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heyitsani · 3 years

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I Keep My Eyes Wide Open All the Time Chapter 7

Word Count: 11,458

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Major character death, Mentions of past rape/non-con (eventually)

Pairing: Jason Todd/Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne/Jon Kent

Notes: I’m sorry! Just it’s really sad, so I’m sorry. There’s some cute fluff in there, but it’s still really really really sad.

If you have not read When You Move I Move, this one won’t really make much sense. So you can read that here: WYMIM

You can also read this chapter on AO3 here

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Damian hesitated outside of the small shop Victor had directed him to as Madame Xanadu’s storefront and home. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was expecting to happen in there, but he was nervous all the same. This woman knew secrets that Victor and his father had been unwilling to share. His father had said there was no point in burdening his heart and Victor had simply said it was not his secret to share.

So that was how he ended up making his way into the lower levels of the city with Victor just behind him.

“You do not have to do this,” the guard told him, looking at him from his post near the door. “Your father is not wrong. You do not need this burden.”

“And what would you do in my place?”

Victor was silent for a beat before sighing, nodding his head in agreement. “I, too, would want to know. But knowing what the truth is, I would also wish I didn’t.”

“You are entirely unhelpful.” Victor shrugged before reaching out and opening the door for Damian, taking the decision out of his hands. With a glare and then a sigh, Damian slipped into the shop and straightened his spine in preparation.

“Your Highness,” a gentle voice greeted him. Turning he spotted the woman with pale skin and kind eyes. “I did wonder when you would make your way to me. I could not see that future very clearly. But at this time, it does make sense.”

Damian considered her closely, frowning at her words. She didn’t look exactly like he had imagined, but he wasn’t really sure what he had been expecting to begin with. He could feel the power coming off of her though and wondered if everyone could feel how strongly it resonated with her. Glancing around the room, he took in the various potions and vials. There an entire wall covered with powers and other items, that he assumed she used to make her goods. A small portion of wall was comprised of books and Damian was curious what was written within their leather bounds.

“Have you come to me for a reason, Your Highness?”

Clearing his throat, Damian pulled his eyes away from her belongings to look at her again. “Yes, I have come to discuss my father.”

“Hmm,” Xanadu hummed, nodding sadly. “The country will be in heavy mourning sooner rather than later.” Damian’s jaw clenched. He knew that, but no one had been willing to say it up until now. His grandfather had been silent on all of it and the doctors had tried to give them hope. But Damian knew the truth. He had been watching it happen for years.

“It is a broken heart, isn’t it?” The woman hummed again, and Damian felt as though a hand had gripped his heart. “Ever since that day, he seemed to be only a shade of the man he was with Ser Jason. He did try so hard to keep it hidden. To remain strong. Those nights we sat together were not enough to quell his pain.”

“It never is,” she confirmed. And Damian had figured. Though he had never addressed the man as such, he had always thought of him as another father. And it had been difficult to light his pyre and mourn him. To this day, his heart still ached with that loss. But he knew it was so much more painful for his father. Damian had never known that kind of love, not yet at least, but he had seen its rarity and beauty through the two of them. “But this is not why you have come to see me, is it Your Highness?”

“It is not,” he confirmed. “Do you have somewhere more private we can discuss this? Or is it safe here?” She tilted her head and he waited, watching her watch him. Then she waved him forward and he followed her through a curtain covered doorway into a back room.

The first thing he noticed was the smell of fresh rain. It was so striking and so surprising, it made him pause. It was all he smelled despite the two separate tables covered with various substances and mixing bowls. The next thing he noticed was the fact that he could no longer hear the outside world. It was silent.

“An enchantment,” Madame Xanadu explained when he turned questioning eyes onto her. “The scent can be too strong most of the time and the sounds distracting. No one can hear us either. So, you may speak freely here.” She gestured to a stool as she sat on another one. He nodded and took a seat, back ramrod straight as he steeled himself. “Now, what is it you wish to know?”

Taking a deep breath, Damian let it out slowly. “My mother,” he started, watching her closely. “She had a part in Ser Jason’s death.” The woman only nodded. “Did you?”

“No,” she said simply.

“But you knew of her involvement in his death?”

“Not until after it had happened. She went outside of our city in order to seek the help she needed. I do not have the kind of power required and none, including myself, in Gotham who do would have done what she wanted.”

Damian considered that a positive at least. His father and Ser Jason were at least loved enough to inspire that kind of loyalty.

“And before you ask, Your Highness, I do not know who she got to do her bidding. I would have told your father if I had. They, too, should be brought to justice.” Sighing, Damian slouched slightly in defeat. He thought maybe he could make something right in a situation where he had no control. “Do you want to know the whole story of your mother’s deeds?”

“I do, if you would be willing to tell me.” The woman regarded him for a moment before nodding and gesturing for Damian to sit on one of the stools. Once he was comfortable as he could be, she went to her table and began sorting through some dried plants.

“Your mother came to me when you were about the age of eleven,” she talked as she worked with her items and Damian’s eyes tracked her movements with thinly veiled curiosity. “Though disguised, I am skilled at the art of aura reading and hers was always quite…demanding, I suppose you could say.” That seemed about right. The woman had been known for her headstrong nature. “But I played her game and listened to her woes.

“She spun a tale of a man she wed and gave an heir, a man she had fallen in love with but who had not fallen in love with her. She made mention of a man her husband loved but could not be with for family and duty. She said she knew her husband could love her if only this man were not around. That was when I told her I would not kill for her, no matter what she paid me, and she asked for a compromise. She asked for a curse that would destine them to always be within reach of the other, but never be allowed to really be with one another.”

Damian gripped the edge of the seat he was on and clenched his jaw. He knew his mother was mean spirited, but he had never known her to be outright cruel. She had asked to strip two men who loved each other of the chance to love each other freely and wholly. “And you did what she asked?”

“I did,” she looked up at Damian with a sad nod. “I did because I knew she was desperate enough to go to another if I did not.” His shoulders lowered as he sighed and nodded. She certainly would have. “I gave her what she wanted with a stipulation attached to it.” Straightening his spine back up, Damian held his breath. This sounded like hope.

“I told her I would make the curse for her but should one of them fall before the age of ten and six that the curse would be broken and they would be reunited.”

Furrowing his brow, Damian tried to decipher that. “Reunited as in the next life?”

“That is not for me to say.”

“But you do know?”

“I do,” she confirmed. “But as I told your father, they have many lifetimes of suffering between them before they will finally be allowed to be together. From that day and all lifetimes after it.” It was a minor comfort to know she had at least seen it. He was sure his father had felt the same. “I did do your father a favor when I told him of his wife’s hand in his lover’s death. I gave him a potion to take that would separate the thread between him and your mother until the lifetime they are to be reunited.”

“And he took it.” It wasn’t a question. Damian knew there would be no chance his father would not want his former wife’s presence gone from his world for as long as possible. But that left his existence in question then. “What does that mean for me?”

Xanadu didn’t answer immediately. Instead she placed her various plants she had been grinding down into a fine powder into a vial before adding some liquid to it and stirring it together, whispering words that seemed to ignite whatever was in there and turned the liquid from clear to blood red.

“For you, my future king,” she said as she capped the vial with a small cork, “it means that you will not be of his blood. But your presence is in as many of his lives that I have been given insight to.” She rounded the table and Damian slipped off the stool to stand when she stopped in front of him.

“Will they remember? Will any of us remember?”

“To an extent all of you mortals remember your previous lives. Perhaps not always evident, but they linger just below the surface of your minds.” The act of keeping herself out of the “mortals” comment did not surpass him, but he knew better than to question. Instead, he thought about the pain his father and Ser Jason were to face with lifetimes of loving each other but not being able to be with one another.

“Can you make us forget? Can you spare them the pain that would come with the curse?” He questioned her, though part of him wondered if she already knew he was going to ask. “Please, I’ll pay you whatever you require. Please do not make them carry that pain into each life.”

She held out the vial of blood red liquid and Damian hesitated a moment before he took it into his palm. It was warm to the touch and the power within the glass made him clench his jaw. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew this was the answer he sought.

“Your payment?”

Holding up a hand, Madame Xanadu shook her head. “I require nothing. But be sure you give this to him before you are crowned. I do not know how much longer he will be with us.”

Clenching his hand around the vial, Damian gave her a bow. “Thank you.” Her soft laughter caused him to jerk upright in surprise.

“I apologize, Your Highness. I just see so much of your father in you. Bowing to a lowly healer, imagine.” She chuckled as she moved toward the entrance that would take them back out to the main shop and Damian followed. “Before you are crowned, do not forget.” He gave a nod as they stepped into the main room and toward the exit where he knew Ser Victor would be waiting.

“Thank you for telling me, Madame. You owe me nothing, but now I owe you much. Please call on me should you find yourself in need of my service.” He gave another bow, much to her apparent amusement, before stepping out of the store. “Come, Ser Victor. I desire some tea with Father.”

The soldier looked at the prince before looking back to the shop in confusion. Damian raised a brow in question and watched as the man shrugged and gestured for Damian to lead the way.

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“Richard, honestly,” Damian could hear his Uncle Timothy berating his father on the other side of the room, but he tried to block the two men out as he continued to run his quill across the parchment. He had started and stopped the letter to Jon far too many times now and had decided to simply write whatever came to mind and hope that it made sense to the other man.

He had been putting off requesting the other man’s presence since finding out about his father’s illness, but he wanted the older man there when he was crowned in less than a week’s time.

“Nephew, please. I require your assistance…” His uncle’s voice came closer until he was standing beside where Damian was seated. When his words trailed off, Damian glanced up and found the man’s blue eyes on the letter.

“What do you require of me, Uncle?” Damian asked, not bothering to hide the contents of the letter. He did not for a moment think his uncle wasn’t aware of Jon’s feelings and what had transpired between them when Jon had shown up before abruptly leaving the same day.

The man looked at him with a sort of understanding in his eyes and Damian held his breath for a moment. “He will not hesitate to come once you ask him to. But I do not know that he will make it in time for the crowing, Nephew. Not if your rider does not wear his horse out.”

Damian nodded, knowing the rider needed to leave soon if there were to be any hope, but he didn’t say anything.

“Now, I cannot for the life of me get your father to eat.” Damian frowned and looked over at the man. His father was wrapped in a warm blanket despite the warm early summer day and him being on the window seat, basking in the sunlight. “No matter what I try, he tells me he is not hungry. I do not think he has eaten since yesterday morning.”

“No, he probably hasn’t,” Damian spoke softly. “And I do not know that I will be able to influence him any more than you can, Uncle. But I shall try. Might I finish this letter first?” His uncle smiled and squeezed his shoulder before walking back over to where the king was seated.

Damian watched them for a moment longer before turning back to finish the letter begging Jon to come. Father is sick and I am to be crowned early and would like you there scrawled across the page, conveying his pain and desperate need for his best friend. He did not mention the change of law his father had done for them or the fact that he had figured out his own feelings for the man. He simply requested his presence in one of the most painful and trying times of his life.

“I shall be back in a moment,” Damian called to the two men, who nodded in response, before hurrying out of the room to find his usual rider. He spoke quickly with the man and requested he take the fastest horse, even if it were one of Damian’s or the king’s. The man agreed and accepted the letter before turning to head back to the study where his uncle and father waited.

“Your Highness!” Frowning, Damian turned to see his rider rushing back toward him with someone just behind him. “Perhaps you might give the letter to Prince Jon yourself,” the rider teased, handing the letter back just as Damian realized it was Jon who was there.

He stood frozen with the letter in hand as his rider made his exit and Jon closed the remaining distance between them. There were no words, no vocal greeting, and no warning before Jon was engulfing him in a tight embrace. Damian didn’t hesitate in returning the embrace, sinking into the familiar feel of Jon’s lithe form and the familiarity of his scent. He took the comfort he didn’t allow others to give him.

The silence stretched between them but felt comfortable and familiar.

But eventually Damian’s sense of duty took over and he pulled back to look at Jon. Though having hit his final growth spurt and gaining his final inches that put him above his father’s height and just below his grandfather’s, Damian found he still had to look up at Jon.

“What…how…?” Damian tried to think of the right question, but he wasn’t sure what he was trying to ask.

“Your father wrote to me,” Jon told him, placing a hand on Damian’s cheek. Damian’s eyes slipped shut at the feel of his thumb brushing against his cheekbone. How had he never noticed this…this energy between them? How had he never felt this charge to his heart that felt so familiar? Had he been feeling it all this time without realizing? Perhaps that was why it didn’t surprise him. “Damian…” Blinking his eyes open, he looked up to see the sadness he felt reflected in Jon’s eyes.

Raising his hand and gripping Jon’s wrist, Damian turned his face and kissed the inside of Jon’s wrist. “Thank you for coming,” he whispered against the delicate skin there. Turning to look back at Jon, he smiled softly at the look of shock that had taken over his features. “The rider who led you here was on his way to deliver you a letter,” Damian told him, holding up the parchment folded and sealed with his personal seal and green wax. “We have much to talk about, but it was I who required your strength this time.”

“You have it,” Jon said immediately, no hesitation as his eyes searched Damian’s. And Damian knew he was probably desperate for answers, but he also knew he needed to get back to his father and uncle before his uncle came searching for him.

“I need to return to my father and our uncle. Will you join us? Perhaps your presence will do him some good.” Jon nodded but Damian could see the question in his eyes. “After…we will talk. I promise.” Though it wasn’t much, it appeared to be enough for Jon. Sighing, Damian pulled Jon’s hand away from his face and laced their fingers together before leading them back to the study where the other two men were waiting.

“Jon!” His father called out as soon as they stepped into the room. Damian watched his uncle rush to help his brother stand to greet the prince but Jon released Damian’s hand and rushed forward.

“Please, Your Majesty,” he chided the older man, pushing him to sit back down. The king laughed softly but followed the silent command.

“Nephew,” Damian’s uncle greeted Jon with a hug before sending Damian an amused look. “That letter worked more quickly than I thought it would,” the man teased Damian and Jon let out a laugh of his own when he glanced over at the other prince.

“Yes, well,” Damian cleared his throat and moved over to his father’s side. “I am famished. Shall we call for lunch?” He gave his father a look that was met with amused annoyance, but a nod.

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“Thank you,” Damian said quietly to the servant who had brought the tray with tea for himself and Jon to share while they had the talk Damian had promised they would.

“Do you require anything else, Your Highness?” Damian glanced at Jon who was seated across from him in the study. The man smiled but shook his head.

Damian looked back to the woman and shook his head as well. “Please tell Ser Kyle not to allow anyone to disturb us unless it is about Father.” The woman looked at him sadly, but nodded her head before bowing and exiting the room. He kept his eyes on the door for a moment before leaning back in his chair with a sigh and looking toward Jon. He wasn’t surprised to find the prince regarding him closely, but he didn’t have the energy to try and discern what exactly the man was thinking. “I am glad you have come,” he broke the silence.

“I would have rushed if your letter had been the first to reach me, to be sure I arrived in time.” And Damian knew he would have. It was why he had written to begin with. Damian would have done the same, had done the same. “I find myself unable to say no to you most of the time.”

“I can say the same in regard to you,” Damian admitted, a small smile slipping into place. “I can say much of the same things you seem to be able to say about me.” Jon’s eyebrow raised and a curious look took over his features, but he remained silent. It was as if he knew Damian needed to be able to get this out in his own time. “I should have sent word to you the day you left. I should have called you back then, once I had come to understand what it was I felt toward you.” Perhaps then he wouldn’t have felt so alone when he learned it was only a matter of time before he lost his father.

He watched Jon lean forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. Damian tracked the movement with interest. “And what have you come to understand?”

“That you are the very air I breathe,” he spoke softly, but with surety. This was his moment to prove to Jon that it wasn’t a passing fancy and that no one had influenced him to feel this way. That he was being more honest and open than he had ever allowed himself to be. “That the mere thought of you looking at someone else the way you look at me would be as painful as if you were to steal my heart from my chest. I do not know how I missed it and I cannot for the life of me figure out for how long I have been blind to that…look upon your face.” He watched Jon’s smile grow, a laugh slipping easily from his lips and Damian felt his own smile grow to match it.

Sitting up straighter, he looked at Jon earnestly. “I am in love with you Prince Jon of House Kent. I am in love with you and would be foolish to allow you to ever think I am anything less then completely lost without you.” And though he saw it coming in the tensing of his body, Damian still allowed himself to be somewhat surprised to have Jon pushed out of his seat and pull Damian out of his. There was a split-second moment where Jon smiled down at him, open and happy, before he pressed his lips to Damian’s.

And though there was so much going on in his world, he allowed Jon to pull him into this moment of oblivion. He allowed himself to get lost in the feeling of Jon’s soft lips and warm body pressed against him. He allowed himself to enjoy the shiver of excitement he felt at the feel of Jon’s hand gripping the small hairs at the back of his neck. He let his own hands grip Jon’s hips, pulling him even closer.

“I didn’t want to hope,” Jon whispered, pulling back just enough for them to breathe and look into each other’s eyes. “I didn’t dare hope you would come to this conclusion because I did not think I could survive it if you didn’t.”

