Ten Steps To Getting Your Man (and maybe keeping him too)
"You've been working too hard, you know that?" Jazz's voice adopts that soothing tone, the one she uses for work when she breaks hard hitting truths to her patients and know that they won't handle it well. "When was the last time you went out?"
Danny opens his mouth to shoot a pithy reply, exhausted from a long day at work, but Jazz's voice interrupts him sternly. "When was the last time you had fun?"
Danny's mouth clicks shut, and he winces at how it echoes in the room. He slumps further into his arm chair, sighing as he takes off his WE work lanyard and tosses it on the coffee table. His apartment in Gotham is decently sized, being paid well as a civic engineer, but it's a far cry from being spacious.
Still, it feels entirely too empty with just him in his lonely little living room.
"I want to say…2015?" Danny finally settles on, pressing the speaker button on his phone and plopping that onto the coffee table as well. "That was the year Sam and I TP'd Lancer's house, right?"
"I thought you said that wasn't you." Danny can just imagine the face Jazz is making as she says this: brows furrowed, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, eyes closed like she's trying to find her patience and failing, and of course—yes, the gusty sigh of an older sister crackling over the phone. "And that was 2017."
"Ah, well, Sam and I were certainly doing something when the TP-ing happened so." Danny loftily waves a hand towards…somewhere. "Anymore of this and I might have to call my lawyer."
"All this does is prove my point." Jazz deadpans, tired of his shit.
"Really?" Danny pretends to be confused. "I thought it was proving mine."
"Just…try? For me?" Jazz implores, switching tracks and pleading with him now. Damn, she knows he's weak to that tone of voice—Jazz hardly ever pleads. "Go out for coffee with a colleague, help someone out with those weirdly specific skills of yours!"
"I don't wanna hear any slander—you've benefited more than once from those weirdly specific skills!" Danny cuts in.
"When was the last time you rode that stupid scooter of yours?" Jazz shoots back. "The—the raspberry—"
"It's the Blueberry thank you very much—"
"Well take the Blueberry and go—go on a trip around Gotham! Plan an elaborate prank on your Team that takes way too many steps and whacky inventions and very complicated lies—anything to get out of the house."
"It's an apartment," Danny mumbles sulkily, his already fatigued body slumping in defeat, "and, ugh, fine. I'll try. I didn't think I'd ever see the day my responsible Big Sister would encourage me to cause mayhem."
"I'm not encouraging mayhem." Jazz argues. "But you're—you're not as chaotic as you usually are. Do I want you to be safe and make good choices? Yes. But that doesn't mean you have to-to change. I'm not saying you have to have shenanigans every day, but the fact that I haven't heard about any in weeks, months, maybe even longer is…"
"You make it sound like my Obsession is Chaos." Danny weakly jokes. "Need I remind you my Obsession is—"
"I just worry about you, Danny." Jazz interrupts, voice going a little low as she always does when she tries to explain her actions so Danny doesn't feel imposed upon. "With Sam busy over in Metropolis, and Tucker all the way in Jump City…it feels like all you do is work and sleep. When was the last time you gave something an unnecessary upgrade or-or just took something apart just to see if you could put it back together again?"
Danny glances behind him, at the little work desk he has set up in the dining room area. It's custom, the very first thing he built when he got to Gotham in the two weeks he had free before starting his new job.
It's immaculate, cleared of any detritus seeing as Danny does not want to be anything like his parents were: callous with their experiments and letting their work bleed out into the other areas of his childhood home.
There's a row of drawers underneath it, varying in sizes and depth housing all of his tools fit snug between the bottom of the tabletop with the bottom plank attached to the bottom of the table's legs on the left-hand side. A shelf bisects the right-hand side, where his inventions live out of the way.
It's supposed to feel neat, and with a nicely placed tablecloth, can serve as a dinner table if need be.
Now, looking at it through the lens of his older sister's concern, Danny sees how dusty and lonely it looks. He remembers thinking to himself when putting up that shelf for his inventions that he'd have to hurry and think of a solution when it was full, not knowing it still isn't even remotely needed now with only three gadgets on the shelf.
Now, looking at it through the lens of a lonely workaholic, Danny sees how much it mirrors his own current state.
