#gothamfic

The Wendigo and The Lionheart (Alternate Universe/Canon Divergent) 

remember that time I said I’d be writing 20 prompts in 40 days? heh it didn’t happen did it? but I’m back at it again!!! and @loveisour-resistance requested baby batcat + 5 “just like the calm before the storm, isn’t it?” before the season even started and we’re walking to episode 4 already! sorry it took so long for it to be actually written! hope you like it :D

You can also read on AO3 or ff.net if you prefer.

Drop a number in my askbox with your request and I’ll try to fill it.

The night Bruce Wayne was both surprised and not surprise to randomly meet Selina Kyle at a fancy party, the celebration had been thrown by none less than Sofia Falcone, an welcome back to herself, and all sort of powerful people were invited, including him. He went, of course, because part of wearing a mask involved socializing with dubious people.

Things were changing in the city, he knew. Something in the air told him. Same way he knew damn well what a Falcone in Gotham meant.

The air, it never failed.

Jim wasn't much for "I love you"s. Not unless you were a pretty, appropriate woman—which Oswald most certainly was not. He'd acknowledged that Jim's love for him could only be seen in the big things: like the sex after work while they were both still high off adrenaline, the numerous times Jim had saved his life, even his reluctant acceptance to move in together. It was enough for Oswald—more than enough—so the introduction of more thoroughly blindsided him.

"Morning," Jim muttered. He was seated at their kitchen island, still clad only in a tank and boxer shorts, sipping his coffee with such single minded devotion that Oswald was immediately suspicious. Jim looked... tense. Like he was hiding something. Indeed, a great deal in their apartment suddenly seemed out of place, though none of it was the heinous, horrific things that Oswald was picturing. It was just...

"You made breakfast," he said, a little dumbly. Oswald scurried over to the stove where, sure enough, three thick slices of french toast were waiting, covered with a clear lid to keep them hot. The syrup, sugar, and freshly cut strawberries were laid out, as was a tall glass of grape juice and another cup for coffee. Oswald hadn't even realized Jim knew he liked grape juice. Quickly, still feeling a little off balance, he took in his suit laid out across the counter, newly laundered and waiting for him. Beside it was a small container of more fruit and a chilled water bottle—both, no doubt, added to help combat the heat. A newly cut flower waited to grace his buttonhole. 

Oswald had never experienced this feeling before: a strange mix of devotion and a comfort he'd only ever felt with his mother.

"Don't look at me like that," Jim grumbled. He was still hidden behind his cup out of—Oswald could now tell—embarrassment. He waved what he probably thought was a casual hand at the food. "Go on and eat. You're going to be late."

Oh, work could be damned.

Oswald went to Jim instead, lighting up when Jim saw his intention, rolled his eyes, and finally set the coffee aside. Oswald let his hands flutter around the fine hair of Jim's arms, the scoop of his tank top, thrilled as he shivered beneath each, delicate touch. Jim finally grew impatient and wrenched him forward by the front of his pajama top, Oswald falling into the kiss with no grace and even fewer regrets. Jim was newly shaven and smelled like the sun. He tasted like french toast. 

"Not sure I deserve treatment like this," Oswald whispered as he pulled back, only half meaning it. The fingers in his hair gripped tight as Jim scowled.

“Bullshit.” 

Right, because Oswald remembered now.

Victor Zsasz was no stranger to complex assignments. Don Falcone used the assassin to the fullest extent of his ability on more than one occasion; it kept the killer happy and in turn the Falcone family remained at the top of the criminal chain. As much as other families tried to hit Falcone where it hurts Zsasz and his team were always there to convince them otherwise.

Zsasz never questioned the jobs he was assigned, he was a killer and a hit was a hit. He was the best and he knew it – the pay was excellent and he wasn’t the type of man to get caught up with the morality of the job.

In the time he spent under the instruction of Don Falcone, the hitman had only ever been taken back by one assignment. In all his years, he had worked as a bodyguard, as an assassin, a mercenary and everything in between but he had never been asked to be a babysitter and if he was being honest the hitman felt pretty offended by the mere notion.

“Victor, I am not asking you to babysit my niece. She needs ‘supervision’ she is sick…” Carmine Falcone stated as he examined one of his prized hens, lifting the plump white bird from its nest and examining the soft white plumage carefully.

“Doesn’t she have a nurse?” The suited assassin groaned as he stretched his neck from side to side before stepping into the chicken coop with his employer.

Looking down at his boots, now messed with chicken waste and wet mud Zsasz grimaced – he had just spent the night before shining his boots and whilst he was used to getting blood off of his boots the killer was never too keen on cleaning shit off of his boots.

“She has had many nurses and doctors – they do her little good.” The older man stated simply.

Making a mental note to get one of his subordinates to clean his boots Zsasz watched in silence as the mob leader gently examined and caressed the bird before setting her back down into her nest with a smile before exiting the coop in silence and walking back in silence up to his summer home.

“Boss, you know what I do. What I am good at-.” Zsasz stated once more as he wiped off his feet on the entrance mat before following the mob boss into his kitchen.  It had become custom for the other house employees to go silent when they were in the same room as their employer and having the infamous killer at his side seemed to enhance the intimidation factor.

Motioning for his kitchen staff to leave Don Falcone moved over to the fridge and took out a small blue gift box, wrapped in a sky blue silk ribbon.  

“Tara was a sweet girl growing up but sadly she was disturbed at a young age and I fear – much like my beloved sister she is becoming more and more unhinged…” Falcone sighed as he made his way over to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair at the top of the table and sitting himself down.