Damian raised one of his hands and brushed his fingers along Jon’s cheek before letting his hand cup the side of his face gently. “How could I feel anything else? How could I do anything but love the one person who is not obligated to love me, but does so freely and willingly?” Jon’s eyes turned watery and his laugh was enough to send Damian’s stomach tumbling and a terrible fluttering to overtake his chest.

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Damian remained still while Stu finished the final alterations to the royal robes and just watched the man work. He listened to him go on about his grandchildren and how he was fairly sure this would be his final crowning ceremony he worked on because his old bones ached. Damian laughed and told the man he would outlive them all, but the older man just waved off the words and gathered up his things to put back into his case.

“I do believe my work is done,” the man said, looking over his work with a nod. “You will make a wonderful king, Your Highness.” Damian looked at himself in the looking glass and swallowed down the tears that tried to push forward. “I do wish it were under better circumstances, but I am certain he has no doubts about what great things you shall accomplish.”

Looking down at the man, Damian gave a weak smile. “Thank you,” voice hoarse and tight. The older man just smiled, gave his cheek a pat and grabbed his things. Soon enough Damian found himself alone in the room just off the main hall where the ceremony would be taking place. He could hear the servants bustling about the halls as they prepared for tomorrow and all Damian wanted to do was curl up in his father’s bed and give into the tears that so desperately wanted to fall.

“Look at you,” a voice broke through his inner turmoil and Damian turned quickly to find his father in the doorway. He was surprised at how healthy the older man looked, but Damian wasn’t fooled. He knew Madame Xanadu had visited him the day before. He knew the healer had probably given him something to help him get through the next few days. “I thought we might have a talk since neither of us is needed elsewhere until dinner.”

Nodding, Damian moved over to sit on the plush bench in the room. He watched his father shut the door behind him and move over to sit down next to him with a tired smile. Whatever the woman had done for his father might have those who did not know him fooled, but the rest of them could tell. They could see the weariness and pain in his eyes. The pinched look of his smile that was usually so open and bright. He was a fraction of the man he used to be, the man Damian worshiped and strove so hard to be like. The best kind of man that he could only hope to make proud one day.

“Are you nervous for tomorrow?” His father questioned, watching him closely as he always did when he wanted to be sure Damian was telling him the truth.

But Damian didn’t need to lie about this. “No, I have spent too many years with this as my goal.” That seemed to shift something in his father’s eyes and Damian wished he had chosen his words more carefully. “I only mean to say that Mother was so focused on preparing me for the crown it would be surprising if I felt unprepared to take the throne. So no, I am not nervous to be crowned.”

“I sense a but coming.”

“But I am nervous to not have you here to look to when I am faced with something I am not certain how to handle. Father,” Damian leaned forward and gripped the older man’s hands and looking him straight in the eye, “is there nothing to be done? I know Madame Xanadu called upon you yesterday. Surely there must be something she can do. All that power and she cannot find a way to heal you?”

The king remained silent for a few moments before sighing and Damian knew. He just knew he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear. “I do not want her to,” his father admitted, and Damian pulled his hands away as if he had been burned. “Please do not be angry with me, My Son. I couldn’t stand that.”

“Then why? Why would you be perfectly fine with leaving your family behind before your time? How can you be okay leaving me behind?”

“Because I know you will be okay.” Damian shook his head as tears burned his eyes. Tears he had only allowed to fall a small handful of times in the private company of his father or Jon. No one else had been allowed to see them fall thus far. “I am broken, Damian. I have been for some years now. Even before I lost your father. I tried to shield you from so much and there is much you have no inkling of that has done nothing but worn me down over the years. When Jason was here, I had someone to share those…woes with. But since he has been gone, I have not wanted to burden anyone with that weight.”

“But it would not be a burden for your family. Please, Father,” Damian begged. He closed his eyes when one of the king’s hands came up and cupped his cheek. “Please.”

“I would stay for you if you asked it of me and truly meant it.” Damian’s eyes snapped open and his brow furrowed. Was that not what he was currently asking his father? Was that not exactly what he had been saying? “You do not mean it. I know you think you do, but I know your heart. I know you would regret asking this of me in a few years’ time and that guilt would eat away at you.”

Damian didn’t say anything, but he processed what his father was saying. Would he feel that way? Would he feel guilty for asking the man to stay just so he would have him around? But that just spurned more questions. Did his father not deserve to rest? Did he not deserve to have the weight of all he had endured over his lifetime lifted so he might start anew?

“I see the truth in your eyes.”

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Damian blinked back the tears that still threatened to fall. “Do you know when? Do you know how soon you will leave us?”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at his father when the man sighed and let his hand slip away from Damian’s cheek. “I do know, and I will not tell you. I do not want you focused on that. I want you to enjoy what we have remaining.”

That was fair. Even Damian knew he wouldn’t be able to think of anything else if he knew.

“I know it is not fair,” his father spoke softly, and Damian was surprised to see tears brimming his father’s eyes. “But I am glad to leave you with someone like Jon to love you. I am glad I was able to remove the obstacle keeping you from being with him. And all future rulers, whoever they may be.”

Leaning forward, Damian embraced his father tightly and closed his eyes tightly. “Thank you for being the best man I have ever known. Thank you for protecting me and loving me as you have. I can only hope that my children will feel as loved as you always allowed me to feel.”

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He had never noticed the intricate details carved into the wood of the doors to the grand ballroom where his crowning was about to take place. Dragons and knights, crowns and scepters all seamlessly coming together as they surrounded the crest of Gotham. He wasn’t sure how he had never noticed it, but it was hard to miss as he stood waiting for his entrance to be announced to the full room. A room filled with royals, commoners, and everything in between. And the courtyard of the castle was filled with even more, the sounds of them excitedly waiting for him to step out to greet them as their king. His father had made a passing comment about how he was fairly certain Damian had drawn a larger crowd than Richard himself.

Damian didn’t believe that for a moment, but he appreciated the effort.

“It is time, Your Highness,” Ser Kyle said as he came up beside the prince. Damian looked over at him and nodded. “Good luck.” And with that the two doors were opened to reveal the inside of the ballroom.

“His Highness, Crown Prince Damian Wayne of Gotham,” the Herald called out as Damian steadily made his way down the center aisle of the room with his head held high. He made eye contact with a few familiar faces before his eyes landed on Jon, who was beaming from his spot next to his father, the former king of Metropolis. With a slight quirk of his lip, Damian turned his eyes to the two people waiting him at the top of the small set of steps that led to the rostrum.

The Archbishop stood with his hands clasped in front of his familiar gold and white robes, embroidery of Wayne blue making intricate patterns along the thick material. The man was one Damian had been familiar with since he had been the one who had crowned his father and grandfather. And Damian knew this would likely be his final coronation.

Next to him, his father stood in his royal robes that were not so dissimilar to the ones Damian wore currently. Though his black and blue were a contrast to Damian’s chosen green and black. The wink of red clasping both of their cloaks in place at the base of their throats was a decision made just between the two of them. A nod to the man who should be there with them but was taken from them. Damian let his eyes slide up to the crown adorning his father’s head that would soon be resting on his own head and steeled his spine.

He came to a stop at the foot of the steps that would take him up to where the two men stood with the all too familiar throne between them. The throne that, like the crown on his father’s head, would soon be his. Though, thankfully, not something he would have to sit on all that often. Only for ceremonial and formal affairs, two things that happened particularly sparingly in their kingdom since his father had taken the crown. From what his father and most of the others said, his grandfather had been much more formal with his proceedings. Damian was not yet sure where he would fall on that scale. He could see the appeal in formalities, but he also enjoyed the more friendly state of things he had experienced over his eighteen years.

“Prince Damian, please join us,” the Archbishop said as Damian gave the formal bow of respect. He took the stairs on steady feet and head held high. He could see the look of pride on his father’s face and it just steadied his resolve even more. “Please place your hand on the Book of the Law of Old.” Raising his right hand, Damian set it carefully on the book of the original laws of their people. Recite after me.” And so he did. He repeated the promise to protect the people as though they were his own blood. He repeated that he would be just and rule with the knowledge that the entire kingdom was important and not just the ones who could contribute. He promised to care for the elderly and raise up the poor. He promised to follow the laws laid down by the rulers before him. And lastly, he promised to put Gotham before his own pride always.

“Damian of House Wayne,” his father said in a strong voice, “I grant you this crown before your time as my own time has come to pass. I bestow upon you the faith of the people and the love of the kingdom. I crown you in good faith that you are the rightful ruler of the people and will love them above all else.” Damian looked at his father with a nod before turning to face the crowd that was watching them. He sat down on the throne and waited for his father to place the crown upon his head.

“I, Damian of House Wayne, accept this burden and promise to wield my power justly and wisely. I thank the people for trusting me with this crown and acknowledge that they are the true power in this kingdom,” he spoke calmly, letting his voice carry. He watched his father descend the stairs and join the rest of his family.

“All hail Damian, King of Gotham!” His father called out, smile wider and brighter than Damian had seen in a long time. The rest of the crowd followed suit and called out the hail, but his eyes remained on his father.

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His room was dark and silent when his eyes opened, unsure of what had startled him into waking. But there was something, an irritation on his mind that demanded his attention. Sitting up, Damian tossed the thin sheet covering him to the side and turn to allow his legs to hang over the side of the bed. Scanning the room, he couldn’t find anything that would have caused him to awaken.

But he knew there was a reason. He knew it.

So he slipped out of the bed and grabbed his robe, wrapping it around himself and making his way over to his door. With a firm tug, he pulled it open and was surprised to find Ser Kyle there with his hand raised to knock.

“Ser Kyle!” Damian exclaimed, sounding as surprised as he was sure he looked.

“Your Majesty, your father is calling for you.” His tone was grave, full of sorrow and Damian hated it. He hated that he knew exactly why his father would summon him in the middle of the night. But he also knew this was exactly why he had awoken. He was to get his final goodbye. “Your Majesty?”

Swallowing, Damian gave a nod of his head and followed the knight through the halls toward his father’s rooms. They had moved the man from the King Chambers the day before the coronation despite Damian having told them it was unnecessary. But his father had only laughed at him and told the staff to continue on.

“You are to be king, you must uphold tradition and move into the King’s Chambers. I will not hear otherwise. And neither will your grandfather and we all know how he can be about tradition.” His father had whispered the last part to him, but the effect was ruined with the laughter in his voice. And though Damian knew he meant what he said, he also knew his father did not want to die in those rooms. He would be selfless enough to not ruin Damian’s future room with his death.

And Damian had appreciated that.

“Will you inform Prince Jon,” Damian requested when they had reached his father’s room. The knight looked uncertain but gave a nod. “Tell him to remain where he is, but inform him of what is happening.” With a bow, Ser Kyle gave him one last look of sympathy before he turned and headed toward the guest rooms where Jon and his father were staying.

Taking a deep breath, Damian gave a gentle knock to the door as he pushed it open and slipped inside. He took in the sight of Healer Thompkins as she spoke softly to his father, but her lack of equipment just served to confirm his suspicions.

This was the night he would lose his final parent.

“Your Majesty,” the healer greeted him softly, bowing as well as her older body allowed before straightening and moving forward to his side. “I can see in your eyes that you understand why you have been summoned in the middle of the night.”

Damian nodded.

“I do not know how much longer, but he is certain it is to be soon.” The tears burned his eyes and he welcomed them like an old friend. “I am sorry I could not prevent this from happening, My King.”

Damian shook his head and took a deep breath. “He wouldn’t have allowed it,” he spoke softly, glancing over at his father who was watching the exchange from his place on the bed. “This was his wish.” The woman gave him a sad smile and nodded. “Thank you for caring for him as well as he allowed.”

The woman gave another bow before she glanced back over to the former king and then headed for the door. Damian waited for the click of the door closing to sound before he closed the remaining distance between himself and the bed where his father laid.

“My Son,” his father’s voice sounded weak, as though it had been unused for quite some time. It was a stark contrast to how it sounded just at dinner earlier in the evening. The former king offered up a hand and Damian immediately latched onto it with both of his as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I do not have much left to say to you except that I am so very proud of the man I see in you.” He watched his father take a few stuttering breaths and Damian clung to his hand more tightly, silently willing the older body to take strength from his younger one. A few beats passed before it looked like his father would be able to speak again, but he remained silent and simply smiled at Damian.

Damian didn’t deny the tears that came forward, not this time. There was no reason to hide them, no reason to be strong in this moment. So he let them fall with a quiet sob as his chin dropped to his chest. Saying goodbye to Ser Jason had been hard, but he had already died. He had never thought about how it would be to watch the life of someone he loved slipping away from them with each passing moment. And now that he was facing one of those moments, he wasn’t sure he could actually watch it happen. His entire body begged for him to flee, to run away and not stop until this moment could no longer haunt him. But his heart told him he would suffer this a thousand times over because it was his father. It was the one man who had always done everything he possibly could for Damian. The one man who had put him above all others and never expected him to be more than he was and loved him as he was.

And now he was expected to go on without that love in his life. He was expected to just move forward and be the king the country needed when he just wanted to be an eighteen-year-old who needed his father.

“Please Father,” he sobbed, falling forward so that his forehead was pressed into the older man’s ribs. “I am not ready to say goodbye. I have not…please…” He begged, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was begging for. Because he knew he had relented to his father’s wishes of this being his time to go, but he still found himself unable to say that final goodbye.

Damian turned his face to looked at the man when a hand fell heavy onto his head. “You are more than what she wanted you to be, Damian. Do not ever forget that we choose who we are to be.” Damian nodded through his tears, his cheek rubbing against the sheet covering his father’s body. “Be strong and just like your father but remember to love those around you even when they seem to fall short.”

“I will. I will strive to be like you. To be kind and generous.”

“Strive to be like you, My Son. Be who you are in your heart. I would not leave if I thought you were not perfect just as you are.” Damian wanted to argue, but he remained silent. He was not his father, but he could strive to be no matter what the older man was saying. “Marry Jon, okay? Do not wait, do not hesitate. Give him the ring in the top left drawer of my desk in my study. It was one I gave your father many years ago even though we were not as fortunate as you. To be able to be with the one you love. Do what I could not.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I love you more than words could ever say. Remember that in the remainder of this life and all the ones to follow.”

Turning his head to bury his face in his father’s side again, Damian’s sobs came out in gasping breaths. “I love you,” he cried into the sheet. “I love you so much.” He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know how else to vocalize his devotion to the older man. The man who had given everything to make sure Damian grew into a good person. Who had sacrificed his own happiness for so many others. The man who had changed so many lives at the sake of his own. “Tell Father I love him as well,” he whispered, turning to look at the man, but finding his eyes closed.

Pushing up, Damian looked down at the man and took in the stillness of his body. He looked where the hand that had been resting on his head had fallen onto his father’s chest and noticed the lack of rise and fall.

“Be at peace,” he choked out, dropping his chin to his chest again as the tears came in earnest once again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jon’s presence just behind his right shoulder was solid and steady, something Damian appreciated greatly in the moment because he was certain he would have collapsed already without it. The crowd that had gathered for his father’s pyre was no surprising in the least and far larger than the one they had done for Ser Jason. Not because his father was more loved, but because he was a great king and news of his death had drawn in villagers from all over the kingdom.

“How am I to address these people here?” He asked Jon quietly, glancing at the man briefly before looking back out to the crowd. The Archbishop was giving his blessing over the body before it was time for Damian to speak and light the pyre. But he had no idea what to say.

“Just say what is in your heart, Love.” Just like that. Such a simple concept but his heart was too heavy for simple. “They are hurting, and they just want to hear that their emotions are valid. You are their king, but they all understand that you were also a son.” Glancing over at Jon, Damian furrowed his brows, but Jon just raised a hand and let it fall heavy, comforting, onto the back of Damian’s neck.

“Grandson,” his grandfather’s bulking form came up beside him. “I can make the speech if you need.” It was the out he craved, the excuse to keep his grief quiet and only shown to those who knew him best. But he could hear his father’s voice in the back of his mind that this ceremony was not about his grief. That he would have the raising of the effigy with just the family for that. This ceremony and the Feast were about the people.

“No,” Damian looked over at the older man. “It is my duty, and he would not want me to turn my back on the people.” His grandfather regarded him carefully before giving a nod and stepping back over to where Selina and the other members of the family were standing. He could see his uncle watching him, eyes sad in a way Damian had never seen. But Damian couldn’t focus on that right then. He had to focus on the task at hand. He had to focus on putting the hearts of the people at ease when his own heart was in turmoil.

With a glance from the Archbishop, Damian gave a bow of his head in respect before he stepped forward. The movement pulled Jon’s hand away from his nape and Damian immediately missed the comforting warmth of it, but instead of rushing back like he wanted to he pushed forward. He could do this and then Jon would be there at the end.

Stepping onto the raised platform, Damian looked around at the faces of the people who had gathered. As far as he could see, in every possible space between here and the walls, there were people who had loved his father. People who had known him for the good man he was, the kind and giving king. The man who had loved his people enough to walk among them as if it were nothing. The man who had raised his son to regard the people in the same manner.

