a practice prompt written w @whateverrrrwhatever . Remus/Sirius + "Giving them a tight hug that makes them lose their breath." + Prisoner of Azkaban canon
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Sirius wishes he could say that the world tunnels when Remus joins the shitshow in the Shrieking Shack. But that would be a lie, because everything else has already tunneled, has been for a very long time. Maybe if Sirius were some other version of himself, if he were younger or sane or more than half-alive, he would look at Remus and make note of his physical appearance—the scars, the shabby clothing, the pale and horribly blank expression on his face—and maybe he would remember when they were younger, the fear and hurt and disgust and betrayed anger that he couldn’t hide nearly so well as he thought. But Sirius has been thinking of that expression, the matching ones James and Peter wore too, and the weeks and months of paying dearly for an immature prank. He’s been thinking about it for years and years and years. It’s never far from the forefront of his mind, because the Dementors never let it go.
But Sirius isn’t thinking about it now, or taking in the differences twelve years can make, or thinking about the prank. He’s laying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, surrounded by children who are terrified of him, by Peter Pettigrew who has a terrible knack for slipping away from him, and by Remus Lupin with a face devoid of the fear and hurt and disgust and betrayed anger it should have.
And Harry… Sirius’ godson, James and Lily’s son, the baby who felt at times like Sirius’ own heart outside of his body, who used to know him, who used to love him, who used to scream an adorable approximation of “Padfoot!” when Sirius would visit, with the biggest smile on his face, who cried when he had to leave… Harry is standing over him and he’s going to kill him.
Sirius knows he deserves it. He has so many other thoughts bouncing around—does it have to be Harry, Harry is a child still and he shouldn’t kill so young, and of course it has to be Harry because Harry’s parents are dead and it’s Sirius’ fault, and couldn’t he have been able to kill Peter once and for all before Harry killed him, and does Remus really have to be here to see it happen—but they’re impossible to think about because his world is tunneling. Remus in the doorway and Harry standing over him and Crookshanks on his chest.
“Expelliarmus!” Remus shouts, and the wand aimed at him flies away, and Sirius’ chest can do nothing but tighten at the look on Harry’s face, like he’s disappointed he didn’t get to finish what he started.
Sirius has to look away, and can’t stand to look at the other children who are crying and clutching Wormtail protectively, so he looks at Remus instead.
Remus is looking back. His mask cracks, and there’s a bolt of fear and hurt that has his mouth turning down, his eyes intense and not leaving Sirius’ face for even a second. When he speaks—and his voice is a shock wave over Sirius’ skin, familiar and safe but not, because he hasn’t heard it except for bad memories, Sirius are you fucking KIDDING ME, how could you do this to me, I trusted you, I thought this could work out and I thought you would trust me, I’m not a spy I would NEVER do that, how could you even ask that, is it because I’m a—his words shake with emotion. In another life, Sirius, who knew Remus as well as he knew the back of his own hand, would’ve called it regret or fear. Now it’s just wobbly, undefinable.
“Where is he, Sirius?”
Sirius. Sirius Sirius Sirius. Not many people still call him that anymore—Bella always did, her horribly shrieky voice echoing in the hall, Sirius the blood traitor, Sirius the cowardly lion, Sirius you did the right thing betraying those half-breeds, Sirius do you hear me, Sirius ANSWER ME—and it’s like a miracle, hearing it from Remus, from Moony, a miracle and an olive branch and a lifeline.
Then he takes in the words—where is he, where is who, where is—and then it hits him. Does Remus believe him? It’s almost too much to ask for. It’s definitely too much to ask for. Sirius has been begging for it for so long it can’t possibly be true.
Cautiously, he lifts a hand, not sure if he’s just finally cracked and Remus will kill him at any sudden movement, and points at Wormtail, still in the child’s arms.
