comment_fic 721-725: Dark Knight Rises, Push, Avengers movieverse, Psych, Political Animals
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Title: Whose is the face in the mask?
Fandom: The Dark Knight Trilogy
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Phantom of the Opera
Warnings: implied bad things happening to children
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 290
Point of view: third
Prompt: any, any, "I didn't grow bitter, I just grew up."
John used to make up stories about Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne was every hero ever, and he saved the world, and he always looked out for the kids everybody else forgot about. Bruce Wayne was Batman, John was sure of it, and he had most of the other kids at the home believing it, too, until Bruce Wayne actually visited one day, a model on his arm.
He was nice, and he was funny, and he was so obviously not Batman - John's still surprised he was the only one to recognize the mask.
John still can't believe no one else has ever seen through it.
.
John knows what his colleagues and superiors believe about him. He's naïve. He's idealistic. He'll be chewed up and spit out by the system that failed him once before.
He smiles at them. He follows orders. He's a good cop, with a bright future. Hell, one day he might even be commissioner, if he doesn't die first.
John is not naïve. He's sure as fuck not idealistic.
No one's looking out for the kids everybody else forgot about. So he will.
.
Bruce Wayne was Batman.
Batman died a hero.
John stands in the cave as it lights up, and he knows no one he used to know will believe this.
.
John used to make up epics about Bruce Wayne.
Now, he's thinking about taking up the cowl. He had dreamed about being a hero, back when he was still waiting for someone to save him.
He saved himself by wearing a mask for so long he became it.
Now's his chance to make it real.
.
No one's looking out for the kids everybody's forgotten about.
So John takes a deep breath and goes to work.
Title: the birds take back their language
Fandom: Push movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Margaret Atwood
Warnings: mild language
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 355
Point of view: third
Prompt: Push, Nick, It hadn't been his fight, but they brought the war to him and now he was in it to win.
Those first few weeks after escaping, he doesn't sleep. Doesn't do much of anything but run and hide and make up plans on the go, so no one can track or trace or trap him.
Cassie stays with him; everyone else scatters.
Those first few weeks, he survives.
.
He survives. But that's not enough.
He's angry. He's terrified.
He's determined.
Fuck them all, he's not going to hide and shrivel up and die. Not for them. Not for the monsters masquerading as heroes.
He looks at Cassie, curled up around her sketchbook, exhausted no way a kid should be.
He looks at his hands - hands that have never been particularly good or gifted. Hands that are scarred because he hasn't had an easy life. Hands that, for the longest time, were weak.
He curls his hands into fists and thinks, Fuck them all, they haven't beaten me.
.
He's been running his whole life. He's barely begun to fight. He's never applied himself to anything except getting as far away as he can as fast as he can.
But now…
Cassie wakes up with a shriek, throwing herself off the bed. Nick reaches for her without thinking and gently deposits her back on the bed, all without moving a muscle.
"We have to go!" Cassie says.
They haven't unpacked, so they're gone in under a minute.
.
Nick's anger thrums through him. And his fear. He can't let Division get Cassie. He'll kill them all if he has to.
He'll kill them all.
He's been running from them his whole life, barely surviving, scrapping by with the barest knowledge and use of his power.
They should have left him there.
.
Cassie shows him her latest sketch while they're on the third bus out of town: a puddle of blood and a haphazard hand.
"Where's the rest of the body?" he asks softly.
She shrugs. "You tore 'im apart."
Nick chuckles and settles back into the seat with grin.
.
He's done surviving, running, and hiding. That's no way to win a war.
And this is a war he's going to win.
He's too angry to accept anything less.
Title: You know what lies are for
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Sylvia Plath
Warnings: post-film
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 420
Point of view: third
Prompt: The Avengers, Loki, "All of this was a test to see if you are ready."
You are no king, my brother, the wind murmurs, as Thor walks to the Bifrost, still yet shattered.
Loki escaped, of course. And while a few might mutter that the prince let the traitorous criminal go too easily, none are so brave as to say it to Thor's face - or in the king's hearing, or in the queen's halls.
Loki escaped. For that, Thor is glad, though he knows better than to utter that truth aloud.
You are no king, my brother, the wind murmurs, and Thor knows Loki has not gone far. Will never go far, save when he falls through the void and into madness. Into someone else's cold, torturous grasp.
You are weak, and malleable, and so blind to inescapable facts, the wind hisses, and Thor tilts his head to the side, so as to listen better.
Thor smiles, ignoring Heimdallr and the abyss where a bridge should reside, and he thinks, For all that, you still call me brother.
He has thought about asking Father what the plan was, if he had known, why he let it go so far - but Loki's hands trembled in the bindings, and his eyes were shadowed by the muzzle, and Thor knows the stories the humans have told about his family. None were true, and he would not see them become so, for Father's rage was great.
Thor could not be sure what Loki's punishment might be, and he was even less sure what he should be punished for, and so he loosened the bindings and looked away.
You are no king, the wind murmurs again. No king should leave so great an enemy alive and unfettered.
Thor thinks, turning away from Heimdallr and starting towards the stable, You have never truly wanted me dead. Am I your enemy?
Sleipnir is racing around the pasture, and he trumpets a greeting at Thor, and Thor has never asked where his father found such a horse - but Loki had been gone for nearly a year when he and the horse returned within days of each other. Could one of the humans' legends be true?
You are not my enemy, the wind murmurs, and Sleipnir tosses his head up, mane dancing in the breeze, before he prances over. My brother, Loki whispers. Until you are king, you are not my enemy.
Thor can work with that, so he pats Sleipnir on the shoulder and says, "Are you my nephew, great horse?"
Sleipnir does not answer, and the wind does not speak again.
Title: all the trembling bells of you were mine
Fandom: Psych
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton
Warnings: mentions of violence; depressing stuff
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 185
Point of view: third
Prompt: any, any, here's to the night we felt alive
Gus sleeps in the chair next to Shawn's bed for the six weeks it takes Shawn to wake up. Henry visits every day, Jules every other, and Lassiter once.
Gus reads novels aloud, and magazines, and the phone book. He talks about the movies they'll need to see, and the job he doesn't mention he's lost because of the weeks he's missed, and comic plotlines he doesn't agree with.
Gus eats in the cafeteria, or the food Henry and Jules bring, and changes into the clothes Henry drops off every week, and he doesn't leave the hospital. He knows that if he does, Shawn will never wake up.
Gus has worried about Shawn for most of their lives. Shawn is reckless, and so courageous - he's the best man Gas has ever met, even though Shawn won't ever believe that.
Gus gave his statement to Lassiter, and Lassiter promised to catch the man who beat Shawn into a coma.
Gus should've been there.
Gus wasn't.
Gus sleeps in the chair next to Shawn's bed for six weeks, and he's the first thing Shawn sees when he wakes up.
Title: I've lived in this place and I know all the faces
Fandom: Political Animals
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from "I'm Movin' On" by Rascal Flatts.
Warnings: drug addiction/abuse; mentions of failed suicide attempts; mild language
Pairings: mentions of TJ/Sean Reeves
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 645
Point of view: third
Prompt: Political Animals, TJ, Scared and alone
He's not - it's not like he doesn't think about being the good son, and he knows he could be doing something, and he does, he really fucking does miss the piano sometimes, and how it felt to make beautiful music and know it was coming from somewhere inside him, somewhere pure, somewhere golden -
His father was President of the United States. His mother is the most powerful woman in the world, and pretty soon she'll be the most powerful person, full-stop. His brother will probably one day be a POTUS, too, and he already gets shit done.
But TJ - Thomas, Tommy, the fuck-up black-sheep, he's nothing. He fucks up and he's fucked up, and he's never dreamed as big as his family.
He plays the piano sometimes, and misses the days before the White House. He was a governor's son, then, but no one cares about a governor's children. Back then, no one knew his name.
He'd like to get clean, really he would. He'd like to make promises and know he could keep them, know his family trusted him. He'd like to turn to his brother and let Dougie handle all his shit, too, but he can't - he can't keep doing that to his brother. Dougie would die still trying to take care of TJ, and if either of them should die, it's TJ.
Fuck, but TJ misses Sean so much it burns. Twice he tried to kill himself because of that man, because he knew he wasn't good enough for Sean, wasn't wholesome enough, wasn't fucking female enough. He'd been so happy. The world had been so bright, brighter than any coke ever made it.
He plays the piano in his mother's house, eighteen days clean (again) and he wants to let his mother hold him, let his brother hold him, even curl up in his dad's arms or with Grandma on the couch - but he's fucked up too much. They don't trust him, and he doesn't trust himself, and if he stays in this fucking city, he'll never be able to be anyone else.
He daydreams about being the good son, the bright one, responsible and respectable, trusted. He wants to be trusted. Trustworthy.
His hands tremble on the keys, but the music never wavers.
TJ closes his eyes and lets the music take him where it wants, and it wells up inside him, beautiful and golden, like everything he's not anymore.
He can't - he wants to fall into someone's arms and know everything will be okay.
He can't stay in DC anymore.
Mom's about to run for president again, and TJ just can't -
TJ can't.
He wants to live, and he can't do that here, where everyone's watching and waiting for his next fuck-up.
He doesn't know how to say goodbye, and if he just vanishes Mom will tear apart the world looking, and it'll hurt them all, he knows that, but it'll hurt him more. A good hurt, maybe. A clean hurt. The ache that means healing.
His fingers still and the music stops and if he's going to do this, he's got to do it now.
"Deep breath, Tommy," he whispers to that kid in the governor's mansion, back when he was still young enough to be golden.
He opens his eyes, pushes back the bench, and stands.
He'll never be the good son if he stays here. He'll never get clean, he'll never move on, he'll never be happy in this fucking fishbowl of a town where everyone knows his name, and everyone knows every move he makes.
TJ doesn't know how to say goodbye, but he walks away from the piano and knows that he has to. Knows that he will.
He holds his head high and goes to the stairs, because Mom and Grandma are home, and he has to say goodbye.
.
.
Title: Whose is the face in the mask?
Fandom: The Dark Knight Trilogy
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Phantom of the Opera
Warnings: implied bad things happening to children
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 290
Point of view: third
Prompt: any, any, "I didn't grow bitter, I just grew up."
John used to make up stories about Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne was every hero ever, and he saved the world, and he always looked out for the kids everybody else forgot about. Bruce Wayne was Batman, John was sure of it, and he had most of the other kids at the home believing it, too, until Bruce Wayne actually visited one day, a model on his arm.
He was nice, and he was funny, and he was so obviously not Batman - John's still surprised he was the only one to recognize the mask.
John still can't believe no one else has ever seen through it.
.
John knows what his colleagues and superiors believe about him. He's naïve. He's idealistic. He'll be chewed up and spit out by the system that failed him once before.
He smiles at them. He follows orders. He's a good cop, with a bright future. Hell, one day he might even be commissioner, if he doesn't die first.
John is not naïve. He's sure as fuck not idealistic.
No one's looking out for the kids everybody else forgot about. So he will.
.
Bruce Wayne was Batman.
Batman died a hero.
John stands in the cave as it lights up, and he knows no one he used to know will believe this.
.
John used to make up epics about Bruce Wayne.
Now, he's thinking about taking up the cowl. He had dreamed about being a hero, back when he was still waiting for someone to save him.
He saved himself by wearing a mask for so long he became it.
Now's his chance to make it real.
.
No one's looking out for the kids everybody's forgotten about.
So John takes a deep breath and goes to work.
Title: the birds take back their language
Fandom: Push movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Margaret Atwood
Warnings: mild language
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 355
Point of view: third
Prompt: Push, Nick, It hadn't been his fight, but they brought the war to him and now he was in it to win.
Those first few weeks after escaping, he doesn't sleep. Doesn't do much of anything but run and hide and make up plans on the go, so no one can track or trace or trap him.
Cassie stays with him; everyone else scatters.
Those first few weeks, he survives.
.
He survives. But that's not enough.
He's angry. He's terrified.
He's determined.
Fuck them all, he's not going to hide and shrivel up and die. Not for them. Not for the monsters masquerading as heroes.
He looks at Cassie, curled up around her sketchbook, exhausted no way a kid should be.
He looks at his hands - hands that have never been particularly good or gifted. Hands that are scarred because he hasn't had an easy life. Hands that, for the longest time, were weak.
He curls his hands into fists and thinks, Fuck them all, they haven't beaten me.
.
He's been running his whole life. He's barely begun to fight. He's never applied himself to anything except getting as far away as he can as fast as he can.
But now…
Cassie wakes up with a shriek, throwing herself off the bed. Nick reaches for her without thinking and gently deposits her back on the bed, all without moving a muscle.
"We have to go!" Cassie says.
They haven't unpacked, so they're gone in under a minute.
.
Nick's anger thrums through him. And his fear. He can't let Division get Cassie. He'll kill them all if he has to.
He'll kill them all.
He's been running from them his whole life, barely surviving, scrapping by with the barest knowledge and use of his power.
They should have left him there.
.
Cassie shows him her latest sketch while they're on the third bus out of town: a puddle of blood and a haphazard hand.
"Where's the rest of the body?" he asks softly.
She shrugs. "You tore 'im apart."
Nick chuckles and settles back into the seat with grin.
.
He's done surviving, running, and hiding. That's no way to win a war.
And this is a war he's going to win.
He's too angry to accept anything less.
Title: You know what lies are for
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Sylvia Plath
Warnings: post-film
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 420
Point of view: third
Prompt: The Avengers, Loki, "All of this was a test to see if you are ready."
You are no king, my brother, the wind murmurs, as Thor walks to the Bifrost, still yet shattered.
Loki escaped, of course. And while a few might mutter that the prince let the traitorous criminal go too easily, none are so brave as to say it to Thor's face - or in the king's hearing, or in the queen's halls.
Loki escaped. For that, Thor is glad, though he knows better than to utter that truth aloud.
You are no king, my brother, the wind murmurs, and Thor knows Loki has not gone far. Will never go far, save when he falls through the void and into madness. Into someone else's cold, torturous grasp.
You are weak, and malleable, and so blind to inescapable facts, the wind hisses, and Thor tilts his head to the side, so as to listen better.
Thor smiles, ignoring Heimdallr and the abyss where a bridge should reside, and he thinks, For all that, you still call me brother.
He has thought about asking Father what the plan was, if he had known, why he let it go so far - but Loki's hands trembled in the bindings, and his eyes were shadowed by the muzzle, and Thor knows the stories the humans have told about his family. None were true, and he would not see them become so, for Father's rage was great.
Thor could not be sure what Loki's punishment might be, and he was even less sure what he should be punished for, and so he loosened the bindings and looked away.
You are no king, the wind murmurs again. No king should leave so great an enemy alive and unfettered.
Thor thinks, turning away from Heimdallr and starting towards the stable, You have never truly wanted me dead. Am I your enemy?
Sleipnir is racing around the pasture, and he trumpets a greeting at Thor, and Thor has never asked where his father found such a horse - but Loki had been gone for nearly a year when he and the horse returned within days of each other. Could one of the humans' legends be true?
You are not my enemy, the wind murmurs, and Sleipnir tosses his head up, mane dancing in the breeze, before he prances over. My brother, Loki whispers. Until you are king, you are not my enemy.
Thor can work with that, so he pats Sleipnir on the shoulder and says, "Are you my nephew, great horse?"
Sleipnir does not answer, and the wind does not speak again.
Title: all the trembling bells of you were mine
Fandom: Psych
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton
Warnings: mentions of violence; depressing stuff
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 185
Point of view: third
Prompt: any, any, here's to the night we felt alive
Gus sleeps in the chair next to Shawn's bed for the six weeks it takes Shawn to wake up. Henry visits every day, Jules every other, and Lassiter once.
Gus reads novels aloud, and magazines, and the phone book. He talks about the movies they'll need to see, and the job he doesn't mention he's lost because of the weeks he's missed, and comic plotlines he doesn't agree with.
Gus eats in the cafeteria, or the food Henry and Jules bring, and changes into the clothes Henry drops off every week, and he doesn't leave the hospital. He knows that if he does, Shawn will never wake up.
Gus has worried about Shawn for most of their lives. Shawn is reckless, and so courageous - he's the best man Gas has ever met, even though Shawn won't ever believe that.
Gus gave his statement to Lassiter, and Lassiter promised to catch the man who beat Shawn into a coma.
Gus should've been there.
Gus wasn't.
Gus sleeps in the chair next to Shawn's bed for six weeks, and he's the first thing Shawn sees when he wakes up.
Title: I've lived in this place and I know all the faces
Fandom: Political Animals
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from "I'm Movin' On" by Rascal Flatts.
Warnings: drug addiction/abuse; mentions of failed suicide attempts; mild language
Pairings: mentions of TJ/Sean Reeves
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 645
Point of view: third
Prompt: Political Animals, TJ, Scared and alone
He's not - it's not like he doesn't think about being the good son, and he knows he could be doing something, and he does, he really fucking does miss the piano sometimes, and how it felt to make beautiful music and know it was coming from somewhere inside him, somewhere pure, somewhere golden -
His father was President of the United States. His mother is the most powerful woman in the world, and pretty soon she'll be the most powerful person, full-stop. His brother will probably one day be a POTUS, too, and he already gets shit done.
But TJ - Thomas, Tommy, the fuck-up black-sheep, he's nothing. He fucks up and he's fucked up, and he's never dreamed as big as his family.
He plays the piano sometimes, and misses the days before the White House. He was a governor's son, then, but no one cares about a governor's children. Back then, no one knew his name.
He'd like to get clean, really he would. He'd like to make promises and know he could keep them, know his family trusted him. He'd like to turn to his brother and let Dougie handle all his shit, too, but he can't - he can't keep doing that to his brother. Dougie would die still trying to take care of TJ, and if either of them should die, it's TJ.
Fuck, but TJ misses Sean so much it burns. Twice he tried to kill himself because of that man, because he knew he wasn't good enough for Sean, wasn't wholesome enough, wasn't fucking female enough. He'd been so happy. The world had been so bright, brighter than any coke ever made it.
He plays the piano in his mother's house, eighteen days clean (again) and he wants to let his mother hold him, let his brother hold him, even curl up in his dad's arms or with Grandma on the couch - but he's fucked up too much. They don't trust him, and he doesn't trust himself, and if he stays in this fucking city, he'll never be able to be anyone else.
He daydreams about being the good son, the bright one, responsible and respectable, trusted. He wants to be trusted. Trustworthy.
His hands tremble on the keys, but the music never wavers.
TJ closes his eyes and lets the music take him where it wants, and it wells up inside him, beautiful and golden, like everything he's not anymore.
He can't - he wants to fall into someone's arms and know everything will be okay.
He can't stay in DC anymore.
Mom's about to run for president again, and TJ just can't -
TJ can't.
He wants to live, and he can't do that here, where everyone's watching and waiting for his next fuck-up.
He doesn't know how to say goodbye, and if he just vanishes Mom will tear apart the world looking, and it'll hurt them all, he knows that, but it'll hurt him more. A good hurt, maybe. A clean hurt. The ache that means healing.
His fingers still and the music stops and if he's going to do this, he's got to do it now.
"Deep breath, Tommy," he whispers to that kid in the governor's mansion, back when he was still young enough to be golden.
He opens his eyes, pushes back the bench, and stands.
He'll never be the good son if he stays here. He'll never get clean, he'll never move on, he'll never be happy in this fucking fishbowl of a town where everyone knows his name, and everyone knows every move he makes.
TJ doesn't know how to say goodbye, but he walks away from the piano and knows that he has to. Knows that he will.
He holds his head high and goes to the stairs, because Mom and Grandma are home, and he has to say goodbye.