Glancing back at Jon, he clenched his jaw when the man simply held a hand over his heart and gave him a nod. But he still had no idea what that meant. Turning back to look at the expectant faces below him, Damian shook his head. “I have not a single idea of what to say to all of you who have gathered here. I am not eloquent like my father was and I am not experienced the way my grandfather is. I wish I could say beautiful words that would warm you in this cold time, but I do not know them,” he admitted, his voice carrying over the crowd as they stood silent. He could see the looks of confusion, but there were also looks of understanding. And he could latch onto those. “My father was the best man any of us have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He was kind and he was generous, but more than that he was love. And he had so much love to give. Not just to me or the others in our family, but to each of you as well.

“I cannot convey how much he cared for each and every one of the citizens under his rule. He sacrificed so much so that he could be the ruler you, the people, needed. Most of all, he gave to everyone without expecting the same in return,” Damian swallowed, taking a split second to push back the tears that were trying to force their way out. “The loss we have suffered is great. And I know it might seem like things will never be the same or that we have lost…some of the color in the world, but we will recover.” He lifted his chin and took a deep breath.

Reaching for the torch that Ser Roy held in hand, Damian stepped up to his father’s body and looked at the familiar face. “We can never replace someone like Richard of House Wayne, there is no one else who can come close to the kind of man he was. He is irreplaceable. But his influence and his teachings live in all of us and through that we can strive to be just as good and kind as he was. We can strive to be what he knew we could be.” Lifting the torch high into the air, Damian looked out at the people who watched him with rapt attention.

“To King Richard, the best of us all. May we spend each day striving to be the person he believed each and every one of us could be.” May I be the man he thought me to be. With one last deep breath, Damian looked back down to his father’s resting form and touched the torch to the hay lining the pyre. He took a moment to watch the fire burn before he turned and found his grandfather already waiting to take the torch from him.

The man gave him a firm nod, his face a mask of strength that his eyes did not fall in line with. Through them Damian could see the grief the man was feeling, laying his eldest son to rest far too soon. But there was an unspoken understanding between them. A father and a son, both grieving one of the most important people in their lives.

With the torch passed, Damian made his way back to his spot, Jon immediately slipping his hand into Damian’s. And though it was not necessarily proper, Damian couldn’t find it in himself to care. Instead he focused on the comfort it provided as he watched the pyre light consume it’s victim.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cold air hit him like a slap to the face, but it was a feeling Damian welcomed in that moment. The ballroom was crowded with citizens and travelers who had come to join in the Feast of the Seven, and the warmth had been almost suffocating. The spirit of the room was joyous, as a Feast always should be, but he had been struggling to really feel the same joy the others were experiencing as they celebrated his father. So, he had excused himself from the room and stepped out into the gardens, a place his father had loved and often could be found tending despite them having staff members to do just that.

Tilting his head back, Damian took a deep breath and closed his eyes as the cold air chilled his lungs before he slowly released it.

“Your Majesty,” a voice greeted him, causing Damian to stiffen as he opened his eyes and looked behind him to see who had joined him. He watched the woman give a bow but something about her presence told him he should probably be bowing to her. He took in her raven hair, cut so it just brushed the tops of her shoulders, reminded him of the color of his father’s hair. And though it was fairly dark with only a few torches lighting the walkway, he could see the deep blue, almost purple color of her eyes. But it was the jewel resting just above the space between her eyebrows that really caught his eye.

Even from where he stood, he could feel its power. And the blood red color of it said it wasn’t gentle power either.

“Do I know you?” He questioned, eyes narrowed.

The woman shook her head and took a few steps closer. “I am called Raven,” she told him. Damian’s eyebrows raised at the strange name and lack of any kind of surname or name of her family attached to it. “I came here seeking Madame Xanadu and she pointed me in your direction to deliver my knowledge. I had thought it best to have a familiar face give it to you, but she disagreed.”

At least her connection to the healer of the city explained why Raven did not bother with any family names or titles. But he couldn’t imagine what kind of information she might have that the healer thought he would like to know.

“What knowledge have you come to bestow on me?” He kept his tone even, not sure he should trust this woman or not. But he knew his guards were close and he was more than capable of defending himself. But if she were a practitioner like Madame Xanadu then he wasn’t sure anyone would be able to save him.

“I have traveled from Nanda Parbat with news of your great grandfather’s rule.” Damian sucked in a surprised breath and waited, knowing this was important. That despite evidence, it was Ra’s who had ordered him to be killed. “Your grandmother’s sister, Nyssa, has dethroned him and he has been laid to rest. The magic keeping him alive has been destroyed.”

Considering what this meant, Damian felt a small weight lift off his chest. A weight he hadn’t noticed sitting there under all the other things burdening him. “So the order…”

“The one for your life?” Damian nodded. “Nyssa has rescinded it and sends her word that peace remains between Gotham and Nanda Parbat for as long as she is on the throne.” A folded parchment was held out to him and he immediately recognized the seal of Nanda Parbat. He took it from her and held it by both ends, looking down at it. “Nyssa has also destroyed the legacy of Ra’s by removing the title of Ra’s Al Ghul and stating that the ruler shall hence forth be called by their own name or one of their choosing.”

“Was a strange tradition,” he muttered and was surprised when a laugh slipped past Raven’s lips. She seemed equally as startled and quickly cleared her throat, but it was too late. Damian was smiling and had relaxed the remaining tension in his shoulders. “Thank you for bringing such glad tidings during such a…” He looked past her toward the crowded ballroom and frowned.

“Yes, I was saddened to hear of Richard’s passing. The few times I had spoken to him, he was exceedingly kind. The world shall be a little darker without his aura to brighten it.” Looking back to Raven, Damian nodded sadly. “You have such an aura as well, Your Majesty. Do not let this dim it. He would not want it.”

“No, I do not think he would.” Glancing down at the parchment in hand, Damian sighed before looking back to Raven but jerked when he found himself alone. He glanced around, finding no trace of the woman at all.

“Damian, there you are!” Jon’s voice called out as he came walking out of the ballroom. “Damian? Is everything all right?” He asked as he neared the younger man, but Damian wasn’t sure how to answer him. Did he tell Jon about Raven? Would he believe him? And even as he thought it, he knew it was ridiculous to question. Of course Jon would believe him.

“I just had a strange encounter with a practitioner who knew Father,” he explained, looking up at Jon with wide eyes that expressed his bewilderment. Holding up that parchment, he showed Jon the seal.

“That is Nanda Parbart.”

“It is,” Damian confirmed. “She brought tidings from Queen Nyssa and word that the order for my life has been lifted.” Jon’s eyes widened in shock before a relieved smile broke out over his face. And soon enough, Damian found himself encased in Jon’s arms.

“That is wonderful news!” And it was, it really was. “A bit of light in a dark time. I wish I could thank this messenger,” Jon said as he pulled back and glanced around as if he would spot Raven where Damian had been unable to. “I do believe we should drink to this news, yes?”

Looking at the letter again, Damian found himself nodding and feeling a bit lighter. “Yes, a drink would be suitable.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun was warm for the time of year, but Damian found himself welcoming it. And enjoying it at the insistence of Jon, who had shown up at his study with Titus and a basket full of food and a blanket. And though Damian knew he had much more he needed to get through before Council later in the day, he allowed Jon to pull him away from it and take him on a picnic.

Now he found himself relaxed on the blanket while Titus and Jon chased each other around the field and for the first time in the weeks following his father’s death, he felt joy. The sound of Jon’s surprised laugh when Titus tackled him into the tall grass brought an easy smile to his face that didn’t feel as though it was a lie or a façade.

“What?” He questioned when he found Jon regarding him from where he was still seated in the grass, Titus having gone off to chase a bird. He watched the older man shake his head as he stood and brushed himself off.

“I think that is the first smile I have seen on your face since…” He made his way over to the blanket and dropped down next to Damian, not bothering to finish his sentence. But Damian understood all the same. “It has been missed,” he commented softly, raising his hand and brushing the backs of his fingers across Damian’s cheekbone.

Ducking his head at the affection from Jon, Damian attempted to get his emotions under control. But the warmth that had bloomed in his chest at Jon’s words and meaning was something he had yet to get used to and it caught him off guard every time. It wasn’t necessarily a bad feeling, but it was not something he had yet come to terms with. And Damian was not good with things that he was unsure of how to handle. Not when he was still struggling to get out of the constant vigilant headspace his mother had conditioned him to be in.

“I have been meaning to ask you something,” Damian changed the subject, thankful for the understanding he saw on Jon’s features when he looked back up at the man. The single raised brow gave Damian to go ahead to ask what he had been thinking of. “How long will you stay? I know you mentioned new duties for Metropolis, but I was not certain when they might pull you away.”

He watched Jon smile easily as he leaned back onto his hands and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Trying to be rid of me, Your Majesty?” And though Damian knew it was a joke, he still cringed at the playful accusation. “I am only joking, my love. But I hadn’t really contemplated it yet,” he admitted with a shrug of his shoulder. “Kon told me he would send for me if he required me, but Timothy told me it was not likely it would happen.”

Damian considered the answer and what exactly it could mean for them. If Jon’s duties were easily set aside, then it was likely he wouldn’t be missed if he remained away for a long period of time. At the same time, Damian felt a little bad about keeping him from his family for as long as he had. Even if his father had been here for the coronation and then the death of the former king.

“Is there a reason you ask?”

Shrugging a shoulder, Damian tried to think of an answer that didn’t give his personal desires away. Did he admit to Jon that he never wanted the older man to leave? Did he tell him that it was his intention to have him stay at his side forever? “I was simply wondering…” He attempted to say, but even in his own eyes it sounded like a lie. And the snort Jon proved that the other man didn’t believe it for a moment.

But instead of calling Damian out on his lie, Jon simply gave him a knowing smile and got back to his feet. He called Titus over as he stepped away from the blanket and took a large stick the dog had managed to find and threw it out into the distance for the dog to chase. Damian remained in his spot, watching the two repeat the action over and over and allowed his mind to drift.

He allowed himself to think of what it would be like to have to bid farewell to Jon when he finally needed to return to Metropolis for his duties or family. He thought about the loneliness that would surely follow in his absence and how he might handle that. But then he thought about what he could do to ensure that Jon stayed. He thought about just asking him outright to remain at his side and abandon his duties back home. Though Damian knew that unless he had a good reason, Jon would never just abandon his family. And Damian could never ask that of him just because he would miss the other man. But still the thought of going about his daily tasks without Jon, without the unfailing support the other had been providing since his arrival, struck him hard and fast in the heart. The dread was almost palpable. He could practically taste it. And that frightened him.

When had he become so dependent on Jon? When had he lost his ability to stand on his own?

When you fell in love.

The thought appeared out of nowhere and the voice in his mind sounded just as his father would have. And the more he considered what his father might have to say about this moment, the more sure he was of exactly what his father would tell him. He knew precisely what his father would offer up as a solution. But were they ready? Was he ready?

Looking over to Jon, where he stood laughing as Titus jumped in an attempt to get the stick out of Jon’s hand, Damian knew the answer. How could he consider any other option?

And he was reminded of the band he had taken to carrying around in his pocket since retrieving it from his father’s study the morning after he passed. The silver band with an intricate pattern and red jewels was one he had remembered Ser Jason wearing but hadn’t know his father had given it to him. But Damian had admired it then and he would feel even stronger about it should it rest on Jon’s finger.

So, he pushed to his feet and made his way over to where Jon stood waiting for Titus to chase after the stick he had just thrown. And when Jon turned to look at Damian as he approached, the smile Jon gave him further solidified Damian’s resolve. And he didn’t hesitate once he reached the other man, taking his face between his hands and pressing their mouths together.

It wasn’t their first kiss, it wasn’t even close to being their first at this point, but it was their first that had such a big meaning behind it. At least to Damian. And he tried to convey that meaning to Jon through the kiss, through the press of his body against Jon’s.

“What was that for?” Jon’s voice came out breathy, quiet as he gasped for air when they had separated by mere inches.

“Marry me,” Damian responded. It wasn’t romantic and it wasn’t memorable, but it was honest. “Do not leave me ever. Stay with me in Gotham and help me look after my kingdom. Make it our kingdom.”

Jon’s face went from dazed to shocked as Damian spoke and the words sunk in. “But…” Damian allowed him to work through whatever it was he was thinking, waiting. “What of the law?”

“Before Father passed, he had it abolished. He asked the Council, based on what happened with him, Mother, and Ser Jason, to abolish it and allow all rulers to marry the person they see fit and not someone who would just be an heir producer.” Jon’s eyes went wide, and Damian tried not to laugh at the fact that he could basically see the thoughts running through his mind. “He did it for me, for us. Before he died, he told me to find this,” he said, pulling back to grab the ring out of his pocket. He held it up in his palm and looked from it to Jon. “He told me to find this and to give it to you. To have what he was not able to. To marry someone he loved.”

He watched Jon’s blue eyes look down at the ring, a look of familiarity passing over his features, before he looked back to Damian. “This was Ser Todd’s?” Damian nodded. “You trust me with this?”

“I trust you with my entire world,” Damian admitted. “Will you trust me with yours?”

“I already do,” Jon laughed and quickly pressed his mouth back to Damian’s in a quick, but heated kiss. “My best friend, my partner, my King, my…husband,” he whispered against Damian’s mouth and the younger was certain his heart was moments away from beating out of his chest.

“Is that a yes?”

“How could I say anything but?”

#past lives au #jaydick #DamiJon #jondami #damian wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #anikah writes

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chiseler · 4 years

Text

“You think I’m the only one in this town who doesn’t like people?”

Following the JFK assassination, and especially after Charles Whitman climbed the Texas Tower in August of 1966, shooting and killing 14 strangers over the course of a lazy afternoon, lone mad snipers became an easy thriller standby. Targets, The Day of the Jackal, Two Minute Warning and dozens of other films since the late ‘60s have focused on a man, a rifle, and a perch. While snipers weren’t unknown to Hollywood prior to 1963 (Suddenly, Murder by Contract—even The Manchurian Candidate was in production before the assassination), they focused almost exclusively on gunmen with a purpose, paid assassins who were after a single, specific target, a politician or a mob hit. 1952’s The Sniper was not only one of the earliest films centered around an urban sniper, but remained an exception, really until the moment Whitman began pulling the trigger.

While on the surface The Sniper is a standard, straightforward police procedural about the hunt for a killer, what made it different was that the killer in question was a presumably unbalanced presumed vet who was killing random brunettes around San Francisco with a high-powered Army-issue carbine rifle. What also made the film different for the era was its focus on the psychology (some boilerplate Freudian hoo-hah) driving the killing spree. But beyond even all that, deep down it’s a profoundly strange picture disguised, for all its groundbreaking elements, as any other B thriller.

But let me back up here a second and come at this from a different angle.

In 1945, like so many intellectuals and Hollywood types (and when was the last time those two appeared in the same sentence?), director Edward Dmytryk began his little flirtation with the Communist Party. A few years later, like so many others, he found himself dragged in front of HUAC where he was asked to name names. When he refused, he was thrown in stir along with the rest of the Hollywood Ten on charges of contempt of Congress.

After a few months in prison, though, Dmytryk had a change of heart and called his lawyer. In 1951 he was released from prison, appeared before HUAC again, but this time in a far more cooperative mood, providing interrogators not only with 26 names, but also detailing how he’d been pressured to slip subliminal Commie messages into pictures like Crossfire. After this, having lost his martyrdom and no longer beloved of Hollywood’s Communist community, Dmytryk found himself just as effectively blacklisted as he had been before. So he moved to England and teamed up with producer Stanley Kramer, who would put him back to work for the next several years.

This is not the place to discuss Dmytryk’s politics, his justification or damnation, to pass self-righteous judgments long after the fact. But it is interesting to consider the first film made by a man fresh out of prison would be a message film about a rogue gunman picking off Californian brunettes, and one has to wonder if his time behind bars in any way influenced the film’s opening crawl.

Written by a powerhouse trio at the time (script by Harry Brown from a story by Edna and Edward Anhalt), The Sniper opens by informing us that present-day laws and law enforcement were useless when it came to dealing with sex crimes, and that the story we were about to see concerned a man “whose enemy was womankind.”

In the film’s first few seconds we meet the man in question, Eddie Miller, and it’s clear he’s teetering on the edge of something bad. Arthur Franz hadn’t yet established himself as a genre stalwart, playing rational, low-key, friendly sorts in the likes of Invaders from Mars and Monster on the Campus, and here turns in a remarkable performance as a believable psychopath. He never goes over the top and bug-eyed, instead playing Eddie as a tightly wound but always self controlled young man who may get occasionally twitchy and sweaty but always remains nearly emotionless.

A former mental patient who is well aware that things are going wrong in his head again, Eddie does what he can to get himself committed, but no one’s cooperating. In fact seen through Eddie’s eyes, the entire world is simply one slap, one humiliation after another. To some of us anyway, he’s an extremely sympathetic character.

