#mild language

From the other side of the room, Lee Know paused mid-bite of his chips. He watched you for a second. You were way too still. No complaining, no talking, no reacting to the show. Just… phone, screen, music, humming, and that slightly stunned look on your face.

“Why do you look like you’re studying for an exam?” he asked suddenly.

You flinched. “I’m not.”

Eight heads turned in your direction. You realized too late that you had just made yourself suspicious.

Bang Chan, sitting on the floor with his laptop, glanced up. “What are you doing, Y/N?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

That was the wrong word. The deadly word.

Han’s eyes narrowed. “Oho. ‘Nothing’ is what people say when they’re definitely doing something.”

Hyunjin, sprawled on the rug, rolled onto his stomach, chin in his hands. “Are you texting someone?”

I.N gasped. “Is it a boyfriend?”

Your nose wrinkled. “No!”

“Girlfriend?” Felix added, grinning.

“No!” you repeated, louder this time. “It’s just… some stuff.”

Lee Know stood up, wiping his fingers on his sweatpants. “Stuff like what? You’ve been staring at your phone for twenty minutes without blinking. That can’t be normal.”

You forced your shoulders to stay relaxed, your fingers tightening around your phone. “I’m just reading.”

Seungmin looked over from the armchair. “Reading what?”

You stared at him, your mind scrambling for something normal. “News,” you lied. It came out too fast.

Han snorted. “Yeah, sure. You’re humming to ‘Pretty Woman’ while reading the news? What, is Mingyu the weather forecast?”

You bit your lip. On the screen, you saw the line:

“Coups’ fingers trailed along your arm…”

You locked your phone so fast you almost dropped it.

Lee Know narrowed his eyes with the energy of a cat who had just seen a red dot move. “Show me.”

“No.” You hugged your phone to your chest.

The room got louder in an instant.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Chan asked, his leader voice waking up.

“What the fuck? It's my phone,” you shot back.

Felix scooted closer on the other side of the couch. “Are you watching something weird?”

You could feel your soul leave your body. “Why would you say it like that?”

Hyunjin pointed dramatically. “Everyone, she’s suspicious. Confiscate the device.”

“God...this isn't school,” you said, glaring.

But they were already moving. Lee Know came around the coffee table. Han crawled over the rug like some kind of gremlin. I.N perked up, excited at the hint of chaos.

You shot up from the couch. “Don’t touch my phone!”

Felix laughed. “Now we have to see.”

You backed away, holding your phone behind you. “It’s private and none of your business!”

“Then you should’ve stayed expressionless,” Seungmin said, standing too. “You look like someone who just read something they shouldn’t have.”

You hated how accurate that was.

Lee Know reached you first, hand out. “Come on, just show me. I’ll tell them if it’s bad.”

“Oh, that’s worse,” you said. “Absolutely not.”

You stepped away from him, almost tripping over Hyunjin, who tried to grab your wrist from below.

“Traitors, all of you!” you yelled, dancing out of reach.

“Y/N, stop running,” Chan said, standing up slowly. His voice was calm, but you heard the older-brother tone in it. “You’re going to fall.”

“I’d rather fall than show you my phone.”

That did not help your case.

Han made a fake lunge, and you dodged, laughing nervously. Your heart beat faster, not just from the running but from the panic that someone might see the words “S.Coups x Reader – Rated T” on your screen.

“Is it at least legal?” I.N asked as he tried to move around to cut you off.

“Oh my god, yes, it’s legal!” you snapped. “I’m not a criminal, I’m just—”

You cut yourself off before you confessed anything.

Lee Know stopped and tilted his head. “You’re just… what?”

“Nothing!” you yelled again.

Chan sighed and rubbed his face. “Y/N.”

You stuck your tongue out at him and backed toward the hallway.

That was your mistake.

You had forgotten that Bang Chan had years of practice dealing with eight chaotic members, plus a younger sibling. You had forgotten he was fast when he wanted to be.

You took one more step back, felt the slight shift in the air, and before you could react, Chan’s arm came around from behind you. He hooked his hand over your wrist and gently but firmly pulled your phone out of your grasp.

“No!” you shrieked. “No no no no—”

Too late.

He took a step back, already tapping the screen awake. You watched his face as your lock screen disappeared and the last opened page came up.

Time froze.

You saw his eyebrows draw together. His eyes flicked over the title.

“Pretty Woman – S.Coups x Reader (College AU)”

Chan stared for one second.

Then another.

Then his whole expression changed.

“Oh my—” He cut himself off, his eyes widening as he scrolled a little by accident. “Okay, what the- No. No, no, no—”

“Give it back!” you lunged, but Lee Know held your shoulders, half laughing, half curious.

“What is it?” Han demanded, bouncing on his toes.

Chan looked horrified. “It’s… it’s… it’s a fanfiction.”

Hyunjin gasped dramatically. “Oh? That’s not so bad.”

Chan shook his head. “It’s a fanfiction about her and S.Coups.”

The room exploded.

“WHAT?”

“HUH?”

“EXCUSE ME?”

“SEVENTEEN S.Coups?!” Felix’s eyes almost popped out.

You buried your face in your hands and groaned loudly. “Why would you say it out loud?”

Seungmin let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re reading S.Coups x Reader fanfic in our dorm?”

“While listening to his song,” Lee Know added. “That’s dedication tho”

I.N blinked rapidly. “Wait, so you and S.Coups… like… in the story… are… like…”

“Stop talking,” you begged. “Please.”

Chan held your phone out like it was contaminated. “It’s— it’s so weird. Why would you read this? Why would you imagine—?” He broke off, visibly disgusted. “Ugh.”

You snatched the phone from his hand before he dropped it. “Because I’m a normal human being with a crush,” you snapped.

The room went quiet.

You hadn’t meant to say it that bluntly, but it was out. You clutched your phone to your chest, cheeks on fire, and stared at them.

Felix was the first to speak. “So you… like him?”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, I’m not reading fanfiction about him because I hate him.”

“But he’s older,” I.N said, frowning. “And he’s, like… S.Coups.”

“And you’re pretty young,” Chan added, a stubborn edge in his voice.

You stared at him. “I’m twenty-one, Chan.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Too young.”

You laughed once, disbelief spilling out. “Wow. Okay. So when you were twenty-one, you were traveling, training, dealing with everything, but I’m too young to have a crush on an idol?”

“That’s different,” he said quickly.

“How?” you demanded.

“Because you’re you,” he said.

You threw your free hand up. “Are you fucking kidding me!”