For a moment, he sees what Jazz is trying to tell him—sees it in the dust motes and moody lighting, neglected and shoved to the side masquerading as something else for the time being.
But it's only for a moment. Because even if he's a little lonely, that doesn't mean he's alone no matter what Jazz says.
He likes his life here in Gotham—his neighbors leave baked goods at Danny's doorstep whenever they're experimenting for new stock for their bakery, and Danny makes the concentrated effort to get better at cooking in order to leave his overwhelming leftovers in exchange.
Lucius is a good boss, the other employees at WE are good and friendly people—they have drinks on the odd Friday or Saturday, depending on if a rogue attack breaks out around their chosen karaoke bar.
Danny even has a sort of bro-ship understanding going on with Mr. Freeze! Sure, the rogue is under the wrong impression that Danny's a meta with ice powers, but it's something colorful about his life!
"I just." Jazz sighs over the phone, voice going smaller and smaller. "This isn't what I meant, when I said you had to grow up."
Danny smiles helplessly, realizing the crux of the problem now. "Jazz…just because I've been busy for a while doesn't mean I'm not still living life, that I'm not having shenanigans. Neighbor John and I just exchanged goods a couple days ago!"
"I don't like that you say goods like," Jazz huffs, searching for the right words, "like you're trading drugs or something."
"How dare you reduce Neighbor John's pumpkin pie to drugs. I'll have you know it was to die for!" Danny sniffs, mouth watering at the memory of the spices in the pie that made it so good. "Plus, me, Sam and Tuck video call each other every fortnight!"
Danny was even proud of the samosas he scrounged up and left on Neighbor John's doorstep just yesterday in exchange! He lost like, 3 hours of sleep over it since he came home pretty late, but it turned out amazing, thanks very much.
"The death jokes still aren't funny, you know." Jazz mutters, but Danny has known her all his life—there's definitely a smile somewhere in there even if he can't see it.
"That's your opinion." Danny smirks, pushing himself up off the couch and grabbing his phone to head to the kitchen. Thinking about those samosas got him hungry, and thankfully he still has some left over. "The point is, even if I'm not causing chaos and committing minor crimes, it doesn't mean I'm completely alone and bereft."
Jazz hums in acknowledgement, sobering up a little and probably realizing how crazy it is that she's trying to encourage that side of him out of…what, worry that Danny's fundamentally changed?
"Have I been busy?" Danny shrugs, tapping his fingers as he waits for his leftover to crisp up. "Yes. Have I been lonely? Sure, I guess I haven't had a date in a while. Am I depressed? Well, how is that any different from before?"
Jazz huffs. "I thought you were trying to assuage my worries, not exacerbate them."
Danny laughs, a little lost. When this conversation first started, he didn't understand what the hell she was trying to get at. For their entire lives she's been trying to get him to be more mature, to use his talents more, to be more focused. And now she, what, wants Danny to be a kid again? Be less busy? Neither of those things can actually happen right this second.
She knows that, he knows that, so Danny tries to parse it all out. Because at the end of the day, Jazz is Jazz—she worries about him, and her worry is a well worn and comfortable blanket on his shoulders.
They sit together in silence for a moment, as Danny carefully picks and chooses his next steps.
"Look." Danny finally says, pressing the button to shut off the air fryer after the timer dings. "My last project is just about at the end stages. I gotta do the final presentation on it and coordinate with my team on how it's gonna be forwarded to the big shots upstairs, but after that I'm basically free."
There's a shuffle over the line, probably Jazz adjusting herself as she listens to his consolations.
"I promise I'll take a break, okay?" Danny takes a bite, his voice muffling as it fills with spice and heat and potato. "I'll even take a couple days off, maybe portal over and visit?"
"Don't talk with your mouth full." Jazz tiredly replies, before sighing. "Alright. After your project is done, come visit. What are you thinking, next week? Two?"
Danny hums, a little unsure. He hasn't started his presentation, and whilst he has an abundance of notes to help supplement it, it's not organized enough that he can really estimate with confidence how long it will take. He swallows, and makes a face. "Maybe longer than that. I gotta squeeze in some time for shenanigans after all, maybe do a little breaking and entering or something."
Jazz laughs. "I have a conference I have to fly out to for a couple of days this week. " Papers rustle over the line, Jazz probably looking through her documents. "But after that I should be back to my regular schedule for the foreseeable future so just let me know about two days ahead, please."
