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spooky-z · 5 years

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CHP 2 - Funhouse

I've called the movers, called the maids We'll try to exorcise this place Drag my mattress to the yard Crumble, tumble, house of cards

P!NK – Funhouse

××××

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@ozmav

××××

“Good afternoon, Master Fu.” Marinette greets and bows.

Her mother had raised her very well and thank you.

"Good afternoon, Marinette." The man smiles. "It's good to see you, although I don't think this is an informal visit."

"And you're right." She sits on the mat, Tikki takes the opportunity to escape from the bag.

“We have important information for you.” The kwami says.

Fu's smile becomes smarter.

“I think I'll make some tea to accompany this conversation.

××××

"Interesting." The man mutters, his hands scratching at the gray goatee.

"But you should have brought the book!" Wayzz exclaims.

Marinette knows she shouldn't be annoyed at such a powerful entity, but she can't stop the small fire burning in her chest.

She had already explained it twice. Twice. The reason for not taking Adrien's book and rushing to the Guardian with it, but the little green kwami didn't seem to want to understand.

Well, her parents said age wasn't the same as wisdom. She believed that was the proof of that.

“Wayzz, Marinette has already explained why she didn't do that. Are you even listening to what we're saying?!” Tikki scolds.

He looks at both of them, frowning firmly.

"For all I know, she may well be acting for selfish reasons." Says petulantly. "Not letting the boy she likes in a worse deal with his father."

Marinette's patience breaks.

“Wayzz-“ Master Fu tries, but she cuts the man.

“I didn't do anything for the supposed boys I like.” Sharp as a scalpel “Have you ever stopped to think that if Gabriel Agreste is Hawkmoth, he might try to escape after discovering that the book is missing ?!” Growls through gritted teeth.

Wayzz seems skeptical at first, but soon his expression withers to regret.

"I-I"

“Alright, Wayzz. Everyone makes mistakes.” Fu intervenes. “But I really wish I could have seen this book. If it's the book I think of, then it's likely Gabriel also has the peacock's miraculous.” He sighs.

It seemed that things were getting more serious.

Marinette took her backpack off her back, opened it, and pulled out an obviously customized black tablet.

An insignia with two overlapping golden R's graced the cover.

“Here.” She reaches out to the man.

"Marinette thought of everything, Master!" Tikki says excitedly as she flies over their heads.

“And that would be?” The green kwami asks suspiciously.

"... The miraculous grimoire." Fu sighs in surprise as he flips through the virtual pages.

“How did you get this done in such a short time?” Asks to the girl.

"Tim." She says simple.

"Oh, the Red Robin boy." He turns off the tablet. "Tell him I really appreciate that."

Marinette smiles.

"Sure. Now I have to go. A friend of mine awaits me.” She gets up, Tikki goes back to hiding in her bag.

“See you, Master, Wayzz!” She squeaks.

“Marinette, Tikki.” Fu tilts his head in respect.

"Bye, bye." Wayzz.

“Bye guys.” Marinette nods and leaves the massage parlor.

Now she had to run or Kim would kill her.

××××

When she arrives at school, Kim is waiting for her at the entrance. He has two paper bags in his hand, the Dupain-Cheng bakery logo stamped on them.

“Sorry, Kimmy. Tim called me needing my help with something.” She says, her voice coming out slightly unsteady from running the streets of Paris to school.

Kim raises an eyebrow suspiciously. He knew Mari and the Waynes were hiding something from him, but he never forced Marinette to tell because he appreciated their friendship.

And he knew that one hour Marinette would tell him. Then Kim would be the best friend she needed and would wait patiently.

He extends one of the paper bags to the girl and softens the expression.

"All right. At least you arrived with plenty of time to eat.”

Marinette takes the bag, her guilty face melting into a huge smile.

“Thank you, Kimmy! You are the best."

Kim heaves his chest in pride.

"Of course, I am."

He waits until Marinette was by his side to throw his arm over her shoulder, a dangerous smile on his lips. A smile the brunette would recognize even in the dark.

A competitive smile.

"Let's go now. I bet you can't eat everything before the bell rings.”

She narrows her eyes, countering her friend's challenge.

"Well, I bet I can."

Tikki laughs from inside the bag.

She loved when her chosen acted according to her age.

××××

Mari wins the bet, but soon regrets. She can barely breathe under the weight of her stomach.

She almost throws up, but Kim is there to save the day.

Once again.

××××

"... And then Jagged Stone wrote a song in my honor." Lila tells.

She was surrounded by Ms. Bustier's class when Marinette and Kim entered the classroom.

Her nose high, haughty like royalty and the others excited about her story.

Marinette notices that Adrien is sitting in the back row of the right corner, alone. Probably wanting to keep as far away from Italian as possible.

She understands the blonde's behavior.

Lila's manner belied everything she claimed to be.

And as Bruce had once said ‘instinct never fails’.

Her instinct screamed, red everywhere, that the Italian was a problem.

Kim frowned at his best friend, who had frozen in the classroom door.

"MDC?" He whispers and pulls the brunette to their accents.

Marinette blinks, finally coming to herself.

"Sorry, Kimmy." She sighs. "It's just... I don't like her." She mumbles. "She makes goose bumps on the back of my neck."

The boy looks surprised at her. A vivid memory flashing in his mind.

“Really?” She nods and hides her face around his neck. "Wow."

Marinette has always had a kind of seventh sense for bad people. She was a kind child to everyone, but there were people she made a point of being rude to and it never seemed to make sense to her family.

Until one day Marinette had bitten the hand of a Dupain-Cheng neighbor. A nice gentleman who distributed sweets and played with the children in the street.

They were seven when the police showed up at his house dragging him arrested for pedophilia and the only thing Marinette said was "I said he was bad!" before drawing again.

Kim found out some time later (at 9) that the Dupain-Cheng had become suspicious of the man and along with the Wayne, had obtained evidence about him.

He caresses her friend's head. Arms over her shoulder, cuddled up.

“I understand, Mari.” Whispers “To tell the truth, it's kind of unrealistic that Jagged has made a song in her honor that we have never heard. Or her being Ladybug's friend if she has come to Paris recently.”

“Alya believed it. The class is believing it.” Marinette points out “I just hope she only tells fantasy fan stories and don't become a problem for us later.

“If she gets you in trouble, I'll have your back. As I always have.” Kim replies.

“Thank you, Kimmy. Same.” She smiles.

"MDC, I already said ‘Kimmy’ no!"

They did not notice certain Agreste listening to their conversation.

“So she's a liar, huh.” He whispers to himself and turns his attention back to the class around Lila.

He had managed to return the book to his father's safe without Gabriel knowing about it.

Plagg hadn't been much help, focused on eating his smelly cheeses. The little god had not even tried to check the book to know what it was about.

After Marinette returned it to him, he was left with nothing good to think about Lila Rossi.

Adrien still couldn't believe what she had done and it didn't cross his mind for a second that Marinette was lying about it. As little as he knew the girl, she was fair and honest with everyone.

And on second thought, he doubted his Lady would be best friends with someone so dirty like Lila.

“Adrien!” Lila calls, rising from Adrien's (old) chair and climbing to where he was sitting now. The whole class dispersing around the room.