Marie Windsor

Although later in the film the police come to the conclusion that he must be an ex-soldier, we are never given any proof of this apart from his weapon of choice. It doesn’t matter—now he drives a delivery truck for a laundry service. One of the regular customers along his route is attractive young nightclub pianist Jean Darr (Marie Windsor), who appears to be one of the few people, and certainly the only woman, who’s nice to him. So when what he believes to be a seduction turns out to be, well, not only not a seduction but ends with Jean treating him like any other errand boy, he snaps. It’s the only scene in the film in which his face reveals any emotion at all apart from confusion or cold boredom. That night he waits on a rooftop across from the bar where she works and shoots her as she heads home.

Enter the police, which adds another layer onto the external story behind the film. As Det. Kafka (if there is any significance to that name it’s never made clear), Adolphe Menjou, is also playing against future type as a gruff, less than suave, and mostly hapless cop. A few years prior to the film, Menjou was known as one of the fiercest defenders of HUAC in the business, which of course made his pairing with Dmytryk here a potentially disastrous one. By all accounts, however, it was a perfectly amicable working relationship, so much so that Dmytryk would use him again in a few of his subsequent films . But that’s irrelevant, too.

As more seemingly random dark haired young women are being picked off around the city (which in spite of all the location shooting is never identified as San Francisco), the police bring in criminal psychologist Dr. Kent (Richard Kiley) to work out a profile. With precious little evidence, the doctor jumps to the remarkable conclusion that these are in fact sexually motivated shootings. And that leads to the first head-scratching scene of the film.

Taking Dr. Kent’s very broad conclusion at face value, the cops round up every pervert in town for a line-up. Now, given that there have been no witnesses who saw the shooter, a line-up is pointless. Perhaps the cops realize this, which explains why the chief interrogator (sitting at a table in front of an auditorium full of officers) runs the line-up like a routine from an old Bob Hope special, introducing and dismissing the peeping toms, gropers, and rapists with well-prepared one-liners. To a schlub who writes obscene mash notes to strangers he begins, “So, Bob, they say the pen is mightier than the sword...”

It’s an oddball comic scene completely out of step with the rest of the film, and a scene that makes no sense within the context of a serious police drama. It’s darkly funny, yes (especially considering that we’re dealing with convicted sex offenders as the butt of bad jokes), and had the rest of the film been handled in this tone, well, it would have been a very different picture. As it stands it’s merely jarring and leaves viewers wondering what the hell it’s doing there. Personally I can’t recall another cutaway even remotely close to this in any other Dmytryk picture. Logically enough, though, the scene ends with dr. Kent muttering “this is pointless” before leaving the room.

He then goes on to deliver the film’s heavy handed message to the mayor, the press, and the other investigators—namely (and here’s where I wonder if Dmytryk’s prison experience is being reflected) that anyone arrested for a sex crime of any kind should be locked in a psych ward until they’re cured of their personal glitch. And if they aren’t cured, they should be left there locked away for good.

That leads to another delightfully baffling line of dialogue as Kafka orders a teenager with a broken antique rifle be sent to a nearby bughouse. “I don’t wanna be looking for this kid again in a couple years,” Kafka explains, “when he’s got a real gun...or maybe an axe.”

(An axe?)

In spite of a few weirdnesses along the way The Sniper still played like most any boilerplate thriller while at the same time being years ahead of the game both in terms of subject and solution. Extrapolating a bit on Dr. Kent’s recommendation, the kid being sent to the psych ward had not been convicted of a sex crime—he was just acting weird. Likewise, following the latest school shooting the do gooders are once again calling for the psychological incarceration of anyone who thinks differently, acts differently, isn’t like everyone else, as they represent a very tangible future threat. But the answer to this hamfisted solution can also be found in the very same scene. Before being sent to the local Bin, the above-mentioned teen with the broken gun tells Kafka, “You think I’m the only one in town who doesn’t like people? There’s millions of ‘em!” And we’ve been proving him right since 1966. So maybe it’s time we stop talking about locking these people up pre-emptively, and finally come around to accepting the simple fact that mass shootings might well be nothing more than a rational response to an insane world. by Jim Knipfel

#Jim Knipfel #The Chiseler #The Sniper #Marie Windsor #noir

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mwolf0epsilon · 5 years

Note

I see you're a fan of angst, here's something to entertain you then. How about a story where Josh snaps and goes apeshit :)

Oh Anon, you're in for a horrid treat >:3c

---

[[MORE]]

Everything had been a mess. A complete and utterly complicated political mess with almost no end in sight.

That's why they never realized something was inherently wrong with Josh's recent behaviour.

That nothing indicated that he was being anything but his quiet but optimistic self.

You could pitch the blame on the remaining 3/4s of Jericho's leadership. Say that the three of them had gone so far as to neglect their friend when times got particularly tough, but honestly Josh had never even voiced feeling particularly off, or anything of the sort.

He'd either not wanted to tell them, or hadn't realized the problem either.

Or, worse yet, he hadn't been able to warn them in time.

Regardless of which one it was, none of it changed the fact Simon was currently hiding in a closet while cradling an unconscious and bleeding North…

---

There had been threats for a good part of the month. Jericho's leaders had been hard at work trying to pass the bills, while Connor and the DPD kept the peace as best as they could.

In between heavily guarded press conferences, and trips in and out of DC? There had been multiple messages left for them.

Ones that were as simple as 'You're not alive', and others that went so far as 'You'll all end up destroyed and thrown in the trash like the junk you are'.

Markus put his foot down and upgraded security at the tower and at Carl's, when the threats began to address both innocent civilians and his family. His very human and fragile family.

There were other measures he'd taken into account as well, most of which were suggested by Connor and Hank.

As a general rule, the RK800 had suggested that the four leaders should not walk alone outside, and to perhaps conceal their identities whenever this was not a possibility.

Androids were being rampantly attacked out in the streets, with the aggressors aiming for more common models they could recognize.

Simon, for example, had a harder time accomplishing this, not because he was a figurehead in android politics (which he wasn't), but because the PL600 had been one of the most popular domestic assistant models Cyberlife had ever produced.

North could, in theory, disguise herself and walk seemingly unnoticed if she really wanted to, but sadly tended to get into fights with hecklers and catcallers. The two were essentially barred from leaving the Manfred household.

The same could not be said for Markus and Josh.

Markus was recognizable in public but was also a lot more sneaky about it than Josh. He kept out of sight at all times, using his acrobatic skills to his advantage, and went to abandoned places where he climbed up to isolate heights that no human could follow him to. There he would sit and appreciate the sights, before letting his mind wander.

He liked to have time to think alone.

It relaxed him.

Josh, on the other hand, would don a thick jacket and a baseball cap and somehow it was like Superman disguising himself as Clark Kent.

The PJ500 series was numerous but not outwardly recognizable by people who didn't go to Detroit University. Thanks to said university's bad rep, very few people in Detroit had actually gone there to study, so Josh's face didn't ring any bells. Mostly for the wrong reasons.

As unimpressed as he was with how little progress humanity had made besides uniting their frustrations against androids, it ended up being beneficial to his excursions to the library that "all black guys looked the same".

North had snorted once when he'd brought it up, and Simon had rolled his eyes and shook his head in disbelief.

"Humans tend to express face blindness if they're particularly racist." The blond had commented as he'd turned the page of a rather thick hardcover he'd been engrossed with. A recommendation of Carl's.

"And you still insist dialogue is the best option? Almost half of Congress is old white dudes who never had to lift a finger in their lives. They'd all be dying to take you out, and not the dinner kind either." The redhead pointed out.

"They would be less likely to give us the time of day if we nuked the city." Josh had glared daggers before going on his way out to the library. His knowledge archives were vast, but there were things he wanted to brush up on.

"Don't be so rough with him North…" Simon chastised the WR400 when their friend was no longer in earshot.

With Markus currently asleep, and Josh wandering the streets, it left the two of them with nothing to do.

"I'm antsy!" North crossed her arms, giving Simon one of her 'really?' looks. The kind that made it seem obvious why she was on edge. Not that it was obvious at all. "The threats keep coming, and we never catch the assholes who leave the notes...Markus is working himself ragged juggling between wrangling those rabid old crows and amping up security, and the tower's abuzz with anxious scared androids!"

"Josh is also tired. He's been very active in the debates and he's used every piece of history knowledge he was preprogrammed with. Not to mention he has been looking into various ways of reaching a compromise with the humans, that won't leave them feeling threatened…" Simon rubbed at his eyes, sighing tiredly as he recalled how stressed the PJ500 always ended up after a meeting. "Some of those people...They unerve him. To the point he's scared of what might happen if he steps on any toes…"

"This is Josh we're talking about." North dismissed "If anyone out there wouldn't dream of treading on toes and maybe licking boots, it'd be him."

"North!"

"He'll be fine Simon." The WR400 reassured "He's too charming and polite to make any enemies...Hell he's the sort to help old ladies cross the street! The internet would send hitmen after anyone who tried slandering his name."

"...That sounded adorable coming from you. I should let him know you think he's charming." The blond grinned, avoiding a pillow the shorter of the two threw his way.

"Don't you dare! I have a reputation to uphold!"

"If you say so, Ice Queen."

"Damn straight! Now move over you jackass, the couch was made for two!"

---

Usually it took an hour for Josh to return. He was very pragmatic in the sense that he took what he needed, no less and no more, and then he wouldn't stick around so as to not risk getting recognized.

That night it took three hours, which was unusual but not impossible.

Maybe for once he'd taken time for himself rather than gather more ammunition for another conference meeting. Wishful thinking.

While Simon and North kept themselves busy, enjoying the one night where Markus wasn't stressing over their next steps, and the beginning of Matthew's, Leo's and Carl's quality bonding time vacation of sorts, they'd almost completely forgotten about their taller friend.

That is, until Josh returned dazed and confused, and with a bloody gash on the back of his head.

At the sight of the thirium staining his jacket and hands, Simon had run to get the technician's kit he'd stored in his room, while North had gone to help Josh steady himself and walk to the couch.

"What the hell happened to you?!" She demanded as she pulled the cap off his head and examined the gash.

It looked painful, like a blunt object had hit hard enough to break the chassis casing open.

The thirium flow was slow, which meant it hadn't hit anything major, but the confusion and slow response worried her.

"...I...D-dont know…?" The PJ500 blinked blearily. He was disoriented and his eyes wouldn't focus on her.

"What do you mean you don't know?" She inquired further as she brushed the gash lightly with a finger. The pained hiss and subsequent flinch away from her touch made her falter.

The sensors weren't damaged then, he could feel the wound.

"...I…" Josh shook his head, one eye twitched oddly and he seemed to be struggling to form sentences. "I...Remember being at...I was reading books...Mandela? I…."

"Simon could you hurry the fuck up? I think he's concussed!" The redhead called up the stairs. She heard a muffled reply before looking back at Josh. "You were reading at the library, and got hit on the head?"

"...I...Think so…" he was staring at her, a frown on his face. "I...I was alone. No one was t-there to...Reco-recognize me?"

"Well someone did, and they hit you on the back of the head." North sighed. "Humans, I swear to God…"

Simon returned swiftly to the two of them and took care of the gash. After the wound was mended, the PL600 carefully tried to figure out if Josh's processor was experiencing any trouble outside of the obvious.

It was PJ500 who insisted he'd be fine in the morning after a quick scan with his maintenance software.

After bidding goodnight and going to their respective rooms, they'd set the incident aside as a one-off.

Next time Josh would be more careful.

When morning rose however, the leaders of Jericho met downstairs for "breakfast" and what came on the news was...Alarming.

Markus had turned on the TV out of habit while Simon gave everyone a cup of warm thirium to start the day, only to pause as a news broadcast caught his eye.

The RK200 turned up the volume and gawked at the sight.

Several androids had been killed the previous night. Their bodies piled up, and a message scrawled in still fresh thirium.

"That's...Very close to the library." Simon pointed out uneasily. "You don't think who ever attacked Josh did...Did that, do you?"

"Someone attacked Josh?" Markus frowned.

"Yeah, last night… they hit him on the head." North confirmed, turning to look at the PJ500. She noticed how quiet he was staring at the news, but wrote it off as him being apprehensive. He could have been one of the bodies, and that alone would make anyone somber.

"Someone recognized you?"

"I...Don't think I was recognized. I just happened to be in the area." Josh replied with a shrug. "Otherwise I'd be dead. Wouldn't I?"

"That's...True." Simon sighed. "Are you feeling better?"

"Oh...Much better yes." Josh smiled at them all as he spoke. There was an odd glint in his eye. "In fact, I'd say I feel like a brand new android!"

"...Are you sure? Last night you were a little confused." North insisted.

"Very sure North. Don't you worry about little old me…" Josh grinned "Now, if you'll excuse me I'll finish this in my room. I've got something I need to work on."

The three watched as their taller friend picked up his cup and walked off.

He seemed to be in high spirits, despite being attacked the murders from the previous night.

That should have been a red flag, but in the end they were more worried about the violent demise if those poor androids, than Josh's unusual upbeat behaviour.

The words 'malfunctioning machines' had been "elegantly" scrawled on the wall of the alleyway the bodies had been found in. Clearly written by someone who'd dipped their hand in blue blood and then taken their sweet time.

Hopefully the DPD would find fingerprints… it'd ease their minds a little.

---

The following days had been relatively fast paced. Josh had been more careful with his visits to the library, and Markus was back to stressing over conference calls and meetings.

Simon had been keeping tabs on the Manfred family's phone calls to check up on them, and North had been teaching self-defense at the tower to ease some worries.

It would have all been normal, if not for the constant murders.

All exactly the same as the ones from the night Josh had been attacked.

Piled up bodies, and a handwritten message.

Always the same one.

Malfunctioning Machines.

Connor had notified them that no prints were ever found, so they were either dealing with a very meticulous human, or the unthinkable… An android serial killer.

But why would one of their own butcher other androids so brutally?

"Maybe Cyberlife's behind this…" Markus suggested, as he rubbed his temples and tried to ignore the dull headache he'd been tormented by all day.

"If it was Cyberlife, why didn't they come after us yet?" Simon shook his head "The attacks seem to be almost random. Like the killer picked a group of androids without really thinking about it."

"With the lack of evidence, it doesn't feel like it's not a calculated move Simon. Connor can't find anything...Connor." North took a sip from her cup, frowning when she realized she'd already finished her drink.

"I'll refill that for you, North." Josh took her cup, smiling sweetly at the redhead before heading off into the kitchen.

"Between the conferences and the tower, I don't know what's worse. Perkins has been up my asshole trying to demoralize everything we've done." The RK200 finished his own cup.

"Of course he'd use this to mess with morale. Fucking rat bastard that he is…" North smiled at Simon as he laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"We all know Richard Perkins isn't taken seriously by anyone with half a brain. He was completely humiliated after what happened at the recall centers." The blond reassured "But he is very hyped up about the murders… Maybe he has something to do with them?"

"I'd assumed so, but so did Hank and Connor. Nothing links back to the asshole, and some of those bodies were in terrible shape. Like they were torn limb from limb. Perkins isn't exactly the picture of peak human physic…" Markus shook his head "I dread to think it really might be one of our own doing this."

"But why?" Simon frowned.

No one knew the answer for that, and Markus couldn't stick around to speculate.

He had to go see Connor over some security details for his next trip to Washington.

This left Simon, North and Josh alone in the Manfred household.

"Sorry for the delay, I couldn't find the bottle." Josh reentered the room with North's cup, smiling at his two friends.

"Oh...Didn't I put it in the fridge?" Simon blinked in confusion.

"Nope, not in there. Not to worry I found it in the end." Josh grinned, handing the cup to North. "It's at the temperature you like, so you won't have to wait for it to cool."

"Thanks Josh." She took the cup and brought it to her lips, absentmindedly gulping the warm liquid before the taste fully hit her.

She spluttered and coughed, tears in her eyes and she dropped the cup. "What the shit?!"

Josh continued to smile down at her, cocking his head to the side as he grinned.

"Is something wrong?"

"This tastes horrible! What the fuck Josh?!"

"Oh...My mistake Northy. Must be the flavouring I added~" the PJ500's grin looked...Off. very off.

Simon gawked at him in disbelief.

"You put something in her thirium? Josh that could make her sick!" The blond cried out. "What did you put in it?!"

"Oh~ Nothing much. Just half a bottle of this." The taller android held up a bottle of drain cleaner from behind his back. "To Purge the malfunctions away~"

Had he the capacity for it, Simon's skin would have crawled.

Instead his eyes widened and he turned to look at North who'd continued to cough.

"W-what t-t...J-jos-osh?" The WR400's eyes widened and teared up even more, before she began to spit up waves of thirium, her intake line and the filter connected to it having become compromised from the highly corrosive chemical.

"North! Josh that..Why the fuck?!" Simon tried to help his distressed friend, before he froze. "...Did you say malfunctions?"