"Two days ahead." Danny confirms, as he shuffles to grab a glass of water, "Plenty of time for you to make an itinerary so you won't ask me impossible questions."
Jazz scoffs, back on more solid footing: well worn sibling arguments. "Asking what you want to eat for dinner is not asking the impossible of you."
"I'd argue that it's asking a lot of me, Big Sis," Danny sniffs, affecting a snooty tone. "It's your turf, how can you expect me to know what's available in your area?"
"With how many times you've visited me? Oh!" Jazz's voice goes a little saccharine, "Or is it that you've forgotten everything since it's been so long?"
Danny pouts. "Hey now, aren't I fixing that this very phone call?"
Jazz hums, neither confirming nor denying. Which, ouch.
"You handle the food," Danny bargains, "And I'll bring the amazing stories about my new adventures to entertain you the entire time?"
"Sounds like a plan, Little Brother." Jazz grins, palpable even through the tinny speakers. "Can't wait."
"Can't wait." Danny echoes back with a grin of his own, stuffing his mouth with more samosas as he finally changes the subject to something less involved in his life. "Hey—do you think the Bats have a suggestion box? I have some opinions on Nightwing's outfit. The lack of pockets and utility belt concerns me."
Danny swallows his samosa, and burps before continuing. "Also, Tuck thinks he might be using one of those silicone butts but I think there's too much muscle definition going on there for it to be fake."
After a long moment, Jazz sighs.
Read on AO3! (Updates will be given on tumblr as well)
you've got the easiest position to destroy my life (all you have to do is arrive) by @thorkidumpster and @spookyhemsworth (@thoresque), explicit, 9.7k
our little contribution to the @thorkibigbang Baby Bang 2020 event!
If Thor had been a younger, fitter man, maybe. But after the start-stop and, thankfully now, starting-and-running years of his little bakery, living through a bad marriage, followed by going through one of the ugliest divorces in the entire history of ugly divorces, Thor is…thicker than he had been in his youth. He’s acutely aware of his bulk now, especially compared to Loki’s slender frame.
And yet...Loki’s light eyes are smoldering, raking over Thor’s body as though he were already imagining Thor naked. Those soft fingers tease their way up through the hair on Thor’s forearm and Thor takes a deep, but stuttering breath.
“What can I do for you, Loki?” Thor asks, gripping his mug tight.
Loki arches an eyebrow. “Dance with me.” It’s not a question.
please be sure to check out the lovely creation by our art partner @innaluu here! thank you so much for lending your talent to bring our little love child to life. 💗
"He hasn't bothered me in days."
"And that disappoints you?"
"It concerns me. It means he's…lurking somewhere."
"That is one of Nik's favourite means of transportation."
The Sherlock AU you never knew you needed. Caroline as Holmes, Klaus as Moriarty, Kol as the best rendition of Watson because he keeps all his unique charm. Enzo as my new favorite irregular. Plus a Jack the Ripper mystery thrown in.
Wake up girlies, new AU just dropped! Can be found on AO3 too!
After Danny becomes Phantom, after Undergrowth, Sam's life takes a decidedly more magical turn. Not that she knows that at first, considering she doesn't have someone showing up to kindly inform her she's a witch.
That is, until her cousin Zatanna shows up in Amity Park after disappearing for four years.
===
Sam is distantly aware of her family's idea of success.
Her parents coasted on the money from being the legacy of a world-changing household invention, but they were socialites, through and through.
High society is as mercurial as the sea could be and her parents were sharks in the water.
They made their money move, like water, like rain, like rivers. Money talks, and the Mansons gave speeches.
No matter how much Sam hated it, her parents were good at it. They were made for it.
Sam was made from dirt, from the energies of Mother Earth, who gave back when tendered by the Universe.
Sam was decidedly not made for the glam and glitz of high society.
She knew it in her bones, down to the roots of her, and it was why she did the only thing she could think of: she went goth.
There were, after all, no high society goths on the scene.
At first it was just an abject disdain for what her parents did, for what her mother wanted her to be.
The sparkles were too bright, the laughs too fake and loud, the politics too much of a headache for Sam to even want to consider. She could, in honesty, she could, she just didn't want to.
And at 8 years old, that was all that mattered in the world. She didn't want to, so she didn't. She avoided sparkles like the plague, threw tantrums and screamed and yelled.
She learned about goths from her older cousin, Zatanna. A role model that Sam rarely ever got to visit, someone who was glam and glitz, but not high society about it.
Someone who didn't perform to navigate the complex systems of the Rich and Ornery—Zatanna was someone who performed to be seen.
Someone who performed to be herself, to smile and say to the world smile back, that's all I need, smile back!
It was her cousin's greatest trick, making Sam smile.
Almost six years older than her and always on the go, it's a minor miracle Zatanna even met her with Uncle Gio always performing on the road. But they did and Sam has never been more grateful to have her cousin during some of the harder parts of being a high society kid.
Like when she was ten, and her mother was whisper-yelling something with Uncle Gio down the hall. They had just come home from a disastrous gala where Sam couldn't keep her temper and became a mocking point for the other rich families to poke and prod at. More than usual, anyway—more than the typical she's just different; more because now, now it's like it was obvious a goth girl would ruin a gala instead of just…existing on a different plane.
It wasn't hard to know that the subject of the fight was her.
"Don't take it to heart," Zatanna had said then, sitting on the floor beside her as Sam sniffled into her knees in anger, "take it to the stage."
But Sam's never been a performer, never been a star like her cousin so clearly was. She always preferred the daylight than the glittering lights of chandeliers. She preferred fresh air and sunny patches of green over too large rooms lit softly in the night.
Greenhouses, over galas.
She angrily wiped at her face, trying to keep her voice low when she explained this to her cousin.
"Then plant it deep." Zatanna had shrugged, smiling as she leaned over to carefully pull something from behind Sam's ear: a bright red rose. "Prune the unnecessary parts, tender the soft parts and grow deadly."
She offered the flower, and Sam took it delightedly. When she smelled it, it smelled fresh. Like it had just bloomed for her for this one single trick. Her cousin's eyes softened, the sheen of her eyes glinting the way tree leaves rustle in the dredges of Summer.
"You don't have to play their game," Zatanna whispered, just for them, gently bumping Sam's chin up with the crook of her finger. "But that doesn't mean you can't weather the storm and come out the other end more vibrant than any other."
She remembered, then, how Zatanna had smoothed over the ruffled feathers of Sam's mistake earlier that night by making roses just like the one in her hand pop into existence in clouds of colorful smoke. She remembered in particular when Zachary Newman, the reason Sam had lost her temper, had grabbed the rose that appeared in front of him and cried out at sharp indents of thorns.
And it felt like she understood what her cousin was trying to say, even if only by the feel of her words.
"Bloom, goth girl," Zatanna whispered, a show just for the two of them lit by the moon, "thorns and all."
Sam remembers clutching that rose to her chest, remembers the distant whisper-yelling of her mom, remembers Zatanna leaning heavier into her side like comfort, the smell of roses flooding her system like it had no idea what else it could do.
Sam kept those words buried deep within the marrow of her bones, because she wanted to be the kind of flower Zatanna would admire. She wanted to be the rose that she pulled from behind an ear, wanted to be the petals that scattered like confetti in the spotlight, wanted to bloom and make her cousin proud.
It helped more than she could say, more than she could handle sometimes, when she was called to perform.
When she could feel her mom observing her, eying the minutiae of Sam's every movement and breath. Searching for something, but never saying what.
She was never going to be the perfect daughter, nor did she ever want to—being goth was a rebellion until it wasn't anymore. But some part of her still rankled. Some part of her still wanted to play nice, even if her dresses were all black and purple and her accessories were sharp and pointed instead of shimmering and expensive.
She wanted to be different—that didn't mean she wanted to be a failure.
And then Sam turned twelve, and they moved to Amity Park.
A lot of things changed then.
She already didn't have that many friends in high society, and while she did have a small group of other outcasts she could call friends, they weren't the type to keep correspondence with someone who left.
It meant Sam only had her cousin, Zatanna, who would send her postcards from her shows on the road.
Sam has an entire collection of them, from all over the world. Sometimes, trinkets would be included, sometimes a flower would pop out from seemingly nowhere.
Sometimes, Zatanna would personally deliver them. Those times were her favorite.
