Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She doesn't remember how she escaped.

She doesn't remember breaking the bonds that held her or tearing through the fragile, fragile, fragile flesh-and-blood bodies of the scientists and GIW agents.

She remembers breaking down the steel doors, forcing them open with bloody fingers. Bursting into the room where she was holding the three of them, crushing the bones of her paren- the monsters as they stood over her little brother's eviscerated body. 

Taking the three fragile, cracked cores when their forms buckled from too much damage, escaping through the basement portal, and leaving behind a bomb that exploded and destroyed everything after she passed through the portal.

How she somehow ended up in Far Frozen, Frostbite carefully but urgently taking the three by the arms and running to the nearest operating room. Another yeti taking her to stitch up her wounds. As soon as her head touched the pillow of the bed, her eyes gave way, closing.

The years passed in a blur. While Frostbite tended to the cores, stabilizing them and making sure the cracks closed as much as possible. Jazz was going through a lot; after she woke up and her wounds closed, she was taken by Pandora. 

The four-armed woman told her flatly that she was a strong young woman and would be proud to teach her to fight like an Amazon, because obviously her mind was her own torturer and she needed to focus on something else. And so she ended up spending years in the Acropolis, learning and fighting.

 Training until her hands bled, her muscles screamed, until her limbs gave way, Pandora dragged her to Far Frozen for healing, before starting over again.

(Years, ages, centuries...time is strange in the Realms; who knows how much time she spent there?)

Dorathea somehow got through those years, settling into a routine. Taking Jazz to tea parties with her, teaching her the ins and outs of nobility, and giving her lessons to keep her occupied while she was with her and not at the Acropolis.

Eventually, it comes to the point that Frostbite can't do anything more to them. Their cores are stable, but their human forms are completely dead, their bodies still on their homeworld and probably unusable. 

(rotting, rotting, turned to dirt by now)

That's how she ends up "pregnant" with three cores, at Clockwork's suggestion. Which three need more than her DNA to restore their human forms, luckily she has plenty of ectoplasm and a proto core that could flirt more of the environment for them. Luckily, she won't have to deal with any pregnancy symptoms until she finds a man liminal enough to impregnate her. Until then, she won't have to worry about having something like a miscarriage.

That's how she ends up in a different universe, years removed from her birth year, with a suitcase and documents that prove her existence. More specifically, her dimensional counterpart, she can't help but feel bad about basically replacing her counterpart. The woman recently died, alone, by committing suicide, unable to cope with the Great Depression. All Jazz had to do was get rid of the body, and she managed to take her place; her counterpart had no close friends, her family having recently died.

 She's younger than herself, but she can make it work; it helps that she doesn't seem to have aged at all since she entered the Realms.

Things are easy at first, even cheerful, she has enough money from pawning the jewelry she took from the Zone to buy a nice, sturdy house in a quiet suburb. But then things start to take a turn, neighbors ask about a husband or family, and she realizes how hard it will be to find a legal job during this time.

But she gets over this quickly.

(Just like she did so many times before with the nights she stayed up taking care of her little brother when their parents were too busy with their precious research.

Every time she got food when she noticed that the one the Fentons left for them was too contaminated.

The many times she inserted herself into the social groups at school so that the other kids wouldn't know she was the daughter of the town's crazy people.)

She wore a gentle smile, a soft voice, a soft conservative floral dress, and her hair tied in thick curls, standing in a way that made her height less noticeable but not hunched over.

Lies coming out of her lips like honey, lies and half-truths.

Her husband is busy, recently promoted, and saving up money to start our little family. He recently saved enough to buy us this house. Unfortunately, my parents recently passed away.

Gentle smile, gentle eyes, the image of a good and gentle wife who wouldn't hurt a fly. The beautiful Jasmine, with her blue eyes and red hair, may be a little tall, but obviously her husband doesn't mind.

The first target is easy, much easier than expected. His throat opens like butter under her blade; watching him choke to death is easier. The money isn't much; it's her first time, she has no reputation, and the job wasn't much—just a simple office worker who pissed off the wrong people.

