Baby Dick Grayson as Robin meets the League and they're all gobsmacked at how Batman, who has an emotional range that goes from cynical wet blanket to unstoppable force of nature, has such a seemingly normal and happy kid.
"He must get it from his mom." Green Lantern said, trying to build some kind of rapport. "She approve of you running around beating up bad guys, little man?"
"My mom is dead," Dick replied and Green Lantern paled.
"Oh that's uh--"
"It happened right in front of us." Dick continued conversationally, gesturing to himself and Bruce.
The rest of the League start frantically signalling to Hal without using words, abort! Abort!
To Dick’s everlasting despair, Clark has been camped outside the medbay door for what feels like forever.
Despite a lifetime of knowing the man (even if Clark hasn’t quite figured out that the new vigilante invited to join the Justice League months ago is the same one he used to take flying—mocked and real — when he was a kid, there are moments when Dick loathes Superman’s golden retriever tendencies around Batman.
This is one of those moments.
Bruce—Batman—has been sealed away in the medical wing for hours now, and Clark is standing guard like a silent sentinel in front of the door, unmoving and unrelenting.
And Dick… Well, saying they "get along" would be a generous exaggeration. But they’ve managed to work together this long, even if it’s mostly under the disapproving eyes of their so-called colleagues. That has to count for something, right?
So, yes. He’s worried. Sue him.
He has every right to be. Batman is only human, after all, and having an entire building collapse on top of you isn’t exactly a gentle massage. Dick would know.
And worries while Bruce is undergoing surgery. As competent as the Watchtower’s medical team is, Dick won’t be reassured until he sees Bruce’s heartbeat with his own two eyes.
Which brings him to his problem.
The League may have invited him in, but they invited Nightwing, the new vigilante from Blüdhaven. A blank slate. No prior experience, no attachments. Certainly no ties to one of their founding members—especially the one who treats the term "secret identity" like a sacred vow written in blood.
Which means.
That Clark will absolutely not let him through that door—not while he’s guarding one of his best friends’ most closely kept secrets.
And it’s not like Dick and Bruce meant to hide their relationship from the League. The others just… assumed. And in the beginning, they weren’t in a place to correct them. Then, when things got better, well—it felt too late to bring it up.
Wasn’t that what Dick always wanted anyway? To be seen for his own merit, and not as Batman’s sidekick?
So he let the joke run long. Never imagined it might bite him back one day.
Joke's on him, apparently.
At this point, the only way through is literally forward.
So.
He exhales softly and melts out of the shadows, where he’s been vainly hoping Clark would wander off so he could slip inside unnoticed. His steps are quiet but purposeful as he heads straight toward the sealed medbay door.
Clark startles at his sudden appearance from the corridor, but regains composure quickly.
"Nightwing," he says, polite but firm. "I’m sorry, I can’t let you in."
Dick doesn’t respond. Just places his hand on the scanner. To Clark’s stunned silence, the screen flashes green.
Of course it does. Because Bruce, naturally, gave Dick top-level access to the Watchtower without telling anyone. Dick sighs internally.
Before he can step inside, Clark places a solid palm in the center of his chest. Dick stops himself from flipping him off—barely—only out of sheer patience and a lingering fondness for the alien who used to drop him midair to "teach him reflexes," much to Bruce’s horror.
"I can’t let you in," Clark says. "His secret identity could be—"
"Bruce Wayne."
Clark freezes. His jaw works for a second, then he glances around in panic, as if anyone else would be loitering in this isolated wing. Which, please. Dick is not an amateur.
"What?"
Dick is done. So, so done.
"Bruce. Wayne. Now let me through, Uncle Clark."
Clark blinks, the title hitting like a delayed punch. Realization creeps across his face as he mentally rewinds months of Nightwing and Batman’s smooth coordination, the timeline of Blüdhaven’s new protector's appearance, and the uncanny familiarity that should have triggered something much sooner.
"Rob—"
Dick doesn’t wait. He walks straight through the door and toward the cot where Bruce lies—out of costume, wrapped in heavy bandages, barely conscious.
He pauses, just long enough to wonder how Clark is going to explain this to the other founding members.
Listen to Daffy's playlist: i don't want to be alone
Tags: Robert "Bob" Reynolds, Original Female Character(s), Ava Starr, Yelena Belova, Alexei Shostakov, John Walker, James "Bucky" Barnes, Sam Wilson, Thunderbolts, Bob x Original Female Character, Coping with Grief, OC is an Empath, Another Tower Fic, Watchtower Shenanigans, This is part of a much larger fic I'm writing with my friends, but I'm writing this because I needed to get it out, or I would explode, and then who else would feed you all this tasty Bob content?, Sam is OC's Adoptive Father, Bucky is the Best Uncle, Yelena is a Good Friend
Word Count: 6,360 words
Summary: Daffodil grew up with the Avengers after a past riddled with trauma and tragedy; after Endgame, she's trying to pick up the pieces of her broken heart and rebuild when she meets the Thunderbolts at the insistence of Uncle Bucky. She isn't prepared for how quickly she gets attached to them, nor is she prepared for Bob Reynolds, someone who understands how she feels more than she knows.