They were sporadic in nature, but there was always one constant: Zatanna would always send a postcard on Sam's birthday.
This postcard, the last one to arrive at the old house for her twelfth birthday, was the most important one; It was the one that kept her company in their big, obnoxious Mansion, located in this new town, with nobody she knew but her parents.
Her room still echoed, with nothing yet on the walls, no rugs unpacked, just boxes and boxes that she made sure the servants wouldn't open and rearrange for her.
She sat on the floor to her bedroom and tried not to cry, clutching the postcard to her chest and trying her damnedest not to wrinkle it.
Happy Birthday, to the most magical Manson I know. You got this, goth girl! -Z
That postcard bolstered her through unpacking her room, with the scent of Jasmine wafting through the air and the melodious sounds of some garage band from her previous city—friends of friends of classmates who were just starting out.
Two days later, Sam only has one final thing to unpack.
She had left a wall blank and free of furniture on purpose, a clear space that her mother had made the painters set up when they painted Sam's room dark purple—a wall covered in expensive cork top to bottom just like her previous room, framed in a somewhat understated black filigree trim.
Her parents knew how important this was, even through all the differences and screaming matches and pleading, they would never take this one thing away.
The night before she is set to go to school, Sam spends most of it pinning up all the post cards from her cousin with a heavy tin of push pins surrounded by the smell of incense. Pictures of her old friends, of her family, band posters and even ripped out pages of poetry she's particularly proud of, cover a small expanse of the wall.
It's room for growth.
She doesn't know, at this point, that Zatanna's most recent postcard is more important than she thinks it is. She doesn't realize that it's the most important and will stay the most important.
She can't, not for four more years when finally, finally—the next postcard from her cousin arrives.
It's late, and she should be some kind of mad about it. Four years too late. Or maybe it's on time.
She should be kicking and screaming or scoffing and throwing it away, but her fingers are stuck.
The postcard is of a train station, from some place called Utrecht Station. Sam heavily suspects it's European, but can't actually recall where this place might be.
It looks like one of those old timey photos, taken from the street where you can see all the windows of the station curving in black and white tableau due to the reflections of the light, simplified from the older generation of photography. All the people in it are walking briskly, like they have a destination or, more probably, a train to catch. They dress like old timey mobsters, actually. The kind that Tucker likes to mimic the accent of in those bank robbing movies.
She stares a little too long at it, mind unhurriedly processing in contrast to the busy bodies in the photo. She hasn't even flipped it over, doesn't fully know for sure who it's from but—but who else could it be?
She only has two friends, and she left both of them mere minutes ago after they planned a whole dinner and show for her at the local slam poetry night. Is planning to see them tomorrow morning before class. Bubba always uses those crisp, square envelopes, never postcards.
Feeling ridiculous, she flips it over to confirm it is who she thinks it's from.
The confirmation is quick, but only leaves her with more questions than answers.
Happy 16th Birthday. I'm sorry. I'll see you soon. -Z
Tim has noticed something odd, about the Demon Brat.
Sometimes, the Demon Brat would look to his left, as if to start a conversation, or as if anticipating someone saying something, only to freeze. Just for a moment, a half second, because nobody was there, before looking away with painful expression.
Months later, Tim decided to stand there, just to see what would happen. The brat didn’t look at him once, and Tim found that curious, and odd.
Another odd thing about his new, murderous brother, is that he refuses to look into the mirror. That’s not true, exactly: he would look in the mirror for basics, for necessities.
Tim realized, months of observations later, that the brat didn’t look himself in the eyes.
Strange.
Tim had asked him, once, why he didn’t. As expected, all he got was a “It’s none of your business Drake.”
But that didn’t stop Tim from wondering. Tim is, if nothing else, curious to a fault and persistent to an illegal degree.
And so the strangeness would continue, and Tim would wonder.
The brat would look to his left, pause, and then look away. He would deftly avoid mirrors, and when asked why he would sneer and avoid those questions, too.
Until he didn’t.
Until he came back to the Cave battered and beaten, some dreary autumn day, the Demon Brat unusually sullen and quiet and off his game. He had sat through the lecture Bruce had given him, and sat through the quiet reaching out from Dick, and sat through the cajoling teasing meant to rile him up, to get him to say or do anything per the norm, with an unusual aplomb.
