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a-sin-to-be-rin · 1 month ago

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Children Shouldn't Gamble With Dead Things (Part 3)

When Bruce warned Dick about Two-Face, he set one inflexible rule:

Don't make deals with the devil.

But with the stakes this high, Dick has to do something. So here he is, flipping a coin with Harvey Dent.

Part 1

Part 2

---

“Well?”

Master Bruce hands the letter back to Alfred and turns away, staring out the window.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

The following silence is deafening.

“I expected better of you, Master Bruce.”

Still, he says nothing.

“The lad is injured, upset, and missing. Aren’t you going to do something? Do you even care?”

Master Bruce turns back to Alfred, shoulders tense. “Harvey Dent escaped tonight. Two-Face is free.”

Alfred feels sick.

“Man the comms,” Master Bruce orders. “Watch for Two-Face sightings. I’ll find Dick.”

Heart in his throat, Alfred nods. He’s immediately on his feet and headed for the Batcave. Master Bruce isn’t far behind, silent.

In all of Alfred’s years of caring for him, Master Bruce has expressed three distinct forms of silence. The first is companionable, reserved only for those he’s closest with. The second (and most common) occurs when he’s thinking. He takes in new environments. He picks up little details and forms an analysis with it, like life is simply a logic puzzle, begging to be solved. And the third is for when Master Bruce’s head is filled with something other than thought. It happens when his emotions rampage in his mind like a herd of carnivorous rhinos. He becomes overwhelmed, stuck inside his head as he desperately tries to control the situation.

Today, Master Bruce’s silence is of the third kind. And Alfred is silent too, giving Master Bruce the space to wrangle his thoughts.

And to be honest, Alfred’s mind is raging a bit too. So the silence isn’t unwelcome. It’s the closest thing to relief that either of them will feel until Dick is found.

---

Dick left too soon. He was barely ready to walk, much less sneak out of the manor and roam the streets of Gotham. He should have waited - let himself heal a bit more - before he ran away.

But Dick needed to get out immediately. He couldn’t stand to be some useless little kid, staying in Bruce’s home and eating Alfred’s food without providing anything in return. If he had to stay in that bed for another five minutes, he would have lost his mind.

But now Dick’s out on the street, slinged arm tucked inside a red hoodie. His ribs are still a horrific shade of purple, though it’s beginning to yellow around the edges. He aches and he’s tired and his head spins a bit, but he keeps moving. He doubts Bruce is looking for him - and why would he? - so he’s not concerned about Batman catching up to him. The police, however, are bound to see a kid wandering around at 10 AM on a Tuesday and get suspicious. And that’s a one-way trip back to the manor.

Or…

No. Bruce would probably send him back to the youth center. What’s the point in keeping him? He’s not Robin. And Bruce doesn’t want a son.

So Dick keeps moving, even as his injuries wear on him. Even as his torso shrieks in pain. Even as his arm begins to throb and he gets lightheaded. The pain medicine must be wearing off. And Dick didn’t take any with him, so he simply endures it.

Doing his best to be discreet, Dick hops on a bus and rides it to Old Gotham. He hides behind a tall man during the ride, doing his best to keep his face covered (Gotham buses have more security cameras than the White House), but no one calls him out. The tall man doesn’t turn around and say, “Aha! You’re runaway Dick Grayson! I’m sending you back to the youth center!” He minds his business. Dick is just paranoid.

Gotham Public Library is a short five-minute walk from the bus stop. Dick makes it in fifteen. His body is starting to shut down, which is absolutely not in the escape plan. He musters all his strength and slips in through the library side door, sitting down at one of the computers. Dick doesn’t stay long. Just long enough to google “Haly’s Circus tour dates.”

Haly’s isn’t close. Not even a little. They’re currently in Tampa. But that’s okay, because Dick could stand a few days on a Greyhound bus. To be honest, it sounds like a relief. Dick could get a little sleep. He could definitely use a nap-

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” An elderly woman is gently tapping his good arm, concern cemented in the lines of her face.

Dick sits up. He must have fallen asleep at the computer. He blinks a few times (the lights are getting unbearable, and the painkillers have definitely worn off), trying to get his bearings.

“I… I’m okay,” he replies, trying and failing to give her a charming Flying Graysons smile.

But the woman isn’t convinced. “Did someone hurt you?”

And it’s a fair question. He is sporting a fair number of bruises and bandages.

“No,” he lies. “I fell off my bike.”

She's still frowning, expression reeking of concern. “Are you here all alone?”

Dick resents that question. Because first of all, Dick is plenty old enough to be in a library by himself, thank you very much. And secondly, if she thinks Dick is alone, she's probably going to call the police.

And Dick won’t let them take him back to the center. Never again.

“No. My, uh, my dad’s in the car. Our wi-fi went out, and I have an assignment due today. Online school, yanno?” Dick doesn’t know if online school is even a real thing, but the woman doesn’t call him on it. She just frowns deeper, eyes flicking to the computer screen, still open on Haly’s Circus tour dates.

“Can I talk to him? I want to make sure you’re safe.”

Darn it.

“Um… yeah. Yeah, he’s in the, um, the white Honda in the parking lot. But, um. I really need to use the bathroom, so I’ll catch up with you?”

The woman smiles sadly. “That’s okay, dear. The bathroom’s right there. I’ll wait for you.”

Dick almost cries. He’s in so much pain, and he’s so tired, and he’s so through with fighting people that he almost collapses on the floor and has a full-on toddler tantrum.

But he doesn’t, because Dick was Robin, once. He’s smart and capable and good at what he does.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees, shuffling over to the bathroom. The minute the door shuts behind him, he searches the walls, trying to find a window. But Dick isn’t lucky enough to find one. The room is completely boxed in without an escape route in sight.

Dick sighs, splashes water from the sink on his face, and towels off, feeling stray drops hit his forehead. Then he returns to the woman.

“Let’s go see your dad, okay, hon?”

Dick nods, blinking away stars. “Yeah.”

They leave through the library’s main entrance, and (as expected) there are at least three white Hondas in the lot.

“Which one is it, dear?”

Dick picks the one at the far end of the lot. “That one.”

The woman’s brow furrows, worry sparking in her eyes. “That’s my car.”

Aaand that’s Dick’s exit. He turns and sprints away, his body screaming with every jolt. Each stride threatens to disappear beneath him, spilling him onto the concrete. But Dick really can’t afford this right now. He needs to get out of here before the librarian calls the police.

He runs for as long as he can. It isn’t nearly as long as he’d hoped. Busted up like this, he can’t do much of anything for too long. He can’t go down alleys either, which is proving to make his life more and more difficult each second that he spends out in the open. He needs a place to hide.

Now.

---

Bruce doesn’t usually patrol during the day. He’s done it once or twice before, but it’s always done out of necessity, not habit.

And today, it’s definitely a necessity.

“Penny-One, any hits?”

“Negative on both counts.”

“Not even the trackers?”

“No. It seems Master Dick took it upon himself to dig the trackers out of his trainers.”

“How did he even know they were there?” Bruce mutters, more to himself than Alfred. Alfred replies anyway.

“He was trained by you, sir.”

Bruce never should have taken him on as Robin. Truly, genuinely, if he hadn’t done any of this, Dick would be safe and healthy. As usual, the blame lands solidly on Bruce’s shoulders. (Or he believes it does, anyway.)

Bruce arrives at the apartment building at Gibson and Schwartz. He doesn’t waste time getting out of the car, instead popping the top of the Batmobile and grappling to the apartment roof.

It’s an old building, rife with the city’s infamous Gothic architecture. This includes, of course, a wide array of gargoyles. Dick’s favorite gargoyle is up here, and Bruce has found him hiding behind it more than once. Unfortunately, this is not the case today.

Bruce had suspected as much. Unless Dick had made a heat-of-the-moment decision, he wouldn’t have come to such an obvious spot. But still, Bruce had to try.

And now that the gargoyle is safely ruled out, Bruce can use the current facts to guide his investigation.

Fact: Dick is injured.

So Dick is either close to the manor or took some form of transportation. A bus or a taxi. The subway, possibly, but less likely due to the distance between the subway station and the manor.

Fact: Dick said that he was going to “move on” and that he wasn’t sure what he was “supposed to do” if he wasn’t working as Robin.

Meaning the boy intends to go somewhere where he will know what to do. Where he does have a purpose. This could be anything, really, but as a nine-year-old, he knows very few ways to live his life. One is Robin. The other is the circus.

Fact: Dick didn’t take anything with him. His suit, equipment, and phone were left behind.

Though it’s not certain, Bruce feels comfortable inferring that Dick doesn’t intend to work as Robin on his own. At least until proven otherwise. If he really was going to be Robin, he would have taken at least some of his gear. A grapple gun. Maybe a few smoke bombs.

And if Dick doesn’t plan on being Robin, then he’s probably trying to find Haly’s Circus.

“Penny-One, where is Haly’s Circus currently touring?”

“One moment, sir… They’re in Tampa for the next week.”

“Got it.”

But one thing is not quite right.

Fact: Dick left his phone, and Haly’s isn’t in his search history.

Bruce knows, because he looked. It was the first thing he did. Some might interpret this as a sign that Dick isn’t looking for his old troupe, but Bruce knows better. He knows that before Robin, Haly’s was his only family. He wanted nothing more than to return to them, even after Bruce took him in.

So Dick doesn’t want Bruce to know where he’s going. He purposefully didn’t look up anything regarding Haly’s or his escape. He doesn’t know where Haly’s is, but he’s intent on finding out.

“Sir, I’ve intercepted a GCPD report that may be of interest.”

“Play it back,” Bruce orders, jumping off the building and allowing the grapple to ease his descent.

“3014,” a woman’s voice crackles. “London at Amnesty. Suspected runaway. RP reported a male subject sleeping at the library. Subject was injured and ran away when asked about his parents. White male, ten-to-twelve years, dark hair, red jacket, blue jeans.”

Bruce hops in the Batmobile and peels out towards Gotham Public Library. Dick - assuming that report is about Dick - may have gotten some distance away by now, but he’s hurt. He can’t have made it far.

---

The Greyhound bus station is around here somewhere. Surely it’s in the financial district or maybe along the border of Old Gotham. But Dick has never been there before, and without a phone to look it up, he's flying blind. He makes random turns and crosses streets aimlessly. At best, he randomly runs into the station. And if that doesn't happen, he’ll at least leave a difficult trail to follow. His head is foggy, but he believes his logic to be sound.

“-escaped Arkham. If you see this man on the street, do not engage-”

Dick stops dead in his tracks, poking his head through the open cafe door. A TV above the barista bar shows a newscaster speaking beside a massive photo of Two-Face. Below the picture, in large font, are the words “MURDERER ESCAPES.” Dick tastes bile.

“Two-Face is incredibly dangerous and will cut you in half if that’s his prerogative. Twins and people born on February second should take extra caution when coming home tonight. We’ll keep you updated as the situation develops. Back to you, Betty.”

Alfred taught Dick all about the nervous system. He knows about the sympathetic response. That “fight, flight, or freeze” instinct. Unfortunately for Dick, none of those options are viable. Dick couldn’t win a fight against a day-old puppy, much less Two-Face and his goons. Flight is also impossible unless the Greyhound station is the next store over. (It is not, in fact, the next store over. That honor goes to a dual ballet studio and boxing gym.) And freezing has never been a choice.

But there’s an alternative. It’s arguably a form of flight, but it’s much kinder on Dick’s aching ribs and spinning head.

Hide.

“-okay?”

Dick blinks. Then he groans. He fell asleep. Again. Standing up. “Sorry,” he mutters, sitting up. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“Are you… You look real busted up. Come inside, okay?”

Dick struggles to his feet, but he falls to one knee the second he straightens up.

“Whoa!” the barista says, grabbing under Dick’s arm. “Hey, I’m not gonna hurtcha. I just wanna get you off the sidewalk. There’s some bad guys out there today.”

It comes back to him. Two-Face. Two-Face is free.

Dazedly, Dick lets the teen pull him up and walk him to a cafe table. He all but collapses in the chair, even the slightest movement blurring his vision and setting his nerves on fire.

“There y’go,” the barista says reassuringly. “You’re alright.”

“Thanks,” Dick grunts, one arm coming up to guard his ribs.

“Molly,” the barista calls to his coworker behind the bar. “Couldja grab him a hot chocolate?”

And then he turns back to Dick, worry creasing his brow. “Are your parents around here somewhere?”

And Dick doesn’t have the energy to lie. “No,” he says, taking shallow breaths.

“Yeah.” The barista doesn’t question it. Like the librarian, he’s probably familiar with Gotham’s chaos. He knows better than to dig too deep. “Is there somewhere for you to go? Can I take you to the clinic or something? Dr. Thompkins’s place is down the street.”

Dr. Thompkins?

If Dick goes to Leslie, she’ll no doubt tell Bruce right away. And then he’ll get scolded and taken back to the manor. Back to that cold, stifling, tension-rife house that stopped being Dick’s home when Robin ended.

“No,” Dick pleads. “No, I can’t… I can’t go there. I don’t… I can’t…”

“Dick.”

That isn’t the barista talking. It isn’t the barista’s coworker. It’s deep and gravelly and oh-so distinct.

Batman.

“No,” Dick says, heart racing in his chest. He stumbles out of the chair and crashes to the ground. He pushes himself back, trying to just get away.

“Hey,” the barista says, stepping between Batman and Dick. “Leave him alone.”

“This doesn’t concern you,” Batman growls. And oh. He’s angry.

“It’s in the cafe. Pretty sure it does concern me. And if you think you’re gonna hurt a kid, y’better think again.”

The lenses of Batman’s cowl narrow. He chews on his tongue. “Dick,” he says simply, looking over the teenager’s head. “Bruce is very worried about you.”

Dick scowls. “Yeah, right. He doesn’t need me anymore. He doesn’t want me. So just leave me alone.”

“Bruce is sorry,” Batman insists. “He never should have taken that away from you. And he’s willing to negotiate. And he… He wants to talk to you. He’s scared.”

And that makes Dick hesitate. Because Bruce? Admitting he’s afraid?

Dick never thought it’d happen. Never.

“Two-Face escaped,” Batman continues. “If he found you, Bruce would never forgive himself.”

“I’ll go back to talk,” Dick agrees begrudgingly. “But I’m not staying.”

“That’s okay, chum. That’s alright.”

The barista looks between the two. “I… feel like I’m missing something.”

“Here.” Batman shoves a wad of cash in the tip jar. “Thank you for protecting him.”

“I was protecting him from you,” the barista says, more and more confused by the second. “I… Kid, you don’t have to go with him.”

Dick nods, painfully pulling himself up and leaning against a booth. “I know. I want to.”

“You’re sure?”

Dick looks at Batman. Even under the cowl, he’s devastated. Dick never thought he cared that much. And maybe this is just an act. But Batman doesn’t have emotions. Bruce does. So Batman, wrecked and desperate?

“Yeah,” Dick assures him. “I’m sure.”

---

The drive back is silent. Not in an awkward, not-sure-what-to-say kind of way. No, it's actually surprisingly relaxed.

But that's probably because Dick is asleep the whole time.

Bruce kind of prefers it this way. There’s no awkward, forced small talk. No bursts of outrage. No tension at all. Just Bruce and his overwhelming guilt.

Dick doesn’t look good. Bruce doesn’t know what he looked like when he first ran away (Bruce actively avoided the boy after breaking the news about Robin), but he probably looks worse. The kid managed to escape his watch for nearly a full day. The painkillers likely wore off ages ago. Dick put a ton of undue stress on his injuries just by walking, much less crossing the city.

And only Bruce is to blame for this. Dick is a kid. Or… he was a kid. Before his parents fell. Now he’s caught in the in-between, with the problems and trauma of a full grown man but the mind and body of a child.

Bruce knows the feeling well. And he knows what chaos can come of it. How much violence and fear and pain results. If Dick was illogical in running away (and he was), Bruce can’t hold him accountable. Even if he wants to.

No. This is Bruce’s fault. Even if Robin needed to end, Bruce should’ve stuck around. He assumed Dick just needed space. Time to think. He thought his presence would only mock Dick. After all, why would the ex-Robin ever want to see Batman? Why would he want to be reminded of what he lost?

But if Bruce is to believe Dick’s letter (and he does), it seems distance was exactly the opposite of what Dick needed. It made him feel isolated and unwanted. A nuisance. Bruce dropping out of his life made him think that if he wasn’t Robin, Bruce didn’t want him. (Didn’t need him.)

“Ugh.”

In the corner of Bruce’s eye, he sees Dick shift, hissing as the movement jars his ribs.

“...B?” Dick sounds confused.

“Dick,” he says back. “We’re almost there.”

“‘There…’” Dick echoes, rubbing his forehead. “The Cave. Right.”

“You’re still okay with that?” Bruce almost hits his head off the steering wheel. He shouldn’t even give Dick an opening to get out of this. As Dick’s guardian, Bruce has every right to bring him home. Dick really doesn’t have an option here.

But Dick is amiable, if exhausted. “Yeah,” he agrees, mopping his face with his good hand. “It’s cool.”

And that’s a relief, because Bruce is currently pulling the Batmobile into the Cave. He gets out and waits for Dick to do the same. When Dick doesn’t open the door, Bruce circles the car and pulls it open himself.

“You okay, chum?”

Dick stares ahead, eyes slightly unfocused. “Um. Yeah. Gimme a second, B.”

So, impatiently, Bruce waits, pulling his cowl off and jamming his gloves between his belt and his suit. After a long minute, Bruce stoops again, holding out a hand to Dick.

“C’mon, kiddo,” he urges. “Let’s get you out of there.”

Too slowly, Dick turns to look at him, grabs his hand, and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. The moment he’s upright, his knees give out, and Bruce has to slip one arm behind the boy’s back and the other under his knees. It’s an easy, practiced motion, if only because Bruce expected the boy to go down sooner or later. He’d left the manor far too soon. He’d stayed out far too long.

And the fact only makes Bruce’s guilt intensify.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred is looking across the Cave at him, and even from this distance, Bruce can see the tension in his shoulders. His hands are fluttering over the drug cart, already prepping an IV.

“He’s okay,” Bruce says, though he doesn’t know that. In fact, he’s moving faster than Alfred is, hurried steps taking Dick to the med bay.

“M’okay,” Dick murmurs softly, though his eyes still won’t focus. “S’all good.”

“What hurts, chum?” Bruce asks, setting the boy down on a cot.

“‘m just…” He hums, closes his eyes, and then slowly blinks them open again. “Just tired, B. And…” Dick searches for the right word, his good arm curling across his ribs. “Hurts.”

“What hurts?” Bruce asks, connecting the vitals monitor while Alfred throws in an IV.

Dick considers this. Or he looks like he considers it, anyway.

“... yes.”

“Uninsightful as ever, Master Dick,” Alfred tuts softly. “Look at my nose,” he orders, shining a penlight in Dick’s eyes.

Bruce lets Alfred fuss over the boy, helping where he can and stepping back when he can’t, trying to stay out of the way. When Alfred is done assessing and has adjusted medications accordingly, Dick is still awake and relatively aware, watching Alfred with a passive interest.

“You’re not to leave this bed,” Alfred orders. “Understood?”

“‘course, Alfie.”

“Prepare to face dish duty if you break that promise.”

Dick whines appropriately. While normally an annoyance, Bruce is happy to hear Dick’s complaining. It means he’s still with them. It means he’s alive and here and safe.

“Alfred.”

The butler turns towards Bruce, one eyebrow arched. “Sir?”

“Have there been any updates on Two-Face?”

Alfred’s expression sours. “No. And if you suggest returning to the streets to find him, I may put you on bedrest as well, sir.”

It goes against Bruce’s every instinct. Because knowing Two-Face is out there? Free and capable of killing innocents?

The last thing Bruce wants to do is stand by and watch it happen.

“Need I remind you of what happened the last time you abandoned the boy? Or is yesterday recent enough for you to recall?

Bruce scowls, but point taken. “I remember, Alfred.”

“Good. Then perhaps you’ll heed my counsel this time.”

“You were right,” Bruce agrees. “No need to remind me.”

“Respectfully, I think there was a need, but I appreciate your attempt at character growth.”

“You’re dismissed, Alfred.”

Alfred walks away without another word, but Bruce doesn’t hear his footsteps up the stairs. He’s still in the Cave, though Bruce can’t tell if it’s to monitor Dick’s condition or to keep Bruce from saying something stupid.

“B?” Dick says, voice suddenly desperate as he tries to sit up. His gaze flicks around the room before settling on Bruce. He falls back against the pillow, expression easing a touch.

“I’m here.”

“B, I’m…” He sighs, twisting the blankets with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m sorry. I never shoulda… I shoulda known it was a trap, but… B, I thought he was gonna kill you. I didn’t want to…” His eyes water, but he stubbornly looks up, trying to keep the tears from leaking out. “I couldn’t lose you. Not after…” He doesn’t finish the thought.

“I know,” Bruce assures him, sitting on the edge of the bed and running a hesitant hand through Dick’s hair. The boy leans into his touch, and he repeats the motion, slightly more confident. “And I never should have put you in that position. That’s why you can’t be Robin. You shouldn’t have to make that choice. And the rogues see Robin as a target. I can’t make you some bartering chip in Batman’s mission.”

Dick tenses. “No. No, you can’t take that from me,” he insists, fatigue softening the intensity of his conviction. “I’m Robin. I can’t… I can’t go back to being… I can’t be an orphan for the rest of my life, B.”

Bruce frowns. “What do you-? Wait. Robin isn’t Batman’s kid.”