Remus looks away only long enough to see their old friend, the third and final living Marauder, before turning his eyes back to Sirius. There’s a familiar sheen in them, the same expression Remus always got when he thought someone had figured out his secret, when he caught Sirius staring and neither of them backed down, when he was trying to see the grander scale of their pranks by focusing on the littlest things.
“But then… why hasn’t he shown himself before now? Unless—” and Remus looks at him, eyes wide, fear and hurt and horrible revelation, so unlike when the last details would click into place and he’d have an epiphany that made their schemes a hundred times better. Too much like after Sirius ruined everything the first time around. “—unless he was the one… unless you switched… without telling me?”
We can’t tell Moony, Peter had said, his face tight with what Sirius had thought was rather obvious and rather stupid fright. We can’t tell him. Godric only knows what he’s up to—he says Dumbledore has him on missions, but do any of you know what they are? And when the four of them couldn’t come up with any kind of concrete answer, Peter doubled down, and put enough doubt into their minds that James sighed and didn’t look at Sirius or Lily when he said, Fine. The fewer people who know about this, the better.
Peter had nodded in the kiss-arse way he always did, and asked to get started.
It isn’t right, Lily said, only once, later on when everything was said and done. And Sirius had thought, I know it isn’t, but he hadn’t said it, and had never told Remus or anyone about the switch, except for Bella who laughed herself silly and told him he was even more pathetic than she’d ever thought.
Sirius can’t help but think of these things. He can’t remember their voices except for these memories, can’t easily recall the better moments where Lily wasn’t calling him a toerag and where James wasn’t scolding Sirius for the prank and where Peter wasn’t sending their friends to their deaths.
But he has to focus, and he forces his mind away from all of it, forces himself to look Remus in the eye and nod.
“Professor,” Harry interrupts, loud and jarring. Sirius’ mind rebels as he remembers the time Harry, hardly a year old, had nearly fallen out of Sirius’ arms, and sobbed for long horrible minutes from the fright—as he remembers only a few minutes before when he was blaming Sirius for the deaths of his parents, threatening him with a wand. This is his godson, someone he’s always loved with everything in him, but Sirius’ mind is brittle and it takes shamefully long to tell himself Harry is not someone he can or will ever defend himself against. He’d rather die than hurt the boy. “What’s going on—?”
If he says something else, Sirius doesn’t hear it.
Remus lowers his wand. He doesn’t take his eyes away, not for a second, and steps forward.
Sirius’ whole body seems to react—spending so much time as Padfoot has left some things close to the surface, and the familiar smell and presence has him recognizing Remus as ally, friend, family, lover, pack, protector and protected, everything. More than anything, he feels—safe. Safe safe safe. He doesn’t know how this will end, can hardly even think of anything past this moment and the intense desire to rip Peter to shreds and to hug Harry and never let go. But he’s been in the wind for so long, and Remus isn’t looking at him with fear or hurt or disgust or any of it. He reaches out and takes Sirius’ hand and the touch is another shock wave, human contact and more importantly it’s Remus—it’s Moony—and he finally knows and maybe believes Sirius and—
Sirius is pulled to his feet, Crookshanks dropping gracefully to the ground, and then Remus is all around him, touching and protecting, one arm around his waist and one higher up, across the back of his shoulders. He’s holding so tight that Sirius’ breath stalls in his lungs.
It doesn’t seem real. He thinks, if this is a dream, he doesn’t want to wake up from it.
He throws himself into Remus. There’s not much room to go but he does it anyway, sending them careening back a step, but Remus is steady and they don’t fall, and he holds Sirius tighter like he’s trying to become one with him. Sirius never wants to let go, never wants to catch his breath again, it doesn’t matter so long as he’s right here, safe safe sa—
So @whateverrrrwhatever and I have decided to work our way through a list of prompts over the next however long, which means I'll be writing little unedited ficlets periodically and sometimes sharing them here. This one is for the prompt “Following their family traditions that they enjoy.”
