For @phantomchick and @candycarmelle who requested anti Alfred Pennyworth. I hope you both enjoy. Thank you for the prompt!
Jason doesn’t want to be here.
He swore to himself that he was done with the Wayne Manor, but someone had mistaken him for Willis the other day, and it reminded Jason that he does not remember what his parents looked like. Most of the pictures and memories have been destroyed, except for the couple that he took with him to the manor when he was adopted, and so he had decided to get them back.
The manor hasn’t changed much. Not outwardly, at least. Everything is still where it was from Jason's time here. Jason makes his way through the house quickly. He’s not here to stay. Just to pick up his memories and he'll be on his way. He timed his visit so everyone in the manor is either getting some post-patrol sleep in or out for the day. Hopefully, his luck will hold out and he won't have to deal with any of his so-called family.
The room that was his no longer exists, so Jason makes his way up the attic. He doesn't have to look long before he finds what was supposed to be his time at the manor in a box. There are no clothes, thank God. Just a few notebooks, journals and literature. He finds the photographs under the pile. Relieved, he grabs them and heads out. There will be time to examine the photographs once he is out of here.
He was almost at the door, when his luck ran out. Just at the foot of the staircase is Alfred Pennyworth, looking momentarily surprised to see Jason.
“Master Jason,” the man greets, a calm expression replacing the surprise. “I was not aware you would be by today. Master Bruce is not in at the moment.”
Jason shrugs, stopping when he gets to the foot of the staircase. “I'm not here for him. Picking some stuff I left behind from before.” He waves his package at Alfred. “You can tell him I was here.” Jason adds redundantly, knowing Alfred would be calling Bruce to tell him the moment he is out of Jason's sight.
Alfred doesn’t move. “You know, you could stay a while. Have dinner with the family, perhaps.”
“Aww Alfie,” Jason says, tone mocking. “You sure you want the dog eating with your fine china?”
Alfred looks scandalized at his words. “Master Jason—”
“Cut the shit, Alfred. We both know you don't want me here any more than I want to be here. No use pretending.”
The silence between them has weight. Alfred breaks it first. “You’ve grown… colder, since your return.”
Jason raises a brow, leaning a hip against the rail on the staircase. “Being murdered and coming back from death doesn't exactly make one warm.”
Alfred folds his hands behind his back in an all too familiar way. It's a move that precedes a scolding from the old butler. “Despite your choices, I’ve always considered you family.”
Jason snorts. “Family,” he echoes. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Master Bruce never stopped hoping you would find your way back,” Alfred says, carefully. “That you will remember who you were before all this anger.”
Jason tilts his head slightly. “And who was I?” Alfred opens his mouth, but Jason cuts him off with a cold smile. “Because if word on the streets is correct, I was the angry, aggressive Robin, determined to get himself killed and finally succeeded. Or are you talking about the one who sullied your precious manor with my darkness and the stench of the gutters Bruce picked me up from? Or maybe you're simply talking about the good soldier? I could never tell, but I'd assumed that you, especially, would be glad to see the last of me since you got Bruce the nice upgrade.”
Alfred’s face tightens, but he doesn’t deny it. “You misunderstand—”
“I heard you.”
Alfred stills.
Jason’s voice is calm, detached. He has made his peace with never being a part of this family. It hurt, but he is over it. “I always knew you never liked me, that you wished Bruce would send me away like a little stray dog that followed him home, but to hear spit on everything I was, all that I worked hard to be and accomplish, to make your little pretender look better,” Jason's laugh is bitter. “That's low, Alfie, even for you.” He finishes, intentionally using the nickname he had used for the butler, before he realized what the man had thought of him.
Alfred doesn't say anything, simply staring at Jason like he had grown a second head. Which, not even then, considering this is Gotham.
“I bugged the comms years ago. Just never turned it off.” Jason shrugs. “Bad habit, I guess. Still like knowing who is holding the knives.”
Alfred’s voice is quiet when it comes. “That wasn’t meant to be cruel.”
“Of course not,” Jason rolls his eyes. “You meant to cuddle Bruce and protect his fragile ego. Who can blame you? Especially when you didn’t think I was listening. You thought Bruce's efforts were wasted on me. That I didn’t live up to the symbol. That I ruined what Robin represented.” He steps forward once, just near enough to let it sink in. “And you were the one who laid Tim’s suit out like I never existed when the smoke from the bomb hadn't even faded.”
“I was trying to help him,” Alfred says, stiffly. “Help Gotham. There was grief, yes, but also necessity—”
At that, Jason lifts a hand, cutting him off. “Don’t.” Jason feels hollowed out. He came here for his parents’ photograph, how did he find himself in this conversation? “Don’t try to wrap it in duty. You didn't want me here. You never did. You didn’t give Tim the suit because Gotham needed a Robin. You made it because you were relieved to have me gone and to have Bruce associating with who you considered the right type of people.”
