I am compiling every description of Bluebird's supersuit that @snowdice has given us into a concise (though disordered) list
I'm choosing to view any discrepancies between descriptions (are the accents white and black, or silver, or black and multiple shades of blue? is the bird emblem black or black and white?) as not being contradictory, but as being variant suits. After all, it's already canon that he has multiple suits (This particular super-suit would be going into the fire, sometimes labels fail, chapter 1), so why not have a couple different ones instead of only a bunch of identical ones?
and I'm suddenly realizing that although I have been imagining black gloves to match the boots, they were not mentioned in any of the descriptive posts. I also did a quick search on the inital fic on AO3, and though the word "gloves" appears seven times (always in the plural), they are all surgical gloves for tending to Virgil’s medical needs.
I am going to continue to assume that Bluebird wears gloves, but so far, we don’t have canon confirmation of that, lol
unless of course there is some in one of the later stories. I did not read through everything in the labeled universe for this, just found the separate posts where snowdice described Logan’s supersuit
Summary: Virgil gets a text from Roman at 2am asking to be picked up from a party.
Notes: Alcohol mentioned, sad roman
This takes place after my story Sometimes Labels Fail.
Logan looked over at the boy standing nervously in his living room. He did not look like his usual jovial (and honestly slightly annoying) self. He looked… downtrodden. “Are you alright?” Logan asked once again.
Roman glanced up at him. “I’m fine,” he bit out even though from context and his body language, Logan could guess he was not ‘fine’ at all.
Logan tilted his head to scrutinize him. “Did something happen to you?”
Tears built up in his eyes but didn’t fall, and Logan internally cursed, wondering if he should get Patton. “No,” he said. “I’m just… stupid.”
That triggered an automatic response. “That isn’t true,” Logan said. He’d forgotten for a moment that this wasn’t his child self-deprecating. Still, it was no less factual in this case.
“Sure,” Roman said, his lip twisted up into a smile that edged more on a sneer.
Logan paused. “Well,” he said, “whatever happened, and obviously something happened Roman, I would say that asking for help to get out of the situation is not something a ‘stupid’ person would do. Though,” he said, “I would appreciate if you didn’t try to get my 16-year-old son to sneak out in the middle of the night next time.”
“Yeah,” Roman said with a cringe. “Sorry.”
Logan waved him off. “While admittedly a bit ill advised, a bit of foolhardiness is acceptable when under duress.”
Roman looked at him, seemingly taken aback. “I would have assumed you’d be yelling at me by now,” he commented. Then quieter. “I’d deserve it.”
“What did happen, Roman?”
He looked at his feet, and instead of answering, he asked, “Are you going to tell my moms?”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want your parents to know about tonight?”
Roman shook his head.
“Why not?”
“I was stupid,” he replied.
“That seems more emotionally charged than factual,” Logan commented. “What did you do?”
“I…” Roman seemed to think for a moment, seeming lost. “Nothing really. I was just there, but it would look bad, and I knew I shouldn’t have gone. It was…” He trailed off.
“Is that why you texted Virgil instead of a family member?”
“Yeah.”
“They wouldn’t have been mad if you’d called them. Even if you did drink or do something ill-advised, not that drinking the cheap beer at a party like that would have done much to you considering your increased metabolism due to your superstrength.”
“I know they wouldn’t be mad,” Roman said, but there was something else too. Logan waited and Roman rubbed at a spot on his jeans nervously. “They shouldn’t have to deal with me.”
“Roman,” Logan said, hurt on his parent’s behalf. Roman winced at his tone and Logan considered it for a long moment. “I won’t tell them,” Logan finally said.
Roman’s head jerked up in surprise. “I… really?”
“You are an adult now, Roman. You can make your own decisions and, in this case, your choices didn’t seem to do you any lasting harm.”
Roman blinked at him. “But I thought you were like… lame.”
Logan couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Oh, I certainly am,” he said. “But even lame people can surprise you.”
Roman squinted at him. “You’re really not going to tattle on me?”
“No,” Logan said, “though I would very much suggest you talk to them about it yourself.”
“I… maybe.”
“What did happen, Roman?” Logan asked.
“I… it was stupid.”
Logan raised an eyebrow.
“No, seriously. I have superstrength for goodness sake, I would have been fine.” Logan crossed his arms and Roman’s lips twitched. “Are you dadding me?”
“Perhaps, I understand I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”
Roman laughed slightly, but it faded rather quickly. “I… I just… I was asked to go to the party by a couple of people. I didn’t really want to, but they’re in a production with me and we’ve been hanging out a bit outside of practice. They invited me and I didn’t want to ruin it by not going, but then I lost them at the party and couldn’t find them. I don’t know if they left or what, but… I ended up alone. I didn’t know where it was or how to get home and they were my ride. The party was so loud, and someone dumped a drink on me to top it all off. I just… couldn’t handle it all of a sudden. I should have just walked. I mean… I have superstrength after all. It would have been fine. I just was being…” He looked at Logan and corrected himself. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“The city can be dangerous even for those who have superpowers. Asking to be picked up was a rational decision, and I would suggest you do it again if a similar situation arises. Though perhaps without trying to hide it from all adults.”
