got hit by a big blast of inspiration for one of my original stories and have kind of been working on that like mad for the past three weeks, so unfortunately I didn’t have time to dedicate to the prompt fills for JTW as I wanted to. As soon as I run out of steam for that, I’ll get back to filling the prompts. So, bad news I probably won’t post anything else during the event, but eventually my prompts will all crop up once I recapture my attention span :P Huge thank you to strawberyjei for taking the time to beta-read this chapter!

_______________________________________________________________

“That stuff will kill you one day.”

Tim Drake frowns and glances to his right, noticing the half-amused and half-exasperated smile playing on his best friend’s face.

“Will not,” he retorts with the instantaneity of an oft-repeated argument and leans more securely against sun-warmed stone. He takes a defiant sip from his jumbo travel mug, enjoying the bitterness of his favorite morning indulgence—slow-brewed light roast with three shots of espresso. “Besides, how else do you expect me to be awake enough to drive out here at this hour?”

He doesn’t have to see Kon to know he’s rolling his eyes.

“You don’t actually have to—you’re the one who keeps showing up; I just wait here.”

There’s something buried in the joking tone, and Tim shifts in discomfort as he detects the unspoken scolding. Choosing to ignore it, he swallows another mouthful of coffee and stares past the well-kept shrubbery, observing the gentle waves on the river.

From a distance, Gotham’s elegance is deceptive. By daylight, the riot of architectural styles jutting into the horizon appear whimsical instead of grotesque, and the layers of filth and decay suggest character as opposed to rampant corruption. Even on a Sunday, it teems with energy.

I guess that’s what still convinces people to move to the crime capital of America.

Tim knows from experience that the city’s grandeur is not as noticeable when combing her streets for the criminal element.

That knowledge doesn’t stop him from digging out his cellphone and snapping a few lazy photos. The quality won’t compare to shots taken with the Nikon he has at home, but it’s rare to perceive the city of his birth as something other than sinister; he won’t squander the opportunity.

“Maybe it’s the other way around,” Tim suggests in a light tone. “I could just be out here, minding my business, taking in the scenery—”

“Hah!”

“—and you’re stalking me.”

“Stalking’s your thing.”

“Is it really stalking if you get paid for it?”

“Whatever you say, detective,” Kon sneers without true malice and crosses his arms across his chest. Despite the chilly early spring air, he’s wearing only a black t-shirt with a red Superman symbol. Tim gave it to him for his birthday a few years ago, but the sight of it these days still elicits a nostalgia-induced lump in his throat. “Either way, you’re the chump who showed up here on his first day off in forever. Sunday, remember? You’re supposed to be spending the day lounging at your fancy estate, getting ready to gorge yourself on Alfred-made dinner, not bumming around with me.”

“That’s not for hours,” Tim dismisses, “and to be honest, I’d rather skip it.”

Kon glances sideways at him. “Haven’t you missed it all month?”

“I was working the entire time. Everyone in the family has to do the occasional weekend rotation, Alfred knows that. Besides, I see them all at some point or another every week.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Kon taunts. “I thought we agreed you needed to stop isolating yourself?”

The furrow in his brow is one that Tim recognizes as a prelude to concern, though, and he suspects he won’t be able to deter his friend.

“I’m not isolating myself.”

“That so? When was your last date?”

And there it is.

“I left myself wide open for that one,” Tim sighs.

“You know I’m right.”

“Here it comes…”

“I’m serious—you can’t still be carrying a torch for your ex—”

“There are no torches.”

“—hoping it’ll work out—”

“I’m not!”

“—because that ship has sailed,” Kon concludes. “She’s dating your sister for God’s sake.”

“I’m aware.”

“And it’s been two years.”

“I’ve been on dates in the last two years,” Tim protests.

“Cassie doesn’t count,” Kon replies. 

That earns a wince. “We agreed never to speak about that.”

“And I told you I was fine with it, man, it’s not like I was there.”

There’s a heavy sensation in Tim’s chest at that reminder, and he scowls at Kon for bringing it up. That usually earns a shrug or palms-up gesture of surrender, but today Kon squares his shoulders and raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“I already told you it meant nothing. We were both hurting and just…needed someone,” Tim insists.

Kon ignores him. “Which I’m okay with—relieved, even. I know you guys wouldn’t have looked at each other if circumstances were different. Which brings me back to Cassie, not counting.”

“She was there for me as much as I was there for her—can we please talk about something else?”

“Depends—do you have a better example than my last girlfriend?”

“Hey, I’ve been with other people! Remember Tam?”

“Yeah, your dad’s former business manager’s daughter,” Kon deadpans, “who you only started dating because everyone thought it was convenient. And she left you because you weren’t interested enough in the relationship.”

“What are you talking about? I was interested!”

“You didn’t even get to second base with her, man.”

“Are you seriously using the baseball metaphor?”

“Then there’s Bernard Whatshisname for the occasional booty call.”

“I regret ever telling you about that.”

“And don’t even get me started on that cop from Hong Kong that you hooked up with last month.”

“Okay, that one was a mistake,” Tim admits.

“But none of those were actual relationships. You haven’t had one of those since Steph.”

“I don’t recall you being this judgy before.”

“You’re one of my only sources of entertainment,” Kon deflects. “It’s like binge-watching Netflix and yelling at the idiot hero to stop screwing up his life. Except in this case, the idiot hero can actually hear me and have to listen.”

“‘Have to’ is debatable…”

Kon pushes off the stone they are both leaning against and turns to face him. It always annoys Tim when he pulls this, given he’s three inches taller and has twice the upper body strength.

“This is what you do, Tim. You keep people at a distance and on the rare occasion where they disappoint you or hurt you, you close yourself off,” Kon sighs. “You need to relax, man.”

Tim’s phone rings, granting him a welcome distraction.

“The last time I relaxed, I got stabbed,” he reminds Kon as he glances at the device. He blinks in surprise when he recognizes his brother’s scowling face and phone number flashing up at him. “Speak of the devil.” He swipes at the screen and answers, making a face at his best friend. “Gremlin.”

“Timothy,” is the terse answer, and Tim can almost hear the scowl in the younger man’s voice.

Huh. First name today. Either something bad happened, or he wants something.

Tim ignores the tiny edge of worry blossoming at the thought; if it were a family emergency, Alfred or Dick would call him, not Damian.

It must be the second thing.

“What do you want?”

“Where are you this morning?” the younger man asks, ignoring the question.

“It’s Sunday, where do you think I am?” he shoots back, deciding two can play ‘answer-with-a-question.’

Except Damian seems to have no intention of following the usual script.

“Of course,” he says instead, sounding distracted. “Then you should be close enough.”

“…For what?”

There’s a beat of hesitation, and then Damian says, “I may have stumbled upon something you’d find…interesting.”

Because that doesn’t sound ominous…

“Define ‘interesting’.”

“I’m at work,” Damian says. “Securing a crime scene.”

That moves Tim along the spectrum from wary to defensive at once. He goes to substantial lengths to avoid working with any of his siblings in a professional capacity. It’s a necessity in a family where law enforcement is all but synonymous with the name Wayne. Even if their older brother Dick hadn’t started the tradition of downplaying that link in the professional sphere, Tim has always been diligent in establishing professional boundaries. So far, his family has respected them. Damian, in particular, has always been gleeful—almost militant—in keeping to that maxim; for him to break it, something must have upset him. 

And for him to reach out to me instead of Dick is…I don’t think it’s ever happened.

“Are you sure you should have called me then?” Tim queries in a careful tone, wanting to make sure he’s not misreading the situation. “Dick might be a better option.”

“Richard wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t view it the same way.”

“The same way,” Tim repeats, the words sparking something—a flicker of suspicion begins to take shape.

“I shouldn’t even be telling you this,” Damian continues, “so you’d better be appreciative—”

“Spit it out, Damian.” Tim doesn’t have the patience for the adult version of ‘I-know-something-you-don’t-know’.

“Murder-suicide. Apparently. The bodies were posed,” Damian says, voice low as if he doesn’t want someone to overhear him, “And all the victims are holding hands.”

Tim’s mouth goes dry and his entire body tenses. “All?”

“Five,” Damian tells him shortly.

That makes Tim close his eyes in dismay. “Other than the number it’s the same MO as the others?”

“The crime itself, yes. Don’t your files say the last one was five years ago?”

Tim knows it should irritate him that Damian’s been poking around his casefiles—he always considered office protocol as more guidelines than law. But the infraction pales next to the knowledge blossoming into being.

It’s happening again.

“If you want to see for yourself, get here before whoever they assign as the lead detective does,” Damian is saying.

Torn, Tim’s eyes flick to Kon, who clearly knows what is being said and whose expression is all-too knowing for Tim’s liking.

“Where is it?” Tim asks at last.

“Diamond District. Gotham Tower Apartments.”

“That’s unusual,” Tim grunts, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. Only one of the earlier cases took place in what either of them would consider an upper-class neighborhood. “Also, outside of my jurisdiction.”

“That wouldn’t stop me if I were in your position.”

There’s a click and then a dial tone.

Tim gives a slow exhale, closing his eyes.

He and Damian were never the closest, but once the early friction between them eased, they developed their own dynamic. And one specific shared understanding that they bonded over in secret, away from the prying and often unintentionally judging eyes of family.

“How is he a jerk even when he’s trying to be helpful?” Tim mutters more to himself than Kon. He’s already calculating how long it will take him to get across the bridge from Metropolis.

Half an hour, with no traffic.

It will be cutting it close, assuming Damian holds off giving his own precinct the details until the last second.

He must be serious about this if he’ll risk being called up on discipline for not following protocol.

Tim turns to Kon. “Sorry, but I need to head out.”

“Like I won’t see you again next week,” Kon dismisses with a grim smile. “After all, you’re always here.”

“You say that like you don’t want me to be,” Tim replies, suspicious.

“Don’t put words in my mouth. You’re my best friend, I obviously want you to visit. But you need more in your life than work, checking in with me and—I dunno—chasing some white whale.”

“Really?” Tim deadpans. “You, of all people? You want me to give up trying to get justice—”

“Not what I’m saying,” Kon interrupts. “I’m just trying to tell you there’s more out there and you deserve to find it.” He pauses. “And   agrees with me.”

Tim cuts off a curse with a hiss. “That is a low blow, you two ganging up on me.”

“What can I say? You’d better listen, or he’ll do something impulsive, if he hasn’t already.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim grumbles, keying the coordinates of the crime scene into his phone’s GPS.

“Remember,” Kon calls after him, “ ”

“Always do,” Tim replies. As he heads for the gates of the cemetery, brushing his fingers against the headstone that reads: Connor Kent, Beloved Son, Brother, Friend—Brave Fireman of the Metropolis Fire Department.

⁂

“Six days,” Jason Todd fumes, glaring down at the muddle of papers and file folders in front of him. “I’m gone for six days, and you jerks decide to turn my desk into an episode of Hoarders.”

“Relax, Todd, it’s just paper, not toxic waste,” Detective Adams drawls as she passes by, unapologetically grabbing a few of the offending folders on her way.

“This? This is not just paper, it’s a potential biohazard.”

His desk, usually the immaculate outlier in the chaotic, open concept dumping ground of the 12th Precinct, is now covered in empty coffee cups, old take-out cartons, and other detritus.

“Says the man who filled my desk drawer with a cubic foot of golf balls the last time I was on leave.”

“None of which were covered in saliva—I mean, come on!” He holds up several crumpled napkins. “It’s just common fucking courtesy!”

“Take it up with Rayner.”

“Of course it was him. Guy has it out for me…”

“You did shoot him.”

“One time! And it was a shoulder wound! If I hadn’t, both our covers would have been blown and we’d both be dead.”

“Cry me a river, Todd,” Adams snorts. “I’ve got a lead on the Kirano case and don’t have time to wipe away your tears of manly angst.”

She stalks away, totally missing how he flips her the bird. Not that his heart is in it; he’s actually fond of Onyx and would even work with her if she could stand him. But the one time they were partnered together, it ended with them running away from an exploding truck and a two-inch-thick shard of metal through her shoulder.

Still trying to figure out how I got the blame for that one…

It’s not like he goes into a situation intending to get the people next to him injured. For some reason, he just happens to be better at intuiting incoming threats, whether it be a perp taking a swing with a knife or stopping just short of being shot.

It happens, sometimes, this inexplicable intuition. Roy always called it a sixth sense, but Jason takes issue with any of that hokey paranormal crap. He gets hunches—gut feelings that have served him extremely well in his career and helped him rise quickly through the ranks.

But he doesn’t like to think of himself as psychic.

He likes thinking of the possible reason for his “hunches” even less.

Finally getting the worst of the garbage into the trashcan beneath his desk, Jason starts on the wayward papers, pleased that most of it can be shredded and won’t require a trip to the file room. There’s one folder, however, that doesn’t fit anywhere: some arson report that has nothing to do with any of his ongoing cases.

He skims through the particulars of the folder and notes the name on the CSI report—B. Allen—which suggests it isn’t even recent. He’s been friends with the new ME, Stephanie Brown, for two years now, and never met the guy that was here before her.

Maybe someone’s trying to find a pattern or something.

Jason decides to bring it to the captain; if anyone’s missing a file related to their case, she’ll have a better idea.

He skirts around uniformed officers moving to and fro, some leading handcuffed offenders to the holding cells at the back of the building, others talking over their cases with each other or on the phone. He passes the office corkboard, filled with everything from sketches of perps at large (it seems Dr. Pamela Isley is up to her usual eco-terrorism) to reminders about the Gotham General Blood Drive (anyone who donates in uniform gets the rest of the day off, as well as the next one).

By the time he reaches the captain’s office, he’s sweating. It might be crisp outside, but inside there are so many bodies moving around that it might as well be the hottest day of summer.

Raising his hand to knock, he’s surprised when the door opens inward and the captain steps out.

“Todd,” she says with a blink, then nods to herself. “Right. You’re back today. That works. Get in here—I’ve got a case for you.”

He’s too used to Artemis’ brusque manner to be bemused; instead, he ducks into her office and closes the door behind him.

“It’s not another missing kid, is it?” he asks apprehensively; the last case involved a fourteen-year-old girl. “No promises I won’t break some scumbag’s teeth again if that’s the case.”

“You’d better not break anyone’s teeth,” Artemis chides him, a warning glint in her eyes. “Especially since you just got off suspension.”

And that for using “unnecessary force” in apprehending a drug dealer selling his shit to a bunch of kids.

“But no,” she continues, sitting behind her desk and reaching for a file, “it’s not. The officers on the scene are reporting it as an apparent murder-suicide.”

“And you thought that’s how I wanted to spend my first day back at work? I’m touched. Whatever made you think of me?”

“The fact that you were conveniently in front of me when I opened the door.”

“Aw, here I was expectin’ you to say something like, ‘well, you’re a constant pain in my ass, but you’ve also got the best record for closin’ cases in this department’.”

“You don’t need the ego boost. Now either take it and be grateful, or I’m giving it to Adams as I planned—”

“Gimme,” Jason interrupts, snatching the file folder from her.

“That’s what I thought.”

He settles into one of the chairs in front of the captain’s desk and opens the folder.

“I want this one looked into and closed as soon as possible,” Artemis goes on.

“Why?”

“Because of who the victim is.”

Jason frowns, scans through the preliminary report to see that the victim—victims—have, in fact, been identified. His eyebrows shoot upward.

“J. Devlin Davenport.” He looks up at Artemis, askance. “The investment guy? The one being investigated for embezzlement?”

“Fraud Squad’s been building a case against him for six months now,” Artemis confirms. “The guy set up a fake company and defrauded his investors out of 200 million. They’re still trying to track the stuff he funneled through the Bahamas.” 

“If they find it, send it my way,” Jason says, still skimming through the papers.

“Could you sound any more cliché?”

“If I tried, maybe,” he replies, distracted as he slides the folder he brought to one side of her desk. 

“What’s that?” Artemis asks.

“Dunno. File was on my desk. Arson, I think. Figured someone left it there.”

“We don’t have any arson cases ongoing at the moment, but I’ll ask around. Maybe someone’s doing case research.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason murmurs. He taps the paper in front of him. “Listen, if they’re saying this is a murder-suicide, that’s probably what it is.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Look at the transcript from when it was called in.”

“‘Bodies of the deceased were…arranged around the dinner table’,” Jason reads. “What the… ‘lack of struggle might suggest sedation before they were removed to the dining room and posed’—posed? Like a photographer does?” He makes a face. “Kind of a lot of effort for someone who just committed suicide right after…”

“If I’m not mistaken, that would be the thing that needs investigating.”

Jason ignores the sarcasm, checking to see who called this in.

Al-Ghul. Huh. Well, at least he’ll keep the place from being overrun. Kid’s scary good at keeping the rubberneckers away.

And pissing off the MEs by lurking around while they work.

Jason knows the new officer just wants to learn, but he also tends to be a bit of an entitled know-it-all like most of his generation. It’s a trait he’ll lose the longer he walks a beat and works up through the ranks, but right now it makes most people want to punch him.

Jason might be one of those people if it weren’t for the fact Al-Ghul is meticulous about taking statements, prompt in securing crime scenes, and entirely willing to go the extra mile to help a detective close a case even when he’s off the clock. He recognizes the ambition and the need to prove himself from his own first years as a cop.

If he adjusts that attitude a bit, I might even put in a recommendation to put him on detective track…

Jason closes the folder and grins at Artemis.

“So, who’s the unlucky bastard you’re pairing me with today?”

He doesn’t work well with a partner, given his tendency to ignore rules in favor of his gut instincts. Especially since it’s never steered him wrong. Most other detectives can’t stand that, with the exception of his last partner, Roy Harper, who transferred to Star City six months ago to be closer to his daughter. Then again, Roy always considered rules arbitrary anyhow.

Since then, Jason’s been cycled through almost all the detectives at the 9th Precinct, all without finding a decent fit.

Pretty sure it’s Artemis’ way of torturing me since plenty of other guys work their cases solo.

It’s a blatant implication that he needs a babysitter.

“Rayner wrapped up most of his cases last week,” Artemis replies without even checking the duty roster on her desk.

“Hell no.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I giving you the impression you have a choice?”

“Unless you want me back on suspension, you’re not putting me with that asshole.”

“Well, Jason,” she says, finally looking up at him with an expression that suggests she’s fully ready to call his bluff, “you have this tendency to either piss off or sleep with whoever gets assigned to you. At least if you’re working with someone that pisses you off, I’m less likely to need to fill out the paperwork to reassign them afterward.”

“And if they happen to fall into both categories?” he leers at her in an exaggerated manner. She was one of his partners once, both on the job and briefly outside of it. He prods at the plaque on her desk that reads Captain A. Bana-Migdhall. In retaliation, she reaches over and raps him on the knuckles with it. “Ow!”