Alfred says nothing to that. Not even a disagreement.
“That’s what I thought.” Jason nods. “I didn’t come here to fight,” he says. “I came to get what’s mine. That’s all.”
Alfred moves slightly, like he might say something else, but Jason’s already turning away.
At the door, Jason pauses, but doesn’t look back. “You guys don’t have to worry about me anymore, Alfred,” he says. “I’m not your problem anymore.”
And then he’s gone. Shutting the door on that part of his life for good.
SamRhodey: “do you know how suffocating this is?” (hurt/comfort)
Clickclick.
The crack of Sam’s neck as he whips his head towards the sound.
The growing whistle against the patter of rain.
The mechanic hum of his wings pulling him backwards, his ragged breaths–
Riley.
The collision of metal against skin.
Riley’s gasp.
Riley’s body–
The tail of smoke left in its path.
The boom of the explosion.
The horrible squelch of flesh.
Sam’s scream.
Riley’s lone hand.
Falling.
Reaching.
Sam throws himself out of bed before he’s even aware of his conscience, his muscle memory working like clockwork as his feet catch his fall, as his hands grab for the blue roll of plastic bags in his nightstand, as his sweaty fingers scramble to tear one out, to pull it open, as his body curls over.
It leaves him in ugly waves, the sound as horrible as always, the acid burning his throat, each wrack inspiring new ones, horrible and yellow, the smell of death and dying.
He can barely breathe with each inhale, the sensation so familiar but the pain always shocking – the clenching around his lungs, the quiver of his stomach, the throbbing of his head, the shaking of his hands, the memory behind his eyelids.
He stays there, hunched over and shaking and weak and pitiful.
He doesn’t know for how long this time, hasn’t known for a long time. Stopped counting years ago when he realized it wouldn’t stop. Just knows that it was long enough for his knees to hurt, the skin there scratched white under the pressure.
So – long. Longer than the usual.
Didn’t matter anyway.
He stumbles out of his room, bare feet slapping against cold tiles.
He doesn’t know how, but his fingers find the right buttons and he’s mumbling something to JARVIS, doesn’t know what but it’s enough to get the elevator moving.
And he hates the feeling, hates the way it feels like he’s falling, feels his stomach squeezing again, hears the clickclick and the whistle again, so he bites his tongue and grips the handrails. Grips them tight like he wished he gripped Riley, grips them tight like his life depended on it.
And maybe it did.
The ping of the elevator startles him, too soon and too similar to the whistle, too similar to the screeching silence that followed.
And it’s awful, but at least he’s conscious this time. Conscious enough to propel himself out of that hellbox and into the main lounge.
It’s only after he’s poured himself a cold, cold glass of water, only after he’s gulped it all down – the water, the memories, he doesn’t know which, but it’s only after, that he reaches for the alcohol.
And he knows he shouldn’t. Knows how it’s a shot in the dark, the perfect antidote or the devil in disguise.
Knows–
“Sam?”
He stills his hands. James?
He tries again, clearing his throat, pushing his voice out from where it coils deep in his chest, “Rhodes?”
His eyes fly across the room but he doesn’t see, his sight bleary, his eyes stinging, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s been crying. Only then that he feels the wetness across his cheeks, tastes the salt on his lips.
“Sam. Wilson, I’m gonna need you to focus.”
Wilson.
Focus.
And he tries.
Tries again, tries to focus his eyes around the shape in front him, tries to bite his tongue to stop the tears, tries to stop the ringing in his ears, tries, tries, tries. But the world stays foggy, stays grey like a trail of smoke.
“Okay,” it’s soft and whispered under Rhodes’ breath, more for his own ears than Sam’s, but his ears try to chase his voice anyway, try to hear him past the ringing, past the clickclick, past the whistle.
“Okay, Sam. Sam, I’m gonna need you to give me permission to touch you, okay? Will you let me touch you?”
No.
But that’s a lie.
“Yes. Yes.”
And then a pair of arms are reaching around him, and he’s getting pulled into a chest and over a shoulder before he can put up a fight. Rhodes squeezes him, and it’s tight, but it’s not foreboding. Just enough to pull him out of the air, out of his wings, out of the cold rain and away from the clickclick, away from the whistle, away from the smell.
Just enough for him to smell sandalwood and skin instead, to feel the floor beneath his feet. Enough to register the sweet rumble of a soft voice, he doesn’t know what it says, maybe it doesn’t say anything at all, but it engulfs him, grounds him.
A wide palm cradles the back of his head, and...Sam knows this. Has done it for so many soldiers, has held their shaking bodies in his arms, has run his hand down their backs, has soothed them just like this.
But– it was never like this.
Was never him being held. Never him being soothed.
And then he’s crying. Just like them.
He’s crying. And he’s shaking. And the world fades away again and it’s just him and Rhodes.
Rhodes and him.