“Yeah, okay,” Roman agreed.
“I can even give you my phone number so you can call me directly, just in case.”
“Oh, okay,” Roman said, seeming surprised by the offer.
“Now, is there anything you have to be back on campus for early in the morning?”
“Uh, no. I don’t have anything tomorrow.”
“Good. I will make you a bed on the couch. When Virgil gets back with a change of clothing, you can take a quick shower.”
“Tea first,” Patton said, coming back into the room with a mug for each of them. “Sit,” he said to Roman, nodding at one of the chairs. Roman sat and accepted the tea.
“Thank you,” Roman said, looking at it.
Patton patted him on the head. “You’re okay,” Patton said soothingly when Roman leaned into the touch just a bit.
Virgil came back down the steps then with a bundle of fabric in his arms. “I think these will work. I’m also letting you borrow my hoodie, but it’s my favorite so you better give it back tomorrow,” Virgil said setting the bundle next to him. It was, in fact, Virgil’s favorite hoodie. It was the one Patton had given him when he first moved in. Logan was surprised he was willing to lend it to anyone.
Roman looked at him, his eyes saying ‘thank you,’ but his mouth said. “Do you own anything with color?”
“The pants aren’t mine,” Virgil said poking him in the chest. “And no.”
Roman laughed, the tension finally fully leaking from him. “Please let me take you shopping.”
Summary: Virgil gets a text from Roman at 2am asking to be picked up from a party.
Notes: Alcohol mentioned, sad roman
This takes place after my story Sometimes Labels Fail.
Virgil had the thought that he should probably go to sleep. Patton and Logan had gone to bed four hours ago, and Virgil was currently on his phone in his own bed. The part of his mind telling him to put the phone down and go to bed sounded a lot like Logan and it was currently lecturing him about his circadian rhythm. The other part of him was telling him it was Friday night anyway and really he needed to finish at least one more level on the mobile game he’d downloaded earlier if he wanted to get any restful sleep.
He was just about to click to the next level when he got a text.
‘You can drive now, right?’ the text from Chicken Butt 1000 (Remus had gotten ahold of his phone last time he’d seen him, and Virgil hadn’t gotten around to changing all of his contacts back yet) read.
‘…Yeah?’ he texted back.
‘Can you come pick me up and not tell your dads?’
That was… weird. Scary weird. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘At a party. Need to leave. Moms can’t know.’
Virgil stared at his phone, biting his lip in indecision. This… felt like something he should tell his dads about… but also that felt wrong.
On one hand… he got it. He really, really did. Probably a lot more than even Roman did. People had reasons why they didn’t want their parents or guardians to know about things from silly ones to deadly serious ones. Betraying Roman like that made Virgil feel a bit sick to his stomach.
On the other hand, he knew his dads weren’t like that. They’d understand whatever was going on, probably a lot better than Virgil did, and could fix it. Plus, Virgil didn’t want to just disappear from the house on them. Again. It really freaked them out when he did that.
Virgil didn’t know what to do, and in the end, that is what decided it for him, because he knew what to do when he didn’t know what to do.
Virgil got out of bed and walked down the hall. He winced slightly when he remembered that his dads were asleep and he’d have to wake them up, but he still raised his hand to knock on the ajar door.
He heard the bed shift a bit. “Logan,” he called softly. There was more movement behind the door and then it opened. A tired Logan was standing in front of him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Uh, I got a text from Roman and…” He shoved the phone at Logan.
Logan took it and squinted at the screen, his eyes clearly not adjusted to the lighting. After a moment, he nodded. “Ask him his location and get dressed.”
“Okay,” Virgil agreed. He sent off the text and raced back to his room to throw jeans and a hoodie on over his nightclothes.
By the time he got back into the hall, Logan was already dressed as well. Patton had been roused too, though he was in his pajamas and still looked half asleep.
“Did he respond?” Logan asked.
Virgil looked at his phone and saw that an address had been sent along with a ‘Thanks,’ Virgil winced, wondering if Roman would still be thanking him when he realized Virgil hadn’t obeyed all of his instructions. He showed the address to Logan.
“I know where that is. It’s right off campus,” Logan said. “Let’s go.” He led Virgil downstairs and to his car.
“Sorry for waking you up,” Virgil spoke a few minutes into the car ride.
“It is not a problem, Virgil. In fact, I am glad you chose to wake me up. That was the correct decision to make in this situation.”
Virgil played with his hoodie string. “I don’t know if Roman will agree. He’ll be mad.”
“He might be,” Logan agreed, “but getting a trusted adult involved was still the more responsible choice for both you and him. I am sure you can get him to understand once he’s calmed down. He is likely not thinking rationally at the moment, but perspective will hopefully give him clarity.”
Virgil nodded, but he could still feel guilt eating at him. They drove for probably about 10 minutes before pulling up in front of some house that clearly had a raging party going on inside of it.
Roman was already waiting for them on the front step of the house. Virgil could see him wince even from the car when he realized Virgil was not the one driving.
“Go get him,” Logan urged.
Virgil obeyed, getting out of the car and walking over to him. “Sorry,” was the first thing he said.