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Joyce sits in between Isaac and one of the kids, Freddie, waiting for everyone else to get settled as anticipation buzzes within her.
Mother’s Day dinner with the Underwood family, of which she is a new member, is a production. Everyone comes over to Laura Underwood’s home baring food or presents, and they spend some time visiting before heading to the table.
Laura sits at the head of the table, while Dorrie sits to one side and Kitty and Teddy to the other. Isaac sits at the other head of the table despite being the youngest, Joyce and the kids filling in the rest of the seats.
Joyce isn’t used to things like this. Sure, her parents had guests over on holidays, and obviously her dad sat at the head of the table. But it’s been years now since that happened, and the orphanage she was left in after her parents died didn’t exactly celebrate Mother’s Day. Even before that, her family was always too poor to do anything lavish.
Despite Isaac telling her about the traditions his family has on this day, she’s nervous, fiddling with the napkin in her lap.
“It’ll be alright, Aunt Joyce,” Freddie says, patting her arm and smiling up at her with his little gap-toothed smile. “You’ll get used to it.”
Teasingly, she pinches his cheek. “Aww, thanks, sweetheart. I’m just a little worried I might say somethin’ wrong, that’s all.”
Across the table, Bonnie kicks her little feet in the air and declares, “Ain’t no wrong way to do it, Auntie.”
Before Joyce can respond, Laura finally takes her seat, and everyone around the table hushes up, letting her lead them. For a moment, she looks around the table, eyes almost twinkling—and what a sight that would be, Joyce thinks, knowing what the poor woman has been through the past few years—as she sees her smiling grandchildren. Then she says, “If you kids want a speech outta me, you’ll have to pay up,” and sticks a hand out to Kitty and Teddy, both chuckling at her antics.
“Mama,” Isaac groans through a laugh, shaking his head.
“Anyhow.” She gives a knowing look to the giggling kids, before turning to Joyce. “Come on now, dear, there’s nothin’ to be afraid of. Now, I’ll start.”
The Underwood’s tradition for both Mother’s and Father’s Day are to go around the table and tell a story about whoever the day is celebrating. Laura tells them all about how her Mama could be coarse and cold, but always washed her babies’ faces before meals with the gentlest hands Laura has ever felt. Kitty talks about bedtimes, Teddy about his own mom can paint like Michaelangelo, Dorrie about her favorite parts of raising her two boys, and the kids describe various things that have Dorrie and Kitty beaming.
When it’s his turn, Isaac tells them about a time when he was a toddler, Laura caught him with his hand in the cookie jar, and instead of getting him in trouble, she just sat and ate with him.
Everyone turns to Joyce, then, including Isaac, who reaches out to take her hand. “Just one little story, Joy. You can do it.”
Clutching his hand, it takes her a moment to find the right tale to tell. “One night,” she begins, “when I was… Lord, I must’ve been five or so. Mama had a nightmare, and my Daddy was sitting up with her, and they were just talking. We all lived in the same room, so Mama shushed Daddy and said, ‘Don’t wake up Mary now,’ and he quieted down. But then—then she looked over to me and met my eyes and winked. She said, ‘I think we should try and sleep again,’ and they lied down, so I tried too. It always felt like our little secret.”
There’s a round of “She sounds lovely”s and “I wish we could’ve met her”s, but all that Joyce really notices is Isaac’s thumb sweeping back and forth, comforting her as she thinks of her lost mother.
After a moment, Laura nods determinedly and says, “Alright, then. Let’s eat!”
a practice prompt written w @whateverrrrwhatever . Remus/Sirius + "Making a goofy face until they notice and laugh". minor TW for blood!!
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The Shrieking Shack was a large, creaking building, filled with spiders and mice. It was cold, and dark, and some corners were eternally damp, though there was no running water. The roof had holes, and some of the windows were smashed out, others missing the glass panes completely. There were rooms where the floor wasn’t worth the risk, and others where the draft was so bad Sirius refused to go inside unless he was wearing his fur coat.
