Rex and Blayze story

 He'd been in the classroom, his head down on his desk, eyes shut and breathing slow through his mouth when Blayze found him. It wasn't an entirely abnormal way to find him. These past few months, Rex had spent many hours riding out waves of nausea and ill health by just putting his head down and trying to push through it. He'd always been the type to try and tank pain and illness as best he could, he could never rely on his family to look after him when he felt ill, they rarely believed it unless they witnessed him puking his guts up, so he'd learned to deal with it by grinning and bearing.

A stressful and complicated pregnancy was just another thing on that list, really. He'd struggled his way through such severe morning sickness that his weight had plummeted at an alarming rate, managed to escape his shitty parents (thank god for Blayze and his family being willing to put him up, because his own parents would have done everything they could to try and force an abortion and then moved Rex to a girls only school while tripling their shitty efforts to force him to be more feminine), and was now basically in the home stretch, still nauseous but at least able to eat now, constantly dealing with whatever aches and pains, and dealing with more than his usual baseline anxiety. It probably sounded bad, but he was looking forward to when this whole thing would mean he wouldn't be able to go to school for at least a while, but that was more a 'badly bullied' thing than anything else, and yeah, teen pregnancy had not helped that whole thing.

He didn't hear the door open, kind of zoned out, and jumped out of his skin when Blayze put a hand on his shoulder.

"Shit, sorry, Rex. You okay?"

With a soft groan, Rex raised his head, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Feeling sick?"

"Got a migraine halfway through class. Professor didn't offer to get the nurse and I didn't ask. Fuck all can be done for it anyway."

Blayze pulled up a chair next to him, rubbing his back soothingly. "Anything I can do? Or get for you?"

"Nah...that's nice, what you're doing there, but just chilling for now is good."

Blayze nodded. "Fair enough. When you feel up to it, we can probably angle to go home early."

"Together?"

"Of course together."

Rex gave a slight nod. "Sounds good."

"Quick question, though...are those my mum's slippers?"

Rex looked at his feet, flicking his toes. "I asked to borrow them."

"...Why?"

"Swollen feet. Can't get my own shoes on anymore. Like, fuck's sake, I knew I'd get the classic bump thing but I didn't realise I'd become fucking Bigfoot."

He couldn't help but laugh a little. "Yeah, that's not one I thought about much either."

"I've swollen up a whole bunch. It's like my limbs have been attacked by bees."

"You don't look that bad."

"You have to say that."

"No I don't."

"I didn't realise how much everything would fucking hurt, too. I never got migraines or auras before the baby, and right now I wish I didn't have a spine."

"Sorry, man."

"No, no, I'm sorry for being such a downer."

"Rex, seriously, under the circumstances I think you have a right to complain."

With a shrug, Rex leaned over, resting his head against Blayze's shoulder and shutting his eyes. He felt his boyfriend's fingers come up to play with his hair. It was nice. At least until he lurched forward with a hiss of pain.

"Rex?"

"Shit, sorry-"

"No, no sorry, what's wrong?"

"Just a cramp, sometimes the practice ones take me by surprise..."

"...You sure?"

He shrugged again. "I don't feel well. I'm gonna ask to go home." He stood, and Blayze went to stand with him, stooping to grab his bag for him before freezing.

"Rex. Rex. Rex?"

"Hmm?"

"You're bleeding."

"What? Where?" He craned his neck, trying to look over his shoulder at whatever Blayze had seen. His vision whirled uncomfortably and for a moment he felt he was going to throw up there and then.

"There's, uh, a smear of blood over the seat of your trousers?"

"Oh. That's not...not good..." Rex pressed his hand to his head again, really really not feeling well.

"Um...shit." Blayze definitely was not prepared for whatever this was. "Hospital. Fuck school, we should go to a hospital."

"Yeah..."

"I'm gonna get my phone. And maybe a teacher or the school nurse. I'm either calling an ambulance or checking the bus times, whatever gets us there faster."

Rex gave a vague nod and sat back down, putting his head on the desk again as Blayze ran out of the room.

By the time he came back, with help in tow, Rex had managed to pass out and fall onto the floor, which did little to help the sensation of panic clawing in Blayze's chest. No matter how regular an occurrence this had been over the past few months (because god did this man end up unconscious or in a hospital bed a bunch lately, to the point there had been talk about keeping him confined to a hospital bed for a while only for that to be thrown aside as unnecessary because of course it was) it was not fun to see his idiot boyfriend sprawled on the floor in his own blood.

One ambulance ride later, things weren't much better but Rex was alive and stable. The baby, alive and in ICU. Something about needing to be delivered very premature because of pre-eclampsia and placental abruption. Because of course anything that could go wrong would go wrong. If anything, Rex was pretty damn sure he had no intention of having any more biological children - if he ever got the itch to have another, it would be adoption for sure.