“It’s…” Roman said, swallowing. He’d wrapped one arm around his middle and wouldn’t look at Virgil. “Whatever.”
Virgil felt horrible, but at least Roman didn’t fight him on getting into Logan’s car. Virgil chose to get into the backseat with him.
“Are you alright?” Logan asked, once they were settled.
“I’m fine,” Roman said, his voice hollow. He clearly was not fine. His usually immaculate hair was messy and a bit wet. His shoulders were curled in and his arms were still wrapped around his stomach. He also smelled heavily of booze. Logan, however, did not press. He just put the car into drive.
The ride was awkwardly silent for the first few minutes. Roman wouldn’t look at Virgil, and that made a lump grow in Virgil’s throat. He looked at the ground himself.
“I wasn’t drinking,” Roman suddenly broke the silence unprompted. “Someone spilled one on me.”
Virgil saw Logan’s eyes glance back at them in the rearview mirror. “Okay,” he said simply. He was using his gentle voice, but Virgil didn’t know if Roman knew him well enough to realize that.
Roman’s shoulder hunched miserably, and Virgil didn’t know what to do. He chewed on his bottom lip, thinking about what Patton might do, and then reached over with his foot to tap his. Roman glanced over at him, and Virgil sent him a half smile. Roman shot him a quick smile back, and it made the pit of anxiety in Virgil’s stomach ease up a bit. Maybe Roman wouldn’t actually hate him forever. That was good.
When they pulled up to the house, the kitchen light was on, indicating that Patton had not gone straight back to bed and was waiting up for them.
When they walked into the house, Patton came out to meet them. He took one look at Roman and seemed to pick up the something was wrong vibe that was pouring off of him. Of course, Logan had also seemed to pick up on that vibe and he was Logan so it wasn’t really a surprise that Patton did too.
“Hi Roman,” Patton said, infusing his tone with softness.
“Hello Dr. Patton,” Roman replied. He seemed to make an attempt at his normal enthusiasm and missed the mark by a lot.
“I’m going to go make us all a bit of tea,” Patton said, turning to stride back into the kitchen.
“Virgil,” Logan said. “Why don’t you go find something for Roman to change into? If you can’t find anything you think will fit, feel free to search through my closet as well.”
Virgil nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be right back,” he said. He turned to go upstairs, leaving Roman and Logan alone in the front hall together.
Summary: Logan was good at labels, at categories. Logan sorted the citizens of his city into 6 different categories in his mind: heroes, villains, vigilantes, criminals, government authorities, and civilians, and knew how to deal with each. But... but what was he supposed to do with him.
Virgil was just trying to survive, though he didn’t think the part of him that compelled him to throw himself into fights whenever he saw the superhero Bluebird struggling had gotten the memo. His English teacher was right; he really was stupid.
When the villain criminal... when Shadow Caster gets injured while throwing himself into the line of fire for Logan, Logan can’t find it in himself to turn him over to be arrested. Luckily, he knows a doctor very, very well.
Virgil is going to get kidnapped adopted by the end of it.
Notes: Superhero AU, school shootings, guns, gunshot wound, surgery, blood
Me: Superhero AUs are fun, let’s do one of those with parental Logan & Virgil.
Logicality Goblin Brain: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Me: ...
Labels. Logan was good at labels, at categories. He kept every aspect of his life organized from possessions, to documents, to his own mind. Everything had a place. Files in his office were color-coded: dark blue for work, green for personal, red (hidden in a secret compartment) for his extracurriculars, and one light blue binder stuffed under the floorboards that Patton would never, ever see. His email inbox was almost always empty; each correspondence was opened at the earliest opportunity and deleted, dealt with, or regulated to the appropriate subfolder. He kept a strict schedule: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for teaching and dealing with students; Tuesdays and Thursdays for research and meetings; Saturdays for Patton; and Sundays for rest. There were breakfast foods, dinner foods, snacks, and deserts. Though he did on occasion make an exception for putting jams (a breakfast food) in a cookie (a desert); Patton had had to work to convince him of such a thing. People in his life were strangers, acquaintances, or Patton. Acquaintances having the subcategories of co-workers, students, and Patton’s friends and family. Everything, in Logan’s mind, had a place. There was no room for an odds and ends drawer in his life even if he had to practically follow Patton around the house some days to make it so.
So why, why, could Logan not figure this one out?
Logan sorted the citizens of his city (of the world in fact) into 6 different categories in his mind: heroes, villains, vigilantes, criminals, government authorities, and civilians, and knew how to deal with each.
Logan himself was a hero, complete with telekinesis, public support, and a mask that hid his identity. Bludgeon, the man he had just discarded unconscious and tied on the ground was a villain with all of the pomp and dramatics that came with the name even if he didn’t seem to have any powers other than impressive technology and a remarkable accuracy with guns.
…
Guns.
…
The woman who was rushing to collect the villain and the others buzzing around the scene were government authorities, namely, police officers. The couple of teenagers that were currently being thwarted from taking advantage of the chaos to steel a television by said police officers were criminals, separated from villains as they had no long-term goals for societal upheaval or dramatics. They were simply opportunists.