It was so unlike Hogwarts, a pervasive feeling of pain and suffering, the slight stinging smell of blood. The magic there wasn’t exciting or happy like the halls of the school—it was confining, sad, an afterthought. It wasn’t a place to experiment, a place with no consequences.
James and Peter took months to get used to it. Peter brought extra blankets and would always cast warming spells before they slept. James peered at the corners, unafraid but cautious, ready to jump to his feet and fight off an intruder who would never come. Remus walked around without flinching, unconcerned with the chill and the spiders and the stains on the floor.
Sirius loved the place. It was like home away from home, almost, although Sirius had felt Hogwarts was his real home for the past five years. Home away from Grimmauld Place, then.
There were things he didn’t like about the Shrieking Shack, of course. He didn’t like seeing Peter shivering cold, or James so stoic, or Remus in so much pain. He didn’t like the spiders, and he wasn’t particularly fond of the mice, either, and not even because Peter refused to play with them. He hated the blood, and hated how Remus didn’t seem to notice it anymore. But there were good things too—Wormtail’s little paw prints in the dust, Prongs’ antlers in the moonlight, the freedom he felt as Padfoot, and of course how it all made Moony loosen up. He liked the cold, too, but only when it ruffled through his fur on warmer nights, and he liked curling up with the others to sleep.
Best of all, Remus would smile in the mornings. He’d stretch out his whole body, rubbing at the spots where it hurt the worst, but he would see he had no new wounds—he would see Sirius and James and Peter—and he would smile. It stopped Sirius dead, that smile. And maybe he was just a hormonal sixteen year old, maybe it was the fact that Padfoot and Moony felt like pack, maybe it was none of that but Sirius thought he would do just about anything to make Remus happy.
Except Remus wasn’t smiling today.
He sat near the door, looking across the room and out the window, where the sun was coming up slow and far off, the sky still mostly dark. Birds sang obnoxiously outside, the world waking up from the night of the full moon. It was warm thanks to Peter, and it smelled like the forest and Hogsmeade and magic, and it was a beautiful morning, made all the more normal by the sound of James and Peter’s deep breathing.
But Remus wasn’t smiling.
His eyes were glazed over, a blanket haphazardly draped over his body. The lines on his face—more from stress and pain that laughter—were deep as he frowned, his brows furrowing while Sirius watched. He didn’t know what he was thinking, but he could guess. Remus had doubts about the whole Animagi thing, and especially about the three of them being around him on the full moons. Even though they’d gone through five at this point and nothing had happened. He was being stupid and noble and self-sacrificing, Sirius thought. It was obvious not being alone helped him, and again—nothing bad had happened, and if it hadn’t yet he was sure it wouldn’t happen at all.
But Remus didn’t like to hear that. He liked to stew in his angsty thoughts, and got mad when they were interrupted before he could come to any conclusions. Too bad for him that Sirius loved to interrupt.
He changed into Padfoot under the blanket he and Peter were sharing, and rolled onto his back, looking at Remus upside down. His ears flat to the ground, his tongue lolling out, he dragged his tail back and forth in an attempt to catch Remus’ attention. When that didn’t work, he beat his tail against the floor a few times, and when that didn’t work, he finally let out a soft woof.
Remus startled, blinking and looking over. “Pads?” He asked, sounding groggy and distracted.
Sirius exaggerated his face, letting his tongue flop down and almost—but not quite—brushing the floor. He brought his paws up, too, waving them around in the air until finally, finally Remus’ frown eased, the corners of his mouth curling up just the tiniest, ittiest bittiest bit.
“Stop being dumb,” Remus said, a little breathy with a suppressed laugh.
It wasn’t a smile, but that was okay. The spell was broken, the frown gone. That was good enough for now.
So @whateverrrrwhatever and I have decided to work our way through a list of prompts over the next however long, which means I'll be writing little unedited ficlets periodically and sometimes sharing them here. This one is for “Buying them something unrequested because it made you think of them.“
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Coming to the mall never used to suck this much, Duke thinks, trying not to be annoyed. He’s more than accustomed to people staring at him wherever he goes now, and some days, he can even handle it just fine. There are people who, for some reason, want his autograph. It’s weird and freaky but he’s learned to have fun with it. Sometimes. Today, though, totally different story. It’s just him and Bruce on this trip, since Tim is grounded and Damian is sick, and the older kids don’t live at home anymore.
Duke likes spending time with Bruce, even better when it’s one-on-one and he doesn’t have to fight for attention, but seriously. He wants to be able to shop in peace. A few yards away, two girls giggle and not-at-all subtly take a picture of them. He sighs. Loudly.
Bruce stops talking to the cashier long enough to look over, a single eyebrow raised. “Something wrong, son?”
With the cashier staring right at him, Duke can’t answer. People go to the tabloids with the smallest things, and him saying he’s annoyed by their “fans” would surely cause a shit storm that none of them want to deal with. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he shrugs.
Bruce nods and gets back to paying. Cass’ birthday is coming up and they’re out buying presents, which means most of their conversation today has been about her. But the second they get away from prying ears, stepping into a secluded corner, Bruce asks, “What’s up?”
It doesn’t take anything more than that for Duke to spill—that he’s just feeling stressed from school work and Izzy and Damian’s attitude he always gets when he’s sick, and that all the people staring at them is making it worse. Bruce sets down the bags and pulls Duke into a hug, and though they’re of a height, he still manages to make it feel comforting and calming.
Pressing his cheek to the side of Duke’s head, he says, “Why don’t you sit for a sec, huh? Watch the bags for me while I fix it.”
“There’s nothing to fix,” Duke protests, rolling his eyes. Seriously, unless Bruce thinks he can somehow get every person in this mall to chill, there’s no way it can be made better until they’re on the way home. “I’m fine, B, I just need a breather.”
“I bet I can prove you wrong,” Bruce says, mostly serious but Duke hears a hint of his usual teasing there too.
“Fine, fine,” Duke laughs, pulling away and waving a hand at him. “Go into protective dad mode on the whole place. Be free.”
Bruce pulls him back in so he can press a kiss to Duke’s forehead before he sets off somewhere into the store. Large clothing racks block Duke’s view, which honestly is more than fine with him. He settles onto the hidden bench, setting the bags between his feet. For a few minutes, he gets to breathe and be by himself, and it’s nice. Enough to get him through the other two stores they have to hit up before they can go.
When Bruce comes back, he’s holding a much smaller bag in his hand, and promptly hands it right over to Duke, clearly suppressing a smile. “Take a look.”
Expecting something like a hat or a pair of sunglasses, he’s surprised to find a face mask instead, similar to one they bought for Cass. Duke turns it over a few times before looking up at Bruce, deadpan. “What, should I put it on now? That’ll make them stop looking for sure.”
Slightly grinning, Bruce shakes his head. Completely seriously, he says, “It can’t help now, but I thought you might need it for later. You’re frowning a lot, kiddo. You’ll get wrinkles.”
For a long moment, they stare at each other, Duke just blinking. Then—”Oh my god, I know where Jason got it from, now.”
So @whateverrrrwhatever and I have decided to work our way through a list of prompts over the next however long, which means I'll be writing little unedited ficlets periodically and sometimes sharing them here. This one was for the prompt “holding their hands while they’re shaking”!!
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It’s not a surprise, finding Johnny on the roof. Even with his powers gone, it makes sense to Peter—height feels normal and safe. Relaxing in a way that being on the ground just doesn’t. They belong up high, Peter and Johnny, and so of course Johnny’s retreated here.
Peter sits down next to him, not saying a word.
