this sudden stop

[bossymarmalade]

Bruce smooths his hand against Kate’s hip, stepping up from behind her as he reaches around her to grab a coffee mug. He doesn’t speak, but kisses the side of her neck, under her ear, as he pours her, and then himself, a fresh cup.

Kate smiles a little, faintly, still a bit dozy, as she accepts the kiss, the coffee, and settles onto the not-that-comfy sofa. They really need to get better furniture up here. Bruce takes a sip and then clears his throat; he hadn’t spoken in a while. “Pass Ollie on your way here?”

"Not yet, but I assume he’ll be nearby." Kate waits for her coffee to cool a little, get to just-drinkable-without-b​urning-her-tongue. It’s an imprecise science. "I don’t have any good ideas, Bruce."

Bruce reaches out, and his hand is implacably hot, just from holding the coffee. He folds it, wraps it around the back of her neck, thumb smoothing down the tendon on that side, as he takes a seat besides her. The furniture, beside being uncomfortable, isn’t built for his bulk and frame: he looks a bit ridiculous, taking up a large portion of it without even trying. “We’ll figure something out.”

Kate shifts and leans naturally into his shoulder—it comes easily now, easier than she ever thought it would—before furrowing her brow in thought. “I guess with all three of us trying at once, working thoughts off each other, it might be easier, true.” She cocks her head slightly at him, though it’s probably easier to feel than to see the motion. “I’m glad you were able to talk.”

( is what breaks you )

panopticon

[bossymarmalade]

"The results are back."

Bruce speaks to Ollie as he enters the study, all of the children more or less down for the night.

Ollie looks up, startled. For a moment he almost starts to pretend he’d been doing something, anything useful, instead of being completely dopey and daydreamy, but eventually dismisses that as pointless. He closes the collected Dickens in his lap and turns his full attention to Bruce. “What’s the verdict?” he asks, lips pulling back in an unconscious grimace.

Bruce shakes head, and his expression says it all. “Nothing, absolutely nothing to indicate anything is wrong. They are all normal, healthy children.” He crosses his arms, leans back against the desk. “Labs are normal. Perfect, really, with the exception of Jason: he’s showing early signs of malnutrition..” Bruce exhales. “Which means that his biology is probably exactly where it was when he was actually five years old.”

Bruce looks at Ollie. “And Roy’s liver and kidney function are in an optimal state.”

Ollie looks at Bruce, frozen and still like a fox startled halfway into the henhouse. Then he laughs, and the sound is strange on Ollie — /flustered/ — as he rubs a hand through his loose, shaggy hair and admits, “…I thought you meant Talia. The results for Talia. I thought there was more news on her condition.”

( terms of surveillance )

with ducks a'blazin'

[bossymarmalade]

Rain in Gotham in the summer. Somehow the droplets aren’t warm with the promise of sunlight or new beginnings; the rain is cool, as it slaps against his face as he rappels across the space between where they are and where the Commissioner is standing, collar turned up at the neck to keep the rain from soaking its way into his clothes.

Commissioner Gordon doesn’t look over at the darkness, and instead, stands besides his Detective, who is getting just as soaked, and is holding the case file and an umbrella in her hand, unopened.

Robin swings just behind Batman, his landing hard and devoid of the careful finesse that allows his father to move with the shadows. When he hits the cement, Gordon knows it immediately, and Robin strides up to him with a barrage of demands: “Give me the file. How long ago? Where are your men now?”

Commissioner Gordon doesn’t look over at the darkness, and instead, stands besides Detective Montoya, who is getting just as soaked, and is holding the case file and an umbrella in her hand, unopened.

Commissioner Gordon ”I’ll keep the pleasantries down to a minimum,” the Commissioner states, looking to Montoya.

Detective R. Montoya raises an eyebrow at Robin even as she waits for the rookie to bring her the smokes she sent him off to buy. Because God knows she needs them right now, in this mess, with this file in her hands.

Batman moves to stand besides Robin, looking over at Montoya. His jaw is locked, a deep grove in both sides of his jaw, from how tightly he has it clenched. They haven’t used the signal in a while. A long while.

Detective R. Montoya tucks the umbrella under her arm when the rookie comes running back with a fresh pack of Marlboro. She holds out the file towards Batman, despite this being very against regular Gotham PD protocol, and once he’s taken it, begins rifling through her coat’s pocket for a lighter. Once she finds it, she peels the little golden seal from around the cigarettes, tapping one out and tucking the wrapping back in her pocket. “Spree killer. Four dead in two weeks, all hispanic.” Detective Montoya seems to chew on the last pieces and she cups her hand over her cigarette to keep the rain from it and the lighter. “Hispanic single mothers. All cut in half.”

Batman takes the file when it is offered, opening up the plastic casing and thumbing through the rain sheet paper, the ink doesn’t run, doesn’t smudge—field notes. He feels the question forming on the tip of his tongue, but doesn’t voice it— “Cut in half?”— as he flickers through the photos, careful to keep them from Damian. His jaw continues to clench, his forehead wrinkling, furrowing the brow of the cowl with how deep the motion runs.

Robin rises on his toes to view the file as it is passed, not to him, but to Batman— he’s accustomed to it, but he huffs anyway. The nature of the crime leads him to not object beyond a cursory sneer. “Zsasz broke out of Arkham two weeks ago,” he points out, unable to see anything graphic with the way the book is angled, “but he— not to that extent.”

Commissioner Gordon feels obligated to point out: “Any of the shreds of a trail that he left have gone cold on our side.”

( set fire to the rain )

them

[bossymarmalade]

There were things in life that had to be done. He had to get back up and face the day no matter how painful yesterday proved to be. He had to try and overcome his weaknesses. But this was not just a weakness, this was his family.

Tim crossed his arms in thought, feet parted to ground him as he stared at the store in front of him. A local tattoo and body piercing shop, said to be the most hygienic in all of Amsterdam. They were professionals. Still, he felt on edge. Tim scratched an itch on his arm, realizing anxiety had taken hold of him when said motioning finger didn´t stop. A flood of thoughts whispering in the back of his mind crashed down on him. What if Alfred found out- How disappointed would Bruce be- And that little shi-

“Alright enough,” Tim told himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. He slid his sunglasses down looking around with shifty eyes. Tim exhaled slowly. Perhaps all those coffee shop fumes have gotten to his head.

He had done his research. People decided to get pierced for several different reasons: for fashion purposes, or because they enjoyed the intensity of the moment. A large part of society used them for enhanced physical stimulation. He could go on and on. The sole reason for his visit was to find a distraction. Nothing he had done the past few months (travelling, drinking, smoking, even dating) could make him forget about Gotham. And whenever he thought of Gotham, a tight sensation in his chest erupted. It ached, had been aching all this time, and Tim was fed up with it. He wanted none of it, didn’t need to be reminded of the friends and family and memories he had left behind. What meant starting anew if he couldn’t let go of the past? If distancing himself, drinking vodka, smoking cheap cigarettes (a certain someone’s scent haunted him ever since) or hooking up with unreliable onenightstands (which was really something he’d do, not Tim) didn’t do the trick, what would? Tim took a moment to contemplate his next decision. He was faintly certain piercing his body wouldn’t provide a long-term solution. He was getting desperate however, and why not try something he’s been wondering about? This could sate his curiosity if not his homesickness.

Gathering courage, Tim walked inside. The displays of piercings and the pictures of tattoos that were spread on the wall caught his attention. No signs of dust. Material appeared to be stainless steel. There were different sizes, colours and shapes. He cupped his chin in thought when a voice called out to him. “Can I help you?” The man behind the counter went to type on his computer, most likely searching for Tim’s reservation. His knowledge of the German language proved only a little useful in its neighbouring country, but Tim had heard enough of the Dutch speech to understand the man’s intentions. “I don’t have an appointment,” Tim said when approaching him. “Will that be a problem?” The piercer waved a hand to his silent, deserted shop. “No problem,” he replied with a lopsided grin. The man had an obvious accent and it sounded nothing like hers, but somehow, it did.

“Good, then let’s get to it,” Tim said lifting an arm and pointing at the transparent case on his left. “One of those will do.” The shop owner nodded, flinging long blonde hair out of his face as he retrieved his preferred jewelry. “Follow me to the back, we don’t give visitors a peep show.” He motioned with his head and disappeared behind a deep purple (eggplant, a familiar voice in his mind reminded him) curtain.

He went after him to the back of the shop where the piercer searched for a pair of gloves and handed Tim a porn magazine. “Sit or stand, don’t care,” the man said gathering his tools. A waft of iodine mixed with alcohol attacked his nose, but erased his concern about hygiene. He remained standing, clutching the wrinkled magazine underneath an armpit, after which undoing his belt and the button of his jeans. It was easier that way, he understood. The sound of his zipper lowering caused a sudden rush through his body. It was hard to miss his accelerate breathing when he bared himself. Was he embarrassed or oddly aroused? No, neither or both? He changed his mind, discarding the porn on the floor and sitting down in the cushion filled chair. Focus, Tim told himself. Recalling every sexual encounter abroad (ignore the blue eyes, the dark hair, the firm muscles) did the trick, somewhat.

