CALLING ALL CARS:

★ cape-adjacent, scandal-accurate.

independent & headcanon based cat grant of detective comics fame reimagined by molly. multi-verse, multi-fandom, response driven, oc friendly! 21+ only. read rules before following.

maggie leaned her forearms against the counter,  shoulders loose under the worn denim of her jacket,  the smell of vinegar,  grease,   &  hot peppers already pulling at something old  &  half-comforting in her chest.  she didn’t flinch at the shouting ricocheting through the shop — if anything,  it settled her.  this place always sounded like a storm was breaking somewhere in the back,  pots clanging,  voices raised in profanity-laced threats that didn’t mean a damn thing.  it was honest.  it was loud.   &  it was home in the way a place could be when it never asked you to smile.  or at least,  what maggie always imagined was home. 

❝that’s real generous of you, ❞ she said,  voice low  &  amused,  her eyes narrowing just slightly at richie like she was testing him.  ❝if you’re lyin’ to me  &  that’s leftover end-cut bullshit,  i’ll know.  you know i’ll know. ❞ her index finger tapped the counter once,  sharp  &  knowing,  but there was no real heat behind it.  just the rhythm of something practiced — two people who’d been doing this dance for long enough to know the steps. 

mark sloan wasn't a stranger to one night stands ... but he was a stranger to - what was her name again? names hadn't really been first priority when they'd stumbled into his apartment last night. but he woke up to an empty bed - and his shirt missing. so he walked into his spacious kitchen, looking around and yes - jackpot! there she was. he tilts his head, just observing her for a while.

"i'm a surgeon - we don't sleep much." a small shrug of his shoulders, she says she was just leaving - but she doesn't look like someone who's half out the door. "in my shirt? without pants?" then he cocks a grin. "come on, i'll make you breakfast. then you can ... tell me how you take your eggs, and maybe your name?"

maggie paused mid-step,  one bare foot crossing the tile,  her head tilting just enough to catch him in her periphery.  the corners of her mouth lifted — not quite a smile,  more the suggestion of one,  like she was toying with the idea just to see if he’d earn it.  ❝cute, ❞ she said,  voice dry,  the word cracking like a match against stone.  ❝but you’re not the first surgeon i’ve walked out on. ❞ she didn’t flinch when he called her out — about the shirt,  the lack of pants,  the casual way she stood there like she wasn’t in any kind of rush.  her thumb hooked around the neck of the water bottle,  his shirt falling soft  &  loose against her frame like it belonged to her now.  maybe it did. 

her gaze flicked to the stove,  then back to him,  measuring.  ❝besides, ❞ she murmured,  ❝you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who makes breakfast. ❞ still,  something in her tone shifted — just a little.  the rough edge of sleep or sex or something deeper gave way to something warmer,  reluctant maybe,  but not closed.  ❝name’s maggie, ❞ she said finally,  like she was offering him a secret he hadn’t earned but she was giving anyway.  ❝ &  i take my eggs scrambled.  messy.  like most things in life. ❞

there's a frown on nadia's face. she knew all about keep moving - it was a tactic that didn't work for her. she had to feel it, all of it. had to work through it - or it ate at her. came for her in her sleep like hungry wolves watching her like she was nothing but a fresh lamb on shaky legs. shaking her head with a small smile. "thanks - i'm writing it down for my um. for my therapist. appointed by the district. platt's great like that," she doesn't go on about her addiction struggles. or the time gregory yates almost got away with her life. it was well known everywhere - but those facts didn't make up nadia. she was a person, a person with a future, not someone who was weighed down ( too much ) by her past.

but she did have someone who kept her steady - she did have a person. a home with a heartbeat. she had an erin. who was kind of like the family she'd always needed, like a sister who always showed up for you - but never coddled. never once had she looked at nadia like she was something to fix. like she was a cracked porcelain doll. "what's your thing?" tilting her head as she closes the notebook with scribbles in it. notes that had a terrible amount of 'yates' written in it. the monster who would always come for her when she closed her eyes. blinking him away from her mental images. she wouldn't let him win. not today - not ever. this was her life, and he didn't take it.

maggie didn’t speak at first.  just watched nadia close the notebook like she was putting something away that still burned to the touch.  she knew what it meant to carry a name like that — yates — in your margins,  in your chest,  like a splinter that wouldn’t work its way out.  knew what it meant to still be standing afterward,  even if the ground never quite stopped shaking.  she gave a small nod.  not pity.  not concern.  just recognition.  ❝good, ❞ she said finally,  her voice low.  ❝that you’ve got someone to talk to.   &  that you’re not pretending it didn’t happen. ❞

she let out a breath through her nose  &  looked down at the space between her boots.  ❝my thing?❞ she repeated,  like the question tasted strange in her mouth.  a bitter little smile tugged at the corner of it.  ❝not sure i’ve earned one. ❞

leaning back slightly,  she braced her hands on the bench behind her,  gaze going distant.  ❝sometimes i think it’s the job.  but the job doesn’t show up when it’s dark.  the job doesn’t ask if you’re sleeping,  or if you ate,  or if you’re about to break apart in a stairwell. ❞ she glanced sideways at nadia.  ❝the job just asks for more. ❞