An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Batman - All Media Types
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & His Kids, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Alfred Pennyworth, Jason Todd, Tim Drake (DCU), Damian Wayne, Clark Kent
Additional Tags: Crack, Fluff and Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, very briefly, Bruce Wayne is So Done, Lazarus Pit (DCU), No Lazarus Pit Madness (DCU), Age Regression/De-Aging, POV Bruce Wayne, Protective Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily Shenanigans (DCU), 5 Times, 5+1 Things, no beta we die like jason todd
Summary:
"Fill in the Pit with lead, all the way up to the entrance. I don’t care how expensive it is.”
“It’s tiny, I mean, you could barely fit a grown man in it. Shouldn’t take more than a few trips.” Tim trails off, head tilting to the side again. “Hey B.”
“Yeah?” Bruce asks.
“How tall are you these days?”
or, five things Bruce loses when his family keeps dunking him in a Lazarus Pit, and one thing he gains.
When he hears that Tommy has to work on Christmas Eve, Buck tries not to pout about it at first, and then decides, heck it, if I can't sulk about my boyfriend not being able to spend Christmas Eve with me, when can I sulk? So he weaponizes his big blue eyes and unleashes the full force of his pout, sticking out the lower lip and - by dint of some emotional effort - brings some tears to his eyes.
"Oh no, you don't do that to me now," Tommy says, raising a finger and tilting his head in that special way he does to ward off Buck at his most manipulative. He's about 40-60 when it comes to the win-loss ratio on that technique.
Buck sighs and wrinkles his nose. "I was planning on a nice dinner here at home. Tree. Nog. Roast beast."
Reaching out, Tommy ruffles Buck's curls and smiles. "At least we can decorate the tree together before then."
"They better be paying you extra for taking the shift for Christmas Eve night."
"Yeah, they do. It'll be a nice contribution to our honeymoon fund." Tommy smiles at Buck, whose stomach does a happy little flip. Technically, neither of them have popped the question, but they already know the answer is yes, and so they have already set up a whole system to allocate their money. They'll be ring shopping next week, to take advantage of Christmas sales, and just the thought of it makes Buck warm all over.
Even so, he can be melodramatic for his own entertainment. Flopping back in his chair, he cups his right cheek, adopts a pensive stare out the window, and sighs extravagantly. "I do wonder what could possibly be so important as to warrant my handsome, charming, incredible and sexy firefighter pilot boyfriend to abandon me on the most festive night of the year?"
"You know. The usual."
Wait. Tommy sounds shifty. He's usually very honest, so him trying to hide something is... off. Buck sits up straight. "Tommy...?"
"I'm serious. The usual." Tommy's ears are flushed dark pink. He's a horrendous liar.
Buck narrows his eyes, and then raises an eyebrow.
"Look, I can't tell you. I genuinely cannot. But, uh, it's a cool thing, an international thing, and it's really one of the best things I've ever done and love doing as a pilot."
"Wow," Buck murmurs. "You don't usually talk like that about your job."
"It's just a job. Most of the time. Sometimes I have to fly into hurricanes."
"No hurricanes this year," says Buck with a resolute nod. "Santa would not like flying through one. You'd have to provide Santa with air support."
"He's done it before though. The reindeer know what to do better than us," Tommy mutters absently, and then he freezes.
Buck freezes also. He stares at his boyfriend. "Tommy?"
"Hmm?" Tommy pretends he isn't terrified.
"Are you flying with... Santa... on Christmas Eve?"
"What? Hahahah of course not, ahahaha. No." But the rictus on Tommy's face tells a different story, as do the few beads of sweat that have just materialized.
Buck's jaw drops. He whispers, "You are flying with Santa!" His eyes go wide with delighted revelation. "Santa's real?"
"Shhh! No one outside of the escort party is supposed to know. And, not flying with, just providing air support to cover for him so he doesn't show on the scanners. And don't tell anyone!"
Buck mimes zipping his mouth and locking it and throwing away the key. Then he 'unzips' his lips. "I can't bear it," he declares. "You are way too cool and I need to have sex with you right now."
"What?" Tommy snorts, and then shakes his head in disbelief. "Evan, you're not being serious."
"Like a lightning strike." Buck stands, fluttering his lashes and pouting again.
and now for all of you gracerocky people who prefer your Rocky humanoid, imagine that Eridians are Vulcans. same Rocky spirit, but shaped like Spock. [waggles eyebrows] your pick whether you're imagining Nimoy, Quinto, or a hypothetical third guy.
assume everything else holds true down to the language barrier. but give him pointy ears and green blood. :)
A/N: Was talking with @molinaesque. Was consumed by the need for a coffeeshop AU. Also. Shadowheart and Astarion, my beloved.
The College is 30 Minutes from Here. It's Noon. He's Down Bad.
__________
“Darling, he’s back.”
