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tigriswolf.
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Title: I learned how to love and I learned how to lie
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: mentions of child abuse; possibly AU backstory & a darkish characterization for Clint
Pairings: Loki/Clint
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 740
Point of view: third
Prompt: author's choice, author's choice, Nice just gets you lonely or dead. I don't like those options.
Clint Barton was a quiet child with watchful, wary eyes. He hid a lot. He kept his mouth shut and he watched, and he learned.
When his parents died and his brother took his hand and whispered we have to run or we'll never see each other again, Clint, c'mon, please come with me, Clint followed him into the night.
Barney got them into the circus. It was just somewhere else to keep his head down, and it reinforced his lesson that ducking only leads to harsher beatings. But in the circus, Clint wasn't useless – Duquesne and Buck taught him, and he became a headliner, and it was better, everything was so much better…
But Barney wasn't as good, and didn't learn as well, and Clint just couldn't duck. And Duquesne turned on him, and Buck, and when Barney left this time, he didn't take Clint's hand and ask him to come.
Clint Barton spent a month in the hospital, silent and still. He thought about letting himself fade away. He thought about all the lessons he'd learned.
He thought about how the bow sang to him, how arrows obeyed him. He thought about doing the right thing, about doing the easy thing, about rolling over and dying, and then he thought, Fuck that noise, I'll go out with a bang if I go at all.
So Clint Barton enlisted when he got of the hospital and honed his marksman ability to beyond impossible, and he started talking. He talked a lot. Because being silent and keeping his head down got him nowhere. He still learned – the greatest lesson was how much more fun it was shoot a living thing than a static target. That… probably wasn't the lesson he was supposed to get, but he learned it pretty goddamned well, anyway.
When the army turned like everyone else he'd ever known, Clint took his bow and his quiver, and flushed his morals down the toilet. He figured Duquesne and Buck would get a kick out of him becoming a killer-for-hire, but he didn't let that stop him.
And then SHIELD happened. SHIELD, trying to keep the world safe as the bad guys got ever badder, and the weapons other-worldly, and Clint kept on snarking, and killing whoever he was told to kill, and turning world-class assassins to the side of the angels (which, yeah… there's so much irony there, and probably only three people in the world have the clearance to see it).
He won't say Loki opened his eyes. His eyes have been open since he was three years old and broke his first bone (his first bone was broken). No, Loki didn't open his eyes.
But Loki did show him how goddamned bored he'd become. And when Fury told them to lay low in the aftermath of Manhattan, maybe Tasha could guess what would happen, but she was off somewhere else, and Clint didn't linger to say goodbye.
He'd been watching. He'd learned a lot.
And when Loki came back (which he would, of course he would, all he wanted was Thor's attention, and Thor had chosen Earth), well. Loki was the first new thing in a long time.
Clint left everything SHIELD gave him behind and vanished in the middle of the day. He'd lay low for awhile, until Thor's pissed off little brother came back to break his brother's newest toys.
It was time to be quiet again, to hide, to be watchful and wary. To keep his head down and wait for the right moment.
He could do that. It was the first lesson he'd ever learned, staring up at his father and choking on tears. It was the basis for everything else.
Stand still, close your eyes, survive.
So Clint went to ground, watched the news – and waited.
He didn't wait for long, and he laughed when Loki appeared in his kitchen, and he made the mad god a pot of tea, and he smiled while Loki stared at him, all gobsmacked and righteous indignation.
And maybe it was 'wrong,' whatever the fuck wrong was. But it was the most fun he'd had since his first taste of killing.
If this is trick, Loki said, all cold and remote. Dangerous. The most dangerous thing Clint had ever touched.
It's not, Clint assured him, and for the moment, that was true.
All Clint could promise was the moment, and Loki nodded, and that was that.
Title: just one part of some big plan
Fandom: Highlander/Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: very epic backstory I don't go into – but Methos is primordial. Like, older than every planet in existence primordial. Also, future!fic for both fandoms.
Pairings: Methos/Clint, Thor/Jane
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 785
Point of view: third
Prompt: Author's choice, Author's choice, "this dude just showed up to the party with a falcon"
It's not funny, not really, but Ben can't keep from smirking because he's the only one in the room (maybe even the world) to get the joke.
Tony Stark's parties are always wild. That's just a rule, now. Gravity works, Doom's plans fail, and Stark throws the best parties.
(Gravity doesn't always work, actually, but Ben knows humanity is still too young to learn that lesson. Doom's plans do fail because for all his genius, he's a moron. And Stark? He wants the world to hate him just as much as it loves him, and he succeeds at that every day.)
"Dr. Piers!" Jane Foster says. "I wasn't sure you'd make it." She's grinning, arms wrapped around her boyfriend's gigantic arm, hanging off him. She has no alcohol tolerance at all, clearly. It's quite endearing.
"I've asked you to call me Ben," he laughs, with a quick glance at the boyfriend.
Thor Odinson. Alien god-prince. Wielder of Mjölnir.
That hammer is still one of his greatest triumphs. He can hear its siren call from Thor's bedroom, where he assumes Jane made him leave it. Instead of answering, he raises his hand to his shoulder, stroking the bird there.
Jane doesn't notice; Thor does. He eyes the bird warily. "I've yet to see one so well-trained on Midgard," he says.
Ben smirks, for just a moment, but Thor has eyes only for the bird. "I've had him since he was a fledgling," Ben tells him, and it's not a lie. "Don't worry, Mr. Odinson," Ben assures him, linking his hands behind his back. "He'll only attack if I order him, and this is a party, right? I'm just here for fun. I didn't want to go all the way home just to drop him off."
Thor is still frowning, but Jane shouts, "I see Darcy! C'mon, Thor, I have to tell her about our breakthrough!" To Ben she says, "I didn't think you'd leave the office. I'm so glad you did!" She lets go of Thor to throw her arms around Ben and give him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Then she drags Thor off to speak with the delightful Ms. Lewis, and Ben watches them go, gaze on the Son of Odin and smile full of teeth.
Oh, poor little prince. He really has no idea.
Ben slouches his way further into the party. A few of his colleagues greet him and chat for a little while, but they don't acknowledge the bird on his shoulder. Ben stays for almost an hour, never getting closer to any of the Avengers than he'd been to Thor.
He leaves without saying goodbye and waits until he's ten blocks from Stark Tower before touching the bird and saying, "Alright, my raptor."
The bird lunges from his shoulder, snapping his wings and landing in a crouch, the Avengers' pet marksman again. He rises with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, asking, "Well?"
Ben laughs and grabs him, pulling him in for a kiss full of teeth and blood, and when he finally lets go, Clint licks his lips, still smirking. "It's not time yet," Ben says, swinging one arm across Clint's shoulders. "Soon, though. You'll know when."
Clint nods, tucking one of his hands into Ben's pocket as they continue walking. "Let me guess," he says. "When the kid comes back, even more broken and pissed off?"
Ben just laughs again. This has been the longest game he's played since – oh, since Heimdallr took over the gate. He doubts Odin even remembers him anymore.
(Mjölnir is singing. Excalibur hums beneath the water. The cube cries for him.
And a mad god is plotting in a cell, every last grief and slight only leading him further into Methos' web.)
"Come, Raptor," Methos whispers into his first creation's ear. "Let's go home. You've gotta get back to work tomorrow."
Raptor presses a brief kiss to the side of his head and settles into his grip, completely pliant as Methos leads the way to his current apartment.
As far as SHIELD and the Avengers know, Hawkeye is on assignment.
As far as SHIELD knows, Dr. Ben Piers is an astrophysicist, just another member of their army of lab coats.
It's not funny, really, the role Raptor has been playing for thirty-five years, ever since two little boys ran away to the circus. (Barney Barton is a ghost. He died on a job gone wrong, was buried in an unmarked grave. Barney Barton was an only child. Two people know that.)
It's not funny, really, that Raptor's called Hawkeye.
Okay, it's pretty funny, and Ben can't help grinning.
(Death isn't above vengeance, you know. And Odin may not remember… but Death does.)
Title: misery has joined in equal ruin
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Milton
Warnings: almost immediately post-film
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 185
Point of view: third
Prompt: Avengers, Tony/Loki, I'm sorry if your life is a sore subject
Okay, so Tony knows from complexes and neuroses, right? Right, of course he does. Textbooks have been written about his numerous and exponentially growing problems (thanks, Howard, and childhood geniusness, and these things called tact and self-control that Tony never bothered to learn).
Anyway. Tony never had time for mythology. Who cares about legends when he's making his own? Right? Right.
Then a hammer fell into the desert and a crazy guy with a glowstick of destiny tried to take over the world.
After his shwarma coma passed, and Bruce was all settled in the Tower, Tony dove into Norse mythology and didn't come out for three days. And Tony's sure most of it's just humans being the bloodthirsty little monsters he's familiar with, but… damn.
He wonders what stories people will tell about him in a thousand years, and lets his Pad clatter on the table.
If he remembers, he'll ask Thor how much happened, if any of it. If Thor even comes back. But Bruce slouches into the lab, and there's science to do, and Tony's got enough problems of his own.
Title: If that is what it means to be blessed, well, I'll be damned
Fandom: The Losers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Grace Bauer
Warnings: implied child abuse; blackmail; possibly impossible computer stuff; pre-canon
Pairings: pre-Cougar/Jensen
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 590
Point of view: third
Prompt: The Losers, Any, I mean you guys are my friends and all but if you fuck with me I will not hesitate to set you on fire
Jake Jensen is not your normal geek. Okay, so that's obvious, what with being all black-ops and stuff, but, seriously. He's not. And his whole life, people have given him shit for bucking expectations. He's made it into an artform, alright? He's kickass, and he's fucking smart (like, really, he is fucking smart, okay?) and he's funny, and he's dangerous. Don't let the babble fool you, or the shirts, or the computer.
All Jake Jensen needs to rule the world is a computer in one hand and caffeine in the other.
But he knows how to blend in. Really, he does. It's the only reason he's lived to see twenty-five, and meet his team. And he loves them, really he does, but it took awhile, because Jake Jensen does not trust easily, oh no he doesn't. He's been burned, and scarred, and beaten into the ground, and he survives, he always survives, him and Jess. (And Jilly, she's getting so big now, and everything he does, he does for her.)
So, Clay seems like a good man, and Roque's trying so hard to be scary, and Pooch does his best to keep the peace, and Cougar stares. Cougar stares an awful lot, but Jake just stares back. Sometimes, he even raises an eyebrow or grins, showing all his teeth.
Okay, seriously, the whole point. Jake got dumped on the Losers, everyone's favorite group of expert screw-ups who can't work with other people, as his last stop on the way out the door, because he can blend in and take all sorts of shit, but he won't roll over and be stomped on. He gets punched, he'll punch back with credit ratings and creatively edited classified information, and there is never any evidence because he's too good for that – but, the problem is, he's too good. There are maybe five people in the world as good as him. So, yeah, no evidence. But also no other suspects.
Anyway, the Losers. His last chance. And the higher-ups really don't want Jake to go, because he's either working for The Man or against The Man, and they'd have no chance. Like, none. At all. So it's either make this work or vanish into some other shady program and be shackled to a desk until he dies (probably from a bullet to the back of his head, execution style).
But he's done rolling over. He's done taking it.
Fuck, he's done blending in.
So, a month into his tenure with Clay and his boys, Jake gets right up in Roque's face and tells him, "If you keep fucking with me, I will make it so you were never born." No bullshit, no blinking. Just Jake the survivor, staring this big scary man in the eyes and knowing what he can and cannot do.
And Roque nods, and steps back, and Jake breathes out a quiet sigh of relief. Because he thinks he might've finally found his place, and he doesn't want to go, not again.
"You got balls, kid," Roque rumbles as he stalks out the door.
Jake smiles and throws himself onto his bunk, pulling his laptop over. It's Jilly's first day at pre-k and he needs to make sure she's happy or else he'll be destroying someone. Again.
(Really, Jess, did you expect anything less?)
"Hey, Cougar," he says without looking up. "You actually gonna talk today or just stare?"
No answer. Of course not.
Jake thinks this might be home, for awhile, at least.
(But he doesn't trust these men. Not yet.)
Title: the dying of the year
Fandom: The Dark Knight Rises
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: spoilers for movie
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 210
Point of view: third
Prompt: Any, any, when they knew they were an adult
The home turns him out the day he turns eighteen (the day he's pretty sure is his birthday, the day the system has listed, but Dad was drunk all the time, out gambling and losing every penny to his name, so John isn't sure because they never celebrated anything).
John's good with computers, good with math and logic, good with rules and guidelines. He can be charming. He's efficient.
He finishes high-school by the skin of his teeth and gets a scholarship to college, and then he goes to the police academy.
He's popular, once the stigma of being a foster kid is gone. His teachers love him. His classmates laugh at his jokes and invite him to every party.
He's given a gun by the Gotham PD, and it's not the first one he's ever held. Not the first he's ever fired. He looks down at it and remembers his father – remembers Bruce Wayne, seeing that mask, the mask he's still wearing himself, and knowing.
Batman doesn't like guns. Everyone's figured that out, which makes the murders he supposedly committed a bit odder.
But. John looks down at the gun and wonders if this is what means to be grown.
He's twenty-three years old.
(He's still not sure when his birthday is.)
.
.
.
Title: I learned how to love and I learned how to lie
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: mentions of child abuse; possibly AU backstory & a darkish characterization for Clint
Pairings: Loki/Clint
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 740
Point of view: third
Prompt: author's choice, author's choice, Nice just gets you lonely or dead. I don't like those options.
Clint Barton was a quiet child with watchful, wary eyes. He hid a lot. He kept his mouth shut and he watched, and he learned.
When his parents died and his brother took his hand and whispered we have to run or we'll never see each other again, Clint, c'mon, please come with me, Clint followed him into the night.
Barney got them into the circus. It was just somewhere else to keep his head down, and it reinforced his lesson that ducking only leads to harsher beatings. But in the circus, Clint wasn't useless – Duquesne and Buck taught him, and he became a headliner, and it was better, everything was so much better…
But Barney wasn't as good, and didn't learn as well, and Clint just couldn't duck. And Duquesne turned on him, and Buck, and when Barney left this time, he didn't take Clint's hand and ask him to come.
Clint Barton spent a month in the hospital, silent and still. He thought about letting himself fade away. He thought about all the lessons he'd learned.
He thought about how the bow sang to him, how arrows obeyed him. He thought about doing the right thing, about doing the easy thing, about rolling over and dying, and then he thought, Fuck that noise, I'll go out with a bang if I go at all.
So Clint Barton enlisted when he got of the hospital and honed his marksman ability to beyond impossible, and he started talking. He talked a lot. Because being silent and keeping his head down got him nowhere. He still learned – the greatest lesson was how much more fun it was shoot a living thing than a static target. That… probably wasn't the lesson he was supposed to get, but he learned it pretty goddamned well, anyway.
When the army turned like everyone else he'd ever known, Clint took his bow and his quiver, and flushed his morals down the toilet. He figured Duquesne and Buck would get a kick out of him becoming a killer-for-hire, but he didn't let that stop him.
And then SHIELD happened. SHIELD, trying to keep the world safe as the bad guys got ever badder, and the weapons other-worldly, and Clint kept on snarking, and killing whoever he was told to kill, and turning world-class assassins to the side of the angels (which, yeah… there's so much irony there, and probably only three people in the world have the clearance to see it).
He won't say Loki opened his eyes. His eyes have been open since he was three years old and broke his first bone (his first bone was broken). No, Loki didn't open his eyes.
But Loki did show him how goddamned bored he'd become. And when Fury told them to lay low in the aftermath of Manhattan, maybe Tasha could guess what would happen, but she was off somewhere else, and Clint didn't linger to say goodbye.
He'd been watching. He'd learned a lot.
And when Loki came back (which he would, of course he would, all he wanted was Thor's attention, and Thor had chosen Earth), well. Loki was the first new thing in a long time.
Clint left everything SHIELD gave him behind and vanished in the middle of the day. He'd lay low for awhile, until Thor's pissed off little brother came back to break his brother's newest toys.
It was time to be quiet again, to hide, to be watchful and wary. To keep his head down and wait for the right moment.
He could do that. It was the first lesson he'd ever learned, staring up at his father and choking on tears. It was the basis for everything else.
Stand still, close your eyes, survive.
So Clint went to ground, watched the news – and waited.
He didn't wait for long, and he laughed when Loki appeared in his kitchen, and he made the mad god a pot of tea, and he smiled while Loki stared at him, all gobsmacked and righteous indignation.
And maybe it was 'wrong,' whatever the fuck wrong was. But it was the most fun he'd had since his first taste of killing.
If this is trick, Loki said, all cold and remote. Dangerous. The most dangerous thing Clint had ever touched.
It's not, Clint assured him, and for the moment, that was true.
All Clint could promise was the moment, and Loki nodded, and that was that.
Title: just one part of some big plan
Fandom: Highlander/Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: very epic backstory I don't go into – but Methos is primordial. Like, older than every planet in existence primordial. Also, future!fic for both fandoms.
Pairings: Methos/Clint, Thor/Jane
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 785
Point of view: third
Prompt: Author's choice, Author's choice, "this dude just showed up to the party with a falcon"
It's not funny, not really, but Ben can't keep from smirking because he's the only one in the room (maybe even the world) to get the joke.
Tony Stark's parties are always wild. That's just a rule, now. Gravity works, Doom's plans fail, and Stark throws the best parties.
(Gravity doesn't always work, actually, but Ben knows humanity is still too young to learn that lesson. Doom's plans do fail because for all his genius, he's a moron. And Stark? He wants the world to hate him just as much as it loves him, and he succeeds at that every day.)
"Dr. Piers!" Jane Foster says. "I wasn't sure you'd make it." She's grinning, arms wrapped around her boyfriend's gigantic arm, hanging off him. She has no alcohol tolerance at all, clearly. It's quite endearing.
"I've asked you to call me Ben," he laughs, with a quick glance at the boyfriend.
Thor Odinson. Alien god-prince. Wielder of Mjölnir.
That hammer is still one of his greatest triumphs. He can hear its siren call from Thor's bedroom, where he assumes Jane made him leave it. Instead of answering, he raises his hand to his shoulder, stroking the bird there.
Jane doesn't notice; Thor does. He eyes the bird warily. "I've yet to see one so well-trained on Midgard," he says.
Ben smirks, for just a moment, but Thor has eyes only for the bird. "I've had him since he was a fledgling," Ben tells him, and it's not a lie. "Don't worry, Mr. Odinson," Ben assures him, linking his hands behind his back. "He'll only attack if I order him, and this is a party, right? I'm just here for fun. I didn't want to go all the way home just to drop him off."
Thor is still frowning, but Jane shouts, "I see Darcy! C'mon, Thor, I have to tell her about our breakthrough!" To Ben she says, "I didn't think you'd leave the office. I'm so glad you did!" She lets go of Thor to throw her arms around Ben and give him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Then she drags Thor off to speak with the delightful Ms. Lewis, and Ben watches them go, gaze on the Son of Odin and smile full of teeth.
Oh, poor little prince. He really has no idea.
Ben slouches his way further into the party. A few of his colleagues greet him and chat for a little while, but they don't acknowledge the bird on his shoulder. Ben stays for almost an hour, never getting closer to any of the Avengers than he'd been to Thor.
He leaves without saying goodbye and waits until he's ten blocks from Stark Tower before touching the bird and saying, "Alright, my raptor."
The bird lunges from his shoulder, snapping his wings and landing in a crouch, the Avengers' pet marksman again. He rises with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, asking, "Well?"
Ben laughs and grabs him, pulling him in for a kiss full of teeth and blood, and when he finally lets go, Clint licks his lips, still smirking. "It's not time yet," Ben says, swinging one arm across Clint's shoulders. "Soon, though. You'll know when."
Clint nods, tucking one of his hands into Ben's pocket as they continue walking. "Let me guess," he says. "When the kid comes back, even more broken and pissed off?"
Ben just laughs again. This has been the longest game he's played since – oh, since Heimdallr took over the gate. He doubts Odin even remembers him anymore.
(Mjölnir is singing. Excalibur hums beneath the water. The cube cries for him.
And a mad god is plotting in a cell, every last grief and slight only leading him further into Methos' web.)
"Come, Raptor," Methos whispers into his first creation's ear. "Let's go home. You've gotta get back to work tomorrow."
Raptor presses a brief kiss to the side of his head and settles into his grip, completely pliant as Methos leads the way to his current apartment.
As far as SHIELD and the Avengers know, Hawkeye is on assignment.
As far as SHIELD knows, Dr. Ben Piers is an astrophysicist, just another member of their army of lab coats.
It's not funny, really, the role Raptor has been playing for thirty-five years, ever since two little boys ran away to the circus. (Barney Barton is a ghost. He died on a job gone wrong, was buried in an unmarked grave. Barney Barton was an only child. Two people know that.)
It's not funny, really, that Raptor's called Hawkeye.
Okay, it's pretty funny, and Ben can't help grinning.
(Death isn't above vengeance, you know. And Odin may not remember… but Death does.)
Title: misery has joined in equal ruin
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Milton
Warnings: almost immediately post-film
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 185
Point of view: third
Prompt: Avengers, Tony/Loki, I'm sorry if your life is a sore subject
Okay, so Tony knows from complexes and neuroses, right? Right, of course he does. Textbooks have been written about his numerous and exponentially growing problems (thanks, Howard, and childhood geniusness, and these things called tact and self-control that Tony never bothered to learn).
Anyway. Tony never had time for mythology. Who cares about legends when he's making his own? Right? Right.
Then a hammer fell into the desert and a crazy guy with a glowstick of destiny tried to take over the world.
After his shwarma coma passed, and Bruce was all settled in the Tower, Tony dove into Norse mythology and didn't come out for three days. And Tony's sure most of it's just humans being the bloodthirsty little monsters he's familiar with, but… damn.
He wonders what stories people will tell about him in a thousand years, and lets his Pad clatter on the table.
If he remembers, he'll ask Thor how much happened, if any of it. If Thor even comes back. But Bruce slouches into the lab, and there's science to do, and Tony's got enough problems of his own.
Title: If that is what it means to be blessed, well, I'll be damned
Fandom: The Losers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Grace Bauer
Warnings: implied child abuse; blackmail; possibly impossible computer stuff; pre-canon
Pairings: pre-Cougar/Jensen
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 590
Point of view: third
Prompt: The Losers, Any, I mean you guys are my friends and all but if you fuck with me I will not hesitate to set you on fire
Jake Jensen is not your normal geek. Okay, so that's obvious, what with being all black-ops and stuff, but, seriously. He's not. And his whole life, people have given him shit for bucking expectations. He's made it into an artform, alright? He's kickass, and he's fucking smart (like, really, he is fucking smart, okay?) and he's funny, and he's dangerous. Don't let the babble fool you, or the shirts, or the computer.
All Jake Jensen needs to rule the world is a computer in one hand and caffeine in the other.
But he knows how to blend in. Really, he does. It's the only reason he's lived to see twenty-five, and meet his team. And he loves them, really he does, but it took awhile, because Jake Jensen does not trust easily, oh no he doesn't. He's been burned, and scarred, and beaten into the ground, and he survives, he always survives, him and Jess. (And Jilly, she's getting so big now, and everything he does, he does for her.)
So, Clay seems like a good man, and Roque's trying so hard to be scary, and Pooch does his best to keep the peace, and Cougar stares. Cougar stares an awful lot, but Jake just stares back. Sometimes, he even raises an eyebrow or grins, showing all his teeth.
Okay, seriously, the whole point. Jake got dumped on the Losers, everyone's favorite group of expert screw-ups who can't work with other people, as his last stop on the way out the door, because he can blend in and take all sorts of shit, but he won't roll over and be stomped on. He gets punched, he'll punch back with credit ratings and creatively edited classified information, and there is never any evidence because he's too good for that – but, the problem is, he's too good. There are maybe five people in the world as good as him. So, yeah, no evidence. But also no other suspects.
Anyway, the Losers. His last chance. And the higher-ups really don't want Jake to go, because he's either working for The Man or against The Man, and they'd have no chance. Like, none. At all. So it's either make this work or vanish into some other shady program and be shackled to a desk until he dies (probably from a bullet to the back of his head, execution style).
But he's done rolling over. He's done taking it.
Fuck, he's done blending in.
So, a month into his tenure with Clay and his boys, Jake gets right up in Roque's face and tells him, "If you keep fucking with me, I will make it so you were never born." No bullshit, no blinking. Just Jake the survivor, staring this big scary man in the eyes and knowing what he can and cannot do.
And Roque nods, and steps back, and Jake breathes out a quiet sigh of relief. Because he thinks he might've finally found his place, and he doesn't want to go, not again.
"You got balls, kid," Roque rumbles as he stalks out the door.
Jake smiles and throws himself onto his bunk, pulling his laptop over. It's Jilly's first day at pre-k and he needs to make sure she's happy or else he'll be destroying someone. Again.
(Really, Jess, did you expect anything less?)
"Hey, Cougar," he says without looking up. "You actually gonna talk today or just stare?"
No answer. Of course not.
Jake thinks this might be home, for awhile, at least.
(But he doesn't trust these men. Not yet.)
Title: the dying of the year
Fandom: The Dark Knight Rises
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: spoilers for movie
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 210
Point of view: third
Prompt: Any, any, when they knew they were an adult
The home turns him out the day he turns eighteen (the day he's pretty sure is his birthday, the day the system has listed, but Dad was drunk all the time, out gambling and losing every penny to his name, so John isn't sure because they never celebrated anything).
John's good with computers, good with math and logic, good with rules and guidelines. He can be charming. He's efficient.
He finishes high-school by the skin of his teeth and gets a scholarship to college, and then he goes to the police academy.
He's popular, once the stigma of being a foster kid is gone. His teachers love him. His classmates laugh at his jokes and invite him to every party.
He's given a gun by the Gotham PD, and it's not the first one he's ever held. Not the first he's ever fired. He looks down at it and remembers his father – remembers Bruce Wayne, seeing that mask, the mask he's still wearing himself, and knowing.
Batman doesn't like guns. Everyone's figured that out, which makes the murders he supposedly committed a bit odder.
But. John looks down at the gun and wonders if this is what means to be grown.
He's twenty-three years old.
(He's still not sure when his birthday is.)