The man approached him and his heart thundered against his chest in warning. Tim shifted in his seat and closed his eyes. He had to concentrate. Penis piercing was a simple procedure. A needle punctures the skin, and then the bar or ring slides through the opening made by it. The piercing can be through the foreskin, the skin on the shaft of the penis, the scrotum or the head of the penis. “Head,” Tim muttered with a twitch of his hips at the sudden touch to his genital. Curiously he opened his eyes, observing the needle puncturing the tip of his cock (he would be proud of the obscene curses that slipped from his mouth). The piercer fumbled with the end of his starter jewelry.

In one fluent motion, the skilled man slid the needle all the way through, leaving nothing but the jewelry that was now atop of the piercing. Tim exhaled roughly. That, well, was as bad as he expected. The stainless steel bead was part of him now. He swallowed thickly at the small amount of blood trickling from the spot where his skin was broken, but the piercer cleaned him swiftly and thoroughly. His hips twitched again, and Tim swallowed an pained grunt.

“Still a bit stiff, surprised, eh?” the man asked tauntingly, obviously aware of his discomfort. Actually, no, he wasn’t (perhaps he was right- no he’s never). “No jerking, ninety euro,” he added when Tim didn’t respond. He flashed the man his currency and grimaced. The fabric of his clothing caused an awkward and faint throbbing pain as he left the shop. He stopped and waited, observing the world around him and not feeling any different. Except now his groin was out of order for several weeks. “I’m an idiot.” The laugh that erupted from his throat morphed into a groan. His hands shielded his face and then ran up into his hair where they tugged harshly, shortly. No matter the changes or the reckless things, the things Tim Drake of Gotham would never do: he couldn’t escape it.

He still ached, still yearned, still missed them.

this shit is bananas

[bossymarmalade]

Jason tugs Edward from the zeta platforms into the Watchtower Lounge, casually glancing around to make sure there’s no Leaguers around to bust them. “C’mon, I keep telling you, no one’s gonna care you’re up here. And I’m pretty sure there’s no germs in space,” he adds, trying to be helpful.

"This is not a good idea,” Eddie insisted, despite Jason’s attempts at mollifying his worries. He could already feel the anxiety rising in his chest, looking around in a rather paranoid fashion—the worry that he might encounter, say, one of the other Bat heroes almost overshadowed his curiosity as to where the Justice League kept council. “Don’t you guys have like, security clearance or something? I assume bringing me through tripped some sort of alarm, people are going to know you brought a former supervillain through and it isn’t going to be pretty and I am not prepared to deal with a confrontation—”

"Did you miss the part with the hacking?" he asks with a quick roll of his eyes. The hacking was really more of skating the edges of the system and making it so he was allowed to bring a guest up to the Watchtower, but there would probably be some little red flag that Batman would see later. Of course, that was a problem for him to deal with later. "And I’ve got clearance, and you’re reformed, it’ll be fine. There’s plenty of Leaguers who used to be villains." Non that he can think of off the top of his head though. "Just take a breath. You want coffee?"

Jaime is pleasantly surprised — everyone was right, the milkshakes from the cafeteria are actually pretty good. Okay, so granted, he had to make it himself and whatever, and he managed to not totally botch it, so he’s pretty sure it qualifies as good. Milkshake in hand, he heads back over to the room with the computers he’s pretty sure should be off limits, but… he’s nosy. And no one’s here, so. Party in the Watchtower servers.

( been around that track )

joker's wild

[bossymarmalade]

Bruce stands in front of the two headstones, dressed in a dress shirt and slacks, obviously unchanged from the day. He isn’t wearing the tie, the jacket, and holds nothing in his hands, but the couple hundred dollar price tag on the black jeans doesn’t stop him from kneeling, and brushing his hand over a discolored spot over the M on the second stone.

Harley!!! [TXT, to SELINA] <3 <3 <3
Roy snorts. “Yeah, and..” He moves around a corner, back towards the park they had come from: it was a good place to scout out the three or four people in Gotham who were actively peddling the Double Smile. Roy grunts. “..seems like Bats has the same issue, too.” He is aware of the Talia situation, it seems, but doesn’t elaborate further: he just continues to walk. “..either way, lemme know how I can help, yeah?”

Mari ‘s thick-soled heels don’t give her as much trouble crossing the Wayne Manor’s grounds as a pair of Louboutins might, but she makes the distance on foot anyway. It’d be…wrong to not walk it. Her approach is slowed when she spots Bruce’s bank, flanked on either side by his parents’ gravestones, and she remains silent, but purposefully steps on a stick as she draws near.

Selina [TEXT] Well, I haven’t heard from you in ages. I hear you’re getting yourself in trouble again.

Ollie grunts, taking the hard, rapid snort of breath that signals that he’s more than ready to move on to another topic — forcibly, if necessary. “Sure. So — what you seen going on here? Is it just Double Smile? I’m hearing tales told that this resurgence isn’t just the same old product for a new batch of customers. It’s reformulated.”

