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morallyinept · 3 months

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Rockford & Roses - A Detective Tim Rockford One Shot 🌹

Summary: Tim's coming home to you on Valentine's night with a heavy heart and secrets that threaten to tear you apart. Can your love for him survive the ghosts of his past that still haunt him? More importantly, are you willing to make room for them in your already strained marriage?

Pairing: Det. Tim Rockford x Wife!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 5k-ish

Scoville Smut Rating: None, it's fluff. Mostly angst. Definite angst. You're safe. Kinda.

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Alludes to smut, nothing detailed/mentions details of a case involving the murder of a child, nothing too graphic/alcoholism/A N G S T in abundance/some dark themes in the sense that Tim is self-destructing. Tim is very a broken man, poor lamb. Give him a hug, will you?

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: This story evolved massively from the direction it was going in originally, and I'm actually kinda pleased about that... It's something different from your typical, "schmoozy" Valentine's Day story, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.🌹

MAIN MASTERLIST | TIM ROCKFORD MASTERLIST | FLORA & FAUNA MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

Detective Tim Rockford had been sober for almost a year when it all fell apart completely on that terrible night.

But it wasn’t until the winter was in its latter stages, that he would tip fully over the edge into regular, almost daily, bouts of oblivion to keep himself from falling off the ledge completely.

To keep the nightmares and sense of guilt that he drowned in on a near constant basis at bay.

He unscrews the cap from the bottle of dark amber liquid he’s craftily been hiding under the seat in his car, and swallows it all back letting it slip down his throat.

Without him giving it permission to, his mind replays over the events from that fateful night, four years ago, and is brought back to the little girl lying at the bottom of the ravine just off of the ridge.

A call had come in about a missing child on the morning in question, and he and his partner Peter ‘Petey’ Harman went over to the home of the parents to talk to them about it. You know, do the initial questioning; worker bee stuff. Try to suss out if she was a regular runaway or if in fact one of them had stuffed her under the foundations and was crying wolf.

The family home was nice; an average run-of-the-mill house, in an average run-of-the-mill neighbourhood. Tim was presented with a photo of her from her mother and he remembered thinking that he’d missed his chance to be a father, to watch your belly swell and witness the miracle of life forged from your love, and it left a bitter taste.

She was cute as a button; all brown hair and freckles, and she had this blue, silk princess-dress, with lace collars and cuffs, wearing a gonky smile that was missing a tooth or three.

‘Find my baby, please Tim.’ Her mother had begged him whilst Harman took down the notes - he was good with that stuff - and Tim promised her that he would - knowing that a detective should never promise that - if it was the last thing he ever did. Not knowing that he would actually make good on that word further down the line.

Looking again at the picture, he learned it was her favourite dress, her mother had said it through the red eyes that she wore that pretty dress everywhere, and that she turned into the spawn of Satan himself when she tried to get her out of it so it could be cleaned.

It was also the same dress Tim had found her wearing when he discovered her remains.

The search had been dragged out as much as it could be, but there was no trace of her. Leads had been exhausted; those pulled in for questioning were found innocent and their alibis solid.

It was as if Rainie Thompson had vanished off the surface of the planet in a click of a finger.

The search efforts began to die off around the four week point, mostly due to the heavy snow settling in and it pained him to know that everyone was giving up on finding this little girl - a little girl that he was convinced was still alive - she just had to be; he could feel it in his gut.

Some perverted bastard had her and he was determined to make them feed from a tube for their rest of their life when he found them.

Tim was determined to find her, despite his colleagues and even Harman at times, convincing him it was a lost cause. He’d been spending most of his time - including down time - combing the woods, the parks - everywhere and anywhere he could think to try and find her.

Where are you, baby? She consumed him wholly.

She was what kept your husband away from you.

Left you sat at the dining table alone, with an uneaten plate opposite you and a creeping draft settling into your bones. The creaky sounds of the house seemed louder when you were alone, and soon they were your only companion; their creaks soon turning into words of comfort at an absent husband.

Tim left the space in the bed vacant, crease-free and cold beside you.

Tim’s whole world had come tumbling down when he’d picked Rainie up and cradled her small, cold body to his chest and wailed like he had lost his own beau.

No, baby... no.

He cursed up to the sky, as though having it out with God himself - God, who had allowed this innocent, beautiful child to die.

Tim wasn’t exactly devout or the God-fearing type. He’d been to church only a handful of times in his life; to marry you being the most notable, but after that day he’d especially not been back to a church since.

This is how faith dies in a person; violated and fractured. Altered and hollowed out from the inside and everything pure and good is obliterated by the poisoning fingers of the darkness in the world, wrapping their hands tightly around its neck and simply snapping it in two.

Fuck you, God! Damn you, you son of a bitch!

She had been thrown down in there like a puppet whose strings had become entangled with themselves; she was six-years-old.

Rainie Thompson was six-years-old and she had a little, blue dress and played Hopscotch and liked drawing pictures of red roses, and eating chocolate ice-cream until her tummy hurt.

Rainie Thompson was the one who killed him.

Tim cried through the drinking, mourning her like his own and mourning the part of him that was dying with her; a hollow husk of a man soon to be filled by the familiar numbing void that alcohol had to offer.

It would make him forget the horror; forget the depravity, although the nightmares would never relent, he would be certain of that - they never do.

To date, he hasn’t found the killer and it’s been four years. A one-off, grisly murder that hinted at possible cannibalism, but later was discovered she’d been partly eaten by a wild animal scavenging; it left very little in the way of clues or evidence, because there was very little of her left.

Most of his team concluded it absolutely was an animal of some kind, a cougar happened upon her perhaps, or a bear after she'd wandered off? But Tim did not quite believe that - they didn’t see her.

It’s changed him, changed something within Tim to see the world for what it is. The band-aid has been ripped off and once you see that shit, you can never unsee it again.

And Tim's seen some pretty fucked up shit in his career.

He closed up, closed off and began unknowingly cementing the spiralling destruction that was to be his life. He’s fifty-eight and has nothing anymore.

Well, that’s not entirely true, he has you.

Despite the distance that has grown between you, evolving from carnal desire to ships passing silently in the night, you remain steadfast in your love for Tim, silently supporting him as he battles the demons that threaten to consume him wholly.

Yet he can’t help but feel that he's condemned you already in some ways. Watching as those demons hold you down and tear pieces from you until, one day, they'll be nothing left.

The wife of a gritty detective doesn't bode well in a happily ever after.

His decades long career is the reluctant third wheel in your marriage, and at first you admired his dedication; his passion to solving mysteries. Getting excited yourself when he'd use the dining room walls to gather his thought maps, pinning up mug shots, red thread lines linking people and place and circumstance. Weapons of choice like an elaborate game of Clue.

And he'd talk to you about them in those early days, the tamer cases he had. Mugs of coffee and thoughtful kisses exchanged as you offered your opinion and challenged his thinking.

Now it's getting harder not to resent that damn gold badge.

He swigs again at the bottle. It feels good; the warm, numbing sensation flooding through his veins down both his arms and legs. The giddy onslaught of amnesia begins to twinkle around the edges of alert thinking as he slowly succumbs to the light buzz.

He closes his eyes and lets himself teeter on the edge of it, welcoming the calmness like an old friend.

His first heavy session had led to his first blackout and it had scared him; scared him that he could lose a chunk of time that was unaccounted for out of his life - waking up at home fully clothed in the armchair, sometimes the kitchen floor, knowing he'd driven severely under the influence, and equally amazed and relieved that he hadn’t killed anybody in the process. They would take his badge for that recklessness if they knew.

No-one knew. Or if they did, they never mentioned it.

But it wasn’t enough to stop him. It got him through the paralysing fear of handling those dark days, which were particularly brutal, and the other fucked up cases he’d had to solve since.

They tell you; tell you that it will be difficult and bad, but you’re never prepared for it.

His father never prepared him for that shit and was right when he said he hadn’t got the cajones to be a police officer all those years ago.

His father headed up the ranks of Chief in a suburban precinct elsewhere and eventually made Commander, like Tim knew he would, probably just to spite him. He also told Tim in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t "Commander material." Hell, he wasn’t even Detective’s material, and for a while, Tim believed sincerely that he was right.

Although, he’s six feet under now, so what the Hell does he know? Shot in the back during a supermarket raid gone awry when he’d popped out to buy a newspaper and a some smokes. Commander John Rockford shot by a drugged up lil’ pipsqueak looking to get cash for his next score - what a legacy!

His death left a nice, fat pension for his mother who squandered most of it on a gambling addiction that she’d always had looming in the background of his childhood; the root of many a ferocious argument witnessed between his parents when they thought he was tucked up in bed, and he could literally hear the punch from his father’s fist make contact with his mother’s jaw.

But that didn’t stop the fact that his words clung to Tim like a bad shadow most days, even now, long after his theatrical send off like he was a Goddamned hero or something. He wasn’t; he was a mean little asshole with a bad temper and Tim had been glad to see the back of him, too sloshed to remember much of the funeral at all and cutting his no good mother out of his life soon after.

Tim swigs from the bottle once more, the sting dying out slowly and melting into an alkaline that soon tastes of nothing. It’s all nothing; emptiness and voids that are getting harder to fill. Disassociating himself from his shitty past life; from his first wife and her erratic behaviour, which took him years to figure out, was probably his erratic behaviour that had pushed her away and out of their home for good, not that he’d truly cared to notice.

Work all but consumed him. And he was happy to let it.

Of course, he’d gone to AA; out of town where nobody would know who he was - an upstanding pillar of the community, yeah right - talking about your problems, laying them all out there in front of a bunch of strangers who were just as fucked up as you were, was difficult because, up until that point Tim had never recognised or considered that he had a problem; just a mechanism he relied upon that helped him cope.

Having to take a moral inventory of himself and dig into the suppressed emotions he was hanging onto, and using them as an excuse to inebriate himself through the day, was hard.

The hardest thing he'd ever done, doubting he was strong enough to climb those twelve steps - and he wasn’t even really sure that he wanted to.

But he did; was sober for a while, until Rainie Thompson obliterated him.

He takes another quick swig after spotting Harman coming out the Gas n’ Guzzle and shoves it back under the seat covertly.

Harman finds Tim sitting as he left him, squeezing the steering wheel inside of his deft hands, over and over, trying to make sense of everything and when exactly the world had become such a terrible and unforgiving place - but is coming up short.

Gas stations are the most uninspiring places to get a decent cuisine that won’t make you shit ten tons the next day, but it's late; Detective Petey Harman is tired and hungry for just about anything right now, no matter how crappy it would taste or make him feel in twelve hours’ time as it burns through its exit out of his anal passage.

Once back inside the car, Tim scrutinises the large brown paper bag filled to the brim that Petey rifles around in, before pulling out a dire looking sandwich and handing it to his senior.

“You planning a sleepover with your girly friends or summin’?” Tim questions him.

There are several boxes of microwave pizzas, a bag of extra-large puffy marshmallows, various microwaveable meats in packet sauces that look questionable in their paleness, a jar of chocolate dipping spread and a large bottle of orange and pineapple Cactus Cooler.

“Nah... No girly friends for me.” Petey says, sombrely. “Weekly shop.”

“Well, watch your damned cholesterol.” Tim tears into the plastic packaging to be met with disappointment the moment he puts the sandwich in his mouth.

Petey can smell the waft of alcohol lingering in the car but he doesn’t mention it. Just like all the other times he's smelt it coming out of Tim’s mouth when he speaks, making his eyes water.

Petey was not long into being a newbie; a junior ranking officer in the department and up until a year ago or so now, had been making pretty good at busting low-level criminals successfully, to the point that he hadn’t really taken the gig that seriously, thinking at times he was invincible.

So much so that he had his thumbs in his belt loops and his shooter on show proudly like they do in Miami Vice as he and his reluctant mentor Tim, solved bleak mysteries together.

They’d stopped in for a burger break at Lafferty’s Grill on the day of Rainie being reported missing; talking about the pretty waitress giving Petey a lingering smile, and Tim trying to persuade him that he actually had a pair of balls and should use them to go and talk to her.

Instead, Tim was mirthed with disappointment as Petey's cheeks flushed a crimson red as he stared into his laminated menu, tacky with barbecue sauce residue, and tucking said balls firmly inside himself.

Petey had to grow up fast; he knew that the moment he��d heard Tim yelling at him crazily when he’d found the child’s remains whilst they scouted around for her aimlessly one night after Tim was trying for weeks to hold it together.

It was an image that still gave Petey nightmares, and the sounds of Tim sobbing still made his blood run cold when he thought about it, but it was far less frequent now.

He’d been promoted since to Detective, taking the job more seriously and knuckling down; his life coming up roses whilst Tim’s fell out the bottom of his ass.

Speaking of roses, Tim looks up mid-chew on something that the label assures him is tuna fish, and spots something red and velvety clustered in the window of the gas station.

He spies the date on the radio and sighs out heavily, tossing the sandwich back in the plastic packaging.

“Shit.” He mutters.

“You good? I got a BLT if you want that instead?” Petey asks.

"No. Fuck no. Wait, you gave me the shitty tuna when you had bacon?" Tim frowns.

"Was gonna save it."

With that, Tim exits the car, the driver side door squeaking on his beaten Pontiac and his trench coat billowing in the wind as he makes his way inside the gas station.

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a harsh glare over the rows of snacks and drinks lining the shelves. His weary eyes fall upon the sad display of the florals. A few wilted roses, their once vibrant petals drooping with neglect, sitting haphazardly in a cheap plastic bucket.

Tim grimaces, knowing they’re far from the bouquet you deserve.

His mind flashes back to the drawings of roses on Rainie Thompson's bedroom wall and how, for a time, they engulfed him, tracing his fingers over the waxy ridges of their messy circles.

Tim was sitting on her bed, clutching a stuffed bear with a plaid neckerchief that smelled of talc and her mother informed him the bear's name: Tim. Or Timmy. Timmy the Teddy.

He remembers squeezing that damn bear tightly as he took in the surroundings of the little girl's room, trying to work out where she was - where are you, baby? - When he spotted the drawings.

He kept one, pulling it off the wall and folding it neatly into squares until it fit in his wallet. A reminder that she would be with him, crying in his ear for him to bring her back home to her mommy and daddy.

She never stopped crying and wailing in his ear; the pitch growing until he drowned it out with the booze.

He remembers the pictures, full of clumsy scribbles, bulbs of red crayon petals and skinny green stalks. Kind of how the roses look now in the bucket staring out at him; a sad little gift from beyond the grave in their macabre despair.

He hears it again now, that crying, right beside him. He squeezes his eyes shut, a few moments of forcing it into white noise.

With a resigned sigh, he plucks a handful of the least wilted roses from the bucket and makes his way to the counter. The clerk eyes him curiously as Tim approaches, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of their lips.

Tim ignores the silent judgement, focusing instead on paying for the flowers and grabbing a bottle of wine from the shelf by the counter. The wine selection is vastly limited, but he purchases a bottle of red without giving it much thought and hoping it won't taste like sharp vinegar.

He pays for his thoughtlessness, and hurries back to his car, the weight of his guilt and exhaustion pressing down on him like crushing lead.

“Get out,” he gruffs to Petey as he starts the engine.

Petey gulps down his sandwich with a splutter. “What?”

“You’re walkin’ home tonight.” Tim announces with eyebrows knitted, and Petey rolls his eyes, fumbling with his shopping and splitting the bag in the process.

"Aww man. You're kidding me?"

"I gotta get home. You didn't tell me it was fuckin' Valentine's." Tim scowls.

"Big deal. It's just another day." And Tim can hear the bitterness of being single and alone awash in Petey's mouth with stale bread, lettuce and bacon.

"Out." Tim presses.

“Roses won’t cut it this time, Tim.” Petey whines, as Tim reverses before he can even shut the door.

He’s right. Despite his bumbling ineptitude, Petey’s right - it won’t cut it.

Tim can’t even believe the sight of the wilted roses sitting on the passenger seat, mocking him and reminding him of all of his failings to you. It wasn't always like this, he's sure of it. Somewhere in the recesses of his tempestuous mind, he knows you were happy; he made you happy at some point, right?

He remembers how happy you were when you exchanged vows and gold bands, gorgeous in your little lace smock dress, beaming up at him. Fuck, it seems like a lifetime ago.

Burgers and beers on the bonnet of his car, he had a chevy back then, and watching breathtaking sunsets, and going to the movies when he was off duty.

He would bring you roses then. Fluffy, sumptuous blooms that almost guaranteed him a bigger helping of your cherry pie with the perfect, sweet crust, and extra kisses that led to him detaining you in the sheets, reminding you that you had the right to remain loud, to scream his name when he made you come.

He brought you real roses back then. Not these... weeds.

It’s late, almost midnight which ironically, is the earliest Tim has been home in a long time.

With a deep breath, he gathers the roses in his arms and makes his way to the front door. As he pushes it open and steps into the warmth of your shared home, the scent of your perfume catches his nose making it twitch.

He remembers that scent, like a sucker punch to the jaw. As he inhales deeply, the memories come flooding back, transporting him to a time when life was simpler, when the weight of the world hadn't yet settled upon his broad shoulders.

He can almost feel the warmth of your hand in his, your laughter echoing in his ears like sheet music. The feel of his cock inside your wet tightness as he fucked you into the mattress and you clawed at the expanse of his back leaving red welts on his skin from your nails for days after.

You couldn't get enough of each other once, and now you're barely strangers.

He steps into the deep bellows of the house searching for you, and finds you on the couch, wiping frantically at swollen eyes that have obviously been crying.

And the guilt drowns him instantly, crushing him like a tsunami as he sees you there, small and withered, worse than the roses he dared to bring home to you.

Looking down at them and frowning, Tim is disgusted with himself. He tosses them onto the table wanting to be free of the wretched things.

He longs to spend time with you, his darling wife, but the relentless pursuit of justice consumes every waking moment, pollutes every free thinking thought.

You can only watch from afar as Tim pours himself into the work, and pours himself another glass to compensate for the scars it leaves.

You know he’s haunted by the very vestiges of unsolved cases stacking up on his desk that he never talks to you about anymore. Closes the files of grisly crime scene photos before you have a chance to see them.

He protects you from his work now, but consequently, and unwittingly, protects you from him, too.

Each night, you would leave a warm meal on the table and wait anxiously for his return, hoping that he’ll come home early to eat with you, your heart heavy with worry and your hair turning whiter in the process.

More often than not, you dine with bitterness and disappointment.

Often, you’d wake in the early hours of the morning to find Tim slumped in his armchair, surrounded by case files; his brow furrowed in comatose concentration, glasses almost fully sliding off the bridge of his nose.

An empty bottle always rusticates beside him on the floor.

You can’t remember the last time Tim slept in your bed with you. The last time he held you in those strong, broad arms of his that you know he has hidden under that trench coat.

You can't remember the last time Tim made love to you and whispered how beautiful you are in your ear with whimpering grunts as he filled you up.

Tim is crestfallen as he steps forward, the faint glow of something flickering on the dining table pulls his sight.

A candle, close to being exhumed by the deathly kiss of its barely remaining wick, and unopened boxes of now cold Chinese take-out litter the table.

“I ordered your favourite. Number seventy-three with a side of nineteen.” You sniff. "I got extra twenty-two because they always give us an odd number."

“Darling, I...” Tim stops, for he knows nothing he can say can absolve this. On the most romantic night of the year, Tim has failed you, yet again. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t, Tim” you raise your hand shaking your head despondently. “Just don’t.”

"I didn't mean to be late. Not tonight.”

A small ghost of a smile evaporates on your lips. “You never mean to be late. Yet you always are.”

“The case-”

“It's not about the case, Tim," you say, your voice foggy with emotion. "It's about us. About the fact that you're always putting everything else before me."

He notes the roses again, bearing witness to his shame; their haggard state mocking him once more and he curses inwardly.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he approaches as you stand, arms wrapping around yourself and glass cutting tracks down your cheeks.

“I packed a bag…” You say as his eyes follow yours to a small suitcase in the hall that he didn’t even notice when he came in. passed right by it, oblivious. And he suddenly wonders what else he's been missing all these years, as it registers in his gut.

“No.” Tim states with a croak in his throat. He shakes his head vehemently. "No, darling."

Tim steps forward, the suitcase filling him with terrific dread. "You're leaving me?"

You're surprised that he's surprised.

But you shake your head, tears falling freely now. "I can't do this anymore, Tim," you say, your voice barely a whisper. "I can't keep waiting for you to come home to me. To open up to me and tell me what’s eating at you. I know it's something bad, something terrible. And I want to help, I do, I'm your wife. I want to make it better. But you make it so difficult. You push me away."

“To protect you.” He says with a low voice.

“Who's protecting you, Tim?"

"I don't-"

"I don't know who you are anymore. The man I fell in love with, he's... a ghost.”

“I…” words fail him as you look at him with a deep sadness that will stay etched on the thin fibre of his soul forever. A stain that won't wash out, no matter how much he scrubs.

You were the one. You're his one. And he's fucking losing you.

“Tell me, or I’m leaving... for good.” You warn. "If you ever cared about me at all, you'll tell me what's killing you. Please..."

You shake your head in despair, wiping your eyes harder now, when he doesn’t say anything. Just swallows the lumpy constriction in his throat and stares at you with hollow eyes.

"Goodbye, Tim." You sniffle.

“Rainie Thompson, she loved roses...” Tim mutters thickly as you approach the hall.

You stop, turning to face him.

"Who's Rainie Thompson?" You ask fearing the immediate worst.

You expect him to reveal to you that he's been unfaithful. That's he's not just been putting the hours in solely at work. That he brings roses - roses that are alive - to another woman. He eats her cherry pie now, fucks her into the mattress.

That he drinks because of the guilt of hurting you. But what he says instead alters a part of you that you don't think you'll ever get back.

“They look just how she drew them.” Tim says, his voice breaking, until his face caves in fully, features drowning in the onslaught of emotions, and for the first time you witness this unwavering man crumble completely.

And it terrifies you. For if he, the strongest man you've ever known, can break like this, what hope is there for you?

You rush to him as he collapses to his knees with a heavy thud, and wraps his arms around your waist, sobbing into the softness of your tummy.

You shush him and stroke your fingers through the greying curls, matted with sweat at the back of his neck. He holds onto you tighter than he’s ever done and you're afraid to let go of him.

Afraid that he won't ever stop bawling, as he mumbles incoherently and snottily into your abdomen.

Hours pass by, Valentine's Day gone in a blink of an eye, and you listen carefully and woefully as Tim recounts the haunting tale of Rainie Thompson, and how she's slowly killed the man you love.

You sit at the dining table with his thick, gun-calloused hands inside of yours, stroking over the ridges of his knuckles and listening to him swear to you that’ll get help with the drinking.

That he’ll take some leave and the two of you can go to the beach, or the lake, or somewhere where it can just be the two of you for a while.

Away from his cases, away from the horror of it all. Hell, he even mentions early retirement in his pertinent desperation, until you pat his hand gently and ground him with a stroking cup to his grizzled cheek.

You smile lightly as you gather the roses, and try to push aside your cynicism and wonder if you’ll regret not actually leaving tonight. Wonder if all what Tim has fed you is more empty promises when he'll eventually slip back into that expected monotony.

But you can see some swill of sincerity and regret inside the brown muddy pools of Tim’s tired eyes that you've never seen before.

He silently watches you pull the dead outer petals from the roses before placing them in a vase with fresh water.

“They’re already dead.” He mutters apologetically to you, shaking his head at the sight of them.

“Some things can come back to life, Tim, with some love.” You smile softly and Tim wants to just die in your arms right now.

“I don’t deserve you, darling.” Tim says, reaching for you.

He hasn’t yet taken off his trench, and you help it from his shoulders, the smell of worn leather from his holsters greeting you this close.

You've forgotten what he smells like as you inhale deeply. The scent of the leather leads a rugged and slightly musky undertone to his familiar aroma that’s swilled with coffee, cedarwood and sweat underscoring the gritty, primal edge to him.

You lick your lips as you graze your nose against the warmth of his neck, allowing him to finally crush you close to his broad chest, before the handle of his gun digs you uncomfortably in the breast.

He braces to kiss you, sweeping his lips delicately against yours, but you flinch. A reaction that slashes at Tim’s gut.

“Just hold me tonight, Tim.” You plead to him.

He nods, a solemn heaviness in his eyes as well as on his shoulders.

“I’ve missed you so much.” He admits.

Hearing him say it offers some vindication, but you know that these wounds need layers of bandages to be changed daily, and not some flimsy band-aids.

"I've missed you too."

“I’m so sorry for pushing you out. I don’t wanna lose you. I can’t. I’ll do whatever it takes. I promise.” He takes your hand and presses it to his mouth, the soft scruff of his facial hair feeling like gossamer, and you'd almost forgotten the feel of that too. “I love you.”

And when he says it, your emotions hiccup out of you and the tears fall again.

“I love you, Tim,” you whimper.

He takes you in his arms, those big, strong arms, and leads you upstairs to bed where he makes good on his word and doesn't let go of you all night.

You fall asleep listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat as he rubs your back gently, soothing you into sleep whilst he stays awake well into the night, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to listen to the dark thoughts urging him to finish that whole bottle of cheap wine downstairs.

He came so close to losing you today, on Valentine’s Day of all days, and he knows he has to do better. For all his faults, you love him and he spends the night pondering on that. Pondering when it was that he last slept in the bed with you, until his eyes fall heavy and he succumbs to a short, stunted sleep.

In the morning, he rises, stiff and aching from laying in the same position all night with you curled tightly in his arms. Amidst his back cracking and feeling stuffy in his slept-in crumpled button up and vest, Tim silently leaves the bedroom, careful not to wake you.

After pissing for what feels like an age, Tim catches sight of his face in the vanity mirror. White-gray stubble spreads across his chin and top lip, and the weary look of a man of the law that’s seen too much and knows too much weighing heavy around his sullen eyes, greets him.

He rummages in the vanity for some Tylenol and pops two in his mouth, swallowing them down without water. He re-shapes his oil slicked hair and tries to avoid the face looking back at him.

It knows all his terrible secrets, and now, so do you.

In the beginning the alcohol wouldn’t let him remember all the details, but its dropped its guard. The dreams were real; too real and he would find himself reliving the events each time he tried to get some damn shut eye.

He wasn’t supposed to keep seeing these things or to remember - it wasn’t part of the deal. Inebriation was supposed to wipe that shit out, but it'd failed to serve its purpose, instead serving as a beguiling wedge that expanded between you and him.

After descending the creaky stairs towards the kitchen, Tim passes the dining table en route to make some coffee; his tongue washing around dry, tight gums.

He spies his mobile and checks it out of habit; a message or two from Harman, one about a lead on one of their minor cases, and the other enquiring about his 'night of passion with the Mrs' and if it went well, and Tim simply scoffs. He makes a mental note to kick Harman when he sees him next. Preferably in the balls.

But out of the corner of his eye, Tim notices the vase of dead roses and stops to take in how they're now fully alive.

Overnight, their wilted petals have straightened and regained their vibrant colour, as if infused magically with a newfound vitality. The once drooping stems now stand tall and proud, their green leaves unfurling to reveal a lushness that seems to defy their previous state of neglect. Shades of crimson glow in the stale morning light, their hues deepening and intensifying the longer Tim takes them in.

Tim reaches for one, revelling in the soft velvet as he rubs it delicately between his finger and thumb. His eyes widen in disbelief at the transformation before him. It’s as if the flowers themselves are reaching out to him, a silent reminder of the resilience of your love and the power of forgiveness.

Some things can come back to life, Tim, with some love.

And Tim swears in that moment he’s never loved you more.

He swallows back a choke as he glances the wedidng photo of you both on the wall. Fuck, you looked so happy and beautiful that day.

Feeling a new sense of budding rejuvenation settling into his tired bones, a tiny bud, but one still seeding nonetheless, he turns towards the kitchen and then freezes, feeling it as his blood runs cold over his skin.

Prickles shoot down the back of his neck as he hears the sound, as clear as day. But it's different this time.

The haunting, yet wonderfully brilliant sound, of a little girl playfully giggling beside him.

Rainie Thompson isn't crying in his ear anymore, and Tim Rockford can't help but smile, closing his eyes as he listens to that sweet melody.

I found you, baby.

Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to know your thoughts and would appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you! 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST | TIM ROCKFORD MASTERLIST | FLORA & FAUNA MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal x reader #tim rockford x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #tim rockford #detective tim rockford #merge mansion #tim rockford fluff #tim rockford angst #valentines day #jett's writing #tw alchoholism #tw grief

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luxaofhesperides · 1 year

Text

those who serve.

CHAPTER FOUR: a job.

read chapter one, two, three on tumblr or the entire fic on ao3.

10k+ words again..... i remain the queen of not shutting up <3

. . .

“Wait,” Dick says, reaching over to open the glove box, “Before we go, we need these.” He pulls out some hats, squished together to fit on top of the many CDs rattling around. He smooths out a dark blue baseball cap, then hands a black hat to Danny. “Disguises, kind of,” he explains.

Danny looks down at the hat in his hand, then back at Dick. Sure. Why not. He’ll wear a hat as a very bad disguise since Dick seems to think it’s important. He doesn’t really want to know the details as to why they need to do this, so Danny’s gonna roll with it.

He puts the hat on and looks at Dick for further direction.

Instead of getting any of that, Dick slips on a pair of sunglasses and grins at Danny. “Alright. Ready to brave the dangers of a Gotham shopping mall?”

“...Sure?”

“Great!” Dick kicks open his door and hops out. Danny follows much more sedately, getting out of the car more like a normal person, then closing it quietly. He takes a moment to look up at the mall, a large building with strings of lights hanging above the walkways. The parking lot is filling up quickly despite it being a weekday morning and people are bustling about, heading into stores or cafes.

It’s much bigger than the two malls in Amity Park. This is the kind of place Paulina and Star would be spending all their time at if they could, wandering around and buying whatever caught their eye.

Danny would have just hung out in the food court with Sam and Tucker, maybe caught a movie or wasted the hours away in the arcade.

Being here, without them, aches like a bruise. He would give anything to just be a normal teenager hanging out at the mall with his friends. He wouldn’t have to worry about ghosts or avoiding his parents or dreading going home because he’s too tired to fully dodge all of his parents’ weapons.

“Ready to go in?” Dick asks. He moves closer to Danny and his voice is much softer; it’s more gentle and concerned than excited, now.

Danny tries to plaster a smile onto his face, hide his true feelings and not ruin Dick’s day out. “Let’s go,” he says, fiddling with the sleeves of his hoodie just to have something to do with his hands. It’s better to focus on twisting the fabric than to think of the life he lost long before he ever ran away to this dimension.

He starts walking before Dick can grow any more concerned about Danny. They’re here for a reason and that’s to get Danny daily necessities so he can start working. It’s not for fun, it’s just an errand to run.

He doesn’t get too far before Dick is besides him, throwing an arm around his shoulder to keep him close.

“Sorry if this makes you uncomfortable,” Dick murmurs, “But we need to stick to each other. Just in case, you know?”

“Just in case of what?”

“Kidnappings, usually. Or so we don’t lose each other if we need to evacuate. Or to stick together if a rogue attacks.”

Sure. Why not. This is just what happens in Gotham, apparently.

“Okay,” Danny says, weakly. “How likely is any of that happening, by the way?”

Dick hums, considering the question as they reach the walkway, full of potted plants and a fountain, lined with small stores, cafes, and a bakery. “I’m not too sure about the numbers, that’s something you’ll have to ask Tim. But the risk is definitely higher with us, being part of the Wayne family and all.”

“I’m not part of the family, though.”

“You’re close enough that the distinction doesn’t really matter. Criminals will see you as an easy way to either access the Manor and family, or an easy target for ransom. Though the average citizen is still at risk too, so you’d have been in danger either way.”

Apparently, there was a point in having Tim and Bruce discuss insurance and kidnapping policies. For once, it’s not absurd rich people things; it’s a legitimate concern in Gotham.

“Anyways!” Dick says, smoothly moving along, “What do you want to get first? Clothes? Things for your room? Weapons?”

“Weapons?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you’re trained in whatever you’re interested in using.”

Danny side-eyes Dick as they enter the mall proper. “I prefer martial arts to weapons,” he says.

Dick just nods. “We can train you in that too. Whatever you want, Danny.”

“Let’s just get some clothes, first.”

Inside, the noise of the morning crowd echoes off the walls of the mall. The ceiling is high and lined with skylights that don’t do anything when most days in Gotham are cloudy. It’s the most people Danny’s been around in a while and all the noise and movement makes him jittery, anxious, and close to clawing his skin off.

“This way,” Dick says, lowering his voice. He easily guide Danny through the groups of people walking around the mall, heading towards a clothing store with dim lights and barely audible music playing. There aren’t many people in there and it’s quieter in the store. Quiet enough for him to feel like he can breathe without feeling his throat tighten with oncoming panic, at least.

“All good?”

Danny slips out from under Dick’s arm and takes a slow, steady breath. “I’m fine.”

“Alright.” Dick doesn’t push, but he clearly doesn’t believe that Danny’s fine. Which, yeah, he’s not and he’s clearly bad at hiding it if Dick can pick up on it immediately, but Danny also doesn’t want to talk about it ever. So Dick will just have to take all the bad lies Danny’s giving him and deal with it.

He moves around the store, hoping to stop the conversation from continuing. He idly flicks through the racks of clothing, searching for things that are in his size.

Most of the clothes in the store is more suited for Sam’s style, really. Danny doesn’t think he can really pull off fishnet tights, especially while working as a butler. He does grab some plain black shirts, both short sleeve and long sleeve, and a gray sweater.

“That’s all?” Dick frowns at the few pieces of clothing Danny’s taken, but he leads them to the cashier regardless of his disapproval. He also takes out his wallet and hands over a card before Danny can protest.

“I can pay,” he says, and Dick shrugs.

“Sure, but I have more money than I want to deal with. I’m more than happy to pay for you, Danny. Don’t worry about it.”

The cashier scans the items, bags them, and hands the receipt to Dick.

Her eyes widen when she does and she makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat. “You’re—!”

“Shhh,” Dick shushes her, a finger to his lips.

She presses her lips together tightly and nods.

That is… a weird reaction. Is she scared of Dick? Is Dick well known enough to the average citizen of Gotham that they clam up and get nervous when they see he’s around? What exactly is his role in the Wayne mob family?

He glances at Dick just in time to catch him lowering his sunglasses a bit to give the cashier a wink, then takes the receipt while Danny grabs the shopping bag and considers going invisible so he’s not seen near Dick any longer. But the cashier doesn’t seem scared anymore, not with the red on her cheeks and the smile she isn’t quite able to bite down.

“Is that going to happen often?” Danny asks as they exit the shop and back into the crowds of the mall, which are steadily growing louder as morning fades into afternoon.

“Hopefully not,” Dick answers, “We’re kinda big in Gotham, so I might get recognized. But that’s why I got disguises!”

“Disguises that barely work.”

“Well, I wanted a wig, but no one else let’s me have one. The few times I’ve bought some, they immediately go missing.”

“Can we leave and just order everything I need online?”

Dick sighs, looking over Danny with a critical eye. “If you really want to, I suppose we can. But part of the reason why we’re here right now is so that you can get used to Gotham. This is a busy place full of people and it’s the best way to acclimate you to the city that’s not throwing you at a rogue or a gang.”

It hits Danny then that this might be part of his butler training. A way to prove that he can handle himself and that the Wayne family mob won’t need to worry about him too much. The weak disguises might be to test if he can keep secrets and not blow Dick’s cover.

Would they do that to him?

Well… Danny can’t confidently say that they won’t, so it’s safer to assume that this is something they would do. Are actively doing, even.

He lets out a slow breath, rolls his shoulders back, and resolves himself to seeing this through. “Alright,” he says, “Let’s keep going.”

“That’s the spirit!” Dick grins, and Danny can’t help the way he twitches, biting down on a reflexive need to respond with no, I’m the spirit. Another downside of being in a new dimension where no one knows his secrets: everyone’s missing out on his death jokes. It’s a shame, really, because Danny is hilarious.

Dick leads him through the mall, keeping an arm around Danny’s shoulders to steer him through the crowd. Danny peeks into the stores they pass, hoping something will catch his interest so he can finish up with this errand and leave the mall sooner rather than later.

He stumbles to a stop when he spots a NASA shirt on a clothing rack, and a black hoodie displayed beside it, Ursa Major and Minor decorating the front.

“Hm? Find something you like?” Dick asks as he urges Danny in. He follows Danny’s gaze and makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. “Here, let’s see if they have your size.”

He’s rummaging through the racks before Danny can respond, pulling out shirts to check their size. As soon as he finds a medium, he’s holding it out to Danny, who takes it without thinking, moving on autopilot.

“Wait,” he starts, “We don’t need to—”

“Of course we do! We’re here to build up your wardrobe. What’s the point if you’re not getting things you actually like?”

And then he grabs one of the hoodies for Danny too, as if to make a point.

Dick holds it up and looks at the design with a critical eye, then asks, “Do you like space?”

“Yeah,” Danny says. There’s so much more he wants to say, but he bites his tongue. This isn’t the time or place to start gushing about how much he loves space; he needs to buy what he needs and then leave. That’s all he needs to focus on.

“Well?” Dick prompts, “What do you like about it?”

“Can I just buy these and go?” Danny asks, “Talking about space is too distracting.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I can ask again later, yeah?” And Dick actually looks disappointed. He’s got this kicked puppy dog look that makes Danny feel incredibly guilty, but he won’t allow himself to be distracted. He’s on a mission and he’s going to see it through.

They spend another few minutes browsing that store. There’s more clothes here that’s to Danny’s taste and he pulls a few pairs of pants he can wear that don’t scream ‘teen hooligan’. Which mostly means there are no holes or rips in them. He checks the prices and tries not to wince at the prices; mall stores are always more expensive, and while it’s not a big deal to rich mob families, it is to Danny, who has spent most of his time in this dimension homeless and penniless.

The cashier of this store barely glances at them as they scan tags and stuff clothes into a large bag. They don’t notice anything about Dick when he shoves Danny’s hand down and holds out his own card, again, and pays.

Shockingly, Dick’s bad disguise works. Though it might just be because this store is much busier than the first gothic store they shopped in.

Danny hurries out of the store, hoping that he can stop here for the day. He doesn’t get his hopes up too high, though, when he catches sight of the way Dick’s eyeing the food court.

He’s trying to come up with excuses to avoid the area—full of people and noise and too much everything—when Dick’s smile suddenly falls and his eyes go cold as ice.

He grabs Danny a second before the first gunshot rings out.

Immediately, the mall is full of shouts and movement as people rush to get away; either to find a way out of the mall, or into a store where they can hide. More gunshots follow, and a skylight shatters, raining glass down onto the frantic crowd.

Dick grabs Danny’s arm and pulls him away from the food court. Danny keeps pace with him as they sprint through the mall, searching for safety.

Behind them, Danny can hear people screeching and laughing. Before them, at one of the mall’s entrances, he spots a group of people dressed in dark, torn clothing, and strange metal bands around their bicep. Some hold large guns while others have spiked baseball bats or machetes.

From the sounds if it, there’s a group at every entrance.

They’re trapped in.

Dick hisses a curse under his breath and ducks through the crowd, dragging Danny behind him, and ducks into a small space between two stores. There’s a door that leads to an employee only area, but it’s locked.

Most of the crowd goes quiet after that. Danny looks behind them to see people cowering in stores, frantically typing on their phones; he hopes at least one of them is able to contact someone who can help. A few are still out in the open, crouched behind benches and massage chairs, holding onto each other.

“Aww, don’t be so scared,” someone croons, “We ain’t gonna hurt you too much. So long as you give me your wallets, we’re all good.”

A robbery, Danny realizes, an extreme robbery.

He’s not a hero. He doesn’t want to be a hero when he doesn't need to be. There are, apparently, many heroes in this world who can help but none of them are here. It’s just Danny and a bunch of civilians, at the mercy of whoever this gang of thieves is.

It’s just Danny and Dick, stuck hidden away, because Dick is a bigger target than anyone else.

“We’re going to be fine, Danny,” Dick whispers. He’s tucking his phone back into his pocket and taking off his hat and sunglasses. “Don’t worry.”

Danny’s not worrying. He’s concerned for the safety of everyone else, but he’s not worried about himself. What are they going to do, kill him a second time? Fat chance.

The problem is that the only way Danny can do anything is by going ghost, and he can’t do that with Dick holding him back.

Outside their hiding spot, glass shatters and more gunshots go off. “Don’t be greedy now!” someone shouts, then cackles, “Just pass over what you’ve got in that cash register and we’ll be on our way.”

From farther away, someone says, “Don’t get smart with me,” and smashes a counter. From the sound of it, they actually smashed their fist through the counter.

Most people don’t have that kind of strength.

“Dick,” Danny says, and Dick shushes him.

“It’s fine. Help will be here soon.”

Danny focuses his hearing, trying to make sure no one is getting hurt or killed. The gunshots and destruction are just intimidation tactics. As long as people cooperate, this day won’t end with a body count. Footsteps get closer, loud against the tense stillness of the mall.

He shifts his weight, then steps forward, placing himself in front of Dick.

“Danny, what are you—”

“Dick.” He can hear the echo in his voice, the sound of something inhuman rising to the forefront. “Stay behind me.”

There’s no time for any warning, for any reassurance. Three gang members walk by and find them.

“Well look what we have here!” one of them jeers, swinging around a baseball bat, “Two little pigs tryin’ hide from us!”

“Come on out, piggies, before we have to drag you out,” another grins, all teeth.

The third is a large man who doesn’t seem very… cognizant. He twitches, breathing heavily as his eyes dart around. All three of them have a strange gleam in their eyes, one that reminds him of the mugger who went after Alfred.

Are they drugged?

Danny slowly steps forward, eyes fixed on them. They make condescending whistles and clicks, treating him like a scared animal. They don’t know how tightly Danny’s holding onto his humanity, how badly he wants to let go and make them beg for mercy.

A hand grabs his. “Don’t, Danny.”

“Well, shit!” one of the gang members says, “That’s a Wayne! How much do ya think he’ll sell for?”

They don’t wait any longer. They rush in and grab Danny by his shirt, dragging him out. Danny takes a moment to glance behind him to see Dick caught by one, arms twisted behind his back. There’s a furrow in his brow, a look of barely concealed panic on his face, and he catches a single comment about making good use of a pretty boy like him before the rush in his ears drowns it all out.

The first one doesn’t even have a second to understand what’s happening before he’s on the ground, knocked out cold. Danny slips up, his humanity pushed back, and claws at the end of his fingers cut through the skin of the his temple, leaving the gang member to bleed onto the floor.

Cold mist wafts out of his mouth and he runs his tongue over the sharp fangs in his mouth.

“Danny, don’t!” Dick cries, and then he’s twisting his body into a strange shape, easily slipping out of the grasp of the gang member who holds him. He swings a kick up, knocking them out quickly, and reaches for Danny but Danny’s already moving.

The big guy slams his fists into the place where Dick was standing. Danny hisses at him a few feet away, dropping Dick back onto the ground, safe and sound.

“Touch him and I’ll rip every bone out of your hand,” he growls.

The big guy doesn’t care. The big guy might not even understand what Danny’s saying, too lost in his drug induced delirium. He charges, bellowing, and Danny grabs one of his arms and throws him onto the floor. Before he can get up again, Danny slams his foot onto his chest and holds him down, slowly pressing the air out of his lungs. He’s baring his teeth in a snarl, leaning closer, ready to rip into his flesh and make him cry when Dick smashes a baseball bat into the big guy’s head and knocks him out.

Danny doesn’t let up. Doesn’t move at all, still too lost in the instinct to protect, to end the threat through any means necessary, to feel more than a distant glimmer of panic. He knows he doesn’t look very human at the moment, can feel his more monstrous, ghostly features take over.

But Dick doesn’t look scared. He has his hands up, carefully reaching for Danny.

“Hey, come on. It’s fine. We’re fine. Help is almost here.” Another gunshot rings out, breaking the silence, and Dick glances over to the entrance. “Help is here, actually.”

“Either you give up now or I make you wish you had given up. Make a choice, fuckers! I don’t have any patience left for you.” The voice that speaks is strangely mechanical, and when Danny looks over to take note of this new player, he has to wonder why anyone would ever wear a full face red helmet.

“That’s Red Hood,” Dick says, “He’ll take care of them and get everyone out safe, okay? So can you come over here, please?”

Red Hood. Was this one of Gotham’s heroes? This is one he hasn’t heard about yet, but Dick doesn’t seem all that worried, so Danny steps off of the big guy’s chest and allows Dick to pull him over to the side.

No one pays any attention to them once Red Hood throws himself into the fray, a whirlwind of violence as he takes out every single gang member who rushes at him. A few try to run away, but well placed shots take out their knees and leave them curled up on the ground in pain.

He catches a few whispers from a nearby store, as someone says, “God, he’s hot. I kinda want him to punch me like that.”

Danny tries not to make a face at that because 1) he’s dealt with the Phan Club and he’s used to those kinds of comments and 2) Red Hood is literally punching people into the ground. With great force. A lot of violence. The brutality with which Red Hood is dealing with the gang is honestly impressive.

While he doesn’t want to be punched like that, he does want to know how to do something similar. It would be a good move to add to his arsenal.

It takes only a few minutes to deal with all the gang members on this end of the mall. The atmosphere relaxes and Danny sees more than a few people slump over in relief, leaning against walls and collapsing on each other.

“You’ll be fine now,” Red Hood says, “Just sit tight for the police to get these guys, and then you’ll be out of here.”

A few people call out their thanks as he walks by, and Danny thinks that he’s going to leave, deal with the other gang members scattered around the mall. But a few more steps and it’s clear that Red Hood is making a beeline right for him.

Tensing, Danny shoves Dick behind him, feeling a growl begin to build up in his throat.

“Woah, woah, Danny! It’s fine! Red Hood’s not going to hurt us!” Dick hurries to assure, trying to step out from behind Danny. He doesn’t manage to take more than a single step in any direction before Danny is herding him back.

Red Hood slows down as he approaches, no longer marching towards them with danger written in every line of his body. “Huh,” he says as he comes to a stop just a few feet in front of Danny. He keeps one hand on his gun, ready to pull it out of its holster at any moment. “Dick,” he greets, but it sounds less like Dick’s name and more like an insult.

“Hood! So glad you got my message.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not every day I get to save a Grayson in distress. You owe me for this, by the way. I could be home watching telenovelas right now.”

“Aw, come on, Hood, would you really abandon me like that?”

Red Hood laughs, and the hamlet makes it come out staticy and unnatural. “I’d shoot you for fun, Dickface.”

Danny hisses at Red Hood and delights in the way he shifts nervously, not stepping back but clearly apprehensive. He should be nervous; threatening someone under Danny’s protection right in front of him is bold, to say the least.

“It’s okay, Danny,” Dick says again, trying to soothe him. He doesn’t try to move around Danny again, just stays and puts a hand on Danny’s shoulder. The single point of contact grounds him enough to pull his ghostly features back partway, leaving only the toxic green of his eyes and the fangs in his mouth. “Red Hood’s not going to hurt me. He saved us, didn’t he? He’s one of Gotham’s heroes, he’s a good guy.”

“Excuse you, Dick, but I am a crime lord not a hero.”

“A crime lord who helps people! Who is considered Crime Alley’s hero! Just admit it, you’re one of the good guys.”

Red Hood being a crime lord is much more believable than him being a hero. It also makes the familiarity between him and Dick seem less strange; surely, as a crime lord, he’s dealt with the Wayne Mob before. They’ve probably made deals between themselves and done super illegal things together. Dick is the eldest Wayne child, of course he’s friends with crime lords like Red Hood.

The hero thing is something he takes with a grain of salt. From the sounds of things, it’s really just a matter of perspective, and Danny is solidly on the side of not a hero. Sure he saved them, but he could have just had beef with this gang to begin with and decided to get rid of them when he had the chance. He’s like Red Huntress in that way: focused more on attacking threats than protecting the people in danger.

“Hey, kid,” Red Hood says, looking down at the big guy Danny took out, “Are you sure you’re human?”

“Oh my God, Hood, you can’t just ask people that!” Dick groans, slumping onto Danny’s back.

Red Hood crosses his arms. He doesn’t look away from Danny. “It’s a valid question. No one normal can just knock down a guy like this so easily. You take any drugs?”

Danny blinks, thrown by the sudden question. “No?”

Red Hood tilts his head. “Are you being drugged by someone else?”

“Definitely not. At least, not that I’m aware of.”

“Wait,” Dick says, “You think—”

“Well, these guys,” Red Hood kicks the big guy, “have been running around Gotham hopped up on Venom. Or something close to it.”

“Have you talked to Batman about it?”

“Why the fuck would I do that? This is shit in my territory. This is affecting my people. The big bad Bat can keep his nose out of this. It’s my case, alright.”

Dick shrugs, and Danny shifts, trying to keep balanced under the movement. “It’s not staying in your territory, though. They came here in the middle of the day. And speaking of the day, is Signal here?”

“He’s taking care of the other side of the mall.”

“And he’s alright on his own?”

“Relax, he’s a big boy, he can handle himself. If he needed any help, he’d let me know.”

Dick pulls Danny back, smoothly stepping to the side so they stand together, Dick’s arm heavy around Danny’s shoulders, clearly holding him in place. “Signal is another one of Gotham’s heroes. He’s our daylight hero,” Dick explains.

He remembers Duke mentioning Signal at dinner. “Duke likes him, right?” Danny asks, “Signal and… Nightlight? Nighthawk? Something like that.”

“Nightwing,” Dick corrects with a strained smile. Red Hood snorts, and quickly clears his throat to act as if he wasn’t about to laugh when Dick shoots him a poisonous glare.

“Yeah, him.”

“Well, as fun as this has been, I think it’s time for us to go! Bye, Hood, try not to cause too much of a mess once we leave.”

“Don’t worry,” Red Hood says, “I’ll make sure the blood is easy to clean up.”

“Great! Bye!”

And with that, Dick steers Danny away, turning their backs on the dangerous, gun-wielding crime lord. They go back to where they were originally hiding and instead of stopping at the locked door, Dick kicks it open and keeps walking. There’s no time to ask questions when Dick is rushing them through the back, following the green signs pointing towards the emergency exit.

It’s a relief to be back outside. A few rays of sunlight manage to get past the gray clouds that cover the sky, and all the noise and chaos of the mall suddenly feels far away. Sirens fill the city as police cars speed down streets, heading their way, but they’re not here yet.

“Sorry about your first day out being such a mess,” Dick says, “We can try again some other day.”

“I’d really rather just do some online shopping.”

Dick laughs, shaking his head. “Totally fair, after today. C’mon, let’s go home.”

. . .

The foyer is spotless. Danny can’t help but feel proud, even if Alfred did most of the work. The section that he handled, after Alfred showed him which cleaning supplies to use and the necessary steps to ensure everything was properly cleaned, is tidy and almost sparkling.

It’s surprisingly enjoyable work. He’s always hated cleaning, from his own room to any place his parents tried out a new invention or did experiments. But this? Cleaning the manor with Alfred? It’s actually fun.

Seeing everything come together after all their hard work is just as rewarding.

He’s glad he’s allowed to wear casual clothes; there’s no way he can do any cleaning in a suit and have it come out stainless and clean. Alfred probably uses his special magic to remain put together no matter what he does.

“Very good, Danny,” Alfred says once he looks over Danny’s section of the foyer. “You pick on everything so quickly. Soon I’ll have nothing left to teach you.”

“I’m not that good, Alfred, you don’t need to lie. Besides, it’s just cleaning. I’m not coming up with meal plans and organizing events and all the way you do.”

“And you’ll find that those tasks are just as easy to complete once you know how to go about them. Don’t discredit yourself, Danny, you’re an incredibly smart young man.”

Danny ducks his head, bashful, and shrugs. “I’m really not, but… Thanks.”

“Come now. With everyone out of the manor, we can tidy up all the spaces they usually occupy. Let us begin in the family den.”

It’s not like they have anything else to do. For once, the manor is empty of everyone but them so there’s no one Alfred needs to tend to. He doesn’t need to worry about preparing large lunches, either, when Danny is still slowly recovering his appetite.

The family den is one of the rooms that Danny can find on his own, so he doesn’t trail after Alfred, helplessly lost. It’s a nice change of pace. They stop once on the way to grab a vacuum and a duster from a small supply closet in the hall. Danny grabs the vacuum before Alfred can and carries it the rest of the way, feeling inordinately pleased at being able to help Alfred before he can insist on doing everything on his own.

The door is already open when they arrive. It’s one of the few doors in the manor that is almost never closed, except for when they have a lot of food out and don’t want any pets stealing some, according to Alfred. Danny has yet to see any pets, but he’s looking forward to it. There’s so many places they could be hiding and it has Danny glancing around everywhere he goes, hoping to catch at least one of them. He’s hoping for one of the dogs. Maybe a cat.

Damian is the one who primarily takes care of the pets, so Danny doesn’t get to have that responsibility, which he’s only a little upset about. It’s fine, really.

He misses Cujo.

There’s a lot he didn’t realize he was going to lose when he ran away. It just hadn’t been on his mind, not when Jazz was yelling at their parents, and Jack and Maddie were shooting at him, Fenton Thermos at the ready to trap him again. There wasn’t any time to focus on anything besides the panic, the pressing need to go as far away as possible, the fear fear fear taking hold of him and leaving room for nothing else.

It was Jazz who had opened the portal, who screeched and threw things at their parents, creating a distraction as she pretended to be afraid of the ghost who had escaped. But it was Danny who flew in, thinking please take me away to someplace they can’t hurt me.

The Ghost Zone is strange. It’s only a part of the Infinite Realms. More than ghosts exist within that space, living within the fabric that holds the universe together. Full of that much ectoplasm and emotion and constant movement, it’s like nothing else. Danny didn’t know before that moment, hadn’t had the time to realize it until it was too late, that the Infinite Realms are alive.

It heard his plea. It reached out to him, crooning a dizzying song that shook every string crossing the universe, and gave him what he asked for.

Danny didn’t remember much after that. He felt his core spark, wrapped in the embrace of the Infinite Realms, and then he was taken away. The brief flashes he does have of the journey don’t help him piece together what happened. All he has is the fading memory of being surrounded by stars, of aurora borealis dancing around him, of a sudden cold as he was ripped away from home and left in someplace foreign.

He woke up in this universe where he doesn’t exist. Where no one he knows exists in any way. There are no ghosts, no ectoplasm, not Fentons or GIW or Amity Park.

There’s no one, and Danny stares down at the floor, clutching the vacuum in his hands as he’s hit by the sudden grief of losing everyone he’s ever known.

He knows that there’s no way for him to return to his universe. What was once his home is far out of reach. He’ll never see anyone he loves again. Not just Cujo, but Jazz and Tucker and Sam. Frostbite. Pandora. Even Walker and Wulf.

“Danny?” A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, the touch light and gentle. “Are you quite alright?”

He sucks in a shuddering breath and tries to plaster on a smile. It falls flat, and he gives up completely. “I don’t think I can ever go back home,” he confesses, and blinks back the burn of oncoming tears.

“That’s alright,” Alfred says, “You have a home here.”

It’s a nice thought, but it’s not the home he wants. Maybe one day it can be; he’s staying for Alfred, but maybe he’ll want to keep coming back for the other members of the Wayne family. They’ve been nice to him so far, despite being part of a mob, and he thinks he can come to like all of them given enough time.

But none of them will ever be enough to fill the void that comes from the loss of Jazz, Tucker, and Sam.

“May I ask what brought this on? Is it because this is the family den?”

Danny latches onto the suggestion. It makes more sense than thinking about dogs and missing his own ghost pet. And missing his own section of the Infinite Realms. He shrugs and says, “Yeah, a little. Sorry for getting emotional all of a sudden. I’ll just… start cleaning.”

He glances up to catch Alfred’s frown, but gets to work before he can be told to take a break or, worse, talk about his feelings.

He goes straight to an outlet in the wall to plug in the vacuum; it’s an old model with a cord, and he wonders if this is just what Alfred prefers when he’s sure that cordless vacuums exist. It can’t be that the Waynes don’t want to get Alfred decent cleaning equipment because they all defer to him despite him being their butler.

“If you’ll allow me,” Alfred says, grabbing hold of the vacuum before Danny can protest. “These settings,” he changes a few settings on the vacuum, “are best for cleaning carpeted surfaces.”

And then he gets right to it, leaving Danny behind.

While Danny’s plan to just do stuff before Alfred can tell him otherwise works, he forgot to account for the fact that Alfred can, at any moment, hit him with a reverse Uno..

Alfred makes his way through the family den fairly quickly, moving in straight lines across the room. Danny trails after him, making sure the cord doesn’t get caught on anything or tangled, and takes hold of the duster to clean off picture frames on the wall.

One frame tilts as he dusts it, and Danny reaches out to fix it when he pauses. There’s a strange sound of something scraping against the wall. It doesn't sound anything like a frame, so Danny looks back to Alfred to make sure he’s turned away, then slowly lifts up the frame.

Stuck to the back is two daggers in sheaths decorated lightly with gold accents.

None of my business, Danny thinks, and quickly lays the frame to rest flat against the wall, straightened out.

He rolls the duster down from where it was resting in the crook of his elbow and into his hand. He twirls it around once, spots a flurry of dust falling off of it, and resolves not to do that again.

He’ll… get the handle of keeping things clean eventually.

The vacuum cuts off suddenly, and the silence that follows rings a little in Danny’s ears.

“Danny,” Alfred calls out, “Would you mind lifting the couch so I can clean underneath it?”

“Sure,” Danny says without thinking. He reaches the couch and leaves the duster on the edge of the coffee table. He moves to grab the couch and start lifting it when he realizes that couches are heavy and most people are unable to lift one on their own.