Rhodes’ clothed shoulder, now-wet but steady, beneath his lips. Rhodes’ hands running circles into his back. Rhodes, Rhodes, Rhodes, James.
“Was so bad,” he grunts into the fabric, into James.
James’ hands still for a moment, his arms briefly squeezing tighter, and Sam is reminded then of how long he’s been silent. How long he’s just been crying in James Rhodes’ arms.
So he pulls away. Tries to, anyway, but James is pulling him back. Keeping him close.
“I– I could smell it, James. His burnt flesh. Could hear it. Heard his flesh, saw his hand, I–” the words get caught in his throat, the acid twisting in his stomach again, the memory slicing his mind anew.
“It’s–” he heaves then because it's too much, too fresh. Heaves into James’ shoulder, dry and painful, “I couldn’t– I– Do you know how suffocating this is?”
The arms around him do not stiffen. The hands do not waver.
But James Rhodes doesn’t speak a word.
And he doesn’t have to. Because no shit he knows.
Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes.
The man who carried ghosts behind his dark eyes, carried pain and memory beneath them.
Carried comrades, and soldiers. Carried Sam Wilson.
This year, the school decided that the safest way for the children to get to school was to have more bus stops around the area. The one bus stop that Adrien had to hop into just so happened to be the bus stop by the sycamore tree.
He wouldn’t have minded having the bus stop next to the tree, if only Marinette hadn’t disturbed the quiet and peaceful morning with announcements of how far the school bus was from them.
Adrien Agreste was definitely not a morning person. Mornings were already dreadful enough, and it didn’t help that his sleep schedule was constantly thrown off. Yet again, Adrien would probably need to take another nap during his French history class.
“4 blocks away!” Marinette called from atop the sycamore tree.
His eye began to twitch, just a bit. Adrien took a breath in.
“3 blocks away!”
He took a breath out. Don’t bother with it, Adrien. Let her be.
“2 blocks away -!”
Adrien gave in. He cupped his hands around his mouth, enough for the girl to hear him from the treetop. “Hey, Marinette, would you mind - “
Before he could continue, an unfamiliar voice greeted him.
“Hey, dude, this whole bus stop thing is kinda weird, isn’t it?”
Turning to the dark-skinned boy with a red cap and glasses, Adrien was taken aback when he held out his hand in front of him.
“I’m Nino, by the way.”
He took Nino’s hand for a handshake. “Adrien.”
“Nice to meet you, dude,” Nino smiled. “I never had to take the bus. I’d always ride my bike to school, even in the winter. Disappointing that I won’t get to have my bike rides to school anymore.”
“1 block away!”
Adrien grumbled under his breath.
Nino glanced above the tree. “Well, I’m guessing we’re going to have her report to us on how far the bus is every morning, huh?”
“I guess so -“
“Hey, Adrien!”
Adrien jumped as he felt a warm hand upon his shoulder.
“M-Marinette!” How did she even get down from the tree so fast? She was so high up... Adrien swore that this girl was not human.
“Isn’t the tree gorgeous?” Marinette exclaimed with excitement, admiration still apparent in her eyes. She leaned in closer to Adrien. “You should climb up there with me. The view from up there is just breathtaking!”
Cold sweat ran down Adrien’s back. Why was she getting so damn close to him? The lack of physical space was what took his breath away - specifically, it was making him suffocate.
Adrien stepped back. He had to find words to say no to climbing that tree. No way would he climb that high, and no way would he climb up there with Marinette.
“Uh, I would like to, but it’s, um, actuallyquiteanuglytree.”
“Quiet an ugly tree?” Marinette repeated slowly, furrowing her brows.
Adrien internally screamed once he realized what he had said.
Jason had the most beautiful wings as a child. Especially after he was adopted and had an environment that encouraged wing care. Once he started getting proper nutrition and learned to care for his wings, they grew to be quite colorful and graceful.
But then he died, was resurrected and lost of his wings. People often said those without wings don't have a soul. Jason Internalized this because how else does one explain losing his wings when everything else came back when he was resurrected. It hurt but he tried not to think of it. He made the best of his life, despite the looks he got from others. Especially the batfam. They make comments and little jabs disguised as jokes. So what if he's grounded? He is still skilled and lethal and can take down any villain.
Until he wakes up one day after a long night on patrol and maybe even another showdown with Batman. He expected the day to be the worst, but then his eyes catches on something behind him and he walks past his mirror. Upon close inspection, he realized that he is growing new wings.
He doesn't want to hope. He can't afford to hope, but he can't help how he monitors the progress. He watches as the tiny sprout grows into each day. Jason hides it. He keeps it a secret because he doesn't want to jinx it. He hides it despite how uncomfortable it feels, until the wings grow too big to be hidden and then he flaunts it.
thrilled by how i promised a commenter that there would be soft moments in the next chapter of lilies and now it's exclusively angst and religious guilt. SO sorry about that one guys.
