Emma Duval has been through a lot, and the only person who makes it better is Audrey Jensen. But when others start to question whether or not their relationship is healthy, Emma begins to wonder if they’re right.
Ugh I LOVE Grizz and Sam’s drama because it’s the complete opposite of what you’d expect. Sam isn’t a jock, isn’t the conventional idea of a hot guy people lust over (and yet here Grizz and I are,) and is deaf but he’s still the one who is, from Grizz’s perspective, out of reach and attracting multiple people. Like you’d expect Grizz to be a “fuckboy,” but not Sam. It’s so sad, but so interesting to see the dynamic switched this way.
i don’t think humans are inherently bad i just don’t. once i posted about how i can’t ever get poached eggs right and someone took time out of their day to send me tips on how to make them. they used their finite time on this planet to teach me how to poach an egg with no motivation other than helping a stranger have a better breakfast and if that isn’t proof humanity is worth saving i don’t know what is
Fear is a tool. But Bruce - even under the cowl and cape of Dark Vengeance, Bruce is still a man. When he returns in the wee hours of the morning, there’s an ache in his bones and his eyes are nearly crossed from exhaustion. But they come into sharp focus when he notices what awaits him at his workstation.
A basket, wicker and quaint, with an old beat up metal thermos perched in front of his bank of monitors. It pings something in Bruce’s tired brain and a moment later it registers where he’s seen the basket and thermos before. Dory’s late husband, groundskeeper to the Wayne family for decades before his untimely passing. He remembers the kitchen from his childhood and how she’d pack her husband his lunch and piping hot coffee.
Dory doesn’t spend as much time in the kitchens anymore. That’s your domain now. And he can only imagine where you’d managed to dig such relics out from.
And he knows this is your doing. He doesn’t need to decipher the handwriting on the folded leaf of paper resting atop the fabric cover of the basket. But recognize it he does, the flourish of the simple letter B scrawled on the front and the crisp practically perfect fold sharpened by your nail along the edge.
Bruce is accustomed to, weary of even, cryptic messages and vicious clues. They are part and parcel to his mission. A note from you, however, is almost a relief. Plain and simple, no real hidden meaning to the words written instead of sent through text.
Alfred has ordered breakfast at 7am sharp. I will keep yours warm until 9. After that, you’re on your own.
Your own initial signs the bottom, matching the letter B on the front. Bruce or Batman? You joked once that you weren’t sure which was the man and which the persona. He isn’t always sure either, but the simple initial covers them both and he’s content with the moniker.
Message received, he pulls aside the fabric to reveal just what you’ve provided for him. Front and center is a large bottle of ibuprofen and a haphazard collection of first aid items. Bruce always calls ahead to let Alfred know if he’s been wounded and needs assistance. There was no need tonight, just a few contusions and sore knuckles. But you left these just the same and he appreciates the thought.
The containers inside are lidded tight, but near bursting. Grilled chicken, brown rice, roasted Brussels sprouts, and a salad. Healthy and nutritious. Fuel for the body, as you’d explained. But tucked behind these containers is a chocolate protein bar, a slice of coffee cake, and a small bag of mini marshmallows. Food for the soul.
Bruce turns his attention to the hefty thermos, instinctively testing the weight in his hand as he eyes it. It’s warm, but only just, obviously having set there long enough for the heat to begin diffusing. A few hours maybe? This isn’t a case, but even with a body exhausted to the bone, his brain still whirs with information. It’s hard to turn off, the few times he honestly tries.
There’s no steam when he opens the lid, but still warm just the same. He expects the sharp scent of coffee, but finds something far sweeter. Nostalgic. Hot cocoa. That explains the marshmallows.
There might be a part of him that would balk at something so childish, but that part has long since fallen asleep in his mind. Instead, there is curiosity and parched lips from a hot suit and a cold night’s exertion. He swigs from the thermos and immediately feels his body lurch with the unexpected sharpness of the drink. It’s another moment to register the faintest sickly sting on his tongue. And for probably the first time that evening, his mouth creaks into a smile. Butterscotch Schnapps.
After another sip, he secures the lid again and tucks it into the basket with the rest. Pretention still lies dormant as he moves toward the elevator, black gloves wrapped around the wicker handle. There is just enough time to shower and sleep a few sparse hours before a 9am alarm.