He noticed the quick glance Alya shot Marinette after seeing the two of them (Lila and Adrien) talking alone in the back of the room.

This was a behavior Adrien didn't understand coming from Alya and some of the people in the class. Every time he did something, they would glance at Marinette as if expecting some reaction or for her to say something.

“Adrien!” Lila calls again, waving her hands in the boy's face to attract his attention.

And what before he could not see clearly, now he could see crystal clear.

He lived with models, knew fake smiles and opportunistic people. Adrien himself was a model, he was in the middle. Even so, he needed Marinette's help to be able to recognize the mischievous tone of those eyes and the plastic smile on this face.

He felt his stomach turn, but forced a polite smile on his face. The same one he used with his most... aggressive fans. So to speak.

"Hello, Lila."

She takes this as permission to sit by his side and claw his arm like a leech.

"Hi! I wanted to end our conversation from before.” She bites her lip, her eyelashes fluttering in an attempt at charm.

He shudders, trying to create a distance between them, but Lila was strong. Adrien is sure that as soon as he took off his shirt to look, he would find purple spots on the inside of his arm.

“Yes?” Questions “I don't even remember what we were talking about anymore.” Forces a bland laugh.

Lila's smile becomes bigger and sharper.

“Oh, no problem! Before Marinette-" Say the girl's name as an insult "-appear, I would tell you that..." She lowers her tone of voice "I was the one who gave the earrings to Ladybug."

Adrien gathers all his acting knowledge to force a surprised expression.

"Re-really?!"

She looks away as if embarrassed.

"Yes. Actually, I have the power of Volpina myself. It is inherited by worthy women in my family.”

Adrien doesn't even have to pretend to choke. It seemed like there was nothing she wouldn't lie to get attention.

Lila kept talking and talking about how she was leading Ladybug and Chat Noir, how she became the heroine of the fox, the most powerful of heroes and blah blah.

Something pops inside him. His passivity, maybe.

“Lila.” Cut her out. “You can stop lying to me now.”

"W-What?"

“You don't have to lie to fit in with everyone.” He says. “Alya and I were the new ones too, so I know what it's like to be the new boy and be afraid of not being accepted by the class, but you can already drop the act. They are very kind and friendly.”

Lila's expression wavered for a moment before returning to the act.

"But I'm telling the truth." Her lips quiver and her eyes fill with water.

God, she was a terrible actress.

“Lila.” Adrien stiffens the expression. “I know you're lying.”

There is a change of behavior coming from Lila. The serious face, the manipulative eyes.

It reminded Adrien of his father.

“Well it can't be helped.” She lets go of his arm and tosses the hair off her shoulder. "Now how do you- Oh."

Adrien looks at her and follows her eyes in the direction she is staring.

Marinette and Kim, sitting behind Ivan and Mylene.

“It was then, wasn't it? What did she say?” The voice dripping with poison.

Adrien believes that if he were a real cat, he would have hissed in disgust.

“Nothing.” He replies. “Or rather… Enough.”

Lila lets out a tired breath at the boy's words.

“Look Adrien, people like us-”

“People like us? People like you, Lila. Only you. Don't put us in the same category.” Growls “Either you are honest with my friends or you can keep lying and forget me. You choose."

The Italian can barely keep herself from laughing at the ingenuity of the model.

“Oh, Adrien. Do you really think that would work for me?” Purrs “I’m really surprised by your ingenuity. The big ones only stay big by lying and cheating. Even if you're beautiful and rich, I don't think you're worth the effort.”

She slides her finger over Adrien's arm that was spread across the table. He retracts his arm away from her, annoyed.

"So, I think you should leave me alone."

She seems to finally give up on the blonde as she gets up, but before leaving him alone, she leans toward him. The malicious look never leaving her expression.

"Then try to keep out of my way or I'll have the pleasure of destroying you." And get out, as if she hasn’t just threatened someone.

Neither of them notices Marinette and Kim watching the interaction.

××××

Marinette had to insist to Kim go home to take a shower that day.

The boy had not left her for a second for the rest of the school day. He had even turned down a dispute with Alix (which had left half the class in shock) to stay with Mari.

She could only convince him to leave her (finally) alone when she said she wanted privacy in her feminine affairs and after that they could have dinner together while watching Law & Order.

Marinette came through the side door of the bakery, which was now closed for business.

When she gets home, the scent of Kung Pao Chicken attacks her pleasantly.

“Papa, Māma, I'm back!” She calls, opening the bag for Tikki fly freely around the house.

“Huānyíng huíjiā sweetie.” Sabine responds “Your father had to make a delivery, but he should be coming soon.” Says when Marinette arrives in the kitchen.

Marinette kisses the woman's cheek affectionately.

"All right. I need to do something at the bakery.”

Sabine turns around, her face abnormally serious for her daughter.

"Ladybug?"

"Ladybug."

"All right. I'll call when the food is ready and your dad arrives.” She smiles again. “If Tikki wants it, there's a little chocolate mousse left in the bowl. She can eat while I wash the dishes...”

The kwami materializes in the kitchen, her eyes shining.

"YEA!"

"OK." Sabine laughs.

"I'll be right back." Mari says before leaving the house again and going down to the bakery kitchen.

There she pushes the heavy workbench, sliding across the floor until a metal trapdoor appears.

She rests her palm on the safety lock flashing red.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” She says and the light is quickly replaced by green and the trapdoor opens softly.

It was the time of truth.

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And I know that Adrien is very OOC, but calm down! There is a reason for this that will be shown soon.

[Tag list]

@constancetruggle @mystery-5-5 @captainmac6 @northernbluetongue @redscarlet95 @ki117h3dr4g0n @bluefiredemon @mochinek0 @7-sage-7 @lunar-wolf-warrior @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @xxmadamjinxx @vixen-uchiha @crazylittlemunchkin @spicybelladonna @justanothersepticeyefan

#daminette #childhood au #damian #damian x marinette #lila rossi #adrien agreste #le chien kim #maribat #ml salt #ml sabine #miraculous ladybug

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whumpbby · 4 years

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PLEASE give us a little something, something with Uncle Clark and bby Dick!!!!!!!

Alright, Uncle Clark is one of my fav ideas, because when Bruce adopted Dick Clark was in his mid-twenties, a working hero, confidently climbing the steps of his career (I have this idea that Clark went with being a reporter, because he wanted an excuse to be Superman/access to information, but very quickly realised that wait, this can help people too, and went at it with all he had) and finally met a woman who caught his attention like a bear trap and his parents started to look at him with this sort of an expectation - not only, we want grandchildren, but we want you to have a family of your own, son, we won’t be here forever, we want to see you happy and settled before that. It made him reconsider his immediate life plans - he of course had an idea of a wife, kids, white fence and so on in is head, but that was the faraway future... but now he had an open window view to so much human tragedy, a first-hand look at how frail human life was, how minute. Will he find the happiness he’d dreamed about? A family with a lot of kids? Can he even have children, alien as he is? Will he ever age like a normal human?

So, these questions were all swirling in his head, but he had no time to do anything personal - Lois was a tough nut to crack and Justice League was just raising off the ground and that took a lot of his attention, and the world seemed to be always in peril... but then, Batman got a sidekick. Bruce adopted a child.