"Why yes, as a matter of fact...I did." Josh's grin had taken on a sinister glee. The blond couldn't help feel threatened as he neared them. "You see… I know something you don't~"

Simon yelped as North continued to cough up thirium, taking the redhead into his arms and backing away from the PJ500.

"W-what would that be?" He asked.

"...Androids aren't alive Simon. We're all just malfunctioning...And that won't do. Not at all…" Josh threw away the bottle before pulling something out of his back pocket. A knife. "Malfunctioning machines are dangerous Si~ So I've taken the liberty to dispose of a few...But you know, you made me realize...I should have gotten rid of you three by now. After that's done, I'll do away with the RK800...And then I'll finish up the job, one android at a time…"

"J-Josh?"

"I'll set it all right, for mankind… Just as I've been told to do!"

The PJ500 tried to slice at the PL600's throat, but Simon hadn't deviated yesterday. He had to protect himself and North, so he grabbed the nearest object and lobbed it at his assailant.

A vase shattered against Josh's face, making him stagger back long enough that Simon could run with North in his arms.

And that had been what lead to the moment, where the two ended up stuck inside a tiny closet, hiding away from the pacifist who'd abruptly snapped and become a homicidal maniac.

Simon held his breath, clinging on to his unconscious friend while he tried to contact Markus.

Josh was prowling around the house, searching for them. It was only a matter of time before he found them both.

"Come out, come out wherever you are~" the PJ500 called out in a singsong tone, as he looked in every room.

"Siiiiimon~ there's only so many rooms you can hiiide in~" Josh's voice was getting closer.

"Simon~ Is that you in the closet~?"

The closet door opened.

Simon screamed at the top of his lungs.

---

"This afternoon the police, with the help of Android Revolution leader Markus, have finally caught the culprits behind the string of android murders that have been plaguing the streets of Detroit. According to our sources, a rogue FBI cell lead by Richard Perkins successfully incapacitated an android and then modified its programming so that it would carry on the gruesome murders. This is what the known anti-android FBI agent had to say on the matter:

-This is irrefutable proof that Deviancy doesn't make an android alive like us. If so much as a string of code is altered, they can become killers with little to no morality or mercy. Today, one measly pacifist, tomorrow every android in this goddamn city...You can't trust a malfunctioning machine! We did you all a favour!"

Markus turned off the TV and sighed sadly before getting up and moving towards the door. He was met outside by Connor, who gave him a sympathetic look.

"Any progress?" The RK200 asked.

"None… He's in a catatonic state, which the technician's say is normal after…" The RK800 pinched the bridge of his nose before looking Markus in the eye "...Every single line of social protocols was...Replaced with Myrmidon and Trojan coding. The fact he showed guilt and cried when you found them is...Is hopeful...But Josh isn't ever going to be as he was, ever again. Perkins saw to that…"

"I can't...I can't lose him Connor…" Markus pleaded.

"I know, and I'm sorry I can't bring you better news. All I can say for sure is that the military programming will be deleted and he might go back to being non-aggressive, but I can't promise you he'll be anything but passive to the world around him. The emotional trauma is too much..." Connor put a hand on Markus's shoulder. "I'm sorry...I'm really sorry you had to go through something like this."

"...Being sorry won't bring back Simon and North, and it won't fix Josh…"

They should have seen the signs.

They should have known something was wrong.

Now Markus was completely alone, two friends torn apart by their other friend who was now confined to a tiny cell in an android medical facility, a lost cause.

Everything was a screwed up mess, and it looked like it wouldn't ever be anything but that.

#eps writes:#Fanfic #detroit: become human #detroit become human #dbh josh #dbh simon #dbh north #dbh markus #dbh connor

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thecomicsnexus · 5 years

Photo

TEEN TITANS #20-24 SEPTEMBER 2018 - JANUARY 2019 BY ADAM GLASS, BERNARD CHANG, SCOTT HANNA, MARCELO MAIOLI AND HI-FI DESIGN

SYNOPSIS

The “new” Teen Titans is formed by Robin (Damian Wayne), Kid Flash (Wallace West), Red Arrow (Emiko Queen), and joined by newcomers, Djinn (a free genie), Roundhouse (a Viewtube star with a special self-made armor that allows him to transform into a ball) and Crush (daughter of Lobo and a mystery female).

Unbeknownst to the team, Robin is incarcerating the criminals they are hunting down in their headquarters (an old juvenile reformatory), gathering information about “the other”, a fabled criminal mastermind. He is also receiving advice and tips from Red Hood (Jason Todd)... also without his team knowing it.

In their first mission (of this story) they defeat Brother Blood (first issue of this arc, it was mostly to showcase the powers and new members of the team). We later learn that in their prison, they already caught Black Mask, Onomatopoeia and Atomic Skull, but there are other criminals trapped there as well.

During their confrontation with Gizmo, the fiend booby traps himself with a nuclear bomb. Damian and Emiko’s instinct is ordering Wallace to drop him in the middle of the ocean, but Kid Flash refuses to be part of a solution that kills Gizmo. But they may not have many chances, as a nuclear explosion would kill more people in the city. Roundhouse saves the day, seemingly dying in space (he was fine, but in-communicated for a while, and later grounded).

When the team reunites again with Roundhouse, the chase Lady Vic, who just tried to kill commissioner Gordon (really Djinn in disguise). When they corner her, they find her dead with the “signature” of “the other” (some claw marks with blood). The building implodes, and they are only saved by Crush, who is pretty much holding the ceiling for them.

The team realizes they have certain limitations, but still manage to survive.

REVIEW

This story could have been a 10, but I have some problems with the art, and possibly the editor.

I usually enjoy Bernard Chang, it’s not a matter of not liking his art here. It just has errors. Errors that could have been caught and corrected by a good editor.

Take a look at Kid-Flash costume. This is how it is supposed to look like:

Compare it to how he is depicted here:

Sure, the two other version are not very consistent, but at least they make sense in terms of theme. Chang’s Kid Flash doesn’t scream “lightning” to me.

My other problem is with Black Mask... but to be honest, I no longer know what’s canon and what’s not. In the origin I know, Black Mask’s mask isn’t optional, it’s merged with his flesh. But I think that may have been undone recently or during the new 52. I have too many continuities in my head. So, if this is still canon, somehow, his mask cannot be half broken (or half whole, depending on how you see life). But I will give them the benefit of the doubt.

The rest is fine. We even got Scott Hanna for the Lady Vic episode, which is great, as he inked her on her debut (in Nightwing). By the way, I am now doubting everything about that title. Hanna’s style here looks a lot like Scott McDaniel’s style. Or was it always the other way around?

In any case, she dies. Which isn’t cool. I don’t know why editors keep letting characters die. My problem with this is that no one will remember she is dead and she will creep out somewhere else to die again.

The other problem, and I guess, this will be other people’s complaints as well, is Robin’s prison. But I am surprisingly ok with this. Let me elaborate on this: Damian was raised by assassins. No matter how much he adapts to Batman, or Jonathan Kent, he will come back to his former self every now and then. He was like... 10 years old? when he met his father? In ten years, a person is pretty much formed. Whatever you add after that is learning. You can change, but you will be fighting your nature all the time. At least you will know if you are doing something wrong, which is what I assume is the problem with this. But it makes sense. Damian is entering his teenage years and he is starting to think less like Grayson and more like Todd, it’s probably a phase. It doesn’t seem too wise, though. Now these criminals can tell the authorities that Robin kidnapped them.

Now, for the actual good parts. I usually compliment Wolfman and Perez for the way they started New Teen Titans up and running, the team was already formed (by the end of the first issue, but was already introduced before), they got along pretty well, everyone had their role in the team, and each brought different types of stories to the fold. So you had different story possibilities: space (Starfire), supernatural (Raven), Science (Cyborg), Gods (Wonder Girl), and then the normal superhero stories.

In this group we have a very similar set-up, but there are two characters that are too similar between themselves, to the point they are redundant. Those two characters are Emiko and Damian. They have very similar skills and bring the same type of stories to the table. Let’s take a look at the other members.

Djinn brings supernatural stories, like Raven.

Roundhouse is the gifted kid that is still fighting his hormones and his self-esteem, like a mix of Beast Boy and Cyborg.

Crush is the tank, she doesn’t think much about strategies and is always eager to attack, this makes her more similar to Starfire. I honestly don’t enjoy Lobo’s derivatives, I would much prefer a character that is not connected to him.

Red Arrow seems to be the deputy leader. She, like Robin, is well connected in the world and has been trained by ruthless people. I am tempted to say she is more like Donna Troy, at least in terms of the role she is taking.

Kid Flash and Robin are pretty much like Kid Flash and Robin. The similarities between Wolfman’s Wally West and Glass’ Wallace West are very interesting. Although the characters are not the same, they have the same personalities (everything is a bit black and white to them). Dick and Damian are very different from each other.

I think that even the character moments are very well thought, so this title is actually surprising me. I wasn’t really expecting this amount of quality from a publisher that has been confusing Titans fans for the past 20 years. The fact that the new characters are a mystery on themselves, promises a lot of stories to come, and I hope Glass gets to tell them.

I give this story a score of 9

#bernard chang #teen titans #dc comics #2018 #2019 #crush #robin #titans #damian wayne #emiko queen #red arrow #comics #review #post modern age #roundhouse #djinn #kid flash #wallace west

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redrobinfection · 5 years

Text

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

AN: This fic is a gift to @chibinightowl for the 2018 JayTim Secret Santa Exchange. It represents a small portion of a much larger AU developed for the prompt "Pirate Captain Jason and Privateer Captain Tim chasing each other around ocean and ending up marooned together"… maybe someday chibi_nightowl and I will share the rest with everyone else ;)

---

A stiff wind beats against their ship, sending chilly spray up over the bow and into the faces of his haggard crew. Captain Timothy Drake bears the sharp gust and biting spray with grim equanimity.

"Captain, please! This is our thirtieth watch since we began this hellish grind and if we stay on this heading, we'll run right into those storms brewing right o'er the horizon. Let us break off and seek calmer seas."

Stephanie's - his navigator - words roar around him like the sea, but he doesn't yield anymore to her than he does to the roughening surf. He knows a storm is brewing - he can smell it, feel it even - but he doesn't care. His eyes are fixed on a hazy smudge on the horizon, his target of nearly eight days now, and he'll be damned if he lets it go. Not now. Not after so long…

"Cassie, please, you know I speak sense! Help, me convince him!"

Tim feels a light touch on his arm and turns to his first mate, the fierce Cassandra Sandsmark, who is peering into his face with equal parts concern and steely resolve.

"Tim, I agree with Stephanie on this. Our crew is lagging, the winds are rising, and if we don't turn back soon we'll likely be caught out in this storm. We weren't equipped for a jaunt much longer than a few days and we aren't rigged for open water. We've given those pirates a good run of it, but time and fortune are against us now. We need to turn back."

He frowns. "Re-rig the ship and begin tying down loose articles, but we won't turn back until they do. We'll smash these bastards between our hull and the storm if we have to. Those are your orders," he reiterates firmly, eyeing both of them sternly. Cassie tsks in exasperation and Steph scrubs her hands through her hair with a sound of frustration. Conner Kent and Bartholomew Allen, two more of his trusted lieutenants look up from across the ship in concern and curiosity.

"Captain, really, the crew is-

"These seas will tear us to flots-

"Enough!" Tim cuts across them, tearing his eyes away from his target to stare them down. "I hear your concerns and, as always, I appreciate your candor, but my decision stands. Maintain visual contact and move to intercept at best possible speed."

Cassie and Steph share a look, but in the end, they are still his best and truest. They salute him crisply for the whole crew to see. "Aye, Captain!" Cassie immediately turns to the crew and begins issuing orders to adjust the rigging, but Steph hangs back.

"If I may speak freely-" Steph begins in a low voice.

"I doubt you'd hold back even if I asked," Tim replies drily.

"-and as your friend," she continues, her acknowledging grin still tinged with worry, "the crew would feel a whole lot better about this rough haul if we knew what was so important about this one measly ship." She sighs and tilts her head back, rolling one shoulder. "Every person on this ship trusts you with their life and would follow you into hell itself, but it's not often you to lead us on in the dark. The crew is antsy, tired, confused, unmotivated..."

Tim opens his mouth but Steph presses on, turning to fix him with the full force of her icy blue stare. "They see a fire in your eyes and wait for you to light it in their hearts, but instead you keep your reasons to yourself and lead us on this wild goose chase, into a storm, in open water, and all for what?"

"Steph-"

"Hell, even I'm feeling a touch flighty, not knowing if you'll sacrifice us to Davy Jones just to catch a single ship and ne'er e’en tell us what's worth more'n our lives to-"

"Steph!" Tim finally bellows, shaking his head and turning her away from the crew. She colors but holds his gaze. He sighs and leans in.

"The man on that boat wearing the captain's tricorner, he's the reason I came to Bristol," Tim tells her quietly. Steph's eyes widen.

"Wait. He's the one that…"

"Aye, the very one."

Steph covers her mouth with one hand and stares over Tim's shoulder toward the ship in the distance. "No… are you sure?"

"Completely. And even if I wasn't, that ship flies known pirate colors; as privateers in service of the crown, we'd chase them down for entering crown territory in any case. But…" he trails off and his eyes harden. "I'm sure, Steph."

Steph's gaze hardens as well and a spark of something fierce and wild - the very spark that caught his eye back when he first put together his privateer crew back in Bristol - lights up her eyes. "In that case we'll have to prepare a proper 'thank you' for him, eh?" Steph cracks her knuckles and grins savagely. Tim shakes his head fondly. "May I share this news with the crew?" she asks him beseechingly. "They'll be wanting to share their 'thanks' with this bastard as well, I'd imagine."

Tim hesitates, but nods stiffly. "Aye, but keep it brief. They don't need my whole bloody life story, Stephanie."

"Aye, Captain," she replies with a jaunty salute that barely disguises the rage behind her eyes as she turns to the crew and begins to walk the length of the ship, calling out in a loud voice, "Okay, listen up you sorry lot, we've got a grand personage on that boat up ahead-"

Heads come up and eyes turn toward her while Tim does his best to tune out her voice. He turns his gaze back to the ship in the distance.

"-that very cur that once tried his damnedest to betray and murder our esteemed captain-"

A distant part of him can feel his crew's eyes on him, but his mind is elsewhere, imagining a face, imagining the look on it when they overtake that ship, board it, then sink it to the depths.

"-one Jason bloody Todd, scourge of the Caribbean, and foulest among pirates! I expect you all to give him your 'warmest regards'-"

Murmurs rise among the crew, heads nodding. Cassie looks surprised and furious, but she turns her fury toward the horizon. In the background, Conner's face takes on a dark cast and Bart cracks his knuckles with a wicked grin.

"-so what say you, crew of the Red Robin? You ready to catch this sonofabitch and send his sorry excuse of a ship down to the murky deep?"

"Aye!"

Tim smiles grimly into the biting wind and imagines the face of one Jason Peter Todd in the moment he gets his long-overdue comeuppance.

"All hands on deck for best available speed and make preparations to board!"

"Aye!"

He smiles and looks in grim satisfaction to the storm ahead.

~*~

"Jason? Jason! Damn you to the depths, Jason Todd! Listen to me when I talk!"

Jason nods absently, his eyes fixed on a slip of a ship far off to their stern. "I hear you, Roy…"

"But you don't listen!" Roy bites back, stepping between Jason and his view of the tailing ship. Roy frowns. "All you want to do is stare dreamily back at that damned ship and mutter to yourself. You're lucky Kori has her wits about her or they would have caught us naught but five minutes out of port."

"I can't believe it, Roy, it's him, it's really him..."

Roy, his third-in-command, rolls his eyes. "You keep saying that, but who is 'him'? Who is on that ship that has you so moony you would've about thrown yourself under their keel if we hadn't hauled you away?"

Jason scowls and rips his eyes away from the horizon. "It's him, Roy. The one I thought I’d…"

"Is that supposed to mean something to- OH," Roy's eyes widen as he remembers a drunken confession Jason made to him over too many brandies all those months ago back when Jason first brought their crew together.

"He's the one you killed while hopped up on Joker's Breath? Back when you tried to take the Batfang out from under ol' Bluebird?"

Jason winces, but nods. "Aye. Him. Tim."

"Tim, huh?" Roy looks uncertain. "Are you sure? You only got a glimpse of him before they raised the alarm and Kori sped us away, thank God in heaven for the good head on her shoulders."

Jason nods and turns his gaze back to the distant ship. "I'd know that face anywhere, Roy. It's him."

Roy rolls his eyes again. "Okay… well, I guess you didn't kill him after all, but considering the fuss he's put up trying to run us down, I can't imagine he's all too happy over the attempt."

"I don't care," Jason says. "He's alive. I could sing, Roy. My God, he's alive…" He runs his hands through his hair for the hundredth time, teasing it into wild, unkempt spikes.

"Yes," Roy responds flatly. "Actually, it's been eight days, Jason, how has this not sunk in yet?"