He glances at Alfred. “Umm…”

“You may use whatever powers you have at your disposal,” Alfred says very casually. Danny swears he can feel his heart stop at the words. It’s not that he’s been very good at keeping his ghostliness hidden, but it was mostly used for fights and intimidation, but he was hoping no one would talk about it and they could all just ignore it.

Whatever expression is on his face must be bad because Alfred visibly softens. He doesn’t move to touch Danny again, which is a relief because he feels like jumping out of his own skin and disappearing. Instead, he sets the vacuum down and gives Danny his full attention.

“I am well aware of the fact that you are a meta.” Again, what is a meta? He heard it at dinner with the Waynes, but he hasn’t gotten an explanation. So he can’t say that he is a meta, but he also can’t say that he isn’t. “You don’t need to worry. The Wayne family is very good at keeping secrets.” There’s a hint of a laugh in his voice.

That didn’t sound funny or reassuring, it just sounded a little like a threat. The Waynes probably are good at keeping secrets, such as where they hid the bodies of those who were foolish enough to cross them. Danny really doesn’t want any details.

“Metas are protected, and I will never force you to reveal any details about your powers to anyone, including me. But if you have these powers, then it will be good to use them. Cleaning and other small tasks are a good way of practicing with your powers and giving you greater control of them.”

It takes a moment for Danny to process the words, and another minute for his brain to fully reboot after understanding what Alfred’s attempting to do.

He’s trying to train Danny on how to use his powers through simple, every day tasks. This is Danny’s Karate Kid moment, but instead of learning how to fight with wax on wax off, he’s learning how to butler.

Which might be the same thing in Gotham, according to the things he’s heard.

“Okay,” he says weakly, “Sounds good.” And then, instead of lifting the couch, he turns it intangible and invisible so Alfred can vacuum straight through it.

“Oh my,” Alfred says, eyebrows rising at the display of his powers.

“The couch is still here, you can just… ignore it while I’m touching it.”

Efficient as always, Alfred doesn’t let this throw him off his rhythm. He flicks the vacuum back on and continues cleaning, calming walking through the couch as if he does this all the time. Even Jazz always hesitated before walking through anything he made intangible, unable to help it. Butlers are just built different, apparently.

As soon as he cleans the floor underneath the couch, he nods to Danny who takes his cue to release the couch from his powers. It pops back into the visible spectrum, fully solid and intact.

“Would you mind fluffing the cushions and folding the blankets?”

Danny salutes Alfred and gets to it, shaking out each blanket out before folding them, taking the time to make sure each corner lines up and all the edges are straight and even. He leaves them thrown over the back of the couch, piled on top of each other, ready for the next Wayne to collapse onto the couch and bundle up for a movie.

By the time he’s finished and is satisfied with his work, Alfred has finished vacuuming the entire room. It’s a large room and Alfred hadn’t exactly been rushing through it, so Danny’ not quite sure how he got it done so quickly. It keeps surprising him, how competent Alfred is. No one else he’s ever met has been this put together or skilled, especially in the realm of domestic work.

Alfred gathers up the cord of the vacuum and looks over the family den with a critical eye. When he nods, satisfied with the state of it, Danny lets out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Shall we head to the kitchen for lunch, Danny?” he asks, reaching down the lift up the vacuum. Which is unacceptable! Danny carried it in and he’ll carry it out.

He uses a bit of flight to cross the distance between them faster, not held back by friction. He swipes the vacuum from Alfred’s hand and gives him a cheerful grin. “Sure! Now’s a great time for a break, anyways.”

They had spent the morning doing laundry, which mostly consisted of separating everything into different loads and starting the washer. The clothesline strung up outside is primarily for bedsheets and blankets, so they didn’t even need to wait a long time for clothes to dry. Even folding everything and putting them in piles based on whose clothes they were didn’t take more than an hour between them. It wasn’t intensive work, as most of it was just waiting around, drinking tea and talking to each other.

Even cleaning barely put a dent in Danny’s energy levels. He hasn’t done enough to be hungry quite yet, but the thought of eating isn’t as uncomfortable as it once was.

Progress. No matter how small it is.

Hell, soon he might even be able to start asking for snacks in between meals. That will probably have Alfred weeping with joy. Internally, of course, seeing how he’s an old British guy who keeps most of his strong emotions hidden behind the facade of professional calmness.

But while he may be fine on eating for a few more hours, Alfred needs to sit down and have lunch. It didn’t feel like it, but they did get a lot of housework done. They did it together, which cut down on how long each chore took, and Danny can’t fathom how Alfred has kept this manor running by himself all these years.

It’s so much ground to cover for one person, especially one as old as Alfred.

And since he’s busy taking care of everyone, who takes care of him?

Danny, now. He’s determined to return the kindness Alfred’s shown him tenfold.

He’s cemented the location of the hallway closet now. Everything is organized neatly within and it takes barely half a minute to put everything away, bodily blocking Alfred from doing anything to help.

“I will say, I’m unused to having so much free time,” Alfred chuckles, “You are incredibly efficient. You’ll be taking over in no time.”

“As if I could ever replace you, Alfred. Besides, you’re the best cook around! No way will I ever be able to compete against you in the kitchen.”

“Don’t discount yourself so soon. You’ve only recently begun your cooking journey. I have no doubt that you will take to it as quickly as everything else.”

Danny thinks back to the Fenton kitchen, full of tech and wires and scrap metal and tools scattered around. He thinks of food coming back to life, of needing to keep chains and padlocks in one of the cabinets just in case, of constant ecto-contamination. Their house would fail every single safety inspection to exist.

That kitchen wasn’t safe to cook in, and due to that, nothing cooked in it was safe. Most of what his parents made was edible! But it definitely wasn’t safe.

“If you say so,” Danny says, trying not to grimace. He hopes his own halfa biology won’t lead to a food contamination. It’s never happened before, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.

Maybe he could brainstorm some safety measures with Alfred. Just in case.

Unfortunately for him, the very thought of discussing his halfa status and nonhuman biology makes him feel nauseous. Alfred is kind and clearly wants the best for Danny, but in that case, what he considers to be best for Danny might be handing him over to scientists or doctors to learn more about him and it’ll be like he never left his parents at all.

“Come now, Danny, it’s time we work on your confidence in the kitchen,” Alfred says, already turning on his heel and walking down the hallway with purpose.

Danny tries to shake all thoughts of violent hotdogs out of his head and hurries to follow, keeping close to Alfred until the halls begin to look more familiar. Being within the walls of Wayne Manor doesn’t feel so intimidating, but it is hard to be intimidated by a place when he’s helping clean it.

The steady disappearance of his anxiety around staying with Waynes is nice. He’s tired of being scared and he hasn’t felt comfortable anywhere like this since before his accident.

And he’s barely run into anything involving their mob business! That’s more than he’s gotten from Vlad or his parents. They’re actually sticking to the conditions he set, including the keep me out of shady shit one.

Maybe Jazz was onto something when she was lecturing him about enforcing and respecting boundaries. This is great.

This job could end up being really good for him. More than he ever expected.

“Do you have anything in mind for what you’d like for lunch?” Alfred asks as they enter the kitchen.

Danny shrugs. “Anything’s fine, really.”

“I would appreciate an actual answer, Danny.”

“Then… how about something easy to make? So I can try my hand at making my own lunch.”

Alfred nods once, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Something simple. Perhaps a sandwich?”

“Yeah, a sandwich sounds great.” He doesn’t say that he already knows how to make a sandwich; pretty much everyone knows that much. It’s just slapping various ingredients in between two slices of bread. Easy. But if that’s what Alfred wants to make, then that’s what they’ll make.

“Let us begin by going to the garden.”

The thought of going outside perks him up, and Danny’s by the door even before Alfred is. The small vegetable garden Alfred’s cultivated is just outside the kitchen, organized into raised beds full of crop.

He accepts the gardening gloves Alfred holds out to him. They’re large on his hands, but not enough to hinder him as he kneels next to the tomato plants. He watches carefully as Alfred clips off ripe tomatoes, carefully holding them as he positions the garden clippers above the stems.

Each tomato is perfectly round and red and he’s half tempted to bite into one just to see if it tastes as good as it looks. As if hearing his thoughts, Alfred drops one into Danny’s hand.

“Go on,” Alfred prompts, and Danny looks up from where he’s been staring at the tomato.

“Huh?”

“Eat it. I can see that you want to.”

Danny flushes and moves to give it back, caught. “Sorry.”

“No need, Danny. I have helped raised quite a few children and teenagers in my time. I know to offer some of the crop when they accompany me out to the garden.”

He should give it back. He’s here to help Alfred, not add to his workload. He should be focused on working because this is his job, the first and only one he’s ever had, and he doesn’t want to mess it up.

But no one else is here at the manor. It’s just him and Alfred and Alfred has given him permission. So Danny takes off one of the gloves to hold the tomato up to his mouth, thanks Alfred quietly, then carefully bites into the tomato.

His carefulness doesn’t matter at all when the tomato is as juicy as it is. He startles and leans forward to let the tomato juice drip off his chin onto the ground instead of onto his clothes. Besides him, he can hear Alfred chuckling lightly as he sets all the tomatoes he’s gathered into a large, woven basket.

“How is it?”

“This is the best tomato I’ve ever eaten,” Danny says, taking another bite. “Ho’ do you do thi’?”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, Danny,” Alfred reprimands lightly. “I’ve simply had many years of experience tending to vegetable crops in this garden. I know very well what works and what doesn’t. Though the garden has gotten smaller over the years, it is still one of my proudest works.”

He finishes the tomato and shakes his hand to get some of the juice off. He tries to wipe his face off, but it’s hard when he doesn’t have anything to clean up with, so he settles with getting the rest of the drops off and resolves to clean up properly once they’re inside again.

Alfred stands slowly, his knees clicking, and Danny winces sympathetically. He takes hold of the basket for Alfred and rests it in the crook of his elbow.

“Spinach or cucumbers?” Alfred asks suddenly.

Danny blinks at Alfred, then thinks about it. He doesn’t eat much of either, but he’s heard Sam talk about how cooking spinach makes it shrink to the point of there being no spinach. Cucumber would probably go easier, so he says, “Cucumbers. Why?”

“That’s what we will get next to make lunch with.”

Are there cucumber sandwiches? Is that a thing? If it is, Danny’s never hear of it, but he trust Alfred to make it good.

Alfred leads the way to a shadier portion of the vegetable garden where long tendrils full of dark green leaves twist their way around a metal trellis. Hanging from the vines are cucumbers in various stages of growth; some are large and heavy, while others are still small and not quite green, covered in bumps.

“Why don’t you pick a few, Danny?”

“How do I know if it’s ripe?”

“Look for ones that are large and have a good color to them. The less visible bumps in the skin, the better.” Alfred holds on up as an example, then cuts it with the gardening clipper and lays it into the basket besides the tomatoes.

Danny takes the clippers and begins shifting through the leaves and vines, looking over all the cucumbers he finds with a critical eye. He finds one that looks good close to the dirt and takes it in his hand to look over. Alfred doesn’t stop him as he lifts the clippers, so he figures it’s good enough and adds it to the basket.

“How many?” he asks, finding another cucumber ready to be picked.

“As many as you like. We can always get more later.”

Just to be safe, Danny gets five cucumbers. This lunch may be for just the two of them, but the rest of the family requires a lot more food. Whatever’s left over after Danny eats can be used in other dishes for the Wayne family.

He has no doubt they’ll be stopping in the kitchen first as soon as they return. With cooking like Alfred’s around, even Danny would be visiting the kitchen often in the hopes of sneaking a few bites of what he’s making.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to by virtue of being Alfred’s sous chef.

They don’t get anything else out in the garden, leaving with their small basket of fresh produce. He’s looking forward to seeing what Alfred can make with these just as he’s starting to look forward to eating.

He’s not super hungry, but that doesn’t mean he can’t eat as much as a regular human.

They return to the kitchen after putting away their gardening gloves into the small storage box by the door, and Danny sets the basket down on the counter as Alfred goes through the fridge, getting ingredients.

As he’s pulling out plates and a butter knife, he asks, “Would you mind setting out a small frying pan onto the stove?”

“Sure!” Danny chirps, then looks through the cabinets below the counter until he finds what he needs. He sets the frying pan out just as Alfred’s pulling the bread box closer from where it was placed against the wall.

“Now,” Alfred begins, “This isn’t quite a sandwich, but it is very easy to make. You may adjust everything to match your own preferences, or the preferences of others.” He pulls out two slices of bread and sets them on the counter.

“Wait, don’t we need a cutting board?”

“A very good observation,” Alfred says. “But not in this kitchen. When it was remodeled many years ago, I changed the countertops. Instead of granite or marble, these are butcher block counters, which are used as cutting boards.”

“So the entire counter is a cutting board.”

“Precisely.”

With that, he grabs the butter knife to cut a small slab of butter to drop into the pan. “I will be teaching you how to make bruschetta and crostini. These are toasted breads that come with a variety of toppings. We will stick to a classic bruschetta and a salmon, cucumber, cream cheese crostini.”

Alfred pulls open one draw to reveal a knife block and wide range of knives, all different sizes.

“For smaller and softer ingredients like the ones we will be using, you may use a smaller knife. A medium size will be best.” He takes hold of his own knife and Danny gauges its size before grabbing one that seems to be similar.

He sets the knife down on the counter, keeping the blade pointed away from him, and grabs the basket to place in front of them, easy to reach. He follows Alfred’s lead and grabs a tomato, washing it off lightly in the sink, then sets it down in front of him.

“When you are using a knife, always keep the fingers of your nondominant hand curled so you do not accidentally cut them.” Alfred demonstrates, holding his tomato in place with his left hand, curling his fingers so he makes a loose fist. He slides the flat blade of the knife against his knuckles to show how it can’t cut his fingers, then waits for Danny to do the same.

As soon as he does, he’s showing Danny how to cut tomatoes without squishing them or getting juice everywhere. Then he instructs Danny on how to peel cucumbers and cut them.

Once they get everything slices and ready, Alfred flicks on the stove and moves the slab of butter around to make sure it coats a much of the inside as possible. He then takes a slice of bread and places it into the pan.

“We don’t want it toasted too much. Lightly on both sides will do.”

Danny hesitantly accepts the spatula held out to him and hopes he doesn’t make Alfred waste bread. His attempts at making toast without a toaster usually leads to at least one side being charcoal black.

But Alfred is patient and attentive, instructing Danny when to flip each piece of bread to ensure they are lightly golden on both sides. He goes over what to add to make bruschetta, what to add to make crostini, and allows Danny to assemble both.

It doesn’t look very pretty, but it tastes amazing when they sit down to eat.

“You’re a really good teacher,” Danny says, finishing up the last of the bread.

“Thank you,” Alfred smiles. “It helps that I have a wonderful student.”

“Can you teach me more? It can be later if we need to do more cleaning or something.”

“All of that can wait until tomorrow. Would you like to try your hand at baking?”

Danny lights up, grinning, and says, “Yeah! Can we make cookies?” Cooking is one thing, but baking in another. He’s not half bad at baking when he can muster up the motivation to make things. Following recipes is easy and unlike with cooking, baking requires precision and sticking to what’s written. He doesn’t know how to make too many things, but brownies were easy for him during the few times he actually baked them.

“Of course. Shall we make chocolate chip or would you like to do something else?”

“Chocolate chip to start, I think. And then we can see what else we can make, if that’s okay?”

“That sounds perfectly fine,” Alfred says, “Let’s clean up first before we get started.”

Danny all but leaps out of his chair, eager to start, and gathers their dishes to put in the sink. He washes as Alfred takes hold of a dish towel and gets to work drying, putting everything away where it belongs.

The time spent baking goes by quickly after that. It’s much easier and less stressful than cooking, and each time a batch of cookies comes out picture perfect, Danny can’t help but grin.

They’re all placed into various containers once they cool, each one filling up with just half a batch. The chocolate chip cookies where then changed into double chocolate cookies, followed by jam cookies and lemon cookies. The smell of it all fills the air and Danny doesn’t bothering smothering the pride he feels when he catches sight of all the cookies covering the counter.

From there, it’s easy to transition into preparing for dinner as the late afternoon hour brings with it a promise of everyone returning home.

He puts his newly learned cutting skills to use as he helps Alfred make a potato gratin to accompany the carbonara he’s making for dinner. He’s even able to make the salad by himself, although it didn’t require much except cutting and tossing once he added the dressing.

The first people to arrive back in the manor are Damian and Bruce. They appear in the doorway of the kitchen suddenly, and Danny only had a split second to realize that he’s being watched before Bruce greets them both. The sound of his voice makes Danny twist around to look at him, make sure he’s not too close.

Bruce doesn’t move from near the door. He only goes a few steps into the kitchen, enough to get close to the island where the last batch of cooling cookies lays. Damian looks over Alfred, then turns his sharp gaze to Danny, studying him.

He leaves without a word and Danny can only hope Damian wasn’t looking for anything nonhuman about Danny. That’s really the only reason he can think of to explain to scrutiny, and he doesn’t like it.

“Did you make these?” Bruce asks, picking up a lemon cookie. It’s supposed to be dusted with powdered sugar, but they hadn’t cooled enough before both he and Alfred got caught up in preparing dinner.

Danny nods, a small thing, barely noticeable, but it makes Bruce smile. Not a big, theatric smile meant to distract. This one is smaller, more genuine and soft.

“May I?” He lifts the cookie up, waiting for permission.

Bruce is the master of the house. He doesn’t need to ask for permission. It’s not like any of the cookies are for Danny, anyways. He doubts he has the stomach to handle one, let alone the five batches he made.

He glances at Alfred, hoping the butler will take over. But Alfred simple keeps himself busy at the stove, firmly keeping himself out of the conversation.

“Um, sure,” Danny answers, hesitantly.

“Thank you,” Bruce says, and takes a bite. Danny watches him carefully for any signs that it’s bad, that he doesn’t like it, that he’s disappointed that Danny doesn’t live up to Alfred’s skills. But he doesn’t. He eats it calmly, then grabs a second on. “These are delicious.”

Danny’s shoulders slump; he hadn’t realized how tense waiting for an answer had made him.

“If that is all, Master Bruce,” Alfred cuts in, “Do go wash up. Try not to spoil your appetite before dinner.”

“Alright. Do you know if Tim is going to be here for dinner tonight?”

“I haven’t heard from him today. Perhaps you should reach out to him if you would like him to be here.”

“Right. Right, I’ll… do that. And Danny,” he turns his attention away from Alfred, the lightness of his tone at odds against the dark light of his eyes. It almost feels as if Bruce can see through him, searching for all his secrets. “I’ll be in my study if you need anything, alright?”

“Okay.” Danny turns around and ducks his head, trying to focus but he can barely remember what he was doing before. He just stands, tense, frozen with his hands gripping the edge of the counter.

He hears Bruce move, his suit shifting as he straightens out. “I also heard about the incident at the mall, yesterday. Dick only told me about it today.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Though this isn’t required of you, if you’d ever like to learn self-defense, let me know. I have trained in many different martial arts and I would be happy to teach you.”

That… wasn’t at all what he was expecting to hear. He was more prepared for an interrogation about what he is. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Bruce fired him for being inhuman. Half-human. Whatever.

He opens his mouth to say something along the lines of no thanks I don’t plan on being seen in public ever again, but what comes out instead is, “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t. We can get started this weekend.”