“Here.” The bald assassin narrowed his eyes as he took a small baby blue gift box from the hand of his employer; the box was heavy for its size. The cold box looked innocent enough, pretty intricate wrappings of blue ribbon and a small gift card attached to the ribbon.

“Dear Uncle Carmine,

Lucy was fun…for a while. But you know I don’t like people that have wandering eyes.

See you after church on Sunday

Lots of Love

Tara

Xxx

P.s: Why do they always cry so much?

As Victor opened the gift box in his hands, he couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow and chuckle as the contents of the box was revealed.  Falcone watched quietly as he assessed his assassin’s expression expecting such a reaction from the sadist standing in front of him.

“Do you see the problem?”

Victor chuckled as he looked into the box. A pair of frozen green eyes stared up at him – they look like they had been ripped from some poor souls face, putting two and two together Zsasz could only assume that these were the wandering eyes that were mentioned in the gift card.

“I see, but this poor soul doesn’t anymore!” Victor chuckled as he placed the box on the table before picking up both eyes and mimicking there movements in front of his own eyes much to the disapproval of the mob leader.

“Victor, have some respect. Lucy was a kind nurse and a good woman.”  Falcone said with a disapproving look motioning for the killer to place the eyeballs back into the box.

“Sorry Boss.” Victor said straightening his face as he placed the eyes back in the blue box before sliding it back over to the Don.

“So, will you take the job or not?”

Day 2: The Muses 

Readers and Writers: Fanart/ Edits/ Playlists, etc. For this prompt, anything goes. Readers can use their own talents to show their appreciation for the fics they like and writers can share any extra content they have for their stories.

So, unfortunately I don’t have any actual extra content for The Wendigo and The Lionheart without spoiling, but if I were to think of my story as a visual or auditory concept, I think these would be my muses. 

The Wendigo and The Lionheart Playlist

Day 1 - Words of Validation

Readers: Leave a comment - Read a fic you liked a while ago but forgot to comment? This is your reminder! Already commented, but it’s time for a reread? Comment again and let the author know!  There’s no secret for this one - time to give that lovely feedback that every writer craves!  

I made some time today to make comments and write reviews I probably should have written a long time ago. I know our words cost nothing, but commenting/reviewing can be quite daunting sometimes. I’m not trying to speak for every reader, but for someone with anxiety leaving a review that isn’t 100% flattering can/might be a little scary. I never know how an author might react to constructive criticism. Creating something is hard work and it is even harder to throw that work out to the fandom and see how it’s received. So, it’s understandable that some authors might have a hostile reaction to receiving negative feedback. But I’m trying to not let that deter me from leaving comments and reviews. Someone put a lot of time and effort into creating something and the only thing they receive in return for all they do is our words. They deserve at the very least an acknowledgement that we took the time to read their work.

Writers: Favorite comments - There’s always those comments that stick, the ones that help you push through a story or personal favorites that you just have to reread from time to time. Writers, this is the day to share some of those! 

I’ve only really written one story, but I can honestly and whole heartedly say that I believe that every comment I have received has made me a better writer. From constructive criticism to simple encouragement, each time I’ve read one it always inspired me to pick up my pen and keep writing. There have been so many kind and generous reviews that I seriously feel incredibly blessed and feel  I do not deserve. If I tried to write all of the ones that have touched my heart, I would be here all day. Instead I here are a select few comments that brought some great people into my life:

Prompt: “Beach Ball” 

"I said I'm fine!"

Oswald regretted the words the moment they left his mouth, his Mother's expression crumpling and then stiffening with anger. She lifted her nose high into the air.

"Pardon me for trying to help my only son," she sniffed. "Though I suppose you don't need any help now that you are a big, important man." For just a second she hesitated, the reminder of Oswald's success—or rather, a series of failed grabs at power that he spun for her benefit—seemed to bolster Gertrud's spirits. She softened, reaching to place a hand against Oswald's cheek. He sighed with her and pressed into the creased palm.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just..."

"In need of some good, calming tea," Gertrude said seriously. She stood, nodding once to herself. "My beautiful boy is stressed. Oh, the horrors you have faced... Go on. You relax, but you call if you need any help."

The last was said with all the strength of the Kapelput line and Oswald assented, watching with fondness as she left the bathroom with numerous glances behind her. When the door finally closed Oswald let out a very different kind of breath that ended in grit teeth and a few choice curse words. Damn Mooney! Damn her twice for making Mother worry. She would pay dearly for this.

***

Summer in Gotham was as god-awful as the Metropolis crowd always claimed: familiar overcast skies, but with a humidity level that sent people running to stand in front of their ancient window units, or sticking their heads inside old-fashioned ice boxes. Harvey had bailed over an hour ago, claiming he was dying of heat stroke and, to quote, would "make this up when your ass is frozen over next season. Promise." Yeah right. Jim was still waiting for Harvey to pay him back for those other couple hundred favors.

"Jesus," he muttered. Car window rolled down and sleeves rolled up—it did nothing. It didn't matter if they couldn't see the sun, Jim could feel it. The sidewalk appeared to be smoking. The lampposts were melting. He made the horrible mistake of hanging his arm out the window and cursed again at the metal's heat. His damn arm looked burned.

Jim was still muttering obscenities and blowing on his elbow when a distinctive tread sounded on the sidewalk. He paused in his actions, cheeks puffed, and prayed to the God he didn't believe in that this was not the guy he thought it was.

"You'd make such an excellent father, Jim."