Cheshire skirts around a rooftop water tank, peering over the edge. She hasn’t yet lost sight of them; and after a quick scan of the park a block away, she can see what they’re after. As if their loud, braying, Arrow-speak didn’t already give them away - if someone knew what to listen for. Jade rolls her eyes and watches father and son for a moment, then quickly makes her way into the park as well. She easily hops up onto a Park maintenance shed that’s behind Oliver (perfectly away from his line of sight) but perfectly facing Roy. Slowly, deliberately, she unfurls and waits to be seen. By him.

Roy nods, and looks out, towards the park. “Heard the same, that the high that comes with the.. abilities.. it’s clearer, givin’ ‘em more of a way around usin’ them? And less of a crash after. Like someone’s getting the cook cleaner.” Roy grits his teeth, exhaling, and moves towards a shaded part of the park, where the trees are denser, a low bridge into the south end of the land, where Roy can see edges of colorful splashes of spray paint against brick, the bridge, the maintenance— He spots her, there, and clearing his throat, he nods his head at a bench. “Gonna scope it out, go take a seat, kiddo.” He grins at Ollie, without a hitch.

Harley!!! [TXT, to SELINA] Yeeeeeaaaahhhhhhhh well you know a grrl’s gotta keep bizzy.

Ollie snorts again, this time in amusement. “Yeah, sounds good. If I’m /real/ lucky, one of ‘em’ll take me for a potential buyer.” He trots off to the park bench, sitting down and throwing his arm along the back of the bench.

Bruce smiles at the sound of the stick snapping and speaks over his shoulder, without turning around, his Korean amused as it slips from over his tongue: “..I heard you before that.” He moves his hand from the face of the stone, before turning to look at Mar’i, his expression, oddly, softened from its normal stress.

Selina [TEXT] You keeping busy now? Anything you can share?

Harley!!! stares at her phone for a moment, before she messages back. [TXT, to SELINA] you ever wanna goto paris?

Roy moves around the bridge, edging through the people who are standing there—they do not look at Roy more than twice, he has a natural talent for blending, it seems—as he hikes up the steep slope of earth surrounding the bridge, and towards the shed. He doesn’t sound angry, but his voice is sharp when he calls out to her: “What are you doing here?”

( and the dealer's crooked )

just one night alone / this is not the end

[bossymarmalade]

Bruce doesn’t come to her in the suit. No, Batman’s presence in the days after the parade has not been as heavy as they had once been. It wasn’t to say that she had been abandoned, but whatever the dark knight had been occupying himself with in the shadow of nightfall had been too specific to make the rounds, too far gone underground, and it shows when he makes his way above it, climbs to the rooftops and across, to make his way to her Park Row apartment. He doesn’t knock, doesn’t tap the window, merely pushes it where he knows the hinge is broken, where Selina keeps it open for the cats.

Selina pets Isis, curled up on the couch across from the window. She’s not asleep, not quite— she hasn’t been able to sleep since the parade— but it takes her a moment to realize that the creature coming through her window isn’t a cat. She raises her head, eyes going wide in the darkness. “Bruce?” She’s not completely sure, but how many other people does she know that don’t use doors?

Bruce exhales, as a way of letting her know that it is him that she’s.. safe? He pauses, looking down at his suit, at the blood that slicks across the gloves and up the gauntlets. He isn’t in tatters, even if the kevlar and Nomex is, and he moves across the narrow space of her tiny flat, until he is standing in front of her, looking down at where she is curled up, from the top of her head, down to the shirt, leggings that she is wearing, and settling—strangely (or not strangely) enough on her bare feet. He doesn’t move, doesn’t budge from where he is, hands loose at his sides, looking, with no pun intended, like something the cat dragged in.

( mistress of sedge and bee )

mother is the name for god

[bossymarmalade]

Talia doesn’t find it nearly as difficult as she should to find the other woman. There are reasons for this, of course, and Talia knows that the biggest one, topping in at nearly six foot three, two hundred and fifty pounds, is out of the picture for the time being. Inside of her, newly minted and cradled like a newborn in the clutch of her chest, is a soft flame that urges her to consider what her actions might look like but she reasons through it: she is not here to conspire. At least, she doesn’t think she is.

And it’s possible that it wouldn’t matter, even if Talia /were/ angling to conspire. Because after the solitude that Shado’s been enduring, first on the Watchtower brig and now here in a holding place in Gotham before she’s to be transported to Blackgate, she’d welcome any company. Even Oliver’s, and he’s been uncommunicative and mean lately. “You’re looking poorly,” she remarks to Talia, sitting up straighter in her jail cell. “Have times been rough for you of late, Talia?”