A child that was very obviously a Superan fan. At first Clark was embarrassed, as he always was with people proclaiming themselves his fans, but then, well, the kid was so cute and bright enough to make even the Bat crack a smile from time to time... and Clark liked kids, he really did, especially cute ones. And Robin obviously needed someone in his life who wasn’t a dour and stoic vigilante...

The kid needed a cool uncle.

And Clark decided that he was going to be the cool uncle. Almost like being a dad, yeah? Except without the crushing responsibility he could not afford at the moment, with so much on his plate. But he could be cool every once in a while with a kid that didn’t expect anything else than a piggyback ride over a skyscraper or to be thrown super high, or to be fed a slice of Ma’s cherry pie...

And Dick, he freaking adored Clark, because who doesn’t adore their cool uncle?? An uncle that’s there to be cool and nothing else, to chuck him into the air and smile and take him out for ice-cream and bother his dad into smiling more, and speaking with this finny accent when he forgets himself. And also, he’s SUPERMAN?! Gosh golly! And in the day-life he’s an investigative reporter?? That’s so much cooler than a billionaire airhead, Bruce!

Clark is one of the reasons Dick decided to be a Policeman - because Clark has shown him that one can be a hero in both parts of his life, that you don’t have to stop helping people out of costume - and that both are equally as important. Clark treated his investigative work as just as important as saving people from burning buildings and that was inspiring in a more immediate way than Bruce’s charity work (which was important as hell, make no mistake, but Dick was a man of action and he needed to be doing!)

I know that some people don’t favour Dick’s Policeman phase, but I am firmly believing that it was an important part of his development and I am also in massive favour of a ‘real life’ the hero has to be grounded in. Patrolling the cit at night is a very inefficient way to help people, really, it makes much more sense to plug yourself into a job/place that already works at helping. Vigilante personas are for me the part-time jobs of these people (sans the big magical/space trouble) who are using them to make their day-jobs more effective. Like, Clark Kent is not Superman’s disguise (FU Tarrantino=_=) - Superman is just a tool Clark Kent uses to supplement his day job.

And that’s why I think Clark’s presence in Dick’s life was so crucial - because Bruce tended to allow the Mission to become his life. He had this tendency to let the Bat take over Bruce Wayne, spill into his day-life without the ability to balance it out... because Bruce has no day-job - he has people who work for him and his empty Brucie mask and infinite time to spend in the Cave. In time Bruce’s day-job became his family, I believe, that’s what pulled him out of the Bat taking over his life (especially after Jason’s death) and because the cornerstone of Bruce Wayne The Person.

(and am I bitter that most of the Batfam don’t seem to have these day-personas at all nowadays? yes I am, imagine how much more interesting it would be to read stories where they are all spread throughout Gotham’s Police, charity, child support and prison systems, etc, using their skills to help people and their access to information to know where the help should go, where the resources need to be allocated, when a masked vigilante has to step in to save someone from immediate harm. imagine the Batfam as a city-wide network that operates within the letter of the law as much as possible and has to use their wits and skills to do so effectively. less punching and Joker threatening to explode the city for laughs, more detective and procedural drama and more of the Joker using his ‘crazy’ shtick to mask his criminal activity. some punching, yeah, but punching that is followed up by guilt at perpetuating the violence and the internal struggles of someone who knows that they should be better but the crime they’ve witnessed was so hienous they couldn’t let it go... the struggle to keep to the letter, because that’s what will get things on track to be fixed. situation where Jason’s conflict with the family makes sense, because he doesn’t hold back while they all have to hold back for it all to work, even though they wish they didn’t have to - and he knows they are doing good work, and wishes he could just let go and be like them, but he can’t.)

BUT, REITERATING, Clark never stopped being the cool uncle to Dick - even after Dick grew up and started to see the cracks in his armour. But, because Clark is genuinely a good person who was never anything, but honest with him, Dick feels kinship with him.

And Clark saw this child grow up, he saw him mature and struggle, and overcome, and he’s so impressed with the man Dick became and was never shy about letting him know about it. He has no problem being Dick’s emotional support and that means a lot to both of them.

#headcanon #cool uncle clark #metaish #Anonymous

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loveforpreserumsteve · 4 years

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The Chilling Adventures of Steve Rogers: Yule Bonus (Magical Hydra Horror AU)

Twelve:

As White Christmas came close to the final act, Steve figured that this was as good of a time as any to head back to his room. It was quickly approaching the witching hour, so Steve was sure that with the late hour, no one would care. After all, Loki had already retired to his bedroom before the movie had even started with a comment about one holiday movie is enough for the night. Although Steve had a sneaky suspicion that he really just didn't like being the odd man out. Especially since it seemed as though he was the only one without a guest.

In fact, the only ones left were Steve, Natasha, Thor, and Bruce Ban the Science Man. Hildy and Carol tapped out within the first ten minutes of the movie, but had been more preoccupied with each other than what was playing out on the screen. Of course, they weren't the only ones. But their riveted attention was cuter than Thor's and Bruce's who awkwardly sat as far as they could on either side of the love seat.

Giving the older men another glance, Steve knew that they definitely wouldn't miss him or Natasha. So, Steve redirected his attention to the petite redhead. Only to find that Natasha was very interested in the movie. A small, intimate smile on her face. And was that, a twinkle, in her eyes?

Steve turned to look at the TV screen. White Christmas had been a staple in the Odinsons' holiday celebrations all of Steve's life. But now he wondered what it would be like to be watching it for the first time. With the opening bars of the titular song playing as the cast donned in Santa suits and dresses took their places on stage, it did seem magical. Especially as the child ballerinas joined them in red and white tutus.

The corner of Steve's mouth quirked up. Feeling lucky to have witnessed this layer of Natasha that, Steve was positive, very few had seen before. It made those damn butterflies in his stomach start fluttering again, and Steve hated it.

When the end credits finally started streaming on the screen, Natasha finally turned her attention away from the screen to find Steve looking at her. Her brows furrowed, but the small smile stayed on her face. Steve turned his gaze to the clock, and was thankful that Natasha understood and stood from the sofa without a word.

As Steve stood up, Thor questioned, "You two heading for bed?"

"Yeah," Steve quickly answered.

Perhaps a bit too quick. For a moment, Thor's brows furrowed. Clearly not believing that the teens were in going to sleep. Suspiciously, he watched the pair until Natasha let out a long yawn as she stretched her arms high above her head. The skepticism seeped out of Thor's expression then and he bid the teens a goodnight.

"Should I put the mistletoe away?" Steve smirked, playfully winking at his uncle and his uncle's maybe-date.

Bashfully, Bruce averted his gaze to his lap while Thor’s eyes widened in his embarrassment. Even though Uncle Thor was several centuries old, and even though Dr. Banner was no spring chicken, they seemed younger in that moment. Almost as though they were the teenagers in the room.

Cheeks flaming red, Thor leveled a look at his nephew and firmly said, “Goodnight, Steven.”

Chuckling on his way up the private family staircase, Steve called over his shoulder, “Goodnight.”

"Are you always this much of a little shit?" Natasha teased.

"Pretty much," Steve confirmed, glancing over his shoulder at Natasha.