Danny’s traitorous body nods even as he mind goes what the hell do you think you’re doing. This was not in the plans. This was not in any plan! There was no previous discussion about that. Danny was fine with the kidnapping policy and the very specific types of insurance he was given.

Having Bruce teach him self-defense feels like something from a fever dream. But here they are, Bruce leaving the kitchen with an agreement from Danny to have weekend self-defense lessons.

“Alfred,” he says, blankly, after Bruce leaves.

“Yes, Danny?”

“Is it too late to fake my death and run away?”

“No need for such dramatics. Self-defense is important, especially in Gotham, and Master Bruce has trained every child that has been in this manor. He will teach you well.”

That’s not really the problem.

The problem is that Danny doesn’t know his limits against regular humans. He has no idea how much strength to use against them. He’s even worse about staying human during a fight. The last thing Danny wants is to go full angry ghost against Bruce for the high crime of trying to help him.

But if Alfred says it’ll be fine, then Danny will need to trust in that. Surely Alfred will talk to Bruce about Danny’s powers and they’ll be better prepared to face him.

He’ll just have to do his best to be a normal-ish person and hope things work out. Knowing his luck, however…

At least he has cookies to accompany his misery.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dp x dp fanfic #alfred's apprentice au #butler danny au #fic #my writing #sooo much worldbuilding here. v excited to share my plans for danny and everyone and gotham #can guarantee that no one can predict what i'll be doing with this fic #in the last three chapters #(pls let three more be enough)

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channajen · 1 year

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This is an older story of mine. It's called "Learning to Fly". It's a Jason/Danny story that I wrote before "Dead on Main" was a thing. Since that's getting popular now, I decided to share it with you guys. Enjoy the story!

Summary: The contamination from the Lazarus pit was slowly killing Jason—halfway. Batman finds someone to help him though the transition into halfa life. Time marches on, Jason finds love, and the Bats find their place in legend.

Story teaser below the cut

Jason stared down at the city below him. Everything was well-lit and small businesses lined the streets. There was even a children’s park, bright in the moonlight. A few police cars patrolled the area to maintain the level of peace that had come over the place that used to have the name “Crime Alley”.

It had taken years to complete the clean-up and ensure that this would be a safe place in Gotham. Jason had poured much of his life/after-life into the project. He had started the project while he was still human, and at times he had even gotten help of the Bat-kind. That had changed when Danny came into his life. His now-husband had given him the tools necessary to make the incredible change possible.

He smiled then, at the thought of his husband, who was likely doing a nightly run to survey his own city. And although the cities were not close, the distance between them was negated by simply using portals to zip back and forth between the two. The cities’ locations didn’t really matter, though, as the pair actually made their home elsewhere…in the Zone. But there was no one left alive who would know that. All the people who mattered now resided happily in the Zone close to them.

With that in mind, he decided to call it a night, and Gotham’s cryptid, Jason Todd, opened a portal and stepped into the Ghost Zone. He had deliberately entered the Zone a bit further from home than usual. He wanted time to think and remember everything that had brought him this far. Some days were just like that.

Way back in the time when the Bat clan roamed the streets, Jason had died and been resurrected. That was probably one of his most painful memories. No one liked reliving their death—especially the dead themselves. Then there was the Pit madness, his rampage as Red Hood, his eventual reconciliation with his family, and after several years, the painful ecto-sickness that turned him into a halfa.

It had been a harrowing time. Bruce didn’t know what to do, and no one knew how to treat him. At the time, the Anti-Ecto Acts were still in place, so there was nowhere to legally turn for help. That didn’t stop the Bat from bringing all his resources to bear. It was the Replacement, of all people, who found the answers that they needed. Tim had found a small town in Amity Park, Illinois that was targeted by the Ghost Investigation Ward—the same organization that was rumored to be after Jason.

The Bat clan went into full research mode and so much of what they found, both legally and illegally, brought light to Jason’s situation. He wasn’t dying—not completely anyway—he was changing into something rare. He was becoming a half-ghost. A lot of technical details about the process had been hacked by Oracle from one man’s computers: Vlad Masters, billionaire, mayor, and apparent half-ghost himself. The man had thoroughly outlined the process in which he had become a halfa. It took the man twenty agonizing years to complete his transformation.

There was not much that could be done during Vlad’s time to speed up that process, at least not in Vlad’s early personal records. Master’s eventually had hypothesized that ectoplasm exposure would speed up the transformation, and finally ended his suffering by proving it. He had injected himself with ectoplasm repeatedly on a daily basis, and his twenty-years of “ecto-illness” was finally cured by the formation of a ghost core. That process completed his transition from extremely ill human to healthy half-ghost.

Vlad had also studied another halfa in detail. One Daniel J. Fenton, also known as the town hero/antihero Danny Phantom. This Phantom person had become a halfa in literally moments through exposure to high amounts of electricity and ectoplasm at the same time. He had been the town’s protector for almost ten years at the time of Jason’s illness.

Batman considered all of the information available and refused to let his son suffer for however long the process would take for him. After long talks with Jason about the potential side-effects of transition, the Bat secretly bought a large amount of ectoplasm and began Jason’s injection series. It very quickly turned the tide of the young man’s illness. They were confident that Vlad’s treatment would work for Jason, but that still left the issue of the ghost powers that the man would develop. He would need training.

Master’s information also had another extremely helpful tool—key to Jason’s training—the information on one Daniel J. Fenton/Phantom. Nightwing was the one tasked with making contact with the halfa in hopes of gaining more information about life as a halfa superhero—and possible help with teaching Jason the basics of living a halfa-life. Initially the half-ghost was wary, but Dick had a way of warming people up and getting their secrets. In the space of a few weeks, Dick had completely gained Danny’s trust and cooperation in the matter of helping Jason....

(continued at A03)

#jason todd #danny phantom #dead on main #dp x dc #romantic fluff #happy feels #ghost king danny

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15minlatewithbatbucks · 5 months

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untitled janet/talia, Bruce's bio kid Tim AU pt. 1 (NOW no choice but to love you)

AO3 Link (a little behind, but better edited)

Janet scheduled her appointment with Bruce Wayne for a Tuesday.

Mondays were for business matters that came up over the weekend, easing back into the daily grind, and not much else. Wednesdays were notorious for dragging on and putting everyone in a poor mood. Thursdays were basically the weekend and Fridays for men like Bruce Wayne were simply not.

It had been a struggle to get such a short notice appointment, but she was wily and knew how to sweet talk assistants and secretaries alike and as such she earned herself her preferred time.

Tuesday morning at 9:30 am.

Sitting in her car at 8:53 am, Janet could only continue driving herself mad with her own swirling thoughts and recriminations. On one hand, she could leave and say “fuck it” to all of her hard work getting this meeting with Gotham’s unofficial official prince. Who would know? Not Bruce Wayne or the paparazzi, that’s for sure.

Unfortunately, she’d learned the hard way that avoiding this particular problem hadn’t made it go away. No, something had to give and she knew it was going to have to be her.

The thick stack of divorce papers on the passenger’s seat said as much.

She wasn’t much for dithering, not really. She’d gotten her crying out in the shower this morning like an adult and she wasn’t keen on revisiting it. She would have to redo her whole face, probably while walking through Wayne Enterprises to avoid being late. She could only imaging what the soulless corporate drones would think of her.

She let herself wallow until the clocked ticked over to 9. Then she killed the engine and climbed out, smoothing her business casual blouse and skirt. Checking her reflection in her side mirror, she fiddled with her ponytail and squinted over her eyeliner – was it uneven? Oh well. There wasn’t time to fix it now.

Before she walked away, she grabbed her purse from the backseat and checked its contents.

This was a first for her, she thought with a humorless smile; one of the most important business meetings of her life and she was walking into it armed only with a child sized toothbrush and a hairbrush. She would have to stop for replacements on her way home and thought that maybe Tim might like to go with her. The toothbrush was from a passing interest in dinosaurs and these days he was more of a superhero type kid.

The young woman at the front desk – the girl, really, was Bruce recruiting out of middle school? - rattled off a list of rules and restrictions for visitors as she efficiently issued Janet’s visitors pass. Tacked on at the end, she gave impressively detailed instructions on how to get the elevators and which one to take.

Janet nodded easily and was just about to move around to the plainly visible elevators behind the desk when a man appeared and slid into the vacant chair beside the girl. He gave her a little paper cup and kept the other one for himself.

“Sorry,” he said with an easy grin. “You treating our guests right, Becca?”

“I did the badge all by myself,” she confirmed, a slight smile peeking out from behind her general teenage apathy.

“Sorry,” he said again, turning his attention to Janet. He glanced over her pass quickly. “It’s bring your kid to work day, but you don’t need to worry about that if you’re visiting Mr. Wayne. His kids don’t like coming here any more than their daddy does. And the littlest one isn’t going anywhere soon!”

Janet’s answering smile was glass.

“My son actually loves coming to the office with me,” she said, choking back heavy guilt. She never should have come here. She should have made different choices ten times over, never should have dragged her son down with her. “He thinks shuffling paper is the single most important thing any businessman can do. I think he likes the sound of the paper on wood.”

“And he’s right as far as I can tell,” the man – his name tag read “Ron” – agreed easily.

Janet faked a laugh and extracted herself with a friendly shrug before bee-lining for the restrooms. She found a stall and firmly locked herself in before her face screwed up in misery. She shook her hands out, wanting to press them into her eyes or grip her hair, but she couldn’t ruin her mascara or her ponytail.

She forced herself to stop and took her phone out instead. Her phone background was a breathtaking view from a rented home in Tambobamba. She felt, if possible, shittier. Other mothers had their children as their background or lock screen.

Turning her screen off and then on, she stared judgmentally at the picture there of her and Jack. She would have to change that soon.

Then, just because she was deep in her self-loathing, she clicked through into her photo gallery. The last picture she’d taken of Tim was almost a week old from when the two of them went for ice cream after she’d fought with Jack – it had been a desperate grab for normalcy and she’d immediately posted it to her social medias, desperate for someone to see how hard she was trying and-

And what? Praise her for doing the bare minimum?

Tim was a cute kid, he was. But he was so sticky and clingy and he always talked too loud and after Tim fell asleep in his car seat on the way home Janet had cried herself nearly sick.

Janet swiped back to the home screen to search what she’d originally intended when she took her phone out.

Talia al Ghul due date

From the gossip rags, it looked like Talia would have a late summer baby. A son. Bruce Wayne’s “first” blood son.

Just after Tim’s birthday, she thought. Which was... just over two weeks away at this point. She had nothing planned yet. What did people do for sixth birthdays?

…Hiring a clown was probably out.

Janet didn’t sigh, very aware that there were other people coming in and out of the public restroom. She double checked that her phone was set to silent before stowing it away again. Not that many people were clamoring for her time, not anymore. She was viciously glad of the fact. Let Jack choke on all the emails he couldn’t bother reading for all she cared.

Janet slid the lock and stepped out into the fray once more.

She still washed her hands because she wasn’t a savage and quickly exited the bathroom. Now that she knew to look for it, a few of the people she saw around did look too young for the workforce. Stepping into the elevator she needed, she was joined by a couple of employees dressed smartly and a girl around Tim’s age in a shimmering mermaid tail dress.

This had to be a punishment. This was as close to Hell as she believed in.

The little girl chattered happily up until the 21st floor when she was pulled out of the elevator by her mother. The other employee got off on the 25th and Janet rode nearly to the top all alone.

#tim drake #janet drake #batman #robin #dc #my writing tag #bio kid tim AU #fic: no choice but to love you

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korraofthereef · 9 months

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Rewatching the Mother’s Day episode on “The Rookie” and all I can think about is Lucy and Tim sitting in Lucy’s apartment building with a mini Lucy, or maybe a little Tim . . . Hell, maybe even both.

——————————————————————

I can imagine that if they had a girl they’d name her something like Gracie or Hannah. But if Lucy were to birth a boy, I can see them naming him Andrew— little babies Andy and Hannah.

Firstly, Lucy would absolutely dominate Mother’s Day. She would own it like her life depended on it.

With that being said, she would start the day off with a Lucy Lesson. Probably change the calendars and make everything seem like a normal day. Once she finally finished setting up the apartment, she would stand at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed just as the alarm went off and Tim sat up in their bed.

“Okay… good morning to you too.” He chuckled going over to his wife and giving her a tired chaste kiss on the cheek.

Lucy pretended to act angry while he made breakfast for his mini family— acting angry that he supposedly forgot her Mother’s Day when she purposely caused this.

Lucy huffed in “annoyance” placing both Hannah and Andrew in their play pen before she sat down on the barstool in front of her cooking husband, adorning an upset look across her features.

Tim took a double take on his lover’s facial expression, but paying no mind to it— assuming that she was just in a mood because she hadn’t gotten her coffee yet.

That reminded him. “Lucy, could you pass me the uh . . . what’s it called— oh!” He snapped his fingers, his tired brain finally cooperating. “The milk, please.” Tim couldn’t make Lucy her coffee without her milk and two sugars.

He softly smiled at his wife, but her spot on acting skills she developed from her UC work held strong as she scowled in his face while getting up from her seat to head towards the fridge.

Tim’s eyebrows basically hit his hairline. Lucy being grumpy in the morning was a daily occurrence, but never had she been so bluntly dismissive towards him.

“Lucy . . . What did I do this time.” He had sighed, hanging his head between his shoulders with his hands placed upon the counter.

Lucy smiled to herself, her Lucy lesson finally taking effect. She looked swiftly turned her body away from the open fridge and slightly slamming the fridge door in the process. “Don’t even get me started on that, Tim.”

Okay, now he knew he was in for it. “I don’t mean to frustrate you, but I really have no clue what I did.” Tim tried the kind and polite approach.

“Okay. Tell me, Tim, what’s the day today?” Lucy impatiently tapped her fingers against the countertop. “Uhh . . .” Tim walked over to the calendar. “Sunday? The 10th?” Tim questioned his angered wife, unsure if that was the answer she wanted to hear.

It wasn’t.

Lucy’s eyebrows raised as she waited for her husbands mind to finally click. Tim stayed, staring at her in utter confusion. “What, Lucy?”

Lucy gave up any hope she had for Tim. Her control freak of a husband was nothing without his calendars. “You should call your mom, Tim. Wish her a happy Mother’s Day.”

Tim jaw hit the floor. Metaphorically of course, but Lucy loved every minute of it. Tim’s head whipped back and forth from the empty calendar on the fridge and the mother of his children’s face.

“I- I swear I wrote it down. Lucy, you gotta believe me.” He pleaded, hands gripping the calendar as he flipped through every month.

“Wait a minute. Why is the whole thing completely untouched? Where are all my dates and reminders? Lucy what’d you do?” He had started to freak out. The calendar that normally sat on their fridge was currently hiding under their shared bed, and the inside of it looked like a black sharpie threw up all over it.

Tim loved his organized schedules. “I think we’re forgetting a major detail here.” Lucy leaned back with her arms folded across her chest.

Her husband immediately turned to her, guilt stricken his entire face. “Oh baby, I’m so sorry. I should have remembered. You do so much for this family— I shouldn’t have just wrote it down in the calendar like another useless meeting with the metro team.”

Lucy’s acting facade faded and a soft smile worked itself onto her features. “Thank you, Tim. Now you know for next time that you should remember these things. I don’t go writing our anniversary on the back of my hand so I don’t accidentally forget the day we get married.” Tim nodded in agreement. He walked over to his wife and wrapped her in a hug.

Lucy sighed into his shirt that smelled like their warm bed and his masculine scent. “And thus endeth the Lucy Lesson.” She murmured. At that sentence, Tim pulled away to see the look on her face.

“You purposely replaced the calendar?” He furrowed his brows. “Of course I did, who else will teach you the importance of validating your wife.” She smirked. “Point taken.” He hummed in defeat.

“We should get the twins ready for daycare. Lucy reminded. “Yes, that I do not need a calendar for.” Tim sure does love his routines. Much easier to remember than a singular day in the calendar.

“Oh, I did get you a gift, though.” Tim smiled at his lover as he walked backwards towards the playpen. “Really…?” She smirked. “Is it the kind of gift that gets me all sweaty and satisfied?” Lucy couldn’t deny the massive teasing grin upon her face.

“Not what I had originally planned, but I’m not saying no to that.” Tim concluded.

The man had placed his daughter onto his hip first, then leaning down to gather his son onto his other hip. The two young children’s weight was no match for his well trained muscles.

Just as the two were hoisted into his grasp, they started to wail like a siren. Tim grumbled while Lucy just chuckled from afar.

“Seems like everyone hates daddy this morning.” Tim echoed throughout the apartment then disappearing into his children’s room to get them ready for the day.

Seeing how much her life has changed since joining Midwilshire police force was such a blessing to her. She had met the love of her life and the family she never knew she needed— also creating one of her own in the midst of it all.

Lucy Bradford couldn’t be happier.

Please send in request!!! Check my pinned post for rules on requests and feel free to send in Chenford req’s too!

(Not proofread)

[im new here so let me know if you wanna be tagged in future posts]

#chenford #the rookie #the rookie season 5 #lucy chen #tim bradford #mothers day #beginner writer #taglist #oneshot #otp ship #tv series #crime #police #couple #married life #calendar

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somanyfuckedupiftruebooks · 1 year

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Mag 26

Return of the queen! Can't wait to hear all about your fucked up little adventure Sasha.

Also notable that both she and Martin expressed a desire to record a statement immediately after a traumatic incident. That's definitely the Eye's influence.

Sasha in Jon's office like:

Also new fanfic idea: Martin's holiday in the office.

Okay, I'm shifting into Defend Martin Mode, I'll have to stop and take some deep breaths. The fucking gall of Sasha to criticise Martin's self-preservation instincts after the shit she's been up to!! AHHHH. He outlived you!!!

The way she discounts Jane Prentiss as a threat just because Martin survived makes me want to scream. He's only alive because Jane kept him alive on purpose to mess with him!! As if Sasha could have done any better!! AHHHHHH!

Deep breaths didn't help me. Must move on.

I pulled this quote for one word: colonisation. It's so grim. Death by colonisation. I hate it.

This is a very rational response to the situation from Sasha. She doesn't know she's living in a horror story! Of course it would make sense that the woman who's suffering from some kind of parasite would be getting weaker and sicker the more time passes. Unfortunately, Sasha is living in a horror story, so monsters only get stronger and more dangerous the longer they survive.

But I'm not sure that downplaying Jane as a threat follows Sasha's logic. The threat of Prentiss isn't physical assault, it's colonisation. That's like saying a plague victim is less infectious the closer they get to their deathbed.

And finally, another instance of the narrative outright telling us that Jon is an unreliable narrator. He's been seeing worms outside and didn't tell us! That makes sense for the framing device, obviously. These tapes are still 'research materials' and not his personal journals, so there's no reason for Jon to mention the worms outside while recording a statement. But it's good to be reminded that there is a lot going on in the archives that we aren't hearing about.

My headcanon for why Michael approached Sasha rather than Tim used to be that she had some sort of either natural inclination towards or family history of mentall illness (something that would leave her vulnerable to the Spiral). But this detail has made me reconsider. Now I think Michael approached her because she had these cool distortion windows that allowed him to make a dramatic entrance.

This is such an endearing little insight into Sasha's life (she does quirky things to add fun into her daily routine!), but I'm also going to call it out as Eye behaviour.