“You’re not helping your case right now.”

“You know, it’s not my fault Eddie decided he’d rather play Bond Babe for the scary CIA chick with the one eye. And Miguel’s the one who couldn’t keep his hands off me, so…”

“Just…go find Rayner,” Artemis sighs, waving her hand in dismissal. “I need that crime scene checked over and wrapped up quickly. The Mayor’s office wants an answer on this pronto.”

Jason sneers at that. “Of course they do. Because the Waynes and Davenports are old country club buddies, right?”

“Maybe fifty years ago. But Bruce Wayne spent more time as a cop than some rich college co-ed. He got elected based on his tough-on-crime stance, so it’s more likely he just wants to make sure the high-profile target of a class-action suit hasn’t been the victim of foul play.” Artemis pauses. “Especially since, having met the man, I’m pretty sure Wayne would have liked to beat the truth out of Davenport personally.”

“Now there’s a reality show I’d watch.”

“On your own time. Now go do your job.”

“Or Rayner.”

Artemis drops her pen and stares. “What?”

“Well, from what you said before, I figure if I fuck Rayner, it means you won’t ever make me work with him again, so—”

“Get the hell out of my office!” Artemis barks, throwing her tissue box at his head. Jason ducks and slips out of her office with a grin on his face.

There are a few good-natured laughs from his coworkers—“In trouble again, Todd?”—and he heads across the room to Kyle Rayner’s desk.

“What do you want?” the other detective demands, nose wrinkling at Jason like he’s just smelled something rank. It’s his default expression whenever they cross paths.

It’s also the expression that drives Jason to mess with him whenever he can.

Time for a bit of payback for the desk thing.

“Not me,” he says, affecting a nonchalant shrug. “Captain wanted to know if you could head down to the 7th.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Apparently her opposite number there has something she needs to be sent over and doesn’t want to wait on official channels to slow everything down.”

“What do I look like, a courier?” Rayner growls, but Jason can see from the way he smooths a hand through his hair that he’s got him.

It’s not exactly a secret that Jason’s workplace nemesis has a thing for Precinct 7’s Captain Troy, or that he’ll take any excuse to go flirt with her.

It’s unrequited, of course, and Jason’s bound to get an earful from Donna the next time they run into each other, but worth it to get Rayner out of his way.

“Whatever, man, I just work here,” he says, only half-pretending irritation. “You want to tell Captain ‘no’, it’s your balls in a vice, not mine.”

“Yeah, that’d be a switch, wouldn’t it?”

But the other man pushes back his chair and grabs his jacket.

Jason smirks at his retreating back and spins on his heel, returning to his own desk to grab his car keys.

Maybe the day’s looking up a bit.

⁂

There’s a gaggle of reporters already on the scene when Tim arrives, and he wonders not for the first time just how many of them have their own inside sources in the various police precincts of Gotham. There are also two ambulances on the scene, but thankfully someone had the foresight to park them in a way that shields the entrance of the high-rise apartment.

Officer Kelley, Damian’s partner of six months, is walking back and forth along the police tape to ensure none of the intrepid rubberneckers can get through. Head down and dark glasses firmly in place, Tim hurries past the press before they can recognize him (it thankfully doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it’s a pain in the ass) and approaches Kelly. Though they’ve met before, he flashes his badge and identifies himself. 

All of Tim’s official identification name him as Timothy Drake-Wayne and have since he was about seventeen, but he only uses the latter name if he absolutely must. With regards to work, he’s only ever used it during official meetings with the Commissioner or during obligatory police ceremonies.

Or when Bruce makes up some official sounding excuse to check up on me when he feels he hasn’t heard from me in a while.

He's endured at least one of those this past month.

Kelley barely raises an eyebrow, suggesting Damian must have warned her who he was calling and waves him through. It speaks to how much they trust each other as partners that she’s going along with what’s clearly a personal issue. Most other cops would question the need for two law enforcement officers from the same family needing to be at the same crime scene.

There are two elevators in the lobby, one of which is already open with a sign posted to warn residents from using it. Another officer Tim doesn’t recognize is waiting beside it, and Tim once again flashes his badge before heading up.

He’s subjected to a brief interlude of elevator muzak, before the doors open to the foyer outside of what has to be the victims’ apartment. Two ambulance techs are just exiting, carrying with them tools that are clearly useless here. He waits for them to pass and slips inside, taking in the stylish décor of the hall and nearby living room. Inside the latter, there’s a small woman speaking to another EMT, a blanket over her shoulders as she tries to speak through sobs.

Damian is watching the scene from across the room, mouth pulled into his habitual frown; this deepens when he sees Tim. Undeterred, Tim strides over—he was invited, after all.

“So, are you going to tell me why I’m risking Cassie’s wrath this morning?” he asks as he joins the younger man. Tim's friend might not be the type of captain to fire him for the flagrant conduct unbecoming, but she can make his life miserable for the foreseeable future.

“The bodies were found this morning by the cleaning lady,” Damian says, also not bothering with such trite pleasantries as a greeting. “No signs of break-in or struggle.”

“Cleaning lady? This early on a Sunday? They must have been paying her overtime.”

Damian raises an eyebrow. “Pennyworth works Sundays.”

“Only because it would take the same amount of phenobarbital to stun a moose as it would to make Alfred take a day of rest.” They exchange a wry look of agreement, and Tim returns to the subject at hand. “So, she identified the bodies?”

“Yes. Joseph Devlin Davenport, his wife Lina, and the three teenaged offspring—Neil, Irene, and Roderick.”

Tim’s eyes go wide; he’s met every one of them before. “Shit.”

“Indeed.” Damian flips through his notepad, though they both know it’s for show. “All the victims were executed by two gunshots to the head, except Davenport himself; the medical examiner was here, and her preliminary findings suggest the husband shot his wife and children first, then turned the gun on himself. There are no signs of struggle, no bruising, or markings on the bodies…”

���None of that’s particularly extraordinary though.”

“And then there’s their hands.”

They share a look.

“Did you mention that when you called it in to your superiors?”

“No, when I called it in I gave them the basics. Since then I’ve noticed a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact a firearm was discharged several times in a residential complex and no one heard anything,” Damian says. “Yet I didn’t find a suppressor anywhere on the scene; just the weapon itself.”

“Is the penthouse soundproofed?” Tim asks.

“No. When I spoke to the downstairs residents, they told me they had even made several noise complaints to the building management in the past. Nothing ever came from it, of course—money talks—but someone should have heard something.”

“Assuming they recognized the sound of gunfire. This isn’t exactly Burnley. Which…could be a good thing. Buildings like this tend to have good security systems.”

“Obviously that was my next thought,” Damian drawls. “While Kelley was calming down the help, I went to speak with the security guards in case the camera system caught sight of anyone suspicious.”

"And did they?"

“No. They apparently had to run a routine update on their software, which knocked out the feed between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m.”

“And you think this is when the shooting took place.”

“I imagine Brown will find the time of death to be around that point,” Damian agrees with a smug upward quirk of his lips. “For Davenport to decide to kill himself at the exact time when the security feeds go offline is rather coincidental.”

Tim shakes his head. “Maybe, maybe not. Anything else?”

“What about the fact Davenport was left-handed but shot himself with his right hand?”

Tim blinks. “And how do you figure he was left-handed?”

“Please,” Damian dismisses with a snort, “I’ve been forced to attend enough fundraisers with Father in the past, and Davenport was often present. Even you would remember that ham-fisted troglodyte trying to sip from a champagne flute had you ever deigned to attend.”

Tim tilts his head in acknowledgment of both the barb and the observation. “Fair. Though so far all of this sounds pretty circumstantial—nothing really screams 'second shooter' here. And other than the hand thing—”  

“Go see for yourself. The bodies are in the dining room. I imagine your specific talents will confirm my suspicions.” Tim starts into the apartment. “By the way, if you’re still here when the lead detective gets here, I’ll deny knowing you.”

Tim snorts. “As expected.”

“And you are not to tell Richard I was involved in this. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Tim has to hold back a chuckle at that; Damian is even more acquainted with Dick’s mollycoddling than he is.

“Noted. Let Alfred know I might be a bit late for dinner tonight.”

“It’s not Alfred you have to worry about.”

Tim heads down the hall, accepting a pair of plastic gloves from one of the passing investigators. As he pulls them on, he takes note of the doors to the bedrooms that remain open, and the photographs and paintings hanging on the walls. Nothing is disturbed, no signs of a struggle like there would be if the victims had been dragged from their beds, and there’s no sign of blood on the floors leading from the rooms or even the hallway itself.

That means the victims either walked voluntarily—which is unlikely—or sedated and carried.

It’s looking like Damian’s instincts might be on-point here, but it’s not until Tim steps foot in the dining room that he realizes just how much that’s the case.

He freezes in place, hit with a familiar jarring of his senses at something not meant to be perceived.

Davenport was a man in his mid-forties, tall and with the look of a skinny person that’s suddenly gained a whole lot of weight, and not in a healthy manner. Tim remembers meeting him at some dinner with his parents when he was younger, and his mother disparaging the man behind his back as a social-climbing schemer.

And that was before the Ponzi scheme.

The man’s blond hair implants are now plastered with blood and brain matter that oozes down the left side of his head. His eyes roll in wild fear, tears and snot running down his face, which is immobilized in a stiff smile from regular Botox injections. That mouth is now twisted in a grotesque scream that makes Tim wince even in its silence, the unsettling sensation of nails on a chalkboard traveling up through his nervous system.

