#Alt 15 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sardonic-sprite · 2 years

Text

If You Ever Fall Down

Version 2

Whumptober Days 18, Alt 15, 19, 20

Batman, 3k words

Tim waited, panting, until his opponent was nearly on top of him before darting to the side, hearing the cage wall rattle and the crowd scream in glee.

"Slayer" staggered back, raising a hand to his head. The wires had made an imprint in his face, which already wasn't pretty. His grimacing leer made him even uglier, especially when he turned it on Tim.

"You're gonna pay for that one, you little brat!"

He lunged again, Tim dodged again. He hit the wall again. Staggered back with another furious snarl and lunged, missed, crashed for the seventh time in a row.

"Y'know," Tim quipped breathlessly, spinning away for the eighth time, "the definition of insanity--"

Crash.

"--is doing the same thing--"

"Raaahhhh!"

"--and expecting--"

Crash.

"--different results."

"You're gonna be a grease spot when I'm through with you!"

Tim dodged again, throwing himself from one wall to the other, curling his fingers into the cage's lattice just to keep himself standing. Slayer's nose was bloody when he turned around, and the audience shrieked in delight.

"Rob-in! Rob-in! Rob-in!"

"Get him, Slayer, he's a flyweight!"

"Little bastard!"

Tim's chest was burning. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep this up. Slayer was hurling himself indiscriminately about the twelve foot space, a cyclone bound to catch Tim in its gale. The screams and jeers of the crowd made his head throb ever harder, and he couldn't hear his brain yelp Shit! let alone think up a plan for victory.

He ducked down in a corner just after Slayer passed it, clutching the cage bars on each side so he could pull himself back up. His throat burned as he gulped down air. Or maybe it was just still sore from when "The Demon" had throttled him.

Slayer circled back as his fans screamed and pointed to Tim. He hauled himself up and tried to dart underneath Slayer's windmilling fists, but one foot caught on the other and he fell, pain stinging his knees and hands.

Tim rolled out of the way seconds before Slayer's fist could connect with his head, and tried to stand, but he was too far from the walls to pull himself up, and his aching muscles screamed no. He choked and coughed as Slayer kicked him in already cracked ribs, tossing him onto his back.

He couldn't breathe. His throat burned, his lungs burned, his ribs throbbed, the world spun--

Crack and a burst of pain in Tim's head, and he blinked away splotches seconds before Slayer headbutted him again.

He still couldn't breathe, definitely couldn't see, but he could feel the weight over his hips and the fist gripping his shirt, then the force of a massive object in motion.

Tim wrapped his arms around his head and jerked sideways right before the collision, and Slayer kept going, yelping in shock as he smacked his skull, not against Tim's nose, but against the concrete cage floor.

Deafening shrieks became utter silence as the hand on Tim's shirt went slack. He tried to squirm free, but gave up, panting as Slayer remained a motionless weight.

A hushed count began, sounding more like a cult ritual than a timer.

"--two, three, four, five--"

Tim squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands over his ears, not that it would do anything to lessen the headache or dull the increasing roar.

"--eight, nine, TEN!"

A cacaphony of cheers, catcalls, boos, and even death threats erupted. Tim whined as the agony in his head spiked, trying to curl in on himself and failing. He felt more than heard the doors to the cage open and footsteps stride in.

"And that's Robin with the victory, still undefeated after five matches!"

Slayer's weight was lifted, and hands grabbed Tim's shoulders and dragged him up. Someone raised his right fist in the air as a handcuff was clamped around his left. As soon as his arm was dropped, down went Tim, knees buckling, body pitching forward, about to bust his own head against the concrete if his captors hadn't caught his fall.

They jerked him back up and finished binding his hands, mercifully supporting his entire weight as they more carried than dragged him out of the arena.

Away from the deafening noise and stench of sweat and beer, it got a little easier to breathe. The black patches in Tim's vision began to recede, not that they left anything better in their places. It was just the same empty subway tunnel as always, full of rocks and gravel for him to trip on.

"How many fights are you gonna keep winning, boy?" asked the guard on his left.

"Not that many," cackled the one on the right. "Nearly went out this round!"

Tim didn't bother answering. He just stared at his bare feet and watched them go each out ahead of the other, trying not to catch on rocks or cracks. His knees sagged with every step.

"If only Batman could see you now!"

"He'd be so proud!" The man pretended to sniffle. Tim thought he brushed a fake tear from his eye.

If Batman could see me, Tim thought, you would be cuffed and concussed, and I'd be at home with Alfred's cookies.

But that was impossible. Bruce was currently laid up with a shattered hip, and for once was obeying Leslie's instructions to stay off it, although it was more likely that his body wouldn't let him disobey than his mind decided not to. By the time he healed enough to come after Tim...

Well, Tim wasn't actually sure.

The organizers weren't going to kill him, and probably wouldn't let other competitors kill him either. He'd seen enough people slapping money into each others' hands to know he was their most lucrative fighter. But he'd been in five fights so far in just two days, and his opponents kept getting bigger. Tim was wearing down fast, and if he stopped being entertaining, and therefore stopped making them money... they might kill him then, or let him be killed.

They did have death matches after all.

Tim would never win one of those.

They finally reached Tim's cell, and he hated that he was almost glad to see it because it meant the closest thing he could get to rest. The left guard held him up as the right one opened the door. Together they shoved him inside.

Tim stumbled, tripped, toppled over. He managed to take the fall on his shoulder and not his skull, but it didn't much matter. In seconds, the world faded to black.

«»«»«»«»

Tim's headache had become a migraine by the time he woke up. He groaned and curled in on himself, struggling to find a way to pillow his head on his arms and not the cuffs. The only position was killer on his shoulders, but he decided to take that over digging metal into his brains.

The floor was cold. And hard. Tim wished for his bed, or the couch in the library, or even the rug in the den. He wished for Tylenol and ice for his ribs, and Alfred's cooking for his gnawing stomach. He really, really wished for Bruce to worriedly hover and read stories and stroke his hand through Tim's hair and let Tim curl up on his bed with the fluffy comforter and call Dick to come and hold him close and gentle and warm--

Tim didn't realize he was crying until the tears seeped out beyond the edges of his mask, making the glue itch worse than ever. He cried harder at that, futilely rubbing at his eyes until he remembered to retract the mask's lenses. The tears dripped onto his arms and into his hair.

The force of his sobs made his head and ribs ache worse than ever, and soon he was gasping in order to breathe. He forced himself to stop crying then, as well as he could, which wasn't well at all.

Footsteps.

Tim hiccupped and swallowed his last tears, refusing to cry in front of his captors no matter how much pain he was in or how desperately he wanted to be home. He made himself sit up, bracing against the back wall so he didn't topple over.

Three men entered his cell. Two guards, interchangeable with any of the others, wearing cruel, excited smirks, and the announcer, who was the organizer of the whole vile business, as best as Tim could figure. His expression was dangerously blank.

"Hello, Robin."

Tim didn't answer.

"You are quite the impressive fighter, I'll admit. Only two other contestants in our history have gone so long undefeated. Unfortunately--"

Fuck.

"--that's boring."

Tim's stomach twisted. Were they done with him already? They couldn't be, it had only been two days! Rescue was still weeks away, Tim needed time, he needed to bargain, what did they want? Entertainment. What could he do to give them that?

"I'll lose," he croaked, as the announcer opened his mouth again. "If, if you want, I can, I'll lose the next fight."

"Yes, you will."

The guards strode closer, hauling Tim to his feet and pinning him against the wall. His heartbeat kicked into overdrive as one guard grabbed his left leg and lifted it to waist height.

"Wait--"

"Your winning strategy seems to be running away."

The guard pressing Tim to the wall grabbed his thigh in a vice grip. The other man tightened his hold on Tim's calf.

"No!" Tim yelped. "No, please, wait, I won't run, I'll--"

"No, you won't."

One guard shoved down as the other jerked up, and agony exploded in Tim's knee. He might have screamed.

He knew he was sobbing as they let him drop, jolting the break all over again. His breath came sharp and ragged, and fast enough to make him dizzy. Unless that was the pain.

"Let's see if that fixes our little problem."

The guards dragged Tim, still crying, back to the arena and flung him inside the cage.

He lost.

«»«»«»«»

Two more days, three more fights, and Tim was no longer worried about whether he'd walk normally again, but if he'd walk again period.

He had no way to immobilize the broken bones, and no way to stop his opponents from taking full advantage of the obvious weak point. The next "Bruiser" or "Breaker" or "Skull-Crusher" probably only needed to flick Tim's kneecap to reduce him to a puddle of agony. From there, one kick to the head, and he'd be out cold. Again.

And the worst part was, it was all for nothing. The audience's ecstasy at seeing Robin finally toppled from his throne had faded after the second beatdown billed as a brawl. Tim was boring again, and there was nothing anyone could do to change that.

Except throw him into a death match and snap every bone right up to his neck.

Tim knew it was coming, any day, any hour even. And he didn't want to die, but if it would make the agony and humilation just stop...

"Hey, little birdie, ready to fly away?"

This was it then. At least Tim wouldn't have to anticipate it for long.

He wondered if he'd meet Jason.

Or get to see his mom again.

Every limping step was a fresh jolt of agony, and Tim chewed his lip to shreds in the effort not to scream. He was so focused on denying anyone that satisfaction that he didn't realize they weren't going to the arena until the announcer's voice came at normal volume, tone clipped instead of excited.

"Here he is. Slightly used, as I said."

Slightly," snorted a low, mechanical voice that made Tim's blood run cold. "The hell did you use him for? Crash testing?"

It was the Red Hood.

The Red Hood, dressed in full armor with that freakish, near faceless mask, and bound and gagged at his feet was

"Nightwing!"

"Shut up, kid."

The left guard yanked at Tim's arm, knocking him off balance. He put more weight on his foot that his knee could take and cried out, crumpling before being jerked up again.

Dick hadn't reacted to his name, but he flinched at Tim's scream. Tim wondered what the hell Hood had done to him.

"We used him as a fighter," the announcer answered. "But he's all or nothing I'm afraid. The betting pools get too unbalanced."

"That won't happen with this one," Hood promised, kicking Dick. "Born performer, he is. He'll give you good shows, and he knows how to give an audience what they want."

"You sound incredibly confident."

"That's 'cause I've seen it. And I've seen him fight with half his bones broken. Lasts much longer than junior there, I guarantee."

"And what does the Red Hood want with Robin?"

"We have unfinished business."

Tim trembled. He knew what business Hood wanted to finish. He might as well just rent out their cage for a death match, no need to trade them Dick--

Trade them Dick.

"No!" Tim yelled. "No, don't--"

He was going to die either way now, but Dick couldn't be sold to this hell, he couldn't, Tim wouldn't let them. Dick was, he was, strong, and powerful, and hopeful, and proud, and unbending, and he couldn't live in this place and fight for nothing every single day, forever, because they'd never get rid of him because he could do what they wanted, no, no, no, no

"No! No, no, n--"

A hand clamped over Tim's mouth, and it wouldn't let go when he bit, or struggled, or even kicked, screaming, but it had to, Tim had to tell them no, not Dick!

"Very well, done, take the brat off our hands, then."

The guards flung Tim at Hood. He gripped Tim tight, holding him off the ground no matter how much he writhed and pleaded, "No! No, no, you can't, please--"

Hood just said, "Pleasure doing business with you," and threw Tim over his shoulder, hauling him away.

"And you, Red Hood." The announcer reached out to tilt Dick's head this way and that, like a child inspecting a new action figure. Dick didn't fight back.

"Nightwing!"

"Calm the fuck down, Robin," Hood hissed. They turned a corner and Dick was out of sight.

"No!"

"For fuck's sake."

Tim cried out as he was dumped on the ground. When the agonizing white-out cleared he was staring at a hard face with a red domino mask over the eyes, white bangs falling across the lenses.

"Nightwing is going to be fine," Hood snarled. "You are not unless you calm. The fuck. Down."

"No. Trade me back!"

"That's it."

Hood pulled back, reaching into a pocket for a syringe.

"No!" Tim couldn't fight, couldn't run, couldn't even move once Hood pinned him against the wall. "No, give me back, they can kill me, don't let them have Night--"

"Have a little self-preservation, punk." Hood griped, and there was something strangely familiar about the mask and the sarcasm.

The needle bit Tim's neck. Something cold flooded the vein and made him shudder.

"No," he sobbed.

And then it all went blank.

«»«»«»«»

Softness and warmth surrounded Tim, and he cozied deeper into it with a happy sigh. Someone chuckled, hand stroking through Tim's hair.

"Feeling better, kiddo?"

Tim opened his eyes to see, "Dick?"

"Yeah, Timmy?"

Tim blinked. Memory came flooding back, and with it a rising horror as he realized, wondered, feared...

"Are we dead?" Tim whispered.

"Are..." Dick frowned, looking confused. He leaned closer, peering into Tim's eyes. "No, sweetheart, we're not... why would you think--"

"The, the fight ring." It felt hard to breathe. "And Red Hood, he wants to kill me, and--"

"Hood... Oh. Oh, sweetheart, no. No one's dead, Tim."

"Well, technically," came a drawl from another room.

"Not now, Jay," Dick sighed. "Just get over here and say hi to your little brother."

"Brother?" Tim asked.

And then a man appeared, leaning over Dick's shoulder. A tall man, nearly the size of Bruce, with bright, almost glowing green eyes, and a streak of white hair hanging down over them...

"Hood?"

"Yes, and yes," the man said. He shifted, looking almost uncomfortable. "Sorry for, y'know, attacking you and shit."

"What the fuck?" Tim whimpered.

"Tim," Dick said slowly. "Don't you recognize him?"

"He never met me, Dickhead," the man scoffed.

Dickhead. Tim squinted, imagining a smaller, slimmer frame and blue eyes, and all-black hair, and saw...

"Jason?"

No. Impossible. Either Dick was lying and they all were dead together now, or Tim had been concussed so many times he was hallucinating.

"Well, I'll be damned."

"Yes, Tim." There were tears in Dick's eyes. "Jason's back."

"But... Hood... and he, you, he, he gave you to them--"

"It's ok, Timmy," Dick promised, brushing back Tim's hair. "The trade was a fakeout. It was the best plan we could think of to get you out safe and get me in to take down the ring at the same time. We're sorry we scared you."

"But... but Hood, Jason, he... he hates me."

Jason flinched.

"I hated a lot of people who didn't deserve it," he admitted, quiet and hoarse. "But not anymore."

"Bruce called me as soon as he knew you were missing," Dick said, glancing between Tim and Jason, "But Jay was the one who actually found you. He came to me, told me who he was, and said he had a plan to rescue you and shut down the people who took you."

"Oh," was all Tim could say. It was a hard thing to reconcile: Jason was the Red Hood, who had hated and nearly killed Tim, and yet now had saved him and called him brother.

It was hard to reconcile, but there was something wonderful about it, too. Jason alive. Tim alive, and free, and safe. Dick free, right beside him. He decided his questions could wait.

"Thank you," he said softly, looking from Dick to Jason. "For coming for me."

"Yeah," Jason murmured. "Sure."

Dick smiled. "Always, kiddo."

He leaned down and kissed Tim's forehead, smoothing back his bangs.

"Now get some rest. You're gonna need it."

Tim nodded. He felt Dick shift to stand up, and heard lowered voices talking a little away.

"We all need rest, actually."

"I'm fine."

"I know for fact you haven't slept in two days, little wing. Come on. I have two arms."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"You... you mean you haven't missed my hugs... at all?"

A heavy sigh and a grumble of, "Goddamn puppy eyes."

"Ha."

Warm weight sank the mattress once more, this time wrapping around Tim and pulling him close. His head was tucked under a chin, a heartbeat against his cheek. After a few seconds, another heavy, warm arm draped across his shoulders.

"I love you two," Dick whispered.

But Tim was asleep before he could reply.

#whumptober 2022 #no 19 #no 20 #alt 15 #knees buckling #repeatedly passing out #prisoner trade #tears #batman #fic #canon typical violence #jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake #bad things bingo #prisoner exchange

12 notes · View notes

sardonic-sprite · 2 years

Text

If You Ever Fall Down

Version 1

Whumptober 2022, Days 18 Alt. 15, 19, 20

Batman, 3k words

Tim waited, panting, until his opponent was nearly on top of him before darting to the side, hearing the cage wall rattle and the crowd scream in glee.

"You're gonna pay for that one, you little brat!"

He lunged again, Tim dodged again. He hit the wall again. Staggered back with another furious snarl and lunged, missed, crashed for the seventh time in a row.

"Y'know," Tim quipped breathlessly, spinning away for the eighth time, "the definition of insanity--"

Crash.

"--is doing the same thing--"

"Raaahhhh!"

"--and expecting--"

Crash.

"--different results."

"You're gonna be a grease spot when I'm through with you!"

"Rob-in! Rob-in! Rob-in!"

"Get him, Slayer, he's a flyweight!"

"Little bastard!"

He couldn't breathe. His throat burned, his lungs burned, his ribs throbbed, the world spun--

Crack and a burst of pain in Tim's head, and he blinked away splotches seconds before Slayer headbutted him again.

He still couldn't breathe, definitely couldn't see, but he could feel the weight over his hips and the fist gripping his shirt, then the force of a massive object in motion.

Deafening shrieks became utter silence as the hand on Tim's shirt went slack. He tried to squirm free, but gave up, panting as Slayer remained a motionless weight.

A hushed count began, sounding more like a cult ritual than a timer.

"--two, three, four, five--"

Tim squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands over his ears, not that it would do anything to lessen the headache or dull the increasing roar.

"--eight, nine, TEN!"

"And that's Robin with the victory, still undefeated after five matches!"

They jerked him back up and finished binding his hands, mercifully supporting his entire weight as they more carried than dragged him out of the arena.

"How many fights are you gonna keep winning, boy?" asked the guard on his left.

"Not that many," cackled the one on the right. "Nearly went out this round!"

Tim didn't bother answering. He just stared at his bare feet and watched them go each out ahead of the other, trying not to catch on rocks or cracks. His knees sagged with every step.

"If only Batman could see you now!"

"He'd be so proud!" The man pretended to sniffle. Tim thought he brushed a fake tear from his eye.

If Batman could see me, Tim thought, you would be cuffed and concussed, and I'd be at home with Alfred's cookies.

Well, Tim wasn't actually sure.

They did have death matches after all.

Tim would never win one of those.

Tim stumbled, tripped, toppled over. He managed to take the fall on his shoulder and not his skull, but it didn't much matter. In seconds, the world faded to black.

«»«»«»«»

The force of his sobs made his head and ribs ache worse than ever, and soon he was gasping in order to breathe. He forced himself to stop crying then, as well as he could, which wasn't well at all.

Footsteps.

"Hello, Robin."

Tim didn't answer.

"You are quite the impressive fighter, I'll admit. Only two other contestants in our history have gone so long undefeated. Unfortunately--"

Fuck.

"--that's boring."

"I'll lose," he croaked, as the announcer opened his mouth again. "If, if you want, I can, I'll lose the next fight."

"Yes, you will."

The guards strode closer, hauling Tim to his feet and pinning him against the wall. His heartbeat kicked into overdrive as one guard grabbed his left leg and lifted it to waist height.

"Wait--"

"Your winning strategy seems to be running away."

The guard pressing Tim to the wall grabbed his thigh in a vice grip. The other man tightened his hold on Tim's calf.

"No!" Tim yelped. "No, please, wait, I won't run, I'll--"

"No, you won't."

One guard shoved down as the other jerked up, and agony exploded in Tim's knee. He might have screamed.

He knew he was sobbing as they let him drop, jolting the break all over again. His breath came sharp and ragged, and fast enough to make him dizzy. Unless that was the pain.

"Let's see if that fixes our little problem."

The guards dragged Tim, still crying, back to the arena and flung him inside the cage.

He lost.

«»«»«»«»

Two more days, three more fights, and Tim was no longer worried about whether he'd walk normally again, but if he'd walk again period.

Except throw him into a death match and snap every bone right up to his neck.

Tim knew it was coming, any day, any hour even. And he didn't want to die, but if it would make the agony and humilation just stop...

"Hey, little birdie, ready to fly away?"

This was it then. At least Tim wouldn't have to anticipate it for long.

He wondered if he'd meet Jason.

Or get to see his mom again.

"Here he is. Slightly used, as I said."

"Slightly," snorted an impossibly low voice. "The hell did you use him for? Crash testing?"

Tim dared to glance up from his feet and went rigid with horror.

Deathstroke the fucking Terminator was the one speaking, dressed in full armor with that freakish, near faceless mask, and bound and gagged at his feet was

"Nightwing!"

"Shut up, kid."

The left guard yanked at Tim's arm, knocking him off balance. He put more weight on his foot that his knee could take and cried out, crumpling before being jerked up again.

Dick hadn't reacted to his name, but he flinched at Tim's scream. Tim wondered what the hell he'd been drugged with.

"We used him as a fighter," the announcer answered. "But he's all or nothing I'm afraid. The betting pools get too unbalanced."

"That won't happen with this one," Deathstroke promised, kicking Dick. "Born performer, he is. He'll give you good shows, and he knows how to give an audience what they want."

"You sound incredibly confident."

"That's 'cause I've seen it. And I've seen him fight with half his bones broken. Lasts much longer than junior there, I guarantee."

"I find it difficult to belive that the infamous Deathstroke would strike a bargain so apparently one-sided."

Bargain? Dick a performer, fighter...

"No!" Tim yelled. "No, don't--"

Who did he plead with? Dick couldn't be sold to this hell, he couldn't, Tim wouldn't let them. Dick was, he was, strong, and powerful, and hopeful, and proud, and unbending, and he couldn't live in this place and fight for nothing every single day, forever, because they'd never get rid of him because he could do what they wanted, no, no, no, no...

"No! No, no, n--"

A hand clamped over Tim's mouth, and it wouldn't let go when he bit, or struggled, or even kicked, screaming, but it had to, Tim had to tell them no, not Dick!

"Very well, done, take the brat off our hands, then."

The guards flung Tim at Deathstroke, who threw Tim over his shoulder and began to walk away.

"No! No, no, you can't--"

The announcer reached out to tilt Dick's head this way and that, like a child inspecting a new action figure. Dick didn't fight back.

"Nightwing!"

"Calm the fuck down, Robin," Deathstroke hissed. They turned a corner and Dick was out of sight.

"No!"

"For fuck's sake."

Tim cried out as he was dumped on the ground. When the agonizing white-out cleared he was staring at a weathered face with just one steely blue eye.

"Nightwing is going to be fine," Deathstroke snarled. "You are not unless you calm. The fuck. Down."

"No. Trade me back!"

"That's it."

Deathstroke pulled back, reaching into a pocket for a syringe.

"No!" Tim couldn't fight, couldn't run, couldn't even move once Deathstroke pinned him against the wall. "No, give me back, they can kill me, don't let them have Night--"

"Self-sacrificing idiots, the whole lot of you," Deathstroke griped.

The needle bit Tim's neck. Something cold flooded the vein and made him shudder.

"No," he sobbed.

And then it all went blank.

«»«»«»«»

Softness and warmth surrounded Tim, and he cozied deeper into it with a happy sigh. Someone chuckled, hand stroking through Tim's hair.

"Feeling better, kiddo?"

Tim opened his eyes to see, "Dick?"

"Yeah, Timmy?"

Tim blinked. Memory came flooding back, and with it a rising horror as he realized, wondered, feared...

"Are we dead?" Tim whispered.

"Are..." Dick frowned, looking confused. He leaned closer, peering into Tim's eyes. "No, sweetheart, we're not... why would you think--"

"The, the fight ring." It felt hard to breathe. "And Deathstroke, and--"

"Death... Slade, what the hell did you do!?" Dick hollered, turning over his shoulder to someone Tim couldn't see.

"It was a mild sedative, he was about to pass out anyway," complained that low voice.

And Deathstroke the Terminator appeared right over Dick's shoulder.

"I told you to calm down."

"'Calm down,'" Dick echoed, twisting further to glare up at Deathstroke. "Calm down while he's having a panic attack, and then drugging him? No wonder he thinks he's dead! Your bedside manner is fucking atrocious--"

"And here I thought you quite liked my bedside manner."

Dick's cheeks went bright pink. The top of his ears were practically scarlet.

"Slade... Morris Wilson," he choked.

"Morris?"

"I don't know your fucking middle name--"

"Why the hell would you think it was Morris?"

"I didn't, I wanted to piss you off--"

"For the love of--"

"SLADE MORRIS WILSON," Dick hollered. "There is a child present. A child who happens to be my kid brother. Shut the fuck up and let me clean up your mess, please!"

"By all means..."

There was a sound of a boot against a shin and a short huff, then Deathstroke disappeared and Dick turned back to Tim with a weary smile.

"What the fuck just happened?" Tim whimpered.

"That's exceptionally bold for a man raised by Batman, Grayson."

"Go away, Slade."

"I... I don't understand."

"Bruce called me as soon as he knew you were missing. It took me two days to figure out where you were, and then I knew I couldn't get you out safely by myself. So I called Slade, and we came up with a plan where he would pretend to trade me to them in exchange for you. Then he could take you to safety, and I'd get loose and shut down the operation."

"With more of my help, naturally," Deathstroke called.

Tim glanced from where Deathstroke's voice came to Dick's face. "You... called Deathstroke," he repeated slowly. "And he helped you."

"We're allies, when we need to be," Dick said, face far too straight.

"War makes strange bedfellows."

"Would you shut up?"

Tim was certain he was still missing something important. But he understood enough to know that he was alive, and safe, and Dick was safe, and somehow everything would be ok.

"Thank you," he said softly. "For coming for me."

Dick smiled, though his eyes were sad. "Always, kiddo."

He leaned down and kissed Tim's forehead, smoothing back his bangs.

"Now get some rest. You're gonna need it."

Tim nodded. He felt Dick shift to stand up, and heard lowered voices talking a little away.

"You need rest too, Grayson."

"I'm fine."

"I know for fact you haven't slept in two days, little bird. Go rest or I'll sedate you too."

"Asshole."

"Brat."

A heavy sigh. "Alright. You win this one."

"Good."

Warm weight sank the mattress once more, this time wrapping around Tim and pulling him close. His head was tucked under a chin, a heartbeat against his cheek.

"'S'ok, Timmy," Dick murmured. "Go to sleep."

So he did.

#whumptober 2022 #no 19 #no 20 #alt 15 #knees buckling #repeatedly passing out #prisoner trade #tears #batman #fic #canon typical violence #tim drake #dick grayson #slade wilson #sladick #bad things happen bingo #prisoner exchange

5 notes · View notes