The brat apologized, said he was fine, and ignored the rest. He told Bruce he wouldn’t patrol tomorrow, and would stay home from school, because clearly he wasn’t feeling well.
It was like Damian wasn’t there, fully.
So when Tim saw that the brat’s door was open, the next day, he peeked in.
Of course he did.
And there the brat was, sitting in front of the full length mirror he usually had covered with a cloth when it wasn’t in use, reaching up and staring directly into his own reflection’s eyes.
“Demon Brat?” Tim asked, stepping in and concerned about the look in the other’s face. There was no answer.
“Damian. What’s wrong.” Tim stood behind the boy, watching as Damian touched the corner of his own reflection’s eye.
“The color’s wrong, Drake.” Damian finally said, matter of fact and almost broken, absent-minded.
“What?” Tim asked, trying to see what he was talking about. Nothing was wrong, nothing was changed. Damian met his eyes through the mirror for a long moment, but Tim didn’t understand.
“The color.” Damian reiterated, looking at his own reflection again.
“The color? Of what?” Tim and Damian were never close, not really, but he was starting to feel like something was slipping away, in this moment. Damian dropped his hand, and finally looked away.
Without answering, the boy got up and carefully draped a cloth over the mirror, ushering Tim out of his room silent as the dead.
“Leave me be for today, Drake.” Tim reached, opened his mouth to try and say something, because something was wrong, but what?
But Damian simply shut the door softly.
The sound of the lock engaging felt strangely, and utterly, final in a Manor full of lockpicking detectives.
"When you said Guitar Hero," Jason examines the way too tiny guitar controller in his hands. "I didn't expect…this."
"I died in the 60s." Ember smirks from where she stands beside him. "Game consoles weren't even a concept then."
"I died in the 90s." Jason shoots back, trying and failing to fit the damn strap over his shoulders. "I think I was dead when this game came out."
"Babypop showed me how to play, it's easy." Ember shrugs, pressing the colored buttons on the fret until the menu starts to blare different song samples. "HAL helped set me up and I've loved it since."
"Babypop? Hal?" Jason questions, getting a feel for the spacing and the frankly atrocious lights going on the big screen right now.
"Phantom. And his bud, HAL 9000." Ember squints, before waving him off and selecting a song. "Don't worry about it. Best out of five, three practice rounds."
Jason braces himself—gloves are not actually great for gaming—and hopes to Wonder Woman those guitar classes back in middle school still hold up.
Hello!! this is a surprise oneshot spin off of my Dead Tired Fake Dating AU, Ten Steps To Get Your Man (and maybe keep him too).
You might not understand this without reading that one first!
===
Jazz scrubs at her hands angrily, mad that some of the ecto got under her fingernails.
Not a single drop of ecto or blood on her clothes, but of course it gets under her fingernails.
The absolute worst.
"You know it'll come right out with warm water right?" Dan rumbles from the driver's seat. "Just wait until we get to Danny's."
Jazz closes her eyes. He's right of course, but that doesn't make the irritation go away. She takes in a deep breath, holds it for a long moment, before letting it all go.
Her shoulders slump, and she rolls her head on the headrest to look at her so-called older brother. "But it's icky."
Dan snorts. "Now you're sounding like Ellie."
"She got that from me." Jazz grins, laughing in tandem with Dan as he cuts a quick glance at her.
They're in one of Vlad's cars, stolen for a reckless joy ride after breaking a couple of his bones. Vlad won't say anything of course, he has a multitude of other cars and she's sure Dan will probably portal it back in more or less pristine condition.
Dan has always had a complicated relationship with Vlad, but he's entirely loyal to his siblings, so she won't begrudge him this little kindness.
If Jazz is being honest, at this moment in time she doesn't actually think Vlad planted the bugs in Danny's apartment at all.
If she's being really honest, she realized Vlad didn't do it the second she and Dan arrived at his house.
Still, they were already there.
Plus, they found out he still kept a lot of creepy shots of Danny from when he did plant bugs around their childhood home, before Danny moved to Chicago with Jazz.
Her apology gift for accusing him of bugging Danny's apartment was not killing him for that.
