blancheludis

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my voice is in my sword

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Quick n dirty Cody drawing for Halloween. I’m never not thinking about how horrifying O66 is as a concept

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Delighted at the thought of Bruce Wayne having to be an actual parent

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Whumptober 2024, Day 28: CCTV

Prequel to "All the Ways We Rust"

Fandom: Batman Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne Tags: Child Abuse, Dark Bruce Wayne, Hurt Tim, Hurt Jason, Family, Protective Tim, Protective Jason, Isolation Chamber

Summary:

Fear spreads through Jason's insides, sickly cold, familiar in all its ugliness. Still, he says, "I need you to not kill Tim."

And the isolation chamber is slowly killing Tim. Jason is not at all sure how much of Tim will get back out of that dark hole if they keep going like this. Bruce smiles, and that hits harder than the backhand before. "I won't," he says. Not in a don't worry way. More in a I have no intention to give up my newest plaything so quickly way. "Now eat, or he'll stay in there for another day."

---

All throughout his childhood, Tim thought Batman was a hero. He followed him around, both through the news and later with a camera, and thought himself lucky to catch even a glimpse. When Robin - Robin! - tells him to stay away, he takes it as a challenge. Back then, he did not know what desperation looked like on Jason's face. It is one of the first things he learns.

---

Tim never met Alfred, but his ghost lingers everywhere in Wayne Manor.

After Bruce hits Tim for the first time, his cheek burning with shock more than the impact itself, Tim locks himself up in his room, wondering what he did wrong, how he can be better.

That night, Jason sneaks into his room, face white and voice breaking more than it holds steady.

"It's not your fault," he tells Tim solemnly. "It's mine. I killed Alfred."

He did not. It was an accident. But Bruce does not believe in accidents. He believes in guilt and how to punish it.

"I'm sorry," Jason says. "I'll try to protect you, but -"

But.

Alfred left an entire life worth of hollow spaces behind. It is not just that he cooked and cleaned and made sure that the Manor's inhabitants were comfortable and looked after. He also seemed to be the only person still tying Bruce to this pesky little thing called morality, to conscience. With Alfred gone, there is no one to keep Bruce in check anymore.

---

The next morning, Bruce sits Tim down at the breakfast table.

"Let's talk about chores, Timothy." His eyes linger on the faint bruise he left on Tim's cheek. There is no regret, just a mild interest that immediately crushes all of Tim's appetite.

"Yes, sir," he says nonetheless, voice even the way his parents taught him. Manners are important and he can be good.

"Jason grew up basically on the streets. He does not know how certain things are done." The way Bruce does not even look at Jason is more disparaging than his tone itself. "But you do, don't you, Timothy? Your parents must have taught you what is important in a place like this. We have certain standards to uphold."

Tim has grown up with a number of tutors. Languages, music, math. He has been taught how to run a business, how to talk people into doing what he wants from them. He has no idea how to run a household. That, his parents liked to say, is what servants are for, even though they left him without most of the time.

"I will show you," Bruce concludes and manages to make it sound like he is doing Tim a favour.

There is only one answer Tim can give. "Thank you, sir."

He does not yet know Bruce, but he knows these kinds of games. His parents did not physically hurt him, but their expectations were also a noose around his neck.

For a long moment, Bruce watches Tim, dissecting him like a colourful bug. Tim knows better than to hold his gaze, so he drops his eyes and searches for flaws in his body language. When his parents were away on their trips, Tim could do with his life what he wanted. These times, he realizes, are over.

"See," Bruce then calls out to Jason, who is frozen in his seat. "He already knows how to be polite, at least. You should follow his example."

Tim's breath catches at the implied threat, but he does not move. This entire morning is a trap and Tim can do nothing against the way it pulls close around him.

---

The first time Bruce has Tim use the iron cast skillet, he can barely pick it up and keep it even with just one hand.

"You need to hold it steady," Bruce says, looming over Tim from his side, too close, and not in a helpful way.

"I'm trying."

Bruce frowns at him, never happy when Tim dares to talk back. But then his expression smooths over and that is worse. "Here," he says, voice dropping lower. "Steady it with your other arm."

He circles Tim's wrist with his hand, holding it tight enough to be uncomfortable. And then he presses the bare skin of Tim's lower arm against the hot skillet.

Immediate agony shoots through Tim, white hot pain stretching out from that small point of contact. His other hand lets the skillet go instinctively. It clatters to the kitchen counter, sauce flying everywhere.

Bruce, still holding Tim's wrist, pulls the arm closer to himself and inspects the burn. "How clumsy," he muses, pressing a thumb against the aching skin, and then again when Tim instinctively flinches.

Finally, he lets Tim go, leaving behind a faint, red imprint of fingers, which fades while the ugly mark next to it just goes darker.

"Pick up your mess."

---

Tim does not believe in coincidences anymore. Not in this house. Not with someone as pedantic and prepared as Bruce.

So, when Bruce appears silently in the kitchen and then calls out, "Tim," his voice ringing sharply in the empty space, Tim has no doubt that he timed it exactly for the moment Tim was getting the casserole out of the oven. It happens so quickly; one moment he worries about the colour of his dish but decides to take it out anyway, the next he flinches at Bruce's tone and the casserole falls, glass breaking on the kitchen floor, food spilling on the ground.

He does not look up, does not want to see Bruce's face. It does not matter whether he is angry or smug or any of the dozens of other things that spell disaster for Tim.

"How disappointing." Bruce sighs. He sounds quiet, contemplating, as if he has not thought of any way this situation could play out before he ever stepped into the room. "Robin really shouldn't be so clumsy."

That is enough to make the muscles in Tim's back go tense to the point of pain. The days Bruce is in the mood for mind games are always the worst.

"I'm sorry, sir," Tim says, more because it is expected of him, not because he thinks it will actually do something.

He stares at the mess on the floor, feels a sad kind of kinship with the ruined food.

Bruce moves forward until just the tips of his shoes appear at the edge of Tim's vision. 

"Well," he orders, expectant, "Pick it up."

Tim nods and turns to get a rag and dustpan when Bruce clicks his tongue. It stops him immediately, like a well-trained dog. Now, he does look up, expecting a blow coming towards him. Jason always takes them head-on, and Tim has not yet decided whether it makes the pain better or worse to see the hit coming.

"You have two working hands, don't you?" Bruce asks, deceptively gentle. His lips curl up just slightly. On someone else, that might be mistaken for a smile. "And do take care to pick out all the glass. Jason is a growing boy and eats everything, but maybe glass shards are a bit too far."

Nothing seems like it goes too far in this house. But Tim wisely does not say anything. He kneels down to look at the ruined food, locates the biggest pieces of glass still intact. Somehow, he doubts he will be allowed to use a sieve, even for the sauce.

"Mitts," Bruce points out, the first hint of impatience creeping into his voice.

Tim breathes, his face carefully lowered, so that Bruce cannot add disrespect to his list of things Tim did wrong today. Then he pulls off the oven mitts, slowly to stall for a bit more time. Not too slow, of course, because Bruce's wrath is infinitely worse than getting a few burns from the still hot glass dish. It might have been out of the oven long enough that he should be able to handle it if he moves quickly. Either way, he is no stranger to burns anymore.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Bruce watches, his eyes almost hotter on Tim than the broken glass. Knowing him, he takes note of every wince, every sign of discomfort, every red spot blossoming on Tim's skin.

Working slowly is usually not a good idea in this house, but Tim still meticulously searches through every spoonful of food to not leave any piece of glass in. Perhaps he would, if he knew there was even the slightest chance Bruce would eat any of this. Not with Jason in danger, though. Never that.

He is done, finally, and removes the pile of glass pieces without looking at the sorry remains of their meal. His hands are burning, his fingertips are red, some already forming blisters.

"Sir?" he asks, quietly. Because this is not it. It is never that easy.

"I still need dinner. Something simpler, perhaps," Bruce drawls with the lazy, mocking tone of the unrepentantly guilty. "We can call in Jason for his food when you're done with mine."

The implication that Tim will not get any food, ruined or not, hangs heavy in the air, but Tim does not react to it. This is not the first time he has missed a meal. Will not be the last either. He is more concerned with cooking with burned fingers. He hopes that this, at least, will all the punishment for the day.

---

Bruce keeps Jason busy all day, loading him down with new reports to write or cases to go through every time Jason comes up from the cave. Not once does he see any trace of Tim. Not since dinner the night before, which had consisted of a cold mess of slightly mashed vegetables and halfway congealed sauce for Jason while Bruce had salad and steak. Tim had to stand back to watch them eat and clean the kitchen afterward. His hands were red and blistered, but of course Jason was not allowed to help.

That is the last he has seen of Tim. Several times this day, he has contemplated to go looking for Tim, consequences be damned. It is never just him who would feel those consequences, however, and Tim is more important than him. So, Jason keeps working and pretends his attention is not on the stretched-out silence clogging up the halls, making it impossible to breathe normally.

At dinnertime, there are, once again, only two plates on the table, and only Bruce is waiting for him. 

Doing his best to appear unhurried, Jason sits down in his seat. "Where is Tim?" he asks, although he knows better.

Bruce watches him for a long moment. "He needed a break."

Only practice allows Jason to swallow down the immediate panic. The cabinet Bruce uses to lock Tim up in is cramped and dark and soundproofed. It messes Tim up more than a beating. Shut away with nothing but his own thoughts and his nightmares rising out of the darkness.

"It's been an entire day," he points out and cannot quite keep his voice from breaking.

The backhand comes out of nowhere. It is not unexpected, of course, because Bruce is a master of nonchalant violence. But there is no buildup, not a hint in his expression. No, Bruce's hand connects with Jason's jaw and Bruce does not even look when Jason has to grip the edge of the table to remain in his seat, when a soft sound escapes him as if this is the first time he ever took a hit. Keeping his eyes down, Jason rolls his jaw several times, testing the pain.

Then, stubbornly, he raises his chin. "You need to let him out."

It is never a good idea to demand anything of Bruce. They are utterly dependent on him, and Bruce has made it abundantly clear that their well-being is not much of a concern. They serve a specific purpose here and what they want or need has no impact on that at all.

The corners of Bruce's eyes crinkle the tiniest bit, which is the only sign of his displeasure. "Do you really want to argue with me right now?"

Every last bit of instinct screams at Jason to back down. This is not about him, though.

"He needs food and water," he insists, knowing better than to plead. They have to count themselves lucky that Bruce Wayne is still a public figure and that someone would notice if two of his adopted children simply disappeared. Or starved to death. Jason just has to remind Bruce of this, that he has to be pragmatic about abusing them.

"He has water," Bruce says, void of all empathy. With a raised eyebrow, he adds, "And he would have food if he had not wasted it."

Tim is a meticulous learner. He has taken to cooking like he does to anything else: with relentless discipline and ingrained perfectionism. Most of that, he learned from his parents, but Bruce naturally does his best to push things farther. Jason does not know what happened the day before, but would bet anything that Tim did not mess up dinner on his own.

"Bruce -"

"Do you need my attention, Jason." It is not even a question. Bruce has stopped wrapping his threats up in pretence. Why would he waste energy on that? It is only them in this house, only Bruce's word that counts for anything.

Fear spreads through Jason's insides, sickly cold, familiar in all its ugliness. Still, he says, "I need you to not kill Tim."

Bruce smiles, and that hits harder than the backhand. "I won't," he says. Not in a don't worry way. More in a I have no intention to give up my newest plaything so quickly way. "Now eat, or he'll stay in there for another day."

Jason's hands are moving before the words fully register in his brain.

---

Tim's hands keep trembling until well into the night. The window is wide open, letting in an icy breeze, but Tim relishes the sensation on his skin, desperate for anything after too many hours of nothing. Jason simply puts on another sweater and bullies Tim to put on warmer socks after he bandaged up the bloody scratches Tim left on his own arms, as if breaking himself is a viable alternative to breaking the dark box Bruce likes to lock him up in. Since then, Jason has been reading The Hobbit, his quiet voice a soothing reminder that Tim is out and still alive and not trapped in his own head. He does not hear any of the words, but neither of them minds.

"I'm sorry," Tim says, cutting Jason off abruptly. "We should sleep."

They have school in the morning, and he should really put some effort into pulling himself together if he wants to be able to pretend he feels like a normal person and not like a ghost.

Jason looks up at him, the book open on his knees. He is going to reassure Tim. He is going to pull Tim onto his bed and wrap him up in a hug, the only touch Tim can still tolerate, the only touch that still makes him feel safe.

Instead, Jason says, "We could just leave."

People have told Tim that he is smart and quick all his life. These words, however, bounce in his mind, making no sense, until the implication hits like a punch.

"Do you have a fever?" he asks, getting up quickly.

Perhaps he missed some glass shards in Jason's food. Perhaps he perforated his oesophagus or stomach and is now slipping into sepsis and Tim will have killed his brother and there is truly no more saving either of them.

"I'm serious," Jason says, too steadfast for someone who might be dying. He leans forward, waves Tim closer. And, after a moment of hesitation, Tim does. When it comes down to it, he will always follow Jason.

He sits down gingerly on Jason's bed, lets Jason pick up his hand and hold on for dear life. 

"We're vigilantes. We're trained," Jason says as if that means anything is a world that is controlled by people like Bruce Wayne. "We can go wherever we want."

Tim shakes his head, half in denial, half to not let the words settle inside him. They cannot think about such stupid ideas.

"B has all the resources to find us anywhere," he points out with desperation. "He's not going to let us go."

But Jason is not talking about asking for permission. "There's enough places in this world where there's not a camera every few feet," he says, full of the same stubbornness that lets him get up from the ground time and again, no matter that Bruce will only send him back down.

Pressure builds at the back of Tim's throat. He does not know whether it heralds laughter or tears, but he does not plan on finding out. Concentrating on keeping his breathing even, he asks, "And how do you propose we get there?" He does not manage to sound as dismissive as he was going for.

Jason's mouth curves into a smile that is sharp enough to cut. "Quickly."

"Funny." It gets harder to breathe, the walls closing in around Tim like he is back in the cabinet.

"I'm serious." Jason's hand tightens around Tim's, grounding him in the present. "If he finishes that thing -"

"It can't be that much worse than the cabinet," Tim lies and chokes on it, on the memory of being in the dark, even the sound of his own breathing muffled, unable to get out.

Bruce keeps talking about the isolation chamber he is building and Tim is suffocating at the mere idea of it. Even with the soundproofing, the cabinet is not cutting him off completely. Certainly, Bruce will correct that oversight with how much planning he is putting into this project.

From a distance, he hears Jason talking, hears him dragging the memories closer and closer to the surface. "It's not just dark and small, Tim, it's -"

"I know, Jason," Tim snaps, just barely piercing the suffocating weight settling on his skin. "Believe me. I don't -" He draws in a shuddering breath, keeps his eyes on the warm nightlight so he does not drown in darkness. "I don't ever want to go in there, but we don't really have that many options."

"I'm telling you, we can -"

"Jason." Tim does not manage more than a whisper, but Jason stops himself immediately anyway.

"I'm sorry," Jason says, eyes wide as he takes in Tim. "I don't mean to make things worse. But I can't help you when he puts you in there."

"You're helping." And he does. Without Jason, Tim might have lost himself ages ago. His mind is not the kindest place. Locked in the cabinet, however, he does not have anywhere else to go. After, Jason always helps to draw him back out.

"Not enough," Jason insists, because he has not yet learned that he cannot save everyone, cannot even save the ones closest to him.

Tim would love to offer him reassurances, but he is too worn out for that. Instead, he settles against Jason's side, tugging at the blanket to be let in. Then he asks, "Keep reading?"

And Jason pulls him close and fills the silence once again, taking them far away to a place where monsters can be fought against and defeated.

---

When the sensory deprivation chamber is finished, Bruce makes an entire thing out of it. He has Tim cook a three-course-meal - even without supervising and correcting and accidentally burning Tim - and, after, summons them up to the attic. He looks, Tim thinks, nausea already roiling in his stomach, like a child on Christmas morning, giddy in his excitement for the presents under the tree. Worse, even, he looks like he wants to talk.

"This one is special, boys," he says as he ushers them through the door. "It can also be filled with water, but we'll see how practical that is. We'll test it without for now." Then he shifts, allowing Tim the first glance at his newest prison

It does not look small, at least from the outside, just an unassuming box of sleek wood, strangely fitting in with the rest of the stashed, forgotten things in the attic. It would be tacky if the cage for one of his wards would look out of place amongst his family's keepsakes, after all.

Tim is rooted in place. He knew this was coming. Bruce had certainly kept them updated enough and shared his data, because I know you like your research, Tim.

"Tim," Bruce orders and sounds happy about it.

Next to him, Jason is trembling. Neither of them has ever dealt well with watching the other get hurt. And this is Tim's nightmare. This is being left in an empty house for months at a time or getting accidentally locked in the car and forgotten about - but so much worse. This is specifically created to shut Tim away from the world.

Impatience taking over, Bruce taps his foot. "You're wasting time."

With a shuddering inhale, Tim steps forward. He is not getting out of this. That is one of the first things he learned in this house. Bruce gets what he wants. There is no arguing, no bargaining. There is not even a guarantee that certain behaviour will get specific results. Bruce is clinical and methodical, but he is also hit with strange whims at times, and he is in a position to follow through on them, no questions asked.

The inside of the box is dark. Of course, it is. But even from the outside, there is no telling what is waiting for him. He is not sure what is worse, knowing or not. In the end, it does not matter. He will go in either way.

"Hands," Bruce orders, almost brimming with excitement.

Mechanically, Tim holds out his hands. The mitts are familiar. The first time Bruce left him in the cabinet overnight, Tim scratched up his face and throat and arms, caught in a never-ending panic attack, driven by desperation to just get out, unable to differentiate whether that meant out of the dark or out of his body. After, Bruce fretted over him like he actually cared for the damage, like his eyes were not alit with satisfaction. The next time, he had presented Tim with the mitts. Just a precaution to make sure you don't hurt yourself. No, that is Bruce's prerogative.

A hand presses into the place between his shoulder blades, which is a threat all on its own. He steps forward, unable to look away from that dark hole awaiting him. There is a small noise, almost a sob, and he is not sure whether that came from him or from Jason, but it does not matter. Now that he is moving, Bruce will not let him stop again.

Darkness greets him as he steps through the door. He stops, one foot still outside, bracing himself against the frame. He barely manages to take one more, shaking breath, before Bruce pushes him the rest of the way in.

He falls to his knees, barely feels an impact. The door closes behind him with a quiet hiss.

And then, nothing.

Tim is aware he is breathing heavily but he can barely hear it. Everything is muffled, like wool has been pushed into his ears. Even his heartbeat, erratic and too fast, sounds wrong. The air is thick, filling his lungs only sluggishly. Briefly, he wonders whether fresh oxygen can come in from somewhere or whether Bruce intends for him to suffocate slowly. He pushes the thought down, hard.

Slowly, he situates himself. The ground is made of something almost soft. It does not really give way underneath him, does not shape into him, but it also does not press back. It is almost like he is touching nothing at all, like he is not getting any proper sensory feedback. Which is the point, obviously.

Carefully, he reaches out, tests the boundaries of this new cage in the complete darkness. He cannot stand, cannot stretch out on the ground. He can, however, curl into himself and try to keep the panic at bay for as long as he can manage.

It is a battle he will lose.

---

For long minutes, Bruce simply stands in front of the locked box, almost as if he is waiting for something.

Abruptly, he turns towards Jason. "Do you want to take a look?" he asks and does not wait for an answer.

Bruce leads Jason to his office, lets him stand behind the chair. On the right-hand monitor is a window already open, which punches all the air out of Jason's chest. 

Of course, there is a camera. It is not enough for Bruce to know Tim is losing his mind in the dark. No, he would want to watch.

The quality is not good, but it is enough to see Tim curled up on the ground, face buried between his arms, knees pulled into his chest. His body is fluttering with uneven, too shallow breaths.

A high-pitched, desperate whine claws its way up Jason's throat and he does not manage to swallow it. Usually, Bruce would pounce on such an obvious show of weakness. Now, however, it is like he does not even notice it. His eyes are transfixed on the screen, on Tim. His expression is bright with wonder, almost happy.

Jason's stomach heaves and he barely manages to pull out the bin before he is vomiting out the entire cursed three-course-meal. Bruce does not even react to it.

---

Jason has been sitting outside of the attic for hours when Bruce finally comes.

"Eager?" he asks and sounds excited himself, although for entirely different, entirely wrong reasons. At least he does not send Jason away. At least he did not find something better to occupy Jason's time with instead of waiting around uselessly.

Bruce walks with a spring in his step while Jason can barely keep his knees from shaking enough to get up from the ground. He wants to blame it on fury, but the truth is that this sheer helplessness is hollowing him out.

Without further fanfare, Bruce unlocks the panel set inside the wall of the chamber - this thing seems to be locked up tighter than the entrance to the cave - and then the door finally hisses open.

Nothing happens. No sound makes it out, no movement.

Jason stumbles forward, but Bruce stops him with an arm across his chest. So, he is allowed to watch but not to help.

It takes so long that Jason is ready to throw all caution in the wind - surely, no beating can be worse than being forced to wait, now - when there is finally some movement.

"Tim," Jason calls out. Immediately, Bruce's hand grips Jason's upper arm, tight enough to bruise. A warning.

It was enough, however. Tim uncurls on the ground of the chamber, his breathing becoming more erratic but at least deeper. Almost like sob, but Jason cannot think about that now. He can help to pick up Tim's pieces as soon as they are alone. Because, if he thinks about it right now, he will do something stupid, like hit Bruce. He would not mind the pain that would follow for him, but he has the terrible suspicion that Bruce would simply lock this door again and leave Tim in there until he is done dealing with Jason. Pain is nothing. Sometimes, the pain is even welcome, better than the mind games Bruce plays. But he needs to get Tim out of there as quickly as possible.

In the darkness, Tim raises his head, blinks against the sudden, violent light filtering in. And then he is moving.

The door is not tall enough for him to come out at his full height, but he does not look like his legs are working properly, anyway. Instead, he is crawling more than climbing through the opening, gasping in air like these are the first true breaths he could take in hours. He collapses right outside the box, eyes unseeing.

The hand around Jason's arm tightens, keeping him in place. So, for another, unbearable moment, Jason has to watch. Bruce watches, too, his lips pulled up into some caricature of a smile, drinking in the sight as if there has never been anything more beautiful. It makes Jason sick, bile rising in his already raw throat.

Finally, he cannot take it anymore. He rips himself free from Bruce's hold and steps forward, crouches down by Tim's side.

"You're out," he says, quietly enough that he hopes it will not jar Tim's no doubt strained senses. "I've got you. I've got you."

Bruce does not move as Jason gets the cursed mitts off Tim's hands and gently tries to coax him to his feet, only to realize it will not work and picks him up to carry him instead. No, Bruce does not move, does not stop them. But he watches.

---

That night, Tim alternates between hiding himself away in Jason's hold and pushing Jason away in mad, panicked scrambles. It earns Jason a number of bruises because the switches happen so quickly. He does not mind, of course, but knows he will have to hide them in the morning. On top of everything else, Tim does not need to feel guilty, too. Jason is doing that enough for the both of them. Because he could not protect Tim. Because he cannot truly make things better now.

All throughout the night, he makes sure there are things for Tim to see and smell and hear. He burns some incense he found in a closet down the hall from the kitchen. He holds Tim close or draws circles on his back or runs a hand through his hair. He reads or hums or promises Tim that he is there, that he is not going anywhere.

Somehow, they make it through the night. If only daylight were any safer.

---

"How long?" Tims asks in the morning, looking small and fragile. His skin is glowing red from where he must have scrubbed it raw under the shower.

Jason hesitates, knows the truth will not make anything better, but he owes it to Tim nonetheless. "Four hours."

Tim closes his eyes briefly as he takes a moment to breathe.

It will not stay at four hours, they know. Things always get worse.

---

"We could steal a car," Tim says, completely out of the blue one night, as if he had not shot down Jason's vague thoughts about running away before.

The chamber changes things, however. He feels like he is barely anchored in his own body anymore. He is terrified of losing himself, of leaving Jason behind on his own. There is not much they can do to actually help each other, but they are together, at least.

Jason turns towards him. He looks too grim to have been on his way to falling asleep. Of course, neither of them sleeps well. Sharing a room has made that better, but it does not actually make them safer. 

"Do you really want Bruce to bail us out of jail and keep here on house arrest?" Jason asks, not accusatory but simply pointing out a real danger. "Now he has to at least keep us functioning for school."

Sometimes, Tim wonders whether that is actually a good thing. School is just another place draining their energy. Pretending to be all right, pretending that their family is completely normal, is often an enormous task. Both of them are good liars, but nothing is without cost.

"We could steal one of his cars," Tim insists. There is an entire garage of them right underneath the house.

Jason barely takes any time to contemplate that before pointing out, "He's got too much security."

Most of that is to keep people out, though, so Tim says, "I could get around that, probably."

Looking at him, Jason sits up, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. "And then?"

Reading The Hobbit has filled Tim's subconscious with a number of fantastic ideas. Of simply walking wherever the wind carries them. Of adventure. Of braving mountains and armies and anything getting in their way.

"Well, we'd either have to get somewhere specific fast, or get lost somewhere," he says, unable to meet Jason's eyes. Sometimes, Tim thinks they are already lost. Drowning in this place with its empty halls and rooms, drowning in Bruce's grief-turned-cruelty.

Gentle, despite the clear worry underneath his voice, Jason argues, "It'll get worse when he catches us."

"We can't let him catch us, then." Normally, Tim is more realistic than this. Something is going to give, however, and he desperately does not want it to be either of them.

"Tim." Jason is utterly still, like he is undecided whether to lean in or away and decided to freeze instead. "You were the one who said it won't work."

"So, what? We just let him do whatever he damn pleases?" Tim snaps, although he is not angry at Jason. "We can't - I'm not sure I can keep going like this. I can't keep going back into -"

The box. The cage. The lockable chamber of nothing, specifically designed to hollow him out and drive him insane. It is already working.

Too quickly, Jason says, "All right."

"What?"

Tim knows what Jason is doing, of course. The same thing he always does, getting up and in front of Tim, drawing Bruce's attention, offering the other cheek. He has no sense of self-preservation. Tim loves and hates him for that in equal measure.

"We'll think of something," Jason promises, his face settling in the kind of determined expression that has Tim's stomach fluttering.

"No, Jason," he tries to argue, even knowing this is his fault and there is no going back now. "Don't do anything stupid."

Flashing him a grin, Jason shrugs. "Don't worry about me."

Funny. All they do is worry about each other. Tim sits back and watches Jason with growing worry weighing him down. He has a very bad feeling that he just pushed Jason into doing something reckless, into paying for Tim's cowardice with his own pain. That is not at all what he wanted.

"Jason," he warns, not sure how to stop him now, but Jason shakes his head.

"You think about which car would be best," he says as if this is already a done deal, as if all they have to do is pack their bags and step out the door. "We can't take anything too flashy."

Tim leans forward, holding Jason's gaze. "Promise me."

But Jason does not. Instead, he winks at Tim and lies back down, pulling his blanket up to his ears, pretending he is ready for sleep. Nausea rises in Tim that, for once, has nothing to do with the fact he has not gotten dinner, again. Neiter of them will rest easy this night.

---

Bruce comes to dinner in a suit. It fits him like a second skin. Not a fold out of place, not a wrinkle to be seen. It has taken Tim a while to learn how to iron Bruce's clothes to Alfred's exacting standards. It did not help that Bruce cannot seem to pass by any chance of pressing any burning hot thing he can find against Tim's skin.

Beyond his impeccable clothing, however, Bruce looks winded. He sits down at the table and when he picks up the napkin, Tim catches a glance of his knuckles. They are coloured an angry red and rubbed raw in places.

"Will Jason be joining us, sir?" Tim asks, biting the inside of his cheek to remain calm. Despite everything, Bruce values politeness.

"Training ran long," Bruce responds dismissively, not caring for the picture he paints when he studies his knuckles in clear view of Tim. "You can serve."

The rule is, when Jason is not at the table when food is served, he does not eat. Often, on days Bruce knows Jason will not be on time, when he makes sure of it, he specifies exactly what he wants to eat, measures out exactly what ingredients Tim has to use. He knows Tim sneaks food out whenever he can. He knows how to make it harder for them. Food, after all, is a privilege they have to earn.

---

Bruce takes his time, inspecting each course when Tim brings them out, chewing each bite thoroughly, asking for a second serving. All the while, his knuckles are in plain sight, a mockery and a warning both.

When he is finally done, Tim clears the table in record time, surprised that Bruce is letting him go. This is a lesson, then.

Jason is in their room, lying on one side, curled up but gingerly so. He is breathing and awake, which is enough for fury to win out over worry in Tim. At least for the moment.

"You said you wouldn't do anything stupid," Tim hisses as he steps up to Jason, eyes running over him to find any wounds he has to take care of immediately. His face is clear. Of course, it is. Bruce knows better than to leave marks where everybody might see them.

"Don't flatter yourself, Tim. He's simply neglected me while building that hellhole for you," Jason replies with the kind of bitter cheer that just makes it sound like he is barely hanging on. "This has been long overdue."

It probably has, because Bruce is normally better at keeping his attention equally divided between them. It would not do for either of them to get ideas. 

"And you didn't provoke him? You didn't make things worse just to draw his attention?" Tim asks sharply, not at all satisfied when Jason will not meet his eyes.

"I don't regret it."

And why would he? They are both trying to mitigate whatever damage is coming for the other. Locking Tim up at least does not leave any physical marks, however. It does leave him bleeding through his bedsheets.

"Jason, you can't -"Tim cuts himself off, bites his cheek hard enough to taste iron. "How bad is it?"

Now, Jason looks at him, at once sheepish and dismissive. He shifts a little, testing his own body. "Nothing broken. Nothing's bleeding anymore either," he decrees and has the gall to sound relieved about it.

Tim closes his eyes, wills his lungs to keep breathing even while the rest of his body feels ready to fall apart.

Jason's hand finds his, pats him twice before falling back to the bed. "It's all right, Tim."

"It's not," Tim shoots back with a vehemence that only hollows him out more. "One of these days he'll do permanent damage."

They both know that is unlikely. Bruce does not hurt them in fits of rage. He always remains cold, collected, clinical. He knows exactly how hard he can push them, has never gone too far before. There is still the possibility that he might not want to hold himself back anymore, that he decides to get rid of them.

"I can take it," Jason vows. His eyes burn into Tim, but now it is Tim's turn to avoid him.

"You shouldn't have to," he says, stubbornly.

It is entirely expected, when Jason replies, without hesitation, "Neither do you."

This has nothing to do with what they can take. Probably also not with what they deserve, although Jason's opinion on that changes depending on how much pain he is in, no matter how often Tim tells him that Alfred's death and, more so, Bruce's descent into cruelty are not his fault. They are not asking to be hurt, to be dismantled slowly. All of that is on Bruce and Bruce alone.

Swallowing a sigh, Tim walks around, further into the room. Like the stupid, self-sacrificing idiot Jason is, he has put the bed they dragged in for him closer to the door. As if that would actually make Tim safer. As if it actually makes Tim feel better to watch Jason get hurt in his stead.

As he is getting their cobbled-together first-aid kit out from under his bed, Tim says, aiming for nonchalance, "I've chosen a car."

Immediately, Jason shoots up, unable to hide his grimace as he pulls at bruises and, probably, worse. "What? No, Tim. That was a stupid idea. We can't steal a car from Bruce." He keeps his voice low, but the words tumble all over each other in his hurry to get them out.

Tim looks up at him with a calm he does not feel. "We can't stay here either."

He brings the kit to Jason's bed but does not open it yet, keeps looking at his hands, at the fading burns all over them.

"Where would we even go?" Jason asks, smaller than he should ever sound.

Somehow, Tim finds the energy to smile at him. "You said we could go anywhere we want."

But Jason shakes his head. "You know it's not that easy."

Easy was never what Tim was going for. Nothing in either of their lives has ever been easy, and it is steadily becoming less so with every passing day.

"It's an option," Tim says and leaves it at that.

He tugs at Jason's shirt, revealing the mess underneath, and gets to work.

---

"Are you done with your homework?"

Jason glares up at Bruce, takes in the nonchalance, the perfect three-piece suit. His back is throbbing, raw with pain. But, of course, he is caught up with schoolwork.

"Yes, sir," he bites out, not caring that he cannot keep up even a facade of politeness. Right after a beating, Bruce is often a bit more lenient with Jason's temper.

"Good. I'll be going out," Bruce says, fiddling his cufflinks into place. "The Foundation Gala is tonight and I'll have some things to take care off before then."

"You're -" Jason breathes, listens for the silence in the house. "Where's Tim?"

Bruce watches him, zeroing in on every twitch, every tense muscle, every weakness. Entirely too calm, he answers, "You know where he is."

Of course, Jason does. It takes everything he has not to jump up, not to throw himself at Bruce. "You have to let him out." Just barely, he manages to make that into a plea. 

The Gala will run long and the sun is not even dipping right now. That is too many hours. If Bruce even remembers to let Tim out after. The chamber is worse than the cabinet ever was, and Jason is not at all sure how much of Tim will get back out of that dark hole if they keep going like this.

"Do I, now?" Bruce asks, slightly bemused even as his face hardens. "It seems rather that you need another reminder of where you place is in this house." 

At the very bottom, Jason is aware. He is feeling the echoes of that lesson with every breath he takes, etched into his very skin.

Out of breath, he says, "It's too long."

"We'll see," Bruce says simply. As if this is an experiment. As if he can push and push and push without consequences. As if Tim is not Jason's little brother. As if that thing does not leave Tim close to breaking every time. "Do not wait up."

And then Bruce is gone, out of their room and down the hall, walking with measured steps as if everything is just how it is supposed to be.

Jason cannot breathe. He sits frozen at his desk, mind racing. This is too much. He cannot let this happen. He has to help Tim.

As quietly as he can, he walks down the hall to the grand staircase leading down. He folds himself into the shadows and watches Bruce leave, watches as he gets into the car waiting for him outside, watches as it is driving out of sight. Then, just to be sure, he waits half an hour more.

He has no idea how to get Tim out of the chamber. It has to work, but he knows any manipulation of the system will send an alert directly to Bruce. Once he starts, everything has to go quickly.

Jason goes back to their room and gets out two bags, throwing in things haphazardly. Tim would be better at this. He knows better how to remain calm. But Tim is not here yet, so Jason has to do this by himself.

He gets their bags and fills another with food from the pantry and gets it all down to the garage. He can hotwire a car, at least, if it comes to that. Then he goes back up to Bruce's office. This is risky, he knows. There are cameras everywhere, but especially in this room. It does not matter, though. There is no going back now.

Jason checks the footage from Tim's chamber, swallowing down his nausea when he sees Tim's curled up form. He minimizes the window and then goes through Bruce's drawers, looking for anything useful. Money, their passports, car keys. His hands are shaking but he pushes on. He finds an itinerary and knows exactly when Bruce will get on stage tonight. There, he has their window of opportunity. The too small amount of time in which Bruce will be occupied, no matter if he gets an alert that they are breaking out.

Hours crawl by, driving Jason nearly insane. But then, the old grandfather clock strikes six. Jason has never run so quickly.

Everything is a blur. Getting up to the attic. Getting the chamber open. Helping Tim out and carrying his shaking form downstairs, putting him in the car. He puts the key in the ignition and cannot believe it when the engine actually comes to life. Then, Jason shuts down his brain and just drives.

[blancheludis]

Whumptober 2024, Day 27: laboratory, voiceless

Fandom: DCU, Superman Characters: Conner Kent, Clark Kent, Martha Kent Tags: Emotional Angst, Nightmares, Hurt Conner, Conner Needs A Hug, And Gets It, Protective Clark Kent, Once he realizes some things, Protective Martha Kent, Family

Summary:

"How often do you have nightmares?" Clark just throws them right into it. No small talk, no building up slowly. He is here on business, because Ma told him something that raises all kinds of red flags about Conner. "What are you dreaming about?"

Conner does not want to tell Clark about the lab. He was there. He got Conner out, so he should know. He saw the tubes, the cells, the room with the metal table. He broke the shackles off Conner. He read the files.

With an impatient knock against the arm of his chair, Clark says, "Speak up, boy."

It has never mattered what Conner wants, so, with his eyes closed, fingers digging into the flesh of this thighs, he goes back to his hell.

---

Conner wakes up screaming. He cannot move. Restraints are digging into his wrists; the cold white-tiled walls of the lab are closing in around him; Luthor's voice echoes from somewhere. Let's see how it reacts to this.

He thought he got out. There had been fields and blue skies and - harsh hands holding him down, prying him open and -

"Conner."

Luthor never called him that. Nobody in the lab called him that because he did not have a name. Just a number. Just a file with points awarded in or against his favour to see whether he would be killed.

"Conner."

He comes to in his room on the Kent farm with Ma sitting at his side, her hands on his arm like shackles, wide-eyed with something that might be worry. Overlaying all of this is the still more familiar memory of the lab. The chipping paint on the wall replayed by clinical white, metal underneath his bedsheet, people in lab coats, restraints around his wrist.

He does not know what is real. Superman got him out of the lab, but he never wanted Conner either.

With a sob, he tugs his arm out of Ma's grasp - endlessly relieved when she lets him go, when it is really just fingers instead of cuffs - and curls up around himself, tries to shut out the world around him until he can tell reality from nightmare again. If he ever could.

"What happened?" Ma asks softly once his breathing evens. She reaches out with a hand to smooth the hair away from his forehead, her touch barely there and yet a comfort. People have never been careful with him before. That is not what he was created for.

"Nothing, Ma," Conner lies, badly. His voice cracks. "I'm sorry for waking you up." That, at least, is true. Usually, he manages to keep quiet when having nightmares. Some people in the lab liked him screaming, though, so he cannot always stop himself. Most of the time, it is far easier to just give people what they want.

"Nonsense. I -" Ma frowns, her mouth pinched into a deeply unhappy expression. She looks at him, at the distance he put between them even in the small space. "I don't think I helped much, did I?"

"No, you did," Conner protests immediately, the lie coming to him like second nature. He is fine. He always will be fine. Until someone decides to terminate him because he does not make the cut. That, he knows, is just as present a danger as it was in the lab. "I just didn't know where I was. You being there was a big clue."

At least it was once he recognized her.

Ma nods but does not relax. For a moment, Conner thinks about reaching out. Her hand is still just there. He could simply shift a little bit closer and touch it, hold onto it. It would not have to be a big deal. He could swallow down the panic, show her he is fully back in the present - pretend that he is not still afraid of her. Most of Conner's terrors live in his memories, but he is perfectly aware that he lives on borrowed time, that he is still being observed, still tested. He is still one wrong move away from being locked up in the dark, never to see the sunlight again.

Conner has just begun to move, when Ma says, "I will call Clark."

"No," bursts out of Conner, too high-pitched, too trembling. He tries to salvage it, even as his muscles lock into place and his heart threatens to burst in his chest. "I'm sure he's busy. You don't need to disturb him because of a stupid nightmare."

If Clark gets involved, things will become ugly quick. He is always so adamant about Conner needing to control himself, to keep all of his emotions in check, to never forget he is dangerous. Nightmares are a rather pointed signal of not being in control. What if he did not wake up when he did tonight? What if he lashed out and hurt Ma?

The look Ma sends him is soft, completely wrong for the conversation they are having. "He won't mind. You're his -"

"Please." Whatever Ma wanted to say, Conner does not want to hear it. Child? Absolutely wrong. Clone? Correct, but it is never good to remind him. Project? Prisoner? Nothing, at the very least, that warrants wasting Superman's time.

And a shameful part of Conner thinks, he should not be punished for something out of his control. Yes, he should be better and leave the lab behind, but he has not set out to hurt anyone. Clark likely will not see that, though. He will see the trails of violence in Conner, even if they were done to him instead of by him. He will see the trembling as a lapse, the tearstains as a weakness.

"He should know," Ma insists, burning most of the fight out of Conner. "He can help."

Clark probably should know. He is always on the lookout for signs that Conner will snap and if he finds out Conner is hiding things from him, it will just get worse. It is definitely not going to help to have Superman looming over him or locking him up again because he is too much of a danger to be left free.

In a last-ditch attempt, Conner says, "He can't stop nightmares."

Because they are just nightmares. They are just memories of a place he never wants to return to, not signs of him becoming dangerous. Considering what Luthor wanted Conner to become, the nightmares probably are a sign that he is rather far away from becoming a super villain. He just wants some peace.

Ma pauses, considers his words as she looks at him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." He really, really does not. He wants to sleep and he wants to be able to let his guard down without it coming back to hurt him. "Thanks, Ma," he adds, more to get her to back off than for the actual offer.

He is grateful for Ma and Pa taking him in, for letting him sleep in the room that was once their son's, for giving him food, for letting him go to school. They are giving him as much of a normal life as he could have ever hoped for, more than he ever knew to dream off back in the lab. Yet he cannot help waiting for the second shoe to drop, for Clark to decide that he is not worth the trouble, that human rights do not actually adhere to clones made from stolen DNA.

Although she does not look happy with his refusal, Ma nods. "Do you want some hot chocolate?"

Tentatively hopeful that he has dodged this particular bullet, Conner attempts a smile. "Yes, please."

---

As much as Ma and Pa are kind to Conner, they are still Clark's parents. They are still here to keep an eye on Conner, to report if he makes a misstep. It should not come as a surprise that Clark appears two days later and tersely asks Conder to accompany him outside for a talk. It really should not hurt. Conner is not their grandson nor their ward. He is just a lab experiment that no one quite knows what to do with.

He follows Clark without protest. Ma might accept the occasional no but not Clark. Never Superman.

They settle on two chairs and Clark shifts his so he can look directly at Clark. He is blocking the way, too, as if Conner would have a chance to run. As if he would ever try.

"How often do you have nightmares?" Clark just throws them right into it. No small talk, no building up slowly. He is here on business, because Ma told him something that raises all kinds of red flags about Conner.

"Not often," Conner says, staring at the hands in his lap.