Talia looks up at Shado, and yes, for someone who has known Talia—known of Talia—for the better part of a decade, there is no doubt that the woman’s appearance is nothing short of horrific: the dark bags under her eyes give her a sunken in look, her hipbones sharp at the edges of jeans that despite reading her size, don’t fit the way the woman remembers. It’s as if her wish of being her father’s son has come to fruition, like all al Ghul plans: darkly, suddenly, with no conscience to curb them. She looks at Shado, the bareness of her skin, the shape of her nose and mouth and chin and states: “No more rough than I would say they have been on you,” she responds in the woman’s milk-tongue.

( the assassin mothers tea society )

excavation

[bossymarmalade]

Ollie has never liked Arkham. It’s not as if he’s been here so many times that he’s either built up a particular hatred for it or become inured to it; just that it’s so … fresh. “You’d think the damn place would be about decay and rot,” he mutters, moving carefully around some hanging, exposed wires, “but it’s not. It smells like a pig cut open fresh. Like new blood.” The emergency lights are all that’s on in the hallways. With no more inmates and the bodies of the guards moved out, Arkham’s whistling in the wind, scooped out like an eye socket. Ollie pauses, his reinforced Bat-constructed costume a blessing in the disarray — it has long sleeves — and looks over at Mar’i. “This is where you were?”

Mari shifts another thick slab of concrete from where it lays between them and further access to the failsafe corridor. She doesn’t respond, pushing the sleeve of her blouse—tattered now, and dirty—back onto her shoulder before reaching for another rock. “Mm,” she finally murmurs.

Ollie steps through the opening that Mar’i had cleared, pausing at the first door. “Poison Ivy,” he reads on the nameplate, and starts to take a step into the cell before he changes his mind, backpedaling, blood racing a little bit faster. “Jesus, it’s like a …” Ollie shakes his head, leaving the sentence where it is. Her pheromones must have gotten stronger since he’d tangled with her last. “You think they knew they were getting sprung? Or they just took advantage of it when it happened? Big-timers like this, they’re nothing if not opportunistic as all hell.”

Mari shakes her head. “I got here just a few minutes before the power went off. There’s no way they could’ve gotten out that fast with no warning.” She moves another slab, barely registering Ivy’s thick smell or the twisting vines still reaching for up the now-dead artificial lighting.

Ollie moves forward through the hallway as Mar’i clears their path, her tall frame almost glowing in the dirty darkness. Bioluminescence, like a mushroom, Ollie muses, but the frivolous thought is pushed from his mind by the next nameplate. “Zsasz.” And across the hall: “Killer Croc.” Ollie looks over at Mar’i again. “Was he around in your time? The Joker? You ever take him on?”

( and evisceration )

(no subject)

[bossymarmalade]

Jaime arrives in Gotham about half an hour later. …Eesh, the news didn’t even show the full extent of the wreckage, which is kind of surprising.

Landing next to Jason, he breaks his eyes away from the remains, burnt rafters and walls poking out through the debris like charred bones.

"…So, uh. A cow. Really? He had a cow?" A pause. "Not in the Bart Simpson-y way."

What’s left of the manor isn’t pretty, so Jason’s trying not to look at it. There’s something very weird about being there now. For once though, he’s okay with being excruciatingly sleep deprived, because it’s helping him mostly feel numb instead of upset or angry.

His attention is mostly on the three animals milling about in a hole that he’s pretty sure used to lead to the batcave until a large amount of rubble fell down it. At least that’s giving Damian’s animals a nice place to hang out. There’s not really an easy way for them to get up though.

He barely blinks as Jaime lands next to him. “Yeah, she’s down here,” he says, nodding at the crater. “Think they’re okay, they look kinda freaked out though.”

"Yeah, think you’d be a little freaked out if the sky just kinda fell down around your head," he replies with a short laugh. Shaking his head, he leans over the crater, down at the animals — only the pig’s looking up, though. Which is kinda weird since it’s the smallest of the three, but. Y’know.

"So, uh," he starts, eyes flicking back over to Jason. "You got ropes for them or something?" he asks — and then his eyes go back to the animals.

Okay, strength he’s got. Fitting his arms around a cow, not so much. Maybe he can… lift from underneath or something. Hmm.

Nodding, Jason grabs the bag that he’d brought with him and starts pulling out a length of rope. “Got this and some pulleys too. Was gonna try to rig something up, but uh… not really much left to work with.” He’s pretty sure he should be feeling something more about that.

It’ll probably come later.

( pet express airlift )

nightmares given voice

[bossymarmalade]

Kate has already done a shift in Gotham and is starting a split shift of detective work in the Arboretum, looking out over the Earth view side with her tablet and a chunk of the Bat-files.

Ollie comes in and flops down next to her, not even saying anything, just leaning his head back and rubbing his eyebrows with his fingers. He stinks of soot and sweat and is smudged from head to toe, unabashedly dirtying up the place.