All things aside, little Scarlette Rosewood was going to have a good life. Her dads would make sure of it.

Speed Force Blues

 This whole speed force thing was great. All Digger had to do was wear a silly little bracelet and he could run just as fast as any Flash, at least for short bursts. Yeah, he could really see why those speedy bastards liked it so much and felt all high and mighty all the goddamn time. The wind in your hair, the way you could move without anyone seeing it, get away with all sorts of shit in the blink of an eye and no-one would be any the wiser - if only he could have trialed this in a full, lively and not destroyed and full of aliens city. Man, the felonies he could commit with this power. It wasn't just running fast, either. His reactions were faster, he was thinking faster, perceiving faster. Again, only for short bursts, but it was still amazing.

Made it all the more confusing, of course, when he started flagging, falling behind the others. Him! Their amazing speedster! They should have been struggling to keep up with him! But no, he could tell he was slowing down, having to push harder for the same result.

Well, Harley and Floyd did have a drone and a jetpack to get places, and the other guy was a fucking shark, so perhaps it was just a case of being the one guy who had to run everywhere and, you know, getting tired. So he did what he did best: complained.

To be fair, he had a lot to complain about beyond just being a bit tired. He was covered in alien foetus gunk which, by the way, stank to high hell, his feet hurt, he had a bomb in his spinal column (Waller's fault) and earlier today he had seen Evil Flash rip a man's heart out of his chest.

All in all, he was having a bad day.

The others weren't doing much better - life hung in the balance, the day sucked, and they had to listen to Digger complain constantly, which they had made clear they were sick of almost immediately.

Task Force X was having the closest thing they could to downtime between tasks. They'd cleared out a bunch of terminaut incubators and had stopped for a moment on the rooftop of what used to be an office building, a damaged billboard between them and the skull ship and, for the moment, none of the evil Justice League in sight.

"Boomer, can you shut your hole? I can't hear myself think."

"Thinking's overrated, Harls. Just take it easy and go with the shitshow."

"And end up like you? No thank you."

At that moment, his stomach cramped up badly before growling. He was hungry. Scratch that, he was starving.

It wasn't like Waller hadn't been letting them eat. Sure, everything right now was high stakes and the world was on the cusp of ending, but even she got the picture that if her task force was left to run on fumes, they'd be very poorly suited to the job of fighting off all these aliens and saving the world. He'd definitely eaten today, in the past few hours for sure, but right now it felt like an eternity ago. He felt achy and could taste acid in the back of his throat.

"Is anyone else fucking starving?"

Deadshot groaned, long since sick of the complaints. The other two gave proper responses.

"Nah, I'm good."

"I could eat."

Well, at least Sharko was on his wavelength.

"You just ate, like, half an hour ago." Deadshot pointed out. Digger's stomach insisted it had been way longer than that.

"I am large, and did not find our meal filling."

"And I," Digger jumped in, "I've been runnin' around all over the place, ain't I? While you two got it easy with your stupid flying tech."

Harley seemed more amused than anything else. "Hey, you're the one who chose ta steal the speed force thingy when there was a perfectly good Bat Drone there for the takin'." And really, could he argue with that? He settled for flipping her off before Waller's stupid voice sounded through their earpieces again.

"Task Force X, come in."

There was an overall air of annoyance as Deadshot answered. "We read you, Waller."

"We have an enemy presence in Midtown we need cleared out pronto. Get your butts down there and get clearing."

"We getting a 'please'?" Harley asked.

"No. Get moving. Waller out."

"Pff. No-one has any manners these days."

It was a relatively short jaunt to Midtown, but it still felt rougher on him than before. Maybe he was coming down with something, or all this alien shit was making him sick or some shit.

The Midtown area Waller sent them to was, of course, crawling with stupid terminauts. They'd barely gotten close before the things saw them and opened fire. Task Force X spread out to take them out, and Deadshot yelled something as he split off.

"Don't hold us back, Boomer!"

So shit, he had noticed him flagging. So maybe he had to pick up the pace, work a little harder to not be considered worthless again. So, he pushed through the fuzz in his head, trying to stay alert so he didn't, you know, die.

He was only three dead terminauts deep when one of them got a lucky shot in. He felt the impact against his shoulder blade, the sudden pain enough to make him drop his gun, and cursed as it skittered away just out of reach. With more of them closing in, he had to act fast.

As he raised his hand to take aim, he realised he was shaking. The gnawing hunger in the pit of his belly had quickly evolved into a sickly, clawing feeling and his head was pounding. He shot off two boomerangs as he jumped back, one of which missed its mark completely, and dived for the gun. He grabbed it and rolled, hissing as the fresh wound on his back was aggravated, and fired off a few rounds before scrabbling to reload. A curse or several escaped him as his stupid, shaky, clumsy fingers dropped a round and he looked up in time to see another one of those space bastards coming right for him. He just barely managed to pull back in time to keep his eyes intact, struggled to his feet and used the empty gun as a blunt weapon before using his speed to get some distance.