"Don't lie." Of course, Superman would notice. Conner's heartbeat is all out of sorts, sitting right at the edge of pushing him into another panic attack, but he is still entirely too readable. "Maybe Luthor left some trap inside of you."

Again, it should not hurt. Of course, people are not worried for him. They are just waiting for him to snap, to reveal some new power with which he will easily get rid of Superman and then become the next big villain, destroying everyone in his path. Conner is the trap.

It does not matter that he has not yet gone on a killing spree or whether he will promise a thousand times that he never will. It does not matter that they have gone through all of Luthor's files front to back and found nothing about a kill switch inside Conner. Yes, he was made to fight Superman, but Luthor was apparently convinced Superman would manage to make Conner hate him all on his own.

Conner ignores the urge to clench his hands lest it will be seen as a sign of aggression. "Sometimes."

"How often?"

"I don't know." Perhaps he should start a dream diary, write down notes about everything he does and thinks and feels and dreams. Perhaps Superman would feel better about him if he could continue Luthor's files.

Clark makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. "You have to."

Quickly, Conner chances a glance at Clark. He does not look particularly angry. Yet. Then again, Clark knows all about masks, about looking like one thing but being another. Other than Conner, who will always look like a cheap copy. 

"Maybe twice a month," he answers quietly. 

At least the ones he remembers, so it is not a lie. He is not going to count the days he wakes up anything but rested, cold sweat drying on his skin as he lies frozen in bed, unwilling to open his eyes in case every good thing that ever happened to him was the dream. The escape, the farm, Pa showing him to repair the tractor. He will not admit to sneaking out some nights just so he can sleep under the open sky, count stars he was never allowed to see before. Everybody knows he is broken, but he does not need to give them more evidence, more reason to act against him.

"Are they getting more regular?" Clark has sounded more empathetic when interviewing sleazy politicians, but he has not moved out of his seat, has not come any closer, so Conner still counts it as a win.

"Less."

"What?" Clark asks, clearly getting impatient. He is probably used to more comprehensive reporting and not these monosyllabic attempts to get out of punishment.

"I used to get more of them," Conner admits and cannot help but look up to see how his words are received. "It's getting better."

Clark frowns, like he does not want to believe Conner but cannot find physical evidence for it. "What are you dreaming about?"

Conner wants to laugh. He read somewhere that nightmares are supposed to be full of imagined fears, shadows in the dark, things that are easily dispelled with the morning light. His are all memories, nothing he can ever get rid of again.

He does not want to tell Clark about it. He was there. He got Conner out, so he should know. He saw the tubes, the cells, the doctor's offices, the room with the metal table. He broke the shackles off Conner. He read the files.

With an impatient knock against the arm of his chair, Clark says, "Speak up, boy."

Tears shoot into Conner's eyes, unbidden. Luthor used to call him clone, but the tone was exactly the same as Clark's boy. "The lab," he blurts out, desperate to get the parallel out of his head. He might be afraid of Superman, but he is terrified of Luthor. "I'm dreaming about the lab."

There is just the slightest pause, but Conner can read nothing in Clark's face. 

"What about it?" Clark then asks, his voice no less hard.

Conner can only stare. Well, Clark told him in the very beginning that he should never make the mistake of thinking he is human. He is an experiment, a mistake. Apparently, that means he does not get to have human fears, either.

He takes a deep breath; feels it push against the pressure on his sternum. He can do this. In the lab, he was always afraid, but he learned to turn off certain parts of him, to go somewhere else while they were hurting him. Not all the time, of course, because Luthor did not like being ignored. But he can let himself be interrogated by Superman and not break something inside him further.

With his eyes closed, fingers digging into the flesh of this thighs, Conner goes back to his hell.

"I dream I'm back on the table. There are shackles around my wrists and ankles. Around my chest. Sometimes I'm muzzled. Sometimes they let me scream," he says, haltingly, feels like choking on buried terror. "I dream of their experiments. I can still feel them cut me open. Or drowning me to see how long I can hold my breath." A chuckle like broken glass tumbles from his lips. "You know, those were always the worst. The exposure or the deprivation. Checking how much I could take. When they hurt me, I could at least go away in my head. They were doing that to me and I couldn't fight them. But if they put me in the dark or the cold - there's no getting out of your head. Not without leaving a mess you'll have to pick up later. And then -"

A hand on his snaps Conner out of the memories. He flinches back hard enough to hit his head on the wall behind him. It is enough, at least, to get him fully back to the present. Which he is not quite sure is a good thing. Because Superman is staring at him. Superman, who asked him for facts, not a sob story. Although he knows the facts, knows exactly what Luthor did and how Conner reacted to it. It was all written down minutely, along with speculations and thoughts for further experiments.

"I don't want to go back," Conner blurts out, small and weak and entirely out of line. He has no control over his life. He does not get to make decisions. But even if he never gets anything else in his life, Conner cannot just let them put him back there.

He does not want to look at Clark, does not want to see the rejection, the disdain, but he forces himself to. It is usually better to know what is coming for him.

Eyes narrowed, Clark tells him, "Nobody will make you go back."

This is important, so Conner leans forward, closer than he would normally ever willingly get to Clark. "If you can't trust me, then kill me," he pleads, voice cracking. "Don't lock me up again."

Clark freezes in place, staring at Conner like he did that first time down in the lab, when he found out that Conner was made with his DNA. At least it is how he looked before the anger set in.

"Conner," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. He clears his throat, then tries again. "I won't kill you."

"I don't mind," Conner insists, not even lying. "Just please don't lock me up there again."

Conner is no stranger to dying. He came close so many times and wished for it more often. He knows pain, knows having no control over anything that is happening to him. He would prefer death over all of that.

"Look at me, Conner," Clark orders but his tone is soft, more so than he has ever used with Conner. His hand hovers in the air, not quite reaching out for Conner but looking like he thought of it. "No one is going to put you back in a lab. No one will cuff you down or experiment on you. And no one will kill you either." After barely a moment of hesitation, he adds, "You're safe now."

Conner wants to laugh, but he is afraid of what will come out if he releases the pressure in his chest. He cannot afford to break down in front of Superman. "But I'm not," he argues, as if he does not know better. He is just so tired of waiting. "You said I'm not safe. You're here because, what? Because you think Luthor is giving me commands through my dreams? You think he built in a secret switch that will make me turn into a monster in my sleep? I can't even have nightmares without you suspecting me of doing something bad, so don't tell me I'll ever be safe."

He cuts himself off, out of breath, rubbing against the pain underneath his sternum. This is all wrong. They should have never let him live in the first place. They should have burnt the lab down and him with it, destroyed all of Luthor's data and experiments, eliminated the danger they think Conner poses. It would not have even taken much. He does not remember how long he had been on the table when the Justice League stormed the place. It should not have been hard to just snap his neck, to just leave him there. Surely, it would have been better than this, the dark expectations chaining him down, the waiting for him to break. They are just delaying the inevitable.

"I'm sorry," Clark says, at once quiet and strong. It cuts through Conner's spiralling thoughts like a blade, severing the thin thread that is holding Conner suspended in the air. Without it, he is falling.

"You don't get to say that." Conner wants to shout, to lash out. Instead, the words come out more like sobs, carved out of some hidden place inside his chest. "You don't get to pretend you're sorry when you wish I would have died down there like all the others." The other failed experiments. Conner's brothers. How he envies them, at times.

"I wasn't happy to find you down there, Conner. But that isn't your fault." Clark sounds earnest, his eyes never leaving Conner. And then he just keeps on lying, "I don't want you dead. And I won't hurt you."

Conner's eyes burn. It gets harder to swallow around the pressure in his throat. "I wish you would."

"What?"

He wants to curl up in shame, wants to close his eyes and make everything disappear. He has never said any of this out loud, but now he cannot stop it anymore. It feels cathartic to just let go.

"I'm tired of waiting for it," he admits. "I don't want to be afraid anymore."

Clark is suddenly right in front of him, reaching for something behind Conner, although there is nothing there but the wall. But he is raising both his arms and - and he is hugging Conner, pulling him close to his chest and putting his arms around him like Conner is something precious, something to be protected.

"I am sorry," Clark says quietly, and all Conner can concentrate on is the way the words vibrate against him. "And I promise I won't hurt you."

Everything is too much. The world, the memories, Clark's arms, not poised to hurt but holding him. Finally, the pressure gives and Conner dissolves into sobs and tears. And Clark just holds him closer.

---

Conner wakes up on the couch in the living room, curled up against someone big and warm. He does not want to open his eyes. This is the safest he has felt in as long as he can remember. Safer even than when he realized that he could run through the fields surrounding the farm until he lost sight of the house, and further still, and no one would stop him, no one would drag him back inside and lock him up.

Quiet voices filter in from the direction of the kitchen, sounding like Ma and Pa, which - between one heartbeat and the next, Conner is fully awake. If Ma and Pa are in the kitchen, that leaves precious few people who could be on the couch next to him.

It is Clark. Superman. Sleeping or dozing or pretending, one arm curled around Conner's shoulders, looking soft like he never has before where Conner could see him.

Conner cannot help but clam up. Every muscle in his body goes from relaxed to tense in the blink of an eye. Clark wakes up only a moment later.

"Conner?" he asks, sounding sleepy and altogether like he does not know where he is, who he is hugging close to his side. Yesterday, all Conner could think of was how much damage Clark would be able to do if he ever let himself go. Never would he have expected such softness. Not for him. "Is everything all right? Did you have another nightmare?"

Nightmares. Conner remembers. Clark came to assess whether he is a danger, then Conner had a meltdown and Clark hugged him. He also must have carried Conner inside and then stayed while Conner fell asleep.

"No," Conner says and is not quite sure which of Clark's question he is answering. He did not have another nightmare, but he is not quite convinced this is not a dream, that this might not turn ugly any moment now. He definitely is not all right. Has not been even once in his short, miserable life.

"You're awake," Ma calls from the door. Conner has never been gladder to see her. Now, he can untangle himself from Clark's hold and flee. There is surely some work to be done on the farm, something menial but physically demanding to make him stop thinking. Something far away from the house and Clark.

"I'm sorry," Conner says on reflex, only to have Clark tighten the hold on him.

"Nonsense." Ma clicks her tongue. "Breakfast will be ready in five. I'll expect you both at the table then."

"Yes, Ma," Conner and Clark say in unison, which makes Conner wince, waiting for a reprimand. Which never comes.

She turns back towards the kitchen but leaves the door open. It means nothing. They neither could nor would stop Clark from doing whatever he wants, but Conner still fixates on the small view he has of the hall, on the muffled noises filtering into the living room.

"I'm sorry for pushing you yesterday," Clark speaks up, still soft. "But I want you to know that I mean what I said. You're safe. From Lex Luthor, and from me, too. Nobody will lock you up, neither in a lab nor anywhere else. I'm overly cautious because I know what I can do. What I could do if I lost control. I shouldn't have put that on you."

Conner cannot meet Clark's eyes It is bad enough that they are still so close, that Clark will be able to feel his racing heartbeat instead of just hearing it.

"You don't have to apologize," he croaks out. Apologies are for people, not for failed lab experiments.

"But I do," Clark argues, no heat behind the words, no anger at being contradicted. "And I want to do better from now on."

Ducking his head, Conner says, "You've already done so much. You've given me a place to stay." He is sure he cannot take more attention from Clark. He is already balancing on the edge of panic attacks more often than not.

But Clark shakes his head. "There's more to life than being allowed somewhere. We're not family in the traditional sense, but I -" He trails off, breathes, waits for Conner to look at him. "I want to change things."

"You don't -" Conner tries to argue, but Conner cuts him off quietly.

"I want to," he says, looking like an entirely new person. Not hard like Superman on a mission, not kind like he is to victims after the fighting is over. No, something else. Something soft and self-assured at the same time. Something Conner is not sure he can trust. As if he read his mind, Clark adds, "You don't have to say anything. It's on me to show you I'm serious."

Conner has not yet liked many things people showed him or life has thrown at him. He does not want to fight anymore.

"Now," Clark exclaims and sound eager. "Let's go and wash our hands before Ma feeds our pancakes to the chickens."

Clark gets up from the couch and holds out a hand for Conner. There is something symbolic in that, something Conner is not sure he can trust. He wants to, though, wants it with all his heart. He breathes in, carefully does not think about all the times he has been disappointed before, and takes Clark's hand.

[blancheludis]

Whumptober 2024, Day 24: collapsed building

Fandom: DCU, Batman Characters: Tim Drake & Jason Todd Tags. Hurt Jason, Panic Attack, Collapsed Building, Injuries, Hospital, Protective Tim, Bruce is Not A Good Parent, Brothers, Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort

Summary:

"Where are we going?" Jason asks when they are out of the hospital and he realizes they missed the turn to the Manor twice.

Tim glances at him briefly, something shifty in the way takes his time to reply. His hands tighten around the wheel. Quietly, he offers, "My home."

"You moved out?" Jason asks, surprised.

"Two weeks ago." Jason's memory is a bit fuzzy, considering he had emergency surgery and spent a lot of time drifting in and out of consciousness. It could have been two weeks ago that that building collapsed on him and Tim got him out. Surely that is just a coincidence.

---

Jason has been here before. Darkness presses in all around him and the air is heavy with dust, clogging his lungs. Something is pinning down his midsection and he cannot see his legs, cannot feel the right one, either. Jagged pieces of rock and metal cluster around him, leaving a small pocket for his torso and head, but not enough to sit up, not enough to see anything other than debris. His helmet is cracked, but he cannot blame his lovely surroundings on messed up night vision. He knows what it feels like to be buried.

His chest constricts, which has nothing to do with anything physical holding him down and everything with panic shooting through him, stealing what little air he managed to get into his body.

He cannot move. He cannot see. He cannot breathe. He cannot think.

Distantly, he hears laughter. Crazed and loud, coming and going, one moment directly in his ear, the other far away but causing the building to shake. Metal rings out against metal, against stone, against flesh.

"No," Jason wants to say, a denial and a cry for help all in one, but he cannot hear anything other than Joker laughing and grave dirt piling up around him.

One of his arms is pinned out of his sight. The other flares with pain when he struggles to bring it up, to push against the stone encasing him. The pain pierces the fog in his brain a little, enough to think that, maybe, it is not the smartest idea to try and make the building around him move. But then his fingertips catch on something rough, the nail and skin breaking in his mad scratching and he is back in his grave, back to suffocating.

Darkness closes in, tugging at him. He wants to let go, wants to be anywhere but here, anything but buried once again. He has been taught to fight, though, not to give up.

So, Jason fights.

---

"-ood - hear me?" a voice rings out, weak and staticky.

Jason closes his eyes against it. He thought he heard voices in that burning warehouse, too, thought Bruce would come to his rescue. Nobody ever comes. Not for the likes of him. Every Crime Alley brat knows they are on their own. Jason just needed a bit longer to understand that lesson.

"Red Hood - you. We - longer."

The voice ebbs and flows. He knows it, even through the weak connection, although he cannot put a name to it. He is not entirely sure he wants to. Few people in his life would search for him, almost none of them good.

"We're coming - hear - not."

Are they coming or not? Jason thinks and laughs. Something shifts inside him as he breaks out into a coughing fit. And then something shifts around him, creaking ominously, pressing in closer.

He pushes against the stone. Pushes and pushes and pushes. Nothing happens.

His night vision is failing, greying out more and more. Or perhaps that is just his eyes. He does not want to close them, does not want to die here.

Well, Jason has rarely ever gotten what he wants.

---

Jason wakes up. His body feels like it is floating, wrapped up in something soft and warm. He does not trust it.

Before he opens his eyes, he feels into himself, feels the pressure on his chest and something throbbing in his abdomen. He tenses his legs and - sharp pain shoots through him, piercing the cloudy haze. Then another when he moves his right arm. He does feel all of his limbs, though. Pain is good. Pain means he survived more or less intact. For now, at least.

"Jason," someone calls, dissipating the low ringing in his ears.

Blinking his eyes open, the world needs a long moment to come into focus. He hears the beeping of the heart monitor before he can see it. Feels the hand on his arms before he realizes the voice was real.

Or, perhaps, he has really vivid hallucinations, because that is Tim Drake sitting at the side of his bed, his hair greasy and unkempt in a way he never is, an oversized sweater making him seem even smaller. Of all the people in the world, though, why would he hallucinate Tim? He has less reason to be here than Bruce. Less reason than all the rest of the batfamily put together.

Jason opens his mouth to say something, even if he has no idea what. He does not get past one mangled sound, scraping up the raw insides of his throat.

The upper part of the bed moves, pushing him into more of a sitting position. Then something hits against his lips. A straw. Water. It hurts, going down, but the coolness also soothes.

"Are you with me?" Tim holds the glass close, waiting. His tone is gentle, even in its exhaustion.

"What happened?" Jason asks, or some close approximation of it.

Tim seems to understand him nonetheless. "Remember the bank robbery? Well, the bank collapsed on you." He hesitates, his eyes flicking away for a moment. "We got you out, but you're pretty messed up."

We, he says, but Jason sees only him. He has no idea who we could be. Surely not Bruce. The old man would be glad if a bank finally did him in.

With effort, he pushes down all thoughts about Bruce. Only madness lies that way and he has had his fair share of that. Gritting his teeth, Jason asks, "Damage?"

Tim smiles, although it is a small, bitter thing, devoid of all humour. "Nothing permanent," he reassures dryly. "Well, we're almost matching now, since you lost a part of your spleen. And they had to patch up a few other holes in your insides and drain the blood out of your lungs." He shrugs, although his eyes are intent, never leaving Jason. "Other than that, a concussion, a few broken ribs, broken right arm and leg, broken hip. Your spine's intact. You're looking at a lot of time for recovery and rehab."

That last part comes out hesitantly, as if Tim knows that Jason will not stay down willingly as soon as he gets out of here. He cannot, really. Even if he has given up on his grand plan to bring Batman to heel, he has responsibilities. Red Hood needs to protect his people, even if he has no one to protect him in turn. Almost no one.

"What are you doing here?" It comes out more suspicious than intended, but Tim does not seem offended. He just looks tired. Jason does not know how long he has been out, but if he had surgery, it must have been a while. Somehow, he doubts Tim went home during that time, even if he cannot explain why.

Tim watches him, his face eerily blank, and Jason is sure he will get nothing but lies out of him. But then something shifts. Tim's shoulders slump and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I was close to the bank. When it came down -" He clenches his jaw and, just briefly, looks like Bruce when he gets angry. "You weren't answering your comms."

Jason never does. They are not a team. He is not a bat. He is just the remnant of a failed experiment. Silence on his end has never bothered anyone before.

"So what?" Jason scoffs, aiming for dismissal but falling painfully flat. "Good riddance, right?"

"No." Tim's vehemence is a surprise. This is the most fire he has shown since Jason woke up. The most life.  "Bruce is -" He exhales audibly. "You're his son."

Tim's entire posture screams that this is somehow important. He is leaning forward in his seat, his back in a rigid line, hands clenched around the sleeves of his hoodie. Even his face, which he usually has under ironclad control, is tense.

That is the only thing that keeps Jason from laughing. Instead, he says, his voice rough, "Not anymore."

Maybe he never really was, either. Things were frayed for a while even before Jason got himself murdered.

Dick told him that Bruce fell into a hole after Jason's death, that grief claimed him and almost pushed him past the point of no return. He cannot believe it, though, because Bruce never showed even a hint of relief that Jason came back. Perhaps he grieved the stupid kid Jason once was. Perhaps he grieved the possibilities that died with him. Grief out of love should look different, though. It should not hurt the person that left. 

"Yes, you are," Tim argues, almost beseeching. "He chose you. That should mean something."

Something about that feels off, a slight nagging in the back of Jason's mind. He is too out of it, too tired to chase it, however. Thinking about Bruce never does him any good. All expectations he had were crushed, all hope for nothing.

Jason drops his eyes and looks at the iv in the back of his hand instead, curls his wrist to feel it move. "You should know that Bruce forces the world into a specific mould," he says slowly, trying to put into words what he himself is struggling to believe. "Everything that doesn't fit gets cut off. I don't fit."

It hurts but it is the truth. There is no hiding from it. Jason came back wrong and they all drew their lines in the sand.

Tim reaches out, his hand appearing in Jason's line of view only to falter and drop to the bed like a forgotten tool. His voice, however, is strong, when he says, "You're my brother, then."

The words hit like a punch against his broken ribs. shifting something inside him that is already barely holding together.

"It doesn't work that way, Replacement." The name tastes bitter on his tongue. Tim and he are by no means friends, but Jason does not hate him anymore, either. He knows he was wrong to. He can admit that now.

Tim snorts and, when Jason looks up at him, smiles briefly, just a twitch of his lips. "Actually, legally, it does."

"Legally," Jason drawls, aiming to punch back, “I'm dead."

"But not really. We -" Tim shrugs, forces the movement to seem casual. Any other time, it might have been believable. "That doesn't matter right now. You need to get better."

Everything hurts, even through the pain medication he is certainly receiving. A building fell on him and his body will not let him forget it soon.

Still, he says, "If it hasn't killed me yet, it won't." Because that is true, too. Death is an old friend of Jason's. Despite everything, he does not seem eager to claim him.