The young woman who bashed in knees and dumped gang members at the police station on Saturday nights was a vigilante, separated from criminals and villains by her intentions and separated from heroes by her means. The old man who’d shot Logan that once was also a vigilante despite Logan’s distaste for him. The new egotistical young man with super strength and a prince costume who’d started showing up to attempt to aid Logan was a blundering idiot hero. The chief of police who’d gotten kidnapped last week and was still recovering in the hospital was a government official; Patton said he was doing well, though he’d only seen him once after the surgery. Patton himself was a civilian, though no less important or skilled in Logan’s eyes.
The child who’d been told to run on strangled breath less than two minutes ago was a civilian too.
It was easy for Logan to take one look at people and put them into boxes, but what on Earth was he supposed to do with the figure bleeding out before him now?
Shadow Caster. When the man had first become known to the public, cloaked in shadows and silent in the night, he’d been branded as a criminal and an effective one at that. His activities often aligned with this classification: robbing banks, stores, and once, a museum. As more of his crimes came to light, the media had started hedging toward calling him a villain, especially with his powers. Then, he and the idiot prince had gotten into a pissing match fight which had ended in the destruction of some public property which was honestly more of the hero’s fault in Logan’s opinion, but the media had leaned into it despite the lack of deaths or injuries by Shadow Caster’s hand. To the contrary, there had been a rumor that he’d saved a couple from a crashed car once on his way back from robbing a bank, though that could have just been someone with a similar disguise.
Logan had honestly not paid him much mind. Whether a criminal or low-level villain, he had been far too harmless to concern Logan. He’d had only a one-page report in Logan’s red files detailing his existence for quite some time. Then, the incident happened.
An active shooter in a local high school. He’d killed every administrator in the front office before they could even send out an alert; the calls had started coming into 911 from panicked student’s cell phones as the shooter worked his way meticulously through the school, spreading carnage and taking hostages.
That is the first time Logan had ever come face to face with the Shadow Caster.
They hadn’t questioned it, hadn’t paused. Logan had been wrapped up in shadows, cool and not quite solid against his skin, hiding him from view and muffling his footsteps. Logan didn’t think he’d have been able to sneak up on the shooter without them, didn’t know how many more bullets would have flown, how many more would be dead, how many more children would be dead. Even with the advantage, the shooter had managed to get off a few shots in the struggle, but he’d been blinded by shadows and only managed to graze three of the hostages.
After that incident, the public opinion of the Shadow Caster shifted bit by bit. He didn’t stop committing crimes, in fact, he didn’t really change his behavior at all, but reporters started looking harder. A few people saved here, a violent criminal stopped there. He helped Logan take down a villain a few times by clearing the area of civilians, so Logan wasn’t distracted. He’d once talked down a boy whose powers had gone haywire when Logan couldn’t get there in time.
Vigilante? The people questioned, but that was wrong too. His crimes were selfish not aimed to help the greater good.
Yet villain? Even criminal? Those tasted like ash in Logan’s mouth.
But what else was he? He was not a civilian certainly and he was definitely not sanctioned by the government.
The only thing left was hero, yet he was not that either. He was not a beacon of good in a mask. He did not go out of his way to help people or patrol. The acts of benevolence were performed on the way to or from his crimes. He acted when he stumbled upon dire situations, but that was not the goal. He was not a hero, but…
But, the people knew, when the worst came to worst, when there were villains who aimed to destroy and maim or natural disasters that threatened to level the city, they could hide behind him and be protected.
Logan knew, when worst came to worst, when his shadows could barely solidify enough to stop one bullet, but there were two bullets in the air, when it seemed he had to choose one or the other, in a split second, his shadows would come up to protect Logan from harm and his body would dive to protect the child.
So, what was Logan supposed to do with him?
In the time it had taken Logan to disarm the villain, Shadow Caster had managed to drag himself away, but he hadn’t gotten too far. Logan had easily found him. He’d left a trail of blood all the way to the small alleyway.
“Don’t,” he spat when he noticed Logan. His hands were covered in blood, one against the wound and one on the ground supporting his weight. “Don’t,” he repeated when Logan moved forward, but there was a shake to it this time. He curled himself around the wound the best he could without hurting himself further and Logan irrationally found himself wondering if he’d always been that small. “Don’t, please, I’m already hurt.” Well that was… distressing.
He crouched down to touch him gently on the shoulder. “It’s just me.” He flinched back at the touch.
“Please don’t,” he rasped, and Logan couldn’t see much of his face with the mask in the way, but he could see his eyes wet with tears and filled with pain and fear. “Please, I… I helped you. Please.”
“And I’m going to help you,” Logan assured him, trying to ignore the uncomfortable squirming sensation in his stomach, before using his powers to maneuver the man into his arms. He wasn’t very heavy, shockingly light in fact, but he shook violently in Logan’s grip. Was it fear or was he cold due to blood loss? There was… a lot of blood, Logan noted, and his fingers were cold when they came up to push weakly at his face.
He had to use his powers to still his struggling, afraid he’d accidentally drop him when he flew otherwise. It was difficult, but eventually he stopped trying to throw himself out of Logan’s arms to the ground below. Not because he’d calmed though. No, he’d lost consciousness.