Tim is careful not to draw the attention to himself, not just because of the crime scene team still milling about the scene, but because the last thing he needs right now is a panicked ghost latching on to him. Davenport’s spirit is still in too much shock for rationality and may fixate on Tim if he discovers he can see him. Which he knows from experience is not fun.

The newly dead are like drowning victims—if they catch hold of you, they’ll drag you under with them. Best case scenario, Tim experiences a few seconds of possession and a week of dissociative identity issues; worst-case scenario, he could die from the same trauma.

Unfortunately, given the lack of control newly dead spirits have, the latter is most likely.

The ghost is luckily far enough from the dining room table that Tim can edge past him without ostensibly acknowledging its presence; instead, he studies the actual bodies and tries not to regret his coffee that morning.

The five victims have not yet been moved, but the placement of tarps over them suggests the crime scene photographers have already been by. Going from one body to the next, Tim lifts the sheets carefully, trying not to disturb anything too much in his investigation. The victims are all dressed in their nightclothes, seated around the table on wooden, cloth-back chairs. 

Damian wasn’t lying; all of them holding hands.

The dining room table is fully laden with dishes and cutlery, glasses filled with orange juice and bowls with the soggy remnants of cereal and milk. Other than the angry red entrance wounds on their foreheads—two shots each—there are no other visible injuries. Only the body of the presumed shooter, based on the position of the gun and his hand, is splayed out unnaturally across the table, ostensibly from the force of the gunshot.

Otherwise, it looks like they were all just sitting down to breakfast at the time of death.

His stomach roils a bit at the notion, not only because of the clearly depraved mind behind arranging the tableau but because the scene is familiar to him in a way he wishes it wasn’t.

Teeth clenched, Tim digs out his phone and starts to take his own pictures, not wanting to have to contact the lead detective and beg for copies. In the periphery, Davenport’s ghost continues to spasm and flail, making it hard for Tim to concentrate.

His eyes rest on the spot where the murder weapon fell and is struck by a sudden idea. Hoping he’s right, he takes a quick tour of the rest of the apartment but makes deliberate stops in the bedroom and the home office.

It’s another fifteen minutes of taking pictures and lightly rummaging through the belongings of the dead before he finds something. Striding out of the office and back toward the scene of the murder, Tim shoots a text message off to his friend Victor at the ATF.

Running gun serial numbers might be a little more complicated than on TV, but the guy owes me a favor. And if I’m right—

His thoughts cut off as he notices movement out of the corner of his eye, a movement that belongs to someone living this time.

There’s a newcomer on the scene, and from the way he flashes the badge, Tim would guess it’s the detective who’s actually supposed to be here. He’s redheaded, wearing a leather jacket and a loose tie that looks like he threw it on in a hurry. Even from this distance, Tim can make out a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin and the edge to his mouth that’s inherently challenging. The man’s whole esthetic reads scrapper, but his posture and carriage inarguably declare cop. Tim would know, his family is made up almost entirely of them.

Pretending like he hasn’t noticed the stranger, Tim shifts to face the scene once again, continuing to study him under his lashes as the man exchanges words with Damian.

He blames Kon entirely for the way his attention rests on the man’s muscular thighs, before the man turns toward Tim and starts forward, conversation with Damian clearly over.

Well shit…

⁂

Jason has an uneasy feeling in his stomach even before he even arrives at the Davenports’ penthouse apartment.

It’s not an anticipatory reaction to seeing the aftermath of a murder—he’s worked homicide long enough to have developed a means of distancing himself from the crimes he investigates. The feeling is more like expectation, a nagging sense that something huge is about to happen.

Never a good sign in my experience.

“Detective Todd?”

Jason pauses as he finishes putting on a pair of plastic gloves and glances up at the speaker.

“Officer Al-Ghul,” he replies, more formal than usual as he tries to shove the weird feeling to the back of his mind. “What’ve we got?”

The kid excuses himself from the small, tearful woman he’s speaking to and strides over.

“It seems to be a murder-suicide,” he says and launches into a report that’s almost word-for-word the transcript of what he called into the precinct, with a few extra additions. Jason lets the words wash over him, keeping an ear out for anything that deviates too much from what he already knows while casting his eyes about the apartment.

Geeze, you could fit three Crime Alley families in the living room alone. Who the fuck needs all this space?

His eyes fall upon someone across the room that he doesn’t recognize.

Young—maybe a bit younger than Jason—with an athletic build and good looks that, despite being clean-cut, give no clue as to whether they’re male or female. Whoever it is, they’re not dressed as a CSI or in an officer’s uniform, but they’re studying the crime scene with the eye of someone in the business. When the stranger notices Jason, he or she turns around, apparently fascinated by the photographs on the living room wall.

“Who’s that?” Jason interrupts Al-Ghul. “New CSI?”

Al-Ghul scowls in annoyance, either at the interruption or at the subject of the question, Jason isn’t sure.

“Major Crimes,” he says after a beat. 

That immediately puts Jason’s back up. “What the hell is MCU doing here?”

Al-Ghul shrugs, as if to say, ‘that’s your problem, not mine’, and returns his attention to the woman from before. Deciding this is a welcome distraction from his own unease, Jason stalks toward the stranger, ready to rip them a new one.

“Hey, buddy—wanna tell me what you think you’re doing at my crime scene?”

“Just taking a look around,” the detective replies, not turning around immediately.

Jason’s eyes flick to the photos on the wall, wondering what seems so captivating.

Most of them are glamor shots, professionally done, but some are clearly personal photos. Davenport and his wife on a golf course, the teenagers lounging around against a tropical beach backdrop, and another of Davenport sitting in a bed surrounded by his kids. Though his surroundings seem comfortable, he’s hooked up to some kind of IV stand, and despite the smile on everyone’s faces, there’s a haunted edge to it.

Oh yeah, now I remember.

A while back there was something in the news about him undergoing treatment for some kind of blood cancer. He actually tried to use that to discourage his case from being investigated. Just proves what kind of scumbag Davenport is.

Was.

Which brings him back to the present.

“I’m gonna need a bit more than that unless you want me making a call to the brass up at MCU,” Jason warns.

The detective turns to offer Jason what is clearly intended to be a disarming smile. “No need for that, I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

Jason prides himself on not being susceptible to that sort of thing, but—

Holy shit, he’s hot up close.

And yes, that’s definitely a male face studying him with an air of appraisal, in spite of the deceptively delicate features. The guy is mostly clean-shaven and wearing a smart-looking peacoat that offers a compliment to his eyes, which are very blue. It’s the intense color you don’t see very often outside of newborn babies, but with a pronounced gleam of intelligence that feels almost penetrating.

There’s also a confident set to his shoulders and a stubborn bend to his lips that instantly puts Jason’s mind on the defensive (and other parts at attention).

“Detective Drake,” the guy goes on, offering a hand to Jason. His voice is warm and smooth, the kind that’s more suited for phone sex than reciting Miranda rights. “Major Crimes, as you already seem to be aware.”

Jason refrains from taking the hand. “Detective Todd. 12th Precinct. Homicide. There a reason you guys are sticking your noses into a murder-suicide?”

“There’s reason to believe this may actually be the work of a serial murderer,” Drake replies, looking unbothered by the rebuff.

“Really,” Jason says flatly. “And what are you basing that on? Because the report I got is leanin’ pretty hard on this guy killing his wife and kids, then himself. That’s probably how the city’s going to record it. This isn’t a scene that needs in-depth investigating and there’s no need for one lead detective here, let alone two—especially not a guy who’s clearly out of his jurisdiction.”

‘Detective Drake’ doesn’t appear to notice the clear marking of territory.

“Have you been in there yet?” he asks instead.

“No, because I’m wasting my time explainin’ protocol to a smart-ass out of his jurisdiction.”

Drake smirks at that, sharp and unwavering. “Well, when you get around to it, you’ll probably cotton on to the fact the murder weapon was a .32 automatic with the serial filed off.”

“So?”

“So, first of all, the neighbors would have heard the discharge if it was fired without a decent suppressor, but there’s no evidence of one at the scene of the crime.”

Which, Jason can admit, is out of the ordinary. Most people committing suicide don’t care about how loud the shot will be that takes them out, but if they did use one, it would still be attached to the gun.

“Second, Davenport was an ardent supporter of gun rights. I remember seeing a clip of him on the news, going at it with the Mayor over his proposed gun-control laws.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Your point being?”

“My point is that generally, gun rights activists own guns. Which Davenport did—you’ll find them in his closet and his study, next to all the relevant paperwork: 9mm Glocks. And they have serial numbers.” Drake levels a challenging stare at Jason. “What’s the point of procuring an unregistered weapon when you have your own within easy reach? And why chisel the number off if you’re just going to commit suicide? It’s not like you need to care about it being traced once you’re dead.”

“The guy was rich—rich people do weird things. Probably some convoluted insurance thing,” he suggests.

“Or it wasn’t his.”

“So maybe he was holdin’ it for a friend. It happens. Still doesn’t change the fact this tool offed his own family.”

“And what about the fact that the same model gun has been found at the scene of at least fourteen other murder-suicides in this city in the past ten years?”

“It’s Gotham. Play the probabilities game long enough, you’ll get a bunch of seemingly random crimes that resemble each other.”

“Maybe. But in the ninety-something years before that—in fact, as long as the city’s kept records on this sort of thing—there have been only two murder-suicides that could fit that pattern, and those had enough additional evidence to solve immediately. But in the past decade, we've got two particular years where a series of murder-suicides were committed using an unregistered .32, where neighbors didn’t hear any of the gunshots and yet there was no sign of a suppressor. Five years ago, and ten years ago,” Drake tells him grimly. “Both those years there were exactly seven incidents, and then they stopped. None of those have been solved.”