This turned out to be a bad move.

He didn't get even halfway to where he wanted to before he stumbled over his own feet and went sprawling with enough velocity to go arse over tits and roll himself into a wall. Using the wall to pull himself back up really highlighted how wrong he felt. His stomach hurt like hell and everything else either hurt or just felt plain weird. Despite feeling utterly starved, he was half convinced he was about to puke right there and then with how shitty and nauseous he felt, almost like the acid in his stomach was trying to break out in protest. The nausea was made much worse when he looked up and saw the whole world spinning around him, like being on a fucked up Gravitron ride. He clamped a hand over his mouth, only the hand was coated in foul smelling alien guts which really only ensured he managed to bring up a mouthful of bile and acid, and he pitched forward onto his knees as his vision swam out of focus.

"Boomer!" Harley's voice sounded muffled, but more than that it sounded panicked. He looked up, just barely managing to unsheathe a boomerang to fight back as the nearest assailant made contact. He felt claws rake his side and a projectile clip his arm, and he registered that his shield must be depleted before his head got slammed and white hot agony gave way to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.

"Aw shit! Boomerang's down!" Harley opened fire on the alien mauling him as soon as she had a decent shot.

"What happened?" Floyd asked through the comms.

"Think he got overwhelmed. There's loads of these suckers!"

"Where is he? Can you get to him?"

"Nnnnnnope. Can take out the suckers around him from here though."

"I am on him." King Shark stated, and a moment later, Harley saw him charge through to the fallen body. She felt a flicker of what could be relief as the big guy crouched over the fallen body.

"How is he?"

"He is unconscious and bleeding."

"Get him to cover," Floyd ordered, "We'll clear out the Terminauts and get him back to HQ."

King Shark lifted the body and, in lieu of anything better to do, slung it over his shoulder and jumped through a window. By some luck, the window led to what had once been someone's bedroom, though the room had long since been evacuated, or the owner had been killed or assimilated by Brainiac. The important thing was, this was an ideal place to place an unconscious person, so he swept the broken glass (and the duvet) off the bed before putting Boomerang down on it. He lay there, slowly leaking blood onto the sheets, and King Shark wondered how he'd gone down. He was, well, not exactly competent, but no worse than the rest of this ragtag group of criminals, really. Then again, at a time like this, one unlucky moment could be the end all.

He sat beside the bed, staring at him. On impulse, he reached out, wanting to just push some of Boomerang's hair off his forehead, maybe give a pat to the cheek - he had seen humans do that in a gesture of comfort in movies - but pulled his hand back when Deadshot and Harley started to climb through the window.

"I was not touching him!"

"Oooookay..."

"Hey, no-one's judgin', you do you, Shark."

The two sauntered over, taking a good look at their fallen ally. He was damn pale, one deep gash in his side, a shallower one across his back, a blast wound to his right arm and a bruise forming on his forehead. Deadshot pulled out a medkit and started on the worst of it, stemming the bleeding. "He'll need proper medical attention once we stabilise him."

"So how we gonna do this?" Harley asked. "Shove him in one of Flag's magic Pokeballs and bring him back to the Hall of Justice? Or d'ya think Waller would just let him die if she could? Maybe we could go to Luthor or track down our girl Wondy."

"The Hall has a proper medical facility and we can probably convince Waller that he's been a useful asset so far."

Shark gently scooped Boomerang into his arms, holding him to his chest. "It is strange for him to be so quiet. I have become quite accustomed to his foul mouth and loud nature."

"Yeah," Harley laughed, "he sure does make it hard to get any peace and quiet. You got him secure, big guy?"

"I believe so."

Deadshot nodded "Right. Keep him steady, we don't want to aggravate the wounds any more. Keep pressure on his side." He signaled for the group to move out and went first, checking the coast was clear before slipping out of the window. Harley went next, flipping enthusiastically as she went, and Nanaue followed after, leaping to the next rooftop and not minding if he damaged more of the windowsill.

He tried to keep the body steady and stable as they moved. No unnecessary jolting. The group travelled in a tense silence, broken only by the taunts of Brainiac's forces over the commlink. That and the occasional dying whale sound from Boomerang's middle. He had complained about being hungry earlier, but Nanaue himself was nowhere near the stomach growling stage of hunger, so he did wonder how a much smaller man who had eaten more than him at lunch last he'd seen him in the Arkham lunch hall seemed that much hungrier. Perhaps it was a human thing.