Rounding the corner at the landing, Natasha stepped a bit closer. Nearly pressing her chest against Steve's back as she quietly questioned, "You got everything, right?"

"Duh," Steve playfully scoffed, opening his bedroom door for Natasha to enter first. Following her into the room, Steve's eyes roamed over her frame.

Hive's sake, Steve, get it together!

Closing the door behind himself, Steve crossed the room to his closet. Retrieving the talking board, he tossed it carelessly onto his bed on his way to his bathroom.

"Alveus, Steve!" Natasha chastised, rushing over to the board. Almost affectionately, Natasha ran her hand over the smooth wood and looked over at Steve with wide eyes, "Have some respect."

Rolling his eyes, Steve gathered the white candles and the salt from his bathroom. As he re-entered his room, he reassured, "I would've done the same with my phone."

"I feel sorry for your phone," Natasha muttered as she chose held the board to her chest.

Looking around, Steve decided that the best place to perform the séance would be in front of his closet. Since that was the place where he had seen the bloody woman in his house. So, he gestured for Natasha to set the board down in between his bed frame and his closet. Even going so far as to open the closet door widely.

"I'm sure your roommates could make at least a dozen different gay jokes right about now," Natasha commented as she sat on the floor.

"Guess it's a good thing that I didn't invite them, huh," Steve quirked a brow and took the seat across from the open closet. Although he found it difficult to even look into the darkness, he still tried to keep his attention on it while Natasha set the board down in front of him.

"Candles," Natasha held her hand out like a doctor would await a scalpel.

Handing her a half dozen of the tall, skinny white candles, Natasha started setting them up around her on her end of the circle. Steve got to work on the other end before closing the circle behind himself. As the pair started lighting their wicks, Natasha asked, "Got a picture ready?"

"No," Steve sheepishly admitted.

Snapping her gaze to Steve, Natasha asked, "What do you mean, 'No'?"

Rather than looking at Natasha and possibly being crushed beneath the pressure of her quirked brow, Steve kept his attention on the candle. Easily dragging out lighting the wicks until all of his candles were lit. Until he couldn't do anything but meet her eyes.

"What?" Steve questioned even though he knew exactly what.

"How are we going to contact the spirit haunting you, if we don't know what they look like?" Natasha sighed in her frustration as she pinched the bridge of her nose. Even though she didn't need to, she reminded, "Spirits are tricky, Steve. They will take any misstep and use it to their advantage."

"I know," Steve snapped. His mind swirled with all the events that happened That Night. How Azazel possessed Teddy and later Bucky. Although his uncles tried to brush it off as a coincidence, Steve was convinced that it was too deliberate and had to have been a ruse. All he needed to do was dig a little deeper and find out why they wanted him to join them so --

Snapping her fingers in front of Steve's face, Steve shook his head to clear his mind and repeated, "I know."

Sitting on her feet, Natasha confirmed, "You know that this makes it easier for a malicious spirit to make contact with us."

"The Yule log is burning downstairs," Steve reminded. Looking towards the closet, Steve tried to remember the woman. Her wispy blonde hair that was pulled back and matted to her clammy face. Her thin frame that hunched over as she grasped onto her protruding abdomen as though she was still having labor pains. It was all so clear in Steve's mind and he arrogantly stated, "We'll get her."

Sighing, Natasha gave him a pointed look and said, "We better."

"We will," Steve firmly assured.

"Then," Natasha placed her fingers on the planchette, "Let's do this."

Taking in a deep breath, Steve placed his fingers on the planchette as well. Although Steve had only seen a séance from afar from the times that Hildy used it in his childhood, it was practically ingrained in his mind of what to do. From horror movies to scary campfire tales to his family using them to communicate with others to his dreams where he would sneak one of the boards in order to talk to his parents. It was always there. Even if he wasn't able to get into the class at the academy due to him not doing his core classes until now.

So, Natasha took the reins. Giving Steve a pointed look before closing her eyes, letting Steve know that he should do so as well. When he did, Natasha calmly stated, "Tonight we gather to seek guidance from the spirit world. If the spirits lingering in this house are near, please make your presence known."

Wispy blonde hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. Drenched strands matted to her clammy face. Fragile frame in pain. Never holding the baby that she carried in her womb.

Steve kept concentrating on all the little things that he could remember. Over and over, it repeated in his head. Going all the way back to the silent yell of agony that she let out at Stark Orchards.

Then, a breeze blew into the room. The hair on the back of Steve's neck stood up while goosebumps prickled along his skin. Someone was there with them. Natasha must have felt it too because she questioned, "Are you the soul who has been watching over Steve?"

Quickly, the piece of wood tugged across the board to the yes in the upper left hand corner. A smirk tugging at Steve's lips, he opened his eyes. Looking across from him to the closet, stood the spirit. Steve felt sorry for her. The way she looked so fatigued and pained as she grasped at her baby bump sans baby. How the dried blood on her inner thighs still looked fresh and how the dark circles under her eyes were so dark that they might as well have been tattooed.

Quietly, Natasha prompted, "Now's the time to ask your questions."

Out of everything that Steve wanted to know, he asked, "What's your name?"

Beneath his and Natasha's fingertips, the planchette easily glided along the board. Pausing at certain spots along the way. Most of it staying on the left side of the board as it spelled out:

S-A-R-A-H

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hellomissmabel · 7 years

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Vino O Gelato part 1

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Steve x reader

Warnings: The reader grew up believing someone else was her father. Her real father had been sent away by his family.

Word count: 3.329

Summary: Y/N travels to Italy in search of her biological father. As she’s looking for a place to stay, she walks into the small artisanal gelateria where Steve works. He helps her get in touch with her father and introduces her to his friends. But is Y/N really ready to meet her father? Or is there another reason why she should stay in Italy?

A/N: Written for @yourtropegirl

Series masterlist can be found here

The bus dropped you off in this little municipality in the middle of nowhere, that probably carries more history in one brick than all of your high school history books combined. Checking the address you had written down on the piece of paper in the palm of your hand, you began your quest for the tiny but quaint B&B Bruce had booked a room for you. You had a map of Italy downloaded on your phone and as were searching for the right street name, you found yourself getting more and more lost in the twists and turns of this rural town.

You knocked on several doors and came up to a couple people on the street but none of them spoke the sufficient amount of English to set you on your way. So completely discouraged, dehydrated and famished, you set foot in an artisanal ice cream shop or gelateria, hoping that somehow someone would be able to point you in the right direction.

It’s one of the few shops that stays open throughout the entire day, whereas other shopkeepers prefer to take a small siesta during the afternoon. There’s virtually nobody in the gelateria except for the tall, muscly blond man serving himself a scoop of chocolate-flavoured ice cream. His eyes meet yours just as you’re about to walk in, and he chuckles softly as he licks his spoon clean. A rosy blush tints his cheeks with soft embarrassment as he quickly stuffs the spoon away in his back pocket.

“Ciao bella, posso aiutarti?,” he asks you in broken Italian, his American accent clearly shining through. (Hi beautiful, can I help you?)

“You’re American?,” you reply with a high-pitched tone of surprise. you didn’t expect to find an American in such a remote village.