“That says more about the investigating cops than the crimes themselves. You don’t solve a murder-suicide—the evidence is right there,” Jason insists, though what Drake has to say is uncomfortably close to what his own gut was telling him when he walked into the apartment.

“And the fact that in each situation, the victims are found holding hands?” Drake challenges, with the air of someone presenting a winning argument.

And, yeah, that’s a bit of a weird coincidence, but still not an argument for a major investigation.

“If that’s an actual detail in all these supposed cases of yours, it would have been noted.”

“Not if no one thought it was worth noting,” Drake retorts. “Not if whoever made those reports just thought it was some kind of death pact or…cult related suicide. They weren’t looking for it.”

“But you are.”

“Clearly.”

Jason peers at him another beat and then shakes his head. “Look, I have about seven other cases of actual homicide that need my attention, so if you could just—"

“Seriously?” Drake demands, losing some of his smooth calm at last. “You don’t find any of that compelling enough to—”

“To what? Start imagining serial killers where there are none? No, I don’t,” Jason snaps. “All I see so far is some rich bastard got caught running a Ponzi scheme, so he decided to take the easy way out and dragged his poor family with him. It’s what rich people do when things get hard; because if they can’t have it, no one can.”

That earns him a cold look. “Out of the other fourteen cases, only one of them involved a couple who could be considered rich.”

“Fourteen other cases where only you seem to notice the pattern. I dunno what you want me to say, buddy. Clearly, you got an ax to grind, so do me a favor and grind it away from my scene.”

Despite his words, it’s not a suggestion, and Drake recognizes it.

Scowling at Jason in something like disgust, he straightens up. “Fine. I’m going. But when another family is slaughtered by this nutjob—and it will happen—you’ll remember this discussion. Hopefully, before you have to answer another six homicide calls.”

Drake spares Jason one final judgmental look and heads for the front door.

Jason watches him, briefly admiring the man’s ass as he walks away, and then puts the encounter out of his mind. He’s got a job to do, and Artemis said she wanted this sorted out today.

Squaring his shoulders and preparing himself for another grim sight—he hates crime scenes that involve kids—he heads out of the living room toward the back of the apartment and the scene of the crime.

Crossing the threshold to the dining room, Jason’s earlier disquiet morphs, evolving from nervous apprehension to a full-blown dip towards dread. He barely catches a glimpse of the tarps draped over the bodies, when his stomach pulls tight, shoulders tensing as if waiting for a blow from the right, but there’s no one there. Something far too close to fear chokes at his throat, forcing him to pause in the doorway and put a steadying hand on the doorframe.

Spots appear across his vision, a chill winding up his spine, and—

—sobbing, hysterical tears, please don’t do this, please just let them go, heart racing, blood thundering, please no, I’ll give you anything, someone help, click, bang, agony, nothing—

Jason shudders as he comes back to himself, reeling back a step.

The sensations ebb a little but don’t completely vanish, and he has to take a few breaths to regain his control. Now that he expects it, it won’t be too hard entering the room, but the fact it hit him like that...

Jason glances back to the entrance of the apartment, mouth setting into a grimace. He’s cleaned up plenty of suicides, and they never hit him with that degree of dread before.

 He has a bad feeling that Detective Drake might have been right—whatever happened in the apartment, it wasn’t as simple as it's meant to look.

________________________________________________________________

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel! ❤️️ = I love this story!

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[notquitecanon]

Reunions and the F word.  Marvel / Criminal Minds crossover pt.3 (reader insert)

Part One      Part Two

January 2011

You stood in front of the BAU for the first time in almost a year. Utilizing some of SHIELD’s computer access, you’d been keeping up with their cases- and through their reports (and tidbits of information that the bureau kept) with them. You knew they were in at the moment. 

Aside from the usual overwhelming number of cases, you were surprised by how uneventful things had been in the BAU, but grateful at the same time. Uneventful meant safe. The biggest thing that happened was that JJ had gotten a job offer from the Pentagon, and had been forced to take it. 

You made a mental note to drop by her house later in the week- depending on how the Team reacting to your sudden reappearance. Would they be happy to see you? Angry that you left? Angry that you came back? Maybe they wouldn’t care? 

But there was no turning back now, you had already entered the building and were waiting outside those glass doors (you were shocked at how far you could get just flashing your SHIELD badge). Hell, you could see Derek teasing Spencer at the Doctor’s desk- his hair was much shorter now. Prentiss was laughing with them, and Garcia was making (what was probably) her third cup of coffee in a TARDIS patterned mug. 

No, they won’t want me to see me- They’re busy. You decided, turning on your heel back towards the elevators. But your escape was halted by someone’s chest, your eyes flicked up to find-

“(Y/N)?” David Rossi’s voice was astonished, but not angry. Your eyes quickly observed all of his behavior, but all you picked up was curiosity and shock. “What are you doing here?”  

Well, at least he’s not angry. You decided as you softly smiled back at him, “Hey Rossi, I thought I was overdue for a visit. Think the team has a minute?” 

When Rossi walked you into the Bullpen, heads were on a swivel. You watched your former team, just trying to get an accurate read of their feelings before you spoke to anyone. You caught Prentiss’ eyes first, as everyone in the room: shock, fondness, confusion- no anger. Then you moved on to Spencer: he was smiling, but eyebrows read confusion, slight betrayal, but overall no hostility. Hotch had come out of his office, as usual, his expression was unreadable, except for the glimmer of confusion and disapproval. Garcia was smiling widely, excitement written all over her face. But Morgan... Derek looked like he was barely hiding the anger and masking it with overall disapproval. You sucked in a breath, thinking to yourself, This is going to be fun. 

Just as quickly, you were ushered into the briefing room- giving you a sense of deja vu from all the times JJ had called you and the team in. They all took their prospective seats except for Derek who stood behind his- clear sign of hostility. None of them spoke, just all waited for you to start. 

You’d made up your mind to come here, but you never figured out what to say once you got there. Awkwardly you smiled, clasping your hands in front of you as you met each of their eyes. “Uh, hi guys, it’s been a while. Just under a year.”

“Not to be rude, but is there something you want to say? If not, we’ve got cases to work. We-” Derek started, arms crossed angrily over his chest. He reminded you a lot of Clint, both now and just your memories of him. Hotch interrupted him before he could continue with a quiet ‘Morgan.’

“No, he’s right.” You assured, glancing down to the floor, pausing as you thought to yourself I’ve never noticed how blue this carpet is... not important right now, “I haven’t been allowed contact until now. But that’s not an excuse is it.”

You took another moment collecting your thoughts, looking into Spencer’s eyes- it was that same “I’m sympathetic but you kind of deserve it smile” he’d given you almost a year ago, this time you smiled back. 

“I wasn’t allowed contact until they could be sure I wasn’t a security risk. And then they set me to work, I’ve been working up behavioral profiles ever since.” You explained.

“Them being SHIELD,” Rossi remarked, it wasn’t a question but you nodded regardless. You picked your words carefully, making sure you weren’t telling something you weren’t supposed to. 

“They’d been watching the BAU for a while- it was actually the Anthrax case that attracted their attention. You remember General Thaddeus Ross? He works closely with SHIELD. They determined that I was the most likely to actually leave the Bureau, and my sanction provided a clean break, but that’s not the reason I left.” You offered, hoping the information would appease them.  “I’ve been, uh, keeping up with your cases. You’ve been doing good work.”

“We’ve been shorthanded.” Morgan remarked, but it was masked by Reid’s question. You couldn’t help the look of hurt that flashed across your face, but you also caught the warning glare that Hotch sent him and look of sadness from Penelope.

“What did they need a profiler for?” Spencer asked, directing attention back to you. You hated having to lie, but you knew telling them it was ‘classified’ would provoke Morgan more. 

“You know, they didn’t actually tell me. I’ve been drawing up profiles on agents, scientists, and other people on their radar.” You lied, you knew exactly what they were doing with your profiles. 

“Scientists, anyone I would know?” Reid asked, leaning in. You playfully winked at him. Garcia speaking before you could answer. 

“Any SHIELD agents you could put on my radar?” She asked, playfully wiggling her eyebrows with a ‘sexy’ smirk on her lips. You and Prentiss laughed out loud, while Hotch and Rossi hid a smile. Reid, as usual, looked confused. Morgan even cracked a smile before regaining composure. 

“I’ll see what I can do, Garcia.” You winked. Garcia giggled and Prentiss was still laughing, and for a brief moment, you could imagine that you never left. But you had left, and you didn’t regret it, but you knew they had work to do. 

“I’m on leave for a week, and I’d love to catch up with you all. But I know you have cases to go through.” You paused, fishing a card out of your jacket pocket. “This has my new phone number on it, if any of y’all would like to catch up. If your busy or don’t want to, I understand.” 

Hotch nodded, motioning for the team to get going. They all started bustling as they filed out, Derek caught your eyes again before leaving. Hotch and Rossi were the last ones out, walking with you. 

“It was good to see you.” Rossi nodded, holding the door open. You smiled. 

“Figured I owed an explanation, at least what I was allowed to tell you.” You sighed, as he patted you on the back. 

“I’m sorry about Derek. I’ll speak to him later.” He promised. You shook your head. 