The next jobs is a mistress of a wealthy businessman, then an aspiring gangster trying to make a name for himself, and a respected teacher who has become too tactful with students. The targets continue, and it doesn't get any harder to see the light leaving her eyes. The jobs are getting better and better paying; she's starting to build a small nest for the future.

She smiles gently at the neighbors as she hands a cherry pie as a gift to the nice old lady across the street, made after she got home from her last job and wiped the blood off her hands.

The lovely Mrs. Nightingale, whose beloved husband is so busy with work, who cooks so well and is so good with the neighborhood kids and is obviously an incredible wife and mother. With such beautiful blue eyes, long red hair, and flawless skin.

No one notices how her eyes are perhaps a little too bright, how her skin is perfect, how her face seems sculpted, or how her canines are too sharp. Her movements are too quiet; her lines seem practiced to move so that her height is overlooked.

Chapter Text

She makes a name for herself and gets good at it, of course. She's strong enough to crush their heads; running away from her would be impossible for most people. She can fight; she doesn't lack technique.

(years, maybe decades, of fighting, hitting, parrying, bleeding, muscles screaming to stop—you have to rest, your limbs giving out so many times you stop).

The money is good; she saves it and saves it where she can. Shooting, stabbing, beheading, poisoning, even honeypot. She doesn't care; it's not like she's actually sleeping with any of them; they all end up dead before that. She can't muster enough emotion for them to care.

As the years go by, Mrs Nightingale doesn't seem to age, and her neighbors start asking questions about her so-called husband. After all, it's been a while; it seems like it's time to start a family. She's moving with her husband to another part of the state; her cousin with dark hair and brown eyes is moving into that house after a few years.

It seems that with a mask, a wig and slightly different contact lenses, a little makeup and she looks completely different. It's not too hard to pass off as her own cousin. Life goes on. Jazz returns to work as if nothing has changed, even though years pass.

Laughing at the target's joke, she flashes him a beautiful smile, teeth bared, eyelids half-closed, eyelashes fluttering. She accepts the glass of wine indulgently, her fourth or seventh tonight, taking a sip. Her eyes scan the exit from the ballroom, watching for anyone passing by the door who might see her leaving with the target, not that there's much to connect her current appearance to her current civilian identity, but still.

She removes the hand that reached his waist and playfully turns her back to the target and walks towards the door, swinging her hips deliberately. The target follows her down the hall to one of the hotel rooms.

She grabs him by the collar of his bag and pulls him inside, closing the door behind her. The idiot looks aroused as he falls back onto the bed. It doesn't take long for her to have him under her with her hands on the back of his neck, her hands moving quickly and then snapping his neck. She gets up from the still-warm radiator, picks him up carefully so he doesn't bleed, and carries him to the bathroom.

She places him in the bathtub, goes and opens the bag she left there earlier, takes out the knife, and uses it to disconnect the head from the neck. She puts the head in one of the plastic bags she had prepared, then in the bag, wipes the blood off it and the stump, and then carelessly throws the body under the bed. She takes off her sleeveless dress, putting on her full costume and putting the mask on her face. She wipes away any blood that might drip with a prepared towel. She puts the dress in her bag, along with her knife and head, and closes it.

She throws her bag over her shoulder and walks to a window, opening it and climbing out.

Ra's can be a very patient man when he wants to, but that doesn't mean he doesn't wear his shoulders bored. Like here, standing on a rooftop overseeing an important mission in the building across the street, but boring and with little chance of going wrong. Of course, he wouldn't show it; on the outside, Ra's al Ghul is perfectly composed, a picture of elegance and absolute patience.

So, when he sees a figure coming out of a window of one of the neighboring buildings to the one he is guarding, he doesn't miss the opportunity and sets off after the mysterious figure. As soon as he catches up with her, he draws his sword and advances towards the figure, who escapes the strike and dodges.