Chapter 1: Symphony
Daffodil bets money every time she steps into the communal kitchen that none of the Thunderbolts have eaten a decent meal since they moved into the Watchtower. Of course, she doesn’t exactly blame them with all the shit they’ve gone through.
Yelena and Bob frequent the kitchen for simple meals like spaghetti or hamburgers or chicken alfredo, seeing as they’re the few team members who don’t burn water. The same could not be said for Walker, Ava, or Alexei. Those three set the kitchen on fire every time they so much as glance at the stove, which is probably why they live off of frozen dinners and microwave mac n cheese.
The heavens open up and sing when Uncle Bucky steps up to the oven range. The last time he made peanut butter pie, Daffodil slid to her knees and hugged his legs like he’d hung the sun in the sky.
Only problem? Uncle Bucky rarely cooks in the Watchtower kitchen.
That might explain why when Daffy goes to slice her tomato, she cuts her thumb instead, with a dull blade as the culprit.
“Shit!” She shoves her thumb and the knife under the faucet, muttering curses that would send her father into cardiac arrest.
“Can’t find your way around a knife?” John smirks and tosses his soda in the bin. “We gonna have to start giving you safety scissors to cut your veggies now?”
“I might be able to handle a knife if you freaks would keep them sharpened!” Daffy sticks her tongue out at him. “Don’t any of you ever cook something other than instant mashed potatoes and boxed rice?”
“Come on, it’s not that bad.”
Daffodil quirks a brow and opens the cupboard above the sink. A pitiful little moth flutters from the empty vessel and she swears she hears it crying.
“Look at this! Moth families are in poverty!”
“That’s not my fault! Maybe Mr. Moth should assess his options and switch jobs to better support his family.” He digs through a drawer for the first-aid kit.
“How dare you! Mr. Moth is doing his best.” Daffodil grabs a paper towel and squeezes it around her mutilated thumb. “Careful with that Neosporin. Don’t press too hard.”
“This isn’t my first time, Daffy.”
“That’s what she said.”
“You are impossible.”
Five minutes later, Daffy finds the knife sharpener and transforms a block of sad kitchen cutlery into weapons of war. When she finishes, she returns to her mission of slicing and dicing her tomato.
“What’re you making anyway?” John pokes his head over her shoulder. “Enough to share, I hope?”
Daffodil points to the grocery bags on the counter: ground beef, lettuce, sour cream, cheese, guacamole, hot sauce, and homemade tortilla shells.
“Oh, hell yes.”
The Thunderbolts wander into the kitchen like a litter of hungry puppies as soon as the smell of cooked meat wafts through the halls. Daffy puts Walker on microwave duty with the tortilla shells since it’s the only appliance she trusts him to operate.
“Ah, yes, finally! A good cook is in the house!” Alexei cheers from the lounge. “We will eat well tonight!”
“Who says I’m sharing?” Daffy taunts.
“Are you kidding me? There is always enough to share with your favorite uncle.”
“Yeah, but that still doesn’t explain why you think she’s sharing with you.” Uncle Bucky claps the Russian’s shoulder in passing. “You’ve got enough for me, right, Ducky?”
“You people are animals.” Daffy groans, adding taco seasoning to the beef and leaning back to headbutt her uncle. “But of course you can have some.”
“I will literally drag Ava to the store with me to get more if it means you will share with all of us.” Yelena pleads.
“No worries. There’s plenty. I always buy extra for you guys when I cook here.” She smiles.
Yelena eyes the frying pan and starts gathering toppings to line up across the bar when Daffy switches off the burner. Ava sets up plates and utensils while stealing cubes of tomato.
There is one person unaccounted for and Daffodil represses the question of where he is lest Yelena look at her like she’s on an episode of Bachelorette. Instead, she busies herself with putting the meat in a bowl and setting the grease aside to cool. “Dinner’s ready!”
The Thunderbolts descend upon her taco bar, fighting each other to get a plate as if they’re starving wolves. Walker elbows Yelena, who smacks Alexei, who squeezes in front of Ava. Daffodil vaguely wonders if Valentina feeds the poor heroes.
“Did you make these tortillas yourself?” Ava asks around a dollop of sour cream. “They look homemade.”
“They are. Don’t judge me if they taste bad, it’s only my second time making them.” Daffy chuckles.
“I have never put a bite of your food in my mouth that I could not swallow.” Alexei wraps his arm around her shoulder. “You make good food. Just the right kind of food for a hungry team of heroes.”
“Hungry is right.” Bob’s soft timbre shudders down the hall as he comes into view.
Daffodil hates him.
She hates the way he makes her lips tip up and the stress melt off her shoulders. She hates when he steps closer and her body naturally opens to welcome him in the conversation. She hates how her eyes latch onto his and the world falls away for a breath because his presence hugs all of her broken pieces into a mosaic of hopeful daydreams – daydreams she has been scared to hold onto since her parents died thirteen years ago.
Daffodil hates that Bob loves her so effortlessly, because all she can do is fuck everything up.
“I was starting to worry you might be getting chased by a feral street cat.” She hands Bob a plate and ignores the soft pang of affection he emits every time he gets close.