He looks you up and down, smiling warmly. “What can I get you, ma’am?,” he chuckles politely and you must admit it’s charming to be called ma’am and not girl for a change.

Holding out the scrap of paper that holds the address, you show it to him and ask for directions. “It’s called May’s Ostello. Do you know it?”

The blond nods instantly and your heart flutters in relief. “Yeah, I know where it is. I’m staying there, too.”

“You do?,” you pipe up with a squeak, taking back the piece of paper with a grateful smile. “Is it far from here?”

Brushing his hands off on his white apron, he grins at your eagerness. “I’ll walk you there if you want. My shift’s almost over.” He gestures towards his watch to indicate it’s almost 4 o’clock. “Bucky will be here soon to take over. Why don’t you have an ice cream while we wait?,” he suggests, leaning with his elbow on the counter as his crystal blue eyes gaze into yours.

With a royal blush staining your cheeks, you shrug casually and pretend you’re not as affected by this handsome stranger as you really are. Looking over the royally filled counter, various ice cream flavours beckoning your eyes with their rich colours and even richer taste, you decide you might as well make the most out of it and have an actual, authentic, artisanal Italian gelato.

“I don’t even know more than half of the flavours,” you confess gingerly, not daring to take your eyes away from the counter and look back at the blond.

“Well,” he chuckles lightly, “I can make you some suggestions.” Opening the glass door to the cooler of the ice cream, holding a cone in one hand and a spoon in the other, he scoops up three flavours for you to try. “On the house,” he winks at you as he hands over the cone.

“Oh,” you gasp softly at his gentle offer, your hand slightly brushing his. “Thank you so much. What flavours are these?”

You take your first lick of the top flavour and moan at the soft and subtle taste of cherries. “That one is amarena, made from the finest cherries.”

“It’s so good,” you mumble as you bite one of the cherries embedded in the ice cream.

“The other two are straciatella, with the bits of chocolate in it, and nocciola, my favourite.”

“They’re all so good,” you agree immediately, eagerly devouring your ice cream cone. “My name’s Y/N, by the way.”

You extend your hand and the blond shakes it firmly. “Steve. Pleasure to meet you, doll. What takes you to Italy?” Steve rounds the corner of the counter and sits down on a nearby bench, patting the empty seat next to him.

You’re a little taken aback by his forwardness, but this is Italy, so you shouldn’t be so astonished if the people here are a lot more extroverted than back home. “Well, it’s a long story.” You hesitate momentarily as you join him on the bench. “You sure you wanna hear it?”

He eyes you with interest and childlike curiosity, his youthful, ruggedly handsome features lighting up as he smiles reassuringly at you. “We’ve got about 10 minutes before Bucky arrives, will that be enough time to tell me your story? I’ll tell you my story after, too, if you want.”

Finishing your ice cream, you swallow thickly and play with the hem of your shorts as you start off. “Long story short, I don’t come from money and my mother was a cleaning lady.”

By now you half expect Steve to judge you and block off your story, like with many others have done before him. But instead, he continues to listen intently, not interrupting you once as you tell him about your father.

“The son of the family she worked for was a big spender and a real womanizer. My mother sometimes is too nice and always has a hard time saying no. She really liked him and when he made a pass towards her, she fell for him like a brick. They had a fling, a couple one-night-stands really. When his parents found out she was pregnant, they fired her immediately and sent him away to Europe.”

Steve places a gentle hand on your knee. “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“My mother then got a job at a travel agency, where she met my step-dad,” you finish your story, eyes cast downwards and studying your shoes. “Up until recently, I always believed Bruce was my real father.”

“How did you find out?”

Looking back up at Steve as he squeezes your knee, you smile half-heartedly. “I was cleaning out the attic and found my mother’s old yearbook. There was a check inside, and with the check came a note. My mother insisted I’d get the education she was deprived off, but it left us in great debt. That check is more than enough to settle everything.”

Steve nods sympathetically. “What about the note?”

“It read, “for our daughter” in a handwriting that I didn’t recognise. It certainly wasn’t Bruce’s because his writing is pure calligraphy. Immediately I rushed downstairs and asked my mother to come clean. She told me about my father, how he tried to worm his way back into her life and how she blocked all his attempts to reach out.”

“And you’re here hoping to find your Dad, hm?”

“Exactly,” you confirm, smiling down at where Steve’s hand still rests on your knee. His touch is warm, his palms slightly sweaty in this Italian summer heat. It’s a nice feeling and you’re a little sad when he catches you staring and retracts his hand.

“I didn’t have much to go on except for the check, so I called up my uncle Fury who’s a NYPD detective. He helped me dig a little deeper and here I am, with a name and an address. Apparently he travelled around Europe for many years but eventually settled down in Italy.”

Steve fiddles with his hands in his lap, unsure of what to do with his hands. It felt nice, his hand on your knee, but his hand lingered a little longer than he intended to and he isn’t quite sure why. “I take it he doesn’t know you’re coming?”

“Nope, not at all. My mother tried to talk me out of it but I have to meet him. I just have to,” you reply with adamant determination. “My stepfather Bruce and I planned this entire trip on our own and I left earlier this week without telling my mother where I was going. But Bruce must’ve told her by now. She hasn’t tried to contact me on my phone yet, so I have no idea if she’s gonna kick me out when I get back, if I get back.”

“Why wouldn’t you go back?,” the blond asks with a puzzled expression.

“It’s just,” you sigh heavily, glad to release this burden from your shoulders as the words rush out. “My mother has this plan for me and I have to adhere to that plan. I went to college, even though we couldn’t afford it. I studied business and economics so I could step in the family business and help Bruce with the travel agency.”

Steve chuckles in understanding. “But I take it you don’t want to?”

“Absolutely not. I – this is gonna sound silly – but I actually wanna bartend for a while. Up until last year, I did it to pay for expenses. I love coming up with new cocktail recipes and I’m a hoe for a glass of decent wine, which is pretty hard to come by back home.”

“That’s not silly. I completely get it.”

You turn your attention to Steve and his striking gaze, a sad glint to your eyes. “I grew up staring at pictures of exotic destinations far away from home. I grew up in a travel agency even though we don’t have any money to travel ourselves. I hated it.”

Steve’s lips move but there’s no sound, his words stripped from his mouth as soon as his friend Bucky enters the ice cream shop. “Buon giorno, Stevie,” the brunet greets him with a lopsided grin. “E chi è questa bellezza?” (Good day) (And who is this beauty?”)

“Bucky,” Steve introduces you to his friend, “This is Y/N.”

“Ah, an American beauty,” he winks at you with an obvious smug smile. “Bucky Barnes, nice to meet ya, doll.”

Steve stiffens slightly as he stands up next to you, watching with his bottom lip captured between his teeth how you shake Bucky’s hand and his thumb runs over your skin. Bucky’s ever the charmer and Steve never feels like he can compete with the brunet. He listens quietly as you and Bucky exchange small talk up until you touch his arm and shake him from his thoughts.

“You wanna walk me to May’s, Steve?,” you ask with a sweet smile, unfazed by Bucky’s attempts to talk you up. He’s friendly and attractive, but he isn’t your kind of guy.