Kate looks up for a moment, raises her brows, then back to her tablet, dragging connections in the custom-made mapping software she has. “You look like hell. Better smelling than the pig farm though.”

"I been working like a fucking pack of wild dogs, cut me some slack, here." He extends one long leg so he can dig into the pocket on that side, extracting a flask that he shakes at Kate in offering. "Bourbon, you want?"

"So’ve I, but I managed a shower." Kate softens this with a quirk

Ollie grunts, taking a slug of liquor as well. “Well, you’re a woman,” he says with the air of pointing out the obvious. “Of course you’d factor in a shower.”

"Oh, so it’s that kind of mood," says Kate. "Duly noted." Her fingertip accidentally starts crime scene footage video and she winces, flicking it off. "Body count’s at fifteen," she adds, referring to the work on her tablet.

( out of the past )

getting weary unable to ride

[bossymarmalade]

Arkillo hates this planet.

Karu-Sil likes watching her fathers three shit on all the things the nasty little Earthlings love.

Arkillo hates this planet, hates the Earthmen that reside upon it, hates the planets that surround it, the yellow sun at the center. He hates the blues and greens, the browns and yellows of the mountains that cup and cradle the city before them, a place he had been told called El Paso and right at that moment, he hates mosquitoes. They swarm around him, drawn to the scent of his skin, and the massive hinge of his jaw parts as he watches them attempt to pierce his skin, unable to, dying in the process. Around his neck, his tongue lays flat, hooked onto the hinge of a rusted chain, his voice booming in time to pulses of light that emanate from his ring, tucked low onto a severed finger: ​ He rises up, imbued with the power the band affords him, and looks out, over the flat hovels before him. A roar rips out of his throat, a noise that howls like the wind on a storm, the dying cry of thousands, and when the noise bounces back—music to his ears—he raises his closed fist and slices a sharp, broad beam of light through an entire block of houses.

Karu-Sil makes a horrible little cackling sound, all teeth and gums without her lips to shape it into anything bearable. When the humans come running from their little houses, she waves one hand, almost magnanimously, as if offering the three fear-construct alien hounds at her side a finely prepared dinner. They charge forward, each making their own terrible sounds of glee, as they attack.

Arkillo doesn’t waste time with the joy of watching Karu-Sil’s beasts tear the Earthlings apart: rising up, he uses his ring to feel the fear coming off of their tiny bodies in pulses, before being extinguished. Another loud and heavy noise slides out of him, as he moves deeper into the city, cutting swathes of houses down, decimating the structures, the humans within them, the ones running through the street.

Arkillo looks back at Karu-Sil. ​

Karu-Sil snaps her head to the side, gnashing her sharpened incisors at Arkillo. “SAVE SOME FOR MY FATHERS THREE!” she roars, using a charging construct beast to shove him through the air, towards another neighborhood. Still, the fear he’s instilling feels good, and siphons into her ring as well as his. But Karu-Sil is beyond understanding that sort of symbiotic relationship, and only sees Arkillo’s greed, not her own. “I will do as Sinestro commanded,” she sneers. From her ring, a large claw forms, twenty or thirty times her size. Karu-Sil uses it in a rake-like motion, grazing and gathering houses and bodies like a twisted tumbleweed.

Arkillo laughs, a hard and terrible noise, and sidesteps the construct animal, grabbing it by the horns and jerking its head to the side. He does not wrench its head from its neck, but uses its body, held by the horns, to swing it around and around before releasing and sending it crashing into buildings, commercial properties, as they move deeper to the city center.

( wave of yellow )

one pill two pill

[bossymarmalade]

Ollie sleeps for almost two hours, snoring loud enough to be heard through the whole condo despite the bedroom door being shut, and despite the size of the condo. But eventually he’s up, and wrapped in a blanket, he sits down on the sofa where Jason’s drowsing and makes himself comfortable there.

Jason isn’t really a very hard sleeper, and wakes up as soon as the couch shifts when Ollie settles there. Eyes wide, he glances around, quickly trying to remember where he is, waking up in a new place always a little jarring. Right, the condo. He glances at the window, trying to gauge how much time has passed. Maybe twenty minutes since he fell asleep, which is still the most he’s gotten in twenty-four hours. Trying to muffle a yawn, he glances over at Ollie. “How you feeling?”

"Me? I’m fine, kiddo." Ollie doesn’t seem to be moving gingerly, or stiffly; any arrested motions seem to be due to his body’s limitations after the beating he’s taken, rather than his own conscious registering of pain. "How’re you doing? I knocked you around pretty good out there. You need some painkillers? Something to eat? I make great grilled cheese."

Jason shakes his head. “Nah, I’m okay… unless you’ve got rabies or something,” he notes, rubbing his shoulder where Ollie had bit him the night before. “You give a mean hickey, Jolly Green. Should be good to go if you’ve got coffee or something.” The offer of food is tempting, especially since the last thing he ate was a single piece of pizza two days before, but his stomach’s been tied in knots ever since the parade.