Han looked between you two like he was watching a ping-pong match. “Okay, wait, wait. Let’s… let’s breathe. Y/N, you have a crush on S.Coups?”

You crossed your arms. “Yes. He’s hot. And amazing. And frankly, you guys could be a little less bitchy about it.”

Hyunjin choked on his drink. “You just called him hot in front of your brother.”

Chan clapped his hands over his ears. “I didn’t hear that. I refuse.”

Lee Know smirked. “I heard it clearly.”

Felix giggled. “Same.”

Seungmin leaned back in the armchair. “So that’s why you always watch Seventeen clips when you think no one’s looking.”

You glared at him. “I never said I was subtle.”

“Okay, but…” I.N looked worried. “Are you sure? Like… idol crushes are dangerous. They make you weird.”

“Too late for that, I am already weird,” you said flatly.

“That’s true,” Lee Know agreed.

You ignored him.

Chan stepped closer, his brows furrowed. “I just… I don’t like it.”

Your jaw clenched. “Huh?”

He hesitated, looking for the right words. “He’s a grown man. An idol. You’re my little sister.”

You exhaled sharply. “There it is. Little.”

“You are my little sister,” he insisted.

“I’m an adult,” you shot back. “You know that, right? Like, legally. Emotionally. Mentally. Okay, maybe not mentally all the time, but still.” You gestured at him with your phone. “You can’t freeze me at age twelve forever just because it makes you feel better.”

Felix’s smile faded slightly as he watched you. The others exchanged glances.

Chan opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I’m not trying to freeze you,” he said more quietly. “I just… don’t like the idea of some guy—”

“He doesn’t even know I exist,” you interrupted. “It’s fanfiction, Chan. Words on a screen. You think S.Coups is going to appear in the dorm and sweep me away because I read a Tumblr fic?”

Han raised his hand. “Plot twist: he does.”

Hyunjin elbowed him. “Not helping.”

You ran a hand through your hair. “I get that you want to protect me. All of you do. But it’s annoying when you act like I’m a baby who can’t handle a crush. I’m twenty-one. I can find people attractive without spontaneously combusting.”

“You say that,” Seungmin muttered, “but look at your face. You’re literally combusting right now.”

You pointed at him. “That’s embarrassment. It’s different.”

Chan looked at you, his expression softening just a little. “We just… don’t want you to get hurt.”

“How am I getting hurt from reading fanfic?” you asked. “It’s not like I’m dating him. I just like him. He’s talented, he’s kind, he has that leader vibe—” you paused, side-eyeing Chan. “Which you should respect, by the way, leader-to-leader.”

Chan’s jaw tightened. “I respect him as an artist.”

“But not as someone I could maybe… I don’t know… admire?” you said.

“You can admire him,” Chan said quickly. “From far away. Very far away.”

You squinted at him. A little spark of mischief flickered in your chest, pushing against the frustration. You tilted your head, then decided to go for it.

“‘Far away,’ huh?” you said slowly. “About… fanmeeting-distance?”

Felix blinked. “What does that mean?”

You smiled, innocent and evil at the same time. “I mean, like… send-off distance.”

The room fell silent.

Chan’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

You slipped your phone into your pocket and shrugged casually. “I might have… booked a send-off with him.”

Time stopped AGAIN.

“What?” Chan’s voice jumped an octave.

“YOU WHAT?” Han yelped.

Hyunjin sat up so fast his hair flew. “When? How? Why didn’t we know?”

“I bought a ticket like a normal fan,” you said, savoring every second of their reactions. “Used my own grown up money. I’m allowed.”

Felix covered his mouth with both hands, eyes sparkling. “You’re going to meet him?”

“Yes,” you said, holding Chan’s gaze. “Face to face.”

I.N looked both impressed and horrified. “No way.”

Lee Know shook his head slowly. “You’re brave. Or insane. Maybe both.”

Chan stared at you like you had just told him you planned to move to Mars. “You can’t go.”

You snorted. “Oh wow...Watch me.”

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low.

You met his eyes without flinching. “I already paid. It’s done.”

He looked at the others for backup.

“Guys,” he said, helpless. “Say something.”

Han drew a circle on the rug with his finger. “I mean… she’s twenty-one. Fans younger than her go to these things all the time.”

Hyunjin nodded slowly. “Yeah. And it’s not like she’s going alone at night in some shady alley. It’s a normal event. Staff, security, all that.”

Seungmin shrugged. “And it’s S.Coups, not some random creep.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Chan muttered.

Felix leaned forward. “I’ll go with her,” he offered. “If our schedule lets us. Then she’s safe and you can stop freaking out.”

Your heart squeezed. “Lix…”

I.N raised his hand. “I’ll go too. I want to see what he looks like in real life. I mean, Chan-hyung complains, but he always says good things about Seventeen as sunbaenims.”

Chan shot him a betrayed look. “Whose side are you on?”

“Y/N's obviously,” I.N said without hesitation.

Lee Know smirked. “Honestly, I kind of want to see Chan’s face when she stands in front of S.Coups. That alone is worth supporting her.”

You snorted. “Thank you, I think.”

Chan looked like the ground had opened under him. “You guys are no help.”

“You’re outvoted, hyung,” Han said cheerfully. “Democracy.”

Chan ran a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath. Then he looked at you again, his expression more serious.

“What exactly are you planning to say to him?” he asked.

You blinked. “I don’t know. ‘Hi’?”

“Liar,” Seungmin said. “You definitely practiced.”

You looked away. “Maybe a little.”

Felix nudged you. “Tell us. Come on.”

You took a breath, feeling your heart flutter. “I just… want to tell him I admire him. That he’s a great leader, that he works hard, that his music helped me. And maybe…”

“Maybe what?” Chan asked cautiously.

You gave him a wicked little smile, just to poke at him. “Maybe I’ll also tell him that I always thought his arms look even stronger up close and that he’s really, really hot.”

Chan’s soul visibly left his body.

“NO YOU WON’T,” he shouted.

Hyunjin burst out laughing, collapsing sideways. Han rolled on the floor, clutching his stomach.

“Oh my god,” Han wheezed. “Please do. Please. I need this for my mental health.”

Felix fell back against the couch, laughing so hard he made no sound for a moment.

Lee Know applauded slowly. “That’s my favorite sentence you’ve ever said.”

Seungmin just stared at you, impressed. “You’re actually evil.”

I.N covered his bright red face with his hands. “I can’t listen to this.”

Chan grabbed your shoulders, eyes wide. “You are not saying that to him.”