“No need, I know exactly what it looks like. It looks like I’m climbing the latter.” You admitted, looking over the bullpen at Derek who was working through paperwork while the rest of the team was chatting amongst themselves. You knew how he felt about latter-climbers, he basically refused to take promotions himself- he hated having to take over for Hotch. “You think he’ll forgive me?”

They shared a look, but didn’t answer you.

__________

Garcia was the first to reach out, later that day- which wasn’t really all that surprising. She’d already organized a girl’s night- even got JJ and Prentiss involved. You smiled as she rambled over the phone, how some bar was having themed drinks and she was so excited to get the gang back together. Before you knew it, you were sitting on a barstool laughing as Prentiss made a fool of some guy.  Now that all the questions were out of the way, it was like old times again. 

You turned to JJ, “So how’s Henry? god, I feel like I’ve missed so much.”

JJ laughed a bit more before answering, “Henry, oh he’s great! He’s learning words. Getting into everything he shouldn’t. Me and Will have our hands full.” 

Her voice was fond as she stirred her drink. You smiled softly as you sipped yours. Garcia bustled up between you, setting a tray down on the table, “Less sipping, more shots, ladies. Who knows when we’re going to get to do this again!” 

You chuckled but knew better than to argue as she slung her arm around you and JJ. JJ shouted over her shoulder, “Prentiss, get over here and be irresponsible with us!” 

And that’s the last thing you remembered before waking up on Garcia’s couch, covered in a blanket with a pounding headache and a desperate need for water. 

“Good morning.” Garcia groaned as she shuffled past the couch. You waved to her as you propped yourself up, “I’ll drop you by your hotel on my way to work today.”

She then winced at the noise of her dropping her keys on the counter, “Oh, why do I always bring out the shots. It’s never a good idea.” 

Slowly, fuzzy memories flooded back- the shots, the dancing, the laughs. You smiled fondly. “Bad ideas make good memories and bad headaches.” 

_________

After Garcia dropped you back at your hotel, you immediately put your dead phone on the charger. Next, you opened your computer almost relieved to find no emails from Fury or Coulson. Your stomach growled, nothing in it but the remnants of cheap cocktails and the coffee Penelope made you. Fortunately, the hefty SHIELD paycheck could afford to have breakfast delivered to your door. So one hot meal, a shower, and two tylenol later, you checked your phone. 

Two messages from Natasha, and two from an unknown number. 

Natasha: You in DC?

Natasha: Heard you got leave. That’s impressive, new agents never get leave in their first year. 

Unknown number: This is Reid, you free for lunch today?

Spencer: Morgan said he’d come with me- don’t know if that’s an encouragement or deterrent.

You texted Spencer back first, More than happy to. Just give me a time and place. 

And then to Natasha, Quantico, only a short train ride to the city though. 

Spencer: Quantico Grill / 12:15 ? You always liked their fries. 

You: Sounds good, Doc. 

-

Natasha: just checking up on you. Just got back from my mission & you weren’t in your office. 

You: I’ll be back on Friday :) 

-

Ever since Natasha had gotten off her mission with Stark, she’d been steadily hanging around with you more- occasionally even dragging Clint along with her. You’d even dare to call her a friend. She’d also been brushing up on your combat skills, getting you ready for your upcoming field test. SHIELD standards were a bit higher than the FBI’s. 

You smiled at the thought as you went through your routine of getting ready, it was already 10:30 AM. Pleased with your appearance by 11, you were startled by a dinging from your laptop. 

“[Level 6 Security Clearance] CLASSIFIED. As soon as you’re back, we’ve got work for you.” Was the subject line of an email form Coulson, but the digitized files were dated all in the 1940s. Great another wild goose chase.You thought as you opened the file, skimming them to pass the time. 

Captain Steve Rogers.... Captain Effing America. 

As much as you were interested in Captain America (always your favorite part of History class in school), you didn’t know why they’d want to profile a soldier that had long since been dead. You skimmed to the bottom, oh that’s why. 

Captain Steve Rogers, found in ice, comatose, but Alive. 

Under that was another note from Phil, “You’ve got your work cut out for you. You’ll need to build a preliminary with the attached files and then do an in-person interview when he wakes up. Report to the New York field office as soon as your leave is over.” 

You scrolled back up to the top, reading over reports from several familiar names like Peggy Carter and Howard Stark. You certainly did have your work cut out for you. You tore your eyes up to the clock. 

11:45. 

But work could wait.

_________

When your taxi slid into a spot beside the Quantico Grill, you paid quickly already spotting Reid’s old blue Volvo. While you were happy to catch up with Spencer, anxiety was bubbling in your stomach from your last encounter with Derek. You shoved the negative thoughts out of your head as you slid through the tinted glass door. 

You immediately spotted Spencer sitting by himself in a booth facing the door, so with a smile and a wave you slid across from him. As always, his relaxed state was incredibly awkward looking, but you were long since accustomed to it. “Hey, Spence. Derek back out?” 

The Doctor smiled back, but shook his head, “No, you just missed him. He just went to the bathroom to take a call.”

You nodded, getting situated. Spencer continued on, smiling playfully as he teased, “Prentiss and Garcia looked pretty rough this morning. Long night?” 

“It’s always a long night when Garcia serves shots.” You grinned, even though Spencer knew- (JJ had often either dragged him along on ‘girls night’ or called as a DD after said girls night.) A waitress across the way dropped a glass, startled both of you. You jumped slightly before glancing at Spencer who was wincing- one hand rubbing his eye and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Spence, you ok?” You asked in concern as the Doctor across from you slowly stopped rubbing his eye. He nodded, voice strained. 

“Yeah, I’m, uh, fine.” He nodded, finally looking back to you. You simply quirked an eyebrow. 

“You wanna lie more convincingly or just go ahead and tell me the truth?” You smiled. Even if he had lied more convincingly, you would have been able to tell- the two of you had always been close. 

He opened his mouth, before closing it again, collecting his thoughts before admitting, “I’ve, uh, been having these headaches lately. Well, migraines really. But it’s not a big deal, I’m, uh, going to a specialist doctor, soon.” 

“Oh, Well, I’m sure everything will work itself out. But keep me updated, yeah?” You nodded as a waiter approached the table. Both you and Spencer gave him your drink orders before he turned back to you. 

“So, but, uh, what about your new job?” He asked,  you ducked your head with a smile. 

“Well, I’m doing the same profiling, just not with serial killers. Well, so far.” You nodded, “Oh, I forgot I wanted to ask, What do you know about Bruce Banner?” 

His face lit up, beginning his monologue and not even bothering to stop when Derek slid into the booth, “Bruce Banner- the man has eight Ph. Ds- that’s my goal. His work in thermonuclear astrophysics is unparalleled. His theory about...” 

You zoned him out for a second, smiling and nodding hello to Derek- who at least didn’t seem to want to shoot you on sight like he had yesterday. He nodded back to you flagging down a waitress to order his drink. 

“... Not to mention his rumored involvement in the creation of the Hulk. It’s honestly fascinating. Honestly, who knows the halt on scientific advancement because he’s gone missing. I actually traveled to Culver University to attend a joint lecture of his with Dr. Erik Selvig about anti-electron collisions. It was fascinating! Why do you ask? Wait, did SHIELD find him?!” 

You shook your head frantically, biting not only his location but also the fact that Dr. Banner was the Hulk on the tip of your tongue, laughing it off, “No, well, not that I know of- I’m not exactly high on the totem pole yet.”

He deflated a bit but didn’t lose his smile. You glanced at Derek who just watched you disinterestedly, you smiled awkwardly but continued your conversation, playfully whispering, “But, they did let me interview and profile Tony Stark.” 

That spurred another long monologue about the technological advances made by Tony Stark, he only paused long enough to let the waiter take the table’s orders. Then restarted his soliloquy to touch on the responsibilities required for said technological advancements. You smiled as you watched him talk, the crazy motions he made with his hands and all the side stories he’d get into- just like he used to do on the jet. It wasn’t long before Morgan seemingly forgot your existence and was back to lightheartedly teasing Spencer, who was delightfully oblivious. 

When the waiter brought out the food, your group quieted. Only exchanging short sentences between bites of greasy sandwiches.  As you were finishing up, Spencer nudged Derek before loudly clearing his throat, “Lunch is on me guys. You guys can just wait here.” 

With that, the resident genius squeezed past Derek quick enough to outrun protests as he left the two of you alone. You sighed with raised eyebrows, “Well, that was completely subtle.”

It was a veiled attempt to gauge the situation. Derek breathed a laugh through his nose, but made no attempt to continue the conversation. You nodded through the awkward silence, searching for something to continue the conversation. 

“So, everything good? Seeing anyone?” Even you cringed at the awkward small talk, so you didn’t even give the chance to answer- not that he seemed to want to answer out loud anyway, “Actually, better question- how long am I going to get the famous Derek Morgan cold shoulder?”

“I’m not giving you the cold shoulder.” It was a simple statement, but the arms crossed over his chest said differently. You snorted a laugh. 

“Mmmhm. What are you mad about Derek? That I left?” You asked, making sure you didn’t sound hostile, but some of it seeped out. You couldn’t help it, everyone else at least attempted to hear you out- but Morgan, who had been like an older brother to you, seemed to hate your guts now. He shook his head, holding up his hand to stop you. 

“No, no, I’m not mad that you left-” He started, but you interrupted, catching his wording. Pointing a finger at his chest. 

“But you are mad! If it’s not because I left... Is it because I jumped rank or because... Are you mad that they didn’t ask you?” You asked, the hostile tone slowly leaving your voice as it just became defeated. He sighed, hanging his head. 