Boomerang groaned softly, his head lolling to the side and his cheek pressing against Nanaue's chest. A moment later, his eyes flickered open.

"...Sharko?"

"Boomerang. You are awake."

"What the hell happened? Aw fuck-" He shifted, and Nanaue tightened his hold to try and keep him still.

"We are not certain. I just know you were defeated in battle."

"Ugh...I feel well crook..." He pressed more of his face into Nanaue's chest and shut his eyes again. He still felt lightheaded and dizzy, and lying down wasn't helping. Why did everything hurt?

Wait, what was he lying on?

Whatever. He was too tired and sore to care.

Felt nice to be held when he was feeling like utter shit, though. Not even his mother had held him like this when he'd been sick as a child. He could tell Shark was tense, holding him pretty tight, but also trying not to use his full strength, trying not to hurt him any more than he already was.

"This is...feels nice..."

"What is?"

"Held."

He was slipping back out of it already. Definitely concussed. Nanaue looked between him and his uninjured companions. "Do I need to keep him awake?"

"Nah, that's a myth." Harley assured him. "Not much we can do for him here and now anyway. He wants to sleep, let him."

Each jolt as Shark leaped made his stomach lurch, but as the group tried to sneak through the rooftops, each leap brought the glow of Nanaue's body into view, and in his concussion addled mind, Digger thought it was pretty. And they were successfully avoiding clusters of terminauts, so he couldn't complain too much. Well, he could, but still. He curled inward, toward his injured side, where he could feel the warm, sticky sensation of being coated in blood and the sharp pain of a jagged wound.

"On your left, Shark!"

At that callout, Digger felt Nanaue's arms shift, felt himself begin to drop, enough of a startle to pull him back from the brink of unconsciousness, causing him to fling an arm out in panic, latching onto Nanaue's shirt.

"Don't drop me, don't let go..." He managed to slur through the haze.

"I will not." Nanaue promised, trying to hold him close with one arm while reaching for his gun with the other. They were already one man down, it wouldn't do to have them both out of action.

The next time he looked down to Digger, he had passed out again. Probably for the best.

It wasn't much longer to the Hall of Justice, and Nanaue felt no small amount of relief when they got there.

"We need medics!" Deadshot called out as they walked into the hall. There was no big clamour, no rush to help, barely a reaction at all other than a soldier to the left groaning, Waller pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration and Flag making a vague gesture over his shoulder, pointing them in the right direction.

"Would you believe that? We're out there, saving the world from the evil Justice League, and that's the respect they show us?" Harley griped as they made their way to medical.

"Hell, would you respect us?"

"I'd respect me, that's for sure. Especially with a big enough bat."

Nanaue placed Digger on the first empty bed he saw as gently as he could. Harley came and leaned over him, watching with a critical eye before poking at his cheek.

"Does he look, like, thinner to you?"

A medic came over, trying to awkwardly get around the giant shark to see to the man's injuries. Deadshot also passed a critical eye over him before responding.

"I don't know, maybe a little. He was starting to flag behind back there though, right before he got his shit rocked."

"Flag?" The medic asked. Deadshot shrugged.

"Said his feet hurt and he was hungry. We didn't have eyes on him when he went down."

"Oh! I did! He fell over, did a quadruple flip and then got his shit rocked!"

"Really? Damn, sounds like a show."

The medic turned to King Shark. "I need you out of my way."

He budged maybe an inch, but very much stayed hovering protectively over Boomerang. The medic heaved a sigh and squished herself in between them to examine and treat him.

"He regained consciousness briefly on the way back over." King Shark told the medic. "He seemed confused."

"Okay - give me room, shark, fuck - he's gonna need stitches on this..." A few more mumbles to herself as she sorted him out and then "Jesus fuck his blood sugar's through the floor. Okay, I've read a bunch of the files on the computers here, I think I have an idea what happened...See, from what I understand, when a speedster like Flash runs, they burn calories. The faster they go, the more they burn. They have to eat a lot to keep going. My guess is, connecting to the speed force with that gauntlet means he can run just like a speedster, and the drawbacks are starting to hit hard. He hasn't eaten enough to make up for all the high speed running he's been doing and has run himself right into starvation mode."

"So..."

"So we make sure he eats. Line his stupid jacket with snacks if you have to. Found, like, a locker stuffed with Oreos back there, go fill his pockets with those." She handed Boomerang's jacket to Deadshot, who held it away from him like it stank before leaving with Harley. She then looked at King Shark, who had moved somewhat out of the way but was still holding Boomerang's hand. "You're staying?"

"He didn't want to be alone."

"Cool. In that case, you're in charge of watching him for now."

-

When Boomerang next came to, he was lying flat on a bed, his top half stripped, bruised but bandaged, with an IV in one hand and the other being held by King Shark. He looked at their joined hands, then up at the shark with a frown. "Wha...?"