Ollie prods Jason’s leg with his foot. “You sure you gotta go? I mean, I know it’s probably no fun hanging out with your friends’ dad all night, but I could use the company.” He gets up and goes to the kitchen, putting up a cup of coffee and bringing back two popsicles. “What I really want is oatmeal cookies,” Ollie says, handing one to Jason and unwrapping the other for himself, “but I get the feeling my mouth isn’t in good enough shape for that.”

Jason hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. “Nah, don’t have anywhere I need to be, I can stick around if you want.” His kittens can take care of themselves, and after that patrol, he doesn’t really want to go anywhere else for the rest of the night. Though he didn’t ask for it, he’s never one to turn down the free food, so he takes the popsicle without complaint. “Well, you can make ‘em so they’re soft if your mouth hurts. Still waiting to hear that you don’t have rabies,” he adds teasingly.

Ollie swipes two bloody, swollen fingers over his chest in a cross and then holds them up. “Scout’s honour, I’m totally disease-free,” he says. “Although I never was a boy scout, so you’re gonna have to just take my word for it.” He sits down and takes a big bite from the popsicle, chewing and swallowing with a pleased sound. “How d’you make oatmeal cookies soft? That’s just … oatmeal. Oooooh, hey, I should make some oatmeal!” Ollie gets up again. “I’ll make you some too. I make excellent oatmeal, if you like brown sugar.”

( but liquor is quicker )

tusk tusk tusk

[bossymarmalade]

K TXT: I got you in with Dr. Schultz for teeth repair at 12:15. No questions asked.

O TXT: No questions asked from him or from you?

K TXT: him. I got the report this morning, though I don’t have any questions myself.

O TXT: Thanks, kate. for the appointments not the no-questions o your part, if you ever want to talk about anything you know there’s no subject forbidden.

K TXT: I know. Are you going to be okay?
K TXT: why am I texting you i’m in the damn kitchen

O TXT: Because I’m in bed and I don’t wanna move?
O TXT: Also the ol’ voicebox isn’t working the way it should, that boy of ours has a strong grip
O TXT: come on back to the bedroom and see me sometime, suggestive wink

K TXT: You want coffee?
K TXT: stupid question, I know you want coffee

O TXT: bring me whatever coffees you have! strong and sweet an full of cream
O TXT: the way i like my lovers

( schism )

bats and coffee

[bossymarmalade]

Bruce knocks at Selina’s door: a quick rat-tat with the backs of his knuckles, and then he sets his hand against the door, smoothing his palm over the surface of it, before tucking his hand back into his pocket. He isn’t dressed like Bruce Wayne, or Batman, tonight, but instead, in black slacks and shirt, baseball cap, he could, arguably, be any other man on the street.

As soon as he knocks, Isis begins meowing loudly at the door. “Oh my goodness, cat, I’m right here,” Selina calls from the bathroom, the shower vent drowning out the knocks. When Isis doesn’t stop meowing, Selina wraps herself up in a towel and heads into the main room. “What on Earth are you—?” She heads to the door and peeks out through the peephole. Oh, well, she’s dressed well for this meeting. She opens the door, nudging Isis back with her foot. “You can sit down while I dress. I think Isis wants to have some words with you.”

Bruce exhales, and steps inside, setting the coffee he holds for her in one hand on the table, as he locks the door behind him. He moves to the living room, his own coffee in hand, and bends down to scratch behind Isis’ ears.

Selina watches him with Isis for a moment before ducking into her bedroom to dress. Through the open door— because, really, is closing it really necessary?— she can hear Isis meow at him, twittering a little when he pets her. Selina returns dressed in flowing palazzo pants and a billowy shirt— both surprisingly cool even in the Gotham humidity— and heads to the coffee. “I think you’ve made up again,” she says after a sip, nodding down at where Isis rubs against Bruce’s leg.

( kitty approved )

fort ticonderoga

[bossymarmalade]

"I didn’t do anything."

”Oh, you didn’t? Okay, then. Good to know.”

"I attacked you with too much force. I apologize."

"That’s not it. I understood that part."

Bruce grits his teeth. “So what. What is it, Oliver. What am I apologizing for? Coming to you the way you want me to, instead of going to Selina? Attempting to have a moment with you before we have to talk about anything else, anyone else? Or making you take care of yourself when you obviously don’t care enough about me or Kate or even yourself to do so?

Oliver looks up. “Is that what—

He stops, takes a breath. “Is that what you thought was happening. That we were having a moment before we needed to talk about the serious stuff. That’s what your rationale was, Bruce?”

Bruce stares at him, his gaze dark and hollow.

"What did you think it was, Queen?"