Withdrawing slightly, Tim's posture becomes a close facsimile of his usual unbothered grace. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

Jason has not a single idea what he is supposed to do with that. Under the collapsed building, he thought he would never wake up. He definitely did not think he would wake up to someone sitting at his bedside or that this someone could ever be Tim. None of this makes sense. He would think Tim is a hallucination, but Jason would never imagine him this unkempt, this defeated.

"Go home, Tim," Jason all but orders. Whatever this is, it is just an interlude, a misstep. They are nothing to each other beyond having both been Robin once.

Something dark flits over Tim's face, there and gone again before Jason could hope to catch it.

"I'm going to get a nurse," Tim declares and gets up, reaching for the bed to steady himself. "They'll want to have a look at you, now that you're awake. Don't you dare move out of this bed until I'm back."

Those are the magic words to make Jason want to rip out the iv and jump out of the window. He would not get far with two of his limbs in casts. He knows that. He almost wants to try, anyway.

"You're not my keeper," he says instead, sullen, trying to push Tim away.

And Tim just smiles at him, small but genuine. "It looks like you need one."

---

A week passes in which Jason drifts in and out of sleep. The doctors keep telling him he is doing good progress. Inexplicably, Tim remains faithfully at his side almost constantly, only leaving when the staff tells him to or when Jason has examinations.

When the doctor tells them that Jason will be moved out of the ICU, Tim looks more relieved than Jason.

"Good," Tim says and follows after the doctor when she leaves.

Jason expects that to be it. For some reason, Tim stayed with him, working when Jason was sleeping, and bullying him into eating and drinking when he was not. Now that he is out of immediate danger, Tim must be done with him. Why would he not? It is time to return to the Manor. To the comfort of his own room and Alfred's cooking and perhaps even Bruce's presence. Still, a part of Jason stings at the obvious relief in Tim's tone.

Before he can examine that closer, however, he hears slightly raised voices outside of his door. Tim and the doctor.

"We advise against checking him out at this point," the doctor says with all the fraying patience of someone who should be used by now to patients who want too much too quickly.

"I know. I heard you," Tim replies dryly but with steel underneath the words. "And if anything changes, I'll bring him right back."

They are talking about him, Jason realizes. Specifically, Tim talks about getting Jason out of here. Which is what he wants, of course, but had expected to deal with himself.

"This isn't a hotel," the doctor snaps. "You can't just come and go as you want."

"Are you saying you won't treat him if it becomes necessary just because he felt unsafe and needed to get out?" Tim asks in a tone he must have learned from one of WE's lawyers. "I'm just asking, so we can choose another hospital next time."

"Sir. Who even are you?" The doctor's exasperation makes Jason smile, despite being as confused as her. "You left most of his details blank when -"

"I'm his brother," Tim says with all the icy conviction of someone used to getting their way. This time, it hits harder than when he told Jason the same thing. People say all kinds of lies in private. But there is no hesitation in his tone as he declares Jason family to everybody who is around to hear it. "And we value our privacy. Please finish whatever paperwork you need. We have to make a trip to the pharmacy before we can go home."

After that, everything goes quickly. A nurse comes in to free Jason from all the monitoring equipment and the iv. Then she tells him how to handle the casts and which movements he should avoid. The doctor, looking very much put out, explains his lingering issues and how he should deal with them as well as which medication he should use. Through it all, Tim stands at Jason's bedside, radiating smugness and exhaustion in equal measure, probably listening more closely than Jason does himself.

They help Jason into a wheelchair, ready to be rid of their particular strand of annoying.  Tim pushes Jason outside and leaves him sitting in a spot of sunlight as he goes to get the car. And then they are on their way home. Probably to Wayne Manor, which Jason wants to fight against. He can take care of himself. He does not want to deal with Bruce's anger and Damian's contempt and Alfred's coddling. He wants to crawl into his own bed and forget the feeling of being buried.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks a few blocks away from the hospital. He does not look at Tim but watches the streets outside.

"You are my brother," Tim repeats, daring Jason to argue. Which, of course, he does.

"I tried to -"

"I remember," Tim cuts him off, gentle despite the memory of Titan's Tower hanging in the air. "Guess what, you're not special. Damian tried to kill me, too. Doesn't mean I have to return the favour." His tone remains light, like it does not matter that their family is unbelievably messed up.

Jason does not know what to say to that. He does not think there is anything appropriate he could say. Tim is strange, always has been, more logic-driven than the rest of them, and a master of pushing anything else down and out of sight. He does not want Tim to suddenly remember that he should hate Jason, that he has a thousand reasons not to help him.

Instead, he keeps looking out the window, a nauseating mix of emotions turning in his stomach that he decides against examining too closely.

After they have missed their turn twice, Jason looks at Tim. "This is not the way to the Manor."

"No," Tim scoffs, half-amused, half-incredulous. "Didn't think you'd want to go there."

That is true, of course, although he did not expect Tim to care. And they are not going towards Crime Alley, either, so there goes the idea that Tim will just deposit Jason in one of his safehouses.

"Then where are we going?"

Tim glances at him briefly, something shifty in the way takes his time to reply. His hands tighten around the wheel. Quietly, he offers, "My home."

"You moved out?" Jason asks, surprised and yet also not.

"Yep," Tim says, popping the p like a gunshot and then does not elaborate. If he wants to make it sound like no big deal, he is not succeeding.

---

They park underneath some modern apartment building in downtown Gotham, as far away from Crime Alley and Bristol as possible.

As if he has done so a hundred times before, Tim gets the wheelchair out of the trunk and unfolds it before helping Jason into it, all without saying a single word. There is a lot of grunting on Jason's part and a quiet look of concentration on Tim’s face. But Jason has a feeling Tim is not in the mood to answer questions, even if Jason is burning with them.

They take an elevator to the penthouse - of course - but when they get out, there are people coming and going, carrying boxes and furniture.

There is only one door, however, and Jason has to ask, "You sure you got the correct address? Seems like someone's moving in."

Tim glares at him, but even that lacks heat. He is really going out of his way to not argue with Jason.

"Is the guest room ready?" Tim asks one of the passing men, who does not seem surprised to see a kid walk around like he owns the place, pushing someone in a wheelchair who looks like he has been run over by a train. Or had a building collapse on him. Jason hopes they are paid enough not to care.

"Yes. The doc said she'd be back in an hour, but everything should be up and running."

Tim inclines his head with a tired smile. "Thank you."

They keep moving. The apartment is still rather empty, but as they pass several doors, Jason catches glimpses of half-built furniture, of blinding white rooms slowly being filled.

Suspicion rises in Jason and he twists to look at Tim. "When did you move out of the Manor?"

The smallest twitch pulls at Tim's lips, not really amused, but at least a break from his suffocating professionalism. "Two weeks ago," he admits, sounding slightly sheepish. "I crashed in one of your safehouses when the hospital had enough and threw me out."

Jason's thoughts are racing. None of this makes sense. The timeline is pretty mangled up in his head, considering he spent days more or less unconscious. Two weeks ago could have been the robbery. Two weeks ago could have been when he was hospitalised. He does not remember anything else that could be an explanation. Jason might not be very involved with the bats but he surely would have heard about a breaking-point argument between Bruce and his prodigal son. But Jason cannot be the reason, either.

"Why?" he demands, sharper than he intended, but he really does not like not knowing what is going on. "You had a fight with B and then decided to latch onto me when I couldn't say no?"

Tim stills, just briefly, but noticeably enough. Finally, he says, "Something like that."

Jason's hand flies to the brakes of the wheelchair. Once they come to a stop, he twirls around, looking up at Tim with a glare. "No, Tim," he snaps, almost an accusation. "Tell me."

And Tim looks back at him, still enough that Jason knows he is anything but calm inside. It does not do anything to get rid of his sudden suspicions.

Haltingly, Tim offers, "I had a fight with B over whether or not you need our help. He agreed to disagree and left." He shrugs, although there is nothing casual in the gesture. "I didn't."

The rumbling pain underneath Jason's sternum is wholly unappreciated. He knows Bruce has given up on him. He knows Bruce would have preferred he stayed dead instead of coming back like this. He knows they are not family anymore. Yet, he can never really accept that, can never really get over the instinctive sense of betrayal and loss.

"So, what?" he pushes, wants to be angry about it. "You moved out for me?"

"Not just for you." Pointedly, Tim resumes pushing the wheelchair until they get to a sunny room that looks, if not friendly, at least complete. "I had them make up the guestroom first, since you won't be able to move around easily. Tell me if something's missing. Tam helped organize most of the furniture."

The room is made up tastefully, coloured in gentle blues. But the walls are bare and it is all too shiny, too clean.

"It looks like it's out of a magazine," Jason says as if he cares about any of that. As if anything is important other than finding out what got into Tim. What had him leave his home only to spend time with Jason of all people, rescuing him, even.

"It probably is," Tim admits easily. "I didn't give her much time."

No, he apparently did not. "Two weeks to furnish an entire apartment," Jason says flatly, trying and failing to hide his growing confusion.

Tim shows himself entirely unaffected. As if there is nothing to it, he says, "And to find the apartment."

Jason stares, but there is no getting past Tim's facade. "You're serious."

Finally, a hint of irritation pulls at Tim's expression. "Don't flatter yourself, Jason. This has been a long time coming. You've just been a convenient catalyst."

Things have not been going well for years now in the Wayne family. Probably not since Jason died. But Tim is the one person amongst all of them who always seems to be in control, to have his shit together. He makes juggling work and patrol and being a Wayne look easy, even if he might lack a healthy social life. They all do, though.

"Why?" Jason asks, even though he is not entirely sure he will like the answer.

"Because Bruce is suffocating. And once he's made up his mind about something, there's no arguing with him," bursts out of Tim. Then he straightens, pulls his expression back into something calm. "You're family, Jason," he says and sounds like he means every word. "He doesn't get to change that."

"That's not -"

That is as far as Jason gets before Tim talks right over him.

"Yes, it is," Tim insists, not a hint of doubt showing. "Because you were right, I was your replacement, and it was only ever meant to be temporary. I used to be glad that it wasn't, but not if being family hinges on so many conditions."

Tim does not sound bitter about calling himself a replacement, but his expression cracks at the end, as if the thought of their family not sticking together for the sake of being a family is a worse crime than expecting to be discarded as soon as someone better comes along.

The thing is, Jason understands that. He did not believe Bruce had good intentions when he was first picked up from the streets. He did not think someone could help him just like that or that they could grow into family. To have that thrown back at him when he needed his father most is a wound he will never completely get over, no matter how much he buries himself in anger and work. Perhaps it was naive to believe that Bruce would do better with the children that came after Jason. That Bruce could get over himself, over his own trauma.

He understands Tim, but that does not mean he is ready to be pulled back into this entire mess. He barely got out the first time. Not alive, at least.

"So, you decided to kidnap me and make up a happy family of our own?" Jason asks, more an accusation than an honest question.

Tim turns away from him towards the bed and pulls at the blanket, attempting to fix something that is already perfect. "Don't make it sound creepy," he says, keeping his face hidden. "I can bring you back to the hospital right now."

Jason does not look away even for a moment as he replies, "I can just go home."

There is just the tiniest hint of a wince. More a tensing of Tim's neck and shoulders. It is enough. It tells Jason all he needs to know. Right now, Tim needs him just as much as Jason has needed someone a hundred times before.

"And die in the middle of the night with no one noticing?" Tim scoffs, quickly regaining his balance. Out of all of the Wayne children, he is the best at this game.

Jason tries to cross his arms but abandons the movement when he remembers the cast, jarring his broken bone. "I've been told I'm stable," he says, keeping the jolt of pain out of his voice.

Finally, Tim looks back at him, his mask reassembled. "Yeah, until you have the next nightmare and jump out the window during a panic attack."

Jason does not remember his rescue, does not remember being cut out of the collapsed building, but he guesses it was ugly. Caught between his broken body and the phantom weight of grave dirt in his lungs, there is no way Jason went quietly. And Tim was there to witness it all.

He wants to lash out, to demand answers about what happened, to push down the memory as far as it can go. Instead, he says, so flat it is almost sharp again, "It's not your job to save me. I can save myself."

"But do we have to?" For a moment, Tim sounds so vulnerable that Jason is taken aback, that he almost overhears the we. "Anyway, I'm not locking you up. You're free to go whenever." But I don't want you to, hangs in the air, unspoken but heard. "You'll miss Alfred's cooking."

"Alfred?" Jason asks, surprised, craning his neck as if Alfred is going to come around the corner any moment now. In the privacy of his mind, he can admit that he would not mind that.

Still, he does not miss the way Tim relaxes, almost as if he thinks this battle is won. It is not. Jason will get answers, and if he does not like them, he will talk to Bruce, his own issues be damned.

"He terrorized the poor movers into building the kitchen just right," Tim explains, then smirks. "Politely, of course."

Of course. Alfred is nothing but polite. That has never stopped him from getting what he wants. On the contrary.

Jason briefly closes his eyes and just breathes. Then, he lets reality back in. "All right."

Tim freezes. "What?"

"All right, I'll stay," Jason says, like he never put up a fight. "For now. Honestly, everything hurts, and I'll gladly not make pharmacy runs myself."

Something unclenches visibly in Tim, although he tries to hide it. His expression warms, as he steps back towards the wheelchair. "Into bed with you, then," he orders with audible cheer. "Leslie will come by later, and you will do everything she says."

Tim pushes the wheelchair to the edge of the bed and clicks the brakes into place, but then he takes a step back, allowing Jason to do this on his own terms. That, perhaps more than any words before, let Jason make his decision. He is still not sure what to make of the funny feeling inside of him when Tim called him brother, but maybe it is not a bad thing. At the very least, he can let his bones mend in comparable luxury. That is it.

But then Tim lingers in the door, looking him over with concern and he does not even try to hide it.

"You've got a bell," he says and points to Jason's side. "Use it if you need anything."

There are a hundred jokes Jason could make here, a hundred opportunities to abuse this. Instead, he finds the small button that has been carefully put on the nightstand and shows it to Tim.

"Thank you," Jason says, honestly and careful about it. He means more than just the bell, and they both know it.

Tim twitches, uncomfortable but also pleased. "You're welcome."

And, perhaps, Jason really is.

[blancheludis]

Thank you Word. That's exactly what I meant to say.

[blancheludis]

100. Productivity

[blancheludis]

Whumptober 2024, Day 23: Forced Choice

Fandom: Star Wars: Clone Wars Characters: Fox, Thorn, Thire, Cody, Palpatine Tags: Hurt Fox, Corsucant Guard, Abuse, Family, Betrayal

Summary:

The posting on Coruscant is a disappointment. After years of training for battle, Fox is expected to stand guard over politicians and do paperwork. Little does he know, he just entered a battlefield of a different kind. His men are gathering scars just like their brothers on the frontlines. And Fox will give his all to protect them.

- Commander Fox and the making and breaking of family.

---

The posting on Coruscant is a disappointment. After years of training for battle, years of learning strategy and troop management and how best to kill and die, Fox is expected to stand guard over politicians and do paperwork. After years of being moulded to work with the Jedi, Fox is not going to get one.

Shame burns in his core as his batchmates talk excitedly about their assignments and their Generals, but when they laugh at him, he gives as good as he gets. They were made to serve, so he will, in whatever capacity they think suits him best.

---

Nothing could have prepared Fox for Chancellor Palpatine. The most powerful man in their galaxy, who swings between being a genial old man and a serrated blade, whichever will serve him at any given moment. He sends people to oversee the Coruscant Guard moving in and summons Fox at his earliest convenience to welcome him. He apologizes for the bare state of the Guard HQ, the blank duracrete walls, the cramped, underground space, but offers a smile when Fox assures him there is nothing wrong with it. It feels like he has passed some kind of test.

Everything else - the work, the senators, the entire city - is not as welcoming. And, of course, everything goes downhill from there.

---

"What's on your mind, Commander?" the Chancellor asks during a meeting three months into Fox' service on Coruscant.

They meet often, more often than Fox thinks is necessary, but it is not him calling the shots. Palpatine likely just wants to get a feel for the men here to keep him and the Senate safe. The brothers have been bought and paid for, trained to be the best, but there have never been any outside inspections during their training. It only makes sense that stricter supervision is necessary for them to work more smoothly together in the future.

Still, the Chancellor always wants to know what Fox is thinking, whether everything is all right.

"Nothing I can't handle, sir," Fox reassures with perfect nonchalance. He stands at attention in front of the Chancellor's desk. Palpatine has not given him permission to stand at ease. He forgets, often. An oversight, surely, considering he is not a military man but a politician.

"Nonsense." Palpatine smiles and leans back in his seat. In moments like this, it looks more like a throne than an office chair. "I want us to work together well, Commander. Part of that is being honest with each other."

Honesty, Fox has learned early on, is dangerous. The trainers never wanted honesty but results. They also instructed the clones to always do as they are told.

Fox locks his muscles, impossibly, more as he regards the Chancellor through the safety of his helmet. He needs to make a decision here. In the end, however, there is hardly a choice. 

"A few of the Red Guard keep bothering my people," he admits slowly. The natborns have made their dislike of the sudden presence of clones very clear ever since they arrived. And since they outrank the clones, there is little Fox can do against them, other than brief his brothers to be on their best behaviour at all times, to never go anywhere alone, and to let things happen. "Two of my troopers are currently in the medbay."

One of them talked back when he should have just swallowed the insults and tried to walk away. The other did not get up fast enough when the Red Guard tripped him, so they pulled him into an impromptu bout of training. Neither of them will be fit for duty for the week.

"Ah." Palpatine nods sagely, his eyes piercing Fox as if searching for something. "I see how you could perceive this as a problem."

Fox stills even before the words fully register. Something in the air has changed, like a predator has entered while he was looking in the other direction. Could, the Chancellor said, as if there is a big but hanging between them. Could, as in is not.

Within days of arriving at Coruscant, Fox has realized that this posting will not be as easy as his batchmates have prophesized. Yet, this rather incongruous meeting seems suddenly dangerous. 

"Sir?"

"Well, my dear CC-1010," Palpatine drawls Fox' name with sudden disdain, the corners of his lips curling up just so as if he smelled something burnt. The kind, grandfatherly man is gone, replaced by something sharp-edged. "Such a thing would be unacceptable if you and your men were sentients. Tensions are running high in the galaxy, thanks to this ghastly war. It is only understandable that some frustration needs to be let out. I think we should be thankful that the Red Guard decided to do so in a constructive manner. Imagine if they were to pick on actual people."

Fox can do nothing but stare. He has never been gladder for his bucket than he is in this moment. This is wrong. His first thought is that someone must have poisoned the Chancellor. That, or mind control. They have met at least once a week since Fox has arrived on Coruscant and never before has there been such malice in Palpatine's eyes, such potential for cruelty in the air. How could he have missed this? All the brothers have been taught to be wary of natborns, of their fragile place in this world. The sole reason they exist is to die so that real people will not have to. For some reason, Fox had begun to forget that.

"Is there a problem, Commander?" Palpatine asks, hissing the title in the same way other natborns say clone.

Fox' posture never wavered, yet he attempts to straighten. There is only one answer to give. "No, sir."

"Good." Just like that, Palpatine's face smooths back into something soft as if he never slipped. Only his eyes remain cold. "I've decided to take a genial approach with you. You do fill an important role here on Coruscant and I want our partnership to be fruitful. But don't think that I cannot take away everything I am giving you."

Fox swallows. "Understood, sir."

---

He had not. Understood, that is. Of course, he has heard civilians call him and his brothers flesh droids. Of course, he knew that they were bought and paid for, nothing more than a product to be used as cannon fodder. Of course, he has run into problems at every corner while trying to do his job because people like to test their limits. But knowing something and being confronted with it in such clear terms are two very different things.

There were signs. The headquarters the Coruscant Guard was assigned are terribly depressing. Bare duracrete walls and floors, cramped spaces, far enough down that they never see the sun other than when on duty outside. It is only marginally better than the prison they guard.

Things are falling into place, however. What Fox thought to be starting problems or organizational defects might just be the new norm. So, he sits down in his shoe-box office, gathers his notes on all the incidents that have happened, all the issues he heard his brothers talking about, and plans. They are not in power here, but Fox will be damned if he does not protect his men as best as he can.

---

Once a month, like clockwork, Fox and his batchmates meet for a vid call. Not everybody makes it all the time - there is a war happening, after all - but the familiarity of it is comforting. Less so is the way his brothers' jokes keep getting sharper, turning against Fox more than including him. In part, he can understand it. They are out in the galaxy fighting, losing brothers. He has tried to explain that things are not just sunshine and boredom here on Coruscant either, but they do not want to listen. He has stopped trying. As a result, he starts to talk less. Hearing his brothers has to be comfort enough.

They are going on about what crazy manoeuvres their Jedi Generals get up to in battle when Fox' gauntlet pings with an incoming message from his CMO. Fox barely swallows his sigh. He seldom received good news from the medbay.

"What's up with you, Fox?" Cody asks, always too observant. "Is your cushy desk job already getting to you?"

With effort, Fox does not show them his office. Nothing is cushy about this place. But they are stationed on cramped Venators with a lot more men, so he really should not compare their situations. 

"Nothing," he says instead, opening up the message instead of looking at his batchmates. "Just got a report from my CMO."

Wolffe's laughter grates, but Fox guesses it is supposed to. 

"Of what? Your boys getting too many papercuts?" A frown is audible in Cody's voice, but Fox still does not look up, does not want to see whether Cody is smiling, too. 

"Maybe the trainers did choose the right assignments," Wolffe cuts in, sharp and aiming right where it hurts. "I don't imagine they could handle being actually shot at if that's what you're whining about."

Fox currently has six people in the infirmary, two of them with broken bones. Last week, the Chancellor had him sign off on a reconditioning request for one of his troopers who took a blaster bolt for a senator because he did not stop the attack from happening in the first place. Fox actually begged Palpatine to reconsider. Only to receive a hard glare and a, we have exacting standards for our Guard and we can't let that slip just because you think it's hard to do your duty.

He does not say any of that, does not think his batchmates will hear him. They keep going on about Fox' comfortable assignment. Not, he knows, out of jealousy. Not even pity. Their realities are just so vastly different now. They are losing brothers in battle. Fox trying to keep the angry Red Guard at bay and, almost more impossible, keep demanding senators happy is nothing compared to that.

"Just a mission gone wrong," he finally answers, carefully.

"Mission," Cody repeats, doubt dripping from his lips. "It's babysitting. My general has a few choice words to say about politicians. They do need a lot of handholding."

Fox excuses himself soon after. He loves his batchmates. Since leaving Kamino, he has learned that not every battlefield looks the same and, already, his men are gathering scars that they will never be able to show off like their brothers from the frontline battalions do. Lines are being drawn in the sand. Not just between the Separatists and the Republic or even between clones and natborns. No, already, the Coruscant Guard feels lightyears away from the GAR, and only one side is doing the pushing.

---

During the next vid call with Fox' batchmates, Thorn comes in, barely pausing to knock. He is holding himself stiffly enough that Fox rises immediately. Everything is wrong all the time, but they have quickly come to develop a sense for when things are dangerous.

"I need to go," Fox says absentmindedly, waving at the camera, dismissively more than in goodbye. He had not really been part of the conversation anyway.

"What? Fox." Cody has always been good with wielding disappointment as a weapon. "You've cancelled on us the last two times and now you're running out early? Are you that desperate to pretend you actually have to work down there?"

Fox does not even pause as he picks up his helmet and seals it into place, glad to hide his face, even though he knows he is not showing any particularly damning expression. Regular meetings with the Chancellor have given him more practice in remaining unreadable than the Kaminoans ever could.

"Stay safe," he tells them. He barely even notices it anymore that they never say it back. Any why would they? He is doing nothing more than sitting behind a desk, pushing flimsi around.

As soon as he cancels the call, he falls into step next to Thorn.

"The Red Guard has Triple. Some senator wanted to -" Thorn pauses, looks at the empty hallway around them and still reconsiders, "examine him and he refused."

Fox curses, quickening his step with his heart hammering in his ears. Refusing an order is a deed worthy of decommissioning. It would not be the first time it happened either.

"How bad?"

"He's demanding a flogging," Thorn reports, not a hint of what he feels in his voice.

A flogging. Which, if the Red Guard doles out the punishment might just have the same result as decommissioning, only it will spare them all the expenses of flying Triple out to Kamino. Fox can only see two ways this will not end with a dead brother on his hands. As Triple's superior, he can accept the punishment himself - the Chancellor wants him alive, for now, and the Red Guard knows it - or he has to be the one to flog Triple. Both options grate at his honour. Both will just draw firmer lines into the duracrete ground that is the battlefield of the Coruscant Guard.

When they arrive at the scene, Fox' stomach twists into knots. Triple is on the ground, held down by two Red Guard. His bucket is on, but he holds himself stiffly enough that they must have gotten some punches in already.

"Senator," Fox greets with all the unaffected politeness he learned at the Chancellor's feet. "Might I inquire what happened here?"

The senator is all but frothing at the mouth. "Your dog refused a simple order. It clearly doesn't know its place."

Gritting his teeth, Fox makes a show to turn towards Triple. "Report."

Even half-lying on the ground, instinct makes Triple straighten his posture as much as possible. "The senator asked me to remove my armour, which I deemed unsafe in case of an attack," he answers, calm, methodically.

This is what they are here for, to keep Coruscant in general and the Senate in particular safe. And they have protocols for these kinds of incidents.

The senator, of course, does not care for protocol. "Don't waste my time with excuses," he spits. Some of his anger likely comes from having been caught. Nobody asks what happens to clones in dark corners, out of sight of everybody else. "You should do as you're told."

Time to do damage control. "CT-4744, report to the brig and I will -"

"No," the senator interrupts, voice cold enough to burn. "This will be done now."

With that, he holds out his walking stick, a heavy, ornamental thing, more of a statement than an aide. The Red Guard on Triple's left takes it willingly, eyes glinting with a malicious hunger that has Fox' stomach doing summersaults.

Fox steps forward, too hastily. He tries to make up for it with a deferential nod to the senator. "With your permission, CT-4744 is my subordinate. I will correct him."

The air is tense enough to crack with one wrong movement. 

"His failure is your failure. You should be punished right next to him." Then the senator takes in Fox' impeccable posture and waves dismissively. "But all right. Proceed."

Fox very carefully does not react other to look at Thorn. "Commander CT-2685, get me a whip from the prison."

The senator's sudden, ugly smile tells him his attempt is doomed, even before he speaks. "You already have a tool at hand."

"Sir," Fox says, pouring all his energy into being respectful. "If I used your cane, I'm afraid CT-4744 would be unconscious before he could learn the lesson." It will not work. It never does.

"Don't test my patience, clone. I think getting beaten until he's unconscious sounds like appropriate motivation to do better in the future."

There goes what little power Fox has, there goes his choice of tools and the extent of the punishment, all in one careless strike. With hands he carefully wills not to shake, he takes the heavy cane. "CT-4744, take off your armour."

Triple moves without hesitation. Right before he unseals his bucket, he says over their internal comms, "It's all right, Commander. Thank you for trying."

Fox is numb as he waits, thinking this is the perfect metaphor for their existence. Little by little, Coruscant strips them of everything they had, their names, their armour, their dignity, and it forces them to grind each other down. They had always known they would be fighting a war, dying for the Jedi and the Republic, but they thought they could protect each other while doing it, brothers having each other’s' backs. It is just not fair that they are forced to turn on each other. Clones, of course, have no right for fairness. They have been made to serve and die. Everything else is already a bonus.

"Get on with it," the senator demands, impatient like even this, a beating at his behest, is an imposition.

Fox breathes, encases his heart in armour, and lifts the cane.

---

Senator Amidala holds a passionate speech about the cost of war, both in a monetary manner and in regards to life, customs and societal principles. The Senate can only do something about one of these matters.

A week later, Fox is presented with a rather impassionate decree detailing the budget cuts he will have to deal with. They will be down to half-rations and no water showers at all instead of just cold ones. Their leave money is cut. Requisitions for medical supplies as well as replacement equipment, armour and weapons will, from now on, undergo careful consideration, which Fox knows means they will be denied more often than not.

Amongst all the sharks in the Senate, Senator Amidala is one of the few good ones. She even seems to view the clones as people. That does not keep her from doing damage, intentional or not.

That night, Fox breaks one of his own rules and helps himself to a bottle of the illegal moonshine his men have brewing in the barracks. Thorn meets him in his office later. They have quickly given up on cursing their circumstances and turned to finding solutions that will get the most of their brothers through this alive. So, they allow themselves one glass each and then turn to the paperwork. They will have to make this work.

---

"Perhaps I've been growing too lax with you, CC-1010," Palpatine drawls after he left Fox standing at attention for two hours while he kept on working.

"Sir?" Fox asks, immediate and obedient, just a tool at his master's heel.

He has quickly learned not to let his mind wander when in the Chancellor's presence. He seems to have a sixth sense for that, only waiting for the right moment to strike.

"You've been slipping. Just last week, you missed the deadline for two reports." Palpatine pauses, studying Fox. Then, with something Fox might have mistaken as regret once, he adds, "And the Red Guard keeps telling me about incidents with your men."

Yes, Fox thinks, because the Separatists have won some battles and public opinion has not been favourable to the clones, who are supposed to win the war for them instead of being a drain of resources and having the audacity to die without results. Why would they not want to work their anger out on people - sorry, clones - who dare not lift a finger to protect themselves?

He swallows all of that down, ignores how it scrapes like shards of glass.

"My apologies, Chancellor."

"Your apologies are worth nothing. I think another lesson is in order. Come in."

Six Red Guard enter, each looking too eager, their electrostaffs already in hand. Fox barely has a chance to brace himself before Palpatine gestures lazily at him, the order clear. The door has not even fully closed when he has to dodge the first punch.

The lessons vary. Sometimes Palpatine just has Fox kneel as he gives his reports, sometimes he calls in Red Guard, sometimes he does not allow Fox to defend himself. The rules for these encounters were never laid out and if Fox missteps, there are consequences. His military rank has no meaning. He is not a person. Palpatine keeps him around as a useful tool and occasional entertainment. Fox is bleeding himself dry, sometimes literally, to keep his men safe in a place that spares not a single kind thought for them. In fact, that is the one thing that has him get up every day, feeding himself back into the hungry, merciless machine that is the Republic.

After, broken and barely clinging to his sanity, he thanks the Chancellor and leaves the office, going back to work as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.

---

Raising Thire to the rank of Commander was, perhaps, a too optimistic move. Most of the time, however, Fox feels like he is moving through molasses, drowning in everything the galaxy throws at him. They are losing too many men, forcing the rest to work double shifts more often than not and on far too meagre rations. No matter how accurately they stick to the rules - both open and unspoken - someone will always find fault in them, resulting in more loss, more wounded than they can handle. Triage was always supposed to be defined by severity of condition, not by the sad limits of their medical supplies.

Thire has somehow managed to hold on to admirable energy. He looks at Fox and does not dismiss him as someone tired, someone hurting, someone unable to do his job. He just steps up and refuses to let things break.

The moment he learns about Fox' special sessions in the Chancellor's office, he instals a system. Brothers are everywhere and the Coruscant Guard is nothing if not loyal. They look out for each other, and now they keep an extra eye on him and when he has to go to Palpatine's office, how long he is there, how straight he manages to keep himself after.

Fox has always been sneaky, but now he rarely manages to limp back to his office in peace to lock himself in with his work, without Thire already waiting for him, taking the decision off his hands whether he will accept medical assistance and whether to prioritize sleep over finishing his work.

The first time Thire took it upon himself to delegate some of the never-diminishing flimsiwork on Fox' desk to Stone and Thorn, and then all but carried Fox to his bunk, pushing him down under threat of sedation, Fox yelled himself hoarse - which admittedly did not take very long, considering that Palpatine likes to hear him scream.

Fox is their Marshal Commander. He exists to protect them, not the other way around. By now, however, he knows he will never be able to do it on his own. He will gladly let the Red Guard beat him into a pulp, he will gladly get up from the ground as many times as Palpatine wants him to, but even when he throws himself at the wolves, there are always more circling and he cannot have his eyes everywhere, cannot hold every front himself.

Thorn used to ask Fox to be allowed to help. Thire skips that step and easily forces everybody into compliance.

---

After Tano escapes and their ranks get even lighter - Fox' shaking signature on too many decommissioning requests - Fox stops trying to scrounge up energy for social calls from his batchmates. He cannot stomach Cody looking down at him or Wolffe's biting remarks or Bacara's dismissing jokes. It has been ages since he deigned to raise to the bait - why bother to defend himself when their opinion is as unmoveable as that of the senators who see them as nothing but flesh droids - but he simply does not have it in him anymore to make light of the Guard's situation. If they want to pretend Fox never had to make a hard decision since being deployed, he is too tired to prove them wrong. If they do not want to listen to him, then he will just not speak.

Time passes and Fox pretends not to notice when infrequent calls fade to no calls at all.

---

Then Fives happens. 

The clones have been created to fight the war, to protect the Republic, but Fox can admit to himself that his goal is to protect his brothers. 

Fives attempts to kill the Chancellor and Fox is given a choice that is no choice at all. Fives is one of Rex' men. Fox has been rejected by his brothers but he knows he will never let them go, in turn. The choice is impossible, unfathomable. One brother for all the brothers under his protection, brothers who live and breathe the same suffering as he does, who know hell intimately and still stand unflinchingly at his side, no matter how bad it gets. One brother, who thoughtlessly condemns them, against all the rest. There is only one way this can go.

Fox chooses and he chooses wrong, but only because there is no right choice here. He hates himself for taking the shot. He would do it all over again.

---

Cody storms into Fox' crammed office, tall and righteous in his fury. Fox knew he was coming. Just like he protects his men, his men protect him. They do not stand in the path of a raging Marshal Commander, but they let Fox know his doom is on the way. Fox tucks a casualty report out of sight under a stack of flimsi and just tries to breathe when his door is pushed open.

"How dare you?" Cody starts yelling before he is fully in the room. "We've all known you've lost your way, growing comfortable in your cushy planet-side assignment, arresting vode for the crime of celebrating they're still alive when you've never, not once in your miserable existence, experienced what it's like to be in real danger. But this? Killing a vod?

Fox has never seen Cody like that, not even back on Kamino when Priest had set eyes on brothers too close to home. He gets to his feet, careful to keep the movement fluid. He is hurting all over, curtesy of another lesson that the Chancellor, for once, had the mercy to call what it was, punishment.

"Are you not even going to say something?"

What could Fox ever say? He killed a brother. He broke the first promise they ever made to each other. His reasons are not important. The Chancellor of the Republic told him to kill Fives and he did. That is all.

"Dar'vod," Cody hisses and it hits like a blaster bolt, hits like the trigger giving way under Fox' finger.

Fox flinches and does not hide it. Despite all lessons they ever had on Kamino, this is something he learned on Coruscant; flinching, cowardice.

"You're not my brother," Cody says, as if the message was not clear the first time.

He steps forward, around the desk, pushing into Fox' personal space. Fox sees the punch coming and does not even attempt to dodge. Pain blossoms as he feels something break. The force behind the blow throws him backwards, makes him stumble. He allows himself to go down.

On your feet, clone, Palpatine's voice echoes in Fox' ears. But this is not a lesson. This is a break, a disavowal. This is Fox losing his family because of a decision he made to protect his family.

Cody glares down at Fox, still burning with a rage that makes his face blur into something unfamiliar, something finite.

Fox knows violence intimately, so he waits for the next punch, for Cody to take him apart. Instead, Cody does something worse.

"Don't come close to my brothers ever again, CC-1010," he says, too angry to be detached. 

And then, never once looking back, he leaves.

[blancheludis]

Whumptober 2024 Day 18: unreliable narrator

Fandom: Star Wars: Clone Wars Relationship: Fox / Quinlan Vos Characters: Fox, Quinlan Vos, Thorn, Cody Tags: Institutional Abuse, Hurt Fox, Dubious Consent (nothing graphic), Miscommunication, Misunderstanding, Protective Cody

Summary:

The first time Vos asks him to bed, Fox feels the loss of something in his chest, so intense that he is frozen for a second too long, a second in which Vos' face scrunches up in displeasure that has Fox scrambling to make it up to him. It is stupid to feel betrayed. The clones were made to serve and even if the Coruscant Guard does not have a Jedi of their own does not mean that the Jedi cannot come to them and take what they are owed.

A feather light touch rips Fox out of his musings. Glove on gauntlet, no skin involved, yet it burns. "Is this okay?" Vos asks as if Fox can choose how to answer, as if there is anything acceptable to say other than yes, sir.

---

The first time Fox meets Quinlan Vos, they are hunting the same smuggler on the lower levels of Coruscant. Fox is rude at the interruption of his mission and then almost dies from shock when Vos reveals he is a Jedi. Vos laughs the entire thing off.

Later, Fox thinks that was a fitting start to their entire, unconventional relationship.

---

The second time they meet, Vos sticks around after they have arrested some weapons dealer. He leans against the wall, legs crossed, while Fox deals with the bureaucratic nonsense that is part of his job. When Fox is done and ready to return to his patrol, Vos falls into step with him.

"Why are you still favouring your shoulder, Fox?" he asks, completely out of the blue, his eyes trained on Fox with a weight Fox is not sure how to interpret.

It is surprising Vos even remembers that Fox hurt his shoulder. They were hardly working together during their smuggler hunt and almost came to blows over who would be the one to take the guy in - at least until Vos revealed his status as Fox' superior. He hid his pain then just as he is hiding it now. If he pays attention, however, little seems to escape General Vos' notice.

"I'm fully functional, General," Fox declares and straightens further, as if to prove his point. 

The last thing he needs is a Jedi doubting he can do his job. Things are hard enough as they are. The Guard does not need more scrutiny. They need several weeks of leave, a full medical check-up including a soak in a bacta tank, eight hours of sleep and three square meals a day. Thankfully, Fox is not prone to dream of impossible things. He has enough crushing him without it.

"That's not what I was asking." Vos’ eyebrows draw together in an unhappy frown. "Don't tell me you haven't been to see a medic."

For a moment there, he sounded like Thorn when Fox returns from the Chancellor's office only to go directly to his next posting. A strained shoulder is, of course, nothing compared to a correctional meeting with Palpatine.

"It's not bad enough to waste anyone's time over it," Fox says and hopes they can leave it at that.

Instead, Vos stops him with an outstretched arm. "Not so bad?" he echoes, tone disapproving. "It hurts you. I can see that. What if it slows you down and you hurt it again? What if you do something more permanent to it instead of just sucking it up and get someone to look at it?"

Fox has been trained to suck it up, and Priest carved that lesson even deeper long before he ever braved the hell of Coruscant.

"If I can't do my job anymore," he stills says, "I'll get decommissioned."

If that ever happens, Thorn will curse his very name for having to take over. But he will, because they have all the fail-safes in place that they can get away with. Protecting each other is all they have left. 

"Force," Vos breathes, glaring at Fox. "I know the Jedi stopped decommissioning, but that's still not something you should joke about."

Circumstances have led to Fox having a very dark sense of humour, but that is reserved for his vode - and not for very real issues he has to deal with every day. He is not sure he can believe General Vos if he says his brothers on the frontlines really do not have to deal with decommissioning anymore, but things are different on Coruscant. They always are.

Fox is glad he can hide behind his bucket; not sure he can keep the dismay completely off his face. He turns to fully face Vos, stands at attention "How can I help you, General?"

Vos frowns but does not press the matter. "I just wanted to compare notes on that bomber from a few weeks back. The Council is not happy that the guy is still out there."

"Of course." Work, Fox can do. He sends a message to his patrol partner that he will be late and leads Vos to his office. The sooner he can get rid of Vos, the better.

---

Each time Fox thinks Vos is done with them, he turns up again, always full of obnoxious energy, always turning his eyes where they have no business being. The smuggler ring has been taken down, the arms dealer told them about his contacts, the bomber has been arrested. They do not have any current business with each other, and yet Vos seems to be there every time Fox turns a corner.

The trooper at the front desk warns him that General Vos is here to see him and would not take no for an answer, so Fox checks that nothing incriminating is on his desk - casualty reports, reconditioning requests, summaries of how badly equipped the Guard really is - and waits.

"Good evening my dear," Vos greets as he comes in uninvited and sits down in front of the desk before Fox has even a chance to salute him. "I have a few questions."

That sounds ominous, and Fox really does not have time for any of this. But he inclines his head anyway. "Of course, General Vos."

"None of that, Fox." Vos clicks his tongue. "We're all friends here."

Friends, of course. Natborns are not friends with clones. Jedi are not friends with their subordinates. But Fox has enough experience with the whims of other people that it leaves him unfazed.

"The last time I was here," Vos continues, thankfully not interested in any kind of reply from Fox. "I saw a number of your men walking around with injuries."

Yes, because General Vos is the type of person who does not accept a no and, when told that Fox is unavailable, goes searching for him, not hesitating to invade the medbay and even the barracks. Fox knows that nowhere is actually safe for them, that nowhere is actually theirs, but it still leaves him with a bitter aftertaste to see how little their privacy is worth.

"Yes," Fox agrees evenly and does not add anything else. Vos has not yet asked a question and Fox will not voluntarily give up information that could be viewed as punishable weakness.

Of course, Vos does not let it go. "Why is that?"

Once trained for battle, Fox has learned the value of paper trails. Most of his men's injuries are never even documented, because only the kind of people care that would use those reports against them. 

"Mishaps during missions. Prison riots. Unhappy people in the street," Fox counts off, using what few official reasons they do have. All the rest - angry civilians, unhappy senators, cruel aides, neglect, corporal punishment - will remain secret.

"All right," Vos drawls, sounding like he does not believe Fox, which is never a good position to be in with a natborn. "None of that is good, of course, but why weren't they in medbay? Why weren't they adequately treated before being sent back to work?"

Because they have neither the manpower nor the supplies. Because at least half of these injuries were done under the specific instruction that the troopers were not to receive treatment for them. 

"They were in working condition."

Vos' presses his lips into a thin, unhappy line. "Fox," he says, like an admonishment. But no order follows. No demand.

So, Fox stands his ground and simply shoots back, "General Vos."

"I don't understand." Vos stares, eyes fixed on Fox' bucket as if he can look right through it. "You care for your men."

He does. He does and it will never be enough. Will never save them. Keeping all of that out of his voice he says instead, "We have a job to do." And too few men and too little protection to do it.

"Is there something I can do?"

Now it is Fox' turn to stare, thankfully hidden behind his armour. If the Jedi believe that the Guard cannot do their job, things will get so much worse.

Tucking all of his fears, all of his hopes and misgivings deep inside, Fox lies, "We have everything under control, sir."

---

"I've made some inquiries."

More questions? Vos has been haunting the Guard HQ often enough that most of the shinies have stopped jumping at his shadow. By now, he has become a frequent enough a visitor in Fox' office that it sometimes feels empty without him sprawling in the uncomfortable chair across the desk.

"General?"

It is always the same with them, Vos saunters into Fox' office - or the canteen, or the medbay, or Fox' room, and once, even, the hall outside the Senate floor, anywhere he can ambush Fox - and opens with a question or an observation, all of which are too close to issues Fox would like to keep close to his chest. He rolls his eyes when Fox salutes him and calls Fox terrible nicknames. But when he talks about the Guard's injuries or Fox' schedule or their threadbare equipment, there is always steel in his eyes, almost like he does not like what he sees and yet does not blame Fox for it.

"One of your supply shipments was apparently held up in transit," Vos says with a tone that clearly shows this is not the complete truth. "It should arrive within the week."

Fox knows for a fact that no shipment was delayed because all of his requests were denied.

"Thank you?" he says carefully, nonetheless. His mind, though, is whirling. What's your price? he wants to ask. When will you ask me to pay?

The waiting is often worse than the cost itself.

---

The first time Vos commands him to bed, Fox feels the loss of something in his chest, so intense that he is frozen for a second too long, a second in which Vos' face scrunches up in displeasure that has Fox scrambling to make it up to him. It is stupid to feel betrayed. The clones were made to serve and even if the Coruscant Guard does not have a Jedi of their own does not mean that the Jedi cannot come to them and take what they are owed.

"Would you take off your helmet for me, Fox?"

A question is on the tip of Fox' tongue but he was not made to ask for explanations. With wooden fingers, he pulls his bucket off and then stares somewhere over Vos' shoulder while Vos musters him in return. Nothing good ever comes from natborns demanding the removal of a clone's bucket. Or any part of armour, really. Worst, probably, is that he did not expect this. Dozens of people in the Senate are prone to taking liberties, they have become as used to that as they ever will. But General Vos appeared to be different. 

At first, they had a grudging working relationship, but then Vos had started to ask questions, about the barracks, the state of their medbay, the shift length, the clones' injury rate. He never seemed happy with Fox' answers. Now, as Vos is silently shifting ever closer, Fox realised all of that might have simply been a buyer's concern with the state of his product. The clones were made for war, but perhaps the Jedi are concerned with how much damage is done to their property, how quickly they are going through clones. Replacements do not come cheap, after all, although the Chancellor likes to tell him it is more economic to produce a new trooper than to try and fix a faulty one.

A feather light touch rips Fox out of his musings. Glove on gauntlet, no skin involved, yet it burns.

"Is that okay?" Vos asks as if Fox can choose how to answer, as if there is anything acceptable to say other than yes, sir.

Fox does not trust his voice to hold steady, however, so he simply nods.

Vos leans even closer, right into Fox's personal space, which has him go tense, fighting the urge to stand at attention. Then there are lips on his, soft and warm, just a light pressure, no demand waiting behind them other than the unspoken order hanging in the air.

For a long moment, Fox lets it happen, lets his mind drift and leaves his lips lax. Then he snaps into action. He knows this part, knows his duty. As his lips begin to move against Vos', he raises a hand to cup Vos' cheek, making note of every small noise, every miniscule change in expression. This is the most important thing, to know what the natborn likes and wants. Some of them are happy to bark orders, making it easy to disappear into his head and just go with the flow. Others like to be catered to. Fox does not know who Quinlan Vos will be, but nothing about him has been simple until now.

Then, of course, Vos withdraws, at once smiling and frowning.

The stabbing pain in Fox' chest can easily be attributed to anxiety, to worrying he has made a misstep. It has nothing to do with the loss of warmth, of potential. "General?"

Vos winces, frozen in place. "This is inappropriate," he mutters quietly, like a secret between them.

Yes, Fox thinks, please don't ruin what could have almost been a friendship. Or at least as much of a trusted partnership as there can be between Jedi and Clone. Instead, he says, voice carefully blank, "This is what you want it to be."

Vos' frown deepens, dark lines of unhappiness. "What do you want?" he asks as if that ever mattered.

To keep his men safe, to keep the stores stocked, to have enough medical supplies on hand. To sleep. To have one thing for himself.

Fox studies Vos, sees the want in his eyes, even though he holds himself back. The decision is easy then, to caress Vos' cheekbone with his thumb and to pull him back in.

"Oh, thank the Force," Vos mutters and Fox makes himself relax into the touch.

He can do this. He has done so a hundred times before. Admittedly not with someone he might have begun to care about, but the motions remain the same. He will lie back, do his part, and protect his brothers another day.

---

Vos always stays, after, sprawling out in Fox' tiny bunk bed, soaking up warmth, tracing Fox' scars with an expression Fox cannot quite read. Almost like he wants to erase them, or like he is angry that someone dared to touch what he considers his.

The few times he runs out on Fox, he offers quiet apologies, as if Fox actually has time to waste lazing around in bed. Like he wants to remain here even a minute longer. Like there are not a dozen other people waiting for him to do his job.

The even fewer times Fox dares to leave first - when there is an emergency that Thorn has to call him in for or, once, when the Chancellor summons him - Vos catches Fox' hand as he stands, pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

"I need this war to be over," he mutters.

Fox does not dare to ask What for? The clones were bred for war. He knows his batchmates sometimes talk about after like there ever will be one. Perhaps the frontliners need that to keep them going. Perhaps, for them, there will be an end, someday. Fox knows he will not see it. Most of the Guard will not.

He is tired enough that he does not even mind too much.

---

The thing is, Fox thinks he could enjoy this under different circumstances. If Vos were not a commanding officer. If Fox were not a clone. He never had the feeling that Vos likes to play power games. He just sees something he likes and takes it. Well, he apparently liked Fox and Fox is in no position to have a choice in anything. If Vos put his mind to it, he could woo anyone he liked. Fox, however, is convenient. Always on Coruscant - always busy, too, but not so much that he would deny a Jedi General his time. His commanders have quickly learned to shuffle around schedules whenever Fox is summoned to the Chancellor. There is no telling how long those meetings take. Or which state Fox is in when he comes out again. It is not too much of a hardship to do the same when General Vos saunters into the Guard HQ like the entire sad complex belongs to him, not just Fox.

Sometimes, Fox wishes that Vos were the jealous type. If he knew how much time Fox spends alone with Palpatine, he might want to do something about it. Of course, Palpatine only ever aims to hurt and he seldom touches Fox himself. This thing with Vos is something else entirely.

"You are distracted today," Vos says, stretched out, skin glistening after the exertion. 

Fox is always distracted, trying to keep a careful balance between being attentive enough for Vos and thinking about the real work he is missing.

"I'm sorry," he says nonetheless and forces some of the tension out of his body.

"Don't be," Vos dismisses, easy as always, like Fox is not here to please him. "Is there something I can help with?"

End the war? Or, even more impossible, get the Guard enough men and supplies so they can actually have normal shifts and sleep cycles.

"Just tired," Fox says instead. "I'll do better."

"You're already perfect." Vos sometimes says these impossible things that Fox cannot even begin to interpret. The Kaminoans wanted the clones to be perfect for the Jedi, but is this truly what they meant?

Fox lets his head sink on Vos' shoulder and pretends he wants to be here. Pretends he does not know that, sometimes, he actually does.

---

"Fox, my dear," Vos says by way of greeting before the office door is even closed behind him, not caring who might hear. "I brought medical supplies."

Fox straightens but fails to stand as the words register in his brain. "General?" he chokes out, too weary to be hopeful.

Throwing himself into the visitor chair, Vos grins widely at him, bright and careless, just a hint of bite underneath. "I don't know why you ran out, but it was easily rectified."

Easy. As if Fox has not spent hours and every argument under the moon to get the Guard resupplied. "I - Thank you."

"Nonsense. Anything for my favourite Marshal Commander." He looks very pleased with himself and Fox has no argument against it. This is a much-needed reprieve, and he almost asks what he has done to deserve this. Or what he will have to do.

"Give me two minutes, please, to wrap this up. Then I'm all yours." For once, he does not have to swallow so much bitterness. He realized early on that he will do anything to protect his men, his brothers, and being with Vos is not a hardship, since he is never cruel. Fox is not so proud anymore that he cannot admit that he will gladly go down on his knees for new medical supplies, for any scrap of goodwill for his people. He will gladly keep Vos happy if that means more will come, later.

Vos beams up at him. "Take your time."

Fox pauses briefly. With other people, that might be a veiled threat, but Vos leans back in Fox' single, uncomfortable visitor chair and seems rather content, eyes closed, fingers crossed behind his head. It is not a trick, hopefully. Vos has not tricked him yet. Not once. So, Fox deems it safe to finish up his report.

It takes four minutes and yet Vos does not call him out on it. He just jumps up eagerly when Fox announces he is done and leads the way to Fox' room. By now, he knows the way by heart.

---

"I'm close to the Senate, Foxy." Vos' message comes in when Fox is halfway through revising the patrol schedules. "Do you have some time for me?"

Fox wants to say no. He wants to say his shift is almost over and then he has four hours to sleep before he has to get back up again, and he needs that sleep because he has lost count of how long he has been up. He wants to say that he had a meeting with the Chancellor earlier and every movement hurts and his skin burns at the very thought of being touched by someone else. He wants to beg for later. For never, really.

He wants to say there are four decommissioning requests on his desk, and what good is it to fuck a Jedi when Vos does not even help save his men?

Fox breathes, conscious of the way the air flows into his body and back out, the way he learned to do in the moments before Priest gave the signal for the fighting to begin.

"My shift ends in half an hour," he tells Vos, respectful, professional. "I'll be in my office."

---

It is Cody who ruins everything. Cody, who has not informed Fox that he is on Coruscant and instead appeared at the Guard HQ without warning. Cody, who has not called Fox in months and has not done anything to curb his men's derision against the Guard. Cody, who looks at Fox' office with disdain first before his eyes fall on Fox, almost like an afterthought.

"Is that a hickey?" he asks by way of greeting, as if they still have the kind of relationship that allows for intimate observations. Then, of course, his eyes wander higher. "Did - is that a bruise?"

There is a reason why the Coruscant Guard keeps their helmets on at all times. Not just to keep them anonymous, but also so that nobody can see the damage underneath.

"It's nothing," Fox brushes off Cody's shock. And it really is nothing anymore, just a sickly green shadow plastered over the left side of his face.

"Fox," Cody says as if he expects Fox to be impressed by a mere admonishment. As if they did not both go through command class on Kamino. As if they have not both survived the war until now.

"It's just a bruise." And a broken zygomatic arch, but Thire forced him to actually use some of their already dwindling again bacta supplies to deal with that. Walking around with broken bones in his face is an invitation for disaster. Thire rightly argued that the Guard would descend into headless panic if he went down and did not get back up again. The smug smartass knows exactly how to get to Fox.

Something happens on Cody's face that Fox does not know how to interpret, his worry morphing into something darker, something almost accusatory. Out of the blue, he asks, "Obi-Wan told me that you and Quinlan Vos are an item?"

While Fox still reels over Cody's casual use of his General's given name, the rest of the words need a moment to register in his brain. When they do, Fox almost laughs. Of all the people Cody could blame, Vos is probably the only one who has never actively caused Fox physical harm.

"The two are not related." If he had not been left beaten and bloody by sexual partners before, he might have said it with more indignation. As it is, his voice falls flat and apparently does nothing to reassure Cody, so he tries again. "General Vos does not damage me." He barely suppresses a wince at himself. Apparently, he has forgotten how to speak to people other than his vode.

Cody looks like he is not sure which part of that statement to address first. "You call him General?"

"He is a General." At least Fox assumes so, and Vos has never corrected him. Apart from trying to get him to just drop the title completely. He is not a naive shiny, though. He knows the rules.

Cody cocks his head to the side. "Even in bed?"

Fox wants to be anywhere but here. What right does Cody have to inquire about what he does and with whom? Impatience pushing against his teeth, he says, "He prefers me not to."

"But you don't?" Cody asks slowly, eyes fixed on Fox', clearly searching for something.

Already, this conversation has worn Fox out more than a sixteen-hour shift in the senate. "My opinion hardly matters," he replies like he is reciting from the unofficial rule book of the Guard.

Any of his men would nod and accept that. Any of his men have been in similar situations, where they locked up their feelings and shielded their minds, just letting reality happen for a while. Cody seems to have skipped that lesson, or he really, truly believes all those jokes about the cushy desk job on Coruscant, meaning that Fox could not possibly know anything about hardship.

"What do you mean by that?" Cody asks. Cody, who never learned that it is always better not to fight back.

Fox swallows a sigh, keeps his face blank as if he is talking to a natborn, not a former batchmate. "What do you want, Cody?"

Clearly not seeing any irony in it, Cody replies. "I'm concerned for my brother." Fox cannot quite hide his wince at that. This is the first time he has talked to Cody in ages and every communication for a while has been stilted and professional, mostly about official business and not as batchmates. "And here you are with a bruise on your face and a hickey rather close to it. And you say -"

"I'm saying I'm a clone and he is a natborn Jedi General," Fox cuts him off. So much for staying calm. He does not have the energy to defend himself against someone who should understand him better than anyone else. Surely, Fox is not the only Marshal Commander who has to make sacrifices for his men. "General Kenobi can't be so lax you've forgotten how that works."

Cody flinches, an honest, full-body jerk as if hit by a blaster bolt. His expression morphs from suspicion to something more horrified. "Where did you get the bruise?"

On the ground in Palpatine's office with four Red Guard standing over him, alternating their boots and electrostaffs to keep him down. This time, it was not even disguised as training, so he had to take his armour off. To make the lesson stick better.

Pushing his shoulder back and raising his chin just so, Fox says, "While doing my job." It is not even a lie. Sharper, he adds, "We're not pushing flimsi around all day, Cody."

But Cody does not even hear the insult. Instead, he takes a step forward, almost pushing against the desk, making Fox wish he had cleared the it as soon as he heard Cody was coming towards the office. His paperwork is sorted by priority. If this conversation comes to blows, it will take ages to sort everything again.

"And what?" Cody snaps, tone burning cold all of a sudden. "You forgot to go to medical and Vos didn't bring you there either when he noticed the giant kriffing bruise on your face but decided to suck hickeys into your neck instead?"

"I went to medical." He did, if only because Thire forced him to. He got the fracture fixed.

He almost asked Vos, too, once, to not leave marks, but decided fleeting hickeys were not worth the risk when Vos could leave much more permanent things instead if he ever grows tired of being gentle.

"And they didn't treat you?" Cody's voice has lowered to almost a growl.

Fox' composure cracks, too exhausted to keep his tone even. "They fixed the broken bone underneath. Cody, what are you getting at?"

The anger bleeds out of Cody as if it never existed in the first place. He goes still, at once shrinking in on himself and growing tenser. He looks directly into Fox' eyes, brother and stranger in one. "Does Vos force you to sleep with him?"

Fox stares. His entire body is locked in place. Thankfully, he has much experience with remaining unmoved in the face of disaster. Why would Cody ask something like that? It does not matter whether there is actual force involved. Fox is a good soldier and he follows orders. Cody should know that. They have been trained for that. 

Cody's face falls, growing pale. Voice suddenly hoarse, he says, "You're taking too long to answer."

And Fox is just tired. He shrugs, going for flippant but ending up defeated. "I just don't know what you want me to say."

"A believable no would be appreciated."

"No," Fox says, slowly, meeting Cody's eyes unflinchingly. "General Vos does not force me into bed."

"Karking hell, Fox. I need to -" Running a hand through his hair, Cody drops his eyes, focusing on the desk as if that will give him answers. "I'll message Obi-Wan."

"No," Fox snaps. Panic runs through him like electricity, leaving him raw and aching like a dozen hits from an electrostaff. "Why would you - You can't do that."

It does not matter what Cody thinks about his General. It does not matter if Cody and Kenobi sleep together and think it means something. It does not even matter if Kenobi actually holds a protecting hand over the 212th, in payment for services rendered or otherwise. Fox and the Coruscant Guard are separate from the GAR. The are under direct command of the Chancellor. Their bed was made for them and they have learned to lie in it.

It was harrowing enough when Vos started snooping around, and by now Fox is glad that he is so easily satisfied, that what Fox can give him is enough. Involving Kenobi would only mean more natborn eyes on their business, more questions about their inadequacies, more brains picking their carefully built system apart. They were made for the Jedi but the Jedi have never cared for the Guard, and they really cannot take things getting even worse.

"If Vos is hurting you -" Cody starts, completely missing the point.

"He's not," Fox says desperately, fervently wishing Cody would just drop this. "He's one of the only ones who don't. And we need him. Because he's also one of the only ones who gives something back. Yes, he sometimes comes at inconvenient times. Yes, he lingers after, usually cutting my sleep cycle terribly short. And, yes, he's demanding. But he does not hurt me or my men. He even got our medbay resupplied when we've been denied for months." Becoming aware that he is rambling, Fox snaps his jaw shut, biting the inside of his lip until he tastes blood.

Cody looks at him, at the bruise, at the way Fox has raised his hands in a beseeching matter without even noticing it. "I'm not -" he says and stops, breathes. "I don't understand what you're saying."

"What isn't there to understand?" Fox all but cries, something sharp and bitter lodged inside his throat. He has long since learned to swallow around it, but right now he feels like choking. "Vos wants to sleep with me, but he also gives something back." Nobody else does. All everyone does all the time is take and Fox has nothing to give anymore. He is hollowed out, broken. Most days, he runs on instinct alone, leaving behind bigger and bigger parts of himself.

And Cody still does not understand. "And do you want to sleep with him?" he asks, circling back to what they have already established. It does not matter what any clone wants.

Slowly, quietly, Fox says, "It's not like I could say no." He does not mention that, sometimes, he would not say no either, if asked.

Cody takes a step back, like he finally realizes that Fox needs space, that he cannot breathe, that everything is crumbling. But he does not.

"I really need to call Obi-Wan."

Blood rushes in Fox' ears as everything else slows down and greys out. "If you do that," he says, carefully pronouncing every single syllable, "don't ever bother to come back here. We need those supplies."

"So what? You're okay with whoring yourself out for bacta?" The moment these words hang between them, Cody's face turns horrified, wide-eyed, forehead scrunching into tight lines, and he curses under his breath. "I'm so-"

"Yes," Fox cuts in, clipped and cold and as straight-backed as he ever is in the Chancellor's office. "We were created to serve the Republic and I do that. But I'd also do anything to protect my men. I thought you would understand that, Marshal Commander." And because he is tired of biting back the petty part of him that feels betrayed by his batchmates, he adds, "You don't presume to tell me that General Kenobi loves you, do you?"

Cody flinches but Fox does not take any satisfaction from that. He just wants to be alone.

"I'm sorry, Fox. We'll fix this," Cody vows, much too late.

Fox smiles but it tastes hollow. "The Guard doesn't need your pity."

"No, but you clearly need our help."

---

Nobody could say that Quinlan Vos is a coward. He gets his jaw punched by Obi-Wan and his heart broken by Commander Cody, but after a week of hiding in his rooms and drinking to get the taste of bile out of his mouth, he gathers every last scrap of courage and goes back to the Guard HQ.

The trooper at the entrance desk salutes him. "General Vos. I'll let the Marshal Commander know you're here."

That is how it always went. Quinlan came and everybody went out of their way to be helpful. He never saw anyone's face other than Fox' and those of the constant circling troops in the medbay, but he never gauged any unhappiness at his presence, never any reluctance. He knew, of course, that Fox has a lot on his plate, that he is working too much. It never occurred to Quinlan that he was another burden, another unavoidable appointment in Fox' schedule instead of someone Fox wants to make time for.

"Tell him to take his time," he says, not really trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. He needs to preserve his energy. "I'm happy to wait."

The trooper pauses just briefly, short enough that Quinlan would have missed it if he had not looked for minute reactions. Underneath the helmet, the trooper is likely staring.

Quinlan bites his tongue to stop himself from asking the man's name. He has no right to that anymore.

"He'll meet you in his office, sir."

Of course. Quinlan can only imagine how Cody's conversation with Fox went. He has never seen Cody this distressed before.

---

"Commander," Quinlan greets, aching when Fox blinks at the use of his title. He remains standing just inside the door. Suddenly, the visitor's chair is too close to the desk, too close to Fox.

Fox stands like he always does, greets Quinlan like he always does. "General Vos."

Nothing seems to be amiss. Nothing has changed. That just makes everything more real. Cody and Obi-Wan were right. Quinlan had not wanted to believe them. A small part of him thought he would come here and Fox would laugh at the ridiculous ideas their brothers came up with. They could clear it all up and kiss it better. Now, though, the very thought of kissing has bile rising in Quinlan's throat. Through his work, he has come in contact with a lot of disgusting people in the galaxy. He realizes now that he belongs on that list.

"I want to apologize to you. I have been made aware that I have operated under false assumptions and -" Curse him. He had an entire speech planned and now he sounds like he is reading directly out of the instruction manual of one of their diplomacy classes in the temple. Swallowing against the tightness of his throat, Quinlan tries again. "I never meant to hurt you."

What a terrible thing to say. What good does regret do them? As if he could just say sorry and be done with it.

And then Fox makes it all worse 

"I have to apologize, General," Fox says, his tone even. His face, though, holds the same pleasant neutrality Quinlan has come to loathe. This is how Fox looks when he is overwhelmed, when he is not sure what to do but will say yes nonetheless. This is how Fox looked when Quinlan first kissed him. "This is all a misunderstanding. Commander CC-2224 had incomplete information and overstepped without my knowledge -"

Quinlan shakes his head and then bites his lip, hard, when Fox stops talking immediately. Still, he presses on. "Cody was completely right to involve Obi-Wan. I have been hurting you and didn't even realize it." Saying it out loud just makes his actions more despicable.

For a long moment, Fox just watches him, his brow faintly creased. "Permission to speak freely, sir."

The words hit like blaster bolts, burning against Quinlan's skin. He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

"You have not hurt me. Not once," Fox declares without even a hint of hesitation, as if he truly believes that. "In fact, you have saved several of my men and I'm beyond grateful."

The taste of blood fills Quinlan's mouth, and yet he does not let go of his lip immediately. This is worse, so much worse than Quinlan feared.

"I didn't get you medical supplies to make you grateful," he says, his voice giving out on him. "I didn't do it to buy you."

No matter what he meant, every time he brought a ship full of essentials or even just a crate of basic supplies, Fox dropped everything he was doing to take Quinlan to bed. He never minded what he thought was enthusiastic thanks, not when he believed it was freely given, that Fox was happy to see him as much as the goods.

"You don't need to buy me," Fox says easily and then crushes what little hope Quinlan had left. "Clones already belong to the Jedi."

Quinlan curses his courage now. He should have done this per message, sent an apology after taking hours to find the right words. Then he could have disappeared out of Fox' life and they all could have gone their separate ways. No need to drag his shame out like this. No need to remind him what an absolute karking piece of bantha shit he is, repeatedly raping someone who cannot say no.

"You are a person," Quinlan says firmly and raises a hand to cut off Fox' protest before Fox can even open his mouth. "I don't care what the legalese says. You and your brothers are all people. You are all individuals with dreams and fears and needs. It's bad enough that the Republic forces you to fight their war for them." He makes himself look at Fox' eyes, not sure whether he is relieved when Fox stares at something right above Quinlan's shoulder. "I never meant to make things worse for you."

Now, their eyes meet. Now, there is a spark behind that flat expression.

"You didn't," Fox insists and Quinlan wishes for nothing more than that he could believe him. But he cannot.

To prove that, even though it will only hurt the both of them more, he says, haltingly, "So, if I told you right now to take off your armour and get on your knees for me, you would do it?"

"Yes." No hesitation, not even a twitch on Fox' terribly even face, the spark extinguished as if it was never there at all.

Bile rises once again in Quinlan's throat. "Even after I just said I don't want to hurt you and that I consider you a person with free will?"

Fox inclines his head just so, in a way that Quinlan always thought looked teasing. Now, he recognizes it for defeat. "I follow orders."

"Not these," Quinlan snaps. It is not Fox he is angry at, and yet he cannot help but making things worse. Unbidden, he asks, "Am I the only one?"

Fox is silent for a few beats too long. "I follow orders," he then repeats, flat, hollow.

Quinlan presses a hand against his eyes, as if this entire terrible situation would resolve itself if he just stopped looking at it. As if he could imagine himself somewhere else and just make it so. 

"This stops now," he then says, promises, really. It is easier to hold Fox' gaze when he gathers his determination instead of just carrying his guilt. "The Council is already working on getting you your own Jedi General."

Well, Obi-Wan is working on it. But Obi-Wan has been filled the kind of trembling fury that means he will stop at nothing to make this right. There has never been an injustice he saw and did not try to fix. He is the only one Quinlan trusts with this. More, certainly, than himself. He has done enough damage.

"Sir?" Fox asks quietly, looking wrong-footed for the first time since Quinlan entered his office.

"Not me, don't worry," he says quickly and then moves past it, unwilling to dwell on all the damage he has wrought when Fox will not do the sensible thing and punch him. Or yell at him. Or throw him out. Any healthy reaction would be a step in the right direction. "It has been a grave oversight that you've been placed directly under the Senate's supervision. We all know this place if full of vipers."

"The Chancellor won't allow that," Fox blurts out, clearly unhappy with himself for it.

And Quinlan heard him, loud and clear, sees the unhappy crease to his brow that was entirely absent before. "What do you mean?"

Pulling his hands behind his back, out of sight, Fox explains, "He can veto the Council's interference. He will."

"Why?"

Fox's jaw moves as he clearly considers and dismisses several possible answers.

Something is wrong. Something that has nothing to do with Quinlan. Maybe he should not throw himself at this, but he is desperate for any excuse to move them past Fox' unmoved, unquestioning ignorance of Quinlan trying to apologize. 

"Is there something I need to know about the Chancellor?"

Fox clenches his jaw for barely a fraction of a second. "No, sir."

There has never been a more obvious lie.

"Commander, I need you -" Quinlan comes to his senses and cuts himself off. What is he doing? He really has done enough damage here. "I'm sorry. I've known for a while that something's wrong here on Coruscant. You have never been treated well, but -" He clenches his hands, hides them just like Fox does. "Please cooperate with whoever the Council chooses for you. We want to help. We should have helped much sooner, but - I told them about your lack of medical supplies. About the restricted equipment. I see now I should have never assumed that was all of it." He looks at Fox, almost begs him, "Please let them help."

His tone and expression are as far from making this an order as he possibly can. Yet, he has the distinct feeling that this might be the only thing Fox would put up a fight against even if Quinlan ordered him. Accepting help, and from the Jedi no less, seems to be the point where Fox draws his line. If it were not such a terrible, hopeless situation, Quinlan might laugh. Where did they go so wrong?

And then Fox makes it worse. "Can't you stay?" he asks, a barely-there tremor to the words. That just breaks Quinlan's heart all over again, even before he can make sense of the actual words.

"What?" Quinlan asks before Fox can retrace. "You want me to - No, Fox. No. I hurt you. I -" He swallows, tries to breathe. He came here to stop hiding from the truth, so he pushes on. "I raped you, and I didn't even notice what I was doing. You deserve so much better."

Fox blinks, leaning back. With him, that might be the equivalent of a full body flinch. "You didn't rape me," he says, aghast, his tongue barely fitting around the word.

With bitter regret, Quinlan points out, "You didn't think you could say no to me and, really, I should have realized that. You never said no to anything else either, even if I knew you weren't happy about it." Ranging from how to go about a mission to forcing Fox to take a break, he never complained, never argued, never insisted on his opinion once Quinlan made his known.

"That's not rape," Fox tries again. "You never hurt me." He does not look like someone who is in denial that something bad might have happened to him. No, he looks like someone who experienced everything bad in the world and thinks this does not make the cut.

Quinlan breathes. Inhale, hold, exhale. "Your bruises. Did someone else -" he trails off. He is not the right person to lead this conversation. He does not even have the right to get angry over this, since he did the exact same thing to Fox. Perhaps he did no leave physical marks. Perhaps he did not mean to hurt him. None of that matters. Only what happened, which is that he abused someone he loves. Even thinking the word leaves a vile taste in his mouth, but he cannot hide from that. He believed himself to be in love and still hurt Fox, over and over again.

Pulling his shoulders further back, Fox says slowly, deliberately, "I would prefer if you became our General. You already know the Guard, and I -" His eyes flicker up to meet Quinlan's. "I believe you."

Breathing is not going to keep Quinlan calm for much longer. A pit has opened up in his stomach, aching and pulling at his insides. He wants to scream, to drink himself into oblivion to forget any of this ever happened. He has a debt to pay, though. Not for a moment does he believe that Fox trusts him, and he should not, but he has gone so long against Fox' wishes that he also does not want to brush him off now. Does not want to disappoint him again. This is a slippery slope and he is not sure there is a right answer. But this might be the first time Fox has asked something of him, no matter how carefully he dressed it as a mere statement.

"I can vet whoever they appoint," he tries to argue, thinking that he has to. "I can accompany them whey you are introduced."

"Please," Fox says and it would have been less painful if he stabbed Quinlan with his own lightsaber.

Quinlan guesses this is a thing of Fox rather taking the devil he knows instead of someone unknown. It is not a good solution, not healthy, but he finds himself nodding anyway. 

Still, he says, "We need clear ground rules. We will not be alone, ever, and you will tell me if you are of another opinion than I am. These are your men. I just want to fight the Senate and every other bastard who wants to treat you badly." 

"General," Fox says and Quinlan has no idea whether he means it as a question or an affirmation. Fox is a terrific actor, and Quinlan already knows he cannot take anything he says at face value until they have built some trust. If they ever manage to.  Quinlan is willing to give everything for it, though.

"I really am sorry," he says again, wishing Fox could believe him. And Fox looks at him, face still blank, but something seems to soften in his eyes. "Thank you, General."

[blancheludis]

And now with a second chapter, for Whumptoeber 2024 Day 17: Nowhere Else To Go.

We welcome Superman to the scene.

---

Dick takes them home immediately, gives them the number of a trusted friend to call in case something happens, and then goes to deal with Bruce. That might be more terrifying than asking Dick for help in the first place. The uncertainty, the waiting.

But Dick comes back successful. He is grim and tense but does not hand them back over. He does not lay down any ground rules for their stay either. Or tells them how long he will put up with them. Jason is grateful, but he still cannot relax. That has been beaten out of him years ago.

---

The first thing Jason does, once they are alone the next time, is to break off the hinges off every closet and cupboard in Dick's apartment. Then, after dismissing privacy for safety, he jams every single lock he can find.

The first thing Tim does, is to create several stashes with non-perishable foods, water and medical supplies. He hides what he is doing, Jason does not.

In the evening, when Dick comes home, he finds both his brothers in the kitchen, Tim in the back next to the block of knives, and Jason sitting at the table, staring right at Dick with the kind of stubborn defiance that breaks Dick's heart. Between them, on the table, is a messy heap of broken hinges and locks.

Dick pauses, takes in the scene before he breathes. This is important, he knows, and he really does not want to mess up. Life has been cruel enough to his brothers without him adding to it.

"Can I do something to make you feel safer?" he then asks, cautiously, testing each word as it passes his lips.

"I don't think you'll be getting your deposit back," Jason says, loud and brash and showing too many teeth. In the background, Tim is unnaturally still, just a shadow against the wall.

Dick is completely out of his depth here. He supposes Jason is trying to provoke him, to see how Dick will react. Well, all Dick wants to do is to pull both his brothers into his arms and promise them that nobody will ever touch them again. He is sure that will not be well-received, though.

"I don't care about the deposit," he instead promises, as earnest as he can without breaking into the tears that have been building at the back of his eyes since the outing to the zoo. "I care about you."

Jason twitches lightly at that while Tim remains as blank as he has been since they arrived here.

They have a clear distribution of rolls. Jason is the brash one, always in the front, testing limits and pushing further. He draws the attention and turns the other cheek, no matter how much he actually trembles at the thought. Tim is not the damsel, though. He allows himself to be made small and quiet, easily overlooked, but he does not miss anything, does not let any opportunity go to waste.

Dick guesses that the hinges are not the only alterations to his apartment made over the past hours. He will not go looking.

---

Sharing a small apartment with a near stranger is difficult after the Manor. Bruce had been a constant threat and it had been impossible to hide from him, no matter how many empty rooms and halls lay between them, but at least they could turn a corner without meeting someone else. Every time Jason stumbles over Dick, he has a small heart attack, wondering whether this time will be the one he interrupted Dick while he is doing something important, whether this time the inconvenience of having them here is too much.

But Dick does not snap. Instead, he keeps singing off-tune as he mops the kitchen floor or points at the tv to share some joke he is laughing at. It is as if he truly does not mind their intrusion into his space.

"Do you want me to cook?" Tim asks well into their first week with Dick. He is wearing long sleeves to hide several burn marks that have not yet faded. Cooking, like every menial task has been turned into something painful with Bruce, but Tim still enjoys it. At the very least, he has gotten better at sneaking food to guarantee that he and Jason will eat.

Dick's face brightens, and he clearly has a yes on his tongue. Then his eyes fall on Jason and his no doubt mutinous expression, and he sobers quickly. "Thanks," he says, always careful, then shakes his head. "But we can order in."

That is what they have done the past days. Truly, the state of Dick's kitchen is sad.

Tim cocks his head to the side, utterly unreadable. "It's not healthy to order in all the time." He would like to cook, Jason knows, but only if it is just cooking, only if he and Jason get to eat after, too.

Dick sits up on the couch, looks at Tim in the armchair, too tense to be comfortable, and to Jason on the window sill behind him, the book he is holding a mere alibi. They stick together. Bad things tend to happen when Bruce separates them, so now they stay within reaching distance of each other at all times.

"Then we'll make a schedule so that everybody's on cooking duty at some point," Dick proposes, smiling in relief at his idea. "Cleaning, too, I guess. With three people around, things'll get messy quick." 

He is trying to avoid the thousands of landmines Tim and Jason brought into his life. It is a doomed endeavour but Jason can appreciate his effort anyway, even while waiting for the inevitable explosion.

"I can clean," Tim says quietly, pale and pleasant, delicate hands open instead of clenched. He is trying to make himself useful. That is usually better than being found lacking.

"Well, I'm passable at it," Dick dismisses, trying for nonchalance. "We'll make do."

"Dick -"

"Tim," Dick cuts him off gently. He looks like he wants to lean forward, to lay a hand on Tim's shoulder. He knows better. "I get what you're trying to say, but you don't have to earn your keep here. You don't have to do anything to make me allow you to stay."

Tim does not flinch but his spine straightens to the point of being uncomfortable. Jason, watching him, bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. That is just the point. They are allowed to stay here, and any permission can be retracted at any time. Dick might not turn on them today or tomorrow, but having two teenaged boys suddenly invade his home, especially two with countless issues and a bat-sized threat looming over their shoulders, will take its toll. It is only natural to try and ingrain themselves a bit, to be useful enough that Dick will at least think it over a bit longer before sending them on their way.

"We're not freeloaders," Jason pipes up just to get to the point. Tim's caution is often needed, but Jason is tired of always waiting for the second shoe to drop.

"No, you're my brothers," Dick replies emphatically. He twitches like he wants to jump up, to gesture wildly. He is not one for sitting still, but for them, he tries. His expression twists into something raw, eyes wide and lips pursed, looking older than he has any right to. "I'm sorry I didn't get you out sooner. I'm sorry I didn't notice something was wrong. I know you don't trust me, but I want to earn that."

Jason has no idea what to do with so much earnestness. Instead, he does the next best thing and raises his chin in well-practiced defiance. "We're not afraid of you."

Which is a lie. They might not expect Dick to start handing out beatings left and right, but that does not mean he cannot do damage.

One corner of Dick's mouth twitches briefly, but he smooths over his expression immediately. He does not believe them, but he does not seem to enjoy that fact either.

"Good," he says, anyway, and finally gets to his feet, growing too restless. "Now, what do you want? Pizza?"

He takes the long way around the couch to avoid passing too closely to Tim. Another lesson learned.

"We can share one," Tim offers.

But Dick shakes his head again, something wild in his eyes. "Nonsense, you're growing boys."

Jason very carefully does not look at Tim, who seems to have only gotten smaller since Bruce took him in. Neither of them got as much food as they wanted, but Bruce still needed them in good enough condition to be of use to him out on patrol. They have not been starved.

"Thank you," Tim says, always one to mind his manners. That is something Bruce did not have to beat into him but that he learned from his parents. Sometimes, Jason thinks their lessons were not any less painful.

---

Two weeks into their stay with Dick, they hear the front door opening hours before Dick is scheduled to come home from work. As soon as they are hearing footsteps coming closer, Jason gets out a knife from under their mattress and Tim opens the window for a quick escape if they need it. It is quite a drop down, but there are worse alternatives.

Jason thought he would be prepared; thought he would be stronger now that they are out of the Manor and managed to get undisturbed nights and regular meals. Turns out, things are not that easy. The moment Bruce appears in their door, something unyielding gets lodged in Jason's throat, making it impossible to breathe. He wants to yell, to tell Bruce to leave, to say - anything, really. Instead, he is rooted in place and can do nothing but watch as Bruce looks around, prods at their things as if it all belongs to him.

"Are you done throwing a temper tantrum now?" he then asks, mildly amused as if they are unreasonable children angry at having been sent to bed without dessert. He builds himself up, arms crossed, putting his muscles on display.

Jason's mouth is dry, but he manages to say, "We're not coming back." It does not come out as strong as he would have hoped, but strength has never mattered with Bruce anyway. Everything can break, after all.

"Don't insult me, Jason," Bruce chides, his expression going flat. "I could have you both back in the Manor within the hour."

And he could. Nobody would dare to defy him. In fact, they would probably congratulate him on it. Brucie Wayne, notorious for being a flirt and a drunk, making sure his needy wards learn some valuable life lessons, so they can appreciate all the good luck they have been granted. He could likely drag them out by their hair and no one would bat an eye.

"Why don't you, then?" Jason asks as if it has ever been a good idea to challenge Bruce. He is just so exhausted. Running away will always have consequences and, no matter what Dick told Bruce, Jason is not naive enough to believe Bruce will simply let them go.

Bruce clicks his tongue. "I don't care for your ungrateful display." Then, deceivingly soft, he adds, "Your rooms are waiting for you, but you'll have to ask me to get them back."

Of course. Bruce wants them to beg because he likes being in control.

Jason shifts, squares his shoulder. He does not dare look behind him where Tim has gone quiet, folding in on himself as if that will make Bruce believe he is not there at all. 

"Why would we ever do that?"

"You don't really think that Dick will keep you forever?" Bruce smiles as if he has not just brought their most pressing fear out into the light of day. "He's always liked playing the hero, but he's never had particular endurance. The moment you start to become too difficult, he'll wash his hands off you."

Jason opens his mouth, ready to defend Dick, ready to tell Bruce that Dick would not do that to them, because, despite growing up in the Manor, Dick turned out to be a decent person. But then, he does not. Does he really know Dick? He does not trust anyone to protect Tim and himself just for the sake of doing the right thing. Neither of them grew up being loved unconditionally. Neither of them thinks they deserve it. That is just not how the world works.

Bruce is right and he knows it, but Jason cannot give up like that. Not now. "Leave us alone," he says and altogether comes too close to pleading.

Bruce's cold eyes pierce right into Jason's soul. "You know I won't. If you come back now, though, I might be lenient."

Sharp laughter presses against Jason's sternum. He tries to keep it down, tries to think of what to do. Bruce does not do leniency. He is never merciful. Instead, he will keep track of every single grievance he has with them and plan out exactly how to punish them for it. Sometimes, Jason thinks Bruce enjoys the planning just as much as making them suffer. He could have easily bought a sensory deprivation chamber for Tim. Instead, he built it himself, painstakingly measuring it out. The first time, he locked Tim up inside, Jason almost vomited at the glowing, unholy glee on Bruce's face. He did vomit, later, when Tim was let back out, shaking and unresponsive, eyes hollow.

So, no, Bruce will not be lenient, just waiting for the right time. And he will slowly increase the pressure on Dick until he will gladly decide Jason and Tim are too much trouble and send them back into a worse hell than they left.

While Jason is still trying to say something, anything, the front door flies open with a loud crash and Dick is in their open door a bare moment later, breathing haggardly, eyes burning.

"Get out," Dick shouts, voice strong despite having clearly run here. "I told you you're not welcome here."

A shudder runs through Jason, half in horror, half in relief.

Bruce barely glances at him, making it a point to dismiss Dick and therefore whatever little power he believes he has in this situation. "I only wanted to check in on my children."

"Has he touched you?" Dick asks and makes the first and perhaps gravest mistake when dealing with a predator: he takes his eyes off Bruce to look over Jason and Tim.

Wordlessly Jason, shakes his head. A moment later, he feels a hand on his shoulder, tugging him back. He lets Tim pull him closer to the window, feeling only marginally guilty for leaving Dick to deal with Bruce.

"What are you doing, Dick?" Bruce asks, still utterly calm, still quietly amused, like their struggles mean nothing.

Dick builds himself up between Bruce and them. "Taking care of my brothers." Jason wonders whether Dick knows how breakable he looks, dwarfed by Bruce's hulking mass.

"We both know you'll grow tired of this or you'll run out of money. You've never stuck with anything in your life," Bruce argues. Pointing out flaws is second nature to him. Then he waves dismissively at Tim and Jason. "Why lead them on?"

Dick takes a step forward, getting dangerously close. "Get. Out."

To his unending shame, Jason is rooted in place. He will keep Tim behind his back at all times, ready to defend him with everything he has, but he cannot get himself to move for Dick. Not while these two men, brother and father, hold their lives in their hands.