"You said it was nice to be held. I promised to hold until you felt better."

He didn't remember saying that. Or did he? Well...it did feel nice to be cared about. He wasn't dumb, or at least not completely dumb, he knew he wasn't well liked, so it was almost a pleasant surprise that someone did care enough to stay with him and keep him comfortable when he was ill.

"...Thanks, Sharko."

Shark gave a stiff nod. "I was made to stop cradling you while you were being treated, so I settled for holding your hand, but now you are awake I can hug-"

"Nah, naaah, you're alright, mate." He didn't think he could handle the others seeing the shark cuddling him like a soft toy. Sure, having arms around him, strong arms that could keep him safe and what the fuck was he thinking? "Look...my head's a bit fuzzy, what the hell happened out there?"

"...we have been informed that your use of the speed force has been burning more energy than your body can provide. Currently we believe you collapsed from hunger in the middle of a fight. Then an alien soldier slashed your abdomen and slammed your head into the wall."

"...well that's embarrassing..."

"You did try to tell us you were hungry. We very much brushed you off. Even in the things I have read about the Speed Force, this effect was not mentioned. It is fascinating to know, but our ignorance has led to you being hurt..."

"Man, I just thought I was gonna get to run fast, I didn't expect all this extra shit." He tried not to dwell on how it was a damn miracle he hadn't been killed yet, speed force or no speed force.

"The medic - her name is Annie and she is from Mammoth City in New Jersey originally, and-"

"I don't give a shit."

"-she is going to bring food."

"Now that I give a shit about."

"She said she is going to go through the rations to make sure you get what you need so you can get back out there and not die as quickly. Also she said we should fill your pockets with snack foods. Also, she agreed to show me around Mammoth City if we survive this."

A weird pang of jealousy unfurled in Digger's chest. "I could show you all around Central City if ya want." There was no way in hell he'd be going back to his actual hometown, and there wasn't anything worth seeing there anyway, but in Central he could show the shark...uh...huh, maybe the Flash museum? No, that was stupid, museums sucked and superheroes sucked.

Shark smiled, a genuine and interested smile, and it felt warm. "I would like that! I hear there is some fascinating architecture there."

"Uh...yeah...yeah, buildings and shit!" Fuck, he had nothing in common with this guy. "I'd be a shit tour guide."

"I would want to see whatever you have to show me."

His mind drifted somewhere dirty before he reeled it back in. It was best not to entertain the 'I haven't gotten laid since the last time I was arrested' thoughts.

"...Even if it was boring? Or a disappointment?"

"Even then." He paused, sensing a moment of vulnerability, wondering whether it was right to pry into it. "...Why?"

"I just...don't wanna be worthless."

"You have never been worthless-"

"You ain't known me that long, Sharko. I have a long, long history of being a fucking disappointment."

King Shark gave a frustrated growl. "You have been important to us. Not just as part of this team, as yourself. You are..." He tried not to hesitate, searching for the right words. Because as much as this man was a filthy, foul mouthed brat, shit talking everyone in sight and throwing his weight around like he's so much more than he is, there was a charm to him, a worthiness that Nanaue at least could see. "You have courage." Boomerang let out a half laugh. He actually laughed. "You do. Any other normal human would have fled in terror while soiling himself when faced with half of the things you have faced. Even when you have fled, you have come back for us with something that has aided us. We can write you off as stupid and uneducated, but in the moment you think quickly and act without hesitation. You have been a good companion, if annoying and unbearable at times, and you have the marks of a...a good friend and a decent warrior."

Was that the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him?

Definitely since he ended up in Arkham, it was.

He must have taken a little too long to respond, as he felt Nanaue's fingers carefully take his chin and turn his head a little towards him, saw him staring at him with those big, dark eyes.

Shit, maybe he needed to change the subject before he said something stupid and ill advised and potentially horny.

Nanaue took his hand away and moved it instead to just over Digger's wrist, rubbing his thumb briefly over the skin. It was a lot softer and thinner than his own, and here he could see the lines of the tattoos on their arms, side by side. A thought pinged in his head, a way to break the silence while his conversation partner was still scrabbling for a single, remotely normal, thought.

"In the Shark Kingdom, tattoos are a rite of passage, a symbol to be proud of. What do yours denote?"

Boomerang blanked. Really, what they denoted was that he had the money for them and no impulse control, or he had a really cool idea that he wanted marked on his body, like that skull in the top hat, that was cool. "Uhhh....a bunch of things!"

"May I...?" He hovered his fingers over the edge of one of the lines of ink and Boomerang, not totally sure what he was agreeing to, just knowing it involved touch and for some reason right now that was very appealing, nodded.