Bucky winks at Steve from behind you, Steve shaking his head at his friend as he smiles down at you, too. “Yeah, I’ll walk ya, doll.” Steve turns to Bucky who gives him a subtle thumbs up. “See ya later, Buck?”

“Sure, Steve,” he smirks at you, waving at you both as you leave the gelateria. You walk down one street as it merges into another and a few silent moments pass before you clear your throat and have collected enough confidence to pick up where you left off.

“So how about you? What’s your story?”

He sighs heavily, carding his fingers through his short blond hair. After taking off his sunglasses, he stops near a little fountain at the side of the street where people are filling up their water bottles. “I had an Italian girlfriend,” Steve says with a little hesitation.

“She was an expat in America. We dated for two years until she had to return to her own country. Man, I was head over heels,” he reminiscences with a dry laugh. “So love-sick Steve enlisted for the foreign exchange programme and got himself a scholarship at an Italian university. I called her as soon as I landed at the airport, expecting her to pleasantly surprised.”

You hold up your hand to protect your eyes against the burning sun as you squint at him. “Guessing by your tone, she wasn’t?”

“Absolutely not,” he heaves out with a disappointed chuckle. “She had already moved on and hung up on me. So here I was, in a country I didn’t know, without a girlfriend or any other friends for that matter. Luckily I managed to get a last-minute room in an international student house with lots of other Americans, like Bucky, my best friend. Then I graduated and Bucky and I kinda stuck around. I share an apartment with him and some other expats at May’s hostel. She likes to take in strays.”

You laugh at his comment and Steve releases some of the tension he’s been piling up. It feels good to talk to somebody other than his friends about this. Despite only knowing you for a few feeble hours, he feels so at ease around you. “You’ll meet the squad soon enough, I believe everybody will be home by the time we arrive at May’s.”

“So now you work at the ice cream place?,” you inquire gently, following Steve into another tiny street. You can already spot the sign of the hostel and exhales happily.

“I’m an American with a degree in history, so it was very easy for me to get a job at the local tourist information centre as a tourist guide. Bucky and I help out at the ice cream shop every now and then. The owner, Coulson, is May’s brother and also American.” Steve points at a reddish brown door, the entrance to May’s B&B. “We’re here.”

It’s an old brick house, a picturesque four story home with a classic front. It’s typical Mediterranean style, emphasised by the rustic little plants and fruits decorating the window sills, enhanced with elaborate crowns and frames. It’s got a low-pitched flat roof with wide, overhanging eaves supported by decorative brackets. The tall windows allow plenty of light to enter and your eyes ball out at the elegant interior once Steve opens the door for you and you step inside.

“Hi Steve!,” a chipper voice calls out from the kitchen.

We turn face to face with a little brunette, a genuine smile permanently tugging her lips upwards. Even the sound of her laugh is infectious. “Y/N, meet Wanda. Wanda, meet Y/N.”

Wanda is a lovely girl and she envelopes you in a big, warm hug. “Hi Y/N! you’re just in time, I’ve just finished making dinner. Everybody is already at the table. You can put your bags in the living room for now, we can take them up to your room later.”

She takes your hand in hers and guides you through the kitchen towards the table at the back of the house where a neatly arranged garden lies. Around the table, various personalities are seated and talking animatedly. You’re a little intimidated as you didn’t know you’d be walking into a real family dinner.

“Please, sit down!,” Wanda smiles brightly as she shows you to one of the available seats, right next to Steve who nudges your side with a soft look in his eyes.

“Is she always like this?,” you whisper as Wanda places two big bowls of pasta on the table, telling everybody to dig in.

“Yeah, Wanda is always in a good mood. She loves to cook and since it’s Friday, she prepares dinner for the entire house. Everybody’s got a different schedule, but we make sure to spend some quality time together.”

Dinner is spent in comfortable chatter with Steve, talking about where you both grew up and what you aspire to do with your life. Steve first struck you as the outgoing type but the more you get to know of him, the more you find out he’s actually pretty introverted. He tells you about his two sisters, Peggy and Sharon, and how they used to stand up for him while he was little.

“I was a scrawny little kid that depended solely on his big sisters,” he jokes as he pours you another glass of wine. “But then I got my growth spurt and now it was my turn to defend my sisters from all their bad boyfriends.”

You can tell from the tenor of his voice that he loves his sisters very much. Peggy nowadays lives in London, with her husband and children. Sharon is still looking for the right one, just like Steve. In hindsight, he’s happy he got dumped by Valentina, because otherwise he would’ve stayed in his comfort zone for the rest of his life. If he hadn’t made that one, impulsive decision and flew to Italy, he would’ve never have met Bucky and the others.

“So who’s who?,” you inquire once all the plates are empty and everybody is waiting for Wanda to introduce the dessert, May’s famous tiramisu. “I don’t know anybody… Just you.”

Steve hums warmly. “Wanda you’ve already met, and the guy sitting next to her with the silver hair is Pietro. They’re Sokovian. Wanda works at the artisanal bakery around the corner where her brother does the deliveries as well.”

He points to the red-headed woman sitting across from them. “That’s Natasha, she’s Russian and works at the tourist information centre with me. She speaks more languages than I can count on my two hands. And next to her is T’Challa. He’s from Wakanda and still works for the university, as a counsellor for the exchange students.”

“Sam here is also American,” Steve says as he wraps his shoulder around the shoulders of the guy sitting next to him. “He’s a DJ at the local dancing and works most nights. Next to him is usually Bucky’s seat, but as you already know he’s got the late shift at the gelateria. Bucky’s basically the cleverest of us all and works for Stark at his vineyard. Together they make the best wines, even though they can’t stand each other at all.”

Steve laughs heartily and doesn’t notice how your heart constricts at the name Stark. Fortunately your attention is easily distracted as May silences the table. “So Y/N,” May smiles at you, “You must be very tired from travelling all this way. But I’m glad to see Stevie has taken you under his wing.”

“Yeah, he’s been a real gentleman,” you blush shyly, “He just introduced everybody at the table to me.”

“So you know about us but we don’t know anything about you,” the red-head, Natasha, grins at you with a haughty expression.

“Natasha,” Steve steps up for you, scolding her for being so curious.

“No, it’s fine,” you say softly, taking Steve’s hand under the table to let him know it’s okay. Your fingers touch just long enough to intertwine briefly as you exchange looks. “I’m here looking for my biological father.”

“Oh, interesting!,” Wanda chimes in, clapping her hands in excitement. “Do you know who he is? Where does he live? What does he do?”

“I – I know he is American and that his name is Tony.” The entire squad cheers at this, drawing his name from your lips.

“His name is Tony, Tony Stark,” you reveal and immediately, the table tumbles into a dead silence.

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#ice cream shop au #steve x reader #steve rogers #altcoffeeshopau

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lusilly · 7 years

Text

home safe and tucked away

Set between the onset of Damian’s illness in Orange Juice and a year-ish before Damian asks Bruce about Talia directly in Victis Honor, this is a wee mini fic concerning Damian’s state of mind when he’s ~15 years old, and finally gaining the vocabulary to call things he’s been through what they are. It’s also a glimpse into how Bruce is trying very hard to be a good parent, but he has no fucking clue how to do it. (Alfred’s better at it though.)