Johnny’s on the edge, his knees curled up under his chin and his feet pressing against the low wall edging around the rooftop. It’s windy and humid and Peter thinks any normal person would feel dangerously unbuoyed. A tingle of his spider-sense itches in the back of his head, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s not for him but for Johnny. Peter can stick to the ground underneath them—Johnny can’t. And Johnny can’t fly, so if he gets knocked over the edge, that’s it. Peter will catch him, of course, but the idea of him falling has his throat tightening up with sheer terror and grief.
He’s not used to his spider-sense going for other people. It used to for Mary Jane, a few times where he sensed projectiles heading her way, not his, and that time she tripped and he was right there catching her so she wouldn’t land face-first on concrete.
He doesn’t want to think about Mary Jane right now.
Beside him, Johnny starts shaking.
It’s been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Skrulls are never easy to deal with, even disregarding all the history they have with the Fantastic Four. With the Storms, with Johnny.
The Avengers took care of it today, Peter helped, and then, with the battle over, he ducked down to his room in the Baxter Building and changed and went to find Johnny. Johnny who is on the roof. Johnny who is shaking.
It’s not easy to pry Johnny’s hands away from their grip on his legs, but Peter does it, gentle and compassionate. He laces their fingers together, remembering Mary Jane’s hand, remembering Gwen’s. Johnny’s aren’t much different, honestly, not in size and shape at least. He’s got all kinds of blisters and scars, and he sees a few burns hiding on the sides of his palm. But his hand fits perfectly in Peter’s, and he holds on tight, not tight enough to hide his tremors.
“Pete?”
“Yeah?” Peter mimics Johnny’s quiet tone, caresses his thumb over the back of Johnny’s hand, avoiding the burn he sees there.
“What, uh… what was the first thing I ever called you?”
Oh. The identity game. He understands. “An animated insect.” After a pause, he adds, “I’m me, Johnny. I’m just me.”
Johnny inhales, shuddering and catching in his chest, and he doesn’t say anything. His head drops to his knees and he keeps shaking, such an odd sight for someone who never gets cold, who never lets anyone see him scared.
another practice prompt w @whateverrrrwhatever, this time for the prompt “Making sure to be quiet while they’re taking a nap.” + James & Sirius, set in first year. not britpicked and basically the first time writing these two so I hope it’s alright <3
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“My head hurts,” Sirius said fifteen minutes ago, rubbing at his temple. “Think I’ll take a nap.”
And James had said back, “I’ll wake you for dinner,” and then Sirius nodded and laid down in his bed and slept.
And now, James is sitting in his own bed, working idly on his assignments. They’ve hardly been in class for a week, but already the work is piling up. The past few days, he and Sirius have sat and done it together, perhaps talking more than they should’ve been, and maybe James has already gotten used to having company while he blunders through Charms. Doing it alone is boring, and lonely, and means he actually has to do it rather than think of things that’ll make his new friend belly-laugh.
Sure, he could go to the Common Room and sit with one of the other first years, but most of them probably wouldn’t appreciate that he doesn’t really want to work but to have fun. Peter wouldn’t mind, he thinks, and neither would Remus. But Remus is off somewhere—he said, but James wasn’t listening—and he isn’t sure if Peter is in the common room—he doesn’t seem to like it in there if he’s all alone. All that’s left, really, is the first year girls, and he figures he should only brave them in an emergency.
He’s got no choice, then, and he knows it. Twirling his quill, he sits for a few long moments, thinking maybe—maybe he should just go and find Remus? Or maybe one of the older kids in Gryffindor House would be willing to have him around. But the thoughts are useless, and only prolong the inevitable.
Sighing, he smooths out the parchment and gets to work.
Charms, he finds, is dreadfully boring without Sirius making jokes about it. There are a few moments when he thinks of something himself, and almost opens his mouth to tell Sirius, but then he looks over and—right. Napping.