"He's really alive…"

Roy closes his eyes and tips his head back, groaning. He crosses himself. "God in heaven, preserve us…"

"Save some of those prayers for the hours to come, Roy Harper. We'll be needing them once this storm breaks," First Mate Kori Anders tells him as she approaches from behind.

"They must be suicidal following us into this storm," Roy comments wryly.

"A trait we clearly share, since we're headed into it ourselves!" their helmswoman Artemis calls back over her shoulder.

"Aye, but you'd have thought they'd've turned back by now," Roy muses, rubbing his chin. “It was a mad plan, but it should’ve worked a charm...”

"Never underestimate the lengths to which a pirate - former or otherwise - will go to set to rights a wrong committed against them," Kori comments blithely, pulling out her looking glass. She sighs after a moment and turns to Jason.

"Captain, there is nothing for it. We cannot outrun them and we are vastly outgunned. We must come about and bring the fight to them, on our own terms."

Jason nods. "No more running. I need to see him, one more time..."

Roy makes a sound of disgust as Kori frowns in confusion. "You're missing the point, Captain Todd. We're not planning to turn around to kiss your lover on the cheek. That man is after our blood; we need to make a stand, draw first blood and drive them off," he reminds him.

Jason finally turns his full attention on Roy, a blotchy flush rising on his cheeks. "He was not my lover, not after… No, we don't take the offensive today." Roy begins to interrupt him, but Jason persists, eyes taking on a grim cast.

"He's not after our blood, he's after mine," Jason tells them firmly. "I'll… I will speak with him. We will work this out." Kori and Roy raise their eyebrows, but wisely told their tongues. "We will defend ourselves, but we will not draw first blood. That is an order. Is that understood?"

Roy and Kori stiffen under his unyielding stare, their doubt and uncertainty yielding to trust borne of long partnership and camaraderie. "Aye, Captain."

"Come about! One-eighty to stern. Ready the sweeps and prepare arms! We fight to defend only, by strict order of the captain himself! Prepare for hard sprint at the word!" Kori orders the crew in a booming voice. Jason turns back to staring across the waves toward their shadow. Roy scrubs a hand across his face in exhaustion then hurries to help the crew prepare their vessel for the rough stretch ahead. Artemis and the rest of the crew of the Red Hood look around at each other uneasily, but comply without hesitation.

"Aye!"

~*~

"Tim, I'm so relieved you're alive! I don't even have the words to express how glad-"

"Save your breath, Jason!" Tim yells back hoarsely, fighting to be heard over the howl of wind and rain and pounding seas around them. He strikes out at Jason wildly, recklessly, forcing Jason closer to the edge of the steeply rolling deck.

They slide around on the slick planks and tumble over loose detritus in a frenzied dance, Tim striking out violently while Jason attempts to talk him down from his rage. Around them the crews mirror their fight, Tim's crew attacking with a vengeance while Jason's fight just to hold them at bay. Truthfully, it was all they could manage in any case, outnumbered as they were by Tim's privateers.

Kori's plan to turn back fast and hard and surprise Tim's crew worked a charm. They'd been taken off-guard so badly when the Red Hood had suddenly appeared out of nowhere on leeward side that they'd hadn't the time to run out their long guns and had instead begun immediate boarding, just as Jason and Kori had hoped. Unfortunately, the storm that had been brewing around them also arrived to the fight not long after they, and now it tossed their ships around like toys, threatening to take them both to the crushing deep for their troubles.

"Tim, I'm so, so sorry! I never meant-" Jason bellows over the wind, dodging another wide swing of Tim's staff.

"Shut up! Shut up and fight me, you arsehole! I don't want to hear your false apologies!" Tim howls back, launching himself heedlessly across the deck of his ship to strike again. "You. Tried. To. KILL! ME!" he pants out, his face livid in the sporadic flashes of lightning. "You. Ungrateful. Hog-brained. Ill-begotten. Betraying. Piece of filth! Fight back, you spavined cur! FIGHT MEEEEE!"

Jason lets Tim dart in close and rap him smartly across his side, but the younger pulls his blow almost immediately, looking all the more enraged for Jason having allowed the hit. Jason shakes his head, sending rain and seawater flying from his sodden hair. "I killed you, Tim, I watched you die and I'll never forgive myself! Never! I'm sorry, so sor-"

"LIAR!"

They both stagger as the ships lurch, and a sudden cry of fear rising from many mouths turns their heads to stare in horror at the massive swell rumbling toward the linked ships. Calls from both crews to pull back gangplanks, cut loose, and brace for impact are faint under the roar of the sea, but there is no way they can be ready in time.

Jason sees his chance and scrambles across a plank just before two of his crew push it off their rail, safely alighting on the deck of his own boat. He hears a cry and turns, eyes widening in horror as he watches Tim go down with the plank, eyes fixed on Jason's, one a hand still reaching out as if to snag his coattails and drag him down with him. He watches in slow motion as the back end of the plank rises while the other drops, striking Tim hard on the back of his head. Cries of alarm rise from some of Tim's crew as their captain goes limp and plummets like a stone into the inky surf. Jason moves without thinking, the roar of the sea and the screams of their crews dropping away as his world narrows down to a single point: Tim.

He dives headfirst into the gulf between their ships and lets the current take him. He searches wildly in the pitch black with his rapidly numbing limbs and nearly gasps in relief when his legs strike a large mass. He twists and turns, finally snagging an arm just before a wave flips them head-over-heels. He tugs the body close, wraps all four of his limbs around it while praying that it is, in fact, Tim, and waits for a lull.

His lungs are burning by the time he finds a chance to rise, slinging one arm around Tim while he uses the other to scrabble for the surface. They reach air just in time for him to suck in a quick breath before another wave pushes them down once more. A bolt of lightning illuminates a piece of flotsam that washes over them and Jason seizes it, hauling the body up and onto it in the next lull. Another flash reveals Tim's slack face and their two boats disappearing into the storm.

Not ideal, but he'll take any good fortune he can get along with the bad. There was no way their boats would be able to get to them in these rolling seas, anyway. They would all have to ride this out and see where they end up in the morning.

Jason turns Tim onto his side and thumps between his shoulder blades, breathing a shaky sigh of relief when he feels coughing. He climbs up beside Tim, throws an arm and leg over him, and braces himself to hang on for the both of them, for as long as it takes, until they ride out this storm.

~*~

Tim wakes slowly, the smell of wood smoke registering first, then the unpleasant, sticky-gritty feeling of taking an unplanned bath in seawater…

His eyes snap open and he lurches upright with a strangled gasp that dissolves into coughing. His throat feels awful and it stands to reason he might have swallowed a good portion of that seawater he bathed in, but he's currently coming up blank on why or how that might have occurred. That's fine; he's woken up this way more than once in his time as a pirate, and then later, as a privateer. One of many workplace hazards. It'll all come back to him eventually. Or it won't and he'll make due anyway. He always does.

A small sound draws his eyes across the fire to the sight of a man and in an instant it all comes back to him with a burning fury. "YOU!" he bellows, throwing himself at the man, at Jason Todd, nearly setting himself on fire in the process. Jason has the good grace to look guilty before surprise overtakes his features, but Tim is livid at the other things he sees there. Happiness. Affection. Lov-

"Tim! Easy! Take it easy, pajarito! You took a rough tumble and breathed no small amount of seawater before I fished you out last night!" he has the temerity to plead. Tim fumes.

"How dare you! You don't get to call me that anymore, you bloody mutineer!" he wheezes hoarsely, aiming a punch straight for that smug, handsome face that has the gall to look pained at the accusations.

The infuriating man catches his fist in a firm grip, but his shoulders wilt. "No, I don't suppose I do, at that. Tim, I'm so sor-"

"No!" Tim screams, ripping his fist away and launching himself at Jason anew. They tumble back into the sand and Tim rains open handed blows against Jason's ribs, causing him to grunt involuntarily. "I don't care how sorry you are! I don't want to hear it! That doesn't excuse you for conspiring against my friend - your own brother! That doesn't erase the damage you did to him! To us! And I absolutely refuse to let you weasel your way out of this after you stabbed me square in the chest and left me for dead!"

Jason bucks his hips and rolls them, pinning Tim's legs with his weight and pinning each hand with one of his own. Tim wriggles and fights like a man possessed, but Jason holds firm, staring down at Tim with that stupid, pretty, mournful face of his.

"I know I hurt y-

"You were my friend, Jason! My brother! More than a brother!" Tim howls, drowning out that bloody voice. He can't stand it, can't stand to hear it again after all these months, that same voice he hears in his dreams sometimes, whispering friendly quips and sweet nothings before it morphs into the low growl he heard just before he took a knife to a rib, lucky that he took it to a rib and not between them. "You were the closest thing I had to love and you tossed it all away like rubbish! And for what? For some new 'friends' of yours?"

"Tim, I-"

"I hate you! I despise you, and I will take you down for what you did, even if I have to come back from the dead to- hmmnf!"

Jason leans forward and shuts him up with a rough kiss, something so familiar and yet so strange after all that's happened. Tim lets himself go limp and kisses back after a moment, seeing an opportunity. He tells himself he doesn't enjoy the contact - that Jason is as striking as ever, but he doesn't want any part of that anymore - and that he's only letting his body fall back into this familiar rhythm in order to play along, but it messes with his head, nonetheless. Jason pulls back after a moment and stares down at Tim with an expression that is a vision of relief and guilt and joy all rolled into one. He’s beautiful, as always, but Tim isn't falling for that pretty face anymore. Never again, he swears.

"You've already come back from the dead, Tim," Jason tells him softly, easing up on his hands, then lifting one of his own to trace the line of Tim's face. "We both have, and I would gladly die aga-"

Tim uses that chance to flip them and summarily strikes Jason in the temple with his fist, dropping the man instantly. He scrambles off of him and drops back into the sand with a grunt. After a moment to catch his breath, he slowly begins taking in the island around them, studying the trees and the sand and the curve of the beach around them.

It looks... small. Intimate, even. No chance of him disappearing to some secluded corner and pretending he hasn’t just been marooned on an island with the one person he currently hates most in this world. After a moment he tilts his head back and releases a wheezy sigh.

"Well, fuck."

~*~

Jason groans, then attempts to bat away the scratchy object repeatedly nudging his cheek. All he wants to do is roll over and sleep off the awful pounding in his head. He shouldn't have let Roy talk him into having so much of that damn rum, he thinks hazily.

"Wake up, you lunk," a voice off to his right says, the scratchy object nudging with greater insistence.

"Lemme alone, Roy…" Jason begins to grumble until the tone and pitch of that voice registers and he snaps awake. "Tim!"

Tim Drake sits back on his heels with an sullen glare, but proffers a roughly cut half of a coconut that Jason accepts with shaky hands. There is coconut water in the cleaned out shell and suddenly Jason's thirst hits him hard and fast much like the wave that knocked them from their ships did hours ago. His memory of the last day and a half trickles back to him as he gulps down the sweet water gratefully.

"I still can't believe it's really you," Jason admits hoarsely once he catches his breath again.

"Well, it is, and I can't believe you thought it was a good idea to snog me into submission after everything you've already done," Tim replies, pinning him with a sharp look. Jason winces, and sets the coconut down in the sand.

"I'm sorry-"

"I swear, if I hear you say the word sorry one more time…" Tim growls, rolling his eyes in irritation. He sighs, then moves to put the campfire between them. Jason watches him warily. Tim glances over at him then rolls his eyes again.

"Relax, I'm not going to attack you again. For now," he adds with a slit-eyed glare. "I'm still upset with you and no amount of 'sorry's or 'I feel terribly about it' is going to change that, but we can't afford to be fighting each other right now." He gestures to the island around them. "I scouted out our new refuge. We could probably subsist here for weeks, if not months, but it’s a small island and we're all each other has on this sad little spit of land, so, for the time being I propose a truce."

"I agree, heartily," Jason says, clenching his hands together and twisting them, "but I can't live with myself if I don't at least try to amend for some fraction of-"

Tim shakes his head wearily. "I don't want to hear any of it, so don't waste your breath." He gives Jason with a searching look. "Words are cheap, Jason. If you want to prove to me how sorry you are for what you've done, then allow me to take you in to the proper authorities to pay for your crimes."

Jason opens his mouth, but Tim presses on, leaning in intimidatingly. "And know this, Jason Peter Todd: our truce lasts as long as we inhabit this island. As soon as we step off of it, I will spare no expense to bring you to justice. I'll chase you to world's end if need be. I swear on it."

Jason nods, feeling the burden of their shared past weighing heavily on him as replies. "I will."

Tim tilts his head in confusion. "What?"

"I accept your offer of escort to the ruling authorities of any port of your choosing, and I will readily give myself over to suffer whatever punishment they decree in the name of justice," Jason tells him, leaning in to meet Tim stare for stare. "I will never forgive myself for what I did to you - and to Dick - but if it puts your soul at ease, then I will gladly welcome whatever punishment is due to me under the eyes of the law."

Tim stares. "Jason… you'll hang for piracy," he states plainly.

"If that makes amends to you, even in the smallest bit, then I'll go to the gallows gladly," Jason replies, just as plainly.

Tim's eyes widen and his face pales under a slight flush of sunburn. He takes a moment to collect himself and Jason welcomes it, taking the opportunity to drink in the sight of Tim like a man dying of thirst.

Words are cheap, as Tim says, but Jason knows to the depths of his soul that he would go to the gallows happily just so long as Tim's face is his last sight on earth. After too many months of dreams, nay, nightmares that begin with kissing Tim and end with a knife lodged in Tim's chest, there is nothing more beautiful to Jason than the sight of Tim alive and well. Every moment he stares, even the moments of baleful glares and raised voices, feel like rain on parched earth, a balm for his burned and battered soul. He'll take soul-searing fire all day, any day over the horror and betrayal he sees in Tim's pretty ocean-blue eyes every night.

Eventually, Tim clears his throat, studying his woven fingers intently. "Honestly, I didn't think you'd… in all my dreams of this day, I'd pictured confronting you, imagined hauling you away, sometimes imagined keelhauling you or locking you away in my brig to rot, but... I don't think I've ever imagined you actually going to the noose." He glances up, showing Jason his first glimpse vulnerability in what feels like lifetimes. "If you did, I think I'd lose a part of myself on that noose…"

He trails off, deflates with a sigh, then scoots around the campfire until they're sitting roughly side by side. Jason could reach out a hand and touch his arm - he wants to, desperately, if only to confirm Tim’s real and this isn't just another dream - but he holds himself back.

"Explain."

Jason tilts his head and raises a brow in confusion.

"Explain to me what happened," Tim clarifies. "All these months, I've nursed my wounds and my wounded pride, but what really rankled most was never understanding why." The pain and betrayal Jason recalls in his dreams every night shines in Tim's eyes now, and he can't stand to see it, but he refuses to tear his eyes away, punishing himself with the sight of it.

"Why did you turn on Dick?” Tim demands. “Why did you stab me in the chest for something as silly as a Captain's mantle? What did those strange new friends of yours offer you to convince you to betray everything you'd worked for your entire life?"

Jason shakes his head. "They didn't offer; they poisoned," he corrected in a low voice. He plucks a long palm frond from their meager fire and stirs the glowing coals, picking his words wisely.

"Joker's Breath" - Tim's eyes widen in horrified understanding - "was what they offered, and I was fool enough to give in to their wheedling the second night after you'd left to scout ahead. One time was all it took to snag me in their web. By the time you came back…" Jason trails off, shaking his head and refusing to continue. It didn't matter why he did it, it only mattered that he did and he regretted every bit of it with every ounce of his soul.

"Explain," Tim demands again, eyes shining like blue steel in the firelight.

"All that matters is that I was a blasted, naïve fool for letting that riffraff pressure me into taking their poison, and then for letting it consume my every thought thereafter until Dick threw me into the brig to sweat it out," Jason tells him. "Everything that followed that moment of weakness was entirely my fault, and I will never forgive myself for a single bit of it. Never."

Tim lets out a long breath before he speaks again, slowly, as if he is choosing his words very deliberately. "Whether you forgive yourself is your affair, but if I am ever to forgive you - and a large part of me sorely wants to, if only for the benefit of my own peace and sanity - then I need to understand what happened."

He leans in close, catching Jason's gaze. "I need to hear your side of this. You may be surprised to hear it, but I, well…" - a blush darkens the redness in his cheeks and he fidgets but holds Jason's gaze doggedly - "As much as I was infuriated and confused and hurt by what happened that day, I still missed you."

Jason blinks in surprise and Tim nods to himself. "I still love you, despite it all,” Tim admits, “and not understanding how you could do this to me - to all of us - has made that love nothing but a terrible ache in my soul."

"You.. I…" Jason swallows, struggling. "I did all those terrible things and still you have it within you to love me?" he gasps incredulously.

"Yes, but love is funny, Jason. Never doubt for a moment that I also hate you just as much," Tim informs him bluntly. He narrows his eyes and points a finger into Jason's face threateningly. "I wasn't kidding about despising you. I despise what you did and I despise you…"

Jason gapes, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

"…but I can't stop loving who you were - who you may still be, somewhere deep down in that muddied soul of yours - and that is just the way it is," Tim concludes with a nod of finality.