The boy looks away, expression breaking. A tear slips down his cheek. “I… I know.” But his tone isn’t one of knowledge. It’s one of realization. He’s just now seeing it the way Bruce does.

“Did you…?” Bruce’s hand hovers near Dick’s face, but he can’t bring himself to brush away the tear. He doesn’t deserve to comfort the boy. “Did you think this was conditional? I’m not kicking you out for not being Robin. I took you in to help you, not to fill a position.”

“You fired me,” Dick seethes, voice strengthening with pure ire. “Of course you were filling a position!” He pushes himself up, catching himself on his hands when vertigo almost pulls him back down. Bruce reaches out to help, and Dick swats his hands away. “How could you pretend to care when you stopped caring after Robin died? You never wanted me. And now you don’t even want Robin. Don’t lie.”

“I-” Bruce is taken aback. He knows just how angry Dick can get. But this is a new level. “Of course I still want you. I was giving you space.”

Dick scowls, tears falling freely now. “Liar. You’re Batman. You’ve always been Batman. Bruce Wayne isn’t a real person. He doesn’t want me because he doesn’t exist. And if Batman doesn’t want Robin, then no one wants Dick Grayson.” He watches Bruce with unrivaled fury. “Why did you bring me back? So you could reject me again? Just let me…” His breath catches in his throat, strength failing him. He buries his face in the pillow. “Just let me go, B,” he mumbles.

Bruce swallows hard. He isn’t a father. He’s never been a guardian before. But he’d thought… He’d just assumed that having that similar history - that sharing a tragic past - would tie them. Even if Dick wasn’t Robin, Bruce thought they’d still have that. But now it’s quite clear:

Both Bruce and Dick watched their parents die. But Dick was the only one who got a taste of belonging after, only to have it taken away.

To Bruce, Batman is a duty. An obligation to prevent others from facing the same tragedy as him. But to Dick, Robin is an opportunity. A chance to have a family again. A chance to feel wanted again.

And Bruce neglected that critical difference.

“What can I do?” Bruce asks, softening his voice. “I can’t let you get hurt.”

Dick ignores him.

“Dick, chum, I…”

What can he say? Bruce cares about Dick. He’s warmed up to the boy’s cheesy humor and easy demeanor. He’s grown to like (and perhaps love) this child, but Bruce has no clue how to express it.

Because Bruce is a man who rarely shows his face. Not when Batman occupies his every waking thought. So Dick has a point. If Bruce is only Batman and Batman got rid of Robin, then who’s supposed to care about Dick Grayson? Not only has Bruce taken away Dick’s chance to seek justice, but he’s also taken away his only hope at being loved.

God, this is depressing.

“Dick, let’s…” He rests a tentative hand on Dick’s back. The boy doesn’t flinch away. “We’ll talk about Robin again. I swear. I shouldn’t have taken that from you. But I don’t think… I don’t know what to do right now. Can we wait a bit? Let’s get you better first. Then we can come back to Robin.”

Dick turns onto his side, watching Bruce with bloodshot, betrayed eyes. “You’re just trying to shut me up. You’ll fire me again the second I’m better.”

“No,” Bruce says softly, brushing back Dick’s hair. “I… I care about you, chum. I don’t know if I’ve ever been as scared as…” He takes a deep breath, hand settling heavily on Dick’s neck. He can feel the boy’s pulse against his palm, and it reassures him, if only slightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared as I was watching Dent hurt you. And you were so still, I… God, I thought you were gone.” He shakes his head, trying to force the thought from his mind. “I’ll admit, I don’t know how I care about you. I don’t know if it’s Bruce or Batman or some weird in-between, but I can say with complete confidence that I care about you. Not Robin. You. Dick.”

Dick’s skepticism melts into something far more vulnerable. Something far more childlike than this world-weary nine-year-old has ever expressed. His good hand comes up to grab Bruce’s hand. He sighs, almost content. Uncertain, but perhaps hopeful.

“I care about you too,” the boy admits. He closes his eyes, but he doesn’t release Bruce’s hand. “Can you… stay? At least for a little?”

“I’m not leaving you, chum,” Bruce swears. “Not ever again.”

#whumptober2024 #no.23 #forced choice #batman #fic #injury #referenced canonical character death #passing out #dick grayson #bruce wayne #robin year one #cross posted on ao3

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 2 months ago

Text

Children Shouldn't Gamble With Dead Things (Part 2)

When Bruce warned Dick about Two-Face, he set one inflexible rule:

Don't make deals with the devil.

But with the stakes this high, Dick has to do something. So here he is, flipping a coin with Harvey Dent.

Part 1

Part 3

---

There are few things that can rattle a seasoned detective. Murder is a daily event, sometimes more. Abuse, harassment, threats, all par for the course. Gore and greed and desperation will barely phase them. But kids?

… well, kids bother first responders. A lot of first responders. Detectives, unless specialized in the area, are no exception. And even then, there’s no guarantee.

So Police Captain Jim Gordon is having a hell of a time trying not to be bothered by this.

“Maybe you misunderstood me?” Two-Face - Harvey Dent, Gotham City’s once-finest DA - is looking at Gordon with a condescending grin, cuffed hands folded neatly.

Gordon leans forward on the table, the blood-stained bat still clutched in his hand. “What happened at the warehouse?”

“Let me make this real easy for you, Gordon,” Dent says in a mockingly sweet voice. “The boy is dead.”

“Who is dead?”

“Robin!” Dent jumps to his feet, leaning forward so they’re practically nose-to-nose. His breath smells like mint and onions. “The Bat’s little pal is off flying with the angels now.”

“Watch yourself, Dent,” Ritter warns, but Dent pays him no mind.

“The brat’s taking a dirt-nap, just like Watkins. Though, to be fair, His Honor is actually sleeping with the fishes. So, yes. You could call it double homicide. I’d be okay with that.”

It's appalling, how brazen Dent is. How proud he is. He's an attorney. (Or he was one, anyway.) He knows he doesn't have to tell Gordon anything. He knows he can ask for his legal team and end the interrogation there. But he doesn't, because he wants to confess. He wants to see Gordon’s expression. He’s living for it.

Ritter drops his hands on Dent’s shoulders and forces him to sit down.

“I’ll only be confessing to my lawyer from here on out.” And then Dent lets out a cackle that sounds so much like Harvey and simultaneously not at all like Harvey.

Gordon doesn't attempt to keep his cool. He storms out of the interrogation room, bat still in hand.

“You okay, Captain?” It's Mitchell.

In any other situation, Gordon would say he's fine. But this isn't another situation.

“No. No, I’m not,” he grumbles. “I once counted that maniac as a friend. But right now, I’d like nothing better than to send him straight to hell.”

“So where do you you want us?” It's a new voice. Rosenzweig.

“Head back to that damn warehouse, Rosenzweig. See if the harbor patrol has dredged up Watkins’ body.”

“Want me to go too?” Mitchell asks, but Gordon shakes his head.

“I need you canvassing the hospitals, starting with Gotham General.”

“What am I looking for?”

Gordon pinches the bridge of his nose, stifling a sigh. “A John Doe, DOA. A kid. Eight to twelve years old. Black hair. Beaten to death.”

He doesn't stick around for questions. This is bothering him. It bothers him far more than it should, and he's not certain as to why. It's a kid - that's the first problem - but Gordon has seen kid vics before. No, this is different. Because this isn't just a kid who died. It’s not even just a kid who died at the hands of Harvey Dent.

No. Gordon is bothered because the kid that Gordon had warned Batman not to bring to crime scenes is dead. And he’s dead because Batman took him out to fight crime. Because Batman put his crusade over the kid’s safety.

Gordon’s not just pissed. He’s livid.

“Heya, Captain,” Anderson greets, barely looking up from her computer. “I thought you swore off smoking?”

Gordon grips the offending box tighter in his hand. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care what she thinks. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks. If he has to choose between a few cigarettes and a miserable binge-drinking session, he’ll pick the cigarettes every time.

The captain hasn’t even made it to the roof before he’s digging in his pocket for a lighter, shaky hands lighting a shaky cigarette. But he manages, because he must, and throws the roof door open. He paces over to the giant spotlight and flips its switch. The light hums to life, a giant bat projecting into the sky.

“Batman,” Gordon mutters under his breath. “What the hell have you done?”

---

Alfred was uncertain. He doubted. He thought the boy was good for Master Bruce, but he’d been hesitant to say the same of Robin for Batman.

But now, months into Robin’s tenure, Alfred is willing to concede. The outlet seems to be good for the boy. And the boy seems to brighten Bruce’s mood greatly. And with few safety concerns realized, Alfred is willing to admit that he was wrong. Perhaps Robin isn’t such a bad idea after all.

And then the Batmobile screeches into the Cave, and Master Bruce hops out with the lad limp and bloody in his arms.

Alfred takes it all back. This was a horrible idea.

“Alfred, he’s dying.” Master Bruce’s jaw is set, the boy clutched to his chest like he never wants to let go.

“What happened?” Alfred demands. He takes one look at the boy and points to the stairs. “Take that cowl off. Now. Then start the van.”

The van, not the Batmobile, because even if it's faster, Master Bruce would never permit an identity breach like that.

Master Bruce obeys, setting the boy down on a medical cot like he’s made of china and eggshell and rushing up to the manor.

Alfred’s medical training kicks in like he’d never left the service. His fingers fly to Master Dick’s throat, his other hand digging a knuckle into the boy’s sternum. The boy groans, but it’s muffled. Gargled, almost.

Alfred’s stomach sinks, and he grabs the code cart, rushing it over to the boy. Then he rips open the airway drawer and takes the intubation kit. Judging by the bruising and the snoring sound of Master Dick’s breathing, the boy’s throat must be swelling shut. And Alfred doesn’t have much time before this task gets infinitely more difficult.

And then he realizes his mistake. Dick Grayson is a boy. A child. The medical supplies that work for Master Bruce will never work on a nine-year-old. Alfred feels fear creep up his spine. The boy needs a tube now.

And Alfred doesn’t have one. Not one that will fit a child’s airway. Stupidly, Alfred hadn’t even considered that this might be an issue. That the boy would even patrol with Bruce long enough to be hurt.

For half a moment, Alfred considers giving in. Considers calling an ambulance, identity be damned.

But even a few minutes is too long. Alfred has to manage this airway now. He doesn’t have time to wait. The boy doesn’t have time to wait.

So Alfred goes for the few multi-sized supplies he has. He finds the smallest oral airway he has and puts it in the boy’s mouth, pushing the tongue out of the trachea’s way. His throat is still swelling. It’s still an issue. But it’s the best he can do for the moment.

Alfred is lucky enough to have a mask small enough to seal over the boy’s face. He provides artificial breaths with an ambu bag. “HURRY UP, SIR!” he screams, wondering if Master Bruce can even hear him. But he has to try, because until there’s a second set of hands, Alfred can’t tend to the boy’s injuries. He has to wait.

Master Bruce returns thirty-five seconds later. It feels like thirty-five minutes.

“Alfred, what-?”

“Come here,” Alfred orders. “Take the bag from me and do exactly as I’m doing now. Hold a tight seal on the mask. Squeeze the bag gently every three seconds. Watch for chest rise and fall.”

Master Bruce follows his orders to the letter. Panic lines his eyes, but Alfred doesn’t have the time nor the faculty to pay attention to it. He goes through the motions, hands flying as he does only the most important of interventions.

“What happened?” Alfred demands, heart sinking when he fails to find a properly-sized c-collar.

“Two-Face,” Master Bruce says, breathless. “Blunt-force trauma. Wooden bat. Hits to the head, chest, abdomen, and… everywhere, really.”

“I can see that,” Alfred mutters under his breath. There’s a particularly concerning injury to the lad’s right arm - a compound open fracture, the white of bone shining behind the blood and torn muscle - but it's not the priority. There is, however, a rather nasty wound to the boy’s side, torn open and bleeding rather profusely. Alfred holds pressure to it, earning himself a muffled whine from Master Dick. The boy tries to roll away from Alfred’s hand, but Bruce sees it coming, grabbing the boy's shoulder before he can escape.

Alfred packs the wound and applies a pressure bandage, which only makes Master Dick cry out louder and squirm more, becoming (reassuringly) more responsive but (frustratingly) less cooperative.

“I know,” Master Bruce says, so quiet that Alfred almost doesn't hear him. It takes Alfred a moment more to realize that Master Bruce isn't speaking to him. He's speaking to the boy. “I know it hurts. Just stay alive, okay? Just stay with me.”

Master Bruce has never spoken like that. Not to anyone. It’s simultaneously sweet and nauseating. Because a situation so dire that it pulls a paternal instinct out of Master Bruce? That's something Alfred never thought he'd see. Not ever.

With no time to ponder on Master Bruce’s behavior, Alfred grabs the portable stretcher and lays it beside the boy.

“Master Bruce, stop ventilating for a moment. Hold c-spine.” It's almost pointless, when there’s no feasible way to hold c-spine and carry the stretcher, but Alfred is doing what he can with what he has. And this is what he has. This is what he can do. He just has to pray it's enough.

Master Bruce places one hand on either side of the boy's head, holding his neck straight. Alfred slips the edge of the stretcher under Master Dick’s back before easily sliding him over and securing him to the stretcher.

They carry the boy to the manor's garage. It feels like ages, but they manage to get the boy to the van and secure him inside. Just one more pair of hands would have made moving such a fragile patient ten times easier. Ten times faster.

Alfred immediately situates himself in the back, ripping open an IV kit. “Master Bruce,” he says. “Do hurry.”

Master Bruce scrambles into the front seat, slamming the door behind him. They're off like a shot. Alfred doesn't know if the Batmobile has ever moved this fast, much less the twenty-year-old family minivan.

“Master Dick?” Alfred calls the boy's name occasionally, hoping for some response. Sometimes he gets a moan, but sometimes he hears and sees no change in the boy's awareness.

It scares Alfred more than he’ll ever admit.

Master Bruce is frantic behind the wheel. Alfred can tell how desperately he wishes he could sit in the back with Master Dick, but he knows that Alfred is better suited to care for the boy. As a compromise, Alfred tries to provide a steady stream of updates. “The lad’s bleeding has slowed, thank heavens. But his throat is swelling, and I lack the proper supplies to intubate a child. I’ve placed an IV, but until we reach higher care, there's nothing more I can do for him but provide breaths. How long do you estimate until we reach the hospital, Master Bruce?”

“We’re not going to the hospital.” His tone is even, the way it always is, even when he says the most ludicrous of statements. “We’re going to Leslie’s.”

“You aren’t serious!”

But he’s always serious.

Alfred puts up a fight, but Master Bruce is insistent, going so far as to play the “legal guardian” card. Alfred is offended at best and appalled at worst, but for the boy’s sake, he lets it be. Master Bruce has clearly made up his mind, and arguing will only distract him from the road.

Leslie is waiting at the back door when they arrive.

“Broselow cart!” Alfred calls, and Leslie’s eyes go wide.

“Dammit!” She props the door open and rushes back inside. With luck, she has a cart. Without luck, the boy is dead.

By the time the boy has been transferred to a cot in the clinic, Leslie is cursing up a storm, ripping open the drawer of a rainbow-colored cart and pulling out properly-sized intubation supplies.

“Get the collar on him,” she orders, pulling the plastic airway from Master Dick’s airway and making her own intubation attempt.

Alfred slides the c-collar on while instructing Master Bruce to hook the boy up to the vitals monitor.

“Okay,” Leslie mutters, securing an ambu bag to the tube in the boy’s throat. She squeezes the bag, watching the boy’s chest rise and fall with the influx of air. “Okay.” She straightens, finally looking up.

“Alfred, take over bagging.”

Then Leslie lifts Master Dick’s eyelids, checking for pupillary reactions. Alfred doesn’t pay close attention, but he gets the feeling that the results aren’t ideal.

“Your field work is first-rate, as usual,” Leslie tells him. “But this boy needs an emergency room, not a back-alley clinic.”

“I share your assessment, Dr. Thompkins,” Alfred agrees, “though our mutual benefactor thinks otherwise.” He shoots Bruce a harsh glare, but Bruce refuses to meet his eyes. “After all, we have our secrets to preserve, do we not?”

“I’m already regretting my complicity in these ‘secrets,’” Leslie sighs. She pushes the blanket aside and gasps. “Sweet lord,” she breathes.

And she has every reason to be concerned. Master Dick’s torso is a Jackson Pollock of purple, blue, and black. Internal bleeding is putting it lightly.

“Bruce, what in god’s name happened to this boy??” Bruce turns away, and Leslie grabs his arm, pulling him back. “He looks like he's been through a thresher!”

Master Bruce doesn’t speak right away. Leslie is primarily focused on the boy - as is Alfred, still bagging dutifully - but even as she performs the secondary assessment, checking for signs of broken bones and different kinds of internal damage, she keeps a deadly silence. It’s obvious she’s waiting for a reply.

“Just take care of him, Leslie,” Master Bruce says, refusing to meet her eyes. “Alfred will explain everything.”

Alfred feels his stomach drop to his feet.

“You’re not leaving?” Leslie demands, grip tightening on Master Bruce’s sleeve. “Bruce, you can’t just-”

“I’m sorry,” he replies hurriedly. “I have to go. I need to make sure the person who did this is made accountable.”

“To hell with that, Bruce!” Leslie fumes. “I need extra hands!”

Master Bruce swallows hard. “I… Leslie, I… I can’t.”

Alfred has never known Master Bruce to be squeamish. Not in the slightest. But the tone in his voice is so genuinely pathetic that Alfred doesn’t argue with it.

“He’s going to die, Bruce,” Leslie insists.

“He won’t. He’s in the best hands.” And then Master Bruce slips out the door, heedless of Leslie’s persistent calls for him to come back.

“Dr. Thompkins,” Alfred says quietly. “I suggest we get a FAST exam and begin pharmacological interventions.”

Leslie huffs but doesn’t speak further on the topic. She remains dutifully attentive to the boy, even if she’s woefully understaffed and undersupplied for such a demanding patient. And Alfred helps, because damn him if this boy doesn’t survive the night.

It won’t happen. Not if Leslie and Alfred have a say in it.

---

“You’re late.”

Bruce knows. He can tell by the small mountain of cigarette butts at the commissioner’s feet. He must have smoked a full pack waiting for Bruce to arrive.

“Did you get him?” Bruce asks, flicking the Bat-Signal off. It powers down with a loud whir.

“Yeah.” Commissioner Gordon shakes a cigarette carton into his hand, but, as predicted, it’s completely empty. He huffs in frustration, tossing it over his shoulder and picking up the plastic-wrapped item beside him. “Two-Face and his twin Stooges were right where you said they’d be. We pulled Watkins out of the river an hour ago.” He stands. “What about your partner?”

It’s said casually. Maybe a bit judgmentally. Bruce knows how Gordon disapproves of Robin. And unfortunately, Bruce is starting to see his side of the argument. Dick wasn’t ready.

“I benched him for this one,” Bruce says. Even cowled, he can’t meet Gordon’s eyes. Not when guilt is weighing so heavily on his shoulders. Not when he was breathing for his partner just thirty minutes ago. “Watkins’s death is on my head alone.”

“WRONG!” And Gordon is so abrupt - so suddenly furious - that it breaks Bruce from his pity party. He looks over his shoulder, and Gordon is pointing the plastic-wrapped stick (the bat, still bloody and worn) at him. “Don’t lie to me!” Gordon fumes. “This isn’t Harvey Dent’s blood!”

Bruce keeps his voice level. The anonymity of the cowl helps uphold his facade of calm. “Robin’s alive.”

“Show me.” Gordon isn’t budging. Not an inch. His expression is rent, and Bruce is reminded of Gordon’s little girl, not much older than Dick. Of how personally Gordon must be taking this.

“You have to trust me on this, Jim,” Bruce says, voice softening. He steps up onto the ledge of the roof. Dent will pay for his crimes, and that’s what matters right now.

“If I find out otherwise, everything changes between us. Everything.”

“Robin’s retired.” Bruce slings his grappling hook out, catching on a distant ledge. “You have my word.”

As Bruce jumps, allowing gravity to swing him down and away, he hears Gordon’s parting words, bitter and grim:

“That used to mean something.”

Bruce can’t worry about him. Not right now.

---

Name: Richard (Dick) John Grayson

Leslie’s chest aches.

Age: 9 years, 11 months, 0 days

She’s seen it all before. Working here? Doing what she does? Of course she’s seen it all.

Mechanism of injury: beaten with baseball bat

But that doesn’t make this any less frustrating. In fact, the circumstances make her more irritated with it all.

Intubated appx. 1 hour post-injury. Difficult airway, required direct laryngoscopy. Remained intubated for 36 hours before coma score improved. Extubated without complication.

When she agreed to help Bruce with his night charade, she never agreed to this. She never knew Bruce would let a child patrol the streets with him. She never knew that she’d have to keep a critically injured child alive by herself because Bruce prioritized his secret over a kid’s life.

Secondary assessment identified a compound open fracture of the right arm, injured ribs (no x-ray available; severity unknown), head lac (no CT available; concussion suspected; severity unknown; coma score 15), laceration across right midaxillary (stitches required), and severe internal abdominal hemorrhage (exploratory laparotomy required).

Dick has been in and out for three days now. He’s not well enough to be moved - not yet - but Bruce has been nagging her ever since Dick’s vitals got within an acceptable range. He wants the boy back in the Cave, but Leslie isn’t sure she’ll take Dick anywhere but the hospital once he’s safely out of the woods. But for now, she keeps Dick where she can see him, because at least at the clinic, he’s safe from Bruce’s faulty judgment.

“... Mom?”

Leslie is at the boy’s side in an instant. “It’s Leslie,” she says softly. “Do you remember what happened?”