You pushed his hands off gently. “Relax. I was kidding.”

You weren’t sure if you were completely joking, but he didn’t need to know that.

He stared at you for a long moment, then sighed, his shoulders dropping. “I hate all of this.”

You softened, your irritation fading a little as you looked at him. “I know you do. But you can’t protect me from… everything, Chan. And you definitely can’t protect me from having a crush.”

He looked down. “I know. I just…”

“You still see me as the kid who used to follow you around the house and cry when you left for practice,” you said gently.

He smiled sadly. “You remember that?”

“Well duh,” you said. “But I’m not that kid anymore.”

He looked at you like he was trying to see both versions of you at once. Then he nodded, slow and reluctant.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Fine. You can go to your… send-off. On one condition.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

He pointed a finger at you. “You tell him exactly who your brother is. And that I’m watching.”

You laughed. “What, like, ‘Hi, I’m Y/N, my brother is Bang Chan and he’s very scary’?”

“Exactly,” Chan said.

Hyunjin snorted. “You are not scary.”

“Hey!” Chan protested.

Felix leaned his head on your shoulder with a grin. “Can you imagine if S.Coups looks at her and goes, ‘Oh, Chan’s sister? I’ve heard about you.’”

Chan paled. “Why would you say that?”

Han wiggled his eyebrows. “Maybe she’s his type.”

“Han,” Chan warned.

You grinned, feeling lighter now that everything was out in the open. “Don’t worry. I’ll behave.”

He looked unconvinced, but he gave a tiny nod. “Just… be careful, okay?”

“I will,” you said.

“And no more reading those…” He waved a hand at your pocket. “Those things in the dorm. At least not when I’m around.”

You smirked. “No promises.”

“Y/N,” he groaned.

You bumped your shoulder into his. “Fine. I’ll read them in my room.”

“That’s only slightly better,” he muttered.

The tension in the room faded, replaced by warm laughter and teasing. Han and Hyunjin already started imagining what you would say at the send-off. Seungmin threatened to secretly record your reaction. Felix promised to help you choose an outfit that made you feel confident but “not too deadly,” as Chan put it.

As the chaos settled, you sat back on the couch again. “Pretty Woman” still played softly on repeat, Mingyu’s and S.Coups’ voices blending into the background.

You opened Tumblr again out of habit, then paused. Slowly, you turned your phone so only you could see the screen.

Lee Know dropped down beside you, leaning in just enough to annoy you. “So… was it at least a well-written fanfic?”

You thought about it, then nodded. “Yeah. It was.”

He hummed. “You know, if Chan annoys you too much, you could always write your own version.”

You smirked. “Maybe I will.”

Across the room, Chan looked over, suspicious. “What are you two plotting now?”

“Nothing!” you and Lee Know said in unison.

At first, you hate the Manor. The ceilings are too high, the halls echo strangely and Alfred hovers with gentle, polite offers of tea or warm meals you don’t trust. Damian bristles at everything: Father’s authority, the older brothers who treat you both like children, the notion of school, of ‘family dinners’ but you watch more carefully. You notice how Dick’s bright grin never falters, no matter how many times Damian tries to snarl him away. How Alfred’s voice softens when he speaks to you, asking if you’re sleeping alright, if you need anything. How Father, Bruce, moves through rooms like a ghost, his grief so obvious it’s almost tangible but how he always hesitates in doorways to watch the two of you train.

You share a room at first, both of you unwilling to let go of the only constant in your life. Damian snarls at the suggestion of separating you and you just cling to him, unsure of this place, these people and this whole strange notion of a family that’s bigger than two.

Your first weeks are filled with fights. Tim makes an offhand remark about the League and Damian nearly takes his head off with a batarang. You step between them. Jason provokes you both into sparring matches because he claims it’s funny and you walk away with bruised knuckles and a grudging respect for his strength. Dick hovers, bright and easy, trying to coax you into talking, smiling, being something softer than the sharp dagger you’ve had to be all your life.

At night, Damian sleeps curled into your side, tense even in dreams, muttering about how Father doesn’t understand, how they’re weak, how the League would never let anyone speak to him this way. You listen, your own fears unspoken, fears that you might never belong, that you might never understand this place that calls itself home.

Slowly, the cracks form.

The first time you laugh, really laugh, is when Dick drops an entire stack of pancakes on himself at breakfast. It’s so absurd, so unlike anything you’d seen in the League, you burst out cackling. Everyone stares at you in shock, then Dick starts laughing too while brushing syrup out of his hair and something inside you unwinds.

Damian is furious, of course. “You look like fools,” he hisses. But you see the way his eyes dart to you, watching the way your shoulders relax, the way you smile. That night, he grumbles about how ridiculous Grayson is but you catch him smirking behind his hand.

Tim becomes a puzzle. He’s clever and observant. You catch him watching you as much as you watch him. You learn his tells, the way his eyes flick when he lies, the way his shoulders curl inward when he’s tired. Slowly, you realize he’s not your enemy, though Damian insists otherwise. Eventually, you start working with him on patrol, stealth and reconnaissance, your old skills slipping into new shape. He never says it, but you think he trusts you before he trusts Damian. That makes things tense.

Jason is… complicated. Loud, brash, sometimes cruel, but there’s something broken in him you recognize in yourself. You fight, you snap, you insult each other but he never treats you like you’re fragile, never looks at you like you’re the little one to protect. You appreciate that. You think maybe he understands what it’s like to be remade, to claw your way out of your own grave and build yourself again.

Alfred is patient. So patient it makes you nervous. The first time he brings you soup because you’re sick, you nearly refuse it on instinct. In the League, weakness was unacceptable. But he just pats your shoulder, says, “Even warriors need rest.” You’re so startled you take the spoon from him and eat. It’s the first time you remember feeling safe while vulnerable.

Bruce… is the hardest. You don’t understand him. He watches you like he’s memorizing the edges of your face, like he’s waiting for you to vanish. You resent it, at first. You’re no one’s ghost, you’re not your mother’s tool anymore. But then you see him in the cave, staring at the Robin suits, the grief carved into his shoulders so deep it looks permanent and you wonder if maybe he’s just afraid. You understand fear. You find yourself softening, though you’d never say it aloud.

Patrol is the first place you feel whole. Gotham is chaos, yes, but it makes sense in a way the Manor never did. There is always rules, patterns, movement and threat. You and Damian work as a unit, your communication instinctive. At first, Bruce insists you stay in sight of another brother, especially Jason or Dick. Damian resents it but you don’t mind. Watching them move, learning the way they fight you begin to understand why Father trusts them.

School is… weird. Damian hates it with every fiber of his being, refuses to follow the rules, picks fights daily. You watch. You play along. You learn to navigate the halls, learn which teachers are patient, which students are cruel. You keep Damian out of detention when you can or sit beside him in detention when you can’t. You’re the calmer one, the mediator.

You find yourself drawn to the library, so many books you’ve never seen, stories of worlds you’d never imagined. You read everything you can, filling the quiet hours with other people’s words. It’s Dick who notices first, who starts leaving you books he thinks you’ll like on your nightstand. Damian calls them ‘trash’ but you see him peeking over your shoulder anyway.

As the months turn into a year, the Manor changes shape around you. The halls aren’t empty anymore: they’re full of laughter, of arguments, of Dick’s terrible singing drifting from the shower, of Alfred scolding Jason for leaving guns on the kitchen counter and of Bruce’s low voice murmuring tactical plans in the Cave.

You and Damian still cling to each other, but the edges soften. You take your own room eventually, though your doors are always open between you. You find yourself trusting the others, enough that you let Dick hug you without flinching, enough that you snap at Tim with playful barbs instead of knives, enough that you join Jason on the range just to show him up.

You still dream of the League, of blood and blades and your mother’s cool voice praising you for your precision. But you wake up with Alfred’s gentle knock on your door, with the scent of coffee and warm bread, with Damian grumbling about the day’s training schedule. And you think maybe, just maybe, you’re building something new here.

You’re still learning what family means. You’re still learning how to be soft and strong, how to be vulnerable without being weak, how to forgive yourself for the things you did in the name of Mother and the League.

But Gotham is your home now. The Manor is your home. The Batfamily is yours, as messy and infuriating as they are.

And you and Damian you’re not just weapons anymore. You’re kids. You’re siblings. You’re learning how to be human together.

House Pavus is well known for its robust portfolio of vineyards sprinkled across the Tevinter Imperium. While it traditionally included only well-established wineries with recipes and crops boasting a rich taste and history stretching back centuries to the time of the Old Gods, in more recent years several smaller hidden gems have been added to that list. It is an only natural conclusion, given the newly appointed Magister Dorian Pavus’ equally well known enthusiasm for wine. While many of us have our own youthful missteps and indiscretions, it seems as though the young Magister Pavus still revels in his own. Examination of his troubled youth and habitual imbibement offers an explanation for the wild and outlandish notions brought forth during his first foray into the Magisterium proper. Or perhaps it has more to do with his protracted ambassadorial stay in the barbaric kingdoms of the South. Regardless–

“Kadan, you know what your problem is?”

Dorian jumped, red wine sloshing out of the forgotten glass in his hand and onto the gossip leaflet and settee. “Maker’s balls! How does someone so big move so quietly?”

A dark chuckle rumbled from Iron Bull’s half-naked chest as he leaned over the seat-back and nipped at his ear. “Your problem is you read too much.”

Dorian frowned (to hide his shiver from the feel of Bull’s breath more than anything) and used the parchment to dab at the spilled wine on his white shirt. “The problem isn’t the volume but the content, Amatus.” 

“And yet you still read this crap.”

“Of course I still have to read it. It’s gossip-mongering drivel but it still gives me a sense of what the other noble houses are paying someone to say.” Dorian sniffed in distaste and tossed the stained and smeared leaflet on the table next to the bottle of wine he’d uncorked this morning. Well. He was on vacation. Besides, Ativans had wine with any meal they chose. It just… admittedly didn’t pair well with accusations of being an unqualified lush. Worse that the words parroted the whispers of his own self-doubts.

Iron bull eyed the discarded parchment knowingly. “If all they can accuse you of is loving wine, then we’re not doing all too badly hiding your love of Tal-Vashoth coc–” 

Dorian shoved a cheese puff into Bull’s mouth with a sigh of half-hearted disgust. “More than half the Magisters are as full of wine as they are Altus blood while politicking.”

“Ah,” Bull said with his cheek full of flakey pastry and soft cheese, “but only one is full of Tal-Vashoth see–” This time Dorian shoved a cured sausage into his gullet instead. Bull bit down hard and tore a mouthful off. Judging by the laugh, the lewd oaf was altogether far too pleased with himself. “I missed you, Kadan. And I missed how much you pretend to be offended.”

“Pretend?” Dorian drained what was left in his glass to wash down the affront. “Oh, I assure you, Amatus, I–”

“Missed me, too. Yes, I know,” Bull all but purred in his ear. Yes, far, too pleased with himself. “Missed me so much you bought a whole villa just to meet with me.”

“Actually, I bought it as an investment. It was the only thing this smear-campaign got right.”

“Mmm. Mmhm. And it just happened to be on the border with Orlais?” The settee groaned in protest as Bull leaned on the back with his thick forearms. 

Meanwhile Dorian was already arming himself with a cracker spread with date jam and topped with candied bacon. He made a preemptive attack by popping the treat into his partner’s mouth so he could get a word in edgewise. “Everyone knows the river valley has fertile soil and hot summers, perfect conditions for the best grapes. Give it a few years and these bottles will be on the finest tables across Thedas.”

“Speaking of fertile–”

“No. Maker, no, Bull I am eating.”

“Ha! Alright, alright. Mmph. What are these? They’re sweet but there’s a spicy kick at the end. Just like those Orlesian nuts.”

“Ah. Well those nuts are actually Tevinter exports. No! Don’t!” Iron Bull erupted with laughter and Dorian knew every bone in his gigantic body was just aching to crack a joke about a certain pair of “Vint” nuts in this very villa. So, wisely, he shoved another morsel into his gaping, bellowing maw and hoped he wouldn’t be hit with half chewed shrapnel in the process. “It’s a common mix of spices, is all I’m saying. We use it on almost everything.” Okay, it sounded like whining even to his ears.

“Mmm…” Bull snatched up Dorian’s wrist so he could suck each of his fingers clean. “Well that certainly explains a lot. Because you have a lot of fire to you, and yet you can be very, very sweet.”

---

The first text comes late in the evening:

NW and BL have been dark for almost 24h. Sending in Aquaman.

It’s alarming but not completely unexpected. Missions go awry all the time. There are millions of reasons why Dick and Jefferson haven't responded, and not all of those reasons are of concern.

… or that's what Bruce tells himself, firmly overriding Bruce Wayne’s heart with Batman’s brain. Until there's a real threat, panicking does nothing.

The next text is hours later and well into the night. Batman is in the middle of an elaborate plan to shut down a recent string of arms deals coordinated by the Penguin.