“No, no... well... I’m not mad about any of that.” He looked off, probably praying for Spencer to return to end the conversation. You sighed, raking a hand through your hair. 

“I was mad because you just left. It took them ten minutes to erase your existence. It was like you died. And the jumping rank was just salt in the wound. (Y/L/N).” He paused, “Tell me right now you didn’t leave for the rank. And I’ll drop it.”

Derek was always an intense person, and the look he gave made it near impossible to lie. “There’s a lot of things I can’t tell you. But I joined the BAU to make a difference, to help save people. SHIELD gave me an opportunity to help save even more people, and that’s what it’s all about right? Saving people?”

You stopped for a moment, “Look, I’m sorry about the radio silence- it wasn’t my call. And it’s not like I didn’t miss y’all. But if someone looked at you, and told you that you had the chance to help save hundreds of people? You’re telling me you wouldn’t take it, Morgan? You would, and I know it, Derek, I know you. Saving people, that’s what we do.” 

His arms uncrossed, and you counted it as a small victory. Finally, he nodded, body language untensed, “Just promise no more disappearing acts.” 

You smiled slightly as Spencer reapproached the table, “I’ll do my best.”

“Ready?” Spence asked, and the two of you nodded, sliding out of the booth. Derek turned to you.

 “You need a ride back to your hotel? We got twenty minutes-” He was cut off by both of their phones chiming, 

“Oh, I know that sound.” You smiled, waiting as they read the message. 

“Yep, we’ve got a case. You want a ride to the BAU, we can call you a cab from there.” He offered. You could tell the friendship wasn’t completely repaired, but it was a start. 

“You worried about me, Derek?” You smirked, collecting your coat and bag. You heard him chuckle. “But yeah, I’ll take that ride.”

___

Once inside the BAU, you took a seat at your old desk (which you were weirdly happy was still empty) as Derek and Spencer rushed to the briefing room. You were only there for a moment before Hotch popped his head out, “You want to take a look at this? ” 

You smirked as you stood up, “I’d love to.” 

_

“Alright my fine furry friends, you’re heading to Hindsburg, Connecticut,” Garcia started as she turned on the monitor, “These terribly disturbing pictures are of Mr. & Mrs. Montoya- *ahem* - or what’s left of them, found by their maid in their home this morning.”

“This is grisly, but besides the gore, why are we needed?” Morgan asked, pointing his pen to the monitor. 

“Fourth couple found like this. The first one was over a year ago, then one last month, and then two this week. No DNA on scene, Hindsburg PD has invited us in.” She answers, flipping her finger across her tablet causing the images to switch. This time it showed happy photos of all the families smiling. One family was Asian with four children, another was Hispanic with one, and the last two were white families- one with two children and the other with none. You leaned over Prentiss’s shoulder to look at her files. All four families were of different socioeconomic backgrounds, different neighborhoods, with no discernible connections at first glance. 

“Not to state the obvious but the amount of overkill is ridiculous, but suggests they symbolize something for him. And the crossings of race and gender indicates there’s no sexual component to these crimes.” You thought aloud. Spencer built off your thoughts. 

“The dismemberment could be symbolic of destroying them. Death wasn’t enough so he literally rips their life apart.” He offered, Rossi nodded. 

“Garcia, what about the children?” He asked, his file open to the Asian family, the  Zhangs. Garcia nodded 

“The families with children in the house, the children were unharmed. The ten-year-old from the Smith’s- the, Uhm, first white family. Told the police that the killer promised not to hurt them if they stayed in bed all night. That the killer, uh, tucked her in.” Garcia explained

“Says here, police found the Zhangs’ four-year-old tucked into a wet bed crying for his parents. Stayed there for two days before his grandparents came to visit.” Prentiss remarked, frowning. “Tucking the children in, keeping them away from the sight of their parents? That reads remorse.”

You had an epiphany.

“Garcia, did the ME report say if dismemberment was pre- or postmortem?” You asked, fingers tracing over the picture of the smiling child. Jackson Zhang, it was labeled. 

She flipped through her tablet, wincing when she found the answer, “It was before they died, well most of it. The weapon was a hacksaw. ME’s official call was blood loss, except on Mrs. Montoya- she had a stroke, his notes say she was epileptic and the trauma caused a seizure... And subsequently.” 

“Any drugs present?” You asked again. Hotch rose his eyebrows, answering your question. 

“No, none. Where are you going with this?” He asked. You nodded. 

“I have a point, I promise I’m not that rusty. So if there are no drugs in their system, and hacksaw dismemberment,” You paused at Garcia’s flinch, “Sorry, I have apparently lost my bedside manner. But that’s a brutal way to go. What if the unsub locks them in their room to make them listen?” 

“Well, that makes them sadistic.” Morgan nodded, but then his eyes narrowed, “Or what if he sees himself in the children? Needs them to feel their pain. Dismemberment was the first part of the signature, and then the children were additional victims.” 

“Ok, but if the connection is children, why kill the Montoya’s if they didn’t have children?” Reid prodded. Prentiss answered him, flipping the page.

“The Montoya’s were last seen in public with their neice who they were watching for the day. The unsub most likely thought she was their child.” She answered. Hotch looked past the group, at the monitor. 

“Or he’s devolving. Wheels up in an hour.” Hotch decided, and the team immediately sprung to action. Derek clapped your shoulder on his way by, and Rossi stopped to tell you it was good to have you back, even for a little while. 

“If protocol allowed I’d ask you to come with us, but-” He started, and you finished for him. 

“But you already bent protocol letting me sit in on the briefing. It was nostalgic.” You nodded, understanding as you followed him out. He nodded. 

“We miss having you around. Between you and JJ, we’re down two good profilers.” Hotch nodded to you, stopping in front of his office. You just smiled. 

“How’s Jack?” You asked, this time Hotch actually smiled. 

“He gets better every day. Right now, he’s obsessed with Ironman.  He’s already talking about being Ironman for Halloween.” Hotch answered, talking about Jack was one of the few times Hotch was ever fully open. You smiled and nodded. 

“I’m more of a Captain America fan myself.” You laughed, imagining Jack in an Ironman costume- even though it was the last thing Tony Stark’s ego needed. Rossi passed by. 

“Captain America, now that’s old school.” He laughed, winking at you as he slipped out of his office. 

“Well, I’ll get out of your hair. Good luck on the case.” You nodded, smiling at the two of them. Rossi patted your arm, and Hotch simply nodded to you. So with one last smile, you descended into the bullpen. You first stopped by Prentiss and Derek’s desks, receiving two tight hugs. Both making you promise to actually call this time. Next was Reid, who hugs were always just a bit looser but just as comforting- you always thought it was his smell, as he tended to smell like a mix of aftershave and new books. 

“You know, I’ve been keeping up with your reading lists.” You smiled, tapping the latest hardback on his desk, “I’ll be calling more, we can have book club. And you can answer all my questions about all these scientists that I’ve never heard of.” 

He smiled that awkward grin, nodding, “Sounds like a plan.” 

“Be careful on this case!” You called over your shoulder as you moved onto Garcia who was waiting impatiently at your old desk, “What did you think I’d forget?”

“Just wanted to make sure you knew you weren’t getting away without a goodbye.” She grinned, already wrapping her arms around your neck and squeezing. You accepted it gratefully, letting her rock back and forth. Finally, you patted her gently on the back, gasping out.

“Garcia, I need to breathe, babes.” 

She quickly let go, “Sorry, sorry.”

“You know now that I’m not ‘missing’ anymore, you’re gonna have to stop hacking my computer. My SA is getting suspicious.” You rose your eyebrows as she used her purple painted pinky finger to wipe a tear out from under her eye. She nodded, smiling, the matching purple lipstick accentuating white teeth. 

“I’ll stop hacking, but your gonna have to answer your phone- or at the very least my emails.” She demanded, poking your arm. You chuckled, it was your turn to nod. Without any warning, she threw herself on you again, squeezing you tightly. “Just so you know, you don’t have to wait another year to visit again.”

“I know, I know.” You assured, squeezing her back. It was a tender moment, only interrupted by a sudden voice behind you. 

“Agent (Y/L/N), I need you to come with me.” You whipped around, jaw dropped to find Natasha waiting patiently, the smallest smirk on her lips at your shock. “Leave’s been cut short.”

“Oh, hey, Natasha.” You smiled, eyebrows crinkling at her sudden appearance, then noticing your old team gathering around. “Morgan, I won’t be needing that cab now.”

“This is my co-worker, Natasha. Apparently, I’m getting called in as well.” You nodded. Watching them all shake her hands. 

“I’m sorry to steal her away from her. But we need her sooner than we thought we would.” The spy apologized, smiling at each team member. The rest of the team nodded, watching her apprehensively- like you they all knew how to spot a dangerous person. 

“Stay safe guys!” You called, giving Penelope one last squeeze as you followed Natasha out. You patted Spencer’s arm as you walked past him. Right before you exited the BAU, you turned back around giving them each one more smile and nod. They all returned them as the glass door shut behind you. And once again, you were an agent of SHIELD.

Natasha was already strutting away, a playful smile on her lips as she teased, “Co-worker?” 

You rolled your eyes, catching up to her, “Well, I know how you feel about the f-word. Now, lets get to work.” 

