Could I get 63 with ghost maker? Thanks!
You're welcome!
63. Bringing them coffee when you know they didn't sleep well
***
Exhaustion rolled over his shoulders with each dull clack along the keyboard, occasionally backspacing when his eyes fuzzed and misspelled the words. He let out a sigh and leaned back in the chair at the head of the Batcomputer, digging the bottom of his palms into his eyes, rubbing until stars burst behind his eyelids. When he opened them, he blinked a few times, waiting for the galaxies to disappear before resuming his constant typing. His siblings were asleep upstairs, and his father was off saving the other side of the world—he could handle report writing; it was better than closing his eyes and seeing nightmarish flashbacks.
Another round of clacking resounded in his ears and he faintly picked up someone’s footsteps from behind before his steaming coffee mug appeared in his line of vision, dark liquid swirling within. “You get your refusal to sleep from your father,” a voice said, accentuating their point by placing their hands on his shoulders, digging their thumbs into his blades.
“Ow,” he hissed as a particular dig made his muscles jolt in pain; he didn’t bother craning his neck to see who it was—he knew already. “That hurts, K.”
Ghost-Maker shrugged, continuing to massage the soldier’s shoulders. “That’s what happens when you don’t stretch before vigorous activity.”
“I’m typing up reports,” he countered. “Not fighting.”
“Poor posture makes for sore back muscles.” He bent down, brushing his lips near the soldier’s ear. “Much more than our routines do.”
He harrumphed, lifting the mug to his lips; he took a sip, then paused and looked at the coffee. “K?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you wash my fucking coffee cup?”
“Of course, I did,” Ghost-Maker replied. “It was a disgusting buildup of multiple uses.”
“I can’t believe you washed my fucking coffee cup. You don’t touch a sailor’s coffee cup.”
“You’ll live.”
“You fucker.”