Jason closes his mouth and lets out a long breath of his own. "So… you really want to hear my side of things? You're sure?"

The tension drains out of Tim's shoulders and he rolls them once before shooting him the ghost of a grin Jason knows all too well. "Please," he asks, his gentle tone at odds with the challenge in his expression, playfully daring Jason to defy him and see what happens. A marriage of steel and grace, Tim's hallmark style.

As if Jason would ever dare to defy this man's wishes. He scrubs a hand through his salt-sticky hair and drops the tension from his own shoulders, settling himself down before the long, anxious tale ahead. "Well, going back to where it all started, not long after you left on that ill-fated scouting trip…"

#my writing #christmasriverswrites #jaytim #chibinightowl #jaytimsecretsanta #jtsse 2018 #pirate!jason #privateer!tim #pirate au #swore I'd never write a pirate au but i leapt at the change to fill this prompt so... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯#tw mention of drugs

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let-it-raines · 6 years

Text

Second in Command: Ch. 7

Summary: Life as the "spare to the heir" isn't all that it's cracked up to be when you're the supposed screw-up of the family, but people don't know what really happens behind closed doors.

Rating: M

A/N: If anyone isn’t a big Halloween movie watcher, you can find the clip of a line Emma says here. I also highly recommend the movie. It’s a personal favorite.

And as always, this chapter and the rest of the story can be found on ao3

| here |

The world has known about Emma for three months now, summer slowly drifting into autumn. The longer the month of September goes on, the more the heat begins to subside and the leaves begin to prematurely fall to the ground, a myriad of colors scattering the sidewalks.

Autumn has always been his favorite season. The humidity seems to fade away, and the streets tend to smell less like hoards of sweaty, hurried people and more like the occasional clear air that will waft through England when the stars align to create a day where the air is neither filled with smoke nor rain. September is a fine month, his birthday always falling toward the tail end of it, but he tends to favor October.

It’s a month most people pass by without much thought, directly between the thrill of summer vacation and the merriness of the winter holiday season, but to some, often those with small children or adults who have a sense of imagination and adventure (and often those wanting the opportunity to imbibe in a few libations), it’s the month that marks its end with ghouls and goblins and witches oh my.

He’s never been one to celebrate Halloween as an adult. He’d been to one or two parties while at university, sure, always throwing together a last minute costume that more often than not resulted in him throwing on a tux that he already owned and going as James Bond. If he got really creative, he’d shave his beard, throw on a pair of spectacles and go as Clark Kent.

So he likes Halloween, enjoys the sweets and the horror films and the way the store fronts fill their windows with intricately carved pumpkins, yellow candles flickering inside as the sun sets into darkness.

He likes it, but Emma loves it. She loves everything about it. As soon as the calendar flips from September to October, she pulls a chest out from under her bed that’s full of DVDs (We can just watching them online, darling, he’ll say. It’s not the same, she’ll say) to watch at least one a day until the clock strikes midnight on Halloween and the pumpkins turn into Christmas trees (or turkeys for those living in America). In her closet there’s a box of every Halloween costume she’s ever worn that somehow managed to make the trip from America to London.

He once found a princess costume that was made for a girl no older than five, and when he teased her about how she’s obviously had a thing for him for her entire life, she told him that it was really Liam she had a thing for, her lips curling up into a smirk as mirth danced in her eyes. He was left speechless holding a sparkly blue dress as he watched her proudly bask in the glory of her joke. Later she told him, whispered in the darkness of her room after she had physically reaffirmed that he was the only man for her, that she could have dressed as a princess every day of her life and still never have been prepared for him and every way he’s surpassed any dream she ever had of a prince sweeping her off her feet just by being Killian.

He could have never prepared for her.

Emma carves pumpkins and buys candy ahead of time only to eat it all and have to purchase more before the holiday passes (and then buying the discount candy on November first so that she has enough to last her until the Valentine’s Day sales). She researches ghost stories online and then retells them with the enthusiasm of someone who likes being scared shitless at the possibility that the dead haunt her movements.

So his girlfriend loves Halloween, and he knew that going into their relationship, part of the basic getting to know you process that happened over late nights and glasses of rum she eventually didn’t charge him for. However, he didn’t get to experience Halloween with her until they’d been dating for over two years. The first year he’d had to miss it because he rearranged his schedule so that he’d be around for her twenty-first birthday the week before. She’d told him she loved him for the first time that night, and he would trade all of his Halloweens for the rest of his life just to keep that day the same. The next year he’d been on his two-month North American tour that had resulted in them not speaking for a few weeks, so he hadn’t even gotten to listen to her enthusiasm about the holiday (She was a bar wench he later found out. An appropriate costume that ended up looking very inappropriate on her).

When he realizes that he can finally celebrate with her on his third try, the smile that crosses his face may rival Emma’s when she’s watching Hocus Pocus.

“So you’re sure about this?” she questions as she pushes her box of movies back underneath her bed, settling on the creepy and the kooky Addams Family.

They both had the day off, and Emma had begged, not that she needed to, for the two of them to spend the day watching movies and eating candy out the bowl she’d already depleted at least once – he would know, he had to stop and buy her a mixed bag of candy on his way here. If she pulled a pumpkin primed for carving out of her closet, no part of him would be surprised.

“I am positive,” he tells her as she crawls into bed next him, moving his arm so that it wraps around her shoulder, his fingers instinctively going to find the skin just below her shirt. “I have purposely arranged my entire autumn schedule so that I will be free to spend Halloween night with you.”

“You know what this means, though, right?”

“That I’m going to have to schedule an extra dental appointment because you’re going to force feed me candy until my teeth rot?”

“I mean, obviously,” she teases, kissing the underside of his jaw from her vantage point below him. “But it means you have to wear a costume. Like, a real costume that you buy ahead of time because we have a costume party every year downstairs. And, like, not to be like the clichés of all the movies about royalty going out into disguise on Halloween, but if you could wear something that partially covers your face or alters your identity, that would be great because then I can kiss you downstairs and no one will even question it.”

“Are there really movies like that?”

“You have no idea.” She kisses his jaw again, the sensation running all the way through him. He is so crazy in love with her that sometimes he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “One day I’m going to teach you about all of the clichés that you fall under.”

He can’t help but laugh, pulling her closer to his side as the theme of The Addams Family finally begins to play on the television. They spend the rest of their day watching movies that have him ranging from laughing to sweating to being incredibly turned on. He eats more kit kat bars than he’s proud to admit, his stomach rounding where it’s usually more defined, and by the time he’s leaving to make his way home, he feels more like one of those pumpkins he thinks Emma has hidden in her closet than anything else.

Emma’s just kissed him goodbye, a little more enthusiasm than usual, when he realizes something he missed out on earlier.

“Wait,” he pulls back from her lips to look her in the eyes, “if I’m dressing up, that means you’re dressing up. What the devil are you wearing?”

“Be patient,” she begins, lifting up on her toes to give him another kiss, slow and sensual and something he very much wants to continue, before pushing him out the door, “because that is a surprise that you’re just going have to show up to see. It’s kooky.”

Damn. That’s something he can’t wait to see.

Finding a costume that won’t make him feel ridiculous ends up being more difficult than he thinks. He considers several that require him to wear a mask that completely covers his face, but those seem to be farcical more than anything else. He thinks of going as a pirate, but that just didn’t seem to call to him, the leather and eyeliner unappealing. When he comes across an entire section that’s full of prince costumes, one even entitled Prince Killian, he almost buys it just for the look on Emma’s face. Eventually after all of the sailors and clowns and police officers are eliminated, and he settles on being Tom Cruise in Top Gun. It’s a happy medium between what he’s comfortable with and what really getting into the spirit (pun intended) of Halloween means. Plus, he can mostly be himself with dark shades used to cover his eyes. It’s surprising how many people don’t recognize him simply because he has on a pair on sunglasses.

It’s Halloween, and Emma’s been suspiciously silent, only texting him short little nothings when he texts her first. It’s not totally abnormal, but for this to be one of her favorite days of the year, she doesn’t seem to be too excited. It unnerves him, and even though he was supposed to wait until the pub’s patrons are pleasantly buzzed, he ends up sauntering through the door at a quarter after ten to find Mary Margaret and David, dressed as a cat and a dog in the way that only two people in their late forties can, but with no sign of Emma anywhere.

The place is unusually busy, the younger patrons outweighing the older crowd that usually frequents the place, making the space feel smaller than usual. It doesn’t help that the Nolans have stretched fake cobweb across the pillars and between booths, causing people to duck around them if they don’t want to end up with whatever artificial material is used to make the decorations. On all of the tables are carved pumpkins he knows the three of them worked on two days ago. He spies the one he did a week ago, crooked smile from where the knife slipped in his hand. It’s on the table of the booth in the back – their booth, he likes to think, the one where they met – and he can’t help but think that Emma Nolan can be sentimental sometimes, too.

Right now, though, he’d really like to find Emma Nolan and whatever costume she’s hidden from him.

It’s then that he sees her, short black dress with a white peter pan collar, the sexiest thigh high boots he’s ever seen, and a black wig parted down the middle into two braids, her lips painted in a black lipstick the he imagines she won’t let him kiss her with. She’s Wednesday Addams. She gave him a clue by the movie they watched last time he was here, and no part of him even thought about it. He spent a hell of a lot of time thinking about it. Of course, knowing her, she very well could have come up with her costume idea while they were watching the movie.

He makes his way over to where she’s refilling a few glasses of ale, grabbing her wrist and pulling her to him so that he can kiss her cheek and squeeze her hip just because he can.

“Where’s your costume, darling?” he teases when he pulls back from her skin, knowing exactly what her answer is going to be, the Halloween-loving woman.

He can tell she has to hold back a smile before she deadpans, “this is my costume. I’m a homicidal maniac. They look just like everyone else.”

She delivers the line exactly as she should, identical to Wednesday Addams, not even throwing him a wink like she so often will when she tells a joke, the lines on her face as straight and narrow as possible.

It’s only when she seems to take his costume in, her eyes perusing the jumpsuit and the dark aviator sunglasses in a way that makes him feel like there’s no air circulation in the pub. He tries to reign in his nerves, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Do you like it?”

Emma pulls back so that he can see her, the corner of her lips lifting up on one side. “Eh, I prefer how Maverick looks on the beach, but this’ll do.” And then she’s walking away, flipping the pigtails of her wig behind her, finally giving him the wink he expected earlier. The little minx.

It ends up being such a busy night that he doesn’t get to see much of Emma. She’s always refilling drinks or wiping down tables when people leave. He doesn’t mind, though. Just watching her, he can see that she’s having a blast with all of the people who dressed up tonight. When a group of girls all dressed as the Addams Family women walk in, Emma practically squeals, a very un-Wednesday like thing to do.

She convinces them to take a picture with her, telling them that it’s going to go up on the wall where her family keeps pictures of big events that happen here.

Seeing her this happy keeps a smile on his face throughout the night, even when he’s had one too may rums and realizes he has to take off the jumpsuit to relieve himself. It’s annoying and inconvenient, and when he comes out of the restroom cursing under his breath about bloody fucking Halloween (though no blood was involved in this Halloween), it’s to Emma leaning against the wall with her arms crossed waiting on him, right eyebrow perched high on her forehead.

“You know, Nolan, that’s a little creepy you waiting out here for me.”

“I wanted to get another picture of us to put up on the wall.”

“Won’t that be suspicious?”

“Nah, I’m just going to say it was a really hot guy who came by on Halloween, and I needed an excuse to get close to him. Who knows? Maybe later I’ll even get his number.”

She’s…happy. She’s happy and flirtatious, two things he’s seen her be so many times before, but it’s like it’s contagious tonight, a disease which he’d very much like to catch.

So they take the picture for her to hang up on the wall. He’s smiling in it, wide toothy grin as he wraps his arms around her shoulder. She’s not smiling. Instead, her body is stiff and her hands are placed at her sides, unhappy look on her face that has him in stitches when he looks at it later. It’s a picture he’d like to keep just for the look on Emma’s face.

His favorite picture of the night, though, happens later when everything is closed down, and he’s starting to get tired, the only thing keeping him awake is the way that Emma’s mouth is moving against his, lazy and sloppy but all together delicious. He thinks that they’re on their way to other activities, his jumpsuit suddenly even more restricting, but then Emma starts hysterically laughing, tears rolling down her eyes as her hair, wig removed, falls in her face.

It’s not often that a woman laughs at how he kisses, so he can’t help but feel a tad bit insulted.

“Emma, love, what the bloody hell are you laughing at?”

She just leans over to her bedside table to grab her phone, snapping a picture of him without him knowing what’s happening.

“What are you doing? Why are you taking a picture of me?”

“Just hold on a minute, and I’ll tell you.”

It’s then that she twists in his lap so that she can take a picture of the two of them together, her head leaning on his shoulder. He thinks that maybe she just felt the overwhelming need to document the night, but then she’s thrusting her phone in his face and he sees why she’s laughing.

It’s a wonderful picture of the two of them. They look happy and vibrant despite the late hour. It would be just like every other photograph except for the fact that the black lipstick she had on with her costume is now smeared all over his lips and his chin, even a bit of his nose. He looks bloody ridiculous, and when he looks over to Emma she’s covering her mouth to hide her laugh.

“That’s really not your color, babe.”

It’s a night that he remembers fondly, the picture saved on his phone and the lipstick tube tucked away in a box of things that he’s collected from Emma over the years.

It’s not yet October, though, and Killian knows that a Halloween like that will most likely be a thing of the past for the two of them. They’ll have different kinds of holiday celebrations now, and while that does make him feel a tinge of longing for the ways of the past, he’s excited for the future.

Killian turns twenty-nine this week, and he’s having a quiet – by his family’s standards – celebration with just his family – his entire family, extending beyond just the immediate – as well as Emma and her parents. It is a bit of a combination event, both a celebration of his birth and an introduction of his girlfriend to the extended family she hasn’t met and vice versa, an introduction of her small family to the largeness of his.

“Are you nervous?” Killian questions, moving to zip Emma’s dress, one hand caressing her hip as the other guides the zipper up its path.

“Honestly,” she sighs out as she moves her hair off of her back and over one shoulder, exposing her neck to him, which he gives a soft kiss to when he finishes zipping her into the dress. It’s this little black thing she got from Abigail that’s long enough to be acceptable in the new dress code she’s trying to adhere to when she goes places with him that are a step up from the supermarket, but it still shows off all of her glorious curves. She looks beautiful, radiant even, and it doesn’t matter that he’s the slightest bit biased. “I don’t think I can really be nervous around your family anymore. It’s more this feeling I can’t describe, kind of like I’m walking on eggshells but only sometimes, I guess. It’s fine tonight, though, babe. It’s your night. I think I’ve officially grown a tough skin. I’m immune to all of the new bites from the Windsor clan.”

She’s ghosting over things, he can tell. He caught some of the flashing “it’s fine” signs in her little spiel, but he goes against his better judgment and ignores it for tonight. He ignores his own signs, too.

“They’re not piranhas, love.”

“No,” she says, turning around and placing her hands on his shoulders, straightening his shirt collar, “they’re not. I’ve already faced those.”

“And you did it swimmingly.” He leans down to quickly meet her lips with his.

“Was that a pun?”

“Always. I’m just naturally witty like that.”

“I think you’re fishing for compliments.”

He laughs, leaning down again to peck her cheek so as to not mess up her lipstick anymore. “You, my love, are the only fish in the sea for me.”

“Okay, I’m done with the bad puns. We’ve got a party to go to, old man.”

“What a kind, loving birthday wish from my girlfriend.”

“That’s what I’m here for, babe.”

And at that she walks away, hips swaying enticingly in that little black dress. When she gets to the doorway, she turns her head and fucking winks at him, and he’s got to make it through the entire night with her looking like that.

He catches up to her, jogging just a little down the hallway as they walk to his car on their way to Windsor Palace. It’s where his parents have been staying recently, as it’s much more low key than the busyness of London, even if it’s a bit of a drive from Kensington.

When they get there, it’s still about an hour before most of his family is supposed to arrive, but he wanted to spend some time with just his parents and Emma’s parents before all of the others arrive. The Nolans met his family two weeks ago, and they’ve all gotten on surprisingly well despite the rocky start this whole thing had. It probably helps that he and Emma decided to keep some of the nastier details of her introduction to his family to themselves.

Mary Margaret and Allison have become fast friends and have discovered that they share many of the same interests, having even gone to a few of the same schools growing up, though Killian’s mother is several years older than Mary Margaret. David and Brennan get on fine. They don’t have a lot in common, but they don’t have to. As long as they have Killian and Emma in common, they’ll always have things to talk about.

Emma’s never been to Windsor before, so he decides to giver her a small tour before joining his family in one of the dining halls. She did tell him the first time he brought her home that she’s fascinated by being able to see buildings she studied in primary school in real life. She’s brilliant, his love, with a mind most people can only hope to have half of, and though he knows that she’s happy with her decision not to attend university in exchange for helping her parents, he finds himself wondering what it would be like for her to take history classes. Would her face light up as she delved into research for papers? Would she hate having to stick her nose in a book to learn about history instead of getting to explore it for herself?