Aquaman and Wyynde have them. I didn't get a good look. Stand by for hostage status.

Hostage status, Barbara says. Not agent status. Not rescue update.

Hostage status. Which means Dick and Jefferson were captured. And the need to stand by for a status is never a good sign.

Batman concentrates on his current task. He locks down his mind, blocking out Bruce’s concerns and worries.

Barbara calls him on a private channel forty-eight minutes later.

Calls.

“B, you got a second?”

Batman slams his fist into a thug’s cheek and kicks the other goon in the head. Then he grapples for the rooftops.

“Go.”

“Black Lightning is recovering well. Nightwing is… unstable.”

Batman doesn't ask if that's in the physical sense or the mental. “Where is he?”

“Premiere Tower.”

Literally on the other end of the country. A zeta tube will turn that four-hour flight to a thirty-second walk, but he’s also in the middle of something. “I’ll be there in an hour. Two hours. For now, give me details.”

Barbara hesitates. “He’s… I don't know, I saw him and called you. Dr. Jace is with him, but he's… barely responsive. Mostly just groaning. And his temp is through the roof. 104.1.”

There’s gunfire from below. The thugs have come around and are shooting at him like it’s a competition for who empties their clip first. Batman sweeps his cape in front of him, deflecting the spray, and disappears into the shadows.

“Keep me updated. And… keep him alive.”

“Believe me, Batman; I’m trying.”

---

Today could have gone better. Barbara isn't sure how, exactly, it could have gone better, but she's sure there was a way. She's been playing back her actions of the past thirty-six hours, wondering what she did wrong. Asking the now-obvious questions of, “Why did I wait so long to call for backup?” and, “What was I thinking, sending Dick and Jefferson into a death trap like that?” and, “Why didn't Batman know about the X-Pit?”

But even more than that, she needs to know the answer to this: “What the hell is wrong with Dick?”

“I don't know,” is the answer Dr. Jace gives the most, sometimes loudly in an organized panic and sometimes under her breath, spoken only to herself.

And all the while, Barbara holds Dick’s hand and hates how helpless she feels, asking herself those impossible questions.

“What's wrong with you?” Barbara murmurs to the man in the bed, his skin leeched of color and clammy with sweat. He doesn't answer, of course, merely groaning with a smattering of “Bruce?” and “Babs?” and, heart-wrenchingly, “Mom?” (Barbara isn't sure if that one hurts more or less than when he asks for Jason.)

Of course, every time Dick requests one of his favorite people, Barbara lies. She swears up and down that she is Tim or Alfred or Dick’s long-dead parents. Anything to calm him down. Anything to bring him comfort.

It never works.

So Barbara kisses his knuckles gently and grips his hand like he’ll fall apart if she lets go.

“I don't get it,” Dr. Jace finally says, turning away from the vitals and watching Dick carefully. “I’ve run every lab I can think of, and nothing is causing this. Negative for TBI or meningitis. White blood cell count is normal, so there's no infection. He’s been out of the X-Pit and actively cooled for over an hour, so it’s not heat exposure. His labs are overwhelmingly healthy.”

“But he's not,” Barbara says immediately. The moment she says it, she wishes she could take it back.

“I know that,” Dr. Jace sighs. “Obviously.” She shakes her head and heads for the door. “I’m going to check on Jefferson. If anything changes - and I mean anything - yell. I’m not joking.”

Barbara knows. And she really wishes she didn't. “Of course.”

“B-Babs?”

“Right here,” Barbara promises, attention snapping back to Dick. She rubs circles into the back of his hand with her thumb. “I’m right here.”

Dick grunts, eyes shut tight. The sweat rolling down his skin intermingles with two deep rivulets, carving their way down Dick’s face with salt-ridden tears.

“Oh. Hey.” Barbara grabs a tissue and wipes away the tears. She wishes she knew what else she could do. “You’re safe, okay? Granny is gone. You’re safe.”

Dick either doesn’t hear or doesn’t understand. He whines, chest heaving from the mere effort of breathing. When Barbara lays two gentle fingers on his neck, she feels the fluttery, skittish pulse under his skin.

“You’re okay,” she says, despite nothing being further from the truth. “You’re okay.”

---

“‘Psychic damage?’ ‘X-flu?’ You realize how ridiculous this sounds, right?”

“I do,” Dr. Jace replies, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes. “And you realize that I was the chief physician for the Royal Markovian family?”

“And I once did heart surgery with a steak knife and the tweezers from an Operation game,” Bruce counters, not backing down an inch. “Your former title doesn’t impress me. Tell me what his labs look like, not some made-up diagnosis.”

Dr. Jace sniffs. “Frankly, there’s nothing to tell. His labs are unremarkable. CT came back clean. Yet his temperature is up to 105, and he has no idea where he is or what’s going on. There’s no ‘real’ diagnosis to give.”

“Hyperpyrexia, unspecified,” Bruce replies.

“That’s not a real diagnosis either.”

“Dr. Jace!”

Dr. Jace turns immediately, sprinting back to Dick’s room. Bruce follows close behind, stomach sinking.

“He just started- I don’t know! He just-” Tim is completely lost for words, trying to keep his brother’s flailing limbs from hitting him.

“Seizure,” Dr. Jace replies, running to the medicine cabinet. “Someone get ice! A lot of it!”

Bruce is about to grab it, but Jefferson and a few others are by the doorway, announcing that they’ll grab the ice, and Bruce is left to try to keep Dick from knocking himself off the bed.

“Someone hold his arm still,” Dr. Jace orders, a syringe in hand.

“Here,” Bruce does as she asks, and she pushes the medication through the IV on Dick’s arm. He continues to shake for a few seconds, and then the tremors die down.

“Dick?” Tim asks hesitantly.

Dick groans. He’s still completely out of it.

“What happened?” Barbara asks, not for the first time this morning.

“His temperature’s up to 107. With a temperature that high, he’s at a high risk for seizures, brain swelling, organ failure, coma…”

The word “death” is unsaid but heard by everyone in the room.

“Ice?” Jefferson and Conner have returned, and they help pack it around Dick. Dick shivers and tries to push them off, but he’s too weak to do any real damage. And isn’t that a scary thought? Nightwing, too weak to move a five-pound bag of ice.

Bruce tastes bile.

Dr. Jace and the Bat-family stay in the room, watching as Dick’s temperature slowly ticks down from 107.1 to 105.4.

“I’ll run labs and a CT again,” Dr. Jace announces. “Call me if things change.” She sounds exhausted.

“Take a break, Doctor,” Bruce tells her. “He’s stable for now. We’ll keep you updated.”

Dr. Jace rolls her eyes and walks out. “Yes, ‘Dr. Wayne.’”

Bruce shuts the door behind her. He just… They all need a minute to breathe. A moment without people spectating their family emergency.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier,” Bruce tells Barbara.

“I know.”

“What did Dr. Jace say is wrong?” Tim asks hesitantly.

“Nothing,” Bruce reports back. “She’s claiming every test and scan is perfect. I seriously doubt this round of labs will say the same.”

“... Dad?”

Bruce’s stomach races to the floor. Dick isn’t asking for him. He’s only called him that twice, and in both situations, Dick was under severe duress. Bruce knows he’s asking for his real dad - his birth dad - but considering John Grayson isn’t going to show up anytime soon, Bruce strides to Dick’s side.

“Hey, chum. How are you feeling?”

“Don’ feel so good. Can we go home?” His clammy hand reaches out, finding Bruce’s wrist.

Gross, Bruce thinks.

“Real soon,” Bruce says.

Looking up, Bruce realizes that both Barbara and Tim are watching them, their eyes revealing the tragedy of the moment.

A beat passes, and Tim clears his throat. “What should we do? What can we do?”

“We should transfer care to the Cave. Or a hospital, at least,” Bruce says. “Jace has been a royal physician for decades. She was giving out bandaids and treating the flu, not… whatever this is. She’s out of practice.” Honestly, Bruce would’ve made the suggestion earlier if Jace hadn’t stayed in the room for so long.

“Alfred would flip if he had to manage this,” Barbara counters. “Dick needs an ICU.”

“Yeah.” Bruce moves to massage his temples, but Dick is holding onto his wrist with far more strength than he seemed to have before. He leaves his hand where it is. “I know. I want to talk to everyone first, if we can.”

“I’ll keep an eye on Dick,” Tim offers. “You can give me a summary later.”

Bruce frowns, eyes crinkled with worry and brow creased in pity. His poor, poor boys. Even now, Tim has a hand resting on Dick’s ankle, like he’s afraid he’ll die if he loses contact for a second. Though it would be best for everyone to be present, Bruce allows Tim this grace. It’s the least he can do.

Unfortunately, it’s also the most he can do. His poor, poor boys.

---

Tim hums a nameless song, watching the vitals monitor dutifully. He doesn’t fall asleep, even if he’s really tired and the bed he’s resting his elbows on is really comfy. If Dick’s fever spikes again, Tim needs to know immediately.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Tim notes, tracing an “R” into the back of Dick’s hand. “I missed you. But it’s… kinda hard to plan family dinners between meta-trafficker raids and foiling Granny’s plans and all that.”

Dick mumbles back, and Tim strains his ears, trying to form words with the syllables he’s given. When he comes up with nothing, he goes back to talking.

“I was thinking, we’re due for a game night or something. A movie. Anything but patrol or missions. It’s… It’s been too long.”

“Ugh. Tim?”

“Dick!” Tim grabs his arm. “Hey, look at that! You’re awake!”

“Yippeeeeeee,” Dick groans. “What’s… What’s happening?”

“Aquaman pulled you out of the X-Pit.”

“Oh. Right. The-”

There’s shouting outside. Dick jerks upwards, ice bags sliding off the bed and splitting against the tile. Little cubes of it go everywhere, skittering across the floor.

“Relax!” Tim urges, though he’s more than a little curious about what they’re yelling about. Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good.

“Wh’s… What happened?” Dick nods at the door.

“Not sure. Lay back down.”

“No,” Dick grunts, twisting so his legs hang over the edge of the bed. “Gotta… It’s my fault they’re yelling.”

Tim puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder, keeping him on the bed. “You’ve got a fever of 104 and are completely delirious, and you think everything is your fault. Just get some rest, okay? Bruce will be back in a minute.”

“No,” Dick insists. “Listen.”

Begrudgingly, Tim does. It’s muffled, but one voice, angrier and clearer than the others, rises above the din.

“Did Dick recruit me from Markovia just to keep me in the fold??”

Oh. Okay. Maybe this is Dick’s fault. Partially, anyway.

“Please, Tim,” Dick rasps. He sounds horrific and looks five times worse. Only an idiot would try to get up in his condition.

Tim, meet Idiot.

“Whoa!” Tim has to rush to keep Dick from taking an elegant swan dive off the bed and onto his face. “What are you doing?”

“Gotta-” Dick coughs. Tim can feel the heat coming off him in waves. “Gotta explain. He’ll listen to me.”

“I seriously doubt that, dude. Sounds like he’s not listening to anyone.”

“Tim, if you don’t help me, I’m going to keep getting out of bed.”

It’s not a false threat. He’ll do it. Over and over until he finally falls and breaks his stupid nose.

“Alfred should have left us all a long time ago,” Tim realizes. “Well, you and Bruce. I’m an excellent patient.”

Dick snorts. “Mr. I-Have-No-Spleen-And-Write-Case-Reports-When-I’m-Bleeding-Out.”

“One? Horrible name. Two, the spleen thing is a disability and not my fault, so quit shaming me for it. And three, the case report thing happened once.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dick says dryly. “C’mon. Just let me talk to them, and then I’ll go right back to bed.”

Tim has heard that one before, but he doesn’t have the energy to make the argument. “What-ever, dude. Your funeral.”

“I want ‘We Are the Champions’ to be the procession music. And funfetti cupcakes with blue frosting at the reception.”

“Dear god, just shut up,” Tim mutters, pulling Dick’s arm over his shoulders and hauling him to the door. He’s even weaker than Tim expected, knees shaking and barely holding any weight at all. “Just be glad it’s me here and not Alfred. He would not encourage this.”

“Oh, I’m not…” Dick pants, breath already gone after four steps. “... not brave enough to… ask Alfred.”

They make it out the door and into a crowd of chaos. Jefferson has his back to them, absolutely laying into Bruce and Kaldur’ahm. “That’s not an apology!”

“I’m not going to apologize for putting the mission first,” Bruce replies coolly.

“What good is the mission if we lose ourselves trying to fulfill it??”

“Jeff,” Dick croaks out. He leans heavier on Tim, and Tim ignores the spike of fear that evokes. “I think the person you’re really angry with is me.”

Tim thought Jefferson had already lost it. But he was wrong. Because now? Now, Jefferson loses it.

“You’re damn right you are! Mr. I-Don’t-Join-Teams Grayson, calling me up for some secret freelance op backed by the leader of the Justice League? Getting backup from a Bat drone? And thinking I wouldn’t notice?? You’re a real piece of work. You all are.”

“Jeff, I can explain-”

“Save it, Dick,” he grits out. “I know everything.”

Tim shifts, pulling on Dick’s arm to keep him from slipping. He’s holding less and less weight by the second. They really don’t have much time before he collapses.

“Dick, let’s-”

“No,” Dick says, voice stronger than it’s been since the X-Pit. “Jeff, I’m sorry for not telling you. I am. But if we’re going to beat the Light, we can’t do it splintered like we are. The teams don’t like to work together, so we had to find a way to make it work.”

“Sounds to me like you’re not sorry at all,” Jefferson replies, eyes narrowed. And he’s right. Most apologies followed by a “but” aren’t exactly genuine.

“I-”

“Just stop,” Jefferson sighs. “I’m gone.” He looks around the room, checking the balcony above their heads for movement. “Where’s Helga?”

Garfield speaks up, eyes tenuously bouncing between Jefferson and Dick. “Uhh… she left a while ago with Violet and the Markovs.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame her. Probably didn’t want them to see all this.” He shakes his head and walks off, disappearing behind the elevator doors.

“Wait, Jeff-” Dick doesn’t finish whatever plea he was going to make to convince Jefferson to stay. Instead, his eyes roll up in the back of his head, and he goes completely boneless.

“Dick! Dude, I can’t-!” Tim loses his grip, and the pair goes down together.

“Dick!” That’s Bruce’s voice, and Tim can hear the uncharacteristically loud snaps of his shoes against the tile. He falls to his knees beside them, pinching Dick’s shoulder to try to rouse him. “Are you okay, Tim?”

“Yeah,” Tim breathes. “Fine. What should we-?”

“Hospital,” Barbara says, rolling over to them. “I told you, Alfred would have a fit. This is not something we’re equipped to handle.”

And for once, everyone agrees.

---

“-doesn’t… doesn’ look like th’ Cave.”

“Cause it’s not, you big goof,” Barbara sighs. “You’re in the hospital. We’ve been over this.”

Dick hums. “Right.” His glassy eyes search the room. There’s zero recognition in them. He doesn’t remember a second out of the last two days here. “I ‘member.”

“Liar.”

“Hey, the coffee shop was out of almond milk, so I got you oat instead.” Tim hands Barbara a coffee cup and then takes a long sip of his own. 

Barbara hums. “I suppose that's fine. Maybe. What did you get?”

“However many shots it takes to fill a trenta cup.”

“You're going to have a heart attack.”

“One can only hope,” Tim replies wistfully. “Sorry, none for you, Dick. If you want, I can ask the nurse about injecting espresso into your IV bag.”

Dick grumbles but doesn't reply. Barbara's not certain he understood any of that.

“How’re you doing, man?” Tim asks, tapping Dick’s foot to get his attention.

“Just… really cold,” he murmurs, but the vitals monitor suggests otherwise. In fact, Barbara is tempted to ask the nurses to bring back the ice. His temperature only recently got low enough to remove it. “Where’s B?”

“Out stopping Granny,” Tim replies, and the desolate sob that evokes from Dick makes his shoulders hunch. “He’ll be back as soon as he’s done,” Tim swears.

But Dick just gasps like he finally came to the surface after a month underwater. “I- I can't get it out of my head.” He's shaking, voice pained and expression pinched.

Barbara runs her thumb back and forth across Dick’s hand. “Can't get what out of your head, Dick?”

Dick winces, whining from the back of his throat. “Granny,” he whispers like a curse. “She… She made me…” He lets out an inhuman keen and a choked off sob. Tears flow freely, and Barbara's heart breaks in two. He would never want Tim to see him like this. Even with Barbara, he can be a brick wall. But actively crying, begging for help? She doesn't know what Granny did to him, but whatever it is, she's going to pay for it.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Barbara tuts in a high pitched tone, like she's soothing a baby or a frightened puppy. “It's okay, Dick. You're here with us. You're safe.”

“No, you- you don't understand,” Dick moans. “You're not… not safe around me.”

Tim shifts awkwardly beside Barbara. “We’re all okay.”

“I…” Dick looks between the two, eyes red and expression stricken. “I hurt you. I killed you. Over and over and-”

Barbara's heart breaks all over for him. “That wasn't real, Dick. You never hurt us.”

“You don't get it,” Dick replies, louder and more insistent. “I did. It was real to me. I thought that was you and Bruce and…” He buries his face in his blanket. “And I still killed you. I peeled off your skin and dug out your hearts and kept you alive just long enough to-” His voice chokes off into a sob. It's a sound Barbara has never heard Dick make before. A sound she’s never heard anyone make before, so desolate and heart-rent that it makes her hate Granny even more than before.

Before Barbara can respond, Tim sits on the edge of the bed and pulls Dick to his chest. He’s a little hesitant, a little awkward, but it's a clear replication of something Dick has done for him in the past. He shushes Dick softly and rubs circles between his shoulder blades.

“You're safe, Dick,” Tim tells him. “We’re right here. I’m breathing, and so is Barb.”

Barbara squeezes Dick’s hand, and he grips back with the intensity of a vise.

“I’m sorry,” Dick murmurs feverishly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn't want to. I told her I wouldn't, but then she…” He never finishes the sentence.

“We're right here,” Tim promises. “We aren't going anywhere.”

Viago (boredom incarnate): I understand why you’re here. But why am I here?!

Zea (mockingly):  Because the First Talon said “pwease”?

Viago: Fine, WHAT am I here FOR?

Zea: So he’d have someone to exchange looks with.

Lucanis (snorts)

Viago (stares at her with big eyes, like o_O)

Zea: Your looks are the most look‑worthy.

Viago (rolls his eyes): Maker, what have I done to deserve this monster?

Teia (teasingly): You raised her yourself—no one else to blame.

Zea: No, he only refined what my mama put into me.

Viago: Told you she’s hopeless! Lucanis, you owe me one.

Lucanis: I’ll say “shanks” when this is over.

Illario: Got it with you lot, but why am I here?

All: You’re punished!!

Teia: Vi, don’t grumble. We’ve already scoured every single ready‑made — Maker forgive me! — dress shop just to pick out these seven. And it was hell of an ambulation, so you know!

Zea (clears her throat): Twenty.

Viago: And what exactly do you expect from me — aside from a scornful look and a bad mood?

Zea: A good mood and an approving look?

Viago: Don’t even hope for that, Idiot.

Lucanis: Viago, I beg you—stop calling my… collegue “Idiot”.

Illario (scoffs)

Spite (scoffs)

Viago (rolls his eyes to the back of his head)

Zea (sighs patiently)

Teia: Lucanis!

Lucanis: What?

Teia (irritated): Missed a shot! She won’t wait forever, you know that?

Zea (in a whisper): Yes, she will.

Viago: Ahem! I see you won’t untie us until Idi— Zea chooses her perfect dress. So GET TO IT ALREADY!

Zea (walks by the mannequins) Lucanis?..

Lucanis: I like the blue one.

Zea: The azure or the indigo?

Lucanis (stares at Viago in terror, uncertainly) Both?

Illario: It’s a trick question, cousin. Indigo’s not a single color, it has different shades… dark indigo in this case.

Teia: It’s deep indigo, Illario.

Illario: Dark.

Teia: Deep!

Illario: Dark!

Lucanis, Viago, Zea (exchange horrified glances)

Spite (cackles)

Zea: OKAY! No indigo in my life, starting from this second!

Viago (with hope): Leaving so soon?

Zea: Wearing BLACK leather! (to Lucanis) Mi Luz, pwease…

Lucanis: Green is your color.

Zea (looking at three green dresses — hunter green, pastel mint green and teal): Which one?!

Illario: Kill me somebody.

Teia: That can be arranged.

Zea: Fine! I’m actually pretty sure half of the Crows will come in indigo and half of the red-hair will wear green-something. What about purple?

Teia: Maker…

Lucanis: Huh?

Spite: YES! I WANT! THIS ONE!

Zea (patiently): No, Spite, Lucanis won’t wear this. (bursts with laughter)

Lucanis (rolls his eyes)

Teia (giggles): I would have taken a look at that!

Viago (rolls his eyes)

Zea: So, Spite, which one do you like better?

Spite (points at the more aggressive looking dress adorned with amethysts)

Zea: Thank you, querido. (to the men) See? It’s not that hard, you just need to like the woman you’re helping!

Viago: I’m not here to help you with this nonsense!

Zea: Why are you here then?

Viago (indignant): THAT was my initial question, to begin with!

Lucanis (in an apologetic tone): For once, I agree with Spite. You’ll look beautiful in this gown.

Illario (examining something on the ceiling, under his breath): But not for you, cousin.

Lucanis (trying to kill Illario with his gaze)

Spite: FOR ME!

Lucanis (trying to disintegrate Spite with his gaze)

Teia: Actually, I think he’s right. Leave the extras to me, would you?

Zea: I. Want. Butterflies. End of story.

Teia (raising her hands defensively): Fine! Why so tense?

Viago: Finally! Now UNTIE ME!

Zea (throws Viago a knife): Oh! And I want gem-adorned sheathes too!

Illario: Lucanis, just leave the woman alone and let her see the one who can appreciate her already!

Spite: YES! ME!

Lucanis (flushes, reaches for the knife stuck in Viago’s armchair, cuts the ropes, sticks the knife back)

Viago (growls in frustration)

Lucanis (comes up to Zea, hugs her possessively)

Teia (giggles): Oh, you’re such a dear to your colleagues, Lucanis!

Illario (drawling): Use WORDS, cousin!

Spite: TELL HER!

Lucanis (whispers something into Zea’s ear)

Zea: When?

Teia (clutches her chest tight in excitement) Is it really happening?!

Lucanis (whispers something into Zea’s ear)

Zea (to Lucanis): Not a chance!

All: WHAT?!

Zea: Spoilers. So… a challenge with an asterisk: help me choose a dress for my friend Naimeryn.

Illario: How are we supposed to do it? We’ve never seen her before!

(Zea leaves the stage)

Illario: Did I say something?

Lucanis: You always say something!

Illario: You should learn by my example!

Lucanis: No, thank you.

Illario: Bad for you.

Lucanis: I can figure it out with—

(Zea comes back to the stage in the makeup of Naimeryn Thorne, a Grey Warden)

Viago: Huh?

Teia: Does she really walk like that?

Zea: Just help me out, that’s all I ask!

All: How?!

Zea (shouts): Leave!

All (perk up from their places)

Zea: Illario, stay!

Illario (in a seductive tone): Ooh, I’m flattered, mi alma.

Lucanis: Over my dead body.

Spite: ZEA IS MINE!

(Teia and Viago leave the stage trying to go unnoticed)

Zea: Ahem!

All: What?!

Zea (bats her eyelashes at them): Stop fighting, boys, that’s not who you really are!

All: Wrong!

Spite (to Zea): YOU LOOK. DIFFERENT. SMELL. SAME.

Zea: So far you’re the most helpful today, querido.

Spite (smiles and purrs)

Lucanis (with tension): How can I be of use for you, Gatita?

Illario: Firstly, stop calling the woman “kittie”!

Lucanis: Firstly, stop calling Zea “woman”!

Illario: She’s more of a woman than of a cat.

Zea (roll her eyes, smoothly): I chose thirteen gowns for Naimy. I think I should cut it to five?

Illario (drawing two mannequins closer to the chosen-one purple dress): If she’s really that bright a personality, I’d pick at least these two.

Zea: Hm… Nice choice, cousin… oh, sorry, Illario!

Lucanis (snorts)

Zea (to Lucanis): Not helping.

Lucanis: My apologies. Nice choice, cousin.

Zea (grimly): Better.

Illario (amused): Are you really trying to train First Talon?

Zea: You’re next, Illario. (points at yet another dress) What about this one?

Lucanis: Looks ethereal, if you ask me.

Illario: No one is asking you, cousin.

Zea: I am. But go ahead, I’m about to kick something soft.

Illario: Like my soul?

Zea (looking below Illario’s belt): Like your—

Licanis: Gatita!

Zea: What?! Butt is a decent word.

Illario (in a seductive tone): Oh, but my butt is not soft, mi alma, it’s as hard as a—

Lucanis (groans): Illario!

Illario: What?! As a walnut! Ironbark!

Lucanis (in frustration): As your head.

Spite (cackles)

Zea (all patience): Two. More. Please. I think this one is nice. And… this one! (drags the chosen mannequins together) Now, will you help me get these to the Lighthouse?

Lucanis: You can count on me.

Illario: What do I get in return?

Zea: I’ll say “shanks”?

(dimming lights)

Lucanis (from behind the curtains): So, the Dellamorte family proves to get along quite well…

All: WHAT?!