The clear course of action was to take him to a hospital, but Logan knew if he did that, the man would be arrested as soon as anyone caught wind of it, and they would catch wind of it. That didn’t seem right under the circumstances. So, he took him to the only other place he could think to.
By the time Logan made it home, Patton was already rushing around, gathering supplies with a mask on his face (because he wasn’t stupid). “I saw on the news, put him on the guest bed.” Logan wondered how he’d known he was flying off to bring the man here instead of a hospital, as he realistically should have, but he didn’t ask. Patton probably had known Logan would end up here before Logan had known it himself.
Patton followed him up the stairs with armfuls of packaged bandages. The door to the guest room was already propped open and medical supplies were set out on a steel table that had been rolled into the room. The bed, usually covered with soft, pattern, sheets and a thick homemade quilt was now only covered in a white fitted sheet. There was a box of latex gloves set out on the nightstand and an organized collection of scalpels, clamps, still packaged needles, and vials of medicine laid out in reach. The room already smelled of disinfectant. He’d prepped for surgery.
As Logan set the bleeding man on the bed, he thought that he was likely right to do so. Patton was elbowing him out of the way the moment his hands were out from under Shadow Caster, gloves on his hands already. Patton didn’t hesitate to take scissors to the bloody fabric of the man’s outfit near the wound. Something flickered across his face when he saw the man’s stomach, a bit of Patton Patton slipping past the Doctor Patton countenance, but he determinedly shook it off.
“I’m definitely going to have to operate,” he said sounding unsurprised. He stripped the bloody gloves off and threw them away in a trashcan he’d set up next to the steel table. “Set up an IV, get the heart monitor going, and get the scope ready.” He walked into the bathroom and Logan heard water running. Logan jumped to do as he asked, snapping on gloves himself before moving to insert the IV.
Shadow Caster, unfortunately, woke a few moments after Logan stepped back from hooking up the heart monitor. His eyes flickered and he gave a confused, pained sound. He tried to move, to sit, and Logan quickly pinned him down with his powers. The heart monitor beeped faster, and Logan could feel him try to push back against his powers, not nearly strong enough to get anywhere.
“No,” he said weakly and tried to thrash. Shadows started to shudder and crawl at the edges of the room.
“Give him the morphine,” Patton ordered, lips pressed into a grim line. He was wearing surgical gloves now that went all the way up past the elbows.
The man on the bed was out of it, but he understood enough to struggle even harder at those words. Shadows lashed at Logan’s ankles, drawing blood. He hissed and batted them away with his powers. He grabbed the morphine and probed at the still struggling figure with his powers to get an estimate of his weight (very light for a full-grown man, he noted) before measuring an appropriate dose of medication and inserting it into the IV. His struggles weakened and then stopped. There was a moment pause.
“Lights,” Patton demanded, and Logan flicked his fingers so all of the lights in the room were at full power. “Alright. Let’s go.”
The surgery took a little over an hour. Patton had sent him to go take a shower when he’d finished and Logan had agreed, wanting to get the blood off of himself. This particular super-suit would be going into the fire.
He heard the guest bedroom shower going when he walked by and down the steps to the kitchen. The oven had been turned off and there was a partially cooked pan of lasagna cold on the rack. Logan went to the fridge and grabbed tubs of leftovers. Fridays were usually leftover nights and today was Wednesday. They’d have to figure out something else for that meal.
There was a small whine from the corner of the room and Logan looked over at the dog kennel in the corner. “When Patton gets down Missy,” he told her softly. She whined again.
Logan took what he wanted from the Tupperware and popped the plate into the microwave. While waiting for it to warm, he dished out a few more leftovers onto another plate. He put on an extra enchilada and none of the meatloaf. Then, he filled the kettle with water and set it to boil before putting away the other leftovers.
Logan heard footsteps on the stairs and Missy gave a plaintive bwoof. “Telling on me for not letting you out immediately?” he asked.
Patton chuckled as he entered the room. “Is daddy being mean to you again and not letting you go jump on our guest’s bed?” he cooed, walking over to unlock the kennel. Assumedly, that meant the guest room door was now shut.
“I am not that things daddy,” Logan groused.
Patton picked the mutt up and gave it a kiss on the head. “You love her,” he claimed.
“I do not,” Logan insisted.
“Do too.” He set the dog down and it trotted away directly toward the steps, probably to go sniff at the guest bedroom door.
“I tolerate its presence and feed it, that is all,” Logan informed him.
Patton hummed and walked over to lean against the counter next to him as he swapped out the plates in the microwave. “What about me?” he asked and stole a green bean from Logan’s plate. “Do you tolerate my presence and feed me too?”
“To be fair, you feed me a majority of the time. At least 75% of my meals any given week,” Logan told him, watching the thief’s movements.
“Ah, so you’re the dog then?” He popped the green bean in his mouth and immediately spit it out because it was too hot.
Logan smirked. “That is what you get.”