The figure turns around, a short blade slicing through and clashing with his sword. He can see it more clearly now. Slender, long-limbed, obviously feminine, and only slightly shorter than him. He swings his sword once more, this time aiming for the beautiful criminal's neck.

She dodges again, slicing her neck out of the way of his blade, her leg aiming a blow at his head in retaliation. Which he blocks with his arm at the last second, making him grin with his teeth when he feels a pain in his arm at the contact.

He frowns and gestures to them to stay away from him today when he notices that they were going to interrupt his fight.

He is knocked to the ground because of that millisecond of inattention. The woman comes to punch him in the skull, but he moves his head out of the way, her fist making contact with the concrete roof instead of his skull. His sword was get out of his hands when he was knocked to the ground. He grabs her wrist as she goes to stab him in the head with her other hand. His knee hits her in the abdomen and knocks the air out of her lungs, giving her the opportunity to dodge from under him.

Their fight continues, and Ra's can't help but take immense pleasure in dueling this fascinating woman.

His neck hurts, he has several cuts on his body from her knife, and his eye was almost gouged out. But he loves the rush he feels while fighting the mysterious woman. They both fight as if they want to rip each other's throats out; he's sure she dislocated her arm at some point and put it back in. He feels alive; he can't help but enjoy the intoxicating presence of women.

So when he manages to catch her on the floor, holding her wrists above her head with one hand. And the other is grabbing her chin as he leans towards her. "And who could you be, جميلة? What's such a wild beauty doing here tonight?" He leans closer until his lips touch her earlobes. "And would you be interested in continuing this wonderful battle somewhere more private~?" He asks, his voice taking on a husky tone, the words dragging on his tongue.

Jazz looks at the man who fought her, who bruised her ribs, dislocated her arm, and fought like a monster; she's sure a blush is appearing on his face behind the mask. His green eyes seem to want to devour her, looking at her with vicious intensity. And how could she not agree when that deep, devilishly hot voice asks her that? The voice of the man who made her feel alive like no one else had since she got here. Her cat can't help but purr.

(Mine, mine, mine, strong, good, good, good mate)

She leans into his touch, looking at him through her eyelashes. "You can call me Shade, stranger. And I'd be more than happy to." She releases her hand and moves it to his chest, her fingers playing with the material. "And where would you suggest?" she asks, curious about how far the man will take this.

He grabs her by the waist and pulls her to her feet with him, pulling her against his chest. His hands grab her below the knees and lift her bridal style. She can see one of the figures who followed them picking up her bag.

Her attention is quickly distracted, however, by the man's lips capturing hers in a blood-curdling kiss. Her gloved hands go into his hair, deepening the kiss. She can't help but notice how good it tastes, that vaguely acidic taste that seems to electrify her and a strange aftertaste like a wine aged in the best way.

At one point they arrive in a hotel room, her mind spinning as she is led to a bed. She clings to his chest, her lips moving against his, wanting more.

The rest of the night becomes a blur, that taste lingering on her tongue.

Chapter Text

The next morning is a combination of hangover and shyness, along with the rush to get the target's head to the employer for payment.

She didn't wake up with anyone else in bed, although it was early, not that she cared much. Noticed her bag on a chair next to the bed along with her boots and the suit she must have taken off at some point. Dressed quickly, pulling her hair into a tight bun, trying to make it look half-presentable without a hairbrush

Jazz looked around, really looking at the room, and the first thought that came to mind to describe it was luxurious. A massive four-poster bed, marble walls, and she was sure the sheets were made of silk. And moved on, having no time to waste if she didn't want to be too late.

She moves to the window and pulls aside the curtains, breathing a sigh of relief as the sun barely peeks over the horizon. Puts on her suit and shoes, taking her bag with her as she walks out the window.

Jazz doesn't think about the night she had with the green-eyed stranger. Yes, it was certainly quite memorable and enjoyable, but she has work to do if she wants to get paid.