Urgh, his hands are the same size as his torso?? I thought he just had long spirally fingers! This is yuck. I get why the fandom started calling him Michael Fuckhands.

She's not exactly the bravest person in the world 🥺🥺🥺 She generally avoids horror 🥺🥺🥺

Eternally interested in scepticism among paranormal researchers. Sasha says that working at the Institute made her more skeptical, despite the fact that we know she transferred out of Artefact Storage because she couldn't stand being around the cursed items all the time. I think the fact that our only insight into the Institute is through the lens of genuine paranormal manifestations really distorts our view. The vast majority of what they deal with aren't actual accounts, and most of their work is disproving the fake stuff. The actual statments are outliers, so maybe it does make sense to become more sceptical the longer you spend working on all the other statements.

Still, the moment Sasha is confronted with a genuine manifestation, she understands and accepts what she's seeing. It's wild that she's not afraid, but at least she's not in denial.

#a mag a day #reeah reacts to tma #mag 26 #sasha james #michael fuckhands

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saralayne · 9 months

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This Love ~ Part 1 🩵💜

Change Of Heart

Lucy had been on a UC operation for a couple of weeks. No one at Wilshire saw this coming, especially Tim.

Lucy had gotten the tap to go on a long term UC operation. She was able to give Tim a quick goodbye before she left. Tim sensed Lucy was very apprehensive about leaving. He chalked it up to her being nervous about her first operation away. Lucy assured Tim that if for any reason he sounded the alarm she would take it seriously as she promised. Tim fully supported his girlfriend and knows she is not Isabel. This was not the past repeating itself. He trusted Lucy with his whole heart. Tim promised Lucy to go about his daily life and try not to worry every second of the day. She knew that wouldn’t happen but Tim was going to try his best with the notion of knowing he would not fully breath until Lucy was back in his arms. Tim stayed most nights at Lucy’s. Even without her there. He promised that he would be there for Tamara. Tamara was really worried about Lucy leaving in this operation. Tamara had spent her whole life feeling abandoned. When Lucy took her in it was the first time Tamara had a sense of home and family. Tim being at the apartment after work was comforting to Tamara. Not only feeling safe and protected but also not feeling lonely. As much as Tim joked about Lucy’s puppy over the years. Tamara had seeped into his heart and his life. Tamara was not only Lucy’s puppy but also Tim’s.

Tim had adjusted into a routine. It was extremely hard on him not having his ray of sunshine orbiting him everyday. He held onto the notion of knowing she would be with him soon enough. Tim also realized in her absence just how in love with her he was. He had known for a long time. In her absence it had become so apparent to him just how much he loved her. They hadn’t been officially dating that long but he had loved her for so long. Secretly, Tim had spent some of his free time venturing to different jewelry stores, looking for that perfect ring that he knew he would hopefully place on Lucy’s left hand. Sooner than later.

As Tim made his way into work on this Friday morning. He hoped it would be just a normal day. He had been working 12-16 hour days for 7 days and was looking to get some much needed rest. He knew Tamara would probably be hanging with friends but he as promised would be around the apartment in case she needed him for anything. As he walked into Wilshire up to his office, was barely able to place his bag down when his phone started vibrating in his pocket. Grey’s name flashing across his screen. “Good morning, sir” answered Tim. “Bradford, I need to see you in my office”

Tim was confused. Now that he is a Metro sergeant. He rarely reported to Grey anymore. Only under special circumstances. As he stepped near Grey’s office. His stomach plummeted. As he sees Captain Pine, Nyla and Angela. Knowing full well this had to do with Lucy. He felt as if his legs were going to give out.

“Bradford, please sit down” ordering Grey

“I’ll stand. Just give it to me straight. I-Is she ok? Tears involuntarily formed in his eyes

Angela grasped his shoulder with a comforting hand. “She’s ok. Tim. I promise”

Tim had a sense of relief at that moment.

“OK. So what’s going on?”

Nyla stepped in front of Tim. Nyla had direct contact with Lucy’s handler. She would give Tim updates when she could. Tim was happy that there was someone in contact but also a good friend to both him and Lucy.

“Tim. Lucy is walking away from the operation. I don’t know the full details at this point but she’s done”

Tim wouldn’t deny this was music to his ears on one hand. On the other hand, this was very surprising. This has been a dream of Lucy’s for a long time now. Going as far back as when she was his rookie. What the hell is going on?

“WHAT? This makes no sense. Are you sure she isn’t hurt? Something is definitely wrong. She would never just leave in the middle of an operation. Especially her first big opportunity”

“Yeah. Her handler tried to turn this around. Lucy is adamant. She wants to come home. Her cover is still intact. Our biggest priority is to keep it that way. Get her home safely. She is safe in a secluded hotel outside of LA”

Captain Pine quickly interjected.

“That is why I am here, Bradford. I am sending Po and Harris to go and safely retrieve her. Before you start, I’m gonna stop you. This is an order. You are not going. These are unforeseen circumstances and we need to be extremely careful bringing Chen back safely. I know you are aware of this, I do. But you are too personally involved. Which is completely understandable. I need you to stay here, understand?”

“Yes. Ma’am”

Po and Harris entered Grey’s office. Pine gave them final orders before they left the station. Tim had formed a close bond with his men since coming to Metro. Even becoming social with them. All Lucy’s influence at first but he really bonded with his team. In and out of work. Harris placed his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Hey, Sarg. We got her. We will move heaven and earth making sure she comes back safely. Promise” Tim nodding his head accompanied with a small smile. He trusted his men. He knew they always had his back.

Po and Harris had to go an hour and a half outside of the city. So, they wouldn’t be back for a few hours. Tim tried to distract himself and dig into his mountain of paperwork. As he looked up from his desk. Seeing his best friend and Nyla standing before him.

“Hey, buddy” Angela says

Angela and Nyla making themselves comfortable on the vacant couch in his office.

“This is mind boggling. What the hell happened?”

“Tim, come on. Are you really surprised? murmured Angela

“For real, Tim. I saw this coming. I mean, I didn’t think it would happen in the middle of her first operation but I saw this coming in the near future” added Nyla

“Honestly, she has always wanted this. Getting the tap. It’s been a dream for her” Tim quickly replied

“Tim, my best friend. I love you but you truly are an idiot. Lucy’s dreams have changed. The future she once saw, is not her future anymore. You are”

“You think, that is really the reason for aborting this mission”

“I would put money on it”

“She is my world. I’m so in love with her. I have never felt this way. Not even with Isabel. I have even been looking at rings. I know it’s soon. But I have never been more sure of anything in my life “

Angela and Nyla are both smiling.

“Tim, both Nyla and I along with everyone here at Wilshire have seen this for years. We have been waiting for you and Lucy to see the light for so long now. It’s not too soon. The writing has been on the wall”

All of a sudden, Harris was heard on the radio.

“We have safely retrieved Officer Chen. No injuries. Estimated time of arrival back to Wilshire is one hour”

Tim tearfully pressed down the button on his radio. “Copy. See you soon, Chen” knowing Lucy would have heard his response.

Angela throwing herself in her best friends arms. “Come on. Let’s go into the debriefing room and wait for your girl”

“Sounds good”

Everyone gathered into the briefing room. About an hour later, Harris and Po enter the room with Lucy following behind. Lucy looking tired but happy. Everyone was smiling at the sight of her. As soon as she spotted Tim. All rules were thrown out the window and Lucy was running into Tim’s arms as tears were streaming down her cheeks. Tim tightly grasped the back of her head with one hand and the other cradling her back.

“Hi baby. It’s so good to see you. I have missed your beautiful face” whispered Tim

“Tim, I never want to let you go”

“Luce. You will never have to. Let’s get the debriefing done and then I can take you home”

As everyone sat down with Lucy. Grey began.

“Alright. Lucy. We are all so happy to see you safe and sound. With that being said. Can you give us some details on what is going on? I thought this was something you wanted?”

As much as Tim wanted to hold her while she explained. Always wanting to be her safe place. He knew giving her space and letting her debrief properly was the right thing to do. Still, he stayed close. Leaning on a nearby table.

Lucy glanced over towards her boyfriend before she began.

“Sir. I know this is out of the blue. First, I want to thank all of you for guiding and supporting me. You, Angela and Nyla. Always having faith in me to be a great UC. At first I thought this is what I wanted. I mean it’s always been a dream. A few days ago I was sitting alone in a beated hotel room. It hit me. I don’t want this anymore. For a few days I had found myself losing focus. I had to really dig deep and keep myself along with others safe. I felt a sense of guilt with that alone. So, as I was reflecting on why this was happening as I have never had any trouble focusing before. I knew. I don’t want this life, now or in the future. In the past few months my dreams have changed” looking over to Tim. He couldn’t help but smile. Her dream was him and a life together.

Angela was smiling knowing that she was dead on with her previous assessment.

Grey was also smiling. “Understood” He knew the hidden message in this decision. True love is about sacrifices and this is exactly what Lucy was realizing. Grey couldn’t help but be truly proud of her.

After she debriefed what had transpired in the last couple of weeks. Grey standing up from his chair.

“Alright Bradford and Chen. Go home. I’m sure you have a lot to discuss. Chen take a few days and come back to patrol. We love having you helping keeping the streets of LA safe”

“Thank you sir”

As Tim and Lucy left Wilshire. Hand in hand walking to his truck.

Later at home. Tim was so thankful to have Lucy in his arms again but he needed to make sure this is what she wanted. He never her wanted to feel any regret.

“Baby. I just need to know you’re sure you want to give this up? Your dream?”

“Yes. That’s the thing Tim. It’s not my dream anymore. You are. Our life together. Your my last everything. I want to come to you every night. Even when our schedules are different. Knowing you’re just a phone call away. This is not only the dream but what makes me truly happy”

“I love you Bradford”

“I love you too, Chen. Just so we are crystal clear. You are and will always be my dream. You are the best thing that has EVER happened to me”

“Copy that. You are it for me too. Always will be”

As they settled in for the night. Having a couple sessions of passionate love making. Which of course was mind blowing. As Lucy fell asleep in Tim’s arms. He just stared, knowing that very soon he would be getting down on one knee with a beautiful ring. Officially asking Lucy to be his wife.

#fanfic #chenford #the rookie #tim bradford #lucy chen #angela lopez #nyla harper #wade grey #tamara collins #established relationship #in love #sacrifice #support #marriage #fluff

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rom-e-o · 10 months

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Chapter 20 is here, all.

I hope you all enjoy! Just a few more chapter to go until the end of the main story!

(PLEASE READ THE UPDATED TAGS!)

SNEAK PEEK:

“You have more articles, don’t you Kathy?” Tim asked, prodding her shoulder. The young boy had also drifted over to join the conversation. He tapped Scrooge’s knee, and the man lifted him with ease atop his lap so he could be more involved with the banter.

“Yeah, show the others!” Martha Cratchit said, nudging her sister’s shoulder encouragingly.

“T-There are more?” Constance sputtered.

“A bunch more!” Tim said.

Constance blinked as Kathy flipped through the pages and showcased more preserved articles. There were multiple pages; multiple stories, and … they were all about her? She was dumbfounded that one article detailing aspects of her personal life had made it across the pond, let alone multiple.

She looked at Ebenezer beside her. “D-Did you ever see these?”

The older gentleman shook his head. His eyes were dilated and alert, scanning for traces of any panic he felt might have been bubbling in her. “N-No, I never saw…”

“Mr. Scrooge never subscribed to the daily paper,” Tom offered with a smirk. “Saw it as a ‘waste of money’ he did, yes siree. ‘Only good for wrapping fishes’, I believe I heard him say one time.”

Ebenezer averted his gaze guiltily. “P-Perhaps.”

#scrooge 2022 #scrooge netflix #scrooge a christmas carol #scrooge x oc #oc constance dogoode

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smilton · 2 years

Note

Stopped short along Gate Street, Timothy Howell rushes up in relief. "You're here." He says, quite obviously, his post master's hat askew. Fishing wildly in his satchel, he withdraws a parcel: brown paper, twine, three lines of familiar handwriting scrawled across the front. "I didn't know how I was going to get this to you with the tracks down." From Sallie's mother, inside is a dress -- black -- and an invitation to Grand-Cousin Hartmut's funeral.

A stone’s throw from the Milton farm on Hickory Hill || September 4, 1923

"Thanks, Tim. You might want to, er–" Sallie gestured down the dusty lane where a trail of letters marked the post master's wandering path.

She stuck the envelope between her lips to free her hands and ripped the parcel open. Black cotton spilled out from the gash in the wrapping, bleak and ominous.

Sallie's breath stopped. No.

Was this why she had been called back, to bear witness to death? To remind her that it couldn't be outrun? Timing was everything, and it was more poetic to have her face that realization when she was just down the lane from home; a step away and still too late.

The package was from mama, the bell couldn't have tolled for her. Ben had always been hardy. Could it have been Tommy?

Etta.

Sweet, birdlike Etta with her fine hair and brittle bones, who sat alongside death daily. Etta, who was still so little and had so much growing to do.

Fabric fluttered to the ground. Sallie only had eyes for the envelope, tearing at it, nearly ripping the note inside in half.

Oxygen filled her lungs in one staggering, relieved breath.

On the note, now revealed to be an invitation, in solemn serif:

Your presence has been requested in observation of the funeral rites for–

HARMUT WOLGEMUTH

It went on, but Sallie didn’t need to read it to know the finer details. Harmut Wolgemuth, son to Uwe and Susanne, born 1832 and apparently, passed 1923.

Hands shaking, she picked up the dress, dusted it off and picked up her pace.

If Sallie had be touched by the chill of death outside, stepping into her home was like receiving the breath of life.

Gershwin could be heard floating down the steps from the second floor, tinny as it filtered through the speaker of a phonograph. At the other end of the hall, warm afternoon light stretched through the kitchen doorway, illuminating the photos and paintings that crowded the walls. When the front door snicked shut behind Sallie, the foundation of the old farm house sighed as if in relief.

Thump, and her carpetbag was left waiting by the door. Someone was cooking potatoes, Mama no doubt; Sallie could smell the frying oil and hear the sizzling as a wooden spoon scraped against cast iron.

The deep maroon runner covering weathered hardwood muffled her footsteps as she crept down the hall, woven by a great-aunt thrice removed. Past a pile of work boots, past the door casing marked with the height of the Milton children, past the little hints of life and family and belonging that could only be collected when a place and its people bound themselves together and laid down roots.

She paused on the threshold. Her mother was at the stove, a sight Sallie had seen a hundred times over, but today, after so long, it was born new. She’s old. With a heart was already so full, the thought only squeezed it tighter. Sallie’s hazel eyes roved over her mother, taking in the new wrinkles, the floral apron that bore patches that hadn’t been there before, shoulders that were rounder than they had been.

Finally, not when she had gotten her fill but instead realized it would never be enough, she wet her lips and spoke.

“Mama?”

But it wasn’t Dorothy who answered, it was Ben who had gone unnoticed. He had grown into his long, gangly limbs and odd angles to become sinewy with a sharp jaw. He looked less like a boy and more like a man, unimpressed.

He was posted at the table, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows with a pen knife in hand. The blade slide through the skin of an apple, leaving a trailing tail of red and yellow honeycrisp behind in its wake. He didn’t have to watch his hands as he peeled, and it reminded Sallie so much of her father, of the quiet steadiness he carried, that it hurt all the more when Ben said: “Tommy's gonna be pleased.” Shhhwp, shhhwp, shhhwp went Ben’s knife. “I owe him ten cents since you bothered to show up.”

#drabble

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tellthemeerkatsitsfine · 2 years

Video

youtube

My dad’s been watching this podcast called Second in Command in which Tim Simons and Matt Walsh from Veep re-watch the show and discuss each episode with a guest. I’ve watched a few episodes with my dad and they’re quite good.

I have so far resisted getting fully sucked into it the way I do with most things and just watching every episode of the podcast and re-watching Veep alongside it, but it is a lot of fun to sit with my dad and watch these podcast episodes and then watch the Veep episode that they’d discussed. Especially because Veep is one of those shows of which I’ve seen every single episode so many times across so many years, and even though that show is so dense and there’s so much going on in every moment, I have a lot of it memorized by now. So it’s interesting to hear these people talk about it and say things I hadn’t thought about before, and then I get to watch the episode through new-ish eyes for the first time in so long and look for the things they talked about.

I’m staying with my dad for a few days, and last night, we watched this episode of the podcast. It’s different from the other ones because it doesn’t cover a specific episode of Veep, it just discusses the show generally with Stephen Colbert. Because I guess if you get Stephen Fucking Colbert on your show, you don’t want to tie him down by telling him he can only discuss one thing. You tell him “Thank you Stephen Fucking Colbert for being here, now please discuss whatever the hell you would like.” Which is basically what they did and it was amazing.

I’ve written a bunch of stuff on this blog lately about my teenage and early adult years of watching The Daily Show every day, and I’ve mostly written those things to talk about when I first saw a lot of John Oliver, so in that context, it isn’t relevant to mention that I was also watching The Colbert Report. But for the record, I was very much also watching The Colbert Report. Whatever was going on in my life, even when I was training in my sport five nights a week and cutting weight and exhausted, I would get home and watch last night’s Daily Show and Colbert Report before doing things like homework. If my life got really busy and I had to miss a few, that was even better because I could sit down for several hours of this. I didn’t follow Colbert when he started his new show, so I haven’t seen much of him in recent years. But he was there alongside Jon Stewart to teach me how American politics worked from about 2006 to 2014, and now that I write that, I realize I probably do not take into account enough how much that has shaped my worldview now. Like things that I assume are just obvious to everyone may in fact seem that way to me because I grew up on these shows, and someone who didn’t will have a whole different set of heuristics that also seem like just part of the natural way to see the world. Maybe I should examine that someday and maybe doing so would even make me feel slightly less bitterly toward the world that I see as mostly consisting of unmitigated assholes. Maybe. I don’t know. No need for that right now. What was I talking about again?

Right, I was talking about Stephen Colbert talking to some actors from Veep for an absolutely fascinating 70 minutes. I expected this to be interesting because all the episodes of this podcast have been interesting and I like Colbert, but I was not expecting it to be nearly as engaging as it actually was. Stephen Colbert has a fascinating perspective on Veep as someone who’s actually seen those spin rooms it’s satirizing, knows those people and that world, but also knows comedy. It’s always interesting when people from the world of politics talk about The Thick of It and Veep, because they often say “Yeah they pretty much got it right” but I like to hear details of what bits were accurate. Colbert can not only talk about that (obviously he wasn’t a politician, but throughout his career he’s seen the politicians up close and behind closed doors), but as a comedian he can also talk about Veep’s merits as a very funny comedy show. My dad put this on after the Taskmaster finale yesterday and honestly I was a bit tired and thought I don’t feel like staying through something this long and I’ll probably go to bed partway through, but by the end of it, I was saying, “Shit, that’s it? I could have listened to him talk about this for so many hours.”

Colbert talked about the connections to real behind-the-scenes politics and that was cool, he talked as a comedian about what makes Veep such a strong show and that was cool, he got into analysis of the characters and I enjoyed that, and he appealed to the massively nerdy part of my brain that loves other nerds. Because Stephen Colbert ran circles around the actors with his knowledge of the content in Veep, at times he threw out facts that even I didn’t remember, and like I said, I know this show very fucking well. The YouTube video has that all-caps title about him being the #1 FAN and that immediately put me off because YouTube video titles being formatted that way do not usually indicate that they are good videos. But by the end, I was saying, “Well shit, I’m sorry I doubted you, person who wrote that clickbait style title, it turns out you actually were right about the number 1 fan thing. That was just accurate labeling. He knew everything.”