Dick takes a long moment to get his bearings. “... Two-Face.” His voice is still raspy from intubation.

“Yes. And do you remember where you are?”

“I’m… at your clinic.”

“Good. How do you feel?”

Dick hums. “Not amazing.” He looks past Leslie, eyes questioning. “Where’s B?”

Leslie fights a wave of anger. She doesn’t know where he is. Maybe it’s better that way.

“He’s out. Alfred will be here tonight, though.”

Dick’s eyes flit away, remorse lining his face. “Right,” he whispers.

He wants Bruce here. Even after everything, he wants Bruce here. And even after everything, Bruce denies him that one small comfort.

“I’ll call him,” Leslie offers.

“No,” Dick says softly. “No, don’t… Don’t bother. He’s probably… I dunno. Probably busy.”

Leslie is sure he is, but she really doesn’t care. She calls him anyway. Bruce needs to learn that revenge is really only applicable when there’s nothing you can do to prevent the tragedy. And right now, the biggest tragedy would be to leave this boy alone, hurt and scared.

---

Batman is alone on his next patrol. And the one after that. And the one after that. And the next eight ones after that.

Gordon really isn’t sure whether to be angry or reassured. Batman did say Robin was retired. But there’s also an awful lot of evidence that Robin is dead. The only thing they’re missing is a body. And if he is dead, it's awfully convenient for Batman that “retired” and “dead” look identical from Gordon’s standpoint.

Every time Gordon sees Batman, he's tempted to ask for proof. To bring Robin out one last time, as proof of life. Because Harvey Dent has to pay for his crimes, but exactly what those crimes are remains incredibly vague unless the victim steps forward.

The forensics lab ran the blood from the bat, but, unsurprisingly, the DNA doesn't match anyone in the GCPD’s database. So all they really know is that the blood isn't from a felon. That leaves many avenues open, one (and the most likely) of which is that it's Robin’s blood. It's what Harvey Dent is claiming. Hell, he's confessed to it. But if the only evidence of criminal activity is a baseball bat with unidentified blood…

Well, even the harshest of juries would have trouble convicting someone on that. Even if that someone is a well-known felon. If there's no body and no injured child, then how can they convict?

Two weeks after Dent’s arrest, Gordon summons Batman to the GCPD, determined to get some answers. He smokes like a chimney waiting for the Bat to arrive, but he doesn't care. He won't keep giving Batman outs because he's a good colleague. If there's suspicion regarding Robin’s safety, Batman must be investigated.

“Commissioner,” Batman says with a stiff nod. “What's the situation?”

Gordon tosses his cigarette butt on the ground and stomps it out. “Harvey Dent is confessing to murdering your partner. He's been sticking to the same story for weeks. And as a detective, I’m obligated to investigate the claims.”

“I told you,” Batman grits out. “Robin is alive.”

“And unfortunately, that's not enough evidence, and Dent knows it. He's only confessing because he knows you’ll never give out Robin’s identity. Without some sort of damage, we can't convict.”

Batman seems to consider this. He scowls harsher than usual, drawing his cape around his shoulders. “He’s right. I won’t compromise Robin’s identity.” He sucks in a pained breath. It's more emotion than Gordon has ever seen on the Caped Crusader. “But Dent deserves to rot for this.”

“I don't know what to tell you.”

Batman pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “I’ll get you your evidence, Commissioner. Give me two hours.”

Two hours later, Gordon finds a manilla folder on the roof. It’s stuffed full with pictures, each labeled with the date it was taken and the name “Robin.” The pictures are all strategically faceless, with blank, unidentifiable backgrounds. Even the picture of a gash on the boy’s forehead cuts out everything but the top of his head.

And the images themselves are… vile is the best way to put it. Broken bones. Blood and stitches. Bruises so dark and extensive that Gordon can’t find an inch of uninjured skin. Two-Face certainly had beaten the boy. Possibly to his death. The injuries look severe enough.

But Gordon is comforted by the time lapse. The injuries, while terrible regardless of the photo, do appear to be healing. The earliest photos look more gruesome than today’s pictures, if only marginally.

Part of Gordon is relieved. The boy is alive, and there’s evidence to lock Dent away for this. But the other part of him is still furious. How could Batman bring the boy with him in the first place? It’s too dangerous, and Batman knows that as well as any cop would.

The anger makes Gordon’s hands shake, and he lights another cigarette to calm his nerves. This case is going to be the death of him.

---

“It wasn’t me that killed you.”

Judge Watkins sinks, mouth open in a wordless scream.

WHAM.

“It was the Bat.”

The noose tightens around Bruce’s throat, his expression wrecked with agony.

THUD.

“It wasn’t me that killed you.”

Two-Face swings over and over, each blow fiercer and deadlier than the one before.

WHAM.

“It was the Bat.”

Two-Face smiles down, into the dirt hole. His twin lackeys stand by his side. The Mad Hatter and the Riddler and Scarecrow laugh along. The headstone reads: “ROBIN. NOT GOOD ENOUGH.”

THUD.

“The Bat.”

THUMP.

“The Bat.”

THWACK.

“The Bat.”

“NO!!!”

“Dick.” Bruce is sitting at Dick’s side, hands preventing him from rolling off the bed.

Dick blinks. The face in front of him is blurry. He can’t remember exactly what happened, but he remembers Two-Face putting Batman in a noose. He remembers…

“You’re alive…?” Dick can’t help the head rush, dizziness overwhelming him. Bruce’s hand is the only thing keeping him upright.

“Easy. It’s okay,” Bruce soothes, adjusting Dick’s pillow and helping him into a seated position against the bed’s headboard. “You were dreaming.”

And now that he says it, it makes sense. Two-Face didn’t kill Bruce. He beat Dick, yeah. That much of the dream was real. But Bruce turned out okay. He rushed Dick to Leslie’s clinic. He wasn’t hurt.

“How do you feel?”

Dick winces. Even thinking about it hurts. “Like… Like I fell off a building. Twice.” He laughs, even though it makes his ribs twinge and ache. “Occupational hazard, right? Give me a couple of weeks, and I’ll be back out there with you.”

Bruce’s expression hardens, and he stands up, pacing over to the window and staring out at the grounds. “No, Dick,” he sighs. “You won’t.”

“I… What?”

“This was all a terrible error in judgment,” Bruce continues, speaking like every word doesn’t hammer another nail into Dick’s heart. “Gordon was right; you’re just a boy. What the hell was I thinking?”

The breath catches in Dick’s throat. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears. “Bruce, what are you saying?”

“You’re fired. Robin’s finished.”

Dick lunges forward, every bone and muscle screaming from the mistreatment. He grabs the sleeve of Bruce’s suit jacket, trying to pull Bruce away from the window. Trying to see Bruce’s expression. Trying to see what’s going on behind his eyes.

“Bruce, you… you can’t! We’re a team. We’re partners! You said so yourself!”

“And you didn’t listen!” Bruce snaps, ripping his arm from Dick’s grasp and turning on the boy. His eyebrows lower, the lines in his forehead deepening. His jaw clenches, muscles tight like he’s about to spring into battle. “You disobeyed a direct order! An innocent man is dead, and you were nearly killed!”

“That’s enough!”

“Stay out of this, Alfred.”

Bruce and Alfred argue, but Dick doesn’t hear a word of it. All he can hear are those horrible, life-changing four words.

You’re fired. Robin’s finished.

Dick feels nauseous, palms clammy and head spinning. Lights and sounds become painful, the room going in and out of focus.

Bruce passes by him, headed for the door.

“Bruce! Bruce, I’m sorry. Two-Face, he… he tricked me! I thought I could save you both!”

But Bruce isn’t listening.

“It’s over, Dick. You’re better off this way.”

The door slams shut, and Dick feels way more sick than he did when Two-Face hurt him. Everything is hot and cold and dizzy and not making any sense and-

“Alfie,” he whispers, collapsing against the headboard. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“You will rest. You will recover. You will go on with your life.”

Dick can’t look at him. All he sees is the hazy Bat-Signal in the sky. The distress call that Dick will never answer again.

“Sure,” he agrees miserably.

“Is there… anything I might get you, young sir?”

Dick swallows hard, face burning. “Nothing.”

“Very well. Perhaps later.”

Alfred shuts the door with a gentle click, but Dick doesn’t hear it over his racing thoughts.

You messed up. You got close, you felt comfortable, and now you’re alone again. And it’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault.

Dick is ashamed of crying. But alone in this too-big bed in this too-big room in this too-big manor, Dick is okay with it. No one would hear him if he screamed, probably. No one would even care.

---

Dick leaves the manor the next day. He’s in pain, his world blurs and spins, and just breathing takes a gargantuan level of effort. But even so, it hurts less than staying in the manor, worrying Alfred and burdening Bruce. Dick can take care of himself, and he’s bound and determined to do so.

But before he goes, he leaves a note on the dining table where Bruce will find it. And it reads as such:

Dear Bruce, I guess it’s time for me to move on. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do if I’m not allowed to help you anymore. Alfred doesn’t need to worry about entertaining me and taking care of you too. You don’t want a partner. And you don’t need a son. I’m sorry I failed you. I won’t forget everything you’ve given me. Thank you for teaching me how to be strong. Dick

Part 3

#whumptober2024 #no.23 #forced choice #batman #fic #blood #gun violence #blunt force trauma #medical procedure #intubation #dick grayson #bruce wayne #two face #robin year one #cross posted on ao3

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 2 months ago

Text

Strange

This case is personal to Jason. If only Bruce understood the word "boundaries."

---

Jason is over this. He’s so over this that if he were a cow, he’d be jumping over the damn moon. He’s 110% through with this bullshit. He’s done.

Of course, try telling Batman to leave you alone.

“Bruce, I swear to god, you better stay hidden behind that AC unit, because if I see you following me again, I’m literally going to cut your head off.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” the only voice deeper than the Marianas Trench rasps from the shadows.

But Jason is a strong proponent of proper word usage. “I can think of eight heads in a duffle bag that would dare to disagree.”

“Hn.”

“That’s what I thought,” Jason mutters under his breath, taking a running jump off of the building and landing on the next rooftop, boots feather-light despite his size. He may hate Batman, but that doesn’t mean he lets the Robin training go to waste.

Jason crosses the roof, counting windows until he’s found his planned entryway. He hooks his grapple to the roof of the target building and then jumps, swinging to the fire escape. He double-checks the window for any hidden occupants, but the penthouse is just as empty as he expected it to be.

The window is unlocked. Seems the resident didn’t get the memo on Batman, or they’d know better than to leave their windows unlocked, even on the 35th floor. No window alarms either.

Sloppy, indeed.

Jason opens the window and slips inside, clearing the room in its entirety before starting his search.

What is he searching for? He doesn’t know yet. But he’ll know once he sees it.

The night vision of his helmet helps immensely, layering the pitch-black room with a green (but sharp) filter. Jason will accept only the best tech, stolen from the Batcave while Bruce is out. Or, better yet, given to him by Alfred, the only person in Wayne Manor that Jason is on speaking terms with.

Jason spots a laptop hidden in the bottom drawer of a desk. He pulls it out and cracks it open, flipping off night vision to make out the screen.

The password is laughably easy to guess. (When will people stop using “password?” It’s too damn obvious.) And the moment the desktop screen pops up, Jason sticks a USB in the port and backs up the computer.

He’s not an idiot. He isn’t going to waste time searching the hard drive for something incriminating when he can download everything in fifteen minutes. (Those new Waynetech USBs really are as fast as they say. Thanks, Bruce.)

The only issue with backing everything up is that Jason needs to go fifteen minutes without being noticed. And as it turns out, this particular bad guy doesn’t stay out past 2 AM, because Jason hears him enter the penthouse at 02:00 on the dot. With three minutes left on his download, he needs to buy some time.

Now.

But it seems that Jason really can’t catch a break, because before he can hatch an elaborate, genius plan to distract his target, he finds a gun pointed at his head.

“Don’t move!” the bodyguard shouts. “Put your hands up!”

Jason waits a moment, but the bodyguard doesn’t give additional instruction.

“I can do one or the other,” Jason says reasonably. “Hands up or don’t move. Your choice.”

“Cute,” the bodyguard bites. “C’mon. Hands where I can see them.”

“Hands up,” Jason muses, raising his hands innocently. “Nice choice. Classic.”

“Trevor, what’s-?”

The target enters the room, and Jason jumps into action, taking advantage of the sudden distraction. He twists the guard’s wrist, knocking the gun from his hand. Then he slams the butt of his own pistol into the bodyguard’s head, using just enough force to be incapacitating but not so much that he puts the bodyguard in mortal danger. (Because contrary to what the Bat believes, Jason doesn’t want to murder everything that moves. A lackey shouldn’t be killed for just trying to make rent.)

And then it’s just Jason and the target.

“José Garzonas,” Jason growls. “You shouldn’t have come back to Gotham.”

“What is it now?” Garzonas sighs. “Do you want my money or my influence? I promise, you won’t get either by pointing a gun in my face.”

Jason sniffs. “Neither. This is about Felipe.”

Garzonas’s expression darkens, hands balling into fists at his sides. “I’m not talking about him.”

“Fine,” Jason concedes, coming closer until he’s a foot away from Garzonas. “We won’t talk about him. We’ll talk about his father. The father of a man who raped and assaulted a woman. And who kept doing it until the woman killed herself to get away from him.”

“Felipe is dead,” Garzonas bites. “How dare you make up lies about my dead son!”

“Your dead son got more free passes than anyone should have. Guess having a daddy with diplomatic immunity will do that.”

Garzonas folds his arms, eyebrows lowered. “What are you insinuating?”

“You covered for Felipe,” Jason accuses, and just saying the words makes his blood boil. “You bailed him out of prison over and over again so he could keep hurting people. You knew what he was doing, and you didn’t care. Gloria Stanson’s blood is on your hands as much as it was on Felipe’s.”

“Who are you?” Garzonas demands, and he’s being awfully aggressive for an unarmed guy with the physique of a scarecrow.

“I’m the guy that’s gonna make you turn yourself in,” Jason replies simply. “Or, I’m the guy who’s gonna make you beg to turn yourself in.”

“I am a visiting dignitary,” Garzonas says, his volume rising, finger pointed way too close to Jason’s nose. “You will treat me with respect!”

Jason pulls the trigger, letting the bullet whiz past Garzonas’s ear and into a bedpost. “And I’m the guy pointing a gun at you. Try demanding respect again. See what happens.”

And that’s when Jason gets sloppy. He’s fuming, and under his own rage, he doesn’t hear the bodyguard wake up. He doesn’t notice the click of a gun safety. He doesn’t know anything is amiss until there’s the unmistakable crack of a pistol. Instant, hot, dizzying pain blooms in his shoulder, shirt and jacket growing wet with blood.

And then Garzonas’s backup arrives. There are another two gunshots. Jason’s vision is torn from him, consciousness fleeting, and all he can think of is how stupid he was to turn his back on the bodyguard.

---

Jason knows where he is before he opens his eyes. He’d have to be stupid not to.

The slight chill to the air? The soft, hollow echoing of a heart monitor? Someone whistling a pitch-perfect cover of “Penny Lane?”

“Al…?” Jason groans, cracking an eye open. It’s bright, but the lights dim just enough for Jason to keep his eyes open.

“Ah. Welcome back, Master Jason.” Jason can hear the smile in his voice, slight and dry though it might be.

Jason sits up slowly, one hand coming up to clutch at his burning shoulder. He gets swatted for his efforts.

“Don’t touch that,” Alfred scolds. “Unless you’d like to be awake for the restitch.”

“Yeah. Pass.”

“I suspected as much,” Alfred muses. He returns to his task, sweeping suture thread and sterile packaging from the floor.

While it's nice to see Alfred, being back in the Cave for the first time since… well. You know. Jason feels a sense of urgency. A desperate need to escape. But with Alfred here, that's almost impossible. But maybe he'll understand?

“Hey, uh, Alfred?”

Alfred pauses and eyes him suspiciously. “Yes?”

“Could I get out of here? I… I can't talk to Bruce. I really can't.”

But Alfred’s sympathy does not extend to the infamous Red Hood-Batman Dispute. “You were shot twice in the leg just an hour ago. I’d hardly call you fit for release, Master Jason.”

Jason hadn’t even realized he’d been hit in the leg. He’s just that numb from painkillers. The only reason he felt his shoulder pain was because he knew he was shot there. And now that Jason knows about the leg, he’s starting to feel a dull ache there too.

But, yes. There’s no medic on Earth that would deem him fit to leave, Alfred included. He’d probably lose his balance and fall off his motorcycle before he could even start the engine.

“Yeah,” Jason sighs. “I know. Had to try though.”

“It was a valiant effort, sir,” Alfred assures him.

“Jason?”

Oh. Great.

“I should scrub the blood from the Batmobile’s interior,” Alfred announces, leaving the med bay.

“Wait, Alfred, don’t-” But it’s no use. He’s gone, and Jason is alone with Bruce.

Fuck.

“How much do you remember?”

Cold dread pools in Jason’s gut. “I remember being shot.” He tries to keep his expression unbothered. “And you obviously didn’t listen to me, because you followed me to Garzonas’s place.”

“They hit an artery,” Bruce replies, his already-harsh voice edging on furious. “You would have bled out.”

Jason won’t let a silly thing like death soften his argument. (And besides, he’s never let death stop him before.)

“I told you to stay out of this. I told you not to mess with this case.”

“I don’t take orders from you,” Bruce growls, glaring daggers at Jason.

“You know this case means something to me, Bruce.” Jason balls his fists, fingers tightening around starch-white sheets. “He protected his scumbag rapist son. He let Gloria Stenson be harassed and used until she couldn’t take it anymore. And I was the one who found her.”

Bruce’s expression softens from a scowl to a frown. “I know. I was there too.”

But it isn’t the same. That was Jason’s first case. That was Jason’s first run as Robin. He was twelve. And Felipe had just… not cared. Not even a little. And once Gloria died, he would’ve found a new victim and done it all over again.

And it angered Jason to a frenzied degree. And Bruce had maintained his logical, detective brain. So while Jason agonized over finding and stopping Felipe, Bruce had taken a cold, analytical approach.

Bruce didn’t get it. Not like Jason did.

“You know what?” Jason waves his hand in dismissal. “Forget it. Forget we ever talked. That was a bust. I didn’t get the USB, and now my leg is fucked to hell. So just… whatever. Do whatever the fuck you want, Bruce. Like you always do.”

Bruce presses his lips together. Takes a moment to collect his thoughts. “José Garzonas poses no direct threat right now. I’ll let you take this investigation. I just want to know one thing.”

Oh, no. Here it comes…

“Did Felipe really fall from that balcony? Really?”

Jason takes a breath. Chews his tongue. Narrows his eyes.

“Yes,” he finally says. It doesn’t matter if Bruce believes that. It doesn’t matter what happened on the balcony. Ultimately, Felipe got a kinder fate than he deserved.

“Hn.” Bruce leaves with a sweep of his cape. He doesn’t say goodbye. He just leaves.

Which is perfectly fine with Jason. Good riddance.

But Bruce comes right back, dropping something small in Jason’s hand.

The USB. The data that could incriminate José Garzonas for aiding and abetting. The data that could put the sick monster away for good.

“You might want this,” Bruce suggests.

And then he leaves.

Jason turns the USB over in his hands. He fidgets with it before dropping his head in concession.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

---

To the surprise of both himself and Bruce, Jason doesn’t leave right away. He waits a full day, during which he endures Alfred’s ministrations with little objection. It’s nice, almost, to have someone taking care of him. He’s so used to playing this game alone. So used to batting away assistance and forcing himself to do it on his own.

Alfred gives Jason a computer to search the USB with. There’s some solid information inside, though some of it is heavily encrypted. It’ll take ages to break it. Still, Jason asked for this case alone. He told Bruce to go away. So he can’t ask for help.

… can he?

Bruce keeps his distance while Jason is in the Cave. He walks past the med bay from time-to-time, no doubt checking that Jason is still alive, but he never enters.

On Bruce’s fifteenth lap that day, Jason calls him over.

“What’s wrong? Do you need Alfred?”

Jason shakes his head. “No, I… I needed to talk to you.”

Bruce nods. Go on, he’s saying. (Jason hates how easily he reads Bruce’s body language.)

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

Bruce nods again, but this time, the meaning is muddled. “I… am aware.”

God, he’s hopeless.

Jason holds out the USB to Bruce, but Bruce looks at it like it’s a dead slug.

“What are you doing?” Bruce asks.

Jason pushes the USB into Bruce’s hands. “I didn’t ask for your help. So this is me, asking.”

Bruce holds the USB up, squinting like he's appraising it. “You want me to help?”

Jason shrugs, winces as the bullet wound is pulled at, and makes a noncommittal sound. “I wanna catch this guy. It has nothing to do with you."

“Of course not,” Bruce hums, but he doesn't sound angry. He's unaffected, maybe even serene.

“It's a one-time thing,” Jason adds.

“Of course it is,” Bruce agrees.

“I still think you're a useless, holier-than-thou coward. I hate you.”

“That's okay.”

Jason is so used to being yelled at. He remembers Bruce picking at his every flaw and scolding him every time he disobeyed. So this calm, unbothered attitude is… strange on Bruce.

Not bad, necessarily. Just…

… strange.

#whumptober2024 #no.31 #asking for help #making amends #dc comics #fic #referenced abuse #referenced suicide #referenced assault #referenced rape #gun violence #blood #strong language #jason todd #bruce wayne #based off that fic where jaybin may or may not commit murder #nothing graphic #but there's a lot of dark references #cross posted on ao3

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 2 months ago

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Seeing Is (Not) Believing

Dick is free from the Crime Syndicate. Lex Luthor brought him back to life. He's safe.