Astarion does not say this silently. Astarion doesn’t say or do anything silently, so there’s no real reason for Tav to be surprised. The elf cocks his hip against the counter, tapping a finger to a tune only he hears. The shop is bustling, but he’s chosen not to help. Shadowheart shifts beside him, chin resting in her palm.
“You really should say something,” she says, also opting not to work. She leans back against Astarion, and the elf shifts to wind an arm around her. HR is going to have fucking field day. Again. “He’s…of a certain age. That much caffeine can’t be good for his heart.”
“If he gets what he wants, the caffeine will be the least of his heart’s worries.” Her friend chews the inside of his cheek and considers. “I almost want her to accept, don’t you? He’s swanned about for long; he almost deserves it.”
“I am curious; he has that build, you know.”
“I do know.”
Tav shoots them both a dark look. She doesn’t need to see her reflection to know there’s a violent blush in her cheeks. They’re burning. She has half a mind to sink into the ground. Or pray for death. “Will you both please be civil?”
“Oh, darling,” Astarion says, “Of course not.”
That one’s on her. She shouldn’t have expected anything else. Tav shakes her head, turning her attention back to the line. Professor Raphael is loitering near the back, glasses set on the tip of his nose. He’d confessed to her once, months ago, that he didn’t need them; it was purely for aesthetic purposes. People expected as much from a tenured professor, and he intended to play into those stereotypes. It hardly explains the rest of him.
He’s handsome. In fact, handsome is an understatement. It’s unfair; it’s rude, and in darker moments, alone in the shitty studio Tav shares with Shadowheart, it makes her want to scream. The gods blessed academics with brains; it came at the cost of their looks. And then there’s fucking Raphael, in his tailored suits, with his perfectly mussed brown hair and pretty eyes, and her whole world view goes topsy-turvy.
Asshole.
It’s another ten minutes before he reaches the counter. Astarion and Shadowheart have gone back to work (shocking), but she feels their attention shift to her. Tav clears her throat, painting on a smile, trying to look surprised. Like he hadn’t stopped in for a quick espresso before class that morning.
“Professor! I didn’t expect to see you again so soon!”
“Not,” Shadowheart chimes in, “That she’s complaining.”
Tav considers the implications of firing one’s roommate. “We are always happy to see repeat customers.”
He smiles, plucking the glasses from his nose. Tav tries to keep the bottom from falling out of her stomach. She fails. His hands are long-fingered and elegant, and he’s just…the whole thing is a lot. It’s a lot. “My dear, if you were aware of only half of the papers I've been asked to evaluate…you would understand my need for this…outlet.”
“That bad?”
“A massacre of the English tongue.”
Astarion presses beside her, sliding the professor’s espresso (which he has yet to order) across the counter, “You know, our sweet Tav was something of an English expert.” She pinches Astarion hard. “Ow! It’s true. Gods, you vicious little beast! Perhaps if you need a second set of eyes…”
Raphael cocks his head to the side. “A charming suggestion. Impossible, but charming.”
“You see, Astarion,” she elbows him back towards the steamer. “He’s impossible.” Tav scrubs a hand through her hair. The color is back in her cheeks, and he must see it. The strange thing is he seems to have softened. “I’m sorry…he’s…they’re…”
“I understand, my dear.”
His accent does funny things to her insides. Like horrible, awful, dizzy things. Tav chews the inside of her cheek, indicating the coffee, “This one is on me; you’re here so often. And you have all those essays.”
“No, I cannot accept.”
“Please.” Something dark flashes in those pretty eyes. Raphael nods, holding her gaze. The bastard slips the bills into the tip jar, smirking at her. So proud of himself. Tav rolls her eyes. “Very clever.”
“I thought it was an excellent move.” The professor tips her a wink. He turns to go.
“Professor?”
He stops, chuckling. “Raphael, please.”
“Raphael,” she brushes a stray piece of hair back from her forehead. “Do you um…live near here or something? The college is a little…” she makes a vague gesture with her hands. It’s meant to approximate the distance, but it…doesn’t.
“Not at all.” Raphael holds up his cup in salute. “But I’m willing to sacrifice the time for the…quality of this fine establishment.” He dips his chin, dropping into a half bow that would look ridiculous on a less charismatic man. “Until tomorrow, my dear.”
Tav stares after him long after he’s disappeared. Her head is doing that buzzing thing, which is probably why she doesn’t realize her friends have pressed in on either side of her. Shadowheart flicks Tav’s cheek.
“You do realize what you have to do, yes?”
She knows the answer. Oh, god, she knows what they’re going to say, and she dreads it. “Yeah. I know.”
And the little shits say it together like it's a bad romantic comedy. “You have to fuck him.”
Did we know each other on your birthday more than a month ago? Maybe! Do we know each other now? More so!
Do you get a present anyway? Yeah! Because you gave me an idea!
Enjoy the best stupidest thing I've ever published.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
He loves them so much.
His puppies are so beautiful and he loves them so much.
Why are they so naughty?
Why won’t they stay in the pile?
He will make them.
Twilight hasn’t slept in four days and now it’s everyone else’s problem.