Anyway, if anyone has interest in the TV show Veep and/or Stephen Colbert’s take on things and/or the relationship between political satire and real-world politics, I recommend this video. It’s a delight to watch.

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lindajenni · 6 months

Text

nov 3

our journey of faith

"for who makes you differ from another? and what do you have that you did not receive? now if you did indeed receive it, why do you boast as if you had not received it?" 1 cor 4:7

friends, none of us are any more or any less than what God wants us to be. i know many will see that as an excuse for our shortcomings. far be it. i know the apostle paul says in 1 cor 15:10 that he labored more abundantly than all but he prefaces it with the fact that only by the grace of God he was what he was. you see, God created all for a purpose. "but in a great house there are not only vessels of gold and silver, but also of wood and clay, some for honor and some for dishonor." 2 tim 2:20

i wasn't really raised in a religious setting but neither was i kept from it. i still remember attending vacation bible school and though it mostly served as amusement, there were truths embedded. i was first baptized simply because my friends were, which i corrected later in life with a second, committed one.

there was just in me a "knowing" there was more to it all than simply existing. i finally reached that point in life where i knew it was a now or never place and that is where i met my good friend and mentor, paula rayburn alexander. we attended church together and left together when things no longer "fit."

i use to always sit on the last pew in church while paula wanted as close to the front as possible. she said closer to the anointing. my feeling was that everyone else was so advanced beyond me and that i was there just to learn, so on the back pew i sat.

one sunday morning i remember asking the Lord if He would use me today. lo and behold but a visitor sat on the bench with me. so many years have passed that i can't recall the details, but suffice it to say they needed help and prayer. that was my first real sense of being used by God; all because i had asked.

i have asked many times since then, perhaps to God's annoyance, but never the less with desire and willingness at the root. i remember once a gifted prophetess visited our church. she gave out many words to others but never to me - you see i was on the back pew. i think on her final day we had a chance meeting with an embrace and greeting. as she began to walk away she suddenly stopped, turned and looked as though she wanted to say something more. after a little hesitation she resumed walking. never ridicule or discount the gifts Jesus gave to His church for edification.

had i missed my word from the Lord? had she seen what might have been or what could be? was it good or bad? that feeling has stayed with me til this day. that anxiety of missing the boat or not pleasing my Lord has driven me to strive harder, even as the apostle paul did. and yes, like him, by the grace of God. though my deeds pale greatly next to his, but we were both created for God's purpose. you see, some were created for the front row and others for the back pew.

that is not to say that one's "works" are greater or lesser than another's. i know my reach is not very far but on occasion i see comments made on a daily, saying how they thank God for my life. believe me, i do not take such remarks lightly but know that all glory belongs to God. God said that His power is made perfect in weakness. "therefore i take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when i am weak, then am i strong." 2 cor 12:10

we all have our appointed journey of faith. as long as we stay the course, God will complete His purpose in each of us. "being confident of this very thing, that He which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ." phil 1:6

this life that often seems like an eternity to us, is only a single blink of God's eye. scripture calls it a vapor that quickly vanishes. remember the saying, "only one life will soon be passed. only what's done for Jesus will last." truer words were never spoken. we are reserving our seats for eternity. whether we are expecting the front seats or the back pews, the seating reservations ultimately will be subject to arrangement by God. "but when you are invited, go and sit down in the lowest place, so that when He who invited you comes He may say to you, 'friend, go up higher.' then you will have glory in the presence of those who sit at the table with you." luke 14:10

may we all labor to fulfill the work He has appointed us each. don't look at others and measure yourself, comparing yourselves to them. look only at the Lord and fulfilling His purpose. do the work of God. "then they said to Him, 'what shall we do, that we may work the works of God?' Jesus answered and said to them, “this is the work of God, that you believe in Him whom He sent.” john 6:28-29

friends, no matter how long your journey of faith has been - be it days, weeks or years long, know that it's ending grows ever closer. we are the chosen generation to witness Christ's return to glory. we who are faithful to the end will share in His glory. "and the glory which You gave Me I have given them." john 17:22 oh the unsearchable riches of Christ.

#prayer #faith #rapture #jesus #jesus is coming

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fuyunoakegata · 2 years

Text

I hate arguments within the fandom, but I also don't like when popular posts misrepresent things and it impacts people's perception of events or the characters. [I'll do it for any character if I have the time, but it happens most often about Dick Grayson just because I know him and his comics so much better than any other characters].

Now obviously since some of these characters have been around for so many years it's possible to find conflicting panels, but I'd honestly like to call BS on this for all the boys, at least.

I'll accept that Bruce doesn't know the cost of a banana at the local market, just because he's got more important things to focus on and he does have Lucius to do the accounting and Alfred to do the household shopping, and he trusts them enough to not need to read their reports with that level of detail. I love the idea that he does know the cost of random items in far off lands because he was undercover there and did have to buy them for himself, though 🤣 And I can accept Cass not caring to pay attention to prices. Damian doesn't seem like he cares, one way or the other. And he's young enough that he shouldn't have to know. My oldest granddaughter is 12 and runs in to get basic groceries for me especially in the winter when it's harder for me to move around, and I can guarantee she has no idea what a gallon of milk costs, despite buying 2 or 3 gallons a week 🤣 It isn't her money and she didn't work for it and that's fine.

Tim wasn't always rich; originally he was just upper middle class, and he very well could have known some costs of daily items (not everyone knows the price of a banana, anyway, but does know the cost of relevant items in their daily life; heck, no matter WHAT your economic class is, if you don't personally buy the bananas or don't eat them for whatever reason, you won't know their price, especially as a teenager).

Dick did the accounting for the Teen Titans and has always made a point of not living off of Bruce's money, as much as possible. He was gone before he was even 18 in some continuities and he's actually been shown working non white collar jobs and paying his own way in all the various reboots (he'll occasionally use money Bruce has set aside, but usually not for personal use). So he definitely knows the value of a dollar; he'd know the prices of various groceries and also know if rent was overpriced in a certain area, because HE'S HAD TO FROM FAIRLY EARLY ON, and without a Lucius or Alfred to do it for him all the time. Dick's been shown doing his own laundry and cooking his own meals, so it doesn't make sense that he'd expect bananas to be $10 apiece.

And if Jason was scrounging for the means to survive after Catherine died, then he'd definitely need to learn how to make things last or how to get the most out of what he had (even if he did steal sometimes, the fact that he was trying to steal the Batmobile tires means he was going to get money for them, and he'd use that money to buy things that he either didn't want to or had difficulty stealing; stealing to survive because you're hungry and on the streets doesn't mean you steal everything). Just because he's shown with money now sometimes and is shown throwing it around at times doesn't mean he hasn't planned it out or knows where every penny goes.

If Duke helped with any of his family's grocery shopping, then yes, he'd know the prices of some things as well, but... maybe he never had to.

All joking and shit posting aside, posts like these just make me shrug or shake my head because they just don't make sense to me from what I've seen with the characters. It's not always a socioeconomic indicator if you do or don't know these prices. It definitely doesn't have to be some morality thing.

#mini meta #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #duke thomas

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batfam-slash · 2 years

Note

Hi! I just found your blog and I LOVE your writing! If you still take requests, there's this one idea that's been rolling around in my head for a while: I think the Lazerus Pit would have made Jason infertile, and unable to have kids. Obviously, he'd be fine with adoption, but I just really want the sweet angst of it. Any relationship is good!

Thank you so much ❤️❤️❤️

*****

There’s a little flicker of disappointment on Tim’s face as he stares at the little stick in his hand, and Jason feels his heart sink.

“Oh well,” Tim says with a shrug, giving Jason a smile. “It was only the first try.”

“Oh.” Jason swallows as Tim shows him the negative pregnancy test. “We shouldn’t be worried then? We’ve had a lot of sex.”

Tim pushes himself onto his toes and wraps his arms around the older man’s neck, pecking his lips. “Definitely not. The book says it can take a few months of trying.”

Of course Tim is being very methodical about this. He keeps a book on his nightstand all about conceiving which he’s read cover to cover several times, so Jason trusts him on this. They shouldn’t worry.

Not yet.

*****

The next month Jason’s heart sinks a little lower when that test comes back negative again.

Tim tells him not to worry. It’s only been two months. That’s not that long.

Jason starts doing his own research. He looks up which foods are supposed to help with conception, and makes sure the kitchen is well stocked. He reads up on which positions are meant to be best for conceiving, and comes up with a mini playbook for sex so that they’re doing it in the most optimal and efficient way possible.

He even seeks advice from Dick.

“How long did it take you to get pregnant?” Jason asks one day when they’re working out together in the gym.

“What?” Dick laughs. “I thought you said you never wanted to hear about my sex life with Bruce?”

Jason grunts. “I don’t need the gory details. I just wanna know how long you were trying for.”

Dick gives him a smile. “Are you and Tim…?”

Jason just nods in response, and he can see that Dick is trying to restrain himself from giving him a hug or making a big deal of it.

“We weren’t trying actually,” Dick says softly. “It was an accident. A good accident, but yeah. Not planned.”

That’s not the answer Jason was looking for, and he leaves the gym feeling incredibly inferior now that he knows Bruce knocked Dick up without even trying, and Jason can’t even get Tim pregnant with two months of daily fucking.

He already feels like a failure.

*****

As the months pass, the pressure mounts.

Every time the test comes back negative, Tim gets a little worse at hiding his disappointment.

Jason will usually suit up and go and shoot the first underling of a drug lord he comes across.

Sex starts to become less enjoyable. The pressure is there in the room with them, and it feels like they’re just doing it with one purpose in mind. It doesn’t have the same excitement that it had in the beginning.

“Maybe we should get some tests done,” Tim suggests gently. “The book says six months of trying is normal for a couple our age. It’s been eight months, so let’s just get checked out.”

Jason hates going to the doctor.

He has bad memories of hospitals and medical procedures.

He feels bad for being afraid; Tim is the one who has to have the more invasive tests. Tim is the one who has to wear the flimsy one-size-fits-no one hospital gown and stick his legs in those awful stirrups to be poked and prodded at.

Jason just has to jack off in a cup.

They’re then called into the doctor’s office together, and Jason feels like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this,” the doctor says, and Jason feels sick. “But there is a good chance you will never naturally conceive.”

And it turns out that it’s all to do with Jason, which isn’t exactly a surprise.

It’s supposed to be one of the easiest things in the world to do. So easy that people do it by accident. So easy that people try to stop themselves from doing it.

But it’s not even that that bothers Jason the most.

It’s that he can’t give Tim what he so badly wants.

Jason doesn’t cry until they get home, and even Tim’s lips can’t soothe his tears.

“Hey,” Tim says softly, carding fingers through Jason’s hair. “It’s okay, Jay. We have other options. We’ll work it out.”

That night Jason dreams of screaming as he emerges from the Lazarus Pit, and he dreams of Tim far away, happy with a faceless stranger and a tribe of children.

#mpreg #jaytim #brudick

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dustofbrokenheart · 3 years

Text

The Lost Boys: Turn Up The Radio

Paul x Reader

Word Count: 2,220

Summary: Four times Paul tried to flirt with a local radio DJ, all to varied success.

“This is 105.7 the Fizz and I’m your night host, DJ Y/N,” you announced energetically into the mic in front of you. Well, as energetic as one could be at one in the morning.

“It’s almost the top of the hour and we’ve got Aerosmith, Ratt, and Lita Ford coming up so stay tuned after the commercial break.”

The support person in the control room counted down five with their fingers on the other side of the glass that divided the rooms.

Five, four, three, two, one.

They gave the thumbs up and the on-air sign temporarily turned from green to red as the station cut to some quick advertisements. You rolled your chair back, slowly stretching your legs. For good measure, you cracked your neck too.

Working in radio wasn’t necessarily physically demanding, but it was all too easy to become stiff after sitting in the chair all night. Luckily, time was passing by quickly and you only had two more hours to go until the next scheduled DJ came to relieve you.

Music had always been important to you. Not just a passion but an integral part of daily life. Radio was a great fit because you had a finger on the pulse of the current music scene without having to be in the spotlight as a performer or promoter.

The Fizz had just been starting out when you graduated so you jumped on the chance to join the station. You were a novice and had to start from the bottom of the ladder and work your way up. Not everyone you worked with a gem but for the most part, people had been patient and willing to teach you, which made all the difference.

The night show was your first stint flying solo, everything before having been co-hosted with other DJs.

The higher degree of independence was great and even if late nights weren’t considered prime time on weekdays, you didn’t mind. You were fine doing something you loved.

A knock on the glass let you know that it was time to get back to it. Pulling the chair closer to the mic, you waited until the on-air sign lit up green.

“Hello listeners and thanks for tuning into 105.7 the Fizz. This is DJ Y/N your host for the next two hours.” You straightened a small stack of announcements next to you. “Before we get back to rockin’, I want to remind you all that the Summer Jam Series at the Boardwalk is starting up again.”

Tilting a bright orange flier to make it easier to read, you publicized the details. “Looks like crowd favorite, Tim Cappello, back and slotted to play Friday night at ten. Entry is five bucks but lucky caller number three’s gonna win three tickets courtesy of the radio station right now. You know our number by now so get to calling.”

A phone ring sample played while you waited for control room to patch the caller through. Give-aways were fun just because you never knew what kind of person was going to call. Down-on-their-luck diner waitresses, bumbling drunks, and excitable teens had all been past winners.

There wasn’t time to think more about what kind of caller you’d get because they were on the line. “Congrats caller three! Can you hear me?”

You hadn’t finished asking the question when a male voice cut you off, too impatient to wait for you to finish.

“Hey, hey, hey. Yeah, so I want to say that you are so hot babe. Like, incredibly hot. Fry an egg on the sidewalk hot.”

It was surely awkward, like when you were dancing at a party and the record skipped off the track, leaving everything in sudden silence. This—you didn’t know what to do with this. You tried to maintain your best professional tone.

“Sorry, caller,” you cleared your throat. “I get that. Can you tell us your name?”

The attempt to cow him and his inappropriate words didn’t work. Either he was the most oblivious person in Santa Carla or he was more aggressive than he sounded.

“I said that you’re hot, babe. Wait! More than hot! Like, scorching. Sexy, even.”

Judging by the sunniness in his voice, you were leaning towards the first option. Maybe he was a happy drunk at a bar or something.

Your laugh was stilted. “Thanks for the compliment. You don’t know what I look like though. How can you be sure? I could be molting lizard for all you know.”

“Nope. No way. Call it stoner’s intuition—there’s no way you can have your voice and not be hot.”

“My voice?” you questioned. You always figured your voice was okay, it had to be working on radio, but it had never caused this kind of reaction before.

The line was quiet for a few seconds and you wondered if his boldness had run out but then he started chatting again. “Whoops, my bad. I was nodding but you’re not looking at me. Ha. Classic. Any ways, just wanted to let you know.”

Wait. Surely he wasn’t going to hang up without getting the tickets? “Hey, I really need your name—”

“Since you asked, it’s Paul—”

“Wait, wait! Stay on—” But he hung up before you finished.

You flashed the control room a look and they responded with a confused shrug of their own. Something like this didn’t happen often. You were still on air though, and had a show to do.

“Looks like we lost our caller. No worries though, we’ll pick up the next in the queue… New caller number three, what’s your name?”

The new caller was thankfully more put together and you followed the normal script. All the while, you were still thinking about the first one.

What a weirdo.

Declaring you to be hot without ever getting a look at you? Really?

You weren’t sure if it would be better if he never called again or if he did. Maybe he wouldn’t be so bad when he wasn’t drunk, or high, or whatever. It wasn’t up to you though. That was on him.

For the moment, there was nothing else to do but finish the night out as usual.

***

“Hey, guys. We’re opening up the phone lines for song requests so if you have something you really want to hear, give a call. Don’t be shy!”

It was the following week and another segment of the night show. It was Friday so numbers were boosted as people were excited for the weekend. Wanting to make sure the people had some fun tunes to spend their night with, you’d decided to take some requests.

Chances were that the requests would be songs that were in heavy rotation any way, but there was always a chance something new might come in. Throwbacks were nice too.

The line rang until someone was put through to you. “Hello?”

You paused with your mouth near the mic. That was voice was definitely familiar. It had to be the caller from the ticket give-away. What did he say his name was? Paul.

“Paul?” you tested out. “Is that you?”

“Hell yeah, it is! Good evening my hot babe.”

He might be drunk again. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. At least it was a Friday this time. Hopefully that would give him more time to deal with the hangover in the morning.

“Back to the ‘hot’ stuff again, huh?”

“Yep,” he said, excitement clear in his voice. “And you remembered me, I’m totally touched.”

“Well, as long as I have you, is there anything you want to listen to, sir?”

“Sir,” he giggled, drawing out the i. He continued giggling and you had to call his name again to get him to focus. “What? Oh, a song. Umm is ‘Hot Blooded’, okay?”

“We can definitely do some Foreigner.”

“Good, ‘cause you’re making me a little hot blooded, if you get my drift.”

“Thank you, Paul,” you said with another eye roll. “I’ll get that going for you. Stay safe out there, alright?”

“Talk to you later, babe.”

***

A few months later and you were used to Paul’s antics. In fact, he was probably your top caller and, by extension, your top listener. Even control room put him straight through whenever his number popped up.

It happened occasionally, where people who had called previously called again a few months later, but Paul was in a league of his own. No one had shown even half of his dedication.

At this point in your acquaintanceship, he was calling almost every night.

You were taking song requests? He would ring you up. Ticket give-aways, story segments, or event publicly? He would ring you up. And his conversation didn’t always fit the topic either.

“…So I said, ‘If you don’t appreciate Boss’s ass, then you’re a phony fan’ and then he said—”

“Paul,” you said in a sing-songy voice. “That’s too much info. You called to win a bumper sticker, remember?”

There was a brief pause where he thought about it. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. It’s just that I heard Bruce Spring—”

“Springsteen play right before you called. Yes, I know. Now do you want this sticker or not?”

“Not really. It might throw off the vibe of the bike, ya know? Speaking of bike, you should go out with me some time…”

***

In addition to his random tangents, he was still hung up on your voice.

You still didn’t understand what it was about it that drove him to fixate on you, but found that you looked forward to his conversations. For coming off as a ditzy guy, Paul could insightful on occasion and he was almost guaranteed to make you laugh.

You hesitated to call him a friend, since the two of you only talked on the phone, but he felt like more than an acquaintance. He would’ve been a great co-worker, always entertaining, except that he wasn’t actually affiliated with the station.

Was there even a term for someone like him? Phone pal, maybe.

But you still felt some type of way about how he flirted with you because of your voice.

One, the voice was just part of who you were. Two, he did it on a public platform that everyone could tune into. And three, it was still hard to tell if he was serious or just having fun.

The combination of those three things kept the potential butterflies in your stomach from ever hatching from their chrysalises.

“And remember guys, the Fizz is going to be there for tomorrow night’s night market at the Pier so stop by and say to all of your favorite DJs. After the break, we have some Poison lined up. Stay tuned!”

It cut to a quick break and you bided your time, knowing that Paul wouldn’t be able to resist. Sure enough, you received the signal from the other side of the glass window as you were putting your headphones back in.

“And for all of you frequent night show listeners, I have Paul on the line right now. How are you doing, sir?”

“Babe.” The pout was implied. “I told you to stop calling me that. Authority figures give me the goosebumps and not in a good way.”

This was a common back-and-forth between you. “Alright then, what should I call you?”

“Hmm. Paul. Paulie. Dude. Yours.”

He really couldn’t help himself with the flirting, could he? “Okay, okay. So what did you want to talk about, Paul?”

He sighed. “You were talking about the thing, at the place.”

“The night market at the Pier,” you clarified for the other listeners.

“Are you going, babe?” he cut right to the chase.

The way he said babe was full of hope and you felt a little bad for disappointing him.

“No, sorry. I’m actually not going to be on-air at all tomorrow.”

“What? Why?” he cried, theatrical as ever.

“There’s a thing called privacy, Paul. You should look up the word some time.”

That got him to relent. “Damn. I was really hoping you were. It was my chance to finally put a face to the sultry voice!”

You took a deep breath, giving yourself time to avoid falling into the trap of answering before you were ready. It was one of the basics of speaking, even if it was just for radio.

“My fish face really appreciates your enthusiasm, however, you’ll just have to keep your fantasies alive until another time.”

“You know,” he said in that tone he used when he was about to say something crazy. “The fish man in Creature from the Black Lagoon was alright back in the day, in a fishy way. So that’s not a problem.”

What could you even say to that?

The control room guy was laughing his ass off so he was no help. Your first instinct was to choke but that didn’t sound appropriate. Hosts were always supposed to have the upper hand and keep control of their segments.

“Sorry,” you said, miraculously managing to sound teasing. “You’ll have to stay in suspense until I say so. Now if that’s all, we’ll get back to the music and remember everyone: this is 105.7 the Fizz and I’m your host, DJ Y/N. Thanks for tuning in.”

_______________

Paul twice in one week, I’m on a roll! He’s a natural flirt so I don’t think it’s out of the realm of possibility for him to crush on a radio DJ. And I know that the 80s was still a weird time for being Out but I honestly think Paul would be loud and proud about his love for Bruce Springsteen’s bottom.

Thanks again for reading! Let me know if you have any comments you’re dying to share 😊

#the lost boys #the lost boys paul #paul the lost boys #the lost boys x reader #the lost boys imagines

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ravennm84 · 4 years

Text

Marinette’s Family Court Circus

I got this idea from a post @unmaskedagain and decided to put my own little spin to it. It’s a bit sad and does have my usual Lila-Salt spin, but I really loved writing this. Warm-Fuzzies and please enjoy!!

The day of her greatest triumph was also her greatest tragedy. Hawkmoth had finally been defeated, the butterfly and peacock miraculous back in the miracle box where they belonged, and Paris was finally safe.

However, when Gabriel Agreste was revealed to be the magical terrorist and his assistant, Nathalie, his accomplice, Adrien had been devastated. When the Paris police sought to find out the extent of Adrien's involvement, he had no choice but to reveal in a private interrogation room with only the mayor, Officer Roger, the chief of police, and Ladybug herself, his identity as Chat Noir. After which, Adrien said a tearful goodbye to Plagg and surrendered the ring of destruction to Ladybug. A press conference was held within an hour, absolving Adrien of any crimes in relation to his father, and his bodyguard would also be absolved four days later.

That night, after Ladybug had returned home and tearfully placed the ring, broch, and pin back in the miracle box; her parents and Grandma Gina had told her that they were going out to dinner to celebrate; Gina had even rented a car so they wouldn’t need to walk or take the subway. How Marinette wished that they had just gotten on the subway.

She woke up the following afternoon in the hospital. Apparently, her family weren’t the only people celebrating Hawkmoth’s defeat, and a car load of university students had celebrated too hard and T-boned their car while running a light. The doctors told her that her grandmother and father had died on impact and her mother passed away during surgery. Marinette had been extremely lucky to survive without any life threatening injuries; a broken leg, arm, collar bone, two cracked ribs, and a few lacerations across her body.

She was hardly paying attention to what the doctors were saying. Too shocked by the whole situation. There was no Miraculous Cure that could fix this. In the span of a single day, she had defeated her enemy, saved Paris, lost her partner, lost her grandmother, and her parents. She was alone.

When her family’s lawyer, M. Contere came to talk about custody, it was revealed that her grandmother was supposed to take custody in the event of her parents' deaths. Her grandfather would have been the next logical choice, but he had recently suffered a stroke and had been placed in a nursing home. This left the lawyer scrambling to find someone to take the girl or risk having her surrendered to the city of Paris.

Going through the Dupain-Chengs’ contact list, M. Contere made phone calls to numbers listed as family friends or emergency contacts. There were three that particularly stood out to him, all listed under the title of ‘uncle’.

The first was to an ‘Uncle J’; a woman answered the phone, introducing herself as Penny. When Contere told her it had to do with the Dupain-Chengs, the phone was handed to a man with a distinctly British accent. He sounded devastated to hear that Tom, Sabine, and Gina had all passed away before going into a panic and asking if Marinette was alright, showing absolute relief that she had survived the crash. When Contere mentioned the custody hearing, the man practically demanded to know the date, time, and place before promising that he would be there.

The second contact that stood out was labeled as ‘Uncle Tony’. That call was answered by an assistant named Jarvis before transferring the call to Tony. Again, Contere could hear the surprise and hurt at hearing that his friends had passed away before asking if Marinette had been in the car. When told that she had survived, there was relief and he mentioned that Peter would have probably cried for a week if he’d lost his childhood friend. Tony then offered to take custody of Marinette and Contere quickly told him the details.

Although M. Contere was relieved that at least two family friends/possible relatives seemed more than willing to take Marinette, he knew how fickle and difficult the courts could be and wanted as many options as possible for the girl, which led to the third contact labeled ‘Uncle Bruce’.

The phone was answered by an older sounding gentleman named Alfred before transferring the call. Contere could hear multiple voices in the background, most sounding like young men, and when he told Bruce about the passing of Tom, Sabine, and Gina; it went very quiet for a moment before all the voices began speaking at once demanding to know what happened, who was responsible, and if Marinette was okay. M.Contere answered the questions that he could and told them that Marinette was in need of a legal guardian. Bruce said Gina had been a great friend and mentor to him when he was younger and that he would be honored to care for her granddaughter. So he told him the details of the court hearing with the promise that he would make sure that Marinette was taken care of until then.

After hanging up, M. Contere had a strange feeling that he couldn’t shake. A feeling that told him that those three ‘Uncles’ were either going to make his job of getting Marinette into a stable home a lot easier… or it would be a total nightmare.

~oOo~

The day of the hearing was a Monday and Marinette's case was the first on the docket, which was a relief. If things went smoothly, she could be placed with one of her respective uncles by the end of the week and be taken care of. When the two of them stepped into the room, with Marinette rolling beside him in her wheelchair, M. Contere was surprised to see multiple familiar faces in the courtroom that he had not expected. Jagged Stone, Bruce Wayne, and Tony Stark were glaring, arguing, and puffing out their chests at each other; ignoring everyone else in the room. He also noticed how each man seemed to have an entire team of lawyers backing them up.

The tension and glaring match only broke when the two women; Pepper Potts and Penny Rolling, and the four Wayne boys; Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damien, noticed Marinette’s arrival.

“Marinette, sweetie, how are you feeling?” Penny asked as she walked away from Jagged to kneel beside Marinette’s wheelchair.

“Been better, but I’m glad to see some familiar faces,” she said with a weak smile.

Pepper leaned over a bit to give the girl a gentle hug while minding her injuries. “We’re here for you, Mari. No matter what.”

Then the four boys were almost surrounding her, offering to hunt down the people that took away their family and pile so many lawsuits on them that they’ll die of papercuts. This made her chuckle and grimace a bit from the pain, telling the boys that was sweet but unnecessary.

Jagged, Bruce, and Tony immediately put their argument on hold as they hurried over to check on the girl as well. Contere found it to be a good sign that Marinette seemed familiar with the three men, that they all asked how she was and if she wanted anything, as well as promising that they would take care of her. That last one, the three said at the same time and got them glaring at each other again. This caused Contere to sweat and Marinette to give her head a resigned shake.

What followed would probably go down as the most intense, well argued, and most headache-inducing case in the history of the Paris Family Court System with all three men vying for custody of the teenage girl.

Being able to provide financial stability wasn’t a concern as Jagged Stone was currently the most successful rockstar in Europe, Asia, Australia, and the Americas; while Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne were two of the wealthiest businessmen in the entire world. All three even offered to completely cover Marinette’s tuition to any school she wanted, so long as she was accepted.

Her safety turned out to be a large factor with all three men, and they were willing to hire their own private security to make sure that she stayed safe at all times. However, the three men also argued how the others lived in unsafe environments.

Jagged mostly lived in tour buses and out of hotels, which was a factor; but he was willing to call off his tours during the school year and only go on tour during school breaks so Marinette would never be without her guardian. Penny was also willing to help Jagged at every turn, stating that she loved Marinette like a niece and would make sure that she had a strong female role model in her life as well.

Tony’s reputation as a playboy and his identity as Iron Man brought up the possibility of attracting a dangerous element. He argued that his homes were equipped with the most advanced security systems on the planet. As well as being friends with an actual “God-Alien”, who had met Marinette and liked her a great deal. Tony was also willing to make Marinette her own personal Iron Suit that would be programmed to protect and fly her to a safe location at the first sign of danger. Pepper also offered to share custody as she already took care of Tony’s daily life as his assistant, taking care of Marinette would be easy and she was looking forward to having her around.

Bruce’s residence in Gotham, the most crime ridden city in North America, was a big factor. Bruce made a point that he already had experience as a guardian of his three adopted sons and his biological son, and they were kept safe. That he also had a top of the line security system at his home, which was located outside of city limits. Dick, Jason, and Tim also commented that they thought of Marinette like a little sister and that Wayne Enterprises had locations all over the world. If the judge decided that Gotham was too dangerous, one of them would gladly take up residency in a city that the judge approved and would stay there to watch over Marinette while still working and providing for her.

After two hours of listening to the back and forth of the three men and their lawyers, the judge decided that he’d heard enough for the day and set the next meeting for the following Thursday after lunch. He also recommended that the men bring proof that they have the mental capability of caring for a teenage girl, lists of schools near their homes to show that she will continue her education, and character witnesses, if available.

The three men wanted to take Marinette out to get something to eat after the court was adjourned, but M. Contere was forced to tell them that it would not be appropriate during the legal proceedings. He also recommended that they follow the judge’s instructions and make sure that they had everything needed, otherwise they would likely not qualify. Hearing that got all three men, their assistants, family, and lawyers moving at top speeds to get everything they needed for court in a few days.

Once they were out of sight, the lawyer couldn’t help but let out a stress induced sigh as he raised one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. This custody battle had the potential to turn into a total circus, and although it could do great things for his career in the long run, he was more worried about how this would affect Marinette.

Speaking of, he was brought from his thoughts when he felt her small hand gently pat the hand that was holding his briefcase. When he looked down at her, she gave him a kind, though slightly amused smile. “You had no idea about the can of worms you were opening when you made those phone calls, did you?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “How was I supposed to know that Uncle J, Uncle Tony, and Uncle Bruce would turn out to be three of the most influential men in the world? How does your family even know all of them?”

“Uncle Bruce was raised by the family butler, Alfred Pennyworth, after his parents died. Grandma Gina and Alfred were best friends when they were younger. After the Waynes died, Gina would go check on them in Gotham, she liked to brag that she helped get Bruce back out of his shell. Uncle Tony knew my parents back in university, he was a lot younger and smarter than the other students and you can guess that didn’t go over well with some of them. My parents looked out for him and they became friends, and even after he got busy when he took over the company, he always made time to be there for the big moments in our lives; my parents’ wedding, their baby shower, and when I was born. I’ve actually spent a few summers in Gotham and New York visiting them.”

“And Jagged Stone?”

“He’s the most recent of my honorary uncles. I’m his personal designer, but he got unofficially adopted into my family after the tv show that took place in my parents’ bakery. Uncle Jagged made a bread guitar and sang rock songs with my dad. Once the show was over, Mom invited him and Penny to stay for dinner. During the course of the night, Dad claimed him as a new little brother. Jagged was so happy that he started calling my parents big brother and big sister, and started calling me his niece. Since then, he’s come over at least once a month to just relax and be a family with us.”

M. Contere couldn’t help but smile at that. From the sound of it and what he had seen, all three men truly cared about this girl and were willing to bend over backwards for her. That was a good thing, but he still worried that a custody battle between these three men could go for a long time and possibly cause mental distress for Marinette. Although the final decision was ultimately up to the judge, he was allowed to make recommendations if they were in the best interests of the child.

With that in mind, he knelt down beside Marinette. “You know the three of them and what they’re living situations are like better than I do. And even though you’re not 15 years old yet, I could petition the judge to factor your opinion. Which of them would you like to have guardian status?”

When Marinette gave him a knowing smile, he just knew that things might get more complicated.

~oOo~

It got a lot more complicated.

The media had caught wind of the custody battle, causing a giant crowd of paparazzi to stake out the courthouse to catch a glimpse of the rockstar, billionaire, and the self proclaimed “genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist” who was also a superhero. To their credit, the three only said that they were devastated by the loss of the Dupain-Chengs and wanted to do what was best for Marinette and left all the other questions at the door.

In the courtroom; all three men, as well as their assistants and Bruce’s boys, had done mental evaluations that their lawyers submitted to the judge. They also provided lists of different schools that Marinette was free to choose from; including public schools, private, and even schools that specialized in fashion. But the absolute kicker was the character witnesses.

Jagged Stone had brought other music stars, movie stars, and production mega stars that made Contere wonder for a moment if he’d accidentally walked into an award ceremony. Tony Stark had brought the Avengers, The Avengers, as his character witnesses. Contere wasn’t too proud to admit that he was a bit starstruck when Thor himself came over to great Marinette and complimented her on her ‘battle scars’, saying that they were a testament to her strength. If that wasn’t enough, Bruce brought multiple members of the Billionaire’s Club as character witnesses, many of whom had been suspected of being members of the Justice League.

The judge looked just as surprised, though somewhat irritated, by the people crowding his courtroom. He quietly looked over the mental health evaluations that had been provided, as well as the lists of schools; finding that everything was in order and that any of them would have been wonderful guardians to the girl. He was tempted to call another recess and pick this back up the following week until Marinette’s lawyer raised his hand.

“If it would please the court,” the judge motioned for him to continue, “although Mlle. Dupain-Cheng is not yet of legal age to make a final decision on the matter of custody, I felt that she was old enough to state her opinion. We have discussed it over the past few days and I believe we came up with a proposal that will satisfy all parties involved while still being in the best interest of the child.” M. Contere presented the four copies of the proposal to the bailiff, who handed one to the judge, and the three lead lawyers.

The judge read the summary at the top before looking at the lawyer in surprise. “You’re proposing joint custody?”

“Yes, your honor. My client and I feel that due to the influence that these men hold, as you can see by the character witnesses that have come here to speak on their behalf, that this custody hearing could be drawn out for a long time, which could have mental repercussions on Marinette.” Contere didn’t miss the ‘you ain’t kidding’ roll of his eyes, or the looks of shame that the three men shared at the thought of hurting Marinette.

“Keeping that in mind, my client came up with an outline for a possible custody agreement. M. Stark would retain custody during school as he has listed one of the top fashion schools in America, which would further Marinette’s future career. The weekends would be spent with M. Wayne, as Wayne Enterprises has connections to the fashion industry and would be able to give her training to help her successfully run her own business. M. Stone would have custody during summer breaks, so Marinette may continue gaining experience as his personal designer, a position she has held for close to a year and has already earned her recognition in the industry.”

The judge grew quiet again as he contemplated the proposal and read over the details. He didn’t want to deal with these three powerful, and in a lot of ways eccentric, men for the next few months while attempting to figure out the best placement for the child. Nor did he want to deal with the media frenzy that this case had already brought on. If anything, this was likely the best option, if he could get the men to agree to the terms.

“Do you have any objections to this proposal?”

There was a moment of silence as the lawyers continued to look over the proposal and spoke to their clients. Jagged’s lawyer was the first to respond. “No, your honor. M. Stone believes that this would be best for Marinette, but we would like to add a clause that M. Stone be permitted to call and visit Mlle. Dupain-Cheng so long as it does not interfere with her school work.”

“My client would also like that clause added to the proposal, your honor,” said the Wayne lawyer. “As well as the clause that Messieurs Stone and Stark work together with M. Wayne in securing Mlle. Dupain-Cheng’s safety. As previously stated, all three men could be considered high-priority targets and normally require bodyguards. M. Wayne has proposed that any potential bodyguard be vetted and approved by all parties involved before being hired.”

The judge looked to Stark’s lawyer. “And do you have any stipulations you would want to see added to the proposal?”

“Only that there be an open line of communication between Messieurs Stone, Wayne, and Stark at all times in reference to Mlle. Dupain-Cheng’s well being and any possible travel. As all three men are known to travel the world for business; there will be occasions for the child to travel as well. When this occurs, the other guardians should receive notice of the country, city, and address that she resides; so, in case of an emergency, they will be able to be present to assist and protect her.”

“My client has no objections to these clauses,” said Jagged’s lawyer.

“And you, M. Wayne?”

The Wayne lawyer nodded. “The clauses are more than reasonable and are in the best interest of Mlle. Dupain-Cheng. Although I only speak for my client, I do not believe that I would be out of line to say that is the main focus of Messieurs Stone and Stark as well.”

The lawyers hid their relief when the judge nodded in agreement. “As the proposal was presented by the child and the three of you are in agreement, I’m scheduling a meeting in my chambers for next Tuesday to go over the finer details of the custodial agreement. I will allow your clients and one lawyer each to attend; this includes you and your client, M. Contere.”

“Yes, your honor.”

“And as for you, Mlle. Dupain-Cheng,” Marinette’s head snapped up to meet the judge’s gaze. “It seems that you have gained three extremely powerful, influential, and in many ways crazy guardians. I don’t know if I should congratulate you or give you my sympathies. What I will do is wish you the best of luck and hope that you are prepared for the future. Court is adjourned.”

There was a hum of surprise and joy that spread through the courtroom as Jagged, Bruce, and Tony stepped up to each other and shook hands before approaching Marinette and M. Contere.

“Of course, my niece would come up with a way to keep everyone happy, she’s so rock n’ roll that way.” Jagged beamed with pride as Tony and Bruce nodded in agreement.

“Would it be alright if all of us went to dinner to celebrate,” Bruce asked Contere, indicating the ‘all’ to be himself and his boys, Jagged and Penny, and Tony and Pepper; along with Marinette and Contere.

“So long as there’s no discussion of custody and everyone stays civil, I don’t see any harm in it.”

Everyone smiled in agreement while Pepper mentioned that she’d just finished making reservations for all eleven of them at a nice restaurant that had the best view of the Eiffel Tower.

As the others began filing out of the courtroom, Marinette patted his hand and gave him a sympathetic look. “You just opened your second can.”

M. Contere wasn’t sure about what she’d meant until after the meal was over and the waitress brought the check, and then watched as the three billionaires fought over it. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he only hoped that this would all be over on Tuesday and he could go back to his normal, boring cases.

#ml fic #ml prompt #marinette deserves better #maribat #ml au #bruce wayne #tony stark #jagged stone #marinette dupain cheng

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