"You gonna stick around with Ellie?" Jazz says into the comfortable silence between them. The radio hums low, a murmuring type of volume, harmonizing with the sounds of the road rumbling underneath them.
Dan thinks on that for a moment, keeping his eyes on the road as he merges towards a freeway connection. "Depends on the tyke, I think."
"You haven't really hung out with her that much." Jazz tries to keep her voice light-hearted.
It's a small hope she and Danny have had, that their two siblings would pair bond together. When the four siblings had established a connection—when Dan was put on parole and Ellie had stopped to consider the logistics of being a real person after the Anti-ECTO Acts were repealed, it was…rocky, to say the least.
Dan, having lost his entire family, was near obsessive about his care for Jazz. In contrast Ellie, then still Dani, clung to Danny like a security blanket whenever she touched down upon Earth.
Neither Jazz nor Danny knew how to navigate it, because Jazz couldn't fathom leaving Danny behind and Danny couldn't fathom being relied upon so heavily.
It spoke a lot to how much pressure Jazz felt, and how little Danny thought of himself.
You always knew better, her little brother had mumbled when they finally sat down just the two of them to talk about it, you always were better.
And it ached, to understand him. It tore a hole in her heart.
I'm only two years older, Jazz's voice had trembled back, and I don't know if I'll ever have kids when I…
They had cried, of course. Danny from the guilt and Jazz from the feeling of inadequacy.
Both of them worked it out, but that still left Dan and Ellie.
They made leaps and bounds of course, the four of them as close as can be as adults with their own agendas. But Ellie was always off and about, spending Vlad's money, and Dan…
Well, Dan is being trained as the next monarch of the Realms.
It's framed as penance for destroying the world, a reformation at the Core. It's punishment, shouldering responsibility that Danny doesn't want and acting as a replacement forevermore. It's convoluted and stupid when you spell it out plainly, because how could giving him more power be considered jail?
But Jazz knows that Dan will rarely ever get to leave the Realms once he's been established on the throne. He'll rarely get to see her. And she doesn't have as long to live as her siblings do.
"She's doesn't really stay still long enough to." Dan's voice shakes her out of her melancholy, shrugging his big shoulders at her. "But I join her sometimes, on her travels."
"That's great," Jazz smiles, feeling light and airy, before adopting a stern pout, "how come we don't get pictures?"
Dan scrunches his nose, a distinctly Danny sort of gesture that makes her heart ache a little. "You do, I'm just not in 'em. I'm the one taking them."
That makes sense, now that Jazz thinks about it. Ellie has an instagram she updates mostly for the 'Nightingale Clan' as she calls them, and sometimes there will be a long string of pan out shots of her when usually she sticks to landscapes and selfies. Jazz assumed that Ellie was having strangers take them, but now she can re-contextualize those photos and smile back on them with the proper amount of appreciation.
"Next time, take a selfie." Jazz practically pleads. "You don't even have to post it, just send it to me."
"Not to the groupchat?" Dan smirks, easing them off the highway into Gotham proper.
"Just to me." Jazz bargains.
Dan makes a thoughtful noise, before shrugging carelessly once more. "If I remember."
Success floods her veins like no other, and it shows with her wide smile. It doesn't even diminish when they finally arrive at Danny's, and Ellie and Dan decide not to stick around
It's hard not to keep the smile when Ellie replaces her in the passenger seat and promptly declares "Sibling Switch!"
Jazz waves goodbye at them, watching the car disappear into Gotham before turning around to head up into Danny's apartment. She has duplicates of all her siblings' keys—Ellie's keys being the ones that admitted Dan and Jazz into Vlad's stupid mansion—so she decides to make a pit stop at the mailboxes to grab Danny's mail on the way up.
A man is already there, lingering in front of an opened mailbox and shuffling through them quietly. Jazz walks up, trying not to encroach on the guy's personal space and thankful when he smoothly steps to the side and closes his box to make more room for her.
He pockets his keys, but stays there to read through something that looks like an important legal document. Jazz pays him no mind as she opens Danny's box to grab what looks like an assortment of letters. She shakes her head. Danny checks his mail once a week, which is a bad habit she's never really approved of.
"Oh," The man's voice jolts her out of the speech she was planning on scolding Danny with.
She almost drops the letters, but thankfully manages to get everything in hand and the box shut again before she turns to lift an eyebrow at the man.