“That was one time.” He nudges her arm.
Daffodil’s soul stitches itself together when he smiles at her.
“One time is all it takes to worry. That means your chances are statistically higher than the average citizen.” Daffodil chances a glance up at him again, wondering what it would be like to stop holding back – to stop being afraid.
She looks away as soon as his eyes meet hers.
“What are we watching tonight, Dinner Gang?” Ava asks, plopping into her usual spot in the middle of the sofa. “My personal pick is Top Gun.”
“We watched that last time!” Yelena says around a bite of taco. “Holy shit, Daffy, this is delicious.”
“I learned from Uncle Bucky.” She shrugs, shifting the attention away from her and watching everyone’s eyes pop out of their heads.
“So the peanut butter pie wasn’t a fluke?! The man is just Gordon Ramsay and never told us?” Walker scrapes up some lettuce and cheese that fell out of his shell. “You owe us.”
“It’s called following the recipe.” Uncle Bucky grouses, stuffing another bite in his mouth.
“It is an inherited family trait, how wonderful!” Alexei laughs.
“Everyone shut up and figure out what we wanna watch or we’re watching Top Gun again.” Ava whines, but pauses on the remote long enough to give Daffy a thumbs up.
“I vote we watch Sing 2 because I don’t want to be emotionally devastated by Top Gun again.” Daffy proposes.
Somehow the only open seat ends up being beside Bob. Either Yelena conspired with Ava, or maybe the universe just laughs at her every failed attempt to act normal around him.
Daffodil bites the bullet and sits by him and Ava rewards her with Sing 2.
“A kids movie?” Walker pouts.
“It’s actually pretty cute.” Bucky offers for her benefit.
Daffodil munches through two tacos before she can fully relax. Having Bob in her vicinity is a recipe for an accelerated heart rate, which wouldn’t be so bad except she’s aware he can literally hear it.
By the middle of the movie, she scoots a little closer – their sides touch and she forgets how to breathe when his arm hugs her shoulder. Bob’s love suffocates her, wrapping itself around her like a hot towel she desperately wants to clutch tighter.
Daffodil only manages three minutes against his chest before she gets up to collect peoples’ plates.
“Hey, you were the one that made dinner. We can do the dishes.” Yelena scoots forward to stand.
Daffodil shakes her head and her magic stretches out like a rubber band to fill Yelena with the warm comfort of trust. She hates fucking around with Yelena’s feelings, but if she lets herself get lost in a pool of Bob she will drown.
She hates that he makes her feel like it’s worth drowning.
“Oh, it’s alright.” Daffy smiles. “I don’t want you to miss any of the movie, it’s one of my favorites and the good part is coming up.”
Why are you running away? Yelena’s eyes ask.
I’m afraid. Daffy sighs and then ruffles the assassin’s hair before taking her plate. But I’ll try again soon.
“Fine. But next time you’re not getting out of it.”
“Deal.”
Daffodil hums along to the songs echoing into the kitchen and then focuses on pouring the grease into a cup. Once it’s properly stored, she falls into the comfortable rhythm of washing dishes.
Bob pads up behind her and brings sweeping waves of uncertainty with him.
“Let me help?” He asks.
Daffodil cannot tell Bob no.
“Sure. Dry what’s already in the rack, I’m running out of room.”
“Thanks for cooking it.” He grabs a towel and sets to work. “It’s not often we eat so well. I think everyone just gets tired of the long days.”
“No doubt about it. Walker and I checked the cupboards and they were so empty you’ve left moth families in poverty.” She tuts, smiling into the grimy pan as she scrubs. “I’m surprised they haven’t started a rebellion.”
“Moth families?” Bob laughs.
Why does he laugh so easily for her? More importantly, how does she know she’d fight the universe to save that laughter for herself?
“There was a sad little pantry moth that flew out when we opened the door. He didn’t even have any crumbs to take home to his family. What’s he supposed to do in that kind of economy, huh?” Daffodil flicks a few droplets in his direction.
“Hey!” Bob snorts and whips the towel at her shoulder. His expression dampens abruptly and it gets quiet before his next words fall as soft as snowfall, “You know, if you visited more frequently, I’d be glad to go grocery shopping so you have things to cook.”
There it is again. His emotions aren’t just feelings anymore, they’re so intense they talk. Please. They beg. Please stay. I miss you.
When did Bob become so necessary? Right now her ability to breathe hinges on whether or not he’ll tilt his head up to look at her. If he’ll say those words out loud and create a reality out of his screaming emotions.
Instead, his brows furrow and his desires are clouded by prickling concern. “Daffy? You okay?”
She blinks and turns from him in a flush.
“It’s hard to stay here right now.” The words tumble out.
It’s a half-truth. A smoke bomb in the maze of her pain she’s too afraid to traverse in his company.
“...have we done something wrong? Something to make you uncomfortable?”
“No. I love hanging out with you guys. I consider you all my family.” Daffy continues, scrutinizing a speck on a plate she’s well aware is a soap bubble. “This isn’t my first time in the Avengers Tower, though.”
Comprehension dawns on his features.
“You…you knew the Avengers. That’s right. God, I didn’t mean to…shit, I’m so sorry.” Daffodil can taste the shame swimming over his shoulders.
“Don’t.” She shakes her head. “Don’t do that to yourself. You didn’t know. I’d love to visit more, really. But even though the Watchtower isn’t exactly the same, their ghosts are still here.”
How often she’s tried to explain to her father how she can still feel Tony in the renovated lab – residue of his determination and guilt drips down the walls, fading every time she steps inside.
One day she’ll step inside and the last particles of her uncle’s snarky laughter will fail to greet her.
“The training room is the worst.” Her lips tremble.
She hands him the last dish and all but sprints down to the training room in question. He’s right behind her, a quiet but competent companion.
“People don’t realize how much emotion they leave behind in a room. Even softer emotions. They leak into the carpet, hang in the wallpaper, and I’ve even found a few hiding under the bed.” She chuffs, stepping up to an old punching bag and grazing her finger along the worn leather.
A pinch of laughter, a handful of fury, and a swarm of fortitude. All of it belongs to Steve, woven into the bag like a tapestry with Walker’s anger, Alexei’s vitality, and even Yelena’s sorrow. Every day, Steve’s thread frays a little more.
Natasha’s longing saturates the rest of the room, down to the sweat in the old mats. Longing for a better life, for a family, for a home.
“You…feel them all around this place. It’s like they’re still here even though they’re gone.” Bob frowns. “Can’t you turn it off?”
“Even if I could, I’m not sure I’d want to. It’s as comforting as it is painful.” Daffy sighs, plopping on the floor and raking her nails against the hardwood, desperate to unearth another memory.
“Do we make it worse? I mean…do we make it harder to feel them?”
“No. Everyone’s emotions feel different. Like their own unique scent or fingerprint.” She pats the space beside her and Bob sits – his elation punches her in the stomach as she holds his hands. “You, for example. Your uncertainty feels like a tide rolling in, afraid to fully breach the sand. Alexei’s feels like more of a dance, tiptoeing forward and back in rhythm.”
His thumbs graze her skin and he catches her eyes.
“What do your emotions feel like?”
Daffodil breaks.
Her ruddy sculpture of broken pieces totters and tilts.
What do her emotions feel like? Has she ever told anyone? Ever shifted the delicate balance to impress her feelings on another to share? God, it’s all she’s ever wanted. To offer up the desires of her heart to someone she loves and ask them to hold it.
Just for a little bit.
“Hey, I’m here. You can cry – I can handle it.” He whispers, thumbing a tear from her cheek. “I know you must miss them. Let me carry your emotions with you for a while.”
Grief opens its bottomless maw and Bob offers Daffodil the safety of his arms when her cries ring through the Tower.
“They feel…heavy.” She hiccups, clutching the fabric of his shirt.
She wants Tony.
She wants his quippy remarks and hidden snacks throughout the lab. Or sleepless nights when she wandered into his lab with a sleeping bag until the mutterings of his tech jargon lulled her eyes shut. By morning, Tony would still be tinkering away, or she would be tucked back in her bed.
Usually Steve was the culprit, and on the following morning he ate breakfast with her. He always made time for Daffodil – without fail. The mundane would become mesmerizing as he shared tales of the past over a plate of eggs and bacon. Steve was the sole reason Daffy passed American History her sophomore year.
Bruce helped her pass Chemistry. She texted him every day to ask where he was since Thanos – a string of one-sided questions and updates on life that begged him to answer, or at least let her know he wasn’t gone like everyone else. Daffodil always found him on the roof, one of his favorite places to relax. If he felt frustrated about a particular science struggle, she offered her ears to listen while he talked out formulas, offered possible problems in measurements, and Daffodil sat there and listened.
Natasha would have hurt when Bruce left, too. She asked Nat to train with her extensively every day after Ultron, the first time Bruce disappeared, knowing without it being said that she needed a distraction. Daffodil felt Nat’s absence like a lure bobbing atop a stagnant pond, always searching for fish but never finding a catch.
Daffodil added her to the list of people she never got to say goodbye to.
Clint and Thor’s absence hurt even knowing their general whereabouts. It’s worse knowing they’re still around and she still doesn’t see them. What she wouldn’t give to hear another of Thor’s Asgardian drinking songs, or melt into Clint’s arms after a bad day at school.
Every memory, every shared laugh, every tear stain, every snappy quip pours through the Tower as her magic spreads her sentiment out to Bob and the Thunderbolts in the living room.
Shock colors her features as she calms down and a group hug swallows her. Bucky and Alexei sit behind her at Bob’s side, both taking turns rubbing her shoulder. Yelena and Ava take post at her legs, resting their heads on her lap as Yelena hums a lullaby and Ava pats her knee. Then there’s Walker, usually awkward as hell but sitting at Bob’s other side and murmuring soft reassurances.
“We’re here. You don’t have to hold it all alone.”
Daffodil isn’t sure when her body goes limp and her exhausted body succumbs to sleep, but three more words reach her before she submits to the void.
“We love you.”
. . . . .
Daffodil refuses to return to the Watchtower for weeks. It’s not that she fears being weak in front of them – she’s an empath, for heaven’s sake – it’s that she fears belonging.
Half of her family died. She knows they’d want her to move on and make friends and laugh again. She knows they want her to keep fighting and dream new dreams, and forge a new family to bridge the gap in her heart.
So why does it feel like a sin to move on? Why is she so scared to be happy?
“You’ve got that look on your face again, babygirl.” Sam comments over breakfast. “What’s going on in that big brain of yours?”
Daffodil shrugs, knowing her dad is tapping into his VA therapy skills for her benefit but having no idea how to answer him.
But his concern floods her senses and she knows she has to try.
“I still miss them.” She starts, because that’s the easy part. That’s always the easy part. Everything after that gets messy. “I don’t know what to do without them.”
Daffodil knows it’s stupid. It’s been four years. Four years to mend and recover. Four years to move on and find something new to aspire to. Four years of constant distraction so she wouldn’t have to face the influx of regret and guilt and emptiness that plagued her every time she thought about six cold graves in the ground, six empty places at the table.
Six infinity stones that fucked with her universe.
“You don’t have to know.” Sam reaches across the table to squeeze her hand. “You spent years with these people, Daffodil. Years to build your schedule around them and plan for the future. That’s not something you recover from overnight.”
“It’s been four years, Dad.”
“And for all four of them you’ve tried to ignore it.” Sam chuckles whenever her eyes widen. “I notice more than you think. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful you wanted to get an education – and I know Bucky appreciates you helping him get on in Congress – but it was the most obvious display of escapism I’ve ever seen.”
Daffodil goes quiet. Her father knows more than he lets on. And if he does, maybe the others do too. Maybe they won’t hold it against her for maintaining her distance.
“I’ll go visit them today.” She decides at last.
“Good.” He pats her hand one more time and then finishes his breakfast. “I know they’re not going to replace the others, but it’s okay to get close again. Even if it hurts.”
Daffodil grins and hugs her father on the way to put up her plate. With a smirk, she looks at him over her shoulder.
“I’m impressed. Did you borrow Uncle Bucky’s speechwriter?”
“You could say that. I hear we’re a favorite of hers.”
Daffodil finds Asterin draped over the couch when she finally makes it to the Watchtower. Her head snaps up as she raises a finger at Daffy.
“You, ma’am!” Asterin begins. “I have a bone to pick with you!”
Maybe she should have stayed home.
“What did I do? I just stepped off the elevator.” Daffodil scoffs, tossing her bag onto the other end of the couch.
“You had an emotional breakdown without me!” She throws arm across her forehead. “With everyone on the team except me! And there was even a group hug?! The betrayal!”
Daffodil smiles when Asterin peeks out from under her arm with a smirk. It elicits a laugh at the very least, and she tosses a pillow at Asterin’s face.
“It wasn’t planned, I assure you.” Daffodil waves her off. “As it stands, it appears I’ve run everyone off. Where is everybody?”
“On a mission. I got here about thirty minutes too late to go with them; Bucky said they were dealing with clean-up and should be done within the hour.” Asterin leans over the couch and finishes chugging a bottle of Jack Daniels.
“Didn’t take you for a day drinker.”
“Long day. Needed to relax.” Asterin shrugs, before pointing towards the fridge. “Plenty more in the fridge and on the top shelf. I grabbed the alcohol. Bob stocked the pantry on Thursday – he knows you like to cook.”
His thoughtfulness slaps Daffodil in the face despite his absence and she heads to the fridge for a screwdriver and a frozen margarita.
By the time the Thunderbolts return, Astern and Daffodil both belt out lyrics into a brush and a wooden spoon.
“I’m just a man! Who’s trying to go hooome! Even after all the years away from what I’ve known!” They both drag out the lyrics, languid movements dramatizing the moment as Walker drops his shield with a thunk.
“What the hell did we walk into?” He looks between Daffodil and Asterin, both of whom pay no attention to the rag tag team in the midst of their emotional musical display.
“Judging from the bottles, I’d say this is a party I’m sad I missed.” Yelena snorts, grabbing a Buzzball and throwing it back. “Give me a few minutes and then I’ll tag in.”
“Yelena!” Daffodil chirps at the end of the song. She tackles the assassin in a bear hug and rests her head on her shoulder. “I love you guys so much. I missed you.”
“Oh, you’ve definitely been drinking.” Yelena snorts, rubbing Daffodil’s back. “We missed you too.”
“Yay, Drunk Daffy! She’s my favorite.” Asterin giggles, flopping over the side of the couch. “How was the mission, guys? Anyone need the med bay?”
“Standard procedure. Nothing bad. Mostly scrapes and bruises.” Bucky waves the girls off with a bemused grin. “And even if we did, I’m not trusting you with a needle in your current state.”
“I am the vision of sobriety!” Asterin whines as she turns over too far and faceplants onto the carpet. “Fuck.”
“Uncle Bucky!” Daffodil’s next target is her uncle, who chuckles as he pulls her into his arms. “Please don’t be mad at me…”
“Why would I be mad at you, Ducky?” He coos, patting her hair.
“I dunno…” Daffy huffs, closing her eyes briefly to soak up her uncle’s attention. “I didn’t visit you guys for a while…”
“I would never be mad at you for that. If anything, I’m jealous. Have you tried wrangling this circus of monkeys?” He ruffles her hair.
She misses this feeling of normalcy and banter. She misses her happy Avenger family and how no matter who was in the Tower, it was always home. God, she wants the Thunderbolts to feel like home, too.
It’s just too fucking scary.
“Daffodil, this is splendid! You’re so candid this way. We should all drink together more often.” Alexei pours himself a glass of vodka and throws it back.
“I second that!” Ava whoops, dancing to the new playlist Yelena has on in the background.
Daffodil blends into the music and laughs from her belly. Walker hangs out with Bucky and Alexei, the girls all dance while singing at the top of their lungs, and Bob?
Nothing could stop Daffodil when she finally catches sight of him stepping off the elevator.
“Bob, you’re here!”
“Yeah, I was a little late. Oh, hey!” He beams as his arms are suddenly full of her.
Daffodil loves him.
She loves the way his eyes sparkle when he glances her way. She loves the fire crackling in her toes when she sees him, like her feet can’t wait to jump over and get close. She loves how his eyes always travel to her lips like he’s waiting for her to finally, finally tell him that she wants to stay by his side forever because she’s always wanted to – to draw out the words like a ballad only she can sing.
Daffodil loves him so much she wants to be better, to be everything he deserves.
“Asterin said you filled the pantry for me.” She doesn’t even think twice about wrapping her arms around his neck. “That mean you’ll help me cook sometimes?”
“If you want me to.” Bob smiles and cups her hands against his cheeks. “You were in quite a state last I saw you. Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine! Really! Just emotionally constipated.” She promises, stretching her fingers up to play in his hair. The excitement under his skin hums and she giggles. “Your hair is really soft. Mine is too! Wanna feel?”
But before he can answer she’s tugging his hands into her long, curly strands. Daffodil leans into his probing fingers with a sigh, enjoying the scalp massage while it lasts.
“You’re right, very soft.” He shakes his head as she gazes up at him. “We should get you some water.”
“No.” Daffodil refuses, swallowing thickly as his emotions threaten to submerge the Watchtower. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I may lose my nerve.”
“Lose your nerve?”
She kisses him. It’s quick and barely lasts more than a few seconds, but she kisses him.
“Sorry. I, um…” She pulls back with her neck buzzing and glances behind her as she stumbles back. “I can leave you alone now.”
“Wait, come back.”
Bob brushes her cheek and leans back in. He takes his time – he drops his hand to steady her at the hip while he reorients Daffy’s center of gravity. He kisses Daffodil the same way a summer breeze sways against blades of grass.
Delicate, intentional, curious.
He rewrites her genetic code; it’s as if she’s known him since before the world was born. Her hands settle against his chest when they pull back, breaths shallow.
The Thunderbolts sit on the couch opposite of the accent wall hiding them; Walker’s playful jibes creep around the corner, but they remain otherwise oblivious.
All except Uncle Bucky, who stares Bob down from the corner with a glare that promises death. Daffodil sobers up the moment his feed tromp in their direction.
“You break her heart and I’ll break your goddamn neck. Void be damned.” The threat is quiet but assured. When he turns to Daffodil, his expression melts into a lopsided grin. “I won’t tell Sam, but I demand video footage when you finally tell him.”
It’s so antithetical to how Uncle Bucky should react. Nevermind that she’s cursed to doom everyone around her to an early grave, but to have Uncle Bucky believe she’s deserving of someone like Bob?
“Do you think Dad will be disappointed in me?” Her face crumples, her nose twitching. “Do you think he won’t want me anymore when he finds out?”
“He might tease you a bit after he finishes the Obligatory Dad Freak Out.” Uncle Bucky laughs, slacking his stance. “But he will never not want you, Ducky. Of that, I’m certain.” When he hugs her and she cries, he rolls his eyes. “I forget how emotional you get when you drink.”
“You’ve seen her like this before?” Bob clears his throat.
“Are you kidding? Sam and I were the ones to take her out drinking with her friends for her 21st birthday. Asterin and Ned went with us.” Uncle Bucky steps aside to grab a glass of water and hands it to Daffodil, who drinks it obediently. “You think she’s affectionate now? She kept crying over every small thing, things like accidentally bumping elbows with Sam or grabbing Asterin’s fork by mistake. Kept saying, ‘I don’t ever want you to be sad! I just want you to be happy!’”
Daffodil finishes her water just as Uncle Bucky completes his impression of her voice.
“But I do want you to be happy.” She pouts, looking at the floor.
“It’s not a bad thing, Ducky, it’s adorable.”
Thus reassured, she hugs Uncle Bucky’s metal arm and steadies her muddy thoughts with daydreams of cuddling up to Bob. As if reading her mind, Bob’s hand rests at her waist.
“Is it okay if I love him?” She murmurs.
“You asking yourself or me?” Uncle Bucky raises an eyebrow.
Damn him. Damn her uncle and her father for knowing her so well.
“I don’t know anymore.” She groans, before the voice of Patrick Wilson serenades her from the lounge. “They’re watching Phantom of the Opera! It’s my favorite, come on!”
She drags Bob to the last available couch and curls into his side with a blanket draped over her. Yelena smirks in her direction, but Daffodil sings along with the movie, unaware of her friend’s taunting expressions.
Daffodil cries at the end, just like she does every time she watches it, only this time she’s not alone. This time when she cries it is without shame, and Bob pauses every few minutes to dab them away with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
Alexei, Uncle Bucky, and Asterin conspire to torture the Thunderbolts with Sweeney Todd as the next musical movie choice. Halfway through the movie, the alcohol loses its potent grip on Daffy's brain – though, perhaps it’s less sobering up and more of the feeding people human meat pies that does the trick.
A peek up at Bob reveals he’s engrossed in the movie before him, half mixed between horror and fascination, offering Daffodil the perfect time to escape out onto the roof for some air. When she steps out into the cool, autumn wind her shoulders droop and a smile paints her lips. She sits on the edge of the balcony, legs dangling over New York between the safety bar around the edge.
Another set of footsteps pad up to her.
“Running away again?” Yelena asks.
“Not intentionally.” Daffodil chuckles, patting the spot beside her. “Actually, I just needed some air.”
“Sounds like you’re sobering up.” Yelena takes the offered seat and leans her chin on the safety bar as she looks over the city. “You finally going to make a move?”
Daffodil doesn’t say a word, not sure if she wants to tell Yelena about the impromptu kiss earlier.
“Do I deserve to?” She asks instead.
“What do you mean, Daffy?”
“Do I deserve to move on? Why do I deserve to have a normal life when they didn’t live to get that chance?”
Yelena doesn’t need to ask, and Daffodil doesn’t have to explain. Yelena lost Nat, too, after all. Daffy loses her thoughts to the drowning chorus of cars down below.
“Because they died to give us that chance.” Yelena finally says, looking at her with eyes twinkling in the darkness. “And we’d be rude as hell to shit on it.”
Daffodil presses her forehead to the cold metal and lets the sounds of the city suffocate the guilt still pooling in her chest. A strain in her nostrils grows into a dull ache as she struggles not to cry – three times is quite enough for one day, thank you.
“Do you want to see him? See what he was like?” Daffodil asks, pulling her Iron Man necklace from her yellow hoodie.
“Show me.” Yelena nods.
Daffodil turns around and clicks the sides of the little Iron Man helmet. The eyes glow and beams out a hologram of Tony himself onto the floor of the balcony. Tony’s hologram stares dead into her soul, the same way he did on that last, fateful day.
She misses him. It’s like her heart draws in a shuddering breath as he reappears in front of her for the first time in four years, brown hair askew and contrasting the high-end blue blazer resting on his shoulders.
“Everyone wants a happy ending, huh, kiddo?” The cold numb prickling of nostalgia sweeps through Daffodil’s nervous system, swirling into a volatile hurricane as it clashes with the warm longing of being home again. “If you got this message, Dandelion, I’m sorry to say your ending wasn’t quite as joyful as I’d hoped.”
The following sigh as Tony’s hologram steps closer hollows out the rest of Daffodil’s fragile psyche.
“I’ve been where you’ve been, Dandy. No family, alone, no one to rely on but myself. And even if you’re the only one left after the dust settles, I want you to know something.” She doesn’t know how the hologram figures out how to gaze at her with such precision, but he does. “None of this is your fault.” His eyes crinkle with mischievous intent. “Not even the fact that I’ve been calling you the wrong flower for years. It’s not your fault. I don’t doubt there will be hundreds of reasons for you to ask ‘what if,’ but it’s done now. There’s nothing you could do.”
“But there was.” Daffy whispers, hugging herself in an effort to smush together her broken pieces. “You were right there.”
“Knowing your stubborn ass, you don’t believe that for a minute, but I made this message to remind you as many times as you need that it’s not your fault. Don’t beat yourself up, kid. Keep living. Even when it hurts, keep living. Keep doing the things you want to do, even if you’re not sure what they are anymore.”
Yelena hugs Daffodil’s arm and leans against her shoulder. Tony smiles at her one more time.
“You’re part of our family, our home. Always have been. So go kick ass, Dandy. And do it with my fucking seal of approval.”
Round four of tears is inevitable but Daffodil doesn’t care. She tucks the charm back in her hoodie and wails into Yelena’s shoulder with Tony’s dead eyes glowing behind her eyelids.
Daffodil doesn’t know when she fell asleep, but between the copious alcohol in her system and listening to Tony’s message she is not surprised when she wakes up staring at a familiar ceiling inside the Watchtower.
She’s really got to stop falling asleep crying on people.
When she lifts her head, it’s clear Yelena took charge of her sleeping arrangement.
Bob lays beside her snoring in short bursts through his nose – a glance around reveals Uncle Bucky and Asterin on one couch with Walker, Ava, and Yelena splayed across the other.
Alexei’s feet hang on the trio’s couch as he lays belly up, snoring at the ceiling, one hand resting on his stomach.
She grins and decides to make breakfast for everyone, but not before giving herself another look at Bob’s sleepy face. Since no one’s awake, one kiss on his forehead seems innocent enough, and she settles into the kitchen with practiced ease.
Several batches of pancake mix later, everyone stirs from their well-earned slumber. Asterin wakes first with Uncle Bucky, who truthfully probably only pretended to sleep this long for her comfort.
Daffodil giggles when Asterin thunks her head against her shoulder.
“How you doin’ this morning?” She yawns.
“Better than before I fell asleep.” Daffodil confesses. “How about you? Need something to eat? I’m making pancakes.”
“You’re a fucking saint.” Asterin praises, picking up a whole pancake with her hands and chomping into it like a savage. “Shit. Needs syrup and butter.”
As she puts a plate together, Bob creeps up behind Daffodil and she almost paints the ceiling with a half-cooked pancake when his arms circle her waist – she succumbs to the weight of his presence and lets him kiss her cheek.
“Smells good.” He hums, grabbing a towel and swiping a few crumbs from the counter into the trash bin. “Want me to get you something to drink?”
“Orange juice, please.”
Daffodil serves the pancakes just as Walker and Ava stumble in.
“I knew there was a reason we kept you around.” Ava snags a plate and drowns it in syrup. “We’re gonna have to pay you before long.”
“Keep the moths fed and I’ll consider it adequate.”
“Moths?”
Walker snorts in his cup of milk. Bob giggles.
“I feel like I’m missing crucial information.” Asterin pouts around a mouthful of breakfast.
“I’ll explain later.” Daffodil rolls her eyes and finds her seat at the dining table, but not before Bob pulls out her chair for her.
Uncle Bucky smirks and Yelena winks at Daffy as she joins the breakfast squad. Alexei’s snores still echo in the background as white noise.
It’s not Tony. It’s not Tony throwing a napkin across the table or Bruce subtly offering her an extra fry. It’s not Natasha communicating to her entirely through facial expressions or Clint doing trickshots with his leftover food into the trash can. It’s not Thor shattering his mug and crying, “ANOTHER!” or Vision explaining that it is scientifically impossible to have fecal matter for a brain.
More than half the League is betting at any time that they know when it's actually Batman under the mask, or someone else. Unfortunately, they were wrong when:
Dick was doing a phenomenal job of playing Bruce (didn't give himself away even once by smiling), because he fell asleep
Batman stubbed his toe against a table and swore like a sailor which led to cash exchanging hands as several people figured it was Jason, but Bruce had recently switched out of Matches Malone to dress up as Bats and hadn't shaken the Mindset yet
Batman's suit sat weirdly empty at the table and Oliver, annoyed, tried to tell Damian that this was too serious a meeting for Bruce to delegate, but it was Batman, hit with a de-ageing spell and too stubborn to sit out
After sustaining pretty serious injuries, Batman was whiteknuckling the table, in an awful mood, and nobody thought anything of it. Barry offered to help Bruce up (if the pain was keeping him trapped, trying not to insult Batman too much), and Jason tightly replied that if he moved the suit was going to tear.
Clark and Bruce had a bet for how long they could replace Bruce with a mannequin without anyone noticing, and because Clark kept looking over at "Bruce" and giggling (pretty par for the course for them), nobody noticed for five hours.
Thinking of Bruce downing like a sizable amount of pain meds due to tolerance and abnormal levels of pain so he can still function and because he's normally so quiet and now he's buzzed quiet there's no outwardly apparent difference unless you're Alfred or one of his kids or Clark. And while Bruce's favourite thing to do in this state is attend WE board meetings, he occasionally has to head to the Watchtower.
Emergencies sober him up fast, but the second a need for coherency ends he lapses back to mellow. Nobody notices that he's been nodding continuously because Clark keeps subtly coughing or lightly kicking his chair.
Works perfectly until Clark kicks it out and Bruce goes down like a stringless puppet.
HC that Clark has a bed at the Watchtower but he rarely, if ever, makes use of it. He has the Kent farm, his own flat in Metropolis, and the Fortress to crash in, so it mostly goes unused.
But it's still his room, with his things stashed in it, and a frequent place that he, Diana and Bruce take their arguments or planning sessions.
When Bruce's been on the Watchtower too long and needs to pull an overnight shift, or is just there after dealing with a bigger than usual crisis, or even just misses Clark, he'll crash in Clark's room instead of his own.
Purely by accident, Clark clues into this after the same crisis of unusual proportions (Clark did double check that it was indeed his room with spare red trunks in the drawers). The room definitely gets more use after this.
The most common job posting on the Watchtower? Maintenance.
This place is explosion central. Lantern abilities will go off, Amazon-alien sparring gets out of hand, Atlanteans will accidentally drench the controls, someone needs to dig those Batarangs out of the door, hand-shaped dents from Kryptonians, skid marks from speedsters, human-shaped holes in walls from speedsters, doors that came off due to speedsters, dents in the ceiling from the Hawks, exposed wiring due to half-finished repairs/improvements.
All this to say, it's rare the place is entirely put together, and on the rarer occasions that visitors are allowed there's a ninety percent chance of seeing many of the world's best heroes bickering, holding brooms and dustpans.