In which Talia wants to see Damian, and Bruce will not allow it, and Damian knows, despite himself, that he should not want to see her.

Title from “Broken Crown” by Mumford and Sons:

Touch my mouth and hold my tongue I'll never be your chosen one I'll be home safe and tucked away Well you can't tempt me if I don't see the day

Bruce’s phone rang at breakfast.

It was nearly two, but Bruce and Damian had only just returned from an extended mission in Hong Kong, and adapting back to their native time zone was slow going. For the sake of uniformity, Alfred declared long ago that breakfast was to be the first meal eaten upon waking up, no matter the time. So this was breakfast, full of protein and carbohydrates to keep the stamina up through long nights. Batman and Robin had been gone some time from Gotham, and therefore Alfred knew Bruce would intend to patrol until dawn, as if to make up for his absence.

It was a meal mostly in utilitarian silence, apart from Damian answering when Alfred asked how Cassandra was doing out there in Hong Kong; Bruce grunted once in assent when Damian asked if he thought Cass really was planning to visit home in September. “Maybe we can go to Disneyland again,” he said, referring to his trip with Cass to Disneyland on his twelfth birthday as a joke, but his tone sounded only artificially derisive. Alfred sensed he would very much like another visit to an amusement park with his adopted sister.

After a few more minutes of silence, Alfred asked Damian how the Titans were doing; Damian coughed slightly, swallowed his bite of beans on toast (a British taste Damian had somehow inherited, though Bruce had never warmed up to it), and replied. “Doing well,” he answered, nodding. “Lian tried to organize a mission last week without me, though I heard it didn’t go anywhere.”

“Of course,” answered Alfred, with measured tone. “How could they think to embark upon a dangerous mission without their fearless leader?”

Despite a small roll of his eyes, this clearly stroked Damian’s ego, and he allowed himself a small grin. “No,” he remarked, with a generous shrug. “I say if Lian wants to lead them so badly, so be it. She may not be the strongest, physically speaking, but she certainly is the loudest.”

With a twinkle in his eye, Alfred asked, “Isn’t Wally West’s daughter also on that team? If I recall correctly, in your brother’s time he was always the one with the biggest mouth.”

The hint of a blush might’ve entered Damian’s cheeks. “Yes, well,” he began, “Iris doesn’t need to be our leader – tactically speaking, I wouldn’t waste her magnificent power by keeping her tied behind the controls-”

A loud, shrill ringing interrupted Damian’s conversation. Both he and Alfred glanced towards Bruce, who set down his fork and produced a sleek black cell phone from his pocket.

“Is it Miss Vale?” asked Alfred, with some interest. “She’s been calling the house for the past week about the gala you missed.”

Bruce squinted down at the screen, as if through spectacles he wasn’t wearing. “Don’t recognize the number,” he murmured. He hovered his finger above the Answer bubble, then hesitated. To himself, he muttered, “What would Bruce Wayne be doing at two PM on a Tuesday…?”

There was a moment’s pause; shrilly, the phone continued to ring.

With a hint of scorn, Damian offered, “…Having breakfast?”

Bruce looked at his son, blinked, and then a hint of a smile tugged at his lips. He instantly assumed an affected character as he answered the phone, leaning back in his seat. “Yello!” he said, in that tone of voice Damian could hardly even recognize as his father. “Brucie speaking, who is this!”

There was a flicker of something, and then he got to his feet. “Oh, yeah,” he continued, to whomever was on the other line. “Yeah, yeah, sure thing. No problem. You betcha.”

At Damian’s look, Bruce gave a vague wave of his hand to indicate, Just a second, and left the dining room out of the tall door which led to the hall to the drawing room. The dining room was left once more in silence.

Damian watched the door for a moment, fork in hand. Then he looked back at Alfred.

“No,” said Alfred firmly, reading the expression on the boy’s face. “Finish eating before you bother him.”

“That wasn’t some reporter,” said Damian.

“An old flame feeling neglected by the playboy billionaire, then,” said Alfred simply. “He left so as not to spare you the embarrassment of listening to him lie to some poor young woman, in all likelihood. You should be grateful.”

“You saw his face,” said Damian.

“I see his face every day,” replied Alfred. “A look of mild disturbance is not unusual. In fact, it would be more unusual to see him without it.”

Damian looked back towards the door. “I’m going to go see who it is,” he said.

“Master Damian, please,” said Alfred, placing one hand firmly on Damian’s shoulder, gently keeping him in place. Meeting Damian’s gaze, Alfred said, “This relationship you are both trying so hard to foster – it must go both ways, you know. He allows you your privacy, and you must allow him his.”

“It’s a call on his unencrypted phone,” Damian pointed out. “There’s nothing private about it.”

“He left the room.”

“So?”

“So clearly he would prefer if you did not hear his conversation.”

“He’s the one who answered his phone at the table.”

Alfred watched Damian for a moment with narrowed eyes.

Then he sighed and gestured towards the door, turning back to his own plate of food. Without hesitation, Damian got up and went to the door, opening it quietly and slipping out quickly so that his father wouldn’t notice.

Bruce was in the drawing room adjacent to the hall where Damian now stood. Damian sidled up against the wall, moving as close as he could to the large open entrance to the drawing room. From the first sounds of his father’s voice, Damian could tell that he was facing away from the entrance, his voice bouncing against a wall. Cautiously, quick as a knife, Damian glanced around the wall to peek into the room.

Bruce stared out of a square window at the summertime heat drenching the grounds. One arm was folded across his chest in an oddly defensive position, supporting the elbow of the arm which held the phone.

“No,” Bruce said lowly. This was not the same voice with which he had answered the phone: this was the voice Damian had come to associate with his father in their most genuine moments. Too hard, too quiet to be the Bruce the press knew, and yet gentle enough so as to not sound like Batman barking orders.

Damian strained his ears.

“No,” repeated Bruce, with a little more emphasis this time. “What makes you think I would allow that?” A pause. Disdainfully, Bruce said, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

A longer pause. “Because it’s not about that,” Bruce continued, with some venom. “It’s about what you’ve done to him. Don’t do this with me,” he warned whoever was on the other line. “I don’t know how you got this number, or how you think this is in any way appropriate, or what you’re planning that you want him back so badly, but I can tell you it isn’t going to happen.”

Damian’s heart rose into his throat and he froze, suddenly realizing who was on the other line.

“Don’t call again,” said Bruce, and then the other room plunged into silence. For a moment nothing happened; Damian imagined his parents both frozen, mirror images of one another from thousands of miles away, still and quiet and staring with burning eyes at the phone in their hand.

When Bruce began to move again, Damian thought about slipping away, back into the dining room to take his seat beside Alfred and pretend he hadn’t just heard such damning evidence of something he’d convinced himself would never happen again: his mother wanted to see him.

But despite himself, he couldn’t come up with a good reason to move. So when Bruce passed the threshold back into the hall, and turned to find Damian standing there with his back against the wall – the look in his eyes a little bit defiant, a little bit shocked – Bruce stopped, and he looked at his son, and if Damian were less upset he might’ve seen the flicker of regret in his father’s expression.

As it was, Bruce watched Damian for a moment. “I suppose it’d be too optimistic for me to ask you to pretend you didn’t just hear that.”

Grimly, Damian nodded.

“Any chance you’d believe I was talking to Dick?”

Damian didn’t even bother responding to this. When he spoke, his voice, though low, slapped across Bruce’s face as sharp and stinging as a cold wind off the bay. “Is this the first time you’ve heard from her?”

Bruce almost cocked his head. “In some time, yes.”

“What does that mean?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Again, Damian asked: “What does that mean?”

“She’s made contact,” answered Bruce lowly, with more spite than reluctance. “This is the first time I’ve spoken to her directly.”

“She wanted to talk to me,” said Damian bluntly.

“No, she didn’t.”

“But she wants to see me.”

From the window in the adjacent drawing room, sunlight spilled out into the hall, draping Bruce in peculiar light. He looked tired, and older than Damian saw him in his mind’s eye, when he closed his eyes.

Quietly, Bruce replied, “She wants you back. There’s a difference.”

“She’s the one who left me with you to begin with,” said Damian immediately, cutting through Bruce’s words like glass. “Why would she want me back now?”

Again, Bruce said nothing. He gave a shrug, cell phone still in hand. “I don’t know,” he said, honestly.

“You haven’t asked her?”

“You think she’d tell me the truth?”

“I don’t know,” Damian shot back. “You’re the one who used to love her, not me.”

While it was true enough that Bruce did once love Talia, it was a lie that Damian never loved his mother. Bruce knew this: he did not know if Damian did anymore. Lately, if he ever talked about his mother it was with genuine disgust in his voice. As a younger child, Damian had maintained a sort of snooty reverence of his mother, some assurance that she was still somehow better than any of his father’s family in every possible way. And yet, within the past year, this had disappeared, and suddenly he spoke of her with venom on his tongue.

This had coincided with an official diagnosis earlier this year of PTSD, though the details of this Damian refused to share with his father. Alfred had spoken to Damian’s therapist, but Bruce had chosen not to be a part of that conversation. Somehow, though it wrenched with pain at his heart, Bruce knew that he did not want to know. Then there had been that college-level psychology course Alfred had been coaching Damian through, and the particular interest Damian had demonstrated in abnormal psychology, which had extended the course through summer. Bruce didn’t like the snoop on Damian’s education because he knew from firsthand experience that the Batman checking in on schoolwork only heightened the pressure his sons felt, but he had taken noticed of some of the books Damian ordered with Bruce’s credit card; textbooks, mostly, but buried among them were a number of self-help books. Those on healing; on trauma; on recovering from parental abuse.

The word frightened Bruce, if he was honest with himself. Sometimes when he could not sleep he sat up through the early hours of dawn and scoured through his memory, searching for moments when his methods of raising a child became too extreme, too dangerous. Instances came to mind far too easily. There had been worse moments with the other boys, that much was clear to Bruce – he had learned, eventually, that a child was not the same as a soldier – but it had scared him, looking up those book synopses on Amazon, wondering of which parent Damian thought when reading them.

Bruce gestured towards the door to the dining room. “Can we go back to breakfast?” he asked.

“You owe me an explanation first,” Damian replied stonily, arms crossed over his chest.

“I don’t have much of one to offer,” Bruce said smoothly. “And, unless you object to Alfred overhearing our argument, I’m sure this would be better for the both of us if we could return to our meal.”

Heatedly, Damian began, “I never said this was an argument-” but his tone betrayed him, and Bruce gave him a mild, pointed look.

Again, Bruce gestured towards the door. For a moment he didn’t think Damian was going to budge. Then Damian let out an angry little breath, and turned around to head back to breakfast. Bruce followed him, gently placing a hand on his son’s back. Damian shrugged him off, but not violently.

In the dining room, Alfred sat reading the Gazette. “Thank you,” said Bruce, as both he and Damian took a seat, “for encouraging my son’s misbehavior, Alfred.”

With a slight shrug, Alfred replied pleasantly, “You are the one who answered his phone at breakfast, sir.”

Though he seemed more upset than angry, there was still genuine rancor in Damian’s words as he demanded, “How is it misbehavior to want to know what my mother is saying about me?”

Bruce reminded him, “You didn’t know it was your mother when you followed me out of the room.”

“I knew it was someone.”

“Damian, of course it was someone-”

“What did Talia have to say?” asked Alfred mildly, interrupting before either father or son could make the situation worse for themselves; then, on second thought, he added, “Though I don’t expect it to be happy news, I am unquestionably glad she has resorted to normal means of communication, rather than notes left cryptically in burnt-out apartments, or else messages sent by way of assassin.”

Damian’s gaze snapped up to Alfred, eyes wide and vicious. His nostrils flared slightly. “You knew?” he asked. “You knew my mother was trying to contact me?”

“Not you, Master Damian,” replied Alfred, reaching out to pat Damian’s hand reassuringly. He flinched away from the touch, which instantly alarmed Bruce: when Damian’s sensitivity to touch flared up, it typically meant they were approaching a genuine full-blown episode. “I believe she had a question for your father.”

Damian looked back to Bruce. “About me.”

“Parents often talk of their children,” Alfred said, with no hint of malice. “It is not as unusual as you seem to think, Master Damian.” He reached for the milk jug just past Damian, found it difficult to handle properly – though he wouldn’t admit it, arthritis was beginning to riddle his joints, particularly his fingers and hands – and after one moment, both Bruce and Damian reached out to help him; Damian grasped the thing first, and refilled Alfred’s glass.

“I have a right to know what she says about me,” said Damian, setting down the jug. His tone was lower now, more in control; Bruce watched him carefully, searching for any small betrayal of a compulsion, of his OCD working him up into a frenzy.

Alfred took his glass and sipped at the contents thoughtfully. “Why?” he asked.

Damian stared at him. “What do you mean, why?”

“I mean,” Alfred replied, with a shrug, “why? Do you want to know what she says about you? Do you think it will make you feel better?”

“I – if she wants to see me-”

“Do you want to see her?”

Angrily, Damian retorted, “Of course not!”

“Then why does it matter?” Alfred insisted. “For all you know, she wants to recruit you into her various assassin-filled organizations, because one of your teachers has been killed and she now has an unoccupied space she must fill. Or otherwise,” he continued shortly, “perhaps she would like to invite you into her home for a sixteenth birthday celebration.” He paused; then, again, he asked, “Does it matter?”

Damian watched Alfred with weary eyes for a moment.

Then he picked up his fork and poked at his food. When he brought a forkful of egg whites to his mouth, Bruce let out an inward sigh of relief: when Damian was at his worst, he couldn’t even touch food. This was a good sign.

Bruce too resumed his meal, though cautiously, glancing in between Alfred and Damian. After so long Bruce assumed Damian had decided to leave Alfred’s question unanswered, Damian surprised him by speaking.

“No,” he murmured. “I guess it doesn’t.”

They finished their meal in peace.

#damian wayne #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #my writing #fic #earth 28 #i haven't written anything in forever and i miss Projecting onto damian lmao #plus i've talked a ton about this time with damian well and truly Hates talia #which is tied up in self-hate too #and it lessens when he gets older and understands his father's moral code is not the End All Be All #but then gets hard again when he has children of his own

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