( circling )

drink a thousand shipwrecks

[bossymarmalade]

Ollie has been in the safehouse for at least an hour before the appointed meeting time with Jason, although he’s been preparing in silence, without a word to Shado. For her part, the woman sits quietly in her cell, speaking to herself in a low wave of mingled Japanese and English, too low for him to make out anything in specific. Needless to say, as 11 pm draws close, Ollie’s nerves are sharpened to a fine point.

Jason arrives about ten minutes early, knocking lightly at the safehouse door only after checking several dozen times that he has the correct coordinates. Uncertain whether to show up in civvies or not, he has his armor on under his jacket, but the helmet stashed away for the moment, an actual red hood pulled up high to keep his face in shadow.

Ollie opens the door and beckons him in with a simple, “Hey, you’re here. Good thing, too, I was starting to go stir crazy cooped up with her.” If the informality of his demeanor doesn’t mark this as not being a Bat-style mission, the criminal they’re transporting does: Shado sits in her cell, yes, and she’s cuffed, but the bars are open and she could get up and walk around if she chose to. “Jay, meet Shado. Shado, touch a hair on this kid’s head and you’ll be giving me exactly what I need to put you down for good.”

shado makes a small mrrring sound. “I never taught you to kill those you love, Oliver,” she says, “so that’s an empty threat at best.” She smiles faintly at Jason. “I’ll behave, though.”

Jason nods as he steps into the room, eyes flicking to their prisoner. A very faint smile flickers across his face at the threat on his behalf, but it fades just as quickly as it appears. “I’d say nice to meet you, but I dunno if it is. And don’t worry about me, Jolly Green.” His eyes flick back to Shado, assessing her briefly. “We ready to head out now?”

( and in the morning i'll be gone )

on absent mothers

[bossymarmalade]

Tak gathers cookies for himself and sits in a corner with them, crumbling through until the chips or candy or nuts have come free of the pastry. He eats those, with the crumbs clinging to them.

Mari pokes her head around the corner, searching for… “Hey, you!” she says, tilting her head at Tak. “You still want to patrol with me?” Mari notices his cookie-eating technique in hindsight and considers it a great waste of good cookie. Tak jumps right up, his somber expression brightening when he sees Mar’i. “Yes!” he all but shouts. “Yes I do! Are we going now?”

Mari grabs a handful of crumbs off his plate and eats them herself. “Up to you. We can wait until later or we can get a headstart?”

Tak twitches back and forth, like he can’t make up his mind yet. Finally he gestures to the plate of crumbs and sits down again. “We might as well finish them,” Tak says, picking up a walnut and putting it in his mouth. “Mar’i, is your mother alive still?”

Mari blinks at Tak, then opens her mouth as if to answer. Instead, she sits down, stealing one of the most…alien-looking cookies. It wiggles in her hand. “No. She’s still alive here, but she’s also not really my mother…” Mar’i takes a large bite, as if to hush herself, then immediately undoes it by asking around the bite: “Why? You find her old pin-ups?”

( the children of )

three-legged race

[bossymarmalade]

Ollie sits with his laptop at a table in the Watchtower lounge, wearing his glasses, three different drinks and a package of red licorice on the desk with him as he works. Jason wanders into the lounge, clearly hungover again and wearing the same clothes from the day before. He spots Ollie, but continues on his way to the coffee machine.

Ollie likewise notices Jason, waiting for him to get coffee before he halloos at him. “Get some greasy food,” he advises. “Nothing better for a holdover hangover.” Jason replies with a wordless grunt as he trudges over and sinks into the empty chair closest to Ollie’s desk. “Not hungry. What’cha working on?” he asks, trying to sneak a peek at the laptop. Ollie lets him see it without any compunctions.

"Doubletime," he says. "Sorting through all the emails I’ve gotten about the Green Arrow thing, and looking at the reports of Hatter’s new drug formulations and what they’re doing." He offers Jason a licorice whip, folding one over for himself and gnawing at the looped end. "And of course you’re not hungry, but that’s what the food’s for. Once you start eating and the grease sops up the liquor, you’ll be good to go." He smiles, briefly. "C’mon, kid — if you’re gonna be a drinker, you gotta learn how to avoid the hangover."

Jason glances over the screen with a faint nod. “How many of the emails just say ‘I fucking knew it’?” His brow furrows a little at the mention of the Hatter’s drug. Though his stomach shifts uncomfortably at even the sight of it, he takes the licorice without complaint. “I know how to handle booze,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Just… I dunno, haven’t been real hungry lately.”

Ollie leans back a little so he can eyeball Jason. “You need to eat,” he says. “Even if it’s just fuel, even if you don’t enjoy it. Starving yourself and boozing ain’t the best way to stay alive in that city of yours, Jason.”

( change of pace )