The silence is oppressive, her knees give way, and her breathing becomes shallow. One hand goes to her flat stomach while the other goes to her chest. Trying to listen to what she thought she heard, her breath catches in her throat as she waits in silence for the grave of her living room.Then she hears three quiet, synchronized thumps in her stomach.

The heartbeats of babies—she lets out a relieved and happy laugh, a little manic. The corners of her mouth stretch into a wild smile; it hurts, and her gums are visible. She laughs loudly with her purple shoulders shaking. Tears well up in the corners of her eyes but don't escape. Both hands wrap around her waist, taking deep breaths to calm herself.

A giggle escapes her throat, lifting her to her feet and rocking her. "Just my luck…hahahaHAHAhHaHAHA!" Jazz lets out another giggle. Spins on one leg, eventually falling onto a couch.

 Looks at the tray, her gaze moving to the clock on the wall. "The time has finally come." Jazz closes her eyes, her smile calming slightly. Her left hand was still resting on her stomach. She sits there with her eyes closed and her ears pricked up, listening to the silent beats of her three tiny hearts.

'Looks like I'm going to have to create another cover story...probably a new identity too.' Her eyelids half open, her gaze drifting thoughtfully to the wall where she keeps the safe with her collected money hidden. 'I've saved enough money over the years to support myself and three children for a while. But I'll still have to save up more money for the later months of pregnancy and emergencies.' Jazz presses her lips together in a straight line.

 Gets up from the couch and rummages through the house, gathering up the various fake IDs and a map of high-ectoplasm areas in America. Grabs a notebook and pen, starting to make checklists. She needs to be prepared for the later months of pregnancy and beyond. But also get as many high-paying jobs as possible over the next three or four months, preferably assignments with low risk of physical conflict.

 Stops in the middle of the notary, staring blankly at her notebook. Her mind drifts back to that night.

'That guy was obviously someone important, the leader of some kind of organization. His subordinates seem well-trained.' She lets out a thoughtful "hmm" and stares at the page, contemplating.

She's finally decided.

'Danny, Ellie, and Dan don't need a father. And I don't see why I should try to contact him. It could put them in danger, and I don't see why there's too much benefit in including him. If he ever notices and comes to ask if they're his, then I'll tell him the truth, but I don't see why I should look for him.'

Months pass like this. For the first three and a half months, Jazz does as many missions as she can that pay well with low risk for her. In between missions she arranges the next identity. Keeping her natural hair and eye color, Jasmine Nightingale's granddaughter looks a lot like her late grandmother.

Jazz wonders what Danny, Dan, and Ellie would think of her passing off as her own granddaughter.

She decides they would find it hilarious.

The move takes place between missions, the documents are forged, and the apartment is bought in a decent part of town. Furnished, baby stuff purchased. The nursery was decorated with spiritual motifs, with the night sky drawn when better on the ceiling and the left wall. Carefully drawn maps on the right, along with compasses.

Shade practically disappears from the face of the planet when Jazz is 4 months pregnant and it is decided that it is time. She erases any trace that could lead to her and leaves subtle and not-so-subtle false trails in other countries, trails that are misleading and that all disappear. She stops in Spain. She leaves from there back to the US, completely avoiding legal transport, finally sneaking into the cargo hold of an airplane.

Which leads to this moment, in the hospital, in a delivery room, screaming her lungs out as she pushes the baby the size of a small melon out of her. Her nails rake the sheets on the hospital bed as she lets out blood-curdling screams at her own ultrasound.

She manages to take a ragged breath before the doctor tells her that the next one is coming.The hours that followed were blood, sweat, ana tears.

Both on her part and the medical staff's.

But it was all worth it to hold the three of them in her arms, healthy, safe, and whole. To feel their little hearts beating and their cores pulsing.

She was exhausted but stubbornly stayed awake when the doctor asked her if she had thought of a name for the triplets. Her finger caresses Danny's cheek. "Danyal Sirius Nightingale." Then she moves to Dan. "Dante Antares Nightingale," and finally to Ellie. "Hellen Diadem Nightingale."