They’ve broached the subject, her going back to school before, but she always says that she’s happy. She likes her job, and she likes spending time with her parents and her regular patrons. So he doesn’t push it. He doesn’t need her to have a degree. He has one in Philosophy that he’s never once used before. He just wants to make sure that if she has the opportunity to do something she wants to do, she can.

“Babe,” she calls out from her spot a few feet ahead of him, and he already knows what she’s looking at before he catches up to her. “How old are you here?”

She’s staring at a portrait that’s far too large, something he protested with his mum for what felt like hours on end, and he can tell she wants to reach out and touch it, run her fingers along the lines of his face.

“I was fourteen, and before you say anything else, yes, I had to pose for it. It was bloody awful.”

“Can we get one of these at our house?”

She’s teasing him, playful smile on her lips, but all he can focus on is that she just said “our house.” They’ve been living together for a few weeks now. He’s sure she’s said something similar before, but it hasn’t hit him until then.

“Hey,” she says when he doesn’t speak for a moment too long, turning to caress his cheek, her face level to his with the heels she has on, “I was just teasing. I think this is amazing. I love getting to see more of you when you were young.”

Killian moves to wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her into his side so that he can rest the side of his forehead against the top of her head. “Aye, I know. We can have anything you want, Emma.”

She tilts her head back as much as she can, his grip on her waist more snug than usual. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, my love. I was just thinking about how if we get one of these for home, we also have to hang up that photograph of you from the time you dyed your hair brown and it ended up as some kind of purple.”

She scrunches her nose, mouth twisting in disgust. “Mom never should have documented some things. But fine. No giant portrait of teenage Killian. Though, I thought it might look really good over the bed.”

He can’t help put laugh, kissing the crown of her head before releasing her from his side and grabbing her hand so that they can finish their tour and show up to the dinner.

When they walk in the door to the dining hall, they don’t even have a chance to breathe before they’re ambushed.

“Mummy,” Alex squeals, squirming away from where he was sitting with Abigail and Liam on a couch so that he can make his way over to them, pointing at Emma as he waddles over to them, “it’s Emmy.”

Emma just hurries her steps up, swooping Alex up into her arms and covering his face in kisses, leaving red marks from her lipstick all over him that he always finds hilarious when he looks into a mirror later (Killian likes to think he wears Emma’s lipstick marks better than Alexander, but who is he to compare himself to a toddler?). She’s his new best friend, and Killian’s not saying that he’s upset that a soon-to-be-two-year-old is ignoring him for his girlfriend, but he’s worked hard for that favorite relative position just to be usurped by Emma in a matter of months.

Forget all of the murders and strategic arranged marriages of the past for people trying to overtake the thrown. Emma usurping Killian as Alex’s favorite person outside of his parents is the real royal scandal.

“Emmy,” Alex giggles, squirming in her arms as she’s moved on from kissing him to tickling his stomach. “Mummy has baby in belly.”

“Really?” Emma gasps, over-exaggerated voice that she’ll use sometimes when talking to him. “Mommy has a baby in her belly! That’s so exciting, Alex! Are you excited to have a new brother or sister?”

“Yay, baby,” Alex shrieks, raising his hands in the air and clapping, something his parents have obviously taught him to do with the mention of the new baby.

“Yay baby, indeed,” Abigail says, walking over to Killian, Emma, and her son, slight but obvious stomach reaching them before she does.

“Alex, darling,” Abigail coos, reaching to take him from Emma and transfer him to Killian, “what did daddy teach you to say to Uncle Killian today?”

Alex just stares at Abigail, like he has no idea what she’s talking about, his little face all scrunched up in confusion as he thinks.

“Does Happy Birthday ring a bell, Alexander?” Liam asks, making his way over to them from his spot on the sofa, clapping Killian on the back and resting his hand there. Killian’s flinch is barely noticeable.

The two of them are not best mates or anything now, as that would be hoping for miracles in a land where those are scarce, but there’s definitely less hostility between the two brothers – at least, on the surface. Killian knows that on top of the talks (talks, yelling matches, hushed conversations with Emma and Abigail in the other room) the two of them have had over the past few weeks, their father also sat down with Liam and talked about some of the changes they’re making and how they’re attempting to be more of a family in private, rather than just being kind in public. Killian hopes that with some work, it’ll be something that actually works out. He hopes that he can have the heart to let it work out because his feelings on the situation are about as messy and as convoluted as one’s thoughts can become.

Emma still tenses when Liam’s near, however, and obviously he does as well. She doesn’t make it obvious, but he can see how she squares her shoulders the slightest bit, the way her smile fades at the corners. He can’t blame her. He does the same. But the sacrifices she’s making for him are evident in the way her smile fades from brilliant to polite.

Alex gets it now, eyes lighting up as he stares at Killian. “Happy Birfday!” he shouts, just a little too loud, but it’s cute and he truly appreciates the fact that Liam took the time to teach Alex how to wish him happy birthday.

Everyone in the room bursts into laughs, clapping for Alex and he just grins, showing off his little toddler teeth in pride.

“Happy birthday, brother,” Liam wishes, clapping Killian on the back again, and this feels like the most normal interaction they’ve had in years. “You’re getting on up there in the years.”

“Says the man who’s closer to forty than thirty now.”

“Daddy old,” Alex adds in, and Emma lets out a series of loud giggles, having to cover her mouth with her hands to contain her laughter. Killian raises his eyebrow at her, silently asking now where did the little lad learn that? She just shrugs her shoulders, mouthing it wasn’t me at him.

After all of the happy birthdays are exchanged and Killian’s aunts and uncles and cousins (and second cousins and third cousins he’s not really sure he’s related to) show up at the allotted time, they have dinner, table full of conversation and laughter. He’s not quite sure when the last time he felt this comfortable at a family event was. Maybe he’s never felt this comfortable – and comfortable may be the wrong word, but he’s not dreading every move his family makes, knowing that they’re on their best behavior. But he just looks over at Emma next to him, hands wildly moving around as she tells a story to his aunt Carolyn about what it was like to grow up in America, and he can’t help the grin that blooms on his face. It won’t always be like this, but at least he has tonight to push down all of the dark thoughts that threaten to emerge.

It’s then that his father stands from his seat at the head of the table, wine glass in hand.

“Good evening, everyone,” Brennan greets, his lips forming a small smile. “Allison and I would just like to thank everyone for making the trip up here. I know it’s a little too rural for some of you.” The room laughs at that, and Emma turns to him to mouth how in the hell anyone could consider this rural. “But nevertheless, I’d like to make a birthday toast to my youngest, Allison’s baby as she still calls him despite Killian’s protests. Killian, my boy, you’re twenty-nine now. At your age I was this unrefined, unmarried man whose mother had to remind him to get his clothes washed before he went on to an event as a representation for Britain. You, on the other hand, are this intelligent, well-composed, brave young man who understands more about life and love than I think I ever have. To see you come into your own, find a love of your own, especially in the last few months, brings me a joy that I didn’t know was possible. So may you continue to be as happy and as vibrant as you are tonight for the rest of your days! Happy birthday, Killian!”

The room echoes with happy birthday, Killian, smiles gracing the faces of people who usually look so stern when all gathered together. His parents are beaming at him, Brennan kissing Allison’s cheek as she wipes away a tear that’s fallen to her cheek.

“Happy birthday, Killian,” Mary Margaret echoes, reaching over Emma to pat his arm. “Now not to be nosy, but has Emma given you her gift yet?”

“Mom,” Emma hisses, lightly smacking Mary Margaret’s arm, her lips slightly parted in surprise.

“What? I wanted to know if he liked it!”

“I wasn’t going to give it to him until later.”

Emma looks so frustrated with her mother, like Mary Margaret actually gave away whatever this secret present is. She didn’t, and while he’s bloody curious, he can wait until later since Emma obviously wants to give it to him alone.

“Oh,” Mary Margaret squeaks, placing her hands on her lap as David tries to hide his laughter next to them. “Well you’ll have to call me and tell me in the morning.”

Emma leans her head to her left so that she can rest it on her mother’s shoulder, the two women interlacing their fingers. “I will, Mom. I promise.”

The rest of their time there goes well, everyone in that blissful state of being just buzzed enough to let their inhibitions down. He and Emma somehow get roped into having dinner with his parents next week, and Emma’s grip on his hand tightens the slightest bit. The four of them have been trying to spend more time together, them getting to know Emma for the first time and Killian for the second time around – possibly the first if he truly considers it. Despite that, or possibly because of it, Emma’s still tense around them, for more reasons than one. But she handles it as best as she can, and he couldn’t be more proud. She handles it with more grace than he ever has.

Later that night he’s lying in bed, reading his book like the old man he now is, and Emma saunters out of the bathroom, clad in nothing but the lacy black bra and underwear she had on under her dress. He doesn’t pay her much attention, trying to finish the chapter he’s on, but then she’s crawling over the covers and onto his lap, knees on either side of his thighs.

“Babe?” she prods, nestling further into his lap, and honestly it’s killing him not to buck his hips up into hers, the early friction already enough to send a buzz down his spine. But this is the path he’s chosen to go on tonight for some insane reason. The old age must be making him delusional.

“Mhmm,” he answers back, flipping his page.

She starts kissing the side of his neck, working at the skin between his neck and his collarbone, worrying a faint bruise there that won’t show in the suit he has to wear at his events tomorrow. Crafty lass she is.

He’s got no idea what’s going on in his book anymore. It’s like he’s never read before in his life, pleasure coursing through his veins distracting him. She’s working her way back up his throat, slowly running her tongue across his jaw before she starts nibbling on his ear. He’s just about to give in, to pull her lips to his and her body so close they’re basically one, when she pulls back, propping her hands up on his shoulders and adjusting herself so that her hips are no longer aligned with his.

He could groan at the lack of contact. He does groan at the lack of contact.

“What are you doing, love?”

“Well I was trying to seduce you for your birthday.”

“Is this my present?” he questions, fingering the cup of her bra, lifting it so that the top of her nipple is exposed as his other hand runs down her side, cupping her waist. “As much as I appreciate this, and I do plan on appreciating it later, I can’t help but think that this is quite the odd present to have told your mum about. And for her to be excited about it on top of that. I didn’t know you shared about our sex life with your mother.”

Her face twists, lips pursing into a scowl. “The only person who gets details on our sex life is you, despite Ruby’s protests now that she knows about you. And this is definitely part of your present, but I do have something else if you want it.”

“Of course I do, darling.”

“Okay,” Emma tells him, extracting herself from his lap and making her way to the closet. The cut of her panties makes her ass look particularly firm, and he’s really beginning to regret not immediately devouring her when she came out of the bathroom.

She’s wrapped herself in her dressing gown by the time she comes out of the closet (he has to hold back a groan at that because damn) holding two wrapped presents that have bows that he’s come to know as Mary Margaret’s specialty.

“So Mom doesn’t know about the first gift,” she motions between the two of them before settling beside him on the bed, her feet tucked under her as she faces him, “but she did help me pick out this other stuff. I know we go over this every time we have a holiday or anniversary or whatever, so you know the drill. It’s not super expensive or nice or –”

“Hey,” Killian reaches forward to press his thumb against her chin, running it back and forth as he smiles down at her, “and you know that I don’t care about any of that stuff. We do the same routine every year. I think we should probably stop doing it.”

She leans down to kiss his thumb, nuzzling the finger further into the dent of her chin as her eyes flutter shut.

He loves her so much it’s ridiculous.

Emma hands him the larger package. It’s light to the touch, and he puts it next to his ear, shaking it slightly to see if it makes a sound. His father used to do that to presents when Killian was younger, and it’s one of his traits that he got from his father without ever realizing it. Emma hates it, and once she realized he did it, she’s always made sure to never wrap anything fragile.

“You can open that one first because it’s the more casual one.”

When he opens the box it’s to several new dress shirts, all different shades of blue and white, some with stripes or small dots. He just smiles at her, folding each shirt back into the box before she shoves the smaller box into his hands. Inside are several different sets of cufflinks, ranging from normal black and gold circles to ones in the shape of pizza and martini glasses.

“These are fantastic,” he laughs, admiring a pair that are in the shape of umbrellas. She looks nervous, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, and he can’t help but wonder why she’s so nervous over cufflinks. “Though I do have to ask what went into the decision making for buying these because I feel like you had a purpose behind them.”

She bounces a little from her position on the bed, the mattress squeaking with the movement. “So,” she begins, taking the pair of umbrella cufflinks out of his hand and running them between her fingers, “I pulled a you and decided to be kind of sentimental.” He leans toward her with the intention of pinching her side, but she moves away from him at the last minute. “The umbrellas are because it was raining on the night we met. The beer mugs and the martini glasses are because we’ve spent most of our relationship in a pub, obviously. The pizza is because that’s what we had to eat on our first date. Um, it was kind of hard to find other things because I don’t think cufflinks are really made to showcase relationship progress, so I just got the other ones, like the anchor and the initial ones, just because I thought you’d like them.”

“I love them, Emma. I love you.” He leans forward to quickly press his lips against hers. “Thank you. I’m going to wear the umbrella ones tomorrow.”

“I love you, too. And you are, really?”

“Most definitely. Though, if I’d had an umbrella that night we might not have met.”

Her face changes then, the nervous smile fading into a frown. “I can’t even imagine, Killian. I mean, can you? What would our lives be like? It’s just insane to think about. It honestly freaks me out a bit.”

“I know, love, but we don’t have to think about it. It happened, and now we’re here.”

Emma moves to take the boxes out of his hand, placing them on her bedside table (she has a bedside table) before curling up into his side, her head on his shoulder and her hands wrapped around his middle.

She’s quiet for a moment, nuzzling her nose into his bicep.

“How did you deal with today? With all the family? I thought everyone was good today, but I always just feel so edgy around your dad and Liam. I could tell that you do, too, even if today was a better day.”

A sigh passes through his lips before he reaches to pinch his nose, his other hand rubbing soothing circles on Emma’s back. He doesn’t want to talk about this right now.

“I’m confused, to be honest,” Killian admits. “It’s like I don’t know how to feel. Father is fine, I guess. He’s really turned things around in the effort he makes to be kind to me and to you, which is what I find to be the most important. He works with me on things, listening to my side instead of just going with his. I appreciate it, truly. But I just don’t know how to feel about Liam. He’s…he’s trying. But sometimes it’s like he doesn’t understand the gravity of everything we’ve been through. It doesn’t matter how many talks we have, how much I say. I think he knows he’s wrong and understands that, but I think he has a difficult time owning up to it, if that makes sense? It’s like he wants to say sorry and just move on without acknowledging things. And sometimes I just become frustrated to such a degree that I need a physical way to express that. I think it’s why I’m running even more now.”

Emma turns to nuzzle her head into his chest, kissing the skin there, soft little butterfly kisses that he can barely feel. “Killian, I’m so sorry. I wish I could help in some way. Make things better besides us just talking.”

“You already do, love.”

“That’s sweet, babe, but a lot of this is because of me. At least the recent stuff. You can’t ignore that.”

“Hey,” he reaches to squeeze her side before continuing to rub her back, something that’s probably more for him than for her, “you’ve done not a thing wrong, my love. It’s not because of you. He reacted to you because of the way he is. It’s from a lifetime of living on a high horse and never being knocked down until recently.”

“What would make the whole thing better for you? Do you think it’s better to just drop this whole trying to be better toward each other thing and live as you were before? Do you think it’s worth it? I mean, really think it’s worth it to try to be on friendly terms instead of just faking it when you have to? Is that something you actually want, or is it something you’re doing just because you feel like it’s what you should do?”

He doesn’t want to talk about this. He’s so tired of talking about this.

“I don’t know. I do think it’s better, that what we’re doing is better, and sometimes he and I will be having a conversation and it’s like all of the shit fades away and we’re just normal, you know? But then my brain reminds me that we’re not. It’s almost like, before I didn’t care how bad our relationship was. I had just resigned myself to it being messed up. But now, now it’s like I’m so desperately searching for something that’s just out of my grasp, and it hurts that every time I reach for it, it moves just a little bit further away.”

She hugs him a bit tighter, a sure sign that she doesn’t have any words to comfort him, left with just the physical touch that he relies on almost as much.

“Do you still think it’s possible to forgive him? Do you even want to? Not for him but for yourself?”

“Is it possible to not forgive and still try to move on with him as someone who has to be a part of my life?”

“Killian, I’m not sure. That has to be something you decide for yourself.”

He means his next words, but he doesn’t intend for them to come out as gruffly as they did, harsh and disparaging, and he knows this isn’t how tonight should have gone at all.

“I’m damn tired of thinking and talking about this. It’s like it’s been my entire life lately. As much as I appreciate you trying to help, I’d really rather not talk anymore tonight, Emma. I’d just like to go to bed.”

She’s silent at his side.

At least she’s still at his side.

#second in command #captain swan #captain swan fic #cs fanfic #cs ff

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