Patton glowered at him and then shuffled forward to bump his forehead against Logan’s shoulder. Logan raised his arm to allow him to cuddle into his side and wrap his arms around his waist. He clung hard for a few moments before his shoulders relaxed. Then, he tilted his face up expectantly. Logan raised an eyebrow. “Sure, you don’t want to kiss the dog again first?” he asked. Patton pouted at him, and how was he supposed to resist that? He leaned forward to kiss him, turning slightly and letting his hand train up his spine to the back of his neck.
Logan pulled back when the microwave beeped, and Patton made an unhappy sound. “Food,” Logan said.
Patton sighed and drew back to grab his plate from the microwave and pick Logan’s up from the counter. The kettle had turned off once the water boiled and Logan poured hot water over tea bags in two cups. He sat one down in front of Patton and took the other to where his plate already sat.
The dog came back into the kitchen while they ate, giving up on the guest bedroom door for now and settled next to Logan’s feet. He pocked her with his socked foot, and she rolled over onto her back happily so Logan could idly pet her stomach with his toes.
Patton finished first, twirling his fork between his fingers while he waited for Logan to finish, clearly with something on his mind. Logan set his fork down and tilted his head with a raised eyebrow.
“He’s been tortured before,” Patton told him, his voice clinical.
Logan blinked. “What?”
Patton’s fork continued to twirl, and his voice stayed steady, as though he were giving a report. “When I cut off his shirt, there was a lot of blood, but I could see scars too, some cuts and burns all too carefully placed to be an accident or from a life of fighting. I snuck a peak once you’d left and I’d cleaned away most of the blood. They go all the way up and all the way down, carved rather strategically based on nerve endings.”
“That would… explain a few of his mannerisms when I picked him up earlier. He likely fears being in such a vulnerable state if that has happened.”
Patton nodded. “He’s not going to wake happy,” Patton said. “At least one of us will have to be in the room as the drugs wear off. He’ll certainly panic otherwise and overreact, likely exacerbating his injuries.”
He’d probably panic anyway, Logan thought, and panic was if they were lucky. There was every likelihood he’d not only not wake ‘happy,’ but wake homicidal. He sighed. “It’s a good thing I don’t have to teach tomorrow and that you are not on call.”
The fork twirled and twirled between Patton’s fingers.
“Are you going to cry?” Logan asked.
Patton nodded and Logan got to his feet. He kneeled next to his chair and grabbed the fork from his hand to set it down on the table. Patton hiccupped and started to cry. Logan pulled him gently to his chest and let him. By nature, he was very bad at this, but practice had made him better. He rubbed his back with gentle circles and pressed his cheek on the top of his head. Eventually, Missy noticed and trotted over with a whine to scratch at Patton’s legs.
“Hey, Missy girl,” Patton said, sniffling. He reached down to pat her on the head.
Logan picked Patton up from the chair, using his powers to make it a bit easier. He carried him to the couch before letting go of him in midair. He yelped on instinct.
“Stop doing that,” he complained, squirming while suspended in the air.
Logan laid himself down on the couch. “That’s not what you were saying last night,” he reminded mildly and flicked a hand, so Patton rolled over in midair and then settled on Logan’s chest.
Patton rolled his eyes. His face was still puffy, but he’d ceased crying for the moment. He leaned his ear against Logan’s chest. “Maybe he was a superhero once,” Patton suggested, “and then someone did that and he broke and decided being good didn’t matter. That would explain why he does bad things, but still helps people. Because he’s actually a good person. He’s just confused.” Patton had always been sympathetic to Shadow Caster, especially after the school shooting. Even when Logan had still been hesitant, Patton had made up his mind on the matter. He’d had to do surgery on some of the kids that day and if anything got to Patton, it was kids.
“Maybe,” Logan agreed. He hadn’t heard of a hero with shadow powers before he’d shown up. In fact, Logan had never heard of a super with such powers before him. Though it was possible he’d been a newbie below Logan’s radar who’d gotten caught up in more than he could handle too fast. It certainly sounded like a villain origin story.
“Maybe we could help him,” Patton said, biting his lips. “Remy’s boyfriend is a therapist.” Remy was a nurse that worked for Patton who lived mostly on coffee.
Logan hesitated. “Maybe,” he said softly. Patton was an optimist, Logan was not. “I don’t know if he’d accept something like that. I haven’t really gotten a chance to talk to him.”
“Well then you don’t know that he wouldn’t accept it.”
“…that’s true,” Logan said, he brushed Patton’s hair away from his face. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll just have to apply love and affection,” he chirped, propping himself up on Logan’s chest.
“Patton, he’s an adult man,” Logan pointed out.
“So are you and it works on you.”
“Does not,” Logan claimed.
“That’s not what you were saying last night,” he said, sticking out his tongue. Then, he leaned forward to peck him on the lips. “We should probably go clean up the kitchen and get our masks back on.”
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AO3 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Bonus Features
Summary: Logan was good at labels, at categories. Logan sorted the citizens of his city into 6 different categories in his mind: heroes, villains, vigilantes, criminals, government authorities, and civilians, and knew how to deal with each. But… but what was he supposed to do with him.
Virgil was just trying to survive, though he didn’t think the part of him that compelled him to throw himself into fights whenever he saw the superhero Bluebird struggling had gotten the memo. His English teacher was right; he really was stupid.