King Shark's fingers traced carefully over the lines of the tattoos, up his arm. He wasn't quite sure what the ink on Boomerang's skin could mean, but it was interesting. What looked like a fin, and above, surrounded by sun-kissed freckles, the skull in a top hat. Freckles were a curious thing in and of themselves, and Boomerang had many of them across his shoulders. Shark's finger trailed further, connecting dots from one of the skull's eyebrows, across the freckles, around the cardinal star and to the flowers at the base of his throat. He could feel the man's throat bob as he swallowed, the slight shiver that ran through his body. His finger drifted to the stars on the other side of his chest, tracing each one in turn, then down to the delicate wings of the dove on his chest before trailing across intricate words and down to the snakes on his lower belly. The way they curved and met in the middle was almost reminiscent of a heart, and he traced it down to the edge of Boomerang's pants before coming to a stop. The entire movement was slow, intimate and not at all unwelcome.

"How far do the tails go?" He asked before he could stop himself.

Boomerang smirked and thumbed the waistband of his pants. "I wouldn't mind giving ya a look-" Wait, this was Shark he was talking to. He could understand himself saying that sort of flirty shit to a hot girl, but this...maybe he was delirious from hunger or the concussion. Shark leaned in, staring right at him with those stupid eyes, and...

...Fuck, he was attracted to King Shark. The fucking shark was fucking hot. He was throwing all the denial out the window, possibly after setting it on fire.

A thought or two flitted through his head. Wondering what that skin would feel like under his hand, those teeth at his ear or throat, what it might be like to make out with a bipedal shark that could crack him in half if he wanted to, but hell, that could be hot.

On impulse, he reached up, his hand ghosting against King Shark's cheek. He could feel the bumps of rough shark skin under his fingers, feeling flat one way, jagged another.

"Hey, Shark, have you ever kissed a guy?"

"I have! He smelled - and tasted - of cigarettes and alcoholic beverages!"

He scoffed. "Well I can do better than that. Once I figure out how to navigate the big mouth and shark teeth..."

His hands were still shaking a little as he moved to grab Shark's shirt and tried to tug him down. Shark followed through, practically crashing down on top of him.

Which is, of course, how the others found Captain Boomerang and King Shark making out on the hospital bed.

Arcana Shorts

Portia and Jivanta
It was beyond shocking, to hear the truth. To hear he'd died before. It explained a lot, it had to be said, but that didn't make it any better. It explained why the other orphans sleeping rough around the city seemed afraid of him, and why he remembered nothing before waking on the beach, alone, afraid and barely able to do so much as sit up.

It also opened up a lot of questions, a lot of things that needed to be answered.

If Jivanta had been brought back to life by someone, and if Asra knew that someone had sought to revive him, then where had this person been the whole time? The way Asra spoke, it sounded as if he believed the person should have been with him - a man, apparently. But Jivanta had no idea who this could possibly be. The only people around him after he'd woken were either the orphans who screamed when he came near, or the clients waiting for their fortunes to be told. No-one had picked him up, taught him how to live, survive, or even just how to function at a basic level. A couple of the braver kids, who claimed to have known him before, had helped make sure he didn't die again by sharing what little food and clean water they'd had, but he had to teach himself how to do everything. Walk, talk, the little more fiddly things he'd learnt, such as sewing or swimming, and not to mention the magic side of things...he was still getting the hang of reading and writing, it was one of the things quite low on his list of priorities if he was honest, but by god he was going to read that book Portia had recommended to him.

All in all, this meant that someone had brought him back, taken him from the Lazaret before he could regain consciousness, and had then promptly dumped him somewhere to die again, probably knowing fending for himself wouldn't be an option at this stage. So why?

Why bring him back just to abandon him immediately?

Was he not what they had expected?
Was he not what they wanted?
Why was he not good enough for them?

He quickly jumped to the conclusion that he hadn't been wanted in the first place, that he'd just been some sick experiment, to see if it could be done.

With the other street rats avoiding him now, now he no longer depended entirely on a third party's help, he'd always felt very lonely. These past few weeks at the palace, he'd made friends, felt like he had a purpose, and this news? It brought everything from before crashing back down. He didn't have a purpose, he was just someone's test to see if they could overcome death and spit in God's face. He should have been dead. By all rights, he well and truly should have been dead.

He'd not realised he'd started crying until Portia was there, taking him by the shoulders, trying to speak. At first, the words didn't register. He watched her lips move through the haze of panic and distress, and chose to focus on the touch. The firm grip of her hands on his shoulders, the feather light touch when she moved to wipe his tears away. Solid, real, something he could focus on. He felt himself calm down, if only a little.
"Vanta? You hear me?"
A slight nod.
"Hey, okay, take a deep breath. There we go. And another one, yeah? There. That's better. Now listen to me, okay? Just listen close. You're alive. You're here."