"Sorry," The man shrugs, a little sheepish. "You're Danny's sister, right? The older one."
"Jazz." She confirms, tucking the letters under her arm. "How do you know my brother?"
"I'm John." The man introduces himself, tucking his own letters into his back pocket before extending a hand to shake. "Or Jason, if he's told you yet."
"Ah, the baker." Jazz smiles, shaking his hand with a firm grip that he seems to appreciate. "And the brother."
"Both." Jason grins, and it's boyish and handsome.
There's a short pause between them, that sort of awkwardness that always happens between strangers that aren't actually strangers.
Jazz takes the plunge. "Did your brother hiding his relationship with my brother also kind of bother you? Or was that just me?"
Jason snorts, sudden like even he's surprised by it. "Sorry, uh. Timmers and I don't have the same kind of relationship you guys do, I don't think."
Jazz slumps. "I was afraid you'd say that."
"If it helps I can beat my brother up for you." Jason smirks. "Free of charge, it's the least I could do for my friend's beloved sister."
Jazz blushes, always pleased to hear when other people acknowledge her and Danny's closeness. They were all each other had for a period in time. "That's very kind of you, but I'm not sure I condone sibling violence."
"I'm pretty sure something violent is happening upstairs," Jason hums, looking up as if he can see through towards Danny's apartment. "There was a lot of yelling about mouse traps and cheese."
"He knows Ellie hates that game but he always brings it out." Jazz rolls her eyes, which gets a hearty chuckle. "I'm pretty sure he just likes tussling with her—like a love language or something."
"Two of my brothers are like that too," Jason hums, thoughtful. "The little demon—I mean, my little brother Damian likes to fuck with Tim's stuff even though he knows it pisses him off."
"Nothing permanent?" Jazz tilts her head inquiry.
"Nah, little shit." Jason shakes his head. "Like replacing his coffee with decaf, or going through his WE docs and putting a single page out of order."
"Attention seeking." Jazz hums, eyes going a little half lidded. "His own little way of showing he cares, perhaps."
"It's the only time they touch. Dami's definitely gotten a rough hug or two out of it, and Tim's not a complete idiot so he's probably aware." Jason nods, putting a hand on his hip and eyeing Jazz not very subtly at all. "Do you psychoanalyze all the brothers of the guys you meet, or am I special?"
There's a coaxing tint to his voice, like he's testing the waters, but his body stays open and ready to back off. Hm. This time, Jazz takes her own look, dragging her eyes from the tip of his boots all the way up to his turquoise eyes. There's a faint scar, under his eye, jagged but mostly faded.
Jazz licks her lips and finds herself very satisfied when it draws Jason's eyes.
Well. Fascinating.
"Sure, you're special." Jazz smiles, innocent as can be as Jason seems to perk up little a little dog. "You're very important to my brother you know—you and those empanadas."
Jason blinks, before throwing his head back in a laugh. Jazz follows the long line of him and decides that if her brother can have fun, she can have a little harmless fun too.
He really is quite handsome when he smiles that rakish smile of his.
"Hello Batman," Clockwork greets, adjusting their hold on Daniel as gently as they can. "I am Clockwork, and we have much to talk about."
They float down, slowly, softly, until they are at the edge of the pool of ectoplasm.
"What are you." The young Bat asks them, demanding and scared all at once.
Clockwork tilts their head in slight confusion at the non-question, wondering if Gotham overestimated their admiration towards their ward. They repeat their words once more, slower. "I am Clockwork."
They allow Daniel to float freely from them, the young man automatically curling up as if to comfort himself. They are loathe to do so, but they cannot hold onto him forever.
"That is your name, not what you are." The Bat growls out, threatening.
Like this, Clockwork can finally see why Gotham loves him so. If Clockwork couldn't feel the sheer terror and care the Bat exudes, there would be no inkling of it.
Not in the way the Bat stands up, the way he eyes Clockwork's every move to find an opening.
The way he keeps Daniel within his sights to pull him away at any second.
"To you, perhaps." Clockwork hums, running a finger against the young monarch's cheek. "To others, it is as good as nomenclature."
Batman does not say anything in response, but they already expected that.
Then again, in this dimension expectations are dangerous to have.