But he's starting to feel like part of him died and never came back.

---

Dick collapses the moment they step out of the room.

“Nightwing,” Bruce says sternly, tightening his hold on Dick’s waist. There's no point in using the alias, not anymore, but Bruce is a creature of habit. And his kids have always responded best to a direct order anyway. (Even if they don’t always obey those either.) “Nightwing.”

Dick groans, eyelids heavy. “S-Sorry, B…” he apologizes, like being tortured for weeks and then quite literally dying is no excuse to pass out. He coughs weakly, struggling to get his feet back under himself.

“Come on,” Selina says, gentle but firm. “We need to go.”

And she’s right. They may have gotten Dick out of the Murder Machine, but they’re still in the Crime Syndicate’s base of operations. The heroes of the Justice League are still trapped in Firestorm. The fate of the world literally hangs in the balance.

So they follow Cyborg up the stairs, with Bruce carrying the majority of Dick’s weight and Selina trailing behind, clearly waiting for one (or both) of them to go tumbling down the steps.

“Just a little further,” Bruce mumbles. “Just a couple more steps, okay? Stay with me, chum.”

Dick does his best, but unfortunately, it isn't enough. His knees give out four steps from the top, chin dropping to his chest. Selina rushes up, grabbing under Dick’s free arm before he can slip from Bruce’s hold.

They don't have much time, and unfortunately, they especially don't have time for this. So Bruce readjusts his hold, with one arm under Dick’s knees and the other supporting his back. He holds him close, Batman’s cape nearly engulfing the injured hero entirely.

“Stay awake,” he murmurs. “Stay awake, kiddo.”

Dick looks at him blearily, but he doesn’t close his eyes. He just leans into Bruce’s chest, wincing with Bruce’s every step.

They go up another flight of stairs, turning corners until they reach a door. Cyborg destroys it with a single blast, then steps over the wreckage. Batman starts to follow, trying to ignore the whines coming from the bundle in his arms.

But a hand on his shoulder stops him short.

“Catwoman?”

Selina’s brows are knit in concern, and she rubs her arm, looking from Dick to Bruce and back again. “We’ve got this. Get him out of here.”

Bruce shakes his head. “No. We need to end this. Now.”

Selina isn’t convinced. “Yes, Cyborg and I will end it. You need to get him out of here before he dies.” She twists her whip around her fingers, expression pained, before making fierce eye contact with Bruce. “Don’t let another one die, Bruce.” She knows what she’s insinuating, but she doesn’t back down. “The world is in good hands. Go now before you make yourself a liability.”

Fire erupts in Bruce’s chest, but he can’t do anything about it. So instead, he clenches his jaw and holds Dick closer. He sends her his fiercest glare. “I’m the last person here to become a liability.”

Selina crosses her arms, standing firm. “Take care of the boy, or I’ll drag him out of here myself.”

Bruce sweeps past her and heads for the exit. He isn’t going to take this.

“Nightwing,” Bruce calls, but he doesn’t look down. “Still awake?”

“Batman,” Dick says weakly. “What’s… What’s happening?”

“We’re getting out of here. Cyborg and Catwoman have the situation handled.”

Not that Dick knows what “the situation” is. Bruce doubts the Crime Syndicate gave him a weekly newsletter while he was in captivity.

“Oh…” Dick murmurs. And then he jolts in Bruce’s arms, catching Bruce by surprise and knocking himself to the ground.

“Dick, what-?”

“No,” Dick mumbles feverishly. “No, no, no, no, no. Get away. Just get… get away.” He claws at the ground, dragging his uncooperative body across the stone floor, legs tangled in Bruce’s cape.

“Whoa,” Bruce says, taking Dick’s hands and trying to make eye contact. “It’s just me, Nightwing. It’s just Batman.”

“No,” Dick insists, weakly trying to pull his hands back. “No, you’re not! You’re Owlman. You’ve always been… You keep lying… I can’t…” He’s breaking down, face red and eyes bloodshot. He flails rather ineffectively, breathing so fast that Bruce can’t believe Dick hasn’t knocked himself out yet.

“Chum,” Bruce says firmly, pulling the cowl down. “It’s Bruce. Remember?”

Dick is still upset, expression bereft, but his breathing slows a touch. He reaches up, hand shaky, and Bruce carefully sits him up against the wall. Then he rips his gloves off and allows Dick to feel the grooves of his hands. The callouses. The scars. His crooked ring finger.

“See? It's just me.”

Dick shakes his head, but he doesn't let go of Bruce’s hands. “You look like… You look like him.”

Him. Owlman, probably. Bruce supposes his brother from an alternate universe would bear a passing resemblance to him. It only makes Bruce hate the Crime Syndicate even more.

“It's Bruce,” Bruce promises. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Dick blinks and looks at Bruce as if for the first time. Recognition dawns. “You’re not Owlman.”

With forced patience, Bruce nods. “I am not. Now, can we please get out of here?”

“I… Help me up.” Dick seems to regain his awareness, and Bruce capitalizes on the moment, pulling Dick’s arm over his shoulders.

“This place could blow at any point,” Bruce warns. “Can you run?”

Dick doesn’t answer, forcing himself forward in a frantic limp. It’s enough that Bruce doesn’t try carrying Dick again. The last thing he needs is another argument. There’s no time for discussion.

The pair hobble out of the hideout, and Bruce takes the wheel of the Batmobile stationed outside. Dick tries to sit in the passenger seat but slips and ends up on his back. Bruce has to yank the restraints between Dick’s uncooperative arms.

It reminds him vaguely of trying to get Dick to put on a suit for his first gala, a lifetime ago. Neither one of them had enjoyed the process, but it was a necessary evil. Just as the bowtie was required for societal acceptance back then, the seatbelt is required for not getting thrown through the Batmobile’s windshield today.

“The… The bomb…” Dick’s hand clumsily paws at his chest.

“The Murder Machine,” Bruce elaborates. “Yes. It’s deactivated. You’re safe.” He punches the gas, speeding back for Gotham.

Dick watches him with hazy eyes. “Luthor… killed… he killed… I… I couldn’t breathe, and-” He’s hyperventilating, and Bruce can’t do this. Not right now. With one hand on the wheel, Bruce digs around in his utility belt, finding the autoinjector right where he left it. He takes it out, flicks the cap off with his thumb, and stabs Dick in the leg.

Bruce keeps his eyes on the road, but he doesn’t need to look to see the betrayed expression on Dick’s face. The confusion, the fear, the anger. It’s all there, just in Bruce’s periphery, but Bruce is not looking. He’s focused on driving. (Or that’s what he tells himself, anyway.)

“B, wh-?”

Bruce doesn’t let himself feel bad. It’s not his fault. Dick was going to work himself into a frenzy and end up passing out anyway. A gentle sedative is not only the most elegant and efficient choice, but it’s also the most humane.

At least, the most humane as long as Dick doesn’t smash his head against the window when he collapses. Which of course he does.

Bruce can’t worry over it. He’s got bigger problems. The world is ending. Tim is missing. Dick has plenty of severe wounds, many of which are old and likely infected. He’s hardly concerned with a bump on his head.

“Rest,” Bruce says, though Dick probably can’t hear him anymore. “I’ll take care of everything.”

And Bruce fully intends to make good on that promise.

---

Dick wakes up in a small room filled with fading greens and browns. The wallpaper is a peeling floral print. The blankets are familiar and smell of wood varnish. There’s a puke green recliner in the corner of the room, its stained upholstery worn to the point of ripping across the front of the seat.

The only things not in the dated earth tones are the bed, the monitor, and the IV poles. The bed itself is clearly designed for a hospital, and the remote for it is resting on Dick’s leg. Green, yellow, and red lines draw wavy patterns across the monitor’s jet black screen, meaningless numbers in corresponding colors down the side. One IV pole is hooked up to the crook of Dick’s elbow, a mystery fluid dripping from the bag, through the catheter, and into Dick’s bloodstream. The other is connected to Dick’s hand, though he can’t be certain of what exactly its purpose is.

And once Dick is done assessing his surroundings, he turns inward. And man. Does he hurt. His ribs scream with every shallow breath. His stomach churns, nausea pushing against his throat. The world seems to ebb and flow with his heartbeat, turning fuzzy and then coming into focus in a constant cycle. And just generally, everything about Dick hurts. He aches. He’s tired. He’s hot, he’s cold, he’s thirsty, he’s dizzy. He tries to sit up, but every movement sends fire through his back.

Whip burns, he realizes. The Crime Syndicate.

The day - the weeks - come rushing back to him, but all he does is sigh. He died - he died - but he’s so numb, so ridiculously overwhelmed with the concept, that he can’t even worry about it. He was dead. Past tense. It’s a non-issue for the moment.

“Bruce?” he croaks, voice dry and ravaged.

“Every time you scream, you get two more lashes,” Superwoman hisses. So he’s beaten, whipped, and generally torn to pieces until he loses his voice and can't yell anymore.

And that's only week one.

No one responds. It’s not a huge shock. Back when Dick had just started out as Robin and up until about halfway through Tim’s tenure as Robin, Bruce would rarely do the bedside vigil thing. He’d usually prioritize finding the crook over emotional support. That was what Alfred was for. Or that was his justification, anyway.

But slowly, over time, Bruce got better about it. Instead of dumping an unmasked Dick at the ER doors and then running, he would carry him to triage. Instead of leaving the Cave the moment his partner was on a cot, Bruce started helping with initial first aid. And then he gradually started staying at the bedside. He was almost always working on a case on his laptop, even now, but he didn’t stray far from his injured partner for very long.

So Dick isn’t surprised that Bruce isn’t within earshot. He’s just a bit disappointed.

Cautious of the IV, Dick picks up the remote on his bed. Even that tiny movement makes his back fizzle with pain, but he endures it, pressing the red button. There’s a soft dinging outside his room, and within a minute or two, a man in a white coat and khakis enters, shutting the door behind him with a click.

“Mr. Grayson,” he greets softly. “How are you feeling?”

Dick doesn't waste time playing along. “Where am I? Who are you?”

“Bristol Medical Center,” the man replies evenly. “I’m Dr. Frank Philips. I’m an old friend of Bruce; we went to school together.”

“Oh.” But that doesn’t answer the most burning of his questions. He just has to be careful of how he asks it. “What happened? I don’t… um… I don’t remember.”

If amnesia deviates from whatever story Bruce made up, it doesn’t fluster Dr. Philips in the slightest. “Bruce brought you in after the… ah… the Crime Syndicate.”

Dick blinks. Looks down at his hospital gown. Feels his face, bare save a bandage on his cheek. “He… told you?”

Dr. Philips shoves his hands in his pockets, one eyebrow arched. “That you're Nightwing? I think everyone knows that.”

It takes Dick a long second to process that. And then he remembers.

“Haul him up, Superwoman.” The lasso tightens around Dick’s chest and arms, its barbs digging into his skin. A sudden yank flings him upwards, and he lands hard on his side. The barbs cut deeper, tearing through muscle and clashing against bone.

“On your feet, cutie pie,” Superwoman croons. She grips his hair with steel fingers, threatening to rip it straight out of his head.

Dick struggles weakly. Coughs. Feels something warm and wet run down his chin.

“They've even taken care of Nightwing!” It's Eddie Nygma’s unmistakably arrogant tenor.

“Yes,” Superwoman hisses, so close that Dick can feel her breath on his ear. “Nightwing. But his real name…” A gloved thumb brushes under his eye, and suddenly, the glue from Dick’s mask is ripped from his skin. “... is Richard Grayson.”

This man - this stranger - knows who Dick is because everyone knows who he is.

“Hey, don't stress, okay?” Dr. Philips looks at him with a knowing sympathy. “We’ve got this room locked up. I’m the only one who knows you're here.”

Dick frowns. He expected to wind up in the Cave. Leslie’s clinic, if he was really hurt. But never a hospital. That almost never happens anymore, and even in his state, he doesn't think it's worth the hospital visit.

Though, if his identity is already out there…

“Where's Bruce?” Dick asks, fatigue starting to slow him down. He doesn't have much time before he’ll fall asleep and lose any chance of getting answers.

“Right here,” a slightly-winded voice says. “I’m right here, Dick.” And Bruce walks into eyesight with a coffee in one hand and a gatorade in the other. He sets the drinks down on the bedside table and studies Dick carefully, one hand checking the temperature of his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

But Dick jumps, pushing himself as deeply into the mattress as he can. He needs to get away, get away, get away-

Bruce jumps back too, hands up in surrender. “It’s me,” he says. “It’s Bruce.”

And Dick knows that. But upon seeing Bruce’s face… His features are just so… so…

“You’re not the same Richard Grayson I knew,” Owlman - Thomas Wayne, Jr. - says, pacing back and forth. “That Richard Grayson is dead.”

Dick pops his thumb out of its socket, trying to contain the grimace. He grates the chair’s wooden legs against the cement floor to cover up his sharp intake of breath. Then he slides his hand out of its handcuff.

“That’s why I need your help, Richard.” Owlman turns to him, pulling the cowl back over his eyes. “Help me make a better world.”

Dick wraps the loose chain around his fist and jumps out of the chair, swinging the chained fist at Owlman’s jaw.

But he’s weak. He hasn’t had water in two days. He hasn’t eaten in nearly a week. Sleep is restless and infrequent. Owlman dodges him with a single step and uses Dick’s momentum to slam a fist into Dick’s gut.

Dick doubles over, wheezing.

“Everyone in the world knows your real name,” Owlman reasons, knocking Dick to the ground and holding him there with a forearm to the throat. “The Society has already leveled your apartment building. Your friends have been hunted. And Batman is dead. You have nothing. You need a new start, and I can help.”

“Help you destroy the world?” Dick chokes out. “No, thanks.”

Owlman drags him up and slams him into the wall. “No. I want to make a better world.”

“No. Thanks,” Dick growls. He swipes at Owlman, but Owlman drives a dagger through Dick’s hand and into the wall, effectively pinning him.

“Think about it, chum.”

It’s hard to separate Bruce from Owlman, even when Bruce isn’t wearing the cowl. Dick’s pulse speeds up. Sweat breaks out on his palms. He has to repeat it over and over in his mind. Remind himself that this is Bruce, Bruce, Bruce-

“Say the word, and all this stops.”

“Screw you,” Dick says, though his tone is too weak to sound intimidating.

Owlman doesn’t appreciate this. He wrenches Dick’s head back underwater. And Dick tries to stay calm. Owlman won’t drown him.

But Dick’s nerves are too fried. Survival instinct has long since taken over his body. He struggles and splashes and fights against the merciless hand in his hair. When Dick is finally pulled up, his muscles have gone limp, eyes fluttering. He coughs weakly.

“Everyone you love is gone. We’ve killed them. You have nothing left to fight for.”

“Then-” Dick is cut off by a long, painful, unproductive coughing fit. “-kill me,” he finally manages.

“That was never an option, Richard.”

And Dick is dragged underwater again.

“Dick, breathe.”

But he can’t breathe. He can’t. He’s drowning. He’s-

“Owlman, we- we had an agreement!”

“What’s he talking about, Wayne?” Ultraman’s eyebrows lower dangerously.

The cowl never stops watching. Its pale blue eyes stare into Dick’s soul. They dig deeper than the laser burns in Dick’s thighs.

“He’s delusional,” Owlman says simply.

Ultraman turns back to Dick, eyes flashing an agonizing red.

“It’s Bruce. Batman.” A frustrated, pitying sigh. “What did he do to you?”

Dick can feel a hesitant thumb on the back of his hand. He almost jerks away when he feels it rub a familiar, constant pattern into his skin.

Straight line. Half-circle. Half-circle.

Dick blinks, taking a shaky breath. Bruce continues drawing the letter over and over, his free hand carefully feeling Dick’s forehead again.

“Bruce,” Dick mumbles. He can see him now. He can see the hue of Bruce’s eyes. The slight curve of his nose. Not quite the same as Thomas Jr.’s.

No. Not the same at all.

“It’s me, chum,” Bruce murmurs. “You’re safe. It’s over. You’re safe.”

And Dick believes him.

#whumptober2024 #no.30 #recovery #hospital bed #“What have I done?”#dcu comics #fic #torture #drowning #reference to canon character death #ptsd #hospital #dick grayson #bruce wayne #forever evil #post forever evil #cross posted on ao3

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 2 months ago

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When @whumptober-archive reblogs your fics

#💙💙💙#whumptober #much love reblog fairies!!!!

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 2 months ago

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The Owl's Test: Dick's Version

Nightwing is trapped in the Court of Owls' not-so-fun house.

A Gotham Knights choose-your-own-adventure. Pick your favorite character to get whumped, or watch them all suffer :)

Jason's Version

Barbara's Version

Tim's Version

---

Dick wakes up coughing. He can still feel it - the knockout gas - closing off his throat. Choking his lungs. He coughs until his throat is raw and his lungs are aching. Then he takes a moment to collect himself, trying to make the room stop spinning. His mask shades the harsh, artificial light, but it still stings, each sense - sight, sound, touch, smell - like a hot dagger in his brain.

Mustering his strength, Dick pushes himself up, pausing for a moment as the world spins faster. He braces himself, then hops off the bench and takes in the room.

The first thing he notices, of course, is that he had not been lying on a bench. No, he’d been comfortably situated on a solid stone altar. It feels ancient and just a bit cultish, and Dick’s skin crawls at just the knowledge that someone had put him there.

The rest of the room is sparsely decorated. The stone walls and floor are grimy and vaguely green in color. Like the room itself feels the mystery gas hangover too.

Two owls guard the archway to a corridor. They’re worn with spiderwebs clinging to their wings. It must have been years since anyone used this room. Or at least since someone cleaned it.

“Ugh,” he mutters, stumbling forward. As an acrobat, the lack of balance is making him incredibly nervous. If someone were to attack him right now, he’d be a sitting duck. “What happened? And how did I get… wherever this is?”

The room spins just a bit more, no doubt a friendly warning for Dick to quit walking before he collapses. So Dick stops for a moment, tapping his comm.

“Belfry, you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Aaand I’m cut off.” He sighs.

Feeling a bit less wobbly, Dick jogs forward, making his way down the hall and around the corner. With the mystery drugs still pumping through his system, things are a bit blurrier than they should be, but that’s okay, because it’s just a tunnel. Dick doesn’t need to see the details of a hallw-

Spikes shoot out from the walls, crushing Dick’s bones and ripping through his muscles. He feels the excruciating sensation of being torn to shreds. And then nothing. He feels nothing. He feels…

Dizzy.

Wait, what?

Dick opens his eyes. He’s lying on the altar again, and he sits up in a panic. He feels his body for gaping wounds - for a missing heart and a shattered ribcage - but he finds no evidence of being impaled. His skin is fine. His suit is intact. Even though just moments before, Dick had died, he’s now very uncertain of the fact.

Confused beyond comprehension, Dick stands up and laughs away the horror of what he thought was instant death. “And I’m back!” he calls out with a cheerful “ta-da” intonation. He moves past the owl statues, noticing a new picture decorating the blank walls.

“Wait… but I thought…” He stands in front of the picture - the picture of his bleeding, broken body, impaled on the spike trap - in disbelief. “That’s impossible. How am I still…?”

No time for questions. Now is the time for movement. Now is the time to get out of here.

Dick hurries ahead, taking care to drop down and crawl when he sees the (now very obvious) holes in the wall. The spikes shoot out as he steps on their pressure plates, but they go over his head.

“Inside of Gotham’s walls…” a sinister, echoing voice croons. Clear of the spikes, Dick jumps to his feet, but the speaker is nowhere to be found.

“Rule you one and all…” another voice calls.

Dick doesn’t wonder where the voices are coming from. Unless he can see the threat, it isn’t worth worrying about. Not under these circumstances. So he moves down the hall, not stopping until the threat does, in fact, make itself seen.

There’s a feral growl, like a bear gargling hex bolts. A dark, almost-human figure jumps out from the shadows and darts up the wall.

“What is that?” Feeling more than a little paranoid, Dick cautiously keeps going. He ducks under another spike trap, hoping to god that there isn’t a demon creature watching him from behind. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“You are the Court now. And the Court… is you.” The voice is getting more than a little personal about the whole thing, and Dick has no interest in continuing the conversation.

A light flickers up ahead, shockingly warm compared to the harsh chill of the hall’s glow. Is it an exit? Or just a candle?

But the correct answer is neither. Dick isn’t lucky enough to find an exit so quickly, and the world isn’t random enough to provide him with a single candle in the middle of an underground cavern.

No, Dick is blessed with an antechamber filled with flamethrower traps. Which is just… just great. Really. He’s thrilled.

Dick scans the floor carefully. Certain stones are burned black from the trap’s flames, but other stones remain untouched. Hesitantly, Dick crosses the unburned stones and safely makes it to the other side of the room. He finds another hall and starts running. When will this hallway end?

“Give up. It would be so much easier,” the voice promises. But Dick stopped listening to it ages ago.

And then Dick runs headlong into a wall.

“Agh!” He rubs his (no-doubt bruised) forehead, squinting up at the dead end that should not have been there. He climbs to his feet (and man, it’s getting harder and harder to do that, almost like the energy is being sucked from his body) and turns around. He must have missed a turn.

Dick runs back through the halls, but rather than find the Flamethrower Room, he finds the Spinning Blades of Death Room. Which is just marginally better than the flame traps. At least Dick has practiced with spinning blades. Bruce set up that obstacle course often, and Dick would run through it constantly, always shooting to beat his high score. (But Barbara was always faster. Dick hated her for it back then. He still kind of resents her for it, but in a respectfully begrudging type of way.)