He nodded again, breath starting to even out. This was not the right time to focus on this, to panic over this. There was a lot more going on, far more important things. Now was not the time to deal with this.

"Sorry...I just...I don't understand why." Her hands came off his shoulders, her fingers interlacing with his. "It threw me for a loop, I guess...I...can deal with this later. I need time to not be...quite so overwhelmed by it all."

"That's fine. Take your time." She flashed him a smile, bright and brilliant. "I for one think you're awesome."

"You...what? Awesome?"

"Yeah! You're a zombie magician! That is so cool!"

Jivanta let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. It was a surprise, and actually funny, but he was still on the edge of his little identity crisis breakdown. "Maybe that's why nobody wants me around. They're too afraid I'll eat their brains." He joked back, doing his best to keep the waver out of his voice. Portia's expression softened, and she gave his hand a squeeze.

"I want you, you know. I love having you around. Everyone at the palace does. There's a place you belong, there are people here for you, and you're the best person I know."

"...Thank you. I think I needed to hear that."

-
Julian and Twila
When ending up with someone half his height, Julian thought if anyone would be lifting their partner up to reach things on higher shelves, or spinning them excitedly with their feet clear of the floor, it would be him. Heck, in the early days of knowing each other, that's exactly how it was. Well, he would pick her up and twirl her around, at least. Often in the heat of the moment, out of joy or excitement, and the look on her face would either be surprise or amusement. Since getting to know her a little better, however, Julian had learnt that Twila was far stronger than she appeared. Just as he would spin her in the air, she quickly picked up the courage to do the same, lifting him as though he weighed no more than a leech. When they danced together, she would always find the perfect opportunity to dip him low and hold him there long enough to place a tender kiss on his lips. Now and then, when she couldn't reach something on an upper shelf, she would call him over to help, and though he would be able to reach it without any help, he would allow her to lift him. Their shared habit of sweeping one another off their feet was a fond ritual between the two of them, and they wouldn't have it any other way.

Like It's About To Burst

 Pain. It lanced through his skull, building up like steam pressure, like a boiler about to burst, like the place just behind his eyes had been put in a trash compactor and left to be squashed. Like something was trying to push his eyeballs out of the way and crush everything else into dust.

It wasn't Hartley's first rodeo. He'd had migraines before, worse ones and all, so he had his way of dealing with them. In this instance, that way was to lie in his bed with the lights off and the curtains drawn, an arm slung over his eyes, and hoping none of the other Rogues came bursting in, or that he didn't throw up. See, the problem with a migraine this bad was the accompanying overwhelming nausea rolling through him and the fact that any over the counter painkiller did jack shit to help.

It had been an issue for a long while. The stupid experimental implants he had in his skull caused plenty of them on their own. They'd pick up every sound with no filter, were difficult to adjust for volume, and sometimes just gave him a tinnitus-style shriek for ten minutes straight. Really, if his parents hadn't believed so intensely that his deafness had needed 'fixing', he was quite sure he'd be having a lot less problems.

At least it allowed him to listen to Queen, he supposed.

He took deep, steady breaths through his mouth, trying not to grit his teeth. He could feel the nausea clawing up his throat. He could hear the distant, muffled voices of the rest of the Rogues. Yelling. Probably drunk. Probably playing some card game. Probably cheating and getting into an argument over who's cheating worst or who started cheating first. He couldn't block it out or rip his focus away without practically tearing his hearing aids from his skull. He decided, somewhere in the back of his head, that once this migraine had well and truly run its course he would try tinkering with the stupid things to try and improve them. His parents and the doctor who made them didn't want there to be a way to turn them off when they drilled into his skull, but god did he want to turn them off.

Tinnitus, drunken laughter, his own breathing, too loud in his ears, footsteps, laughter, crushing pain, searing pain, something knocking on wood, the wind picking up outside, the pain, the pain, that electronic shriek, claws in his brain, like it was about to explode, breathing faster, breathing louder, too much sound, too much noise, too much pain, he felt sick, he was going to be sick, he hated being sick, his parents hated him being sick, the servants hated him being sick, it was too much.

The door slammed open and his stomach lurched. A voice, louder and closer than the others, spoke, no attempt to keep it down. Too loud. Like a jackhammer against his skull. "Man, Henry, you're missing a party-" James, he vaguely registered before focusing on the much more pressing fact that he was going to be sick and there was no way he could hold it back any more. Hartley lurched to his feet, staggering past his friend and shoving him to one side so he could get out the door and down to the bathroom. He didn't turn the lights on, just lunged for the toilet and emptied his stomach. James stepped in behind him a moment later and flicked the light on. It was like knives to his eyes and he managed a miserable groan before puking all over again. Somewhere in the background he heard receding feet, a call of "Len, Piper's sick!" and the bustle of the other men presumably packing up their card game for the night. Guess the vibe was ruined by the teenager dying a miserable death a few rooms away.

This was the first time since joining the Rogues that Hartley had had a migraine like this, he registered in the back of his head as he tried to resist the urge to shove his face too far into the toilet bowl, his entire body wanting to fold and crumple under the pressure. When the stream of vomit finally ended, he kept himself there, holding onto the toilet seat for dear life, knuckles turning white, breathing hard through his mouth, eyes pressed tight shut. The light still stabbed through. He could taste acid and bile, was pretty sure some of it had gotten into his nose and his hair, and he could feel a cold sweat settling over him. Someone knelt beside him, a hand on his back, rubbing up and down in awkward circles.

"Kid? Henry?" Hands on his shoulders, trying to coax him to sit up. He tightened his hold on the seat. It was too bright out there.

"Lights." He managed in a shaky, hoarse voice. "I n-need the lights off..."

They went out and the relief was immediate. Swallowing hard, he let Len pull him up and he all but slumped against the man's shoulders as he removed his gloves and pressed the back of his hand to Hartley's forehead. Checking for fever, he guessed. His head was still pounding like it was about to burst. After a moment, Len huffed, not finding any sign of fever, and turned to the others. "Someone get a tissue or something."

Digger pulled some toilet paper from the roll and handed it over, and Len wiped Hartley's mouth and nose like he was a child, more gentle than he expected, and he couldn't object. There was probably vomit still smeared on his face, the whole world smelled sour. The tinnitus was back. Everything hurt.

"Blow." Len ordered, holding tissue to Hartley's nose. He did as he was told, not having it in him to argue. He managed to blink his eyes open in time to see the Captain depositing the tissue into the toilet. Someone leaned into view. Mark?

"He seemed fine earlier."

"Maybe that takeout was too much for his rich boy palate." Digger teased from somewhere behind him.

"Nah," James interjected casually and a little too loud, "he didn't eat. Just went straight to our room."

Was the whole team here? Well...that was embarrassing.

"Migraine." He managed to bite out through gritted teeth.

He half expected to be made fun of, all this fuss over a glorified headache, but instead Len coaxed him to look at him and sighed. "Still feel like throwing up?"

"No." He felt better now he'd emptied his stomach at least.

Sam was in the cabinet above the sink. "We have painkillers-"

"They don't help."

Len nodded to Mark and they both took an arm. "We're helping you up and back to your room."

He nodded. They lifted. A wave of vertigo crashed over him and he gagged, dry heaved, but stayed standing. The other two waited a moment, making sure he would be all right before guiding him back to his bed. He vaguely heard Sam offering to get a bucket.

Next thing he knew, Hartley was tucked up back in bed with more care than he remembered getting from his parents or the servants when he'd been sick back home. It was almost soothing, if not really quite weird. James was standing on a chair, trying to make sure any light from the street lamps didn't shine through any gaps in the curtains. To that end, he was currently trying to fix his own cape over the rail on one side, where the worst of the glare peeked through. A moment later, Sam was tiptoeing in and setting a plastic tub next to the bed, presumably in case Hartley did in fact throw up again.

It was getting quieter. The wind outside was dying down remarkably quickly, almost as if a certain someone was making it stop, and the rest of the Rogues seemed to be making a concentrated effort to keep the noise down. It also helped that Roscoe offered him a pair of ear defenders that were supposedly kept around for loud tech work or drilling. They helped.

Len came back next. He was holding a small sack made of suspiciously boomerang patterned cloth that he pressed into Hartley's hand before pressing said hand to his forehead. It was obvious what this was the moment the cold hit his skin. An ice pack. "Hold that there. Hope it helps."

Hartley gave a slight, tight nod of thanks and was once again left to rest, at least for a few minutes. He closed his eyes, relief settling in. The group's efforts were helping.

The door nudged open again, one last time for the night. There was a strong, spiced, sweet smell, and the sound of a mug being placed gently on the nearest table. He cracked an eye open again just in time to see Mick stepping away. He clearly noticed Hartley watching him, because he gave a quiet explanation.

"Ginger tea. It's supposed to help with pain and nausea. Thought I'd leave it as an option."

And then he was gone. It was dark, it was quiet, the pain was receding, and Hartley felt...warm. Sure, the Rogues looked out for their own, but...it felt weird being fussed over like this, like he mattered, not just for his position, but as a person. As a member of a group. As a friend, a brother, even. Like he was someone who belonged, and like he was surrounded by people who genuinely cared and wanted him to be well. Perhaps, it seemed, life with this lot wouldn't be too bad at all. And for a moment there, as he drifted off to sleep, thinking about how cared for he seemed now, his heart almost felt like it was about to burst.