#thatcuriouscat

[thisandthatcuriouscat]

Photo references for the Titans Tower scene in “Progress, Not Perfection.”

[fic-recs-ao3]

Puzzles Made of Broken Glass

Stats: Teen and Up; No archive warnings apply; Gen; Batman-- all media types; 95,121 words (so far); 11/17 chapters (so far)

Synopsis:

Sherlock Holmes retreats to his Mind Palace to think, to problem-solve. Superman has his Fortress of Solitude, reportedly. 9-and-five-sixths-year-old Tim Drake has his Blanket Fortress.

Timmy Drake’s parents go missing. He’s the only one who notices.

Review: I love thatcuriouscat with all my heart. This story is still in progress but it is the perfect blend of feral Tim Drake and young Jason Todd. The family shenanigans are off the charts and the mystery is captivating. I also love all the incorporated quotes referencing classic kid detective series!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61490959/chapters/157195609

@thisandthatcuriouscat

[themaidenofwords]

Inspired by this -> fic by thatcuriouscat

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[thisandthatcuriouscat]

Not to alarm anyone but the first chapter of Progress, Not Perfection is off to the draft readers.

[thisandthatcuriouscat]

It is posted!

Progress, Not Perfection

[thisandthatcuriouscat]

Puzzles Made of Broken Glass is now complete! Go check out the last chapter, The Redbreast.

Now I have to get started on the delightful backlog of 500+ comments I need to respond to 😅

[thisandthatcuriouscat]

working on the tail end of chapter 17, the last scene. Have got visitors in from out of town this weekend, but if all goes well, I hope to still have the next chapter of Puzzles Made of Broken Glass up by Sunday night.

[thisandthatcuriouscat]

Chapter 17: The Good Son, of Puzzles Made of Broken Glass should be out next weekend or the week after.

Jason has curled himself up tight, arms around knees, sneakers on the wood of the miniature pew, toes pushed into the very corner and head pressed into the wet fabric of his jeans. The wood is hard and uncomfortable to sit on, and the edges of the metal gripped in his fist are a sharp bite of pain. As far as Jason’s concerned, it’s the least of what he deserves.

Out of the corner of his eye, under his leg, the hospital linoleum floor is painted in watercolors by the light cast by the semi-circular faux stained glass window between Jason’s pew and the other facing it, both jammed into a tiny alcove. Jason’s never been a believer, but it’s the closest thing to privacy to be found anywhere near Wayne Memorial’s emergency surgery wing. 

The last time he’d been anywhere with stained glass and chairs designed for penitence, he’d been keeping another oppressive vigil, waiting for his mother to be done with a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Whatever she’d gotten from it either hadn’t stuck with her, or hadn’t been enough, in the end. The only thing from it that had stuck, for Jason at least, was a quote that had been painted on the hallway wall, which went something like: No greater love than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends.