#Wes can’t flat out prove tim is Red Robin | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

toosicktoocare · 3 years

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If ur taking request (if not it’s totally fine just ignore this) dick trying to keep going about his day with a fever because he doesn’t think his well-being is that important and he ends up collapsing in front of/on his siblings?

The situation, Dick thinks, is overwhelmingly less than ideal. He’s due at the manor in an hour, and yet the thermometer reading, 101.4 degrees Fahrenheit, is flashing red across his vision, a physical testament to the headache drumming across his temples.

His schedule, as it has been for the last few months, is packed. Now that he’s mending and strengthening his relationships with his brothers, he’s keeping himself actively involved in their lives, and thus, he’s near-constantly busy.

Today, he promised Damian he’d spar with him in the morning, then he’s due to work with Tim on some advanced science project for his advanced biology course, and then Jason, begrudgingly, agreed to a late lunch that Dick will be cooking for everyone at the manor, seizing the opportunity to utilize so the full kitchen without Alfred and Bruce breathing down his neck.

Relastically, he should cancel. He knows this; however, his commitment to his brothers means more than the fever pressing warm against his cheeks right now, so he turns the thermometer off and snags his jacket and bag, leaving his apartment, and hopefully, the knowledge of his ailments at his back.

***

Even just pulling his car into the cave, he can tell the manor’s buzzing with activity, and he parks beside Jason’s bike, sporting a curious gaze at it. Jason mentioned he wouldn’t be over until later, right before lunch essentially, citing he had “business” to tend to beforehand. At the time, Dick didn’t want to ask and still doesn’t want to ask now. Besides, he’s not sure his head can even properly wrap around Jason’s “business,” not with the now pounding that’s stretching out across his forehead.

He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, frowning at the faint drops of sweat, and takes a few moments to breathe deeply, willing his heart to ease up some of the rabbit’s foot racing. His breathing, however, goes interrupted when Damian bangs on his window, already geared up and ready to spar.

“Are you going to sit in there all day, Grayson?”

Dick plasters on a practiced smile, one he can manifest to be naturally radiant, and he slips out of the car, dropping his hand atop Damian’s head and ruffling his hair. “Sorry, Little D. You’re sparring in full gear?” He eyes the Robin costume fitted on Damian, and Damian nods tightly.

“Of course. Father says I should always spar in my suit to ensure I know exactly how my body’s able to move within it.”

Dick’s heard this one before, and he can’t help but roll his eyes. “Right, well, believe it or not,” he pauses, reaching for his bag in his backseat, I’ve only got sweats and a tank.” He waves the bag in front of Damian’s face, smiling almost impishly. “Unfortunately for you, that’s all I need.”

Damian scoffs, whipping sharply on his heel and starting toward the manor’s large sparring arena, and Dick laughs, his smile only faltering when he’s sure Damian’s no longer in sight. He slips to the changing rooms, locking the door behind him and sagging against it, his bag falling to the floor. It’s occurred to him, just now of all times, that in his rush to disregard his own well-being in favor of his brothers’, he completely forgot to actually take anything to alleviate the fever. The changing room’s not stocked since med-bay’s close by, and Dick’s sure he won’t manage to sneak into medical without Damian seeing.

Instead, he hunches over a sink, splashing cold water over his face, the feeling odd as it eases the heat coating his face but brings a mute chill down his spine. Shuddering lightly, he changes from his jeans to his sweats, and he tugs his GCPD shirt off, slipping his tank on and rubbing lightly at his bare arms as he starts out of the room.

Damian’s already center of the mat when Dick walks in, and Dick pulls his arms into long stretches and shakes out his limbs as he walks forward, planting himself in front of Damian.

“Ready?”

“Are you?” Damian spits out, eyes narrow behind his domino.

“Show me what you’ve got, Robin.”

Dick’s quick on feet, effortlessly dodging Damian’s fists swinging at him, the batarangs flying toward him. When he catches on between two fingers, a cocky smile playing on his lips, Damian comes at him harder, stronger, really putting what he’s learned from Bruce on display. Dick can still keep up, he can still pin Damian within each cycle, but his headache, that he’s forced to the back of his mind, is blooming centerfold, tugging at his attention enough for Damian to sneak in a leg swipe, promptly knocking Dick on his back.

In seconds, Damian’s atop him, a knife pressed to his throat, and Dick raises both hands. “I cave.” Dick smiles, his chest heaving, lungs desperate to suck in air, and Damian flips off of him, frowning.

“What’s wrong with you? You aren’t normally winded this early in.”

Dick climbs to his feet, a groan threatening to creep up his throat, and then he moves, catching Damian off guard and knocking him square in the chest. Damian falls back, and now Dick’s pinning him. “No distractions, Little D.”

“Ugh,” Damian growls, shoving Dick off him. “You’re hot and sweaty, and you aren’t playing fair.”

“Playing,” Dick parrots back, and though his muscles are aching deeply, he pushes himself back to his feet, a tight smile teasing at his lips. “Since when is this playing?”

***

By the time Dick and Damian finish, roughly two hours later, Dick’s muscles are shaking with each step. He only just managed to change back into his jeans and shirt without toppling over, his sparring clothes now drenched in sweat, and now, on his way to Tim’s room, he’s shivering slightly, the lingering sweat against his skin now properly chilling him.

He rubs at his forehead, sighing deeply, but when he reaches Tim’s door, he smooths out his features and wills his body to stop trembling. He knocks even though the door’s ajar.

“Come in.”

Dick makes to push the door opening, pausing when Tim adds, “unless it’s you Damian. If that’s the case, go the hell away.”

Dick breathes through a low laugh and slips inside. “Friend?” he asks, and Tim spares a glance from the supplies on his desk.

“Hey, Dick.”

“Hey, Little Wing,” Dick says, starting toward the desk. He eyes the supplies, but his foggy mind struggles to work through the project based on what’s littered across the desk. “What do we have going on here?”

Tim explains as Dick drops down into the chair across from Tim, but Dick’s having a hard time following. He nods when appropriate, offers a few light hums, but his eyes can only blankly stare. He’s really beginning to feel the heat of the fever. It clings to his cheeks and drags down his neck, stopping just short of his collarbone, where the heat dissapates to an uncomfortable sheet of ice atop his muscles. His jaw is clenched tight to keep his teeth from chattering.

“Dick?”

“Huh?” Dick blinks slowly, and Tim’s frowning at him.

“Did you... are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, of course.” Dick smiles easily, and he can visibly see some of the tension taut against Tim’s face fade. He picks up up something, twisting it around in front his his eyes. “So this thing needs to attach to...” he pauses, pointing, “that thing via... science?”

Tim huffs loudly, rolling his eyes. “You know, Bruce always raves about how smart you are, but there’s not a day that goes by where I wonder if he’s delusional.”

Dick clutches dramatically at his chest, and he purses his lips into a pout. “I’m hurt, Little Wing! I’ll have you know I was top of my class.”

“Then prove it,” Tim challenges, lips pulled into a flat, almost bored, line that contradicts the faint hint of fire in his eyes.

For the second time, Dick slots the headache, the fever, far into the back of his mind, instead hunching over and forcing his ears to send comprehensive sentences to his mind as he begins to work while Tim talks.

***

By the time Dick’s planted in front of the stove, he’s sure his fever’s spiking. The heat billowing up from the stovetop seems to skin into his face, mixing with the hot pressure of illness, and yet the rest of him, down to his toes, his positively freezing. He swipes the back of his hand against his forehead, his breaths coming out in hot puffs.

The others are talking behind him. Well, Damian and Tim are arguing, and Jason’s only chiming in to agree with one or the other. For a while, Dick was able to keep up, even offering his own input, but now, he can’t work his mind into multitasking, and right now, he needs to flip the grilled cheese.

He’s holding the spatula, but his vision’s starting to gray at the edges, a new development that’s currently capturing all of his focus. Second to that is the fact that he’s beginning to feel hot all over, to the point where his skin is prickling with sweat. The heat encompasses his vision, roars in his ears.

“Grayson? Are you burning the grilled cheese?”

“Don’t be a dick, Damian.”

“Both of you shut the hell up.”

The voices are faint, and Dick wants to ponder on why Jason sounds worried. Jason doesn’t do worried; that’s Bruce’s and Dick’s jobs. He very slowly turns around to see Jason walking toward him, and when he opens his mouth, his vision chooses that exact time to black out.

***

Dick comes to in slow waves, his mind immediately working through his surroundings without panic, as he’s been trained to do. He’s on the floor, and it’s cold, but the tile is familiar. And, he’s slumped against someone warm and broad. He thinks Bruce for a moment, but then there’s a voice that is definitely not Bruce speaking.

“Dick?”

It’s Jason, Dick easily supplies, and he sounds scared. Dick lifts his head and struggles to push himself away from Jason, swaying lightly despite being seated. “What happened?”

Jason’s eyes are narrow as they dart across Dick’s face. “You passed out.”

The three words are enough to bring Dick completely back to the present, and he whips his gaze to see Damian at the stove, trying to keep a fire from starting, and Tim tight against the doorway, arms crossed, worry clear across his face.

“Shit,” he mutters, running a hand down his face. “I didn’t think it would get this bad.”

“You didn’t think-”

“-Jason, don’t,” Tim cuts in. “You can yell at him later. Right now, he doesn’t need to be on the floor.”

Dick’s shaking, unsure of just when he got so cold, and his head’s throbbing like mad. He pulls his gaze back to Jason, and he must really look awful because Jason’s face twists from anger then back to concern, and he starts to his feet, dragging Dick with him.

Dick’s unsteady, his legs wobbling, and he leans heavily into Jason as he’s guided out of the kitchen and into one of the many living rooms, where Jason eases him gently onto a couch.

“Have you taken anything?”

Jason’s voice is tight, and Dick shakes his head, draping an arm across his eyes to ease the pain the light filtering in from the window adds to the pressure already in his head. He can hear the others busying themselves around him, and then he’s being eased upward by Jason and offered a pill by Damian. He takes it, accepting the water Jason’s got in his other hand, and then he’s back on his back. A blanket’s draped over him, and then after some hushed debate above him, another one is added, which he’s mutely thankful for.

He tries to tug the blanket over his face, to block out the light, but Jason stops him with a low growl of “don’t,” and shortly after, a cold, damp cloth is being draped across his forehead.

“Here, Jason.”

Dick squints at the thermometer being handed to Jason, and he frowns when Jason presses it to his ear.

“Jay-”

“If you say ‘I’m fine,’ I’m going to call Bruce and have him bring down the wrath of Batman on your ass a thousand times over.”

The thermometer beeps quickly, before Dick can defend himself, and then he’s blinking slowly at the 103.2 degree reading flashing at him.

“See? Not fine,” Jason grumbles, leaving his spot on the edge of the catch and starting himself into a pace across the room.

“Dick, why didn’t you say something?”

Dick drags his gaze to the ceiling and tries not feel too hurt by Tim’s quiet voice. “I didn’t think it was important,” he admits and Jason throws his hands up, exasperated.

“Of course you fucking didn’t. Your self-sacrificial bullshit really grates on my nerves, Dick.”

“Jason-”

“-no. Todd is right,” Damian interrupts, cutting Tim off. “Grayson, your well-being is just as important as ours, if not more so. If you’re unwell, you should say so and rest.”

“You sound like Alfred,” Dick groans, eyes squeezing shut and only opening once more when Tim twists the blinds shut. “I just...” he tries, sighing deeply. “We’ve been through so much,” he starts, sure he’s got all eyes on him, “and we still have a long way to go. I didn’t want to cancel today and miss being with you three because of a small fever.”

“Small?”

“Jason,” Tim sighs. “Dick, you know I wouldn’t say this if I didn’t mean it, but Damian is right. Everything today,” Tim pauses, gesturing around the room, “could have waited until you were better. We aren’t going anywhere.”

The thing is, that’s what Dick struggles to believe the most: that his family isn’t going anywhere. He suffered long through Jason’s first death, the pain was so deep it felt untouchable, and now he feels like he’s constantly chasing lost time, time that has the potential to be endlessly fragile.

“Ugh, stop,” Jason groans, and Dick whips a sharp gaze to him. “You have that stupid sad look on your face, and it’s annoying. You still wanna spend time with us, even though I personally think you should be hooked up in med-bay? Fine.” He pauses, turning to Tim, “Figure out something to watch. I’m going to try and salvage lunch.”

Jason storms out of the room before Dick can apologize, as he feels he needs to, and when he tries, Damian cuts him off by slapping at his legs so he can curl up on the end of the couch.

“Save it, Grayson. Just try not to be such an imbecile next time you have the plague, got it?”

“Once again,” Tim says, “I’m with Damian on this one.”

Dick smiles, the first genuinely real smile he’s mustered up all day. It’s tired, worn, and a little shaky, but it’s still real.

“I’ll try.”

#batfam #batfamily #batbros #sickfic #fanfiction #whump #whumpfic #prompt fill #dick grayson #jason todd #damian wayne #tim drake #this is not edited i'm sorry #i just found out i lost 7k words of a fic i'm working on #that of which i had planned to upload the second chapter of tomrrow #so i'm just sad

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heyitsani · 3 years

Text

Loving You is a Losing Game Chapter 4

Word Count: 6518

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Character death (applies in this chapter and not overly graphic)

Pairing: Jason Todd/Dick Grayson

Summary: The curse takes the payment it demands.

Notes: End of the line, folks! I’m off to work on the other pieces I did for JayDick Week, as well as finish up a few things I have for this month. It’s my birthday in the middle of the month and it’s Pride Month, so good things coming all around!

You can also read it on AO3 here

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ride to the cave was as silent as Dick had expected it to be, but he couldn’t help but feel it was more because Bruce was trying to figure out how Dick had managed to get out now but not before. And honestly, Dick wasn’t really sure how he could leave now and not before, but he also wasn’t magical. So what did he know about what the curse could do?

“Tim and Damian have been communicating with Constantine about how to possibly break down the wall,” Bruce finally said as they pulled into the secret entrance. “He has been pretty adamant that only the yielder could destroy it though.”

Dick considered that, thinking about the witch who had put Jason in there to begin with. He didn’t even know the reason, Jace having kept the reasoning quiet when Dick had tried to ask. But he wondered if the man were correct in his assumptions. He would know more than Dick would, after all.

“We have to find a way,” Dick finally said. He didn’t know how they would do it, but they had to. He had to get them out of there. He had to. Otherwise, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t just walk back through that wall and stay there. “I need to keep a promise.”

“Dick,” Bruce’s voice was sharp when they came to a stop and the engine was cut. Looking over at Bruce, Dick waited. “How did you escape?”

Shrugging a shoulder, Dick looked away. “I don’t know why I could get through this time. I tried before and was stopped. But…” He let out a huff of air through his nose, looking at the approaching forms of his brothers, who wouldn’t be able to see he was in the car through the tinted windows. “We have to get them out of there, Bruce. We have to.”

“That man trapped you there.”

“No,” Dick shook his head. “He’s not…he didn’t do that. There’s some kind of curse over them. And it’s more than just him. There are others there, trapped just like Jace.”

“Jace.”

“The man, that’s his name.” Bruce remained silent, just watching Dick with his blank face before he opened the door and stepped out of the car. With a sigh, Dick opened his own door and climbed out.

“Dick!” Tim’s surprised voice interrupted his thoughts and immediately a smaller body collided with his own. Looking down, he smiled at the familiar sight of Damian with his face buried in his stomach. And soon enough Tim was at his side, giving him a hug.

“Father was successful then?” Damian questioned when he pulled back. Dick ruffled the kid’s hair and smiled sadly. “Richard?”

Looking over at Bruce, he saw the man watching with the cowl pulled down and frown on his face. “No, I was able to get out on my own. It’s hard to explain. But I do think we need to speak with the League,” he said, loud enough that Bruce could hear him clearly.

“Perhaps after a rest, Master Dick?” Alfred approached with a relieved smile. Dick pulled himself away from his brothers and reached over to Alfred to give the older man a hug. “I am so glad to see you are safe, my boy.” The man kept his voice low, but Dick could easily hear the emotion in it. Dick responded with tightening the hug for a moment before pulling back to smile at him.

“We need to go, B. We can’t leave them there. You thought there was a link between the missing heroes and that spot, maybe there is. We can’t do this one on our own just because it’s Gotham.” Bruce’s frown deepened and Dick raised his chin, making it obvious he would go to the League on his own if he needed to. “This is their problem too.”

Bruce seemed to be considering the issue before sighing and turning toward the computer. “I’ll call them to come here to Gotham. We’ll meet them in the city.” Dick nodded and let his body relax a little. He would get Jace and the others out. He would do it even if he had to figure it out on his own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It felt like coming home, standing on the top of Wayne Tower in one of his back up suits, the one with the fingerstripes that he had retired a few years prior, with a domino firmly in place on his face while they waited for the members of the Justice League to arrive. He stood just off to the side of Batman’s stoic figure, Robin on Bruce’s other side and Red Robin behind them on an elevated platform. They made an intimidating group, as the Bats always did, but Dick felt like it was a false face at this point.

He knew Bruce was going to order the Robins to remain in the city to handle the assassins and keep an eye on the city, but that it was going to result in a fight. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to risk the two of them getting caught in something because they didn’t know what would happen if all of them tried to get through the wall of magic at the same time.

Dick hoped it would break under the pressure, but he doubted he’d be that lucky.

“Nightwing!” Superman looked surprised the instant he touched down on the rooftop. “You’re back! We had worried you fell into the same fate as…” Dick gave him a sad smile, thinking of Jon having gone missing a week before Dick had gone to save Bruce. “I am glad to see you are safe.”

Nodding his head, Dick remained silent as the others began to arrive. Wonder Woman and Black Cannery together, Flash moments after Green Arrow and Aquaman. Green Lantern was the last to arrive, gathering Dick up in a fierce hug before Batman barked at them all to come to attention. And Dick straightened his spine at the order, even though he usually balked at being treated as Bruce’s soldier. This time he would relent. This time he would tolerate it because it was important to him.

This time it was about Jace.

“With Nightwing’s return, we have decided it best to call in the League to handle a problem that we are not able to do so on our own,” Batman said, voice flat. Dick knew how much he hated that he was having to ask for help in his city, but deeply thankful that the man was willing to.

He listened to Batman explain to the others what exactly had happened the day Dick had vanished, recounting how Batman had been taken by the shadow man and then how Agent A had called in Nightwing to try and rescue Batman. Bruce kept to the facts, telling them that Nightwing had exchanged himself and then been unable to escape when he had tried a few weeks later.

“So this man is holding everyone hostage in this curse?” A voice that made Dick tense up questioned.

Bruce practically growled. “Deathstroke, what are you doing here?”

But where others would have been intimidated by Bruce’s menacing voice, Slade just smirked and sauntered closer to the group from the shadows he had been hiding behind. “I heard my birdie had finally come home,” he said, looking over at Dick and making the hero roll his eyes.

“Leave, Slade,” Dick said, shaking his head. He knew he would have to face an interrogation after this was all over from Bruce about what Deathstroke wanted with him, but he didn’t want to add more fuel to that fire right then. He had people to rescue.

“I don’t think I will. I think that I have a right to be concerned about the fact that someone I care about went missing for months and now wants to rescue the man who was responsible.” Dick sighed and looked over at Bruce, who kept his face blank but Dick knew him well enough to know he was glowering at Slade. “You do know the term Stockholm Syndrome, don’t you Birdie?”

“That’s not what this is, Slade. You don’t know anything. He’s a prisoner as much as the others are.”

“Is he? Or is that just what he told you after he ‘saved your life’ and caught you in his web?” Shaking his head Dick looked over at the other heroes and noticed they seemed to be considering Slade’s words carefully. He knew he needed to nip this in the bud as soon as possible.

Stepping forward, ignoring the attempt Robin made to grab his arm, Dick moved into the center of the group where Slade was now standing. “Slade doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I was there, I experienced it. Jace is a good man and he’s trapped just like everyone else. And I can prove it,” he said, reaching into the pocket he had stored the vial of liquid Jace had given him and a flimsy silicone bowl he could fold up. Pouring the green glowing liquid into the bowl, Dick tucked the vial away again.

“Nightwing, is that…” Robin’s question faded off and while Dick was tempted to ask him to finish, he focused on the task at hand.

“Show me Jace,” he said, looking at the liquid swirl and shift just as it had when Jace had given him the chance to see Bruce before letting him go. The image of Jace shifting between shadow and man appeared, surrounded by the broken furniture of the room in the West Wing. It made Dick’s heart ache, seeing the sadness on Jace’s face and the destruction around him.

The others gasped, moving in closer to see before Dick found the bowl pulled out of his hands. “This isn’t a man,” Slade said, voice low and disgusted. “That’s not a shadow, that’s a demon!” Dick shook his head and looked at the others to help him out. But Superman and Wonder Woman were looking at Slade with wide eyes and fear laced in anger. “We can’t let this creature out! He’d kill us all!”

“No!” Dick shouted, trying to grab the bowl from Slade but found himself being tugged back. Looking behind him, he found Green Lantern holding onto his upper arm while frowning deeply at Slade. “He’s not a creature. He’s a man. He’s just a man and he needs our help!”

“This doesn’t look like a man, Nightwing. This looks like someone who has possessed your mind and forced you to believe he was good. Why were you suddenly able to get out? Why were you able to after coming to trust him but not before when you were certain it was his fault you were trapped there?” Dick shook his head, hating that Slade was able to twist his words like this. He wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t telling the truth either. “He wanted you to trust him, to care for him. And now he’s waiting for you to release him onto the world. Well not on my watch!”

“Not on our watch!” Superman said, but Dick could only stare at Slade in disbelief. How did they end up here?

Green Lantern’s hold tightened and before he knew what was happening, Batman, Red Robin, and Robin were all being held by various heroes. “I have a place we can lock these four away so they can’t cause any trouble. Then we can go after this monster and rid the earth of this danger!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Fuck!” Dick growled as he tugged on the door of the cell in whatever random safehouse Slade had locked them in. Why he even had a safehouse with a cell in it to begin with was beyond him, but part of Dick didn’t even want to know what the purpose of it was.

“Dick, stop,” Tim called from the corner where he and Bruce were trying to figure out how to get out of there. “It’s not going to just magically open.”

Releasing the bar, Dick let his shoulders drop with a sigh before turning as he ran a hand through his hair. “I need to get out of here. I have to help Jace. This is all my fault.” He looked at the pair in the corner before looking over at Damian as he looked for weaknesses in the structure of the cell.

“We’ll get you out, but you need to calm down. Freaking out isn’t helping.” Nodding his agreement with Tim’s assessment, Dick dropped down to sit on the ground and watch Damian continue. “We don’t have enough room to blast our way out. We’d get caught in the blast.” Bruce grunted his agreement, but still sorted through the items they had available. None of their lockpicks had worked and Tim made a good point.

“Can we call anyone?” Dick asked, looking over at Bruce and Tim who seemed to be at a loss. “Oracle? Batgirl? Batwoman?”

Bruce shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know where Batwoman is, but the Birds are out of the country.” Groaning in annoyance, Dick pulled his knees up and shoved his face into them. He had no idea how they were going to get out of there and that meant he was helpless to do anything to save Jace and the others. He just hoped the man had the League of Assassins on his side for this.

“Communicators aren’t working any way,” Tim muttered and Dick suppressed the desire to groan again. Rarely did he feel hopeless. Rarely did he feel like there was no chance of getting out of a situation. But right then? With the knowledge that Slade had the Justice League on his side while hunting the man he cared about, maybe even loved? He felt hopeless.

But then the sound of a door blasting open caused him to pull his head out of his knees and look at Bruce. But he found Bruce and Tim both looking beyond Dick. Turning to look behind him, Dick saw the smoke of a bomb having gone off before a man was coming through the cloud with a determined look on his face.

“Agent A!” Dick leapt to his feet and grabbed the bars of the cell.

The elderly man looked them all over briefly before getting to work on the lock of the door. “I was unable to contact anyone to assist, so I came myself,” Alfred said, keeping his focus on the task at hand. “There was no time to waste if you wanted to save your friend.” Alfred spared Dick a glance and Dick sighed. Alfred knew there was more to the situation than just friendship and Dick didn’t know why he was surprised that the man had picked up on that.

“Robins, I want you on the outside as planned. Red Robin from above and Robin on the ground since you know how to handle the footmen,” Batman barked out orders as the click of the lock sounded and the cell door swung open.

“The plane is on the roof,” Alfred said as Dick rushed out of the cell, squeezed the man’s upper arm in thanks before running out of the safehouse to get to the plane. He didn’t need to look back to know that the others would be right behind him. He didn’t have time to worry about whether or not they were there because he had to get to Jace.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When they arrived at the location, Dick saw chaos. The League of Assassins’ footmen were spread out, fighting the members of the Justice League, but Slade was no where to be seen. And that thought worried him.

“Nightwing wait!” Batman called out as Dick ran out of the plane the moment it touched down, but Dick ignored him. He went straight for the wall of magic, avoiding a kick to the side by a footmen before he was able to start pushing through.

Familiar with the feel of the magic now, Dick almost felt like he was being welcomed home as he broke through and ran for the castle. “Dana! Where are they?” He knew Slade had to have made his way to Jace, but the castle was too big to search on his own. The woman looked at him with wide, surprised eyes, before pointing upward to the roof. “Fuck,” he muttered, grabbing his grapple gun and aiming for a spot not far off from where Jace and Slade were facing off.

His feet had just touched down when he heard the sound of a sword clattering to the ground and found Slade standing in front of Jace with his katana in hand and Jace’s sword off to the side, just out of reach.

“No!” Dick screamed as he surged forward, not pausing to think about the katana soaring through the air toward Jace who had his back against the wall behind him. The only thing he thought of was saving the man from the fate Deathstroke felt he had earned. “Slade-” his voice cut off without his permission when he came to a halt in front of Jace.

There was silence for a moment and time almost seemed to freeze as Dick watched Slade’s eye go wide and Jace gasp behind him. Shifting his gaze from Slade downward, Dick took in the sight of the katana buried in his stomach, frowning in confusion. Surely if it were really in his stomach to the hilt he would feel it, right? But there was nothing.

And then there was too much.

Dick felt himself crumble, only to be caught by the man he had just saved from this very fate, and the sword sliding effortlessly out of his stomach as he went. The sound Jace made behind him was almost inhuman and pained and Dick figured that was when he got a good look at the damage.

“You.” He heard Jace growl before he saw the familiar figure lung over him and grab at Slade. The force of it was enough to surprise the man and just as Dick managed to turn his head to look at the pair, he saw Jace pulling the katana out of Slade’s hands and throwing him off balance enough that the assassin was toppling over the edge of the rooftop they were on.

He watched Jace stand there, breathing heavily for a moment before Dick reached out a hand. “Jace,” he rasped, drawing the other man’s attention. And reality came rushing back to him, Dick could see it in his eyes as he remembered the condition Dick was currently in. The katana fell to the ground with a sharp clang.

“Oh god, Dick,” the man cried out as he ran back over and fell to his knees. Dick let out a grunt when a hand pressed against his chest in order to stem the literal life bleeding out of him. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to be you. God, Dick.”

“It’s okay,” Dick whispered, giving Jace a warm smile but it didn’t look like the man appreciated it. It almost looked like it pained him to see it. “You’ll be okay. You’re safe.”

“But you’re not!” The man cried, ducking his head so Dick couldn’t see anything but the top of his head. “The curse wasn’t supposed to take you. Anyone but you.”

Dick furrowed his brows and turned his eyes toward the sky to see the stars blurring. “I’m glad I got to meet you,” he spoke carefully, drawing the familiar green eyes back to his face. Dick let his eyes trace the tears that had already left their tracks down his face and raised a hand to brush some of the wetness away. “Will you tell me now? Your secret?” He kept his hand pressed against Jace’s cheek as he watched the man consider telling Dick the one thing the older man hadn’t been able to pry away from him.

“My name is Jason.”

“I knew a Jason once. I didn’t do right by him. I couldn’t protect him.” Dick let his eyes drift for a moment, remembering the boy who had been undeserving of his anger that should have solely been directed at Bruce. But he had been young, hurt, and stupid. He had been dismissive and then Jason had been dead. Looking back to Jace, he smiled again. “Maybe you were my redemption. I couldn’t protect him, but I was able to protect you.”

There was such profound sadness in Jace’s eyes that Dick wondered if he was saying the wrong thing. But he didn’t have the energy to figure out what that might be. And with a soft sigh, his hand fell away from Jace’s cheek to rest at his side once more. His clock was ticking.

“Dick, Dick,” Jace whispered, pressing a shaking hand to Dick’s cheek and Dick’s eyes fell closed for a moment as he enjoyed the warmth that bled from the hand to his skin. “Dick, look at me.” Blinking his eyes open, he looked at Jace. “My name is Jason Todd.” Dick frowned at that. Had he been cursed to save someone with the same name of the one he had failed? “I was placed in a Lazarus Pit and when I came out, I attacked the a witch in my madness. She put this curse on me and anyone who came close got pulled in by the magic. Until the day someone sacrificed their life to save mine.”

“But…” Dick tried to sort through what Jace Jason was telling him, but his mind felt like sludge. “…you died.”

Jason nodded, the muscles in his jaw working. “I did. And I came back for some reason I’m not sure of. Talia found me and she put me in the Pit. Whatever she had planned was ruined by the witch. But it’s me,” he whispered, picking up Dick’s fallen hand and pressing it over his heart. “It’s me, it’s Jason. You won’t see the curse fall away, but I don’t want you to die without knowing. It’s me and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m glad it’s you. I’m glad I got to love you.”

He wasn’t expecting the sob Jason let out at that, but he was thankful for the press of the other man’s lips to his own. “I love you. I’m so sorry.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When consciousness came back to him, Dick found that he was still in the same place he had been when he and Jason had confessed their love. The same place where Jason had revealed what had been done to him and how Dick had managed to reverse the curse when he had put himself between Slade’s katana and Jason’s body.

Taking a deep breath, he jostled Jason who had been silently crying into Dick’s chest as reality came back to him. It was enough to have the man jolt upright and look toward Dick, eyes going wide and a gasp falling from his lips.

“Dick?!”

“There you are,” Dick smiled, taking in the much more familiar face. The curse had obviously fallen away and now Dick could see the man for who he really was. And the familiar turquoise eyes he remembered from before the younger man’s untimely death. But it was the smile that overtook Jason’s face that really drew his attention. Lifting a hand, Dick pressed it to Jason’s cheek and dragged his thumb across the other man’s lower lip. “There you are.”

The laugh Jason let free was wet and Dick took in the tear tracks on his cheeks and the tears that still clung to his eye lashes. But Dick didn’t think the man had ever looked as beautiful as he did right then, with his real face finally revealed.

“Dick!” Turning his head, Dick looked over to see Bruce rushing over to them. When the man fell to his knees beside them, he let out a gasp. “Jason? How…?”

“A curse,” Dick grunted as he nudged Jason to allow him to sit up. Pressing a hand where the wound had once been, Dick noticed that the hole in his suit was still there, along with the blood starting to dry into a sticky substance, but the wound itself had vanished. “And a miracle.” He smiled over at Jason, who turned from glaring at Bruce to turning a gentler look onto Dick.

With shaky legs, Dick let Jason help him stand as he glanced around at the crowd that seemed to be gathering around them. Most faces he wasn’t surprised to see, but then his gaze fell on a few familiar redheads and an amused pair of blue eyes that struck him deep inside.

“How-” He started but stopped, pushing away from Jason’s hold and past Bruce who was reaching for him, probably wanting to be sure he was actually okay. But Dick was more focused on the fact that his missing friends, and all the other missing heroes, were now standing in front of him. Stopping in front of Donna, Kori, Roy, and Wally Dick looked at each of them before glancing back to Jason with a frown. “The curse?” He questioned, locking eyes with Jason who nodded. Turning back to look at his friends he let that final piece slot into place and he finally felt like everything was making sense.

The expressions on Dana’s face that would remind him so much of Donna. The smiles from Kassandra that seemed familiar could easily be seen as Kori’s smiles. Wade’s energy and presence and Ryan’s own brand of stoic observation. It was all so obvious now that he had them in front of him, he wasn’t sure how he hadn’t made the connection before.

“The curse would not have let you figure it out,” a voice called from behind him. And before he knew what was happening, Dick found himself shielded by Jason’s body and one of his escrimas in the man’s hand. “I am not here to harm you, Jason of Gotham. I am only here to retrieve my castle and wish you well. I did not curse you for attacking me that day like you assume. I did it to save you from a future that would have caused you and yours a lot of pain.”

He could see the witch just over Jason’s shoulder, a beautiful woman with an aura that buzzed vibrant energy. It was hard to picture her as the one who had put Jason behind the wall of malicious magic that he had felt. But maybe that had been on purpose. Not that it mattered anymore. It was over. No matter what her reasons were, the curse had been fulfilled.

Dick pressed a hand to Jason’s back, not surprised to feel the tense muscles coiled and ready to attack if need be. He was surprised when the man leaned back into the touch and relaxed just slightly into his touch. He wondered what the future the witch was referring to, but he doubted Jason thought being cursed in time for five years was better than what he would have faced otherwise.

“And now?” Jason questioned.

The witch smiled and waved a hand before vanishing. And with her, the castle went and the group of heroes found themselves standing in the middle of the warehouses that had always been there. Glancing around, Dick tried to get his bearings about him but it was a bit disorienting to be shifted from a castle back to reality in a matter of seconds.

“Are you okay?” Looking over, Dick found Bruce looking at him and then Jason hesitantly. Dick gave a nod and Jason responded with a grunt of his own before turning to look at Dick. Dick placing his hand Jason’s chest and taking a deep breath.

“We owe you an apology, Batman, Nightwing.” Dick looked over at Superman and frowned. “We should not have allowed Deathstroke to manipulate our emotions the way we did.”

And yeah, Dick agreed but could they really be to blame? “You were missing a son, I can’t blame you for being desperate,” Dick offered. And he knew Bruce wouldn’t agree with him, but Dick could understand being desperate to save someone. When Slade had convinced them to go after Jason and the others, Dick had felt that same desperation. He would have done anything to make sure the man didn’t hurt Jason and the others. Even when he didn’t know it was Jason and his missing friends. But now that he did, he understood even more.

“Still.”

“Just get out of my city and we can forget it ever happened.”

Jason let out a snort and Dick smile up at him. “Good to know that hasn’t changed.” And Dick couldn’t help but chuckle at that, because it’s not like he was wrong.

Once the others had been seen off, Dick taking a few extra moments to hug and speak with his friends who had been with him the whole time, Dick found himself standing near the batplane with Tim and Damian already on and Bruce making his way on. Looking at Jason, Dick tried to figure out what the man was thinking.

“You okay?”

Jason didn’t look away from the plane he had been staring at since they had approached it. Dick didn’t know what to make of the expression the other man wore, but he wondered if he would be able to read Jason the way he had tried to read Jace.

“I don’t know that I belong there anymore.” Dick frowned, placing a hand on Jason’s cheek to try and draw Jason’s gaze from the plane back to him.

Dick waiting for the familiar sea blue eyes to look at him before speaking. “You belong with me,” he offered, quirking an eyebrow. It was mostly a joke, but still true at the same time. And going by Jason’s snort of laughter, it achieved it’s task of distracting him from whatever thoughts he had rushing through his head. “We don’t have to stay at the Manor. I can take you to my apartment in Bludhaven or drop you off at one of my safehouses in Gotham. It’s your call. No one expects anything from you.”

Jason swallowed hard and Dick let his thumb caress the skin of Jason’s cheek as the man attempted to come to a decision or even just digest the situation. Dick couldn’t blame him in the least. Jason had died. He had been taken from them and then he had been thrown into the curse the instant he had been allowed to come back to himself.

Which was something Dick was desperate to ask about, but would save those questions for another time.

“I want to see Alfred, but I can’t stay at the Manor. I…” Jason pinched his brows and Dick waited. “I’m not ready for that.”

“Where can I take you?”

The pause Jason took to make his decision weighed heavy on Dick, not sure if he was about to be turned away or not. “Your apartment is good. I just need time.” Dick nodded and accepted it without question. Jason wasn’t telling Dick he wanted to be alone, but he also wasn’t saying what he expected to happen between the two of them from this point on either.

It was enough, for now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For two weeks the pair found a balance that was something like the one they had had at the castle. Dick went out every night as Nightwing and Jason listened in on his comms while he filled himself in on everything he had missed over the five years he had been gone. He learned that Batman had never taken out the Joker after he killed Jason and while Jason was angry and hurt over that fact, he knew if he had learned that when the Pit Madness was still heavy, he probably would have been murderous. Especially toward Tim, who he found out had technically been his replacement even if the kid hadn’t really given them a choice in the matter.

Jason could respect that.

He also learned about Damian, Bruce’s son with Talia, and Jason explained to Dick that it was Talia who had found Jason after he had dug himself out of his grave. Dick relayed the information to Bruce and the man had remained silent before vanishing for two days and Damian telling Dick that apparently his mother was not welcome in Gotham any longer.

When Dick had asked Bruce about it, the man simply said that they had gotten lucky that the witch had been there when Jason came out of the Pit. But without more, Dick had no idea what to make of that. So he just let it die.

When Jason found out Dick had killed the Joker and Bruce had brought him back to life, Dick had found himself pressed into the wall and Jason’s mouth hot on his. It wasn’t their first kiss (the one while Dick had been dying didn’t count to either man), that had come the night he and Dick had dragged themselves into Dick’s apartment after having spent hours telling Bruce the full story of what had happened in the castle the months Dick had been trapped and the years Jason had been. But this was the first one that was more than just a simple brush of lips against each other.

This one had purpose.

He had been so caught up in the feeling of Jason’s body pressed against his own that he had just let the man do with him as he pleased. And when Jason had finally pulled back, both of them were panting and achingly hard in their pants. Jason had told him he wasn’t ready to go further just yet and Dick had accepted it without question, never needing to hear “no” twice.

“I think I want to come up with a new persona,” Jason had said one night while Dick was cleaning his gear and Jason was making dinner. Dick looked up at him, eyes wide in surprise and needing a moment to fully digest what it was Jason was talking about. Bruce had been working on bringing Jason back from the dead legally, but Dick had a feeling that wasn’t what he was referencing.

Putting down his grapple gun, Dick turned his full attention onto Jason. “Did you have something in mind?”

Jason shrugged and went back to the taco meat he was making. “Red Hood,” he muttered and Dick tried to think of why that sounded so familiar.

“Like what Joker used to call himself?” He asked when it finally clicked. Jason glanced at him over his shoulder and seemed to be searching for something in Dick’s expression before looking away again. “Jay?”

“I just…” The man sighed and turned off the stovetop before turning to face Dick fully. “I think that if I hadn’t been cursed, I would have come back with vengeance on my mind. I think that’s what the witch meant by sparing me from a future that brought pain. I would have hated Bruce, I would have hated you.” Jason gave him a sad smile and Dick nodded in understanding. “But that didn’t happen. And now I have options I wouldn’t have had.”

“And where do those options take you?”

He watched Jason purse his lips before smiling. “To the place where I could be considered Nightwing’s partner? In more ways than one?”

Dick considered the implication of Jason’s words. He wasn’t just asking to work with Dick to clean up Bludhaven. He wasn’t just offering to be Nightwing’s partner. He was asking to be Dick Grayson’s partner as well.

“And if I agree?”

“We ask Bruce to stop trying to bring Jason Todd back to life and bring Jason Peters to life instead.” Because the world would frown upon adoptive brothers being in a relationship, even if they hadn’t seen each other in years. But Dick Grayson could be with a man who had no links to Bruce Wayne whatsoever. And while Dick wouldn’t mind if they just never made any public appearances together, he also knew he didn’t want to hide Jason away. “So what do you say?”

Focusing back onto Jason when the man’s hesitant voice sounded, Dick stared at him for a moment. The Dick found himself slipping off his barstool and rounding the island that separated him and Jason. He slotted himself against the other man easily, as if they were jigsaw pieces coming together, and wrapped one arm around Jason’s waist and the other hand gripping the back of his neck. “I say ‘Welcome to the world, Jason Peters’.”

The smile Jason gave him was practically blinding. And Dick didn’t regret anything.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You look fine, stop it,” Tim complained as Dick stopped to look at himself in the reflection of a window one last time as they approached the ballroom. The gold suit jacket was a little more flashy than he usually went but it was special. And Bruce had only huffed in mild annoyance when Dick announced that it was what he would be wearing. “I should have let Damian deal with you,” he grumbled as they stopped at the doors and Dick fidgeted with his tux one more time. “You and Jason have been dating for months, the public already knows this. Why are you freaking out?”

“Because,” Dick answered lamely. He didn’t actually know why he was nervous. Tim was right, the public had known about him and Jason as soon as Jason Peters had been brought to life. They had been to charity events, fancy dinners, even just regular dates around Gotham and Bludhaven. The public had taken the news of Richie Grayson being off the market well and hadn’t tried to drag Jason through the dirt as much as Dick had originally worried. But this was the first time they would be attending a Martha Wayne Foundation gala together and it felt different.

It felt important.

Because this was the one gala a year that Bruce took personally, and they all did their best to make sure it went off flawlessly. Sure there were the occasional issues, it’s Gotham after all, but that wasn’t something you could predict. Everything else, they could make sure went smoothly.

“Ready?” A familiar voice spoke up from behind him and Dick turned to find Jason standing behind him with Damian at his side. Smiling, Dick allowed himself a moment to admire Jason in the familiar blue suit that he had worn that night they had had their first date. The night that had sent them running full steam toward breaking the curse. The night that had changed everything.

“I am now,” Dick responded, taking the arm Jason offered.

Jason gave him a wide smile of his own before looking at Tim and raising a brow. “Well, let’s get moving Replacement.” Dick laughed when Tim let out a huff of annoyance before pushing open the double doors so they could make their entrance.

#jaydick #jason todd #dick grayson #beauty and the beast au #bruce wayne #slade wilson #jla members #tim drake #damian wayne #alfred pennyworth #teen titan members #anikah writes

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thattimdrakeguy · 4 years

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New 52 TEEN TITANS #3 Read Along - The fact this got made is still shocking.

It’s been a while since I done one of these. It’s probably been since last year or so. This isn’t so much of a formal review where I try my best to explain why something doesn’t work, with tons of back references, or interviews, and contexts, and such. I might do some of that, but I’m mostly just writing this along the same time I continue to read it.

I’ve already done the first two issues, and if I can I’ll link them in the post somewhere.

Basically, this series gets about everything wrong about the returning Core Four for this reboot. They made Cassie the tomboy a “girly” thief, Conner the punky flirt a creepy emotionally numb stalker, Tim the insecure dork a super genius that blew up part of a freaking skyscraper, and Bart the teen with an attention span problem into an arrogant jerkwad loudmouth.

With the origins later given in the series, the boys are revealed to not reaally be the characters we knew at all in a more literal sense. This Conner is a clone of an alternate version of Jon, not Clark and Lex. This Tim Drake, is literally only Tim Drake in name only, as that’s the name this teen got in witness protection. And this Bart Allen, isn’t even related to Barry.

So these are versions of the characters that are them in literally name only, bar Cassie (sadly). Although, they’d later retconned Tim’s origin back (which doesn’t make sense). But what else can I compare them to but the originals?

A really common criticism of this series, and one that’s pretty dang valid in my opinion. Is just how unlikable everyone is-- or at least the Core Four, because I feel like we can all be honest and say that most people just read this for the Core Four, and sometimes Bunker. (Like Bart’s condescending here. Like “I’m Kid Flash, girl.” Maybe I’m just reading it too 1940s, but it comes off as really dickish.)

I mean seriously, how many people do you know talk abut Skitter? The original characters that Lobdell came up with are really hit and miss for me, mostly miss. Because I find Skitter so forgettable, that even though I’ve read the first few issues of this series just for entertainment value, I still forget she exists. She could’ve been so much more interesting, but he just doesn’t give her much.

To me, a good character has a personality that you can notice, grab onto, and have lots of unique stories with, that simply work, not even because it causes a great drama, but just because the perspective the character will have in any situation depending on the circumstance will be interesting.

Which is one of the reasons why I find Tim an interesting character, because his perspective is one that’s very interactive with any given circumstances but will still work for me. An insecure, super hero fanboy, that’s doing his best to be brave, but is secretly scared, with the cleverness to do things, but the anxiety that he can’t. Which the circumstances they give him, like having to make sure he proves he should be Robin, having parents at home, not feeling like he’s good enough, constantly seeing others better them him. It’ll just make him an interesting perspective to read from that won’t get too repetitive in any way that interferes with the enjoyment, because there’s a lot of levels you can take his harsh feelings, or things to interact with, that it won’t always be predictable what’s going to happen with him, and you want to read to see more.

With this series and quite a bunch of other original characters made, they have soap opera writing. Which works with fleshed out characters like the iconic 80s incarnation of the Teen Titans, but when the new characters don’t have a well-formed personality that you can really grab onto and gain constant interest and intrigue from, you just have a lame duck.

When your main character’s traits are “I’m angsty and sad”. No one is going to be able to invest themselves with that. They need to be more third dimensional and genuine to make them a character you want to pick up each issue for.

This series even with the old characters fails at that, by making them into absolute butchered heaps of rotted rump rather than their full personalities.

At least the art is pretty creative early on in it’s second page, I will give it that.

Then there’s Bunker--

--who I really want to like, but just can’t find myself enjoying.

A lot of these characters I’m unfamiliar with I want to like. They’re minority characters with very interesting concepts, but writing so flat that it ruins any chance of paying attention to them. A common curse when it comes to POC and a bad writer like Lobdell.

But Bunker actually has a personality, but the reason why I can’t find myself attaching myself to him is because he feels like an uncomfortable stereotype character. An outdated one that you’d see in the 80s or 90s to either seem inclusive or use as a joke rather than a true deal character.

Bunker is a flamboyant, religious, fashion involved, gay, Latino. Something that feels like you’d really bet he wouldn’t be if he wasn’t gay or Latino, because it’s just all based in stereotypes. Like if the pages weren’t colored, and you didn’t have the context he was gay, you’d probably still guess what he’s supposed to be just because of how much they involve stereotypes with him.

However, despite the stereotypes, he is the one most people can remember from this series beyond the core four, because he at least has a personality, and they actually try to build up a unique mystery to him, that would make you want to continue to know them.

And there is something about his confidence and religious beliefs, and determination that does feel very genuine, and makes you actually like him despite the stereotypes.

You want to know what makes you able to tell he’s a better made character than the other relatively new, to straight up new characters? You can actually talk about him, and have a lot more to say about them then his backstory, two personality traits, and angst. Even if his personality seems limited at first, they still write it in a way that’s genuine enough that you can get more out of it, a lot like what I was describing with Tim earlier.

He still feels like a character that you could write a solo about, and with a good enough writer and personal life, would actually make for a very rereadable series, because you just enjoy seeing him on his journey, because it won’t always be the same exact things. He has loyal personality traits about him, but depending on his circumstances, it won’t be the same side of him you’re seeing, and it won’t feel contrived. He has potential to become a true third dimensional character, and not one that just feels like he looks like one, but isn’t really.

But that depends on where the writing goes with him-- and I can’t remember where it goes. But take away the dated stereotypes and there’s actual good potential with Bunker. Making your character feel like another decade’s minority caricature is kind of a turn off when it comes to feeling comfortable reading them.

Which is why some don’t tend to like him.

There’s not a lot to say about this quick page of Cassie, besides the fact they make her come across as apathetic and nuts. She’s also mildly sexualized given it looks like she’s posing for a fashion shoot and not just closing a door, which feels pretty typical of the team that made this book.

And because of Lobdell’s bizarre writing and tone changes, I don’t know if this is supposed to be taken as serious or comedy, because of how abrupt it is, and how a fight broke out right after and we find out the old guy is Tim somehow convincing someone he isn’t like-- 15? I think he’d be either 14 or 15, not because that’s how Lobdell intended him to be, because I believe in a now lost interview he said Tim was “probably” 16 or 17. However, they didn’t settle on Tim’s age till Damian was near thirteen, meaning Tim would’ve been either fourteen or fifteen here, depending if Damian was eleven as I remember, or ten at the start of the New 52.

And here’s some more out of character Tim, because New 52 is what you get when you skim through Red Robin without any context, and being edgy is still really popular with the teenage demographic at the time.

This is a Tim that blew up a building, is an incel towards Cassie, and is overall an arrogant prick.

How Lobdell thought anyone thought any of a good idea is beyond me, but I figure he’s just not self-aware enough to realize that he just made one of the most unlikable protagonists I’ve ever seen, and absolutely bastardized who was once a mega-fan-favorite.

Although, this is pretty cute and in-character. It’s something that definitely fits in with a classic Tim comic, but down let this make you think Lobdell knows how to write Tim, because he makes it really obvious all the time that he doesn’t really.

And that’s basically everything relevant that happens in this issue-- not a lot when you actually read it, and not just me spouting off the proverbial mouth as I try my best to mentally process this freaking comic.

Conner doesn’t even show up, most likely because he was the only one with a solo, that Lobdell was also writing (you can probably guess accurately what the quality of that was too).

A lot of it is just more of the same, and it’s tedious, although it’s tedious nature is not so much on Lobdell, as he’s said in interviews before that it was editorial or a publisher (I can’t remember to be honest) that made him not have them previously know each other. So he had to work from that.

Which goes to show just how much DC knows how their characters and teams work, given the reason why Young Justice worked so well was because Tim, Conner, and Bart, already had stories where they duo’d up, and teamed up before they were even official. Which allowed them to have a preconceived friendship, they could build dynamics that were naturally built off of their unique personalities, which made everything feel natural and good to go when they did have an official team comic.

Here you have a Tim, that’s supposed to be very much a rookie of only one year, acting like he’s the greatest protégé talent ever, searching out for metahumans and coincidentally running into them, just to make some kind of story that would explain them being together for a team.

I’m not saying they have to redo the duo stuff again, because I’m pretty sure most readers already know their dynamics, and as for new readers, it doesn’t take a lot of time to say “We’re just good friends that like hanging out” does it? They have issue zeroes for each comic for a reason, they could’ve easily had a nice summary there if they wanted.

New 52′s obsession with trying to fit everything they can in, but have everyone still be relatively new, made everything a mess.

Like isn’t it weird that Superman only started being a super hero FOUR YEARS before Tim was? Doesn’t that sound entirely too squeezed in?

Then because they messed with the characters so much it works less for old readers as well. Like they have Tim, only a year in, acting like all the out of character elements of Red Robin, with an origin that’s a Bizarro styled mirror of his original one, with nothing that made him the popular character he used to be.

Same for the others.

New 52 is partially scary, because it shows just how little they know about what made them work.

I’m not against reboots in comics as a concept, they do need some modernization, and clean-ups every now and again, but you have to keep what works in there, or else the reboot will be a total failure. And paint-jobs and fan service like Rebirth aren’t gonna work either, when the heart of it all is still just so bad.

All this is a lot easier to say in hindsight, but DC Comics really has to work towards remembering their mistakes if they actually want to get better again. They’re doing a bit better at it, as forced and contrived as it can be sometimes. So they are getting somewhere.

But this is only the start of a Didio-less era. Looking like good things are coming, and little presents that truly make it seem true, is something that’s only going to last for a little bit. They have to still do the work, and learn what worked for their characters in the first place, and reremember who they all are.

Otherwise sales will just get worse again.

But I’m genuinely hoping they’ll at least begin to learn from mistakes. No one gets a win otherwise.

Oh, and he’s the entirety of the fight advertised on the cover. “Red Robin vs. Bunker”.

They stop fighting right after this.

It’s the comic book equivalent of clickbait if I’ve ever seen it in my entire life.

#Tim Drake #Robin #Red Robin #Bart Allen #Kid Flash #Cassie Sandsmark #Wonder Girl #New 52 #Teen Titans #DC Comics #Only tagging them because odds are those are the only tags people will check

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miss-choco-chips · 4 years

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Soul shards part 2

This isn’t edited in the slightest folks. Wrote this in a LONG car ride and I’m beat. Tumblr was being difficult and wouldn’t let me copy an paste so I had to copy every individual paragraph, so there might be some mistakes.

Shoutout to @sideeffectsofwriting who suggested damitim and kicked the muse into motion and @the-quiet-carrotcake who let me cry about this on chat.

.-.-.-

He needed to do what not even the Batman could achieve.

He would bring Drake back.

-.-.-.-

11 - 16

Damian’s first gifted soulshard came from his mother, when he turned five. It was a beautiful orange-red dagger, with flecks of gold here and there, and he wanted to hold it more than anything in the world.

Then his mother put it in his hand, closed his fingers around it and held a kitten by the scruff and hind legs in front of him, as an offering. An order. A mission. And, once it was carried, the slightest hint of satisfaction in her eyes.

Those were the feelings the dagger was imbued with; expectation, and pride. Not for who he was, but for what he did. A heavy weight, and a cold one, right until the moment the mission was complete; after that, a short-lived warmth crept up his arm, the starting point the dagger in his hand.

Or maybe it was the kitten’s blood what chased the cold (and his sleep) away. It should have been comforting.

It wasn’t.

When Grayson chose him as his Robin, he sealed the deal by giving Damian an R shaped soul shard in the form of a brooch. It should have been an ecstatic moment for him, his second ever soul shard being gifted to him by his Batman.

It wasn’t.

While warmer and lighter than his dagger, it felt… off. Their bond was just growing then, no trust nor love giving shape to the soul given away. Instead, Damian was presented with Grayson’s feelings of responsibility (to the city), despair (because they both have just lost their father) and reluctant resignation (because even when Grayson choose him, it was obviously not what he wanted, it couldn’t be, not when there was already a Robin fully indoctrinated in The Mission perfectly available and… more loved), as well as the barest hint of hopeful fondness.

He doesn’t hold it against him; that was just their beginning, and it was the gesture what was important, a gift from the soul that Damian hadn’t yet earned, a trust at giving himself away to the child he had just decided to take under his wing. Were Grayson to give him a new soul shard, he was sure the feelings wouldn’t be so harsh now that they had formed and nurtured this bond between them. Still, he treasured his brooch for what it was: a chance to prove himself, a chance at a home.

Drake’s soul (not a shard, not a piece, but the remainings of his actual soul; his core) was an entirely new phenomenon. The moment he received it, clenched it in his hands for the first time, it was imbued with a rage and contempt that didn’t surprise him, as those were the grounds of their relationship. But, with every passing minute, the feeling just… calmed down, like… forgiveness? Acceptance? It was like a pat on the back after a hard patrol with Grayson, after he made a mistake and the man would just sigh and tell him ‘do better next time, but let’s just put this behind us’. But… from Drake?

It- that was- there weren’t actual words to explain it. Damian had never heard of it, of a change on the emotions inside the soul, but, he supposes, this wasn’t something Drake had sharded with an idea in mind, this wasn’t a love confession or a methaporical friendly hug. Drake had just… given himself away, entirely.

Damian wasn’t sure what it meant, but the mystery of that pushed him relentlessly to the batcave, to the monitors where he would watch and rewatch old footage of Drake’s training, read old reports, dig as deep as he could in search of information that might clear things up for him.

That might explain the clench in his heart when he held the tiny soul.

.-.-.-.

He is missing.

Bruce can’t process it at first. He has every camera, every metahuman, every genius hero at his disposal… and nothing. No one could find Tim, and he’s been gone for over a week. Seven days and twelve hours, if he was counting. Which he was, because seeing the pretty ice blue watch on his wrist, warm with admiration, respect and adoration, slowly turning cold and red and black was high on the list of the scariest moments of his life.

He was holding his son’s soul, soon it wouldn’t feel any different than the Rolex he might wear for a charity.

It terrified him.

The only piece of Tim’s soul he could find (and it had taken him a while, to track down everyone Tim ever gave a shard to, even going so far as to dig Janet and Jack’s graves, because there were so many pieces; too many, although his Titans friends had flat out rejected his request to give them to him) to remain icy blue was Damian’s. Which would be fantastic for testing, for figuring out what was wrong, maybe even for tracking Tim down… If Damian weren’t so dead set on keeping it in his direct line of sight, on the little leather pouch by his hip or dangling from his neck.

The twelve year old had proven willing to stab any hand that tried to take his soul shard away, accepting only those tests that were safe and could be made in front of his eyes.

-We could try to, like… mesh my piece of soul with Damian’s? -had suggested Dick, once, earlier on the week.

-And how, pray tell, would you do it? Drake himself is the one that shaped your necklace. This are his soul shards, no one but him can bend them to their will.

-I mean… Cass’s father, Cain, he made dents and bumps in her soul, so it’s not like its impossible…

-…after years of abuse, from which her soul has yet to recover! Of all the stupid/!

Dick, on very little sleep and with worry and guilt battling it out inside his heart, rolled his eyes at Damian’s objections.

-We won’t hurt him for the hell of it, but he could be in danger, or lost, or who knows what! There’s little to no precedent about soulless people. Since when do you care so much about Tim’s wellbeing, anyway?

-And since when do you *not*?

That had ended the argument quickly. Guilt had won in Dick. Damian’s gifted little piece of soul remained at it’s pouch. And Tim was still missing.

Bruce wanted to pull at his hair, yell and throw fists. He did none of these. Damian needed him. He had already failed one son.

.-.-.-.

12 - 17

Life goes on, after a tragedy. And this tragedy in particular was a silent one; there was no blood, no screaming, no tears. Just someone that left it all behind and disappeared on the wind. And, as much as the Bats wanted to find him, Tim going on a solo trip wasn’t alarming enough for them to ignore the day to day dangers of Gotham, the multiverse threats, the alien invasions. As concerning as multiple soul shards changing color and losing emotion had been, the fact remained that it… just wasn’t priority.

Timothy could look after himself; the civilians of Gotham and the world at large couldn’t. At least, that was what father said.

Damian was of a different mind.

He noticed it at first during a Justice League meeting. He had taken to playing around with the little ice blue ball when lost in thought, or was nervous, a habit developed after hours, days and months sitting by the cave’s monitors studying his predecessor.

So there he was, idly rolling it between his fingers, careful to not drop it, when he catches sight of Superboy…

(The Titans were a mess, Wonder Girl, SB and Impulse running around like headless chickens, dropping everything, no matter how mission-important, at the slightest mention of anything Red Robin related, recruiting the help of old fiends from their Young Justice days, hurting so much not even him, usually indifferent to his peers’ drama, could remain untouched by their pain)

…being scolded by Superman. Which, would normally not even phase Damian, impartial about the clone outside of his relationship with Drake as he was.

But. But. When Superman layed a condescending hand on Kon El’s shoulder, something spiked inside Damian, a sudden and strong desire to slap that hand away, to growl at the man, to protect his/

…his best friend?

That thought it’s what gives him pause, stops him mid step, where he was unthinkingly approaching the aliens.

Those weren’t his feelings, but Drake’s.

At the realization, the little soul in his hand glowed and warmed and almost jumped right out of it. It seemed to say ‘finally’.

Damian couldn’t breath.

.-.-.-.

He kept quiet about this new knowledge, but it nagged at him. He had to test this out.

He held the small soul while watching Grayson train by the Cave’s trapeze. Rolled it between fingers with little to no trouble while covertly listening to Cain and Brown tease each other. Made a protective fist around it when he stumbled across Red Hood during patrol, catching the -now reformed- antiheroe mid flight.

Admiration and yearning (teach me, choose me, love me).

Fondness and familiarity (bond with me, laugh with me, stand by me).

Trepidation and want (please look at me, please stop hating me, please let me watchadmirelove you).

Those weren’t his feelings, so. Confirmed then. Holding Drake’s soul, he apparently had an open door to the man’s feelings. An insight to the deepest parts of him.

Weeks into his discovery, he learned a few things. For example, how annoyingly emotional the young man was. Did Drake always feel everything this intensely? It was exhausting, and Damian at least had the option to put the soul away at it’s pouch, stopping the flow of emotions. Drake… well, he did leave it behind, after all.

Which made him wonder, if he had Drake’s emotions at hand, what did it leave his predecessor with?

.-.-.-.-.-.

13 - 18

It pained Damian to admit this, but Drake was… good. Too good. Unbelievable so, for someone that started his formal training way later in life than Damian.

The footage in front of him was one he had viewed already dozens of times, and he still couldn’t believe his eyes. A gift requested to his mother, footage from the Cradle, about two years before.

At first, Damian had just wanted to uncover the mystery of Drake’s time away during Father’s absence. What happened during those months, to drive one like his Gradfather from mild admiration to almost obsessive, possessive desire? What elevated the, by the time, teenager to a spot previously occupied by none other than The Batman, and even beyond?

His in into the League allowed him access to the answer. And he understood. The mixture of recklessly brave plans, creatively executed acrobatics, heart-stopping genius and iron clad morals. Fighting against the Spiders, protecting the innocent at his back, all the while under tight schedule on his plan to land an unprecedented hard blow to the League.

It was breathtaking. The young detective, that unmasked the man many believed was no more than a myth, the novice hero that when told ‘no’ started his own team of fighters, that while no one else thought it possible defied Death itself for the life of his adoptive father. Barely older than Damian himself, with half his years of training, and still so far away. Leagues ahead of him.

Out of his reach…

A grimace, an unfamiliar tightness in his chest and then Damian was cracking his knuckles and typing away at the computer. If his Grandfather viewed Drake above Father, then maybe Damian was going about this the wrong way, in his quest to surpass every Robin before him. He needed to succeed where even Father had failed, reaching to a step below Drake instead of the entire flight of stairs he had ahead of him.

…but not for long.

He needed to do what not even the Batman could achieve.

He would bring Drake back.

.-.-.-.-.

It takes some time. He studies for weeks under Gordon, shadows Cyborg’s steps for a while, even declines patrol once or twice claiming a stomachache when he feels he’s close to a clue. Has the Titans permanently hacked (props of connecting from the Batcave’s computer, no one questioned the backdoor on their system, assumed it was Batman checking on them) and an alert programmed on his phone for every time some reporter catches sight of the Drake-Wayne heir (none so far, but, like a voice that sounded like Grayson singsonged, cover all your bases).

And even after all of that, it was still Drake himself that pointed him in the right direction.

Damian was idly scrolling down some online headlines, mind numb with tiredness barely paying attention to the titles, when the little soul between his forefinger and thumb gave him a spark, so sudden it was like an electric shock, sapping him out of it and forcing his attention to the article on screen.

Serial killer known as The Gardener found tied in the front lawn of his supposed next victims, after seven months evading the Parisian police force. Family claims they never saw nor heard anything until the morning, when the father was about to head for work and stumbled across the handcuffed man, hand clutching his signature weapon, unconscious and still bleeding from, what the police assumes, was a short lived fight…

The soul pulsed again. Disgust, rage, adrenaline… pride, vindictive pride. The same emotions that soared through him when a would be rapist fell to his sword during patrol.

Quick eyes scanning through the article, nothing pointing towards a vigilante, no pattern that he could see pointing to his missing predecessor. And still, Damian knew.

Energy renewed, he scanned through older news, titles. Nothing sparked the soul, until a thwarted robbery on Scotland gave him pause. Again, the article itself was generic, no common points except the mystery of whoever stopped the crime from happening, but… his gut, and Drake’s gut, they were both screaming at him.

This was him. What was he doing on Paris? Was he still there? Two articles, separated by a few weeks, was more of a clue than anyone had found this far, but it was still nothing. And the last one, with the Serial Killer, was from two days ago. Even if he told Father and he dispatched a velocist or super, it’d still be too late. Drake wouldn’t have been able to evade them this long if he iddled long somewhere. Sighing tiredly he fell back into the chair, raising the little soul so it was eye level.

After all this time, after all his training, after all of father’s efforts to track his wayward son, it was proved only Drake could find Drake. A little, sleep deprived smile broke his scowl.

He was too tired to feel frustration.

Not too much for admiration, though.

.-.-.-.-.

That same night, oceans away, a slim figure dealt the finishing blow to some wannabe gangsters on a upper class Venetian neighbour. They had been armed, but only the slightest of scratches decorated his arm. The other guys… weren’t so lucky. They’d be lucky if their broken ribs didn’t pierce a lung.

The scared girls that he saved from being jumped (or worse) rushed forward once their attackers hit the ground, sobbing between their heartfelt thanks and praises. Trembling hands reaching for his cap-less back, the slippery material of his dark shirt slipping from their fingers. Still, he carefully moved out of range and tonelessly told them to call for the police, letting them comfort each other and waiting only until he could hear the sirens approaching. Then, he was gone, lost to the night that had spited him out to fight the treath minutes before.

On the back of his mind, something told him he should be annoyed. He had been good to keep himself out of the media’s attention, dealing with crimes where no one would be able to pinpoint exactly who had been their saviour, or how had they been spared from the danger. Like the Parisian family. Now that was a clean work. Found the killer, guessed his next target and caught him just before the crime. In, fight, out. Easy, untraceable.

Two scared girls might not have the clearest memories of their traumatic attack, but ‘young, black clothed man fights off gangsters with a staff’ would surely make the headlines, which meant hailing ass as far from here as possible before anyone could trace this back to him.

People tracking him raised in his gut… the closest thing to emotions he had nowadays (something he hadn’t been bothered with for years now), namely annoyance. He had a goal in mind, rules he played by, things to avoid. Having all that endangered was troublesome, and even worse was how inevitable it was. He couldn’t exactly ignore the crying girls, not because he cared, but his body always moved on its own on situations like this, personal preferences overrode by muscle memory.

How inconvenient.

And speaking of…

He barely nodded in acknowledgement when a shadowed figure fell into step besides him, keeping up on his sprint from rooftop to rooftop.

-My Master wishes to extend an invitation to dinner. He demands your company.

Not Pru then, but not so different from what he expected.

He hummed, for show more than anything else, eyeing the leather pouch by the man’s hip. A Soul Carrier, nothing flashy but firmly attached. Classic League.

The shadow flinched. They all did. Something in his lack of soul scared them shitless when he payed attention to theirs, as if he would snatch them and steal away with it.

Ha. Please. He didn’t even want his own soul back, why in hell would he take theirs? He’d never feel lighter before.

And even if sometimes the emptiness inside made him eye with attention the knife he carried on his boot as a last resort, those moments were few and easily forgotten.

-Depends. Is he ready to pay for the pleasure of it? It’s been a while, I’m on need of cash and resources, so my fee has gone up.

A moment of silence while the shadow listened on his earpiece for his answer. Then, a nod.

-Okay then. Tell him to send me directions to the place once I’m out of this country. And that if he wants me to wear something pretty, he better chose a nice, camera-less place. Also, if he doesn’t keep his hands to himself, he’ll need one of those shiny green pools of his to regrow a few fingers.

.-.-.-.-.

14 - 19

Todd’s emergency beacon called from Tokyo, interrupting their post patrol debrief. Father had programmed all their distress signals so they would always come through, no matter what else was doing on or what Do not Disturb protocols he might have. Nothing would get in the way to saving his sons ever again.

When they answered, tense and (in Damian’s case, reluctantly) worried, it was to the sounds of heavy breathing and clang of metal against metal. A fight.

-/ing hell! Fuck! Goddamned little/ anyone copy me?!

Father, cowless but every bit the Batman, pressed a finger against the keyboard and dropped his voice am octave.

-Red Hood, here cave, we copy you. What’s the situation?

The sounds of fighting never stopped, and whatever could keep Hood on his toes like this and forced him to call for help was enough to have Damian reaching for his Soul Carrier, where two different (in size and colorthen) spheres guarded each other. It was a habit he needed to train himself out of, but for now, a needed comfort.

-I /shit shit SHIT, YOU LITTLE FUCKER/ I found the bastard! Tim!

A needle dropping could be heard in the following silence. Cain steps as she approached the batconputer could be heard and that was something.

The smallest of the souls in his carrier pulsed at the sight of Brown’s distress as she clutched Black Bat’s hand, her other going to the almost completely red locket hanging from her neck. If it followed the pattern of both Grayson and Father, it would soon turn dark.

(Unlike the clone and velocist, those two’s soul shards still retained the icy blue color, and Damian couldn’t help but think it had something to do with the fact that the people that had betrayed Drake the worst were the ones that were losing their connection to him first; Cain’s own compass was still mostly blue)

Damian’s own soul basically jumped to his hand at the implication of what Todd was saying (he ignored the flash of disappointment that he wasn’t the one to find Drake, the little spark of something on the icy blue little ball that still reacted to that idiotic Todd…).

Grayson was the one that basically pushed father out of the way, so he could lean over the keyboard, as if that would make him be heard clearer, hand fondling with the chain around his neck that was Drake ’s first shard, both to be created and to lose it’s warmth.

-A-are you sure? Our Timmy?

-You have eyes on him? -demanded father as he typed away, faster than Damian ever remembered seeing, probably sending some kind of message to the Justice League for assistance.

-Damn right I’m sure, stumbled across him during my mission here, don’t know anyone as annoying/ FUCK can’t you see I’m on the phone ya lil shit?! I can do you one better than eyes on the bastard, B, I’ll put my hands around his weasly lil neck/!

A window popped on the Cave monitor (of course Gordon was eavesdropping) as Oracle traced the call and hacked the street camera closest to Todd’s location.

The figure was all in black, taller and leaner than Damian remembered. Or was that because he spent so much time watching footage of his time as Robin?

Drake was smaller then, baby faced and bird-boned. A child. Somewhere along the line, lost in studying his formative years, Damian had forgot the fact that he was a man, now.

He certainly looked the part, now. Graceful as fought Hood off, tough a lot more brutal, if Hood’s grunts of pain everyone the shiny staff made contact could be believed. He seemed in a hurry, too, judging by his almost too fast to be seen movements.

The fight moved a little (likely Hood’s doing), and they shifted just enough for them to see, in the grainy quality of the camera, a second of Drake’s face before before he seemed to sense that he was being watched.

Something was thrown the camera’s way, a little gadget, and everything turned black. The only connection the Cave had to Drake now was the still going sounds of fighting.

-Hood, tell him to stop! We don’t mean him any harm/

-I do, the little fucker broke my left wrist! Imma gonna show him!

-Hood! -now not only Grayson, but Brown too, chided.

-Just stall him -commanded Father- Clark is on his way.

-Easy for you to say! Whatever he’s being doing this last few years, it gave him a hell of a boost. I can barely/

Silence. Not just Hood shutting up, but no more breaths, no more metallic clang. The line had been cut, something that shouldn’t been possible after all the upgrades father made to their comms.

By the time Superman arrived to Gotham, an hour had passed, and not even Gordon could re install the connection to either the street camera nor the comm. Not that it would do any good: Hood was unconscious and brutally beated up, and not even a full scan of the city by various metas gave them any hint of Drake ’s location.

The icy blue soul pulsed with guilt at hood’s state, but also an undeniable pride at the fact that Drake got away.

Damian felt like throwing it against a wall. Instead, he cradled it in his hands, against his chest, as he went to sleep that night.

He dreamed of grainy camera footage, the face in the recording handsome and lethal, the coldness on pretty eyes replaced by the emotional icy blue of his soul.

.-.-.-.-.

He woke up in the morning and laid on bed for a while.

Ignorant on the emotional side of things as Grayson might believe him, Damian wasn’t about to lie to himself.

There was no denying the clenching on his gut when the camera displayed the video of the dark figure fighting, the disappointment when Hood failed to bring Drake home, the spark of annoyance at the fact that the tiny soul still reacted to the second Robin, the flash of white warmth that crept up him when he saw the results of Drake’s power on Hood’s battle wounds.

The craving pumping his heart was like nothing he ever felt before.

It was kinda like seeing his mother holding her soul shard his way, like Grayson hands fastening the R brooch on his cape for the first time, like giving Father a ring and Nightwing a bracelet, nervous in a way that was unbecoming to someone of the Al Ghul’s household.

It was wanting to receive and to be accepted.

It was even more than that.

It was holding Drake’s entire soul in his hand, small and battered as it was, and thinking ’I’ll fix this’. It was masterfully twirling it in his hand, easy from practice, letting Drake's emotions wash over him, his fierce protectiveness over his friends, his honest fondness over the family, the growing approval every time Damian cracked a case or figured out a mystery on his own.

It wasn’t Drake himself, but at the same time it was.

Damian dropped his head back into the pillow and raised the hand holding the tiny soul, his own gold, green and blue one laying on the mattress by his hip. It had tiny specs of ice blue on it, influenced against his will by the soul that shared the soul carrier with for so long now, not too different from the way his mother’s orange red soul had some dark blue hues dancing near it’s core, or how Pennyworth’s silver one had the barest hints of yellow, which the butler once told him were remnants of his first love.

He never would admit to be emulating Todd, but in that moment, he couldn’t help it.

-Fuck.

#Soul shards #soul shards au #tim drake #damian Wayne #the bats #it's a pain to tag everyone but they are all mentioned #this was a BITCH to publish tumblr wouldn't let me copy paste everything from my docs so i had to do paragraph by paragraph #pre damitim i guess?#soulless tim #Ra's is there for a sec not in person but by creepiness factor #Damian is developing a crush how cute baby assassin #i did this during a eight hours car ride this isn't edited in the slightest #my writing #oh yeah #tw: animal cruelty #at the beggining though but still #forgot to tag before sorry

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dick-g-ayson · 5 years

Note

I couldn't resist, so here we go. If you're still taking prompts, "Join Me" for JayKon - I keep thinking bed-sharing (maybe nightmares?) and the cute kind of awkwardness. ❤️

Okay, @red-bri we discussed these at length and I am going to do both, so have some fluffy bed-sharing before the angst.

This went a bit longer than I expected, and not quite the way I envisioned, but I like it none the less. 😊

Warm light filtered in through wide open windows. Soft late evening late casting everything in a purple haze, street noise a quiet hum in the background. A quiet peaceful afternoon.

Too bad Conner couldn't enjoy a second of it.

Another round of sneezes, followed by the loud honk of a nose being blown, broke the peacefulness of the day, as Conner blew his nose for what felt like the hundredth time. His nose was bright red, and dry, his chest hurt when he breathed. Every time he tried to take a deep breath he ended up in a coughing fit.

If Tim and the others didn't get this mess figured out soon, he was going to throw himself out of the Tower and end his own misery.

"Ah-ah-ACHOO!"

"Bless you!"

Conner let his head drop back against the back of the couch, looking to see who had spoken.

He felt his heart stop for a moment, before beating again hard. For once, since this whole "no-powers, you're human now bitch + Haha you're sick too!", mess had started, Conner was glad the fever had given him a flush all over. Otherwise Jason would have seen the blush that spread across his face, and down his neck.

"Jeez, I'm s'prised y'didn't blow th'roof offa this place."

Conner just blinked at him through the haze of his fever, watched as he walked further into the communal floor. There was a slight hitch in his step. 'His knee must be acting up.'

"Although if what Timmers tells me is true, you couldn't even take the Baby-Bat right now."

Conner groaned and let himself slide down the couch, burying his face in a pillow.

"Ugh! I can't believe he told you of all people." He raised his head enough to glare at Jason, who was now standing at the foot of the couch, hands on his hips and a smirk on his face. "That why you're hear? To mock me in my hour of pain and misery?"

Jason laughed and Conner buried his face back into the couch, ignoring the pleasant twist in his abdomen, as the rich sound of it washed over him.

"Nah, I try not t'kick a man when he's down."

That got a disbelieving snort out of Conner, muffled as it was.

"Okay, I try not to kick friends when they're down. How's that?" Conner could imagine the eye roll that accompanied that statement.

"More believable at least."

Jason laughed again as he nudged at Conner's foot, "Golly gee, thanks mister. Now, budge up SuperClone. Y'don't need th'whole couch t'yerself."

Conner scowled and kicked out sluggishly when Jason continued to prod at his legs. Not stopping until Conner reluctantly pulled his feet up and twisted his body. He was now leaning on the couch instead of laying on it face first. "God,you are such a dick!"

"Nah, that's m'brother" Jason smirked as he flopped onto the couch. "Betcha y'can breathe easier now though. Cantcha."

Conner scowled, looking away, crossing his arms huffing over his chest.

Jason cackled in response as he kicked his feet up onto the table, crossing his arms behind his head. Letting his eyes drift shut with a satisfied smile.

It was only then that Conner noticed that the other was in casual clothes. A plain dark t-shirt, blue jeans, and boots. It was probably the most casual Conner had ever seen the other man dress. It wasn't a bad look.

"So why are you here?" Conner found himself asking after a few moments of silence.

"Hmm? Oh, Tim asked me t'swing by an' make sure y'weren't workin' y'self to death."

Conner scoffed, "Please, was he looking in a mirror when he said that?"

"Right! I told the little workaholic tha' he was bein' a hypocrite, but the little shit insisted." Jason shrugged his broad shoulders, tilting his head a bit to smirk over at the flustered Clone. "So here I am."

"Joy. I'm touched really, but as you-you can see I'm f-fine." Conner's words dissolved into a coughing fit that had the teasing melting off of Jason's face. He vaulted over the arm of the couch and dissapeared from sight, as Conner fought to get his breathing under control.

The coughing stopped after a minute and Conner was panting like he'd run a marathon, tears in his eyes, and starting to trail down his cheeks.

He opened his eyes to see Jason crouched in front of him glass of water in his hand.

"Here, drink this. Slow."

Conner nodded as he reached for the cool glass with a shaking hand, and Jason didn't release it until Conner had a good grip.

Once he was sure he wasn't going to chug it down, Jason stood and disappeared again.

Conner didn't hear him again for several minutes, when the sound of heavy boots approaching roused him from the light stupor, he had fallen into, while trying to remember how to breathe.

He looked up when Jason stopped in front of him, sitting on the table before the couch. He handed him a tiny cup filled with a dark purple liquid.

"Drink that, too. It'll help wit' th'congestion."

"This shit doesn't work, I'm -"

"Half Kryptonian, blah blah." Jason waved a hand, interrupting him. "Tha's th'half that's bein' suppressed, so right now you," he reached over and poked Conner in the forehead. "Are all human. And good humans take their meds. Now drink up, or do I gotta make ya?"

Conner scowled as Jason continued to smirk at him, shaking the little cup obnoxiously.

He relented with a roll of eyes, taking the cup and downing it in one shot. The bitter black cherry flavour hits the back of his throat and makes him cough again.

"Dude! I thought you said this was supposed to help?"

"It does when y'drink it like a normal person." Jason laughed as he took the cup back, setting it on the table. "Come on, up y'get. You're goin' t'bed t'sleep."

Conner tucks his feet up onto the couch with him, pulling the blanket he had been using tight around himself. His voice is almost child like, when he asks, "Why can't I just sleep out here."

"Because ev'ry Titan knows it's impossible t'sleep on the communal floor. Y'get tired out here, but y'can't actually fall asleep." Jason pushed himself off the table and stood hands on his hips, as he stared down at the sick and grumpy man before him. "Now you gonna get up on yer own?"

"What are you gonna do if I don't? Carry me?"

The smirk that Jason gives him is almost predatory in it's eagerness. "If I have to."

'He wouldn't dare, there's no way.'

Conner opens his mouth before he can stop himself. If he's asked later what made him say it, he's gonna blame the fever.

"Prove it."

Jason grin widens and he moves without hesitation. And for the first time, Conner can see why people fear the Red Hood. He moves easily, not as fluid as Dick and Tim, but still with effortless grace and power, and he can't help but choke silently at it, losing his breath for a moment.

Although that may also be from the shoulder digging into his gut, as Jason leans down, grabs one arm, and lifts. Conner rises off the couch easily, as if he weighed nothing.

"If y'thought I wasn't gonna take th'chance to flip a Super over m'shoulder, ta spare your dignity. Y'were dead wrong."

"Jason! Put me down!" Conner tried to push off Jason's back, but he found his arms almost like noodles. "Did you put a sedative in the cough syrup!?"

"Course not." Jason just patted the back of his thigh. "It's just extra strength, and since yer not used ta takin' meds, it's hittin' ya a bit harder. That's all."

"You-you villain!"

"Guilty!"

Conner continued to spout insults and snark into the small of Jason's back, as he was carried down the hall to the teams individual rooms. Only really paying attention when he realized Jason had walked into his room.

He looked up at the taller vigilante, as he was dropped unceremoniously onto his bed. "How'd you know where my room was?"

Jason shrugged not meeting his gaze for a second, "Learned th'layout of yer teams Tower awhile ago." There was a guilty look on his face as he refused to look at Conner.

Conner blinked as he tried to get his thoughts in order, everything was starting to feel like cotton balls in his head. "Why would...oh! Oh right....umm, sorry?"

Jason looked at him then, it was an oddly fond look. "What're you apologizin' for? I'm the one that came back messed up and hurt people what didn't deserve it."

Conner opened his mouth to argue the point, that it wasn't completely his fault, but a wave ofc Jason's hand cut him off.

"Anyway, tha's'in th'past now. Present issue, is tha'you," he leaned forward and shoved gently at Conner's shoulders pushing him back onto the bed. "Need some Z's, if y'wanna kick this cold y'have goin' on."

"I'm fine, Jay honest." He tries to get his arms underneath him, to at least lean on his elbows, but Jason just grabs his ankles, and still with that same smirk, pulls him further down the bed, so he's laid out flat. "What the-"

"Now, now, language."

"Were you born this much of an asshole, or is it something every Robin learns?"

Jason laughs loud and full, and Conner can't help chuckling in response, even if it makes his chest tight.

"Would y'believe me if I'said it was both?"

"With you? Yes. Totally believable. Now are you gonna let me up?"

"Nope."

"Jaaaayy..."

"Quit your whining, Kon." Conner hears the thunk of boots hitting the floor and raises his head just in time to watch Jason drop onto the bed next to him.

He throws one leg over Conner's closest leg, effectively pinning him to the bed.

"Wh-what're-"

"Doin'? Keepin' ya company." He grabs a book that Conner now realizes he must have placed there earlier. Probably when he went to get the cold meds. "Ya mind?"

"Uh, oh no, no! I don't mind at all." Conner blushes, and he's positive that it's visible over the flush of the fever, but Jason doesn't comment on it. Just adjusts his leg, and settles further against the headboard, smirk smoothing out into something gentler.

"Alrigh' then."

They settle into a companionable silence and it's not long until Jason feels a weight settle against his hip. A quick glance down shows him exactly what he expects, Conner passed out, using his hip asxa pillow.

He reaches down with one hand, smoothing some of Conner's hair away from his face, feeling the heat rising of his skin.

He removes his hand and pulls his phone carefully out of a thigh pocket and sends an update to Tim. He drops it on the bed on his other side and settles back in to watch and wait. And make sure whatever this is doesn't kill the Clone.

Once Tim and the others find a cure for this, he and the Outlaws may have to go pay Luthor a visit, and show him just why it's a bad idea to go after someone he cares about.

#sidhe answers #sidhe writes fanfiction #jason todd #conner kent #jaykon #fluff #sick fic

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britaisy · 6 years

Text

Writing suggestion num.1

@smalltalkerr ‘Tim Drake actually going to Ivy University and becoming the worlds greatest detective (not a superhero literally a detective) and Damian as future Batman’

---------------------

Life has a funny way of proving people wrong. One day your whole being is scorched deep into stone, and then you blink an eye and all of a sudden everything takes a 180 degree, it leaves one able to utter only two simple words: “Well, shit”

When Tim Drake graduated from Ivy University with a criminology degree under his belt after being adamant that the education system was a pile of shit and being certain that whatever university had to offer, he had already learned, that’s exactly what he had said. Well, shit. Of course, he would have never enrolled into university had Bruce Wayne not ‘discreetly’ persuaded him into joining. It had taken many arguments for him to finally accept. They usually started with Tim saying something along the lines of “I am not wasting three years of my life in a leisure programme when I could be doing some real work. These are 1,095 days, Bruce. Lots of days, who’s going to be doing all the investigating work? Damian? He’s far too impatient. Dick is busy with Bludhaven and Jason, well, Jason spends him time with a Superman clone and an Amazon shooting up mob bosses. You need me.”

Bruce would remain calm, his stoic face as unwavering as always, and respond: “You spend your days in the batcave, hardly going out, Alfred is getting concerned, Dick is getting concerned, and frankly so am I. University will help you adjust in society. As for help, you forget, we got Barbara, Duke, Cassandra, Stephanie, Kate.”

“So, you are saying I am useless?”

“I am saying that what you are doing to yourself with lead you to a path that you will not escape from. When was the last time you even took a shower?”

Those days had been mentally exhausting, one argument piling up on the other until the mere implication of university caved into Tim’s taut nerves. Tim hated to admit it and he would certainly never vocalise it, but Bruce had been right. University had changed him. He was still an incurable introvert with severe caffeine addictions and an unhealthy dose of cynicism, but he had learned a couple of things about people that he would have never learned in the batcave. Besides, the parties had been shockingly fun. Those mere three years had eventually led him to an entirely different path than the one he had initially planned out for himself. He had been Robin, then the Red Robin and now he was the world’s best private detective, working restlessly in Gotham. Not that bad. Not that bad, at all.

Of course, his occupation meant haphazard working hours. Mostly, he was always working, it could be twelve at night or three in the morning, Tim Drake could be out on the job with a matching coffee cup in hand. It was a good thing he only needed three hours of sleep to recharge. But, he wasn’t the only eccentric with questionable habits in Gotham who worked unorthodox hours. Night time in Gotham still belonged to the one and only Batman. Only Bruce Wayne was no longer the Batman, the round age of seventy had taken its toll even on the stubborn billionaire. After his x-rays begun resembling something out of a sci fi movie, he had retired. Damian Wayne, former assassin, former (annoying) Robin, son of Bruce Wayne was now wearing Batman’s mantle and that was who Tim out to meet tonight.

The man was standing in the alley where he had been told to wait, one hand in the pocket of his long trench coat, the other holding his coffee. He heard the faintest sound of rustling in the wind, a sound that would have gone unnoticed to the untrained ear.

Tim chuckled when he turned around, not the least surprised when he was face to face with Batman.

“Trying to spook me?” he mocked.

“If I had you would have noticed.”

“Touché” Tim smiled.

“I need your help.”

Just like his father, straight onto the point.

“I assumed so.” Tim said, sipping his coffee, waiting for Batman to continue.

Batman fished out some files that he had been hiding under his cape. He handed them over to Tim, the front page was dominated by the blurry, stained picture of a grey-haired severe-looking woman.

“She’s been gone for two months. She’s from the Narrows, but my sources say she used to be an assassin in her younger years, she was even employed by Raz Al Gul, at one point. Father always kept a close eye on her, even though she seemed to be in retirement. All her things are in her flat, but she’s gone, no signs of struggle, either.”

“If she did work for the League of Shadows, wouldn’t you have better access on the case, considering who you are?” Tim asked, though his eyes were solely focused on the woman’s face, despite the dim light provided by a lone lamppost, he was already skimming through the information in the folder.

“The League hasn’t been very accessible to me lately” there was a bitter coldness in his voice. “Seems as if they are hiding something.”

“Hence the name. You are not exactly one of them anymore, Damian.” Tim tore his eyes from the paper to look at him. Despite the mask, Tim could tell the young man was frowning, he had always been more expressive than Mr. Bruce Deadpan Wayne.

“I am no stranger to them, either. I was supposed to be the demon’s head.” He argued

“And you turned that position down once you chose being Batman, which honestly, I am glad you did. It would be a pain in the ass battling with you.”

Damian smirked, satisfied with his words. “That, I agree with. But, back to the point. I need you to find her. I want to know what she’s up to. I would have done it myself, but Gotham is keeping me busy.”

“You know…it’s not bad to admit that I can get this job far more easily done than you. I am the world’s Greatest Detective, after all.” Tim shot him a shit-eating grin.

“Show off.”

Tim laughed. “Anyway, I can get the job done. I’ll need five days, the fancy jet with the espresso maker, some cash, around three thousand dollars, and a new coat” he tucked onto his tacky coat’s collar. “Mine is worn. A detective is only as good as his trench coat.”

“Sure, just make sure you don’t ruin the espresso machine this time.” Batman replied.

“Noted.” He looked back at the picture. “From what I can tell you this far is that this woman was never retired. An assassin who had worked with the League of Shadows would retire in glory in an island and buy an extravagant mansion. She chose the Narrows, an unlikely area, she was living in a poor multiblock. She was hiding, she didn’t want a certain somebody to find her, somebody she really feared. Judging from the fact that her last job was with the League of Shadows, my guess is that somebody there has a grudge against her.”

Tim knew that Batman’s silence meant that what he had said made perfect sense to him.

“When will you be ready to start?” he asked.

“I have to sleep for three hours and then I’ll be good to go.” Tim replied.

“Good.” Batman smiled. “Pleasure doing business with you as always, Drake.”

Tim smiled, the man looked down at his lower pocket, patting himself to find his pad. But, as soon as he looked back, Batman had disappeared into the night.

“Can’t believe the kid got me.”

#mywriting #Tim Drake #Damian Wayne #batfamily #batman Damian Wayne

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thingr1 · 5 years

Text

Weighing One’s Worth (1/2)

Rating: T

Warnings: Depression, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt.

Characters: Tim Drake, Damian Wayne.

Preview: There was a beat of tense silence, during which Tim could feel the youngest Wayne's gaze boring into him, taking in the scene before him. He lowered the gun, an admittedly useless gesture: Damian had already seen him.

Then, "What are you doing?"

Cross posted: FFN and AO3 (1-15-16). (A/N found on both sites)

Prequel: Of Milkshakes and Marathons. (Not necessary to understand story.)

Second Chapter: Here

Sequel: Focus on the Fallout

So you thought you had to keep this up 

All the work that you do so we think that you're good 

And you can't believe it's not enough 

All the walls you built up are just glass on the outside

~"Healing Begins" by Tenth Avenue North

There were good nights. There were bad nights. There were somewhere in between nights. There were great nights. There were horrible nights. And then there were nights when you really began to wonder if it was really even worth the fight at all.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Everyone copes with things differently. Tim? Well, he typically ended up curled up in the tiny space between his bed and the wall, cynically considering his options. One of which included a handgun tucked away in a shoebox under the floorboards.

A handgun that now found itself hanging heavy in his hand.

There were definitely other, less violent ways to end it all. Downing a couple pills, braining himself on the bedside table, slitting his wrists and bleeding out on the bathroom floor... But Tim didn't need any more time to think. Nothing was faster or more efficient than a bullet to the head. It was also less painful, though he tried not to think about the selfishness of that.

Not to mention the irony of using a gun, the start of Batman's career and, in essence, the beginning of Red Robin's.

Tim had thought it through. He had never been one to rush into something, especially such a life-changing—he held back a snort—decision as the one he was about to make.

The best part? No one even knew what Tim really felt.

Because Tim was an expert liar. Actually, better than expert. It came as naturally to him as breathing. He supposed that should probably disturb him, but it didn't. It happened to be a very useful skill in the face of nosy coworkers, friends, and relatives. Lies were nearly always easier to face than the truth.

Hiding his true feelings was one such lie. Facades and masks defined him, his true emotions corked tightly within a bottle inside, never ever to see the light of day; only the waning moonlight filtering through the curtains of his apartment, or, at the moment, his Wayne Manor bedroom. This practice of falsehood had extended to himself, almost so he was convinced he was okay; that he could handle the horrible stress and pain that was life.

He remembered the time when he'd hated the lying involved with the mask: to his father, to his friends, wanting nothing more than to give them a straight answer for once. But now...

Well. There comes a time when even the best liars start to crack.

And if Tim was being honest (haha), he lied to himself as often, if not more frequently than he did to his friends and...family.

Could he even call them his family? Sure, it was all down on paper, but just like blood, ink wasn't what made a family family.

His fingers ghosted over the safety mechanism, hesitating before flicking it off.

Replacement. Pretender.

At least Jason knew what Tim really was.

Tim had practically forced his way into this secret life in his desperation to be Robin after Jason's death. He had never been Robin; not really. He had been (still was) unwanted and unchosen. The outsider in Bruce's hand-picked family. Why should he even bother sticking around if no one had ever really wanted him in the first place?

A harsh laugh escaped his throat. After all the pain, all the danger, all the narrow escapes brought on by patrolling the streets of Gotham, the mighty Red Robin was going to go down via a handgun by his own volition. The irony.

Rock steady, he raised the gun barrel to his temple, the cold tip pressing against his scalp. He couldn't fight this feeling anymore. It was better for everyone this way. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his finger around the trigger.

"Drake!" called a familiar voice, shattering the previous silence as Tim's room door flew open (hadn't Tim locked it?) and slammed into the opposite wall. Before Tim could overcome his shock and slide the gun under the bed, footsteps echoed across the room.

"Grayson is..." The pompous voice trailed off, a tiny shadow stretching along the wall pausing at the foot of the bed as its owner halted his footsteps.

There was a beat of tense silence, during which Tim could feel the youngest Wayne's gaze boring into him, taking in the scene before him. He lowered the gun, an admittedly useless gesture: Damian had already seen him.

Then, "What are you doing?" Damian asked carefully, cynically—uncaringly.

"It's...it's not what it looks like," Tim managed, cheeks flushing at being caught by the brat, of all people. Well...the brat was better than Bruce or Dick. At least Damian wouldn't try to stop him. "Go away."

"It looks like you're about to do something either profoundly smart, or ridiculously stupid," Damian said, completely ignoring Tim's last statement.

"And why would you care?" Tim countered, finally glaring up at the smaller boy.

Crystal blue eyes stared down at him, not a single emotion crossing the 10-year-old's face. He didn't respond.

The minutes ticked by, Tim's initial discomfort being overcome by anger at Damian's lack of response. "Look," he snapped, "my business is my business. You can stay or go away, I don't care. But staring at me won't get you anywhere."

No reply. Well, he'd given him a chance.

Damian watched him in continued silence, eyes narrowed as Tim double-checked the safety was off, raising the barrel to his head.

Briefly, Tim wondered if this was really appropriate to be doing in front of a 10-year-old. He immediately dismissed the thought. This was a baby assassin who'd been killing since birth and who'd been not-so-secretly wishing Tim's demise since the day they'd met. To him, this would be a show.

Why not go out entertaining the brat? If he couldn't satisfy his peers, why not the son?

His finger tensed on the trigger.

"Stop."

Tim flinched at the sound. It wasn't quite an order. Damian almost sounded...young. Like his age, for once.

"If you're insistent upon doing this," Damian said, tone deceptively flat, "you'd better have a good reason, Drake."

Tim blinked. "It's not that simple."

Damian folded his arms over his chest. "I've got time."

Surprised, Tim hesitated. The truth pressed up against the lies, squeezing under his skin and begging to be set free. But after all these years, could he really just let them go? "No one would notice if I was gone anyway," he murmured, bidding for time.

Raising an eyebrow, Damian said, "Care to elaborate?"

Before Tim could make up his mind whether to actually answer the brat or not, his mouth decided for him: "From the beginning, Bruce never chose me as his Robin. I had to force him to take me on, to give me a chance. Heck, even Dick didn't want me to be Robin. I had to earn the right to the role."

Tim ran a hand through his hair, taking a shaky breath. "In a way, I was proud. Dick and Jason became Robin because Batman picked them, trained them, taught them everything he knew because he wanted to. I proved myself to him, showed him I could do everything...well, nearly everything that Dick and Jason could do and live to tell the tale. But that came at a price: Bruce refused to accept me completely as his partner.

"To him, I was—am—just an expendable asset, another soldier in his endless, self-driven crusade. I don't think I ever made the rank of equal in his eyes. Not like Dick and Jason did."

Impassive blue eyes stared down at him. Tim imagined he heard the brat mutter under his breath, "That's not true," but Tim was already launching into his next justification, unable to stop the flow of words now that he'd finally loosened the cork on his pent up emotions.

"I'm just a packhorse. The one in charge of all the projects nobody wants to do. Even as I sit here, the work keeps piling up. I just can't deal with all this anymore. Patrol, Wayne Enterprises, the Teen Titans, Bruce's cases..." He closed his eyes, pressing the palm of his free hand into his eye, fighting back the overwhelming pressure of panic squeezing his heart. "Too much. Nothing I do is enough, never satisfy anyone, never good enough. I can't..." He huffs, breath hitching slightly on the intake. "As you've kindly pointed out on multiple occasions, no one will even notice when my incompetency is gone."

Out of breath, he glared at the 10-year-old mulishly. "And why am I telling you all this? You never wanted me to exist in the first place."

Damian made no move to either confirm or deny that fact. Not that it mattered. Tim could practically see the gears turning in his little head as the demon attempted to drop the blame on someone else.

"Nobody will miss me much," Tim said matter-of-factly, hammering the final nail in his own coffin. "I mean, they might be sad for awhile, but they'll get over it."

There was a tense silence, two pairs of blue eyes glaring stoically into each other.

"Father will mourn you till the day he dies," Damian stated flatly, startling Tim at the sudden interruption from the formerly impassive boy. "Grayson will go crazy with guilt and grief, berating himself for not being a better big brother before he falls apart completely. Todd will blow a gasket and murder every criminal in Arkham. Cain would distance herself and spend years trying to figure out where she went wrong. Pennyworth's heart would break into a million pieces—again." The young hero fixed Tim with a glare worthy of the Bat. "And I would hate you for destroying our family with your selfishness."

Tim swallowed thickly, hesitating. "You already hate me," he offered weakly.

Damian tutted. "What does my opinion matter? You have won the affections of Grayson, my father, and a whole team of young superheroes. Not to mention Cain and Todd. What do you think the latter two would do if they caught you like this?"

Tim winced at the mental picture.

"Especially Superboy," Damian added. Then, not quite an afterthought: "Even I don't actually hate you."

At that, Tim shot him an incredulous look.

"That much," the baby assassin corrected.

Their eyes locked, blue on blue; one pair challenging, the other stubbornly stoic.

Tim huffed. "Fine." He allowed the barrel of the gun to drop, swinging it to face the wall. "Funk over. You can go now."

"Give me the gun, Drake."

Tim blinked. "Why?"

Damian snorted. "If you're truly not planning on blowing your idiotic brains out the moment I step out of this room, then give. Me. The gun."

Tim hesitated. It couldn't be that simple...could it?

No. It was too late. Damian already knew, so if Tim didn't go through with this he'd run the very high risk of the rest of the Bats finding out. Tim didn't think he could stand that; he could practically see the disappointment in Bruce's eyes as yet another of his soldiers failed his mission...

Almost absently, he buried the gun barrel back into his hair. His finger tensed on the trigger.

Missing nothing, Damian's eyes flared. "Very well, Drake," he announced imperiously. "If you're going, you're going to have to take me with you." Before Tim could blink, a knife was in the child's hand, the gleaming tip pressed against Damian's jugular.

"If you refuse to believe everyone—and I mean everyone—will miss you, think of what my father and Grayson would do if they saw me dead," Damian challenged. "And don't think for one second I won't go through with it if you dare pull that trigger, Drake."

Of all the ways this could have gone down from the moment Damian walked through the door, Tim would never have thought of this outcome in a million years.

Tim blinked slowly.

But no. Damian still stood before him, the razor sharp knife pressing dangerously into his own neck, an almost wild glint in his eyes.

"Because people will miss you, Drake," Damian continued in a strange, almost choked tone. "I only have Grayson and father. But you...you've got actual friends and family who love you not because of what you can do, but just because you're you. And that's good enough for them."

Blinking rapidly, Damian's eyes seemed to be shining a little brighter in the lowlight.

"They accept you for who you are, and when you make a mistake, they forgive you," he continued with a barely noticeable sniff. "They cry with you when you are sad, and laugh along when you are happy. If that's not love, then my interpretations of the concept are inaccurate. And I am never wrong."

"Damian," Tim sighed shakily. "You don't know what you're doing. Put the knife down."

"No, it's you who doesn't know what you're doing, Drake," Damian growled. "If you die, everyone is going to shatter with you. And if the only way to make you see sense is to threaten my own life, then so be it."

Tim stared. And then it clicked. "You're trying to guilt trip me," he realized.

Damian smirked savagely, a sick, twisted little smile that had no place on such a young face. "I refuse to let you break this family," he said levelly. "It's the only family I have left. So you remove your fingers from that gun, and I'll drop the knife. It's that simple."

Tim hesitated. The gun suddenly seemed very there in his hand; the solid weight of the warming barrel pressed against his head and tickling his scalp, the pad of his finger wrapped around the trigger. He became aware of every breath in his lungs hissing through his larynx to his nose, of his heart beating slightly faster in his chest. All of his body parts functioning as one in a beautiful creation for the sole purpose of keeping Tim alive.

Doubt crept in at the edges for the first time since he'd made his life-changing—ha, still funny the second time 'round—decision. Maybe...maybe this wasn't the answer he was looking for.

Staring up at Damian, Tim could swear the demon's lower lip was trembling slightly. "Go ahead," the boy challenged, steel blue eyes sending him a silent challenge over the glistening edge of the knife digging into his skin. "Prove how much of a coward you are, Drake. Do it."

Blood pumping through his veins, hairs on the back of his neck bristling at a phantom chill, sweat trickling down his forehead, sweater rubbing irritatingly along his collar bone...

The family would be devastated at another death, especially if it was at Tim's own hands rather than an actual Gotham villain. After all, yourself wasn't supposed to be included as a "flight risk."

Damian was right. Tim was a selfish coward. Selfish to believe that his death would affect no one, that his work would take care of itself if he were gone. A coward because he was desperate enough to try and take the easy way out rather than suck it up and face his mountain of problems.

Maybe...maybe he didn't have to go through life alone.

If Damian, of all people—the one who'd tried to kill him when they'd first met, the one who threatened to murder him on a weekly basis, the one who daily insulted Tim's very existence—was trying to talk him out of it...

He cared. To some degree, the one Tim was sure hated his guts cared whether Tim lived or died.

And at that moment, Tim had never felt more alive.

Almost numb, his grip loosened on the weapon, fingers shaking as his muscles mushed into jelly.

Before he'd dropped it hardly an inch, the gun was snatched from his hands, the former assassin snapping open the cartridge and emptying the bullets onto the floor with one quick motion. With a look of utter distaste, Damian tossed the weapon into the corner, along with the knife that had somehow slipped past both Bruce's and Alfred's scrutiny.

Silently, Damian dropped to the floor at Tim's side. What he did next took Tim a moment to process: the Bat's son scooted closer, leaning forward and pressing his cheek against Tim's chest, even as one arm snaked around Tim's middle to grasp firmly at the fabric of Tim's sweater.

Tim stared. Damian...was cuddling?

The bundle of assassin huddled at his side radiated heat, slowly warming against Tim's side. He hadn't realized how cold he was until the little furnace decided to crawl up next to him.

It was...nice.

"Don't kill yourself," Damian whispered, so low Tim could barely hear him. "I would never forgive myself."

Not Dick. Not Bruce. Damian would never forgive himself.

"You've been spending too much time with Dick," Tim managed weakly.

"Tt. Just shut up and go to sleep, Drake."

#Tim Drake #Damian Wayne #Batfic #My fic #old fic #Batman (comics)#Angst #Hurt/Comfort #sort of #Depression #Suicidal Thoughts #Suicide Attempt #r1fics #RascalJoy #rascalsoldfics #Where the Healing Begins (Fix You)

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