________

wow people actually asked to be tagged in this so 

taglist: @irishfaulk97 @viarogers

#marvel x criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #mcu x reader #spencer reid x reader #captain america x reader

[multiharlot]

angel | reid/prentiss x angel!reader (7)

summary: y/n begins exploring her feelings for both emily and spencer, and things aren’t easy for her. 

warnings: nothing? i don’t think?

masterlist

series masterlist

part one | part six

y/n’s pov

she’s beautiful. her laugh made the entire world stop. the way the sunshine bounced off of her raven black hair and the way her smile shined put the heaven’s to shame. she spoke animatedly about her times overseas.

“you’re beautiful.” i smiled, taking a sip of my tea. 

a deep red blush covered her cheeks as she stopped talking for just a moment. 

“so are you.” she says softly as she takes a drink of her coffee. 

i giggle slightly, crossing my ankles and setting my teacup down. i place my face in my hands, taking in every moment, every feeling, and praying that it couldn’t somehow be taken away from me. emily sighs, placing her cup onto the table and wiping the sides of her mouth. 

“you know...when you died-”

“i know...i heard you.” i nod, reaching over and placing my hand on top of hers. 

“but i...i need to tell you myself. you know?”

i nod my head, and she turns her hand palm up, running her thumb softly over my knuckles. 

“i honestly didn’t know what to do with myself. i wasn’t sure if i’d be able to find someone else again, and it turns out that i was kinda right. you’re...my soulmate and i love you. i’m in love with you. and i know that this is a really complicated situation and i know that you have reid too and i just want you to be happy. whether that’s with me or with him. so i need you to know that you can’t be afraid of hurting one of us by choosing the other. i can’t speak for him, but i don’t care which one of us you- okay that’s a lie i do care, but i just mean that all that truly matters to me is that you’re happy.” she says, gripping my hand tightly. 

“i...i’m sorry. i know this must be really hard for the both of you. and i wish it didn’t have to be like this. but at least i know that this way, you guys both get a soulmate.” i sigh, pursing my lips softly as emily continues to play lightly with my fingers. 

“how so?”

“well...one of the appealing things about me giving up my wings was that abba and gabriel said that whichever one of you i ‘choose’ will get assigned another soulmate. this was the only way that both of you could get the happy ending you deserved. and i’m your- was your guardian angel. that’s my job. to keep you from any more unnecessary pain.” i shrugged, and emily smiled softly. 

“i love you.”

“i love you too, emily.”

she grips my hands tightly and i intertwine my fingers with hers, the ends of our hands resting gently on the table. 

“come on, let’s go.” she says, grabbing her things and leaving cash on the check tray. 

i furrow my eyebrows, grabbing my jacket and standing up from the table, following behind her as she drags me out of the small restaurant. 

“where are we going?” i giggle as she speeds off towards her car. 

“just trust me.” she smiles, opening the passenger door and allowing me inside. 

i glare conspicuously at her and she just smiles, speeding off into the streets of DC. a small squeal leaves my lips as she pulls into the fairly empty parking lot. 

“give a girl a warning before you nearly give her whiplash?” i pout, and she laughs, taking the key from the ignition. 

“my driving is not that bad.”

“oh but it is, em.” i breath out, undoing my seatbelt. 

she purses her lips out and i smile, opening the door and stepping out of the car. 

“so where are we?” i ask, running a hand through my messy hair. 

“we, are at my happy place. i went here a lot when i needed to get my mind off of things...off of you.” she sighs, intertwining her hands with mine, causing a giddy feeling to arise in my chest. 

“oh...i remember seeing you there a couple times. but i thought it best to leave you alone. you- nope. sorry. i gotta stop doing that.” i chuckle awkwardly as we begin walking towards the gates of the botanical gardens. 

“doing what?” she asks, squeezing my hand softly. 

“reminiscing on being an angel. it’s not who i am anymore, and dwelling on it isn’t healthy.” i shrugged. 

emily sighs as she pushes open the gates. 

“you’ll always be my angel, y/n.” she smiles softly. 

i smile back at her, walking through the gates and a small gasp leaves my lips. the thousands, if not millions, of plants surrounding us. and for the first time sing i had my wings taken, i felt like i was back home. 

“it-it’s just like-” i gasp, reaching my hands out and gently running my fingers over the leaves and flower petals. 

“it looks like the garden of eden, huh?” she smiles, letting go of my hand and wrapping her arms around my waist and placing her chin on my shoulder. 

“yeah...” i breathe out, a faint smile gracing my lips as my eyes begin to water. 

“can i ask you something?” emily mumbles as she moves my hair over the opposite shoulder than the one she was currently leaning on. 

“mhm.” i hum happily as we stood in the garden, swaying softly as i peered over the field of flowers. 

“what were the other options? i know you said that you had a choice between you, one of us, or maeve. but...what would’ve happened?” she asks, releasing me from her hold and walking us through the garden pathways. 

i pause, pursing my lips and reaching over to grab her hand in order to find some form of support or relief. 

“ummm...so. one of you would’ve had to go and retrieve the human part of my soul from hell and then abba would’ve created a human body to put the soul in. but there wasn’t a good chance that you guys would’ve made it out of hell. you would’ve been stuck. and then the other option was to reverse the resurrection. give back maeve in exchange for my human soul. but then we would’ve been right back where we started with the whole two soulmates thing. and then...there was this option. i make a deal with lucifer to make me human, and i’d choose one of my soulmates, and the other would be reassigned another soulmate. so i chose the one where no one got hurt.” i shrugged. 

“but you got hurt, y/n.” emily says, pulling my arm to stop us in our tracks. 

“it was a price i was willing to pay. all of those choices came at a price. and i’d let lucifer rip my wings out on a loop if it meant i could keep you all safe.” i quickly argue, furrowing my eyebrows at her. 

“it’s not your job to-”

“yes, emily. it was. it was my job. i was your guardian angel. i did what i did, and i don’t regret it. and you need to know that it’s not your fault, and it’s not reid’s.” i say, taking both of her hands into mine. 

“i...all of this could’ve been avoided if you’d just never brought back maeve in the first place.” she mumbles, and i tsk at her, cupping her face in my hands. 

“i did it because i thought i could make spencer happy. all i’ve ever truly cared about was making you all happy. i made that choice myself. you can’t blame spencer for the choices that i made.”

she lets out a short breath, reaching up and moving the hair away from my forehead. 

“i just hate seeing you in pain. and don’t try and tell me you’re not. i can see it in your face...you miss it. you miss heaven, you miss being an angel. you hate not having your powers. and i can’t help but feel like-”

“hey hey. stop. it’s nobody’s fault. i made my choice, and i’d make it again. okay?”

she nods her head and i bring my hands away from her face, but her left hand remains perched softly against my jaw. 

“c-can i-”

“yes.”

and her lips are placed on mine and suddenly it felt as though the world had stopped. it felt like all the power i had lost was restored and everything made sense. her soft hold travels from my jaw down to my hips as she pulled me closer to her. and i traced my fingers lightly up her arms before landing my hands on her cheeks. her soft lips entangled themselves with mine and i finally understood the appeal of soulmates. it had made all the pain and suffering that much more worthwhile. but it also made me scared, what if i felt the same things with spencer? how was i supposed to choose between two loves that made me feel like this? that brought me this much joy? how am i supposed to do that?

emily’s phone rings out, and i slowly pull away. a soft smile on my lips as i giggle at my smudged lipgloss over emily’s lips. 

“i-i’m sorry.” she chuckles, pulling her phone out of her pocket. 

“no. don’t be.”

“this better be good, garcia.” emily sighs as she brings the phone to her ear.

after a short pause, emily’s eyes flicker between me and the ground, her hand still on my hip and she rubs her thumb softly against my skin sending chills up my spine. 

“okay, i’ll be there in like 15.” she says, hanging up and tucking the phone into her pocket. 

“i’m sor-”

i lean forward, placing a peck quickly on her lips. she smiles as a small blush rises to her face. 

“don’t apologize.”

she nods her head, before running her hand through my hair. 

“come on, let’s get you home.”

“yes please. i want a nap. i’m so tired. this whole human thing is exhausting”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

third person pov

emily walked into the conference room with a small smile on her face and her lips still tingling softly. y/n’s rose flavored pink lipgloss lingered on her tongue and the phantom touches of the girl she loved still lingered on her body.

“what’re you so smiley abo- oh.” rossi begins asking, but quickly cuts himself off with a knowing smirk on his face. 

emily stops, pursing her lips and furrowing her eyebrows at her team. spencer shifted awkwardly in his chair as the jealousy burned like a gasoline fire in his chest. 

“what?” she asks innocently. 

“nothing...i just didn’t know you were a rose glitter lipgloss kind of woman.” hotch shrugs, smirking softly. 

the team smile as emily pouts, swiping the remnants of the lipgloss off her lips and spencer couldn’t help but start to feel a little helpless and slightly left out. he too, wanted to have remnants of y/n’s sticky pink lipgloss left on his lips. he wanted to be the one being ridiculed by the team right now. spencer reid had decided in this moment, that the only person he wanted y/n kissing was him. and he’d be do anything to make that happen, starting with her favorite tea shop. 

meanwhile, y/n was sat cross legged on her bed as groans of frustration escaped her lips. she had never been in love before. so how was she supposed to choose which soulmate would be the one for her? how was she supposed to do any of this? and as she pondered her thoughts, she couldn’t help the one thing that remained prevalent in the front of her mind, was spencer as good of a kisser as emily was?

taglist:

@dreatine​ @slytherinintj13​ @mileven-reddie​ @eleventhdoctorsangel​ @haileymorelikestupid

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss imagine #reid x reader #prentiss x reader #x reader #angel!reader #angel!au #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine