ways_back_room | DE: Arrr, Late Morning

Alfred hurriedly shepherds the panicked people out of the large reception hall and onto the lawns in front of Wayne Manor. They move rapidly to their vehicles and get away.

Those who hired cars, generally had them for the night. Those that didn't? Well, he keeps them moving away from the house, at any rate. It's when the light from the house changes, that he turns and looks back. Bruce hadn't left. And the people who were leaving now? Well, none of them was Bruce. And they aren't carrying a body. Which means Bruce is still inside.

Bruce is still inside the house which has been set on fire.

There's two men at the door. Given the weapons they're carrying, they haven't been left there to direct the firemen to Bruce's position.

They need taking out.

And, for the first time in a very long time, Alfred finds himself thinking I need a grenade.

One of the most painful things about moving to America, was the tea.

Admittedly, the invention of the tea bag was certainly a thing to be thankful to them for.

However, their manner of brewing, far too often, simply wasn't up to scratch. Now, most of the time, this seemed simply to be lack of experience on the part of the brewer. But other times? It was inexcusable, and left one with a cup of tea that either had no taste whatsoever, or was completely overpowered by the remnants of the milk that had been poured in first.

Fortunately, Alfred didn't need to worry most of the time, as he would be the one brewing it. Also, he could order in blends from England, which he did initially, in preference to sampling every blend and testing it before presenting it. Because there was no way substandard cups of tea would be served on his watch.

"I cannot believe you. I cannot fucking believe you, boss. Standard HVT grab, we hump these fuckin' frame charges all the way to the guy's house, and you just ring the fucking doorbell?"

Erik has been, to borrow a phrase used elsewhere, burdened with glorious purpose.

The tesseract is unfolding itself in front of his very eyes, making clear paths that once were hidden, equations forming and solving themselves easily, like water finding the fastest line down a hill side.

This is an experiment. Admittedly, it's certain to work. He's sure of that. But still. It's best to be safe.

He discretely builds in an isolator. It should be able to shut the thing down if something goes really wrong. Nothing will, but still.

The tiny part of his brain that's still fighting cheers. Now all it needs is a miracle.

Erik picked up the paper at 14.00, or thereabouts.

It was a solid paper, well-written, well-referenced, drawing on a wide range of sources. Of course, this inevitably led to footnotes. Generally, they're not a good idea in a scientific publication, but these guys had managed to do it with aplomb.

Their footnotes were well written, informative, and well targeted. They didn't feel like digressions. Particularly not the irrelevant digressions that most people realised they were going off on and shoved into the footnotes to hide because they needed the word count (or thought they did).

It wasn't until he noticed it was getting dark outside, that he realised he had gotten lost in the footnotes all afternoon.

Every school year, Charles was aware that what it meant to be a mutant was shifting, but never in ways he predicted. The new students were afraid of taunts that were beyond what he knew, but he had to figure out how to be there for them. Some days it made him hopeful when they spoke of new hopes and everything working out because if there are superheroes then mutants aren't that odd.

Then he'd hear a story that brought back memories of quelling his own desires because if he looked too long at another boy someone would say something or knowing too much and he would be mad.

It was something he had never been able to explain to Raven that just because he was inside their heads didn't mean he was truly inside.

He'd never wanted that much with what he stole, the game itself was fun and he spent the money how he liked.

Sometimes he heard stories about criminals who saved up their money to buy something, to settle down and go straight. It had never made sense to him, his job was tricking people and enjoying the benefits. Life was better when he was out on the road without a clear idea of where he was going other than away.

Now though he was waiting to be hanged and all the work he did to collect that money was worthless.

Whenever he saw Marian in Milliways, he swallowed words. Years ago, he had said some of them aloud to her but now he would never say them. Their Nottinghams, their worlds were too close and too far away for his words to change anything, but he still thought them.

You risk too much. You inspire us all by being and are where we can never follow. Nottingham needs her lady. I don't want you to come in dead while I can never go through your door to revenge you. Please stay safe.

The door to his study was closed so he could listen to Erik's speech alone, downstairs it was on the television. He should have been there, but he didn't want to risk himself in front of everyone. Hank had understood and had spoken for him of pain and Sean and Alex nodded, giving explanations for the others.

After he would go and speak to them, respond to Erik, but for now as he heard how Erik's voice filled the hall he was in and the worried silence of those listening. There was no worry in him, he was speaking his truth, their truths and forcing the world to listen to him for this one night. It was where he belonged for he refused to hide away or give an inch, this was his declaration that mutantkind was here.

Perhaps he should have been downstairs with the others, that was where he fit, bringing people together as Erik stood apart though Raven was near him. She was never mentioned but she would be there. Next time and there would be a next time, because Erik's perfect place was rallying those who heard him and terrifying those who feared him.

His clothes were always too big or too tight, he'd never had anything that actually really fit. When his mother was sewing, she tried her best to make everything work, but she left space saying how he'd grow as tall as his father. He hadn't yet so the sleeves on everything hung long and he rolled up his pants legs. At least with Mark, she didn't put in as much room, because Mark was still growing and growing more.

Every time he pulled on his sleeve, he was reminded that he wasn't fully grown yet, he saw it in how the men in town looked at him. He wasn't worth their time, he was just there to be dealt with and never respected.

One of his rules is always walk away, the second you begin to run, someone will notice. With Vimes standing in the bank lobby and looking everyone over, Moist wanted to run, he wanted as much as space as possible between him and that unnerving gaze.

Instead he had to stay, because there were guards from Quirm at the door. They were in hot pursuit of the man who had dived into the back rooms of the bank and were trying to ferret him out.

It was awful and he hated having to stay still and look innocent for so long, this was a point when he should be gone. The teller behind him sighed and gave him a smile, "They'll leave soon."

He answered the smile and leaned against the counter, "Yes, but this leaves my day a mess."

"I know, but at least we know we're all safe thanks to them."

"Of course we are," Though he wasn't, all it needed was the wrong question and he could be in even more danger.

Away from London, away from him, Jane always seemed to be in carriages while Tom was left behind. After leaving him at the inn, she stopped looking through the back windows of carriages, that way she wouldn't see him not there.

She knew it was foolish but she had to go forward and she did. She drove herself even harder with her writing, getting all the words down and making them perfect.

Cassandra swore that she could quote chapters due to how often she'd heard them, but she did smile as she said it. The future was hers to shape.

The rain pattered down on the palace roof and Lucy sat on the window seat watching the sea turn grey from the storm, "They will make it back safely."

"They will, Captain Seaborn is the best in the Narnian navy and they have only gone partway down the coast," He walked over to sit beside her.

"Oh, I know, but they do love the sea and this is their first expedition with just them. They will come back drenched and grinning," She sighed and laughed before stretching along the window seat, "Have you found anything good to read in the library?"

"Oh yes, I found the most interesting book about the design of Cair Paravel," The rest of the afternoon pasted by quickly and Lucy laughed before her prediction came true and the High King and King Edmund returned wet from the storm and full of ideas.

With Jean, he didn't have to speak aloud, she would hear whatever he thought but not everyone would.

One day when they had been meeting many parents and children, he smiled at her and said, "Jean, I know. Tomorrow will be quieter."

Within his first few years, Moist had discovered how the right umbrella could tell more about who he was meant to be than even his suit. Businessman carried umbrellas, black, imposing ones that could be used to get people out of the way and lived in umbrella stands.

Younger clerks might have an umbrella their mother bought them that had a touch of plaid or something to make it unique, usually those umbrellas got questions. Moist makes certain to have a worn, black umbrella with him whenever he's working in a bank, it lends him the proper air.

"Jesus Christ, Voodoo. When I tell you to 'stay on' someone, I mean tail them. I don't mean PIT them so hard half the fucking engine block's on the street."

The safehouse was nondescript, like all the rest. Mother sat behind a barren desk in a barren room, massaging his temples as sweat rolled over his watch and down his hairy forearm. Voodoo leaned against the wall, hands behind his back, the ball of his foot rolling in the dust as his eyes darted back and forth from the lone window to Mother.

"He was making a break for it, Mom."