James hadn’t realized people his age take naps, honestly. His parents have always enjoyed them, but his parents are old. And yes, he used to take them, but that was when he was a baby. For some reason, he thought eleven year olds were too big—and not, at the same time—for naps. But Sirius is possibly the coolest person James has ever met, and if he’s taking one… hmm.
In any case, he’s always been told to keep quiet while someone sleeps, and so, despite the excitable delight that’s been keeping him loud and happy this past week, he makes himself settle down. Much of the next hour is spent mumbling under his breath, doing work until something distracts him, then pulling himself back. It’ll be fun, he thinks, to help Sirius finish this after dinner. He imagines gloating, just a bit, about how he’s already done, and it’s incentive enough to focus.
He loses track of time, the room warm and silent except for the sound of Sirius’ breathing—already a comfort, and how weird is it that he’s gotten so used to not being alone in such a short amount of time? He always was before, no siblings to keep him company—and the quill scratching against the parchment. It’s only when he hears footsteps coming up that he blinks and looks around, realizing the sun has started to go down.
Remus sticks his head into the room, and though he always looks a little skittish, he doesn’t now. “Are you two going to come to dinner or not?”
James shakes his head, trying to clear it, then nods because he’s actually quite hungry. Shuffling the papers off his lap, he hops out of bed and stretches. “Gotta wake Sirius, then we can go.”
It feels—weird. To talk. Like maybe he’s being too loud, even though Remus is across the room and Sirius has to get up anyway. Which is dumb, he thinks, and probably the Charms work is to blame.
“Well, hurry up, I’m starving,” Remus whines, and James takes the opportunity to pounce onto his friend. All in the name of swiftness, of course.
So @whateverrrrwhatever and I have decided to work our way through a list of prompts over the next however long, which means I’ll be writing little unedited ficlets periodically and sometimes sharing them here. This one is for “Singing and dancing to their favorite song.“
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Hearing music bumping through the Manor has become so commonplace that Bruce doesn’t notice it at first. With a weary sigh, he sheds his jacket and kicks off his shoes, wanting nothing more than to throw his briefcase in his office and take a nap. He hasn’t been sleeping well the past few days, a big case keeping his mind running at all hours, social and other obligations keeping him busy when he managed to stop thinking about it. A nap sounds heavenly right now.
He steps towards the stairs, but his stomach grumbling interrupts him. Annoyed, he moves instead to the kitchen, hoping Alfred will be there cooking something up. “Alfred?” He calls, hearing the music finally. It’s circus music, and while that’s usually only something Dick enjoys actually listening to, both Alfred and Bruce have learned to tolerate it.
“Nope! Just me,” Dick replies, sticking his head out of the doorway just as Bruce is approaching. There’s flour on his cheeks. God, he’s adorable. Cheerfully, he skips back to the counter and explains, “I’m making cookies while Alfred’s out in the gardens.”
“Uh-huh, and did Alfred say you could use the oven by yourself?”
Dick smiles sheepishly. “No, but I knew you’d be getting home sometime, so I thought I’d just have you do it. Will you? Please?”
Bruce only holds out for a second before sighing, setting his briefcase down, and going to help the boy. Once the cookies are in the oven and the mess cleaned up, they find themselves with ten minutes of waiting. Bruce is about to suggest a quick walk to his office and back when the song changes from “Entry of the Gladiators” to “The Man On The Flying Trapeze.”
Dick gasps excitedly and hurries over to the boombox, turning the dial so the already loud music is truly blasting. “This is my favorite song!” He shouts over it, bursting into a swinging dance around the room. Bruce watches for a moment, struck again by how adorable Dick is, before Dick is taking his hands and making him dance along with him. Giving in, Bruce tries to copy the movements, but they come much easier to Dick, who sings, “He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease! A daring young man on the flying Trapeze!”
They make a circuit of the kitchen a few times before the song is over. Dick does a cartwheel at the end, giggling happily. “That was fun,” he says when he’s upright again. “We should dance more, B!”