So in no time at all, Dick slips past the blades and into the next corridor. The lights are getting brighter, his head growing fuzzier. He stumbles, slowing down and pressing a fist against his headache.

“Robin was a mistake.”

Wait. That’s not the same voice as before. That’s…

God, that’s Bruce. That’s Bruce’s fuming baritone after a long, disastrous patrol. That’s Bruce’s fury after Dick messed up and someone got hurt. That’s-

That’s Bruce’s study.

Sure enough, there are two armchairs up ahead, flanking a decorative table with a gramophone on top. But it’s not just any gramophone. It’s Bruce’s.

… well, it’s Bruce’s dad’s, anyway. Bruce never let Dick forget that. Almost like he felt guilty for just using the gramophone.

Dick’s fingers brush the dust from the gramophone’s horn. A record spins on the turntable, but it’s coming out all wrong. Dick can remember the song, even if he doesn’t quite recall the words. He remembers sneaking down to Bruce’s study when his nightmares kept him awake. And Bruce would watch him carefully, motion him in, and sit him down in an armchair by the fire. Then he would put a record on - this record on - and sit with him until he was lulled to sleep, warm, soothed, and safe.

The juxtaposition of the same chairs, the same gramophone, the same song in this dank, unfamiliar environment makes Dick’s chest ache.

He can’t stand the sound, so he turns right and walks down the hall, the garbled lyrics haunting him as he goes. But the music cuts to a sharp halt by the loud, but distinct, thwump of flesh against stone. Dick can see someone… himself?... being dragged across the floor, limp as a corpse. But as Dick approaches, the person - him - disappears in a black cloud of smoke.

Just another hallucination.

Dick crawls under the next spike trap. When he stands up again, someone new is yelling from the ceiling.

“We’re losing too many lives!”

Commissioner Gordon?

Dick hurries ahead. He can see a spotlight in the next antechamber, the damning image of a bat - the Bat - slapped in the center of it. It sparks and hisses, and Dick’s vision begins to blur again. (What was in that gas??)

“The city is burning to the ground!” another voice screams, gunshots and sirens in the background.

When Dick comes close enough to touch the Bat Signal, it pops. The light cuts out abruptly.

“Where the hell is Batman??” a new voice asks frantically.

Dick swallows hard. He knows the answer. But the voice can’t hear him, so he doesn’t even try. He just keeps moving, running down the hall yet again.

“You said you’d be helpful. You said you wouldn’t slow me down.”

It’s Bruce again. But this time, he’s speaking directly into Dick’s ear. Except when Dick turns, it’s not Bruce. It’s himself, wearing a smooth white mask, predator eyes peering out through the slits.

“But you were wrong,” Bruce’s voice continues. “You’re a disappointment, Dick Grayson.”

Something is crackling in the distance. Interference of some kind. A different voice overlaps Bruce’s, and as Dick’s headache intensifies, he realizes just how much trouble he’s in.

“Presenting,” a loud voice shouts over the cheers of an audience, “the gruesome death of the Flying Graysons!”

Dick staggers forward. He has to keep moving. He can’t stay here. But if he keeps going, he’ll have to walk past… past…

Two motionless bodies are splayed across the floor. Their arms are stretching out towards each other, but they fall short, fingers just inches from touching. Dark red pools on the ground, soaking into their leotards and sinking into the sawdust.

“Mom?”

Her face is frozen in a scream, eyes desperate and cloying. Her hands aren’t warm. Not like they used to be. Her smile is gone. She’s forever memorialized in this state:

Pure and abject fear.

“Dad?”

His lip is curled up, jaw open. Like he was shouting something. His last words. His eyes bulge from his head, panic carved into the lines of his forehead.

“No,” Dick murmurs, heart beating so quickly that he can barely breathe. Heat pricks at his eyes. His every muscle is tensed, drawn tight with a childhood nightmare coming true.

(Again. It’s coming true again.)

“I don’t want to go through this again,” he breathes, but all he can hear are their screams. The collective gasp of the crowd. The tear-soaked, blood-stained, neverending seconds as he watches his parents fall to the ground, knowing that there is nothing he can do. Knowing that these are their last seconds alive, and they will spend them in terror.

The circus band plays its jaunty tune, almost in victory, and Dick breaks away from his parents on the floor. He stumbles backwards, and they disappear in a puff of white smoke, leaving behind two white owl masks and the bloodstain that they could never wash away. The crowd laughs, growing manic and frenzied and amused.

Dick sprints down the hall (whether it’s the left or the right, he neither knows nor cares), sliding under the next spike trap. He needs to get away, to get away, to get away, to get away, to-

A door.

Dick can’t even laugh in relief. He feels none of it. He just runs all the faster, even as the door moves further and further out of reach, like he’s running on the world’s cruelest hamster wheel.

“No escape…” a distorted voice calls. “No escape…”

Dick catches up with the door and yanks on it, but it zips out of his hands, disappearing even further down the corridor. He moves faster. Possibly faster than he’s ever run before.

“Accept your fate!”

He gets to the door again, but this time, he doesn’t waste precious seconds pulling on the handle. Instead, he rams the door with his shoulder. Once. Twice. Th-

The door gives in, and Dick spills out on the floor. There’s a deafening SLAM as the door shuts behind him.

Dick takes a second. Pants. Squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. The lights are warmer. The walls don’t twist and decay like the others did. He must be out of that nightmare zone.

Dick takes one last breath before climbing to his feet and trying to move on. What happened in the labyrinth can stay in the labyrinth.

“That sucked.”

And that’s all he’ll say on the matter.

Jason's Version

Barbara's Version

Tim's Version

#whumptober2024 #no.29 #fatigue #labyrinth #gotham knights game #fic #hallucinations #non con drugging #grief #blood #reference to canon character death #mild language #dick grayson #court of owls #angst #cross posted on ao3

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 2 months ago

Text

The Owl's Test: Tim's Version

Robin is trapped in the Court of Owls' not-so-fun house.

A Gotham Knights choose-your-own-adventure. Pick your favorite character to get whumped, or watch them all suffer :)

Jason's Version

Barbara's Version

Dick's Version

---

“Ugh.”

Tim’s brain feels like it was run over by a steamroller and then scraped off the pavement with a credit card and crammed into a waffle iron. He tries to sit up but gives up immediately, letting his head smack against the stone he’s lying on. He doesn’t know what day it is or how he got here or where “here” even is, and he almost doesn’t want to know. He just wants to close his eyes and try again later.

But Tim has never been given the luxury of “try again later.” He shoves himself upwards, cringing at the musty decay in the air. His head spins from the change in altitude, but Tim needs to get out of here. There’s no time to waste. He pushes himself off the stone.

And then he realizes that he forgot to swing his legs over the side. He crashes into the ground, head slamming against stone. His world shorts out for a microsecond, and when he comes to, everything hurts worse.

Tim groans, slowly standing up and holding his ground when the lights pulse around him. “Well, if I didn’t have a concussion before…” he grumbles.

When his vision clears up enough to see, Tim takes in the dismal ambience. Two angry owl statues glare down at him, like they’re about to list off his sins. The stone Tim was lying on is now, quite clearly, an altar.

Tim groans again. Altars are never a good sign. And worse still when you’re the one lying on one.

“Where am I?” Tim asks the stone owls. Unsurprisingly, they say nothing.

Tim limps past the owls into the hallway. “Smells like death,” he mutters. Then he pauses, waiting for one of the owls to object or vaporize him for the insult. But they remain silent, and Tim has the pleasure of knowing that he hasn’t angered any malevolent owl ghosts.

“Belfry?” he says, hoping his comm is picking him up. “Are you there?”

The earpiece is silent, and Tim huffs. “Something must be blocking comms.” Which is not great, because it means Tim is not only drugged, kidnapped, and trapped, but he’s also without backup.

And Tim hates being alone.

As Tim walks down the hall, his sight clears up a bit, balance improving, if only slightly. He’s able to walk a bit faster, but he slows down when he notices a deviation in the hallway’s uniform wall. There’s a block of holes against two adjacent walls. It’s a dead giveaway for a spike trap. And the slightly off-colored tiles between the walls further suggest danger. Fortunately, there’s enough space under the holes to crawl under, so Tim gets down and crawls his way across the space. The spikes still startle him when they - shing! - shoot out from the walls and clash at the center, but Tim is safely below the danger zone.

Tim stands up and carries on down the hall, but a bodiless voice echoes through the cavern. “Inside of Gotham’s walls…”

“Rule you one and all…” a different voice finishes.

There’s an animalistic shriek, like a tiger and a chicken roared and squawked (respectively) in unison. Then a dark shadow sprints across Tim’s path and scurries up the wall like the tiger-chicken-squirrel that it is.

“I… don’t like that,” Tim decides. He makes a note to keep an eye on the shadows. Who knows what else is hiding out there?

Tim ducks under another spike trap and comes upon a new room, this one glowing with a warm light. If Tim’s lucky, it’s an exit. If he isn’t, it’s a fiery owl statue-ghost that’s come to exact its belated revenge for Tim’s insolence.

In the end, Tim is neither lucky nor unlucky. He’s downright cursed. Sure, a giant bird of prey hasn’t charred him to ash. But that would be a quicker death than the intricate flamethrower trap he’s faced with. Every tile seems synced to a flamethrower above it. Step on the tile, and you activate the flamethrower, and bam. No hair. And also likely no body, because the human body does tend to burn like a candle.

Tim takes an agonizingly long time analyzing each tile. Stepping just carefully enough. Dodging flames at just the right moment. By the time he steps out into the new corridor, he’s drenched in sweat, heart racing against his ribs.

“Give up,” the voice calls. “It would be so much easier.”

And as if it can hear the voice, the hallway abruptly stops being a hallway, and Tim runs face-first into a wall.

“Ughhhh,” Tim groans, carefully prodding an already-swelling eye. It’ll be black before morning. (If he survives until morning, of course.) “This is so not fair.” He stands up and doubles back. He’s hoping that maybe he missed a turn after the torch room. He does not want to dance through that trap again.

But when Tim arrives at the antechamber, it’s not the same room as before. Instead, it contains a series of spinning pillars, each lined from ceiling-to-floor with saws and rotating spikes.

And this? This, Tim is fine with. Comfortable, even. This was one of the first obstacle courses Bruce ever put him through during his Robin training. He can do this with his eyes covered and hands tied. (And he has done this with his eyes covered and his hands tied.) It takes less than ten seconds to clear the room, and then he’s back to running down hallways.

Tim slows briefly as his comm crackles unhelpfully. “What is going on with this thing?” he wonders, but until it starts working, Tim needs to find a way out of here on his own. He can’t rely on the cavalry this time.

“I should never have recruited you.”

This voice is different than the others. Tim knows this voice.

Bruce.

The lights become brighter, colors smeared across Tim’s vision. His balance wavers, and he slows to an uneven walk, gripping his head as he tries to move forward. There’s something up ahead. Something… not right.

Tim manages his way to the new room, and yep. This is so messed up.

“Where were you, Robin?” Bruce is screaming. Furious.

Bats fly past Tim in a swarm, revealing a large, cold headstone and a closed casket. Tim doesn’t need to read the headstone to know whose it is.

“You were supposed to be by my side!” Bruce seethes. “Maybe then I wouldn’t be dead!”

“It’s not real,” Tim assures himself, but it certainly doesn’t feel that way. He shakes his head, taking the hall to the right.

There’s another shadow figure hiding in the corner, but this one is clearer. Less ambiguous. And it’s wearing a pale owl mask and the Robin suit. The suit Tim is wearing right now.

“Who are you?” Tim asks.

And then the fake him charges. Tim pulls out his bo staff, quick to defend himself, but the figure disappears in a puff of black fog.

“You begged me for the chance,” Bruce growls. “You begged me to be Robin. I should have known you’d fail.”

The words cut deep, but Tim pushes past it. His vision is blurring again, though, and his chest grows tight. He forces his legs forward, nearly collapsing from the effort.

Ahead of him is a familiar antique gramophone. An old, warped record plays, its flat, damaged notes leaving Tim uneasy. An armchair sits on either side of the gramophone. Tim manages his way up to the chairs but doesn’t dare sit down. He can’t rest. Not right now.

Cautiously, reverently, Tim runs his fingers down the fabric of one armchair. They look like the armchairs from the living room. In fact, there’s a dark red bloodstain on the arm of one, exactly like the stain from when Dick and Tim’s brotherly roughhousing had turned into an accidental bloodbath. Alfred had nearly had a heart attack when he saw the ruins of the chairs. But Bruce had laughed. He’d told Alfred that it was a parenting hazard and that he’d try to keep the children apart in the future. Then he’d put a record on the gramophone, likely in an attempt to ease the mood.

Alfred calmed down eventually. But here, with the chairs, listening to a demon version of a childhood song, Tim just feels nauseous. He moves on quickly, trying to escape the haunting tune, even as it chases him down the hall.

“You’re Robin now. You got what you wanted. Are you happy, Boy Wonder?”

Tim used to feel safe and loved when Bruce called him that. But the way he spits the title makes Tim’s spirit die a little. Did Bruce ever see that as a fond nickname? Maybe he’d always used it as a way to compare him to Dick and Jason. As a way to remind Tim of how inadequate he is.

Tim keeps running.

The Batcomputer is sitting in the next antechamber, every screen glowing the same blood-soaked red and populated with foreboding figures in owl masks. As Tim gets closer, the chair in front of the computer spins around, revealing a mangled man slumped over the arm. Tim frowns, squinting against the harsh lighting.

“Wait… Alfred?” And he’s right. The man in the chair, while disfigured beyond human survivability, is now obviously Alfred. His neck is tipped too far, lips stained with blood.

“No,” Tim breathes. And then panic sets in. “No. No!”

And Alfred disappears in a cloud of ash.

For a long moment, Tim is frozen in place.

So that was all fake? Alfred is still alive? What is Tim supposed to believe anymore?

He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to stick around and find out. So he turns the corner, only to see another horror that will leave him with nightmares for the next week.

His own body, writhing on the floor. Gasping and groaning and wheezing in pain. Coughing up blood. Reaching out for a man who isn’t there. Who might never have been there. And then the Robin on the floor goes limp, head lolling to the side.

Dead.

“I’m seeing things,” Tim says. And he knows it to be true, but he just can’t get himself to believe it. He walks past the body, not looking to see if it disappears like all the others. He doesn’t want to linger here. He can’t-

“You were the death of me, Timothy Drake. My blood is on your hands.”

The hallway lights go out, and Tim feels like the world is spinning, spinning, spinning. He staggers to one knee, then pushes himself up and stumbles forward. A spotlight shines on the room ahead, but Tim can’t tell what’s inside.

“What is this place?”

“Four weeks with the new Robin,” Bruce spits. “No improvement.”

It’s a locker. The spotlight is highlighting a locker. Tim’s locker. His costume hangs inside, dull and lifeless under the light.

“Lacks Dick’s leadership. Jason’s boldness. An unworthy successor.”

Tim bites his tongue and balls his fists, nails cutting into his palms. This isn’t the real Bruce, but his voice is…

God. Bruce is saying everything. Everything Tim has fretted over. His slow start. His uncertainty in the field. His tendency to play it safe. Bruce never commented on it before, but Tim always wondered if Bruce thought he was inadequate.

“Tim was right,” Bruce continues. “Batman needs a Robin. But Robin needs to be someone - anyone - but Tim Drake.”

Tim’s jaw tightens, vision growing hazy. He’s noticed the posters hung up on the locker door now.

WE ARE HIRING, the first poster reads. NEW ROBIN WANTED, the second announces.

Tim tears his eyes away from the locker, moving down the next hallway. “Stay focused, Robin,” he tells himself. Because he is Robin. Bruce made him Robin. “This can’t be real.”

Tim crawls under a spike trap, and that’s when he sees the door in the distance. He starts running after it. Escape is just beyond it; Tim is certain. But the more he runs, the further the door gets.

“No escape…” a voice hisses. “No escape…”

Tim finally grabs hold of the door handle, but before he can wrench it open, the door is ripped from his hands, flying even further away.

Tim sprints. He’s so, so close now.

“Accept your fate.”

Catching up again, Tim rams his shoulder into the door. He grunts, the desperation fueling the intensity of his blows. The door gives way, and Tim falls into another room. The door slams shut behind him, leaving him alone.

This room is quieter. The voices have stopped. Tim’s vision is clearer, and the fog has faded from the ground. Even the shadows look brighter.

Tim climbs to his feet. “Am I out?”

The voices don’t respond.

“Yeah,” Tim decides. “I think I’m out.”

Jason's Version

Barbara's Version

Dick's Version

#whumptober2024 #no.29 #fatigue #labyrinth #gotham knights game #fic #hallucinations #non con drugging #blood #grief #trauma #tim drake #court of owls #angst #cross posted on ao3

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 2 months ago

Text

The Owl's Test: Barbara's Version

Batgirl is trapped in the Court of Owls' not-so-fun house.

A Gotham Knights choose-your-own-adventure. Pick your favorite character to get whumped, or watch them all suffer :)

Jason's Version

Tim's Version

Dick's Version

---

She can’t see the ceiling.

Her back aches, her head is throbbing, and she has no idea where she is, but all she’s worried about is the ceiling. Why can’t she see it? It’s not fog (because there’s no fog on the ground). It’s not too dark (because the lights are stabbing her eyes). And there must be a ceiling, because every drip and creak and moan in the room bounces off the walls and against the ceiling. She’s in an echo chamber with an invisible ceiling.

Barbara is already so over this.

Sitting up slowly (because god, she’s too tired to go any faster), Barbara tries to assess her surroundings more effectively. She’s in a damp room connected to a hall with no visible end. Two large, weathered owl statues flank the hall. A cold stone slab is situated under her fingers. Upon closer inspection, she realizes that it’s not just a stone. It’s an altar.

Nothing good has ever come from waking up on an altar.

Barbara swings her legs over the edge and pushes herself off. Her legs aren’t quite ready for the weight, though, and she lands on one knee. She groans, dragging herself up. The lights pulse, and Barbara’s vision wavers.

“Ugh, my head.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to fend off a headache. “What was in that gas? And what… what is this place?” She stumbles forward, so unsteady that she falls into the wall twice before starting down the corridor.

There’s an ominous buzzing in her ear. She doesn’t have much hope, but she tries the comm anyway. “Belfry, do you copy? Belfry?” She sighs. “Nothing.”

Barbara staggers down the hall. She doesn’t know what the gas was, but she does know that distance usually resolves the effects of common forms of knockout gas. Theoretically, she should feel better the longer she’s down here. But that’s cold comfort when gravity is fighting her and she’s seeing in threes.

So she’d argue that she doesn’t deserve it when she walks directly into a trap. A pressure plate depresses under her feet, and she has less than a second to realize her mistake. Spikes shoot out from the walls, impaling her through the stomach, the legs, the throat.

And then Barbara wakes up on the altar. She’s feeling just as disoriented (or maybe more) than she did the first time. She sits up and jumps down, running her hands over phantom wounds. She can still feel the spikes holding her in place. She can feel the metal lodged in her windpipe, choking the air from her lungs.

But her body is untouched. She’s fine.

“O-kay?”

Barbara passes the stoic owl statues again, but she finds something new in the hall behind them. It’s a picture of the hall, taken from the ceiling. A picture of her body, impaled by the spikes.

“What the-?” Barbara has to swallow her nausea. “How did they do that?”

But it really doesn’t matter anymore. Because she is (somehow) still alive and still stuck in this cavern. She hurries ahead, body aching, but takes the corners slowly. She spots the spike trap before she runs into it this time and is careful to crawl underneath it.

“Inside of Gotham’s walls…” a sinister, echoing voice croons. Clear of the spikes, Barbara climbs to her feet, but the speaker is nowhere to be found.

“Rule you one and all…” another voice calls.

There’s an inhuman hiss, like a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth. And then a dark shadow darts across the path and scurries up the wall like a squirrel. Except it’s definitely, definitely not a squirrel.

Barbara’s vision is still fuzzy. Her balance still isn’t great. So a little shadow monster can’t be a major concern. “I’m just seeing things,” she reasons. And she’s right, because reason always wins the day. She’s hallucinating, end of story.

Barbara keeps going, ducking under the next spike trap. She spots something new down the hall. It’s not a shadow like before. It’s quite the opposite, in fact. It’s light.

An exit? Finally, a reprieve from whatever the hell is going on here?

Barbara speeds up, but she’s ultimately disappointed. The light isn’t a way out. It’s another attempt at killing her. Or “killing” her, because apparently death doesn’t stick down here.

But now that Barbara expects the traps, she has a much easier time navigating them. She creeps around pillars, weaving her way past the flame traps and into the next hall.

“Give up,” the voice from above orders. “It would be so much easier.”

Right. Give up and do what? Sit on the floor? Wait until she goes crazy and starves?

No, thanks.

But the voice clearly wasn’t making a suggestion. It wanted her to obey. Because the next thing Barbara knows, she’s knocked onto the floor, her nose and shoulder stinging. She ran directly into a dead end.

“Dammit,” Barbara hisses, carefully standing and wiping the blood from her nose. She turns back. Maybe she missed an alternate path.

The hall winds her back the way she came, but something’s different. Instead of running into the flame trap, she finds herself face-to-face with a brand new obstacle.

The antechamber before her is rigged with five spinning towers, and every tower runs from the (invisible) ceiling to the ground with deadly blades. The ground is littered with decaying fabric and crumbling bones. It seems Barbara is not the first person to be trapped here.

But Barbara has a one-up from all the others before her. She has experience. She had escaped a room just like this one, way back in her early years as Batgirl. Though Bruce didn’t train her, per se, she will admit to training with him. He was always inventing new ways to test his limits, and Barbara was competitive to a fault. (She still is, really.) She couldn’t let him run an obstacle course without trying to beat his time. And today, this works in her favor.

Keeping low (so as not to get her head chopped off), Barbara follows the lower blades, tailing behind them as they guide her out to an exit on the right. It’s yet another hallway, and Barbara runs down it, staying alert for new traps.

“You thought you were so smart.”

This voice isn’t like the ones before.

“You thought you could do anything I could.”

Barbara recognizes this voice.

“But you were just a pathetic, rip-off Batman.”

It’s Bruce.

The room spins a bit more. Lights blur. Barbara presses a fist to her forehead, struggling to keep moving. There’s a room up ahead, but something about it is… not right.

Barbara’s heart is racing in her ears when she finally makes it through the hallway, the pressure on her skull threatening to tear her in half. She carefully reaches out, fingers grazing over a dusty gramophone, flanked by two armchairs. The gramophone plays a warped, upbeat song. It sounds like the death march to hell.

Barbara remembers these chairs. Remembers the out-of-place song, though it sounds gentler - beautiful, really - in her memory.

“Ugh, this is one of those boring songs,” Barbara had whined, flopping over the arm of the chair. “It’s so slow.”

But her father had smiled, eyes shining in bittersweet agony. “This was your mom’s song, Babs.” He rose from the chair, picking her up and spinning in time with the music. “You know, Mom’s dancing with us right now. Every time we hear this song.”

It’s not real. Barbara has to remember that. But it feels real, and that’s enough to make her eyes burn. She has to choose a path - left, she’s going left - just to get away from the song. Its corrupted lyrics still echo down the hall, chasing her until she runs into another figure. This one is less shadowy. More robotic and erratic, but also less cloaked.

It’s her. Disappearing and reappearing, getting closer and closer. And upon further inspection, Barbara realizes that her doppelganger isn’t exactly the same. She’s wearing a smooth white mask. Without the Batgirl costume, she’d be unidentifiable.

It’s not real, though. Barbara has to remember that. She pushes forward, and the copy disappears into a cloud of black smoke. Then she avoids another spike trap, approaching a new chamber, lit in an ominous red glow.

“What is…?”

It’s the Batcomputer, its screens covered in the images of people in the same white mask. The same expressionless mask. The chair in front of the computer spins around, revealing-

“Oh my god!” Barbara sprints to the chair, hands shaking. “Alfred!”

Alfred stares up at her with dead, unseeing eyes, his neck tilted an unhealthy ninety degrees. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.

It’s not real. She knows it’s not real, but-

Barbara can’t help the desperate, “No!”

And then Alfred explodes into ash. He’s not dead. He’s never been dead. If only Barbara truly believed that. Because now she’s not so sure the real Alfred is alive, wherever he is. Maybe this isn’t the hallucination. Maybe everything before the labyrinth has been the falsehood.

“Face it!” It’s Bruce again. “You’ve never really saved anyone. And you never will.”

There’s a stone up ahead. Tall. Foreboding. Grim. It’s a grave, but it’s not just any grave.

It’s her dad’s grave.

“Where were you, Barbara?”

Oh god. That’s not Bruce talking. That’s her-

Barbara pukes.

“I needed my daughter. I needed you. But you were too busy pretending to be Batman. I died alone.”

For a long second, Barbara stays where she is, crouched in the corner of the room. She fights back bile, one hand pressed to her lips, the other hiding her eyes. This is… It’s too much.

She breathes in. Out. Coughs over a sob. Now is not the time.

Shakily, Barbara stands up, glaring at the grave. It’s not real. It’s never been real.

“You were a liability,” Bruce growls from above. “You made my job harder. A stupid, weak little girl, trying to do a man’s job.”

Barbara is tuning him out. She needs to get out of here. Worrying about Bruce’s opinion will only slow her down.

So she rushes ahead. Down hall after hall after hall. She doesn’t slow until she’s smacked with a headache so strong that the world flips upside-down for a moment. Barbara grits her teeth, staggering ahead. Squinting to make out the fuzzy room in the distance.

“Dad’s old office?”

She’s right. There’s his desk. His pipe. His old cup of black coffee. His radio. His… His picture of them. She can’t be older than three, and he’s hugging her like he never wants to let go.

Her heart cracks at the sight.

“Some new kid on the block in Gotham,” a voice says over the radio. “Calls herself Batgirl.” There’s an audible sigh. “Just another pile of paperwork in tights, if you ask me.”

Barbara’s hands go numb. She bites her lip. “That’s… Dad’s voice.” Saying it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Batgirl continues to make more messes than she cleans! Worst ‘hero’ this city’s ever seen!” Dad won’t stop. He keeps ranting about her. Like she’s… Like he knows what a failure she is. Like everything he’s said to her - every kind word and loving encouragement - was a lie.

Maybe this is fake. Maybe it isn’t. That is Dad’s voice, after all. That’s his tone whenever he talks about a frustrating day at work. Maybe… Maybe he’s said this all before.

“Dad…” She can’t help the voice crack. “Did you really think that?”

But he’s not listening.

“Crime is up more than ever. More than I can handle. And suddenly Batgirl’s disappeared! She’s abandoned Gotham!”

Barbara’s lungs seize up, and she coughs on her failures. The moment she heard the words - “Batgirl’s disappeared” - she knew what he was referring to.

The Joker. The gun. The doctors, saying over and over in different words, “Paralyzed, paralyzed, paralyzed.”

And Barbara had still fought for Gotham, but Dad never got to know that, did he?

“I didn’t abandon Gotham!” she tries to tell him. “I was working as Oracle!”

“I wish I could speak to Barbara about all this,” her dad laments. “Where are you when I need you, Babs?”

“Dad, I… I’m right here.”

The radio crackles, switching channels.

“10-15, officer down!”

Barbara’s blood runs cold. She remembers this distress call. She can recite it by heart.

“It’s Gordon! He’s been shot! I need EMS here now, goddamn it!!” Detective Montoya’s voice cracks as she desperately begs for backup. Barbara can hear the tears, and it rips her soul in two.

“Oh my god.” Barbara’s heart is thudding in her ears. She looks around the room, trying to find the quickest escape. How can she get to him? How can she get there before…?

“Dad,” she sobs. “I… I won’t get to him in time! I can’t-!” Her voice is choked off, tears pulling her vocal cords too thin.

Something in the back of Barbara’s mind propels her forward. She must keep moving, must keep moving, must keep moving…

“I… I have to get out of here.” She starts running. She’s not sure where she’s going, but she definitely can’t stay here. Not in his office. Not here.

The halls keep turning. Keep twisting and winding and going. They never stop.

“I hate this!” she bites out, frustrated tears pooling along the edges of her mask. She won’t stop, though. She can’t give up now, because-

There’s a door.

Barbara breaks into a sprint, but the door gets further and further the faster she runs.

“No escape…” a voice chants. “No escape…”

Barbara catches up. Grabs the handle and tries to open the door. But the door is wrenched from her grip, flying down the hall.

“Accept your fate…”

She runs to catch up and desperately rams her shoulder into the door. It gives way on her second attempt, and she spills out of the labyrinth. The door slams shut behind her, and she has to pause to catch her breath. She doesn’t wipe her eyes; the tears have already dried, making her skin feel tight.

Barbara isn’t safe. She knows that. She’s still trapped underground, and she’s not sure she’s even escaped the labyrinth. But the lights are warmer. She can’t hear the voices anymore. Her head feels clearer, even if her soul is scattered across the floor, ripped bloody by regrets of the past.

It’s not a win - not by a long shot - but it’s a start.

Jason's Version

Tim's Version

Dick's Version

#whumptober2024 #no.29 #fatigue #labyrinth #gotham knights game #fic #hallucinations #non con drugging #gun violence #grief #trauma #mild language #barbara gordon #court of owls #cross posted on ao3

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 2 months ago

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The Owl's Test: Jason's Version

Red Hood is trapped in the Court of Owls' not-so-fun house.

A Gotham Knights choose-your-own-adventure. Pick your favorite character to get whumped, or watch them all suffer :)

Barbara's Version

Tim's Version

Dick's Version

---

The entire world is covered in a haze. A persistent buzzing underlies the chamber’s ambiance, and the Earth tips slightly as Jason levers himself up.

God, does he hurt. His neck, his shoulders, his back. He supposes that might have something to do with the granite mattress he’s sitting on. If humans were made with stick straight spines, Jason imagines that this would be the ideal bed. As it is, a bona fide sacrificial altar makes for poor lumbar support.

Jason’s vision is still a bit fuzzy when he pushes himself off the altar, and a momentary head rush makes him lean back on the stone. Every joint in his body aches. Every muscle under his skin throbs. You’d think he’d just gone three days without sleep, but he just woke up from a nap that was long enough for someone to move him from the floor of the Penguin’s office to an altar in what appears to be a massive, underground cavern.

Jason isn’t old - not by a long shot - but this is what he imagines it feels like. Like an old, hungover man at a rock concert.

As he stumbles to his feet, he scans the walls. They rise up to oblivion, so high that Jason can’t see the ceiling. The whole place is covered with a chilly fog, and frost crunches under his boots.

“Well, if you weren’t before,” Jason gripes, “you’re on my shit list now, Cobblepot.” The world spins a bit, and Jason has to hold out his arms to stay upright. “The hell is this place, anyway? And what’s that smell?” He scowls. The mask covers smells pretty well, but there’s a distinct odor leaking past its filter. Like must and rotten meat.

“Belfry, do you read?” Jason calls. “Hood to Belfry.”

Nothing.

“Great,” he mutters. “I’m cut off.”

With no path forward except… well, forward, Jason staggers ahead. His vision is still blurry, the world is still spinning, and to top it all off, his helmet is malfunctioning, the edges of his vision fuzzy with static.

“The hell is wrong with this thing?”

Jason continues on. As time passes, the drug (or whatever the hell the Penguin gassed him with) wears off. His vertigo is abating. It gets easier to see. And it’s a damn good thing too, because he quite nearly charges into an obvious booby trap. The holes in the wall are a dead giveaway for killer spikes, which would have shish-kebabed him in a second. So instead he ducks and crawls past in the space between the floor and the lowest spikes.

“Inside of Gotham’s walls…” a sinister, echoing voice croons. Clear of the spikes, Jason jumps to his feet, but the speaker is nowhere to be found.

“Rule you one and all…” another voice calls.

There’s an inhuman hiss, like a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth. And then a dark shadow darts across the path and scurries up the wall like a squirrel. Except it’s far too big to be a squirrel. Far, far too big.

“What the hell?” Jason tries to keep it together, but he’s drugged up in some underground maze. It’s getting very difficult to stay calm.

Jason turns the corner, just stopping himself in time to avoid being skewered. The spikes slam into the wall, grinding sparks against the cement. Jason takes a deep, shaky breath, crawling under this trap too.

There’s a light up ahead. Jason almost gets excited. The exit must be close. But the thrill instantly sours into disappointment. The light is too warm in color. It must be a candle, not sunlight.

And candle is putting it mildly. The next room is rife with flame traps, just waiting for Jason to step on the pressure plate and get charred to a crisp. He finds a path through, but it requires a significant amount of trial and error. He weaves between pillars, jumping over dangerous tiles until he’s made it to the next corridor.

“Give up,” a voice orders from above. “It would be so much easier.”

And it’s tempting. Because Jason is drained. He was aching to begin with, and now, navigating this endless maze, he can feel fatigue creep up, threatening to overtake him.

But he keeps going, because when people say to give up, it's just further motivation to keep at it. And he keeps at it right until he smacks into a wall.

“Wh-?” It hadn’t been a dead end. Just five seconds ago, it had clearly been a hallway. But now it’s a wall, and Jason just rammed his body into it. “Oh, screw this!” he groans, standing up and turning back.

The next path makes Jason wonder if maybe it would have been better to have just fallen for the first spike trap. Because now he’s staring at a less hidden - but far more elaborate - trap. Saws and rods of spikes rotate from the ceiling to the floor. There’s a way through (there always is), but it will require a dangerous amount of precision.

Fortunately, the Bat trained him enough to know how to survive a simple spinning death trap. All he has to do is stay low, stay alert, and be patient. It’s annoying but effective.

And then Jason is back to running. Running down halls, making sharp turns, hoping and praying that the next corner is his way out.

But then his head gets floaty again. The lights are brighter, the sounds more muffled.

“I tried to teach you what I knew, but you were hopeless.” It’s not the voices from before. It’s angrier. It’s more…

It’s more familiar.

“Why did I ever believe you could be anything more than a disgrace?”

It’s Bruce.

Colors are blurring now, and Jason’s legs slow. It feels like he’s wading through concrete. He stumbles forward to a crossroads, devious laughter ringing in his ears.

Left? Right? Does it matter?

Jason doesn’t know which way he goes. He just keeps moving.

A dark figure - himself? - drops from the ceiling before being yanked back up by the throat. It’s shadowy and vague and obviously not-quite-right, but Jason isn’t sure where it’s coming from.

“That’s messed up,” he comments, immediately turning and heading back to the alternate path. He won’t waste his time on things that may not even be real threats.

But it’s no good. A similar figure appears, and a spike trap lies beyond it. There’s no space to crawl under this one. Jason groans in frustration, turning back again. He’s long since lost track of where he’s been.

Two armchairs and a gramophone are waiting in the next antechamber. The music is distorted, but if Jason concentrates (but damn, is it hard to concentrate), he can place the song. He doesn’t know its name or the artist, but he does know where and when he heard it last.

Bruce’s office. The week Jason was adopted. Bruce was busy, but Jason had felt so isolated and threatened by the giant, ominous manor that he knocked on the door anyway. And Bruce had dropped a record on the gramophone and sat with Jason in the armchairs by the fire. And it was warm and safe and-

Jason keeps going.

“Face it! You can’t save anyone, and you never will.”

Fake Bruce. That’s not the real Bruce. Bruce wouldn’t say that. Bruce can’t say that, because he’s-

“Alfred!” Jason is running before he realizes what’s happening, darting up to the figure slumped in the Batcomputer’s command chair. Alfred's neck is tilted at a ninety degree angle. The monitors behind him glow bright red, with smooth, faceless figures staring out at him.

“No,” Jason says, trying to calm his racing heart. He’s dealt with enough flashbacks - with enough trauma - to know how to assess reality. He fills his lungs. Wiggles his toes. Thinks back through his actions. How nothing really has made sense since Cobblepot’s betrayal. And then Jason makes up his mind. “No. This can’t be real.”

Alfred explodes into ash and drifts to the ground. It only confirms Jason’s conclusion.

Fatigue is creeping up his spine now, invading his every cell. But even still, he marches forward. He turns corridor after corridor before the shadowy figure returns. But this time, it’s close enough to identify.

The shadowy figure is holding a gun to its head. The shadowy figure is him.

Something disturbingly familiar ripples through Jason’s muscles. Sweat breaks out across his forehead. He knows it’s fake. He knows it’s not real, but… “Goddamn, it,” he hisses. It feels real enough.

The figure disappears in a cloud of smoke, and Bruce speaks again.

“I should never have recruited you!”

And then the world turns green. Jason feels like his head is being crushed. He slows, heart in his throat. He recognizes the sight before him.

“Oh, god,” he breathes. “Not a Lazarus Pit. Not again.”

The crowbar is solid in his hands. Heavier than it should be, but it feels right.

“You were the worst Robin.” Bruce’s loathsome baritone is mocking and cruel. It only makes Jason’s swing more satisfying.

Green drips from his hair. Rolls down his face.

“On your best day, you were nothing but a killer.”

Thump. Thwack. Thud.

The crowbar cuts across Batman’s cowl. Cracks a hole in his skull. Shatters his ribs. Punctures his lungs. Batman collapses, and Jason.

Keeps.

Going.

THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD-

“Kill… kill… kill…”

Jason drags Batman up, just to hit his limp form again. Into the neck. Across the face. Between the shoulder blades.

“We are the same…”

“NO!” Jason drops the crowbar. It clatters cheerfully on the stone floor. Batman falls in an ungainly heap beside it.

Jason presses his palms to his eyes. “That’s not who I am!” he tells the voices. “Not anymore!”

Batman disappears in smoke. The Lazarus green fades, and the crowbar melts into the ground.

Jason starts running.

“No escape…”

There’s a door ahead. He can see the door ahead. But it just gets further and further the faster he runs.

“No escape…”

Jason catches up. Grabs the handle and tries to open the door. But the door is wrenched from his grip, flying down the hall.

“Accept your fate…”

Jason has to sprint to catch up. He doesn’t waste time pushing open the door. Frantically, desperately, he rams his shoulder once, twice into the door. It gives way, and he spills out of the labyrinth. The door slams shut behind him.

“Is it over? Am I out?”

The comm still fizzles in his ear, and he’s still inside an underground lair. His vision is clearer though. The world isn’t spinning. The lights are warmer, and the room is less confined.

Jason isn’t safe. Not yet. But he’s out. He doesn’t hear the voices anymore. Shadows don’t warp into the past. And Jason considers that a win.

Barbara's Version

Tim's Version

Dick's Version

#whumptober2024 #no.29 #fatigue #labyrinth #gotham knights game #fic #hallucinations #non con drugging #gun violence #trauma #mild language #jason todd #court of owls #angst #lazarus pit #cross posted on ao3

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 2 months ago

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Sleepless Days, Endless Nights

Alise can't sleep. Not with the world on her shoulders.

Good thing Lucas is there to lighten the load.

For my favorite beta and friend forever, @wide-awakeprincessfan Love you!

---

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“... are you sure?”

“No.”

“‘No,’ like you’re not sure if something is wrong, or ‘no,’ like there’s nothing wrong?”

“The second one.”

Lucas is quiet for a moment, still following behind like a lost puppy. “Something’s wrong,” he decides.

“If you say so.”

“Alise!” A warm hand wraps around Alise’s wrist, holding her back, and she freezes. But she looks ahead stubbornly, refusing to waste effort on this.

“What?” she asks, voice chilly.

The hand releases her arm. “Sorry, I just… I’m worried. What’s wrong?”

This is going to be a conversation, isn’t it?

“I’m fine,” Alise promises, spinning to face Lucas. “I swear, I’m fine.”

Lucas chews his lip, folding his arms. “Are…? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to nag, but… ‘Lise, you’re running yourself ragged. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

And Alise sighs, because she can’t deny the sad eyes or the scared voice. She takes Lucas’s hands in hers. “I’m…” She shakes her head. “No. I’m not. Or… I don’t think I am.”

Gently, Lucas guides her over to a bench. “Can we sit?” And then, when she hesitates- “Please, let’s just sit, okay? Just for a minute.”

Begrudgingly, Alise sits down with him. Lucas takes a moment, watching her with such genuine concern that she almost feels guilty. Then he pushes the hair from her eyes and runs the back of his hand down her cheek.

“It’s been three days,” Lucas says, tone softer, voice hushed. “You haven’t slept. You’ve barely eaten. I don’t think you’ve stopped since your parents left for Nolia.”

“It’s far,” Alise says. “I’m just worried about them.”

Lucas smiles weakly. “No. If that were true, you wouldn’t be falling asleep sitting up.”

Alise has to kick her feet, trying to snap herself awake. She’s drifting, and she can’t afford it right now.

“That’s all. I swear.”

Alise wishes Lucas would stop smiling. He can read her so well. He almost reads her better than she can read herself. And he’s so smug about it too. It’d be infuriating if he wasn’t so dang sweet.

“‘Lise, I know this is a lot of pressure.” Lucas squeezes her hand reassuringly. “Running a whole kingdom? That’s… You know I don’t get the royal stuff. I don’t know how any of this works. You’re so… You’re so smart, just to understand what the job is, much less do it.”

“Smart is not the word I’d use.” She feels so very not smart right now.

But Lucas looks at her like she hung the moon and dusted each star with light. “No. But it’s the word I’d use.”

Alise laughs bitterly. “Doesn’t feel that way. I… I feel like everything I do - every choice I make - is the wrong one. Someone always hates the outcome. I just… I need to do this right. I need to do this like my parents do. Why do they…? How do they make it look so easy?”

“Hey.” Lucas puts a cautious arm around her. “You’re only one person. No matter what you do, someone is always going to be upset. The important thing is that you do what’s best for everyone.”

“How do I know? How do I know what’s best? I’ve studied all this, but it’s so different when I’m actually doing things. When my choices matter.”

Lucas squeezes her shoulder, drawing her closer. “That’s what Rogers is for, right?” A soft laugh shakes his shoulders. “Really, Alise. Your parents will be proud when they see how well you’ve done. But they’ll be gone for a month. You can’t go a month without sleep.”

“You lack ambition,” Alise argues teasingly. “I will sleep when my parents are back.”

But she’s already slipping. She can feel fatigue pull at her limbs and eyelids. Her head drifts to Lucas’s shoulder, and she melts into his side.

“Lucas?”

“Hm?”

Alise sighs. “I… I think I’ll get that sleep now.”

Lucas smiles. “Best choice you made all day.”

But she doesn’t hear him. She’s already dead to the world.

#whumptober2024 #no.28 #denial #swan princess #fic #alise #lucas (swan princess)#fluff #cross posted on ao3

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 2 months ago

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What Have They Done?

Tim expected to find a serial killer. No one told him anything about superhuman strength.

---

They don't have a name for him. Not officially, anyway. He’s been sneaking around Gotham, killing people left and right. He's careful but brazen, leaving behind no fingerprints but always pinning the victim to the wall with steel knives and leaving a bloody message beside them:

BEWARE THE COURT OF OWLS.

So at this point, they call him the Owl Fanatic. Birdbrain, sometimes. Damian once referred to the killer as “MP.” (“It's short for Member of Parliament, Drake,” Damian had explained, rolling his eyes. “Groups of owls are called parliaments, so a member of the Court of Owls would be an MP.”) This did not catch on.

But regardless of what they call him, he's strong, dangerous, and smart. It's a bad combo for a criminal, especially when there's yet to be a surviving witness.

So when Tim is cornered by a guy with eerie round goggles and knives strapped down his chest and up his back? When the guy says in a dead monotone, “Timothy Drake, the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die,” and charges at him?

Tim is pretty sure he's going to die.

Throwing a smoke bomb, Tim grapples up to a bell tower and engages his comm. “Red Robin to Cave. Requesting immediate backup to Gotham Cathedral.”

Oracle is in his ear immediately. “Cave reads you, RR. Batman and Robin are on their way. What's your 9-2?”

“Owl Guy is at it again. And he knows my name.”

“... your real name?”

“Affirmative.” Tim dodges a knife, and it just barely misses his ear.

“Hood’s in the area. I’ll send him too. Standby.”

Tim tries his best to stand by. It gets tricky when the owl man gives up on ranged attacks and goes in with a ferocity to rival a starved tiger in a petting zoo. With a blade in each hand, he delivers a flurry of attacks, going for Tim’s head, his chest, his hands. Tim keeps up, blocking each attack with his staff, but only barely.

“ETA?”

“Five on Hood. Ten on B&R.”

Tim jumps back but earns himself a graze across the cheek. “Any chance there's someone closer? Spoiler or Batgirl or- I know Signal is a morning guy but-” He's cut off by the owl man’s vicious overhead swing. He has to brace the staff with both hands, feeling his shoes slide back from the force.

“Spoiler and Batgirl are still covering Blüdhaven.”

Right.

“Signal’s at the Cave. It’d take even longer for him to get there.”

Tim doesn't have time to be disappointed. He's too busy trying to keep his head attached to his shoulders. He's blocking and dodging so much that there's no chance to even get a hit in, much less hurt the guy.

“Is this a Justice League-level threat?”

“No.” The answer is automatic, though Tim wishes he could say yes. This guy isn't slowing down for anything. Without backup, Tim may lose this one. “Just tell everyone to hurry up.”

“Copy.”

Tim ducks a sword slash, sweeping his staff out in the same motion. But rather than fall, Owl Dude backflips away.

And that's when Tim is overtaken by the sense that something is not right. The owl person’s fighting stance. His lighter-than-air defensive strategy. The build, the height, the fighting style. It's all familiar. (Impossible, but familiar.)

“Who are you?” Tim demands, landing a blow to Owl Guy’s stomach but instantly retreating before a sword cuts him down the middle.

“Timothy Drake,” he says, which definitely isn't true. “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.” And then he's back at it, kicking and swinging and fighting with the strength and speed of a metahuman. Tim considers that this may actually be a metahuman, but he doesn't have long to think about it before a blade catches his thigh, carving a deep wound across the front.

Tim stumbles. He tries to fight through it, but the best he can do is defend. The best he can do is survive. At the beginning of the fight, at his best, Tim couldn't do much more, so now, with a heavily bleeding leg, Tim is feeling particularly helpless.

The owl man knows this. He raises the blade over his head for the killing blow.

And then a bullet tears through Owl Guy’s skull. He pauses, then topples to the ground.

“You good, man?” Jason crouches beside Tim, eyeing his bleeding leg warily. “I keep telling you guys to carry guns, but nooo. No one listens to me.”

“Who… Who was that guy?” Tim scooches over to the dead man and pulls off his goggles and hood.

“No,” Jason murmurs.

Tim swallows back bile, shaky fingers hesitating over the face. Over the familiar cheekbones and distinct nose. Over the undeniable lips and angled jawline.

Tim is staring at the corpse of his missing brother.

The first, immediate difference, however, is his eyes. They look similar, sure. The patterns of his irises remain the same. But what was once blue is now a deep yellow. Almost amber-like.

His complexion is different too. The warmth is gone, leaving behind a chalky pallor. Like he’d been dead for weeks.

“Fuck,” Jason mutters over and over. “Fuck, I… Shit. I didn't know it was… I didn't mean to… Fuck.”

“What happened to him?”

“I shot him in the head,” Jason says, voice tight. “That's what happened to him.”

And then Tim realizes that Jason hasn't looked at Dick since Tim pulled the mask off. He saw the face and had to look away.

“No,” Tim insists, batting Jason’s leg with his free hand. “Look. Dick doesn't look… There was something wrong with him before you… before he died.”

Begrudgingly, Jason crouches down, tilting Dick’s head with a frozen reverence, searching for abnormalities. “He's cold already. And what’s…” He scowls, pushing Dick’s hair aside to find the bullet entry wound. It’s rough. Circular. Almost normal-looking.

Almost. Because the dark red welling in the hole isn’t dark red at all. It’s black.

A brief check of the other side of Dick’s head confirms this. The exit wound is oozing black goop.

“What could turn someone’s blood black?”

Tim has no answer. He just holds out a hand. “Look, just help me up, okay? He got me pretty good, and we need to figure out how to tell Bruce.”

Jason nods. “Yeah. Okay.” He starts to stand when a knife embeds itself in his shoulder. “Wh-?”

Tim isn’t sure if the head rush is from blood loss or emotional turmoil.

“Timothy Drake. Jason Todd. The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.” Without the hood in the way, Dick’s voice is obviously his. But as he staggers to his feet, Tim has to wonder what kind of monster this thing is. What kind of creature can take on Dick’s appearance and survive a bullet through the brain?

There’s no time to ask questions, of course. Dick grabs his swords and slashes at Tim. Adrenaline thrumming, Tim jumps to his feet and limps back, just missing the blade. Jason recovers much quicker, emptying a clip in Dick’s chest.

Dick doesn’t even flinch. He flips over Jason’s head and cuts across Jason’s back. He knocks Jason down with one boot to the knee and lets Jason slam into the rooftop.

“Hood!” But Hood doesn’t stand up. Dick turns, yellow eyes flashing, and stalks towards Tim. He knows Tim is injured. He’s taking his time. Playing with his food.

“Shit. Oracle. Cave. Do you read??”

There’s a hissing, so loud that Tim doesn’t hear what Barbara says over the comms. And it doesn’t matter what she says, really, because Dick has fallen to his knees, hands clawing desperately at his chest. Then the strength leaves his eyes, and he lands solidly on his shoulder.

The hissing doesn’t stop, freezing air continuously directed at Dick. It’s Bruce, finally arriving with what looks like a cold gun in his hands. He passes the gun off to Damian and approaches Tim.

“Keep pressure on your leg. Get to the Batmobile.”

And then he’s gone, shaking Jason’s shoulder.

Tim gives Dick one last glance before grappling down to the car.

---

Bruce might have expected this. He should have expected this.

… well, he expected half of it, anyway. He correctly identified the killer as a Talon of the Court of Owls. He properly incapacitated the Talon.

But he never expected it to be Dick.

The clues were there. Dick going missing, no trace left behind. Dick’s family history with the Court of Owls. The murderer being intimately familiar with Batman’s patrol route and everyday operations.

Maybe Bruce really didn't expect it. Or maybe he just didn't want it to be true.

But here's the proof, right in front of him. Dick Grayson in a containment chamber, the air hazy with frost. He's slumped against the wall, watching Bruce with half-lidded eyes.

(Eyes once so bright and hopeful and determined. Now warped into the sickly yellow of a predator.)

Bruce holds the button of the intercom. “Who are you?” Because Bruce must exhaust all possibilities. (Because Bruce really doesn't want this to be true.)

Dick’s expression is unchanged - drained and confused. “B-B-Br-Bruce W-Wayne…” he stutters. “Th-The C-Court has… The Court h-has…” He doesn't finish the thought, the cold slowing him so severely that he's barely aware of anything.

“Who are you?” Bruce presses.

“Talon.”

“What is wrong with him?”

Bruce sighs, looking over at his youngest. “Damian, go help Alfred.”

“Alfred is finished. Drake and Todd are recuperating. I’m here to help Grayson.”

Bruce snaps. “You can't-!” And then he cuts himself off, trying to keep calm. “You can't help him,” he says quietly.

As expected, Damian takes this poorly. “There's always a way,” he bites. “What did they do to him, Father? Why is he…?” He waves a hand at the containment unit.

“You're familiar with the Court of Owls?”

A scoff. “Of course. You taught me about them.”

“And you know about their champion soldiers? Their assassins?”

“The Talons.”

“Right.”

Bruce doesn't elaborate. Damian puts the pieces together but is, understandably, baffled.

“So Grayson is a Talon? That's what you're saying?” He sniffs. “Talons aren't human. Grayson is.”

He’s sporting a fair bit of denial there, considering Dick is currently trapped in a small box pumped full of liquid nitrogen and has yet to choke and die, but Bruce tries to give him grace. “I didn't say they aren't human. I said they're inhuman.”

“Same difference,” Damian snaps. “Grayson isn't a Talon.”

“We ran tests, Damian.” Bruce kneels so he's at eye level with the boy, but Damian looks away. “DNA from the skin cells are a perfect match, but his blood… It's not blood, Damian. It's electrum.”

Damian won’t look at him, arms folded.

“The Court of Owls has been reanimating the dead with electrum for centuries. Dick… We need to do more testing, but… odds are good that Dick died a while ago. The Court killed him or found him dead. Either way, they swapped his blood with electrum. He's not… He's not himself anymore.”

This time, when Damian speaks, it's tense. The words barely squeak out of his mouth. “So he's gone. And he's not coming back.”

“Not the way he was. We might…” He shakes his head. He’ll discuss this with the others later. This is not a conversation to have with a child.

Bruce stands, staring at the sunken figure in the containment unit. “Let me know when Jason and Tim are awake. We need to talk.”

---

“You gave me a concussion, you know.”

“J-J-Ja-s-son T-”

“I mean, I shot you in the head, so I guess I’ll give you a pass. Just this once.”

“The… The C-Cour-”

It's hour forty-two since they found Dick. Not much has changed.

“Bruce said you're stuck like this. Physiologically, you're… He said there's no coming back from it.”

And silently, Jason hates the Court all the more. How dare they. How dare they take his brother and-”

“I know you want to kill us,” Jason continues. “Which is new for you, but I get it, I guess.” He sighs. The cold of the containment unit's glass makes his back numb, but Jason stays where he is. It's the closest he can get to Dick without inciting violence. “Bruce thinks we might be able to undo the psychological effects. Remind you who you are. He's probably being optimistic for Damian’s sake, but…”

“J-Jason.”

Jason waits for the “Todd, the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die,” but it doesn't come.

“We’ll keep trying,” Jason swears. “We’ll get you back. I promise.” He turns around, trying to judge Dick’s expression.

Dick is staring at him. Maybe he's been staring this whole time. “J-J-Jas-Jason.” He doesn't try to say the rest.

“I know,” Jason says sullenly. “I know. Just hang in there.”

#whumptober2024 #no.27 alt #no holds barred beatdown #batfamily #fic #strong language #blood #gun violence #talon dick grayson #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #bruce wayne #damian wayne

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 2 months ago

Text

Coffee of Unspecified Size for Peter Parker

******SPIDER-MAN: NO WAY HOME SPOILERS AHEAD*******

Michelle doesn’t know the guy who comes to the donut shop every day with a sad puppy expression and crumpled dollar bills. Well, she does know him. He’s the guy who comes to the donut shop every day with a sad puppy expression and crumpled dollar bills. But today, he might be a little bit more than that.

Post-No Way Home

---

MJ scanned the tray of glazed donuts, searching for the best looking of the bunch. Glazed was Ned's favorite, but the morning crew was also notorious for botching the glazed donuts. MJ wasn't sure how one of the simplest donuts got ruined so frequently, but her coworkers always found a way. Last week, they'd been fried until they resembled (and tasted like) spare tires. Last Tuesday, the glaze had melted off and solidified onto the wax paper. And yesterday, MJ had found a tooth (a real, human tooth) among the donuts. She didn't even want to know how that got there. All she knew was that she had to be extra careful when grabbing Ned's breakfast.

The donut in the uppermost corner of the tray seemed safest. The color was right, the glaze was intact, and MJ couldn't see any teeth upon closer inspection. She plated it and slid it across the counter to her best friend.

"No teeth today," she announced triumphantly, but it only made Ned shudder.

"Don't even joke about that," he scolded, spinning the plate slowly so he could inspect the donut from all sides.

MJ shrugged. "Yeah, whatev-" She cut herself off suddenly. Call it what you will - hypervigilance, paranoia, reasonable concern - but MJ thought she had a sixth sense for knowing when she was being watched.

And if there was one thing Michelle Jones-not-Watson didn't like, it was people watching her.

MJ scrunched her eyes shut and pressed her lips together in frustration, because she was almost certain of who was staring at her. She dared a peek, and sure enough, there was Peter Parker, standing at the register once again, brown eyes boring into the back of her skull. He immediately looked down as he saw her turn towards him.

Ned raised an eyebrow before following her gaze and sighing. "Him again?" he whispered.

MJ rolled her eyes, returning Peter Parker's awkward wave with a halfhearted flick of the wrist. "Are you really surprised at this point?" she muttered under her breath.

Ned just shook his head. "Do you… want me to tell him to back off? Or something?"

MJ appreciated the offer. She really did. But Ned was about as intimidating as a day-old puppy. They both knew MJ was more than capable of taking care of herself, but it was nice that he offered, even if the offer was the result of centuries of patriarchal influence.

"I got it."

On the clock, MJ had no choice but to walk over to the register and address Peter. "What can I get you?"

Peter stared at her. He was practically gaping, and honestly, MJ felt a bit embarrassed for him. Clearly, the guy was severely lacking in social skills.

After too long of a pause (as usual), Peter ordered a coffee (also per the norm). His voice cracked on the first word (as it always did), and he failed to indicate the size or roast of the coffee (just as she had come to expect).

MJ didn't mind that part so much. She knew she was technically supposed to ask about those sorts of details, but she honestly didn't want to go through the hassle. Particularly with Peter, MJ had begun to experiment. Some days she'd give him a small cup of the house blend. Other days, she'd opt for an extra-large blonde roast. But no matter what size or brew she gave him, Peter didn't seem to notice.

Or care, at the very least.

He'd always pay without question, even if she charged him for extra things like whipped cream or caramel syrup. It didn't seem to make a difference to him. He was just glad to pay.

And for someone with a jacket too thin for a New York winter, it seemed odd that Peter didn't mind paying extra.

But that didn't really matter. Who was Peter Parker anyway? The sad dude who would sit by himself and flip through GED practice books? The loner who always introduced himself with his first and last name?

It didn't matter. MJ didn't really care. He was just another customer.

She poured him a medium roast and secured the lid on the cup.

"$2.40," she announced simply, handing Peter the drink.

As always, he tried to strike up a conversation as he fumbled in his pockets for spare change. Today it was about the Rockefeller Christmas tree.

"- seems bigger than last year. Which, I dunno, seems impossible, but I can't shake the feeling, you know?"

MJ didn't know. Not really. But the poor guy seemed like a good guy, even if he was more than a bit awkward. She figured she'd humor him at the very least.

"Yeah," she agreed. "At least a few feet taller."

Peter nodded emphatically. "Yeah… yeah! My landlord thinks I'm losing it, but I'm certain it's bigger."

The odd detail made MJ pause.

He's discussed this with his landlord? Doesn't he have any friends? she wondered.

But the question answered itself. Peter Parker was so odd - from the way he carried himself to the strange things he'd mention offhand - that there were likely very few people who enjoyed his company. It was a rude thing to say, but that's why she didn't say it. She only thought it, and that wasn't nearly as mean, even if she did feel a bit guilty for the thought.

Change clattering in the tip jar shook MJ from her thoughts. Peter was holding out a few wrinkled bills, patiently waiting for her to take them.

MJ offered an apologetic half-smile, accepting the money and beginning to count out his change.

"Something on your mind?" Peter asked, and the question threw MJ for a loop. He was usually so stilted and tentative in his delivery, but this time, he spoke with such genuine concern that she thought Ned had asked her from down the counter.

But he had not. He was swiping through his phone, eyes trained on the screen.

MJ glanced up at Peter, who was still looking at her, eyes warm with compassion.

“For me, MJ, please just take this.”

The voice was pleading. MJ would have looked for the source of the voice if she didn’t already recognize it. If she didn’t know that it wasn’t real. It was all in her head.

The voice from her nightmares.

MJ’s heart missed a beat, and she quickly dropped Peter's change in his hand.

"Nope!" she assured him, breaking eye contact and hurrying away. "This mind is completely empty. No thoughts. Have a good day, Peter."

Rather than sweep the floor or clean off the tables or any number of tasks that she was supposed to do, MJ went straight to the walk-in freezer. The hair on her arms rose immediately, struggling to fight off the chill, but she didn't care. It was the best place to get away.

And she needed to get away. Her eyes were watering now, little tears leaking down her face. She swiped at them with her sleeve and sat on an overturned milk crate.

MJ didn't know what was wrong. She didn't know why her heart was pounding or why her nose was running. All she knew was that it was weird and oddly vulnerable of her. She didn't cry in public. Especially not over something as silly as… nothing.

She was crying over nothing, and it was weird.

MJ closed her eyes, trying to ignore how bad the frigid air made her chest hurt. Her thoughts were swirling, and she needed to either sort them out or tamp them down.

"Something on your mind?" he had asked. His concern was raw and genuine, like if she was upset in the slightest, he'd move Heaven and Earth to make it better.

But she wasn't upset.

… or she hadn't been until he asked.

"I've only had one week where my life felt normal. That was when you found out."

MJ couldn't place the voice, couldn't place the words in her head. The context was missing, and the origin was muddied. She didn't know where the words came from. Before now, she'd only heard those words in nightmares.

Nightmares, not because the dreams were scary, but because she always woke up from them feeling uneasy and a bit nauseous.

And now she was hearing them during the day.

Brilliant, Michelle, she scolded herself. You're losing it.

"I've been trying to find your friend since I got here. He needs my help."

This voice was different. Brighter and a bit smoother. But it was still coming straight from MJ's head. She knew it wasn't real, but she could almost swear she was hearing it with her ears, not her mind.

She pressed her palms to her forehead, slowing her breathing. Whatever was going on, there was an explanation for it. She was simply remembering old dreams. Dreams that were probably borne from falling asleep with the TV on. Of unfamiliar actors speaking their lines directly into her nightmares.

… yeah. That was it.

MJ wiped at the last remnants of her tears before rising to her feet and returning to her job. She was okay. There was no other option.

---

Peter felt bad. He really did. He was going at this all wrong, and he knew it.

"Something on your mind?" Peter replayed the moment in his head bitterly, watching MJ's face fall as she shoved the change into his hand and rushed off.

It made Peter want to pull his hair out. Why was he so stupid?? He knew he shouldn't even be here. He should be as far away from MJ and Ned as possible. He shouldn't be pulling them back into the messy, dangerous world of Spider-Man. Even if he kept quiet about his identity, even if he never really sought out his friends, he was still putting them in danger.

Spider-Man - Peter - was a curse, and MJ and Ned had already suffered from that curse once before. He couldn't endanger them again. He ruined everything he touched. Everyone he loved died. He couldn't, couldn't, couldn't put them through that again. Not ever.

So why was he here?? Why did he come to the donut shop every day??

To make sure his friends were okay? To see if maybe they still sort of remembered him? To get a cup of lackluster coffee?

Peter dropped his head to the table, hands braced behind his neck. He needed to get a grip. He was never going to get his old life back, and he needed to accept that.

"Peter? Peter Parker?"

The teen sat up only to see Ned Leeds (his best friend… sorta) sliding into the opposite side of his booth. He felt pangs of fear and elation strike him in the chest. Peter tried to speak, but his breath caught in his throat. Ned had never approached him before. In fact, neither of his friends had ever initiated contact before. It was always Peter on the outside, begging for them to remember. To let him in.

"What did you say to her?"

Peter blinked, trying to process the accusation in Ned's tone. "I… I just asked her how she was doing."

His best friend (former best friend, Peter, your former best friend) didn't look convinced.

"Look, I don't know what your deal is, but you gotta leave her alone. She isn't interested."

Again, Peter was struck dumb, unable to find the appropriate words. Apparently, he was giving off major creeper vibes, and that hadn't been his intention. Not in the slightest.

"I… I'm sorry, I…" he fumbled.

"Yeah," Ned agreed, something akin to surprise lighting his face. Like he was amazed that he'd scared Peter to speechlessness. But Ned quickly composed himself, clearing his throat. "Um, yeah. You better be. Leave her alone."

Peter shook his head. "I never meant to…" How could he explain it? He barely understood it himself!

"...I just… don't have a lot of friends," he tried. "I didn't mean to freak anyone out. I just… I'm just trying to survive, man."

Peter hadn't meant to sound so desperate. Or pathetic. But that was how it came out. Desperate and pathetic. Just a desperate, pathetic guy who was desperately, pathetically (and accidentally) hitting on a donut shop employee in his desperate, pathetic search for friendship.

Old friendship, but Peter couldn't say that. Not without endangering them again. In fact, this conversation was borderline dangerous. And all because Peter was too selfish to stay away.

"I'm sorry," Ned apologized, expression softening. "I hope you find some friends."

The words were sympathetic, but they stung like knives.

Sorry you're a loser, Peter, but I can't help you.

Peter knew that Ned wasn't trying to be rude. How could he possibly know that he was? For all he knew, he was talking to a stranger who started hitting on his friend. Honestly, from Ned's perspective, Ned was acting more than fairly. He was being generous.

But it didn't make his words hurt any less.

"Yeah," Peter agreed, taking a sip of his coffee to hide the watering of his eyes. "Thanks."

Ned rose from the booth and hesitated, like he was going to say something else. But then, instead, he offered a brief wave in dismissal and returned to his seat at the counter. Peter watched him go, barely able to look away.

But Ned was right. It was getting creepy.

Peter forced himself to look down at his hands instead.

There had to be something he could do. And if he was going to do it, he had to do it soon. In less than a year, MJ and Ned would be off to MIT, leaving Peter back in New York.

Completely alone.

Maybe that was why he came to the coffee shop so often. MJ and Ned really were the last of his family. Aunt May, Uncle Ben, Tony - they were gone. No parents to speak of. No guardian of any kind. Just him and a couple of best friends who didn’t realize they were his best friends. And also they hated him and had zero interest in talking to him.

What a trade-off. Peter wondered if maybe he’d been better off just… just never asking for the spell in the first place.

He took another sip of coffee, letting it burn his throat the whole way down. He’d made mistakes before, but never like this. Never on this level.

If only… If only Peter had forgotten himself too. Maybe… maybe he could deal with that. At least then he wouldn’t miss his friends so much. At least then no one would be left to mourn the loss of Peter Parker.

#whumptober2024 #no.26 #nightmares #breakfast table #“I'm haunted by the lies that I have loved. the actions I have hated." (Poe - Haunted)#spider man no way home #fic #spoilers #angst #hurt no comfort #peter parker #michelle jones #ned leeds #cross posted on ao3

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 2 months ago

Text

Not Completely Alone

****SPIDER-MAN: FAR FROM HOME SPOILERS AHEAD****

Peter gets hit by a high-speed train. You know, the things that move at an excess of one hundred miles - oh, actually, he's in Europe, so it would be kilometers here, wouldn’t it? - per hour. The things that are supposed to kill you when they ram into your side.

Yeah. He got hit by one of those. But he's fine.

Missing scene from Spider-Man: Far From Home

---

Peter didn’t feel it when the train hit him.

He felt it seven seconds later when consciousness returned, and even then, he was more concerned about getting off the front of a train, holy shit than the burning of his chest or the marching band playing in his skull.

Getting off the train without dying was tricky. Peter was sticky, sure, but blood was still slippery, and the double-vision made him miss footholds as he crept along the side of the engine. More than once, Peter had to pause, clinging tightly to the train as he waited for the world to stop spinning.

He didn’t question it. The train. Peter wasn’t sure exactly what just happened. Survival took precedence in his mind. He didn’t even question the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Didn’t question the blood in his mouth or the tunnel walls zipping past him.

Or was he zipping past the walls?

Semantics were a moot point, unfortunately.

Eventually (too long, way too long), Peter managed his way to a train car with a door. He didn’t bother gently tugging it open like he did with his bedroom door, rather allowing his freaky strength to break the lock, nearly taking off the door altogether.

As Peter’s feet hit solid ground, all the adrenaline drained from him, and suddenly, he was uncomfortably aware of every cut and bruise on his skin. His knees buckled from under him, and it took everything in the hero’s power to keep from collapsing right there on the carpet. And even hanging onto the handy safety bar on the wall, Peter could tell something was seriously wrong with his right leg. Something had to be broken or dislocated. It was a battle just to walk.

One more step, he silently pleaded with his feet. One more step.

That was a lie, of course. It took Peter approximately eighteen “one more step”s to find a passenger car and then another four to drop into a seat.

As he allowed gravity to drag him down, the teen pulled the mask from his head, identity be damned. Something - be it spit, blood, or puke - had drenched the inside of his mask, the wool (or whatever the thing was made of) absorbing everything it came in contact with. The resulting effect made Peter feel like he was drowning.

Definitely not cool.

However, taking off the mask didn’t do much for Peter. His chest was still on fire, ribs shattered from the train’s initial impact. His lungs weren’t doing so hot either. Peter felt agonizing coughs rip from his throat as he desperately tried to get in a decent breath.

Everything just… hurt.

The hero had been in a scrape or two. He’d gotten crushed by a building, thrown into a lake, nearly pulled apart trying to keep a boat afloat - generally painful stuff all-around. But this was different from all the other hurts.

Because this time, it was all his fault. From start to finish. He’d given Beck the glasses. He’d told Beck about his friends knowing his secret identity. He’d done this to himself.

And to make it worse…

To make it worse…

Peter’s vision was darkening, the wheezy half-breaths not enough to keep his brain from shorting out.

His consciousness slipped away as his brain provided one last thought:

To make it worse, this time, there’s no Iron Man to bail me out.

---

It was late in Officer Johan de Groot’s shift when found the boy with the mask.

The call had been normal enough. The dispatcher had mentioned a straggler on the C train. Nothing particularly surprising - the homeless often took up residence in empty train cars. Johan never cared for kicking the less fortunate out of the only shelter they could find, but it was part of the job, so within ten minutes, he was at the trainyard.

The yard supervisor met Johan at the gate, quickly leading the officer to the interior of a nondescript passenger car.

“Found him on my last check,” the supervisor explained, “but he won’t leave.”

Johan approached the man. (Kid? He looked young enough to be a kid.) “You can’t be here,” he warned.

The kid frowned, slumped in his seat. He mouthed something but didn’t attempt to explain himself or obey.

Johan noticed the blood on the boy’s cheek and the way his eyelids drooped. “What’s your name?”

The boy forced his eyes open, struggling to straighten up. “‘m Peter.” His voice was low but distinctly American. It struck the officer as… strange, to say the least. Their homeless population didn’t include many North Americans.

“Peter,” Johan said. “What are you doing here?”

“Not going to leave,” Peter mumbled, words almost cement with their rigidity. “Not going to leave you.”

“Think we should take him to the hospital?” the supervisor suggested.

Officer de Groot considered it. The young man wasn’t making the most sense, but he seemed to be okay for the most part. His chest was rising, and his pulse was still intact. At the very least, he was alive. Drunk off his ass, most likely, but alive nonetheless.

“No,” Johan decided. “He looks okay to me.”

Plus, he really didn’t want to get an ambulance involved. Not since he got in that fight with the paramedic, Laurens. The man was a jerk, and, quite honestly, would end up making Johan take the perpetrator in the squad anyway.

“Peter, you need to leave the car, or I’ll have to arrest you for trespassing.” He kept his tone light and conversational. Like the officer was doing Peter a favor by not arresting him immediately. (And he was, in a way, but it was unlikely that Peter saw it that way.)

“Don’t touch me,” Peter hissed, eyes not quite seeing. Expression not quite there.

The officer noticed an odd black mask on the seat beside Peter. He stuffed it in his pocket before reaching for one of the boy’s arms. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll arrest you.” The kindness fled his voice.

But before Officer de Groot could touch Peter’s arm, the kid’s hand shot out, crushing Johan’s wrist.

The officer yelped frantically, feeling bones pop and snap. The trainyard supervisor rushed to help as the two struggled against the boy’s inhuman grip. But it was impossible. His fingers were like a vice. Desperate, Officer de Groot shouted for the supervisor to step back before using his free hand to activate his taser.

The boy’s muscles spasmed, and he let go, dropping to the ground.

“Yeah,” Johan breathed, holding his injured arm protectively. “You’re definitely under arrest.”

---

He was falling. That was the first thing Peter’s body registered - the first thing it chose to be aware of - and reflexes kicked in. He woke up groggy and not-quite-there. The room was bare, awash in warm light, and blurry through his sleep-heavy eyes. Peter blinked, struggling to recognize where he was. Recognize what was going on.

Noticing the orange in his peripheral, Peter looked to his left.

“Hi,” a man in an orange bowler hat greeted cheerfully. His smile was bright and welcoming and exhausting just to look at. Another man beside the Bowler Hat Man smiled, his face paint cracking as his lips curled.

Peter froze. Every breath he pulled in set his ribs on fire. His heart raced in his chest. Not one inch of him didn’t hurt.

And he had no idea why. Why did he ache? Who was this man? Where was he?

What happened??

“Municipal holding facility,” Face Paint Man explained.

“They said they found you unconscious at the trainyard?” Bowler Hat Man smiled, impressed. “Very dangerous.”

“We gave you the shirt because you looked cold.”

Peter jumped, jarring every hurt on him. He hadn’t realized there was someone sitting to his right, but the voice inches from his ear made that fact abundantly clear. And now that he was aware, the bright orange hat with the bull horns sticking out of it seemed impossible to miss.

And sure enough, an orange jersey was draped over his shoulder, covering up his dirty black t-shirt. Peter wasn’t sure if he’d been cold before, but he wasn’t now, and he supposed he had the kindness of these strangers (prisoners?) to thank for it.

Peter hesitated before speaking. “You guys are nice.” If he were in New York, he probably wouldn’t be receiving the same treatment. And… huh. This was odd. “You speak really good English,” he laughed nervously.

“Welcome to the Netherlands,” the men said in unison.

The levity dropped from Peter’s face. “I’m in the Netherlands right now?” He hoped that maybe the men were confused. You know, the men clearly dressed in Netherlands soccer - sorry, football - gear.

“Yup,” Bull Horn Man confirmed.

Peter couldn’t remember much - he wasn’t sure what had caused him to pass out, and he didn’t know why he was in a jail cell, and he wasn’t certain as to why he hurt so badly - but what he did know was that he had passed out in Germany. How had he-?

“Bye,” Peter said hurriedly, leaping to his feet and stumbling as he put weight on his bad leg. (Oh right, he hurt his leg, didn’t he?) “Guard??” Peter shouted, grabbing the metal bars of the cell.

“The guard’s on a break,” Bowler Hat Man explained pleasantly. “He’s probably talking to his wife.”

“Yeah,” Face Paint Man agreed. “She’s pregnant.”

Bull Horn Man’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah?”

Peter stopped paying attention, grabbing the padlock and snapping the body free from the shackle. He slid the cell door’s bolt out of the frame and hurried toward the exit.

Then something caught his eye, and he couldn’t help but backtrack to look closer.

“Yeah, yeah,” the guard spoke into his phone, face completely obscured by Peter’s black, woolen mask.

Things were starting to come back to him. Because right. His mask. The one that he’d bled or spit or puked on. And the guard was wearing it.

Peter decided not to think too hard about that one, jogging to the exit, leg be damned. Of course, when he stepped out of the holding facility, he expected to find buildings or a road or at least people. But definitely not a-

“Bleh,” a goat bleated in Peter’s ear, headbutting his chest.

I really can’t catch a break today, he thought, completely unable to speak from the hot spikes of pain between his ribs. Another moment longer, and he noticed the damp hay on cobblestone. The chickens pecking at cracks in the ground. And the faintest chatter off to his left. It was quaint and quiet and inhabited, which was all he really cared about.

So Peter collected himself and turned left, slipping the orange jersey over his head.

He must have been a sorry sight, limping hurriedly, face bloodied, and one arm protecting his ribs from any nearby goats. But Peter had a mission, so no matter how many livestock attacked him, he was determined to keep moving.

Gotta find a phone. Gotta find a phone. Gotta find a-

The narrow road opened up to a small plaza dotted with farmer’s market stands. People chatted and milled about while children chased after pigs and sheep. Peter zeroed in on a middle aged man in overalls.

“Excu-? Ugh…” Peter muttered, scraping his foot against the cobblestone in a sorry attempt to get the manure off of it. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Yup?” The man didn’t look up from his cell.

“Can I borrow your phone?”

“Yup, take ‘er.” He placed it firmly in Peter’s palm.

Peter couldn’t believe his luck. The first person he asked was happy to lend his phone?

He definitely wasn’t in New York anymore.

“Everyone is so nice here,” Peter said under his breath, almost in awe. His thumbs flew across the keypad as he began dialing the number.

The-

Wait.

Peter turned away from the man who loaned his phone, rapidly spamming backspace. That wasn’t… Mr. Stark couldn’t…

Stop thinking about it.

Okay. So who did Peter have? Who could help him in this situation?

…Happy.

Peter dialed Happy’s number, hoping he had remembered it correctly. (Happy’s number was in his contacts, okay? Why would he need to memorize it? It’s not like he knew he was going to get hit by a train in Germany and lose his phone and-)

“Hello?”

“H-Hey!” Peter said in a rush, surprised that Happy had even picked up for an unknown international number. “Uh…” And then Peter realized that he didn’t have a good way to explain it. So he didn’t. “I messed up. I need a… I need a ride.”

But Happy didn’t hesitate. “Where are you?” It sounded like he was already moving. Already trying to get to Peter.

“Where am I?” Peter parroted, suddenly realizing that he’d neglected that little detail. “The Netherlands” is a pretty vague location.

The teen looked back at the man in the overalls. “Uh, where am I, sir?”

The man frowned. “Broek op Langedijk.”

Peter took a heavy pause to think about that one. He sounded it out in his head. Tried to attach a phonetic spelling to it.

Brooka…

Brooka Lan… something?

“Uh… Hang on.” Peter removed the phone from his ear, holding it out to the man in the overalls. “Could you say that into the…?”

The man got the message. “Hey, uh, it’s Broek op Langedijk.” The man smiled. “Yep, no problem.”

Peter took the phone back. “Thanks,” he breathed, nodding to the man. And then, to Happy- “...did you get that?”

---

Happy chewed on his lip, scanning the ground below for somewhere to land. He’d told the kid to find a field or an airstrip or somewhere he could land the jet. A quick Google search told him there wasn’t much in Broek op Langedijk. But they did have something in abundance.

Tulip fields.

It felt sacrilegious and just a bit stereotypical to land on top of a giant field of yellow, pink, and orange, but Happy didn’t see many alternatives. He tried not to think too hard about the poor farmer who would have to deal with the aftermath.

The second the jet touched the ground, Happy was up and hurrying to the stairs. He didn’t know what Peter had done - just that he’d “messed up” - but if it was anything like his usual activities, he was likely in serious danger. Time was of the essence.

Peter seemed to agree with the sentiment. Happy spotted the familiar figure in black and neon orange limping towards the jet. He looked… “Worse for wear” didn’t feel strong enough.

“Peter? Are you okay?” Happy called.

“Happy? Is that you?” Peter’s voice was tight and just a bit on the frantic side.

The question struck him as odd because no, Peter, I’m just some random guy who decided to land his private jet in a tulip field in a Dutch village the size of a postage stamp.

“Is it m-? Yeah, of course it’s me!” he shouted back, feeling the unease grow in his chest.

“Stop!” Peter yelled, one hand out in warning. Happy stopped in his tracks. “Tell me something only you would know!”

Peter’s stance was defensive. On edge. And small. So, so small.

What happened to this kid??

“Only I would know. Uh…” Happy wracked his mind. Sure, he knew some of Peter’s biggest secrets - Spider-Man being the crown jewel of them - but he wasn’t the only one who knew that. Happy knew about the plane crash, about the old woman with the churro, about-

“Remember when we went to Germany?” Happy asked, not really wanting an answer. “You pay-per-viewed a video in your room? They didn’t list the titles, but I could tell it was an adult film based on the price at the front desk? You didn’t know how I-”

“Okay, okay! Fine! It’s you, it’s you, it’s you! Stop!” The words spilled from Peter’s mouth, desperate to get Happy to shut up. He limped forward, breathing heavily and clearly moving as fast as he could. The second he was within arm’s reach, Peter wrapped Happy in a hug. “So good to see you,” he panted.

Happy hugged him back tentatively, unable to shake the fear in his heart. “Peter, you’re gonna have to tell me what the hell’s going on here.”

Peter didn’t reply at first, frozen in the hug. And then whatever adrenaline was running through him wore off. He sagged in Happy’s hold, one knee giving out.

Happy grunted, struggling to catch Peter. “Kid?” He slung Peter’s arm over his shoulder, doing his best to ignore it when the kid grunted in pain. “The hell’d you do?”

“Ow, ow, ow- augh!” Peter pushed himself away from Happy and hit the dirt. Happy knelt at his side, worry furrowing his brows.

“Hey, talk to me,” Happy ordered.

Peter nodded, an arm bracing his ribs as he caught his breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I… um… think I busted my ribs.”

“How?” Happy was careful, supporting Peter around the waist and under one arm. They just had to get up the stairs. Get in the jet. But those steps were starting to look like a mountain.

“Hit-” Peter’s breath hitched, but he forced himself forward anyway. “Hit by a train. I think they’re healing, but-”

Happy had to file those words away for a moment. Had to set them aside to concentrate on keeping Peter from tripping over the steps. “Easy,” he warned. “Take it slow.”

“Don’t- ugh-” Peter’s arm tightened around his ribs, jaw clenched. “Don’t wanna take it… it slow.” He paused to conquer step number four. “Wanna get it done.”

“And I want you to survive the experience,” Happy grit out, helping Peter up the last few steps and to a chair in the cabin.

There was a moment of stillness. A moment of “What now?” And then-

“You got hit by a what?”

“Wow,” Peter muttered, wincing through a laugh. “That was delayed.”

“It’s not funny,” Happy insisted. “What the hell happened?” He was moving now, closing up the stairs, getting the jet in the air and making loops around the field until Happy figured out where they were going. Whether this was a hospital trip or a “home with a scolding” trip.

“It was Beck,” Peter lamented from the cabin, and Happy hurried back to him with a first aid kit. “He… I gave him EDITH, and…” He dipped his head, unable to look Happy in the eye.

“Nope,” Happy insisted, pulling out a pen light. “Brood later. Let me check your pupils now.”

Either Peter understood or didn’t care enough to resist. He looked up, and Happy flicked the penlight over and away from Peter’s eyes. “So you gave him EDITH,” Happy repeated.

“Yeah. I… I dunno. He tried them on, and in that moment, I just… I saw Mr. Stark. And then I thought about the next Iron Man, and there’s no way that could be me, but… but maybe Beck could.” He hissed in pain as Happy pulled down his collar, blood smearing across his back.

“Yeah, that’ll need stitches.” Happy pulled thread and gauze from the kit and slid the needle into Peter’s shoulder. Peter winced and grunted.

“I thought you had super strength?” Happy didn’t slow, continuing his steady stitchwork.

“Still hurts.”

Another wince. Peter pressed his knuckles to his forehead. “Happy, come on. We don’t have time for this.”

“Just relax,” Happy ordered. He could feel the tension in Peter’s muscles. He heard it in the kid’s tone.

Peter endured another stitch. Another after that.

“Just a few more,” Happy assured him.

“Oh my god!” Peter slammed his fist on the side of the jet. “Happy-!”

“Relax.” Happy had dealt with Tony’s complaining for ages, but this felt distinctly different. Distinctly Peter.

“Don’t tell me to relax, Happy!” Peter stood up and spun to face Happy. The needle was ripped from Happy’s fingers and dangled from Peter’s shoulder. “How can I relax when I messed up so bad? I trusted Beck. I thought he was my friend. I gave him the only thing Mr. Stark left for me, and now he’s gonna kill my friends and half of Europe. So please, do not tell me to relax!” His knees buckled under him, and he sank into another seat before Happy could try to catch him. Then he leaned forward, running a stressed hand through his hair. He breathed once. Twice.

Happy waited. He nearly said something, but then Peter spoke up.

“I’m sorry, Happy,” the kid mumbled pathetically. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t shout.” He sat up, took a breath as if to speak, and then let out a silent laugh, like he wasn’t sure what to say next. He took another breath. “I just really miss him.”

Happy pushed down the lump in his throat. “Yeah. I miss him too.”

Peter shook his head. Looked down at his hands. “Everywhere I go, I see his face. And the whole world is asking who’s gonna be the next Iron Man.” His fingers curled in his hair. He sniffled. Sat up in a sudden, frustrated gesture. “I don’t know if that’s me, Happy. I’m not Iron Man.”

And god, he was right. Happy knew that better than anyone. Happy’s heart reminded him of that every day.

Happy shook his head, searching for the words, but the simplest proved to be the most effective. “You’re not Iron Man. You’re never gonna be Iron Man.”

Peter looked away, pain and fear and grief warping his features.

“Nobody could live up to Tony,” Happy said. “Not even Tony.”

Peter didn’t react. He was still withdrawn. Still aching.

Happy wasn’t good with pep talks, so he didn’t give one. Peter didn’t want one. What he needed - what he wanted - was the truth. And Happy was well-suited for that.

“Tony was my best friend.” Happy sighed, but he didn’t look away. He meant every word he said. “And he was a mess.”

That caught Peter’s attention. Wide, red eyes shot up, watching Happy with surprise. Disbelief.

“He second-guessed everything he did. He was all over the place. The one thing that he didn’t second-guess was picking you.”

Peter’s mouth drew a grim line, still hanging on to Happy’s every word.

“I don’t think Tony would have done what he did if he didn’t know you were gonna be here after he was gone.”

Silence lapsed. Peter hid his face. Happy watched him anyway.

“Now, you gonna let me finish your shoulder before you bleed all over the seats?”

Peter looked up. Any other time, he’d look embarrassed. He’d jump up and apologize profusely for staining the upholstery. But today, he just nodded, expression frozen halfway between grief and numbness.

Happy returned to the task at hand. In Peter’s frustration, he ripped quite a few stitches, so Happy begrudgingly fixed those too. “So. Your friends are in trouble, you’re all alone, and your tech is missing. What are you gonna do about it?”

“I’m gonna kick Beck’s ass

“That’s the spirit.”

#whumptober2024 #no.25 #stitches #spider man far from home #fic #needles #blood #injury #grief #mild language #peter parker #happy hogan #cross posted on ao3

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