When the villain criminal… when Shadow Caster gets injured while throwing himself into the line of fire for Logan, Logan can’t find it in himself to turn him over to be arrested. Luckily, he knows a doctor very, very well.
Virgil is going to get kidnapped adopted by the end of it.
Virgil comes to the conclusion that he’s willing to die for any living thing in this house. (So basically they feed him again.)
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Virgil had absolutely no idea what was happening honestly. The last 48 hours had been a wild as fuck ride. At 8am two days ago, he’d been already half asleep in earth science class watching some movie about igneous rocks. Since then, he’d failed another English quiz, gotten shot, gotten operated on by Bluebird’s boyfriend(?) (husband?), slept in Bluebird’s house, and had been told that he wasn’t going to go back to Harry even if the doctor and Bluebird had to kidnap him to make it so. The conviction with which the doctor had made that proclamation had left Virgil speechless. He wasn’t quite sure if he was ready to believe he really wasn’t going to have to go back, but god did he hope he didn’t. If for no other reason than he didn’t want to face whatever punishment he’d get for not only missing school, but also for not going home for two nights in a row.
Last night, they’d fed him a dinner of spaghetti and roasted vegetables and the doctor had brought him strawberry ice cream despite Bluebird’s protests. (“You’re a doctor!” “Exactly. I know more about health than you do.” Cue irate sputtering.) After dinner, the doctor had helped him walk up and down the hallway a few times. He was really sore, but he could get around okay enough which seemed to make the doctor happy. After that, they’d left him alone for a bit, only coming back to check on him a couple of times before going to bed. He totally could have made an escape attempt. Of course, they did say he wasn’t a prisoner, but still. They’d even let him sleep by himself despite knowing he was partially mobile.
Virgil had let curiosity get the better of him a little past midnight and snuck out of the room to see if this was all for real. A glance into the room a few doors down let him know that they did actually fall asleep with him unrestrained in the house. He could have even taken a look at their faces if he was a jerk and brave enough to risk their ire which he certainly was not.
He’d made it down the stairs unhindered and found himself in a really, truly normal house. He’d found a dog, jumped on top of a chair in surprise when it yipped at him, and then pet the dog for about 20 minutes or so. Then, unsure what else to do, he’d gotten himself a glass of water (making sure to clean, dry, and replace the cup) and went back to bed.
Now, he’d just been woken by a knock on the door. “Can I come in?” the doctor’s voice asked.
“It’s your house,” Virgil pointed out.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
He opened the door and gave him a smile. “Can I rebandage your wound?” Virgil nodded and he went off to wash his hands in the bathroom before changing the bandages. “It looks good,” he said, and Virgil had to take his word for it, because it looked pretty shitty to him: red and kinda swollen around the stitches. Then, he handed him a change of clothes he’d brought and left to wait for him in the hallway while he changed.
Once Virgil was finished, he led him down to the kitchen with the promise of breakfast. The dog trotted over expectantly, and Virgil carefully went down to his knees so he could pet it without pulling on his stitches.
“That’s Missy,” the doctor informed him. Missy yapped at him and hopped a couple of times to try to lick his face.
“Hello Missy,” Virgil said seriously. “I would die for you.” He jumped a bit when a hand ruffled his hair, but it was gone after a moment as the doctor walked over to where Bluebird was cooking. His hand got smacked with a rubber spatula as he reached toward a plate of bacon, but it didn’t deter him as he snatched a piece away.
“That’s for the omelets,” Bluebird scolded as the doctor danced away. He tore the strip of bacon in half and offered once piece to Virgil. Virgil took it surprised and had to push Missy away as she lunged, quickly stuffing it in his mouth.
“Thanks,” he said once he’d swallowed. He gave the disappointed pup another pat which seemed to placate her before carefully maneuvering his feet back under him and slowly standing back up.
The doctor had moved to grab cups from a cabinet. “What do you want to drink?” he asked. “Pineapple juice, milk, water, tea?”
He would have said water, but Bluebird mumbled, “please consume the god forsaken juice,” under his breath. The doctor reached over to smack him on the arm.
“What’s wrong with the juice?” Virgil asked.
“Nothing,” the doctor told him. “There was just a sale at Costco.”
“Who needs a dozen gallons of pineapple juice?” Bluebird asked.
The doctor frowned at him. “It was a good deal!”
“I’ll, uh, take the juice,” Virgil said. “Please.”
The doctor smiled at him and poured them each a glass of juice (Bluebird apparently didn’t get a choice about the pineapple juice) and set them around the table while Bluebird flipped the omelet. The doctor then ushered Virgil toward one of the seats at the table. Virgil sat obediently and watched the man go back to the counter to grab a plate stacked high with toast.
“I can help if you want,” he offered.
“Oh, absolutely not,” the doctor chirped. Virgil fidgeted in his seat as butter, peanut butter, and two types of jam were set on the table along with silverware. Bluebird finished the omelet in the meantime and flipped it onto a plate. He set it down in front of Virgil before going back to the stove to work on another one. Virgil blinked down at the omelet. It wasn’t quite restaurant standard, but it leaked a little bit of cheese out of the side and was just slightly browned; it looked fantastic.