"At a red light?"

"...he looked like he might've made a break for it."

Mother sighed and crossed his arms, cocking his head at Voodoo and pursing his lips. "'Looked like he might've made a break for it'. Just what the fuck does that mean?"

"He might've made a break for it once the light was green."

"In what? A 30-year-old Datsun?"

"It looked like a pretty souped-up Datsun."

"'Souped-up Datsun'. Voodoo, if I didn't have the DIA down my goddamn throat, I'd congratulate you on coming up with an oxymoron that perfect."

"Sorry, boss."

"No you're not."

"...I actually kinda am this time."

Charles preferred to have time to figure out the best plan taking into account all the emotions and thoughts concerned to insure that no one felt left out or unsure of themselves. Erik trusted his instinct and was fueled by the certainty of his anger and knowledge of what the world was like.

When Erik rushed forward in Russia, Charles knew he had to follow him though he couldn't give Moira a better reason than that he couldn't leave Erik behind. It felt like enough for him though it wouldn't hold up to any sort of proof.

Perhaps that was what the type of love he had for Erik looked like, that he understood beyond all the lists he had in his head.

Her books were published but she never wished to be known for them. In her home village, she was a spinster, an educated one who did good works but another spinster that lived with her sister.

On days when no one listened, she thought of yelling to them, look what I have done, but instead she reminded herself that her words would outlive them all.

By the time the sun went down in Contention, his father's body had been moved to the morgue and a coffin was being found. No one had much to say to him other than the Pinkerton promising that they would have the money.

As the sky turned orange and red, he saw a lone cactus that stuck up just beyond the city limits, he wished for his mother. Now he would have to comfort her and Mark with the news that everything was broken and he couldn't do it.

Getting back to Bisbee would give him a few days grace to think of which words to use, but he knew whatever he said wouldn't be right. He sat down on the hotel bed since he knew he had to try and sleep, but his father's face was all he could see. Perhaps it would make more sense tomorrow.

It was April and there was snow on the ground. Demeter hrumphed as she kicked the ground that was too solid. "Mother, he's not doing this."

"Yes, of course he's not."

Kore sighed before hugging her mother, "Go have some tea. This will pass."

"Fine, but you know how these frosts disturb everything."

"I do, mother, go inside," With another sigh, Demeter did go back to the house as Kore sat down on the ground and dug her fingers in.

"Come now, don't let the snow scare you. It's warm enough to grow," At her words, a crocus came up from the ground before blooming purple.

He screamed against the silence. They had taken away what he was and he didn't know how.

There was nothing out there but his own fears and worries and the darkness of his mind. It didn't matter that the room was empty, it was a cell, he expected emptiness, the emptiness inside hurt far more.

They had left him his chair, but they had taken away what made him. He shouldn't scream, that would give them power or cry, but he was scared. The world felt unreal with only his thoughts.

Sariel took a deep breath and put another teabag into the kettle as the hail rattled against the tin roof. They should have been back by now, it was only a quick sortie to check in with the perimeter but they weren't back yet. The tea turned from weak yellow to a proper dark brown as she considered adding more water to the stew. By the time they got back, they would be hungry and while the stew would be enough, they probably could do with more.

This wasn't an easy fight, but they had all promised to help out. She just wished that her communicator still worked here, it would have simplified everything. Will and Doc and Roe were used to going without easy ways to talk to each other but she wasn't and they were the ones getting shot at. The stew needed more chili, it had been getting sort of bland, she'd add to it once more and then soon they would be back. She fell asleep against the kitchen chair as she whispered a prayer her grandmere used on hurricane nights.

Both of these are absolutely lovely. I have so much rage on Jane's behalf!

Thank you, they were wonderful prompts.

DE: Arrr, Late Morning

no subject

no subject

Voodoo // Secret Stratagem

no subject

no subject

Outside

Nothing

Never say

Your Perfection

Size

Walk away

Always forward

Rain

Redundant

Umbrella

Voodoo // Stay On It

Not how it should be

Still here

Sunset

Frost

Blind

Odd sort of band

Re: Not how it should be

Re: Not how it should be