“Go ahead,” the doctor said when he didn’t move to eat it. “No need to let it get cold.”
Virgil slowly reached for the fork, cut himself a piece of omelet, and put it in his mouth. The doctor really didn’t seem angry that he was eating so he allowed himself to enjoy the bite and then take another. The doctor leaned forward, and Virgil tensed, but he just grabbed a piece of toast and tossed it onto Virgil’s plate. Wow, Virgil would die for any living thing in this room.
“This is really good,” Virgil said.
“It is one of the few things I can cook well. I sustained myself almost purely on egg dishes through my late teens and early twenties.”
“Mood.”
He turned around. “I…” he looked at the doctor. “am I supposed to know what that means?”
“You’re in your 50s so your probably okay,” the doctor answered.
“Do you know what it means?” Virgil asked.
“For the most part.”
Bluebird finished the second omelet a few minutes later and handed the plate to the doctor before turning back to cook his own. The doctor went about putting jam on his toast and Virgil’s hand itched to shove a piece of toast into his pocket for later while the doctor was distracted and Bluebird had his back turned (it would be so easy), but they’d been too nice to him for him to steal from them. Plus, he didn’t know if they’d be asking for these cloths back soon and he didn’t want to have to deal with the consequences if they found him out. Instead, he drank a sip of the juice (it was actually really good, he didn’t know what Bluebird was complaining about) and worked on finishing his omelet while watching the other occupants of the room.
Missy pranced over to the doctor and pawed at his leg. He glanced over at Bluebird and quickly ripped off a piece of his omelet and fed it to the dog.
“Stop that,” Bluebird whipped around wielding the spatula like a weapon. “Stop feeding that thing from the table!” It was, of course, far too late; the bite of omelet was already halfway to the dog’s stomach.
“She deserves it,” the doctor argued. “She’s a baby.”
“She’s a dog!” He transferred the last omelet to his own plate and turned off the stove before walking over to the table. He bumped into the doctor’s chair on his way by. The doctor tore off a bit of toast and threw it at his back. Missy lunged to gobble up the fallen toast.
Virgil sipped at his juice while watching them eat with interest. They were flirting, he thought, but, like, in a domestic way instead of the way people did at school. He wondered if they were dating or married or what but wasn’t nearly bold enough to ask.
Despite his complaints, Bluebird drank the juice without comment and let the dog lay on his feet while he ate.
“So,” the doctor said when they’d all finished. “We have a plan.”
“Is it a legal plan?” Virgil questioned.
“It is,” Bluebird assured, a hint of amusement coloring his tone.
“You will likely be uncomfortable with parts of the plan,” Bluebird informed him.
“But hear us out because we promise we’ll be careful about everything.”
That sounded suspicious. “Okay…”
“The general idea is, we have a medical professional document your scars and turn them over to the police thereby triggering a criminal investigation and intervention from social services.”
“And you think that will work?” Virgil asked, trying to not sound quite as dubious as he was. That wasn’t a plan. That was expecting the system to do its job which it had already proven itself incapable of doing. Maybe they should just throw a penny in a toilet and make a wish while they flushed it.
“When faced with evidence and your testimony, the appropriate authorities will have no choice but to take action,” Bluebird replied, confident.
“Tell that to my freshman English teacher,” Virgil grumbled.
A hand reached over the table to cover his. “If it doesn’t work,” the doctor said, “we’ll just kidnap you and come up with another plan, but you aren’t going back there. Over my dead body.”
“Which would only happen over my dead body,” Bluebird said dryly.
“Love you too,” the doctor said without looking away from Virgil. Damn. They were actually serious.
“It won’t come to that,” Bluebird said. “The kidnapping or the death.”
“No, it won’t,” the doctor agreed. “There’s a specific nurse we plan to contact about the photos. His name is Remy. He’s really nice and will make sure the police get the right information.”
“He has also proven himself willing to be discrete. We will transfer you into his care so there is a level of protection as to your actions as Shadow Caster from the police.”
“Of course,” the doctor interjected. “That will mean you’re going to have to take off the mask before we meet up with him kiddo and, to the two of us, your secret identity is going to be shot.”
“Yes,” Bluebird agreed and then paused. “Wait,” he turned to the doctor. “Please tell me that wasn’t a pun. That is not an appropriate joke to make in this situation.”
The man in question sipped at his pineapple juice innocently.
“P-Doctor!”
Virgil coughed out a laugh.
Bluebird sighed. “As I was saying, Remy will turn you and the photos over to the police. From there, everything should take care of itself.”
“I’ll make sure it takes care of itself,” the doctor said, voice steely. Virgil wondered exactly who this man was under the mask. What influence did he have that he thought he’d be able to do something as miraculous as make the system do its job?
“This really isn’t just some convoluted trick to get me to reveal my identity so you can arrest me, is it?” Virgil asked.
“Of course not,” Bluebird said. “As you said earlier, we could have just taken off your mask and done a few google searches.”
“Right,” Virgil said. He drank the last of his juice and set the mug on the table. “Yeah. Okay.” Despite the fact that it felt rather silly, his hands still shook as he reached up to take the mask off his face. “My name is Virgil.”