"Very well," Bruce says, breaking the tension so suddenly that Jason almost collapses in relief. It is not over, it never is, but they are at least safe for now. "Do call when it all becomes too much."

And Bruce leaves, turns around with nothing but a meaningful look at Jason and Tim and walks out with measured, unhurried steps. Out in the hallway, he begins humming. His voice lingers far longer in Jason's ears than it has any right to.

Nobody moves until Bruce's steps have long faded, occupied with just breathing. Then Dick turns towards them, his forehead scrunched up in worry. He does not come closer, does not come within easy grabbing distance and Jason loves him for it.

"Are you all right?"

Jason looks at Tim, sees the same shakiness he feels. Bruce came here for a reason and he achieved it with nothing more than his presence and that bemused curl to his lips. He proved that they are not safe anywhere. They might be out of the Manor, out of Gotham, but no one stops Bruce Wayne from going anywhere he wants to. Whether Dick is helping them or not, he can still slide back into their lives any time he wants.

 "Sure," Jason says, voice dry. It is a lie and they all know it.

---

"How did you know to come?" Tim asks later, quiet in the way he always gets when he does not want to upset someone. Jason has never figured out whether that is someone Bruce taught him or that he already brought with him to the Manor.

Dick sits across from them at the kitchen table. Their mugs of tea have long gone cold, untouched.

"Oracle helped me rig up alerts for when Bruce comes to Bludhaven," Dick explains, looking down at his hands and therefore missing the way Tim tenses up.

"Oracle?" Tim echoes, sounding strangled. "You told her?"

Dick's head shoots up, realizing his mistake too late. "No," he promises quickly, then elaborates. "We did that ages ago. I didn't want to see Bruce when I first moved out, so we created a system to allow me to avoid him. Simple."

Because when Dick fought with Bruce it was only ever with words, and when Dick wanted to stop seeing Bruce he could just leave. Jason tries very hard not to be bitter about that.

"Sorry," Tim all but whispers, the word hitting Jason like a punch in the gut. Neither of them is a stranger to apologizing, but that does not make it easier to hear.

"What?" Dick looks at them with wide-eyed confusion.

"That you have to deal with him now."

Dick flinches back but does an admirable job of collecting himself only a second later. "Don't ever apologize for that. Never, you hear me?" He does not raise his voice, but there is no toning down his vehemence. "I'm sorry I didn't help sooner."

He keeps saying that, as if there was any way he could have known. Bruce is a master at keeping secrets, and Dick was never there enough to see something he was not supposed to.

"You're helping now." For the first time, Jason does not sound so hesitant when he says that. It clearly does not go unnoticed by Dick.

He straightens in his chair and only succeeds in looking younger, more so as he promises, "I'll gladly take on Bruce for you."

"Don't," Tim cuts in sharply. For all that he was supposed to grow up pampered, he is often more unforgiving than Jason. "If it gets too much, you let us go. We just need a bit of a head start."

Not that it will help them much, but it will at least give them a chance. They can prepare themselves better now, too, out of Bruce's direct oversight.

"Tim," Dick almost pleads. "You're my brothers -"

But Tim shakes his head. "And Bruce is your father. He never touched you and -"

Dick raises his hand just so and Tim falls silent immediately. "He hurt you," he says sharply as if that is all the reason he needs to be kind to them. "It does not matter whether he took me in and never raised a hand against me. This doesn't mean I don't deserve it while you do. It just means he is a horrible person and I'll never let him touch you again, no matter what it takes."

Dick sounds so convinced, a small part of Jason cannot help but admire him. The rest of him knows this is a doomed promise. There is no stopping Bruce. They are just hoping to avoid him long enough that they can, someday, get out of this not irrevocably broken.

"He can make life very difficult for you," Tim says like he is explaining a math problem, like he thinks he needs to give Dick more reasons to abandon them. "He could get you fired and thrown out of your home."

"Yes," Dick says very matter-of-factly but shakes his head only a moment later. "And I don't care. He can do all of that and it won't change anything." He forces a smile on his lips that is as sharp as it is earnest. "Besides, do you know how many people I know who'd help? Bruce is not the only person with money and influence."

Jason and Tim share a panicked look. Most of the rich people Dick knows, Bruce knows, too, and Jason has not a single doubt who they would side with. These kinds of people stick together, and Dick will only ever be a circus brat, a charity case.

"No," Tim exclaims, too desperate to be demanding. "You can't involve anybody else." Even involving Dick had been a gamble, and one they are still not sure will work out.

Dick clearly wants to protest, but then he leans back and nods. "Only if it becomes necessary. I promise you, but I'm not going to get you hurt by negligence."

---

"We need to get jobs," Tim says one night, long after Dick has gone to bed and they can be reasonably sure they can talk in private.

Jason turns around to look at Tim. They always have a nightlamp on because Tim does not do well in darkness, so he can easily spot the worry on Tim's face.

"You think Dick will allow that?" he asks as if that would stop them. At some point, they will have to go back to school. Then it will be easier to sneak in some part-time job in the evenings.

"Well, he suddenly has to pay for three people instead of just himself." Quieter, he adds, "And you heard B."

Bruce has cut Dick off. Of course, he did. Once money becomes tight, people always question their loyalties. Jason has seen that hundreds of times, growing up in Crime Alley.

"We'll find something," he promises. "There's enough places that won't look too closely at our age." It will be harder to do legally, but Jason doubts Tim will mind either way.

As if he heard Jason's thoughts, Tim says, "It can't be anything where people will see us. There's already been questions why the Wayne kids left Gotham."

"They'll find some new scandal soon enough." Jason does not dismiss Tim's fears, but they each have their worries focused elsewhere. It makes surviving easier.

Tim hums, not convinced. Then he says, "I made a bank account for each of us under false names. It's not the most secure, but at least we won't get stranded anywhere without money again." They do not like to talk about their botched escape attempt. Phantom pain shoots through Jason's back at the mere thought. "I'd suggest going half-half. That way we can give something back to Dick but also keep something for emergencies."

Jason is not going to suggest credit card fraud again. Tim knows best what he can and cannot do, and when it would be safe. Surely, Bruce keeps a close eye on all of their activities. 

"It won't be a lot," Jason says instead. "We still are minors."

Tim smiles, a hollow thing underlined with shadows. "Then let's hope we won't have to run too soon."

---

The next time someone knocks on their door, Tim, too, has a knife and both of them position themselves close to the window, shoulder to shoulder. They are in the kitchen this time, which means there is a fire escape right outside, which will make their chances of getting away without broken bones much higher. And Dick is here, this time. He watches their coordinated shuffling with something like grief on his face but does not say anything. Instead, he straightens his shoulders and goes to open the door.

It is Superman.

Jason is sure he does not have his face under control. His heart is breaking into an erratic gallop, his knuckles going white around the knife's hilt. Fire escape or not, there is no getting away from an inhumanly fast alien with superstrength. Did Bruce already get tired of waiting? Did he really make true on his threat? The only thing that is keeping Jason from jumping out the window, terrible odds be damned, is the fact that he feels Tim frozen beside him. And that Bruce is not here. Surely, he would not want to miss this. He does not like other people touching what is his, but he clearly thought about inviting Superman along enough to mention it to them.

"Richard," Superman greets, only briefly looking at Dick before moving on to Jason and Tim. He does not show what he thinks of the scene, two terrified boys clutching kitchen knives as if they could do something against an invincible superhero.

"Mr. Kent," Tim says, voice strong enough, but Jason feels the tremble going through him.

The words register a beat too late. Superman is not here as a civilian but in costume. It does not surprise Jason that Tim knows who Superman is. He is smart like that and knows how important contingencies are. He should know better than to issue threats just like that. Throwing Superman’s civilian identity around just gives him one more incentive to not keep them alive.

"We will fight," Jason blurts out, desperate to take the attention off Tim. Bruce likes Jason, because he can take a beating, but he is not sure how far that will get him here. "If you even try to touch us, we will fight."

Silence coalesces around them, suffocating in its thickness. Nobody moves, not Tim and Jason in front of the open window, leaning against each other like they are the only two people left alive on earth; not Dick, who stands in the middle of the kitchen, very much also in danger and glancing between them and Superman like a deer caught in headlights; and not Superman, filling the doorframe, a red and blue monument of everything that can and will go wrong as soon as the first person remembers to breathe.

Very slowly, Superman raises his hands in front of him, palms out, and lets his shoulders droop, somehow making him look smaller. Jason is so ready to hurl himself, blade first, at someone notorious for being invincible, that it takes him a moment to understand that this is a gesture of surrender.

"What is going on?" Superman asks, tone so uncertain that Jason barely believes it came from him.

"Guys?" Dick adds cautiously, when neither Tim nor Jason show any inclination to give up their defensive posture or explain. "It's all right. This is Superman. He's not a danger."

A sound tears itself from Jason's throat that is some cross between laughter and choking and sob. Tim presses closer against him.

"Why are you here?" Tim asks, full of condensed hostility. In any other situation, it might be funny that Tim - the same Tim who always goes quiet when Bruce is angry - dares to face off against someone who can do so much more damage with less.

"I came to see whether everything is all right," Superman says slowly, frowning as if he realizes himself how ridiculous that notion is. Clearly, nothing is all right. Clearly, everything is very wrong. "Conner has not heard from you in a while," he adds, nodding at Tim. "Robin and Red Hood haven't been seen in weeks. And there've been some articles that hinted at trouble in the Wayne family."

"So, you decided to - what?" Jason snaps, wishing he could blame the tremor in his voice on anger. "Fix things?"

"Do your worst," Tim adds, flatly but hinting at the fire simmering beneath. "We're not going back."

Superman seems taken aback, looking at them with wide eyes, hands still sprawled out in front of him as if he could not throw punches faster than they could ever hope to see, much less dodge.

Dick steps between them, laughable as far as human shields go. But even while Jason does not want Dick to get hurt, he can appreciate the gesture. "What is going on?"

"He knows," Jason spits out, locking his knees so they will not start shaking. "Bruce liked to - he said he'd send Superman after us if we ever ran away again."

While Superman echoes ran away, Dick turns towards him immediately, building himself up in front of Tim and Jason before falling into a fighting stance. If he looked small compared to Bruce, this is so much worse. This is one small, fragile human against a superpowered alien.

"Is that true?" Dick asks, dangerously calm. His hands are clenched at his sides, ready to come up, ready to doom himself. And for what? His two good-for-nothing brothers who have brought nothing but trouble into his life. Jason has never loved him more than in this moment, even if everything is going to unravel now. At least, they will not go down without a fight. At least, they are not alone this time.

"I don't know what you're saying," Superman says and takes a step back. It does not mean anything, of course, because one step is nothing for someone who can move faster than they can follow with their mediocre, human eyes. But the gesture is there. "Red Hood - Jason, right? Bruce has not sent me. And I didn't -" He looks confused. Or does a passable job at pretending to be. "You ran away?"

"My brothers are living with me now," Dick answers for Jason, clearly trying to keep the attention on himself. "They will not be going back to Bruce."

If they survive this, if Bruce ever lets them see each other again, after, Jason is going to hug Dick, his own aversion to touch be damned.

"Okay. I -" Superman looks between all of them. No comprehension shows on his face. No malice, either. Not even the cruel amusement Bruce likes to wield like a weapon. "Why?"

"You know," Jason says, because why would Bruce lie about that? He rarely lies at all. He does not have to.

"I promise you, I don't." As if the promise of any of Bruce's friends mean anything.

"Then it's none of your business."

Superman looks at all of them in turn, protest written all over his face. He is still locked in place at the other end of the room, not coming closer but also still blocking the door. He does not look like he is doing it on purpose, although Jason does not know what to do with that thought.

"I want to talk with Conner," Tim says, apropos of nothing. His shoulder is tense against Jason's, but his voice is strong.

"Why?"

"Does it matter?" Jason glares. This situation has spiralled hopelessly out of control, but he will not give an inch. And if Tim wants to talk to Conner, then that is what he will get. "If you've got nothing to hide, you'll let them talk."

Superman inclines his head just so, but he still refuses, "I would prefer not to throw him into a situation that I don't understand."

"We don't trust you," Dick says. Dick, wonderful, loyal, stupid Dick, who was ready to welcome Superman when he came in but now stands like a shield in front of Jason and Tim as if there is nothing more to it. Who does not know how to handle this situation and still throws himself headfirst into it.

"Because of something Bruce said," Superman says slowly, clearly fishing for more information. "When you two ran away. From him?"

Nobody answers him. Nobody moves.

"All right," Superman sighs, but he still sounds more confused than angry. "But I want you to know that I am not here to harm anyone or to bring you somewhere you don't want to be." 

Jason does not trust one word of his. Bruce usually does not like to pretend, not when everybody in the room is on the same page. But he still likes to play games. Perhaps that just takes different forms with his friends. Perhaps Superman is just waiting for them to let their guard down before he strikes.

With painfully slow movements, Superman brings up his comm and says, "Conner. Would you be able to join me for a moment."

He rattles off Dick's address like their identities have never been secret from each other. He must get an affirmative back, because he nods at Tim and then sinks unceremoniously to the ground as if the kitchen table with perfectly serviceable chairs is not mere feet away from him. It is another gesture and Jason appreciates it, even though he does not relax his stance. Next to him, Tim does not either.

It is only a few minutes until there is another knock on the door. Which brings them to the awkward situation of who will open it. Jason and Tim are at the far end of the room, clearly not moving even an inch. Dick is not going to leave them alone with Superman for obvious reasons, so he says to Superman, "Could you go, please?"

Superman gets up with fluent movements and Jason cannot help but stare at the way his muscles move. That he turns their back towards them without hesitation means little in comparison.

But then he is back with Conner in tow, who takes in the situation with honest bewilderment. His eyes linger on Tim, on the knife in his hands.

"Conner," Tim greets, looking lost all of a sudden as if he never expected to get so far and does not know how to continue.

"Robin?" Realizing that he and Superman are the only ones in costume and they are very much standing in Dick's civilian home's kitchen, he adds, softer, "Tim?"

Clearly, Jason is the only one who bothers with keeping his identity secret. He wonders whether Bruce knows. Probably not. Otherwise, he would have never let Tim go outside again.

"I - are you -" Tim looks between Conner and Superman.

"Do you want me to leave?" Superman asks, all calm and reasonable now as if they had not wanted him gone ever since he stepped into Dick's home. "I still want to know what's going on, but if you'd prefer to tell Conner first, then I'm willing to wait."

In Jason's experience, adults are never willing to wait for something if they can also have it right away. Also, it is not like Superman could not overhear their conversation from anywhere else if he really put his mind to it.

Tim seems to realize that at the same moment, because he takes a deep breath and asks Conner, "Has Superman ever hurt you?"

A dozen emotions wander over Conner's face. Confusion, disgust, horror, realization. Jason cannot clock them all but Tim will. They are friends and Tim is a master at analysing people. Instead of trying, Jason looks back at Superman, who has frozen in place, mouth open as he stares at Tim. When he notices Jason looking, he flinches back, moving until the he hits the wall. As far as reactions go, that is promising, but Jason has not survived until now by being naive.

"What?" Superman asks, more a croak than an actual word. He sounds honestly shocked, but knowing how to lie comes with their jobs.

Conner is quiet for a long moment, trying and visibly failing to digest Tim's question. Finally, though, he replies slowly, "Not on purpose. Did Batman hurt you?" He does not even glance at Superman, does not track his movements, does not look apprehensive of him.

"Yes," Tim says, earnest and strong as if they are not talking about the hell that is their home life in front of strangers. As if they did not rule Superman out as too dangerous to tell.

Jason cannot hold himself back any longer. He wants to shout, to hit something. Instead, laughter bursts over his lips, bitter and burning. Tim moves even closer against him, propping him up with his shoulder.

"He said, if we ever tried to get away from him, he would send Superman after us," he chokes out, unable to hide the sheer terror underneath. "Well, Superman is here, now. We're not going back." It comes out as less of a declaration and more a question. He will still fight, but perhaps he does not have to.

Conner turns towards Superman, going tense just like Dick before him. "Clark? Did you know about that?"

"No," Superman answers without hesitation, with so much feeling that it clogs the air. "I would never - I would never hurt a child."

Against all of Jason's life experience, he believes him.

Whumptober 2024 Day 8: isolation chamber

Fandom: Batman Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson Tags: Child Abuse, Dark Bruce Wayne, Running Away, Protective Dick

Summary:

The car breaks down outside of Metropolis. Bruce arrives only a few hours later.

"There's an inn a few miles down the road," he says, his face impassive. Jason knows him well enough to know he is furious. "You can walk or one of you gets the trunk."

Jason looks at the free, spacious backseats of the car. Before Tim can make a stupid, self-sacrificing decision, Jason pushes forward and in front of him. "We'll walk."

The car breaks down a few hundred kilometres out from Metropolis. It is not the smartest place to go, considering that Superman is based there, but they did not actually plan much beyond the how. When was the best and earliest opportunity. Where was just away. They got farther than Jason would have expected. He has long since given up building on hope.

"What now?" he asks as he opens the door and stretches out his legs. They are all alone out here, having stuck to smaller streets. No one to help get the car running again. No one to helpfully point them in a direction where two runaway kids could disappear to, never to be found again.

Tim is fiddling with the car's cables, fruitlessly trying to get a reaction out of it. Nothing happens. The entire car just shut down on them, leaving them to come to a slow halt by the side of the road, with no clue what, exactly, went wrong, much less how to fix it.

Finally, Tim resurfaces and mulishly packs up his little toolkit. "We should get someone to look at it," he then says, shrugging at their surroundings, void of any life. "There must be a garage around somewhere."

"We don't have that kind of money," Jason says, as if Tim needs the reminder. They have slept in the car instead of getting even a cheap motel room, and lived off junk food to stretch their meagre cash as far as they can. "Aren't you a computer genius, though? Can't you hack a bank and get us some money?"

Tim snorts, not sounding very amused at all. He leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. "I don't think life will get better in prison."

Jason is not so sure about that. It cannot really get worse. "B wouldn't send us to prison," he says anyway, turning the key in the ignition again, as if the twentieth attempt will actually change the outcome. "Too much temptation for us to talk."

"Not if they put us in solitary," Tim points out, voice too quiet for it to be ever mistaken as a joke.

"Tim." Jason reaches out and grips Tim's shoulder like a lifeline. Softer, he adds, "We'll think of something."

It is a lie and they both know it.

Still, Tim manages to smile at him. "Sure."

Bruce arrives a few hours later. That just shows they never quite got out from under his thumb in the first place. He stops the car a few feet in front of them and then gets out. He leans against the hood as he watches them silently. Perhaps they should have taken their chances and gone straight through the fields instead of sticking to the road. It would, at least, have made it harder to find them, even if that would have only delayed the inevitable further. 

"There's an inn a few miles down the road," Bruce finally says. His face is impassive, but Jason knows him well enough to know he is furious. The kind of icy anger that burns everything it touches. "You can walk or one of you gets the trunk."

Before Tim can make a stupid, self-sacrificing decision, Jason pushes forward and in front of him. "We'll walk."

Because there is no question who would be allowed to ride in front and who would get locked up in the dark, cramped space behind. It is one of Bruce's favoured punishments for Tim. And it looks like he chose the car accordingly. Things will be bad, but Jason has not yet learned not to fight.

Bruce nods as if it is all the same to him. "If you make it until sundown, you'll get dinner."

They do not get dinner.

Jason is the one who ruins a perfectly good vigilante and pushes him over a line they did not know was drawn in the sand. He wants to go to the new production of Macbeth. He is the reason they are on the road that night, right in the path of a man driving drunk. He gets Alfred killed. It is all downhill from there.

Tim is also Jason's fault. He saw the kid first, following after them at night with his camera and absolutely no sense of self-preservation. He should have been subtler, should have taken the kid aside and told him to stay away in a way that worked.

Instead, Tim kept following them and, one night, hit with a dose of fear toxin, revealed he knows who Batman is. Tim's parents got served a lawsuit for criminal neglect two days later and Tim officially became part of the Wayne household a week after that.

For days, Jason did not sleep, waiting for the inevitable, wanting to apologize for ruining another life but not knowing how. The first time a bruise darkened Tim's cheek, he knew it would not do any good.

He is still trying to protect Tim as much as he can.

Bruce is waiting for them in front of the inn, drinking from a half-empty water bottle. 

"What exactly was your plan?" he asks calmly. He is his most dangerous when he is calm.

Tim is eyeing the water, his eyes lingering too long before he turns towards Bruce. "We wouldn't tell anyone." He does not clarify what he means. He does not need to, of course. There are a hundred damning things to pick from.

It is still the wrong answer, Jason knows, and winces. Strike one.

Bruce shows no outward sign of what he thinks. "Jason?" he prompts instead.

But Jason is tired, too. Tired and thirsty and on the verge of lying on the dusty ground and just giving up. "What the fuck do you think?" he snaps. 

It is usually not a good idea to make Bruce angry. The thing is, he already is. Now it is all about damage control. About not drawing things out. The longer Bruce has to think about things, the worse it will get. He already had two weeks to simmer. Two weeks of running and they are back to square one.

"Language," Bruce says without inflection. Strike two.

He gets to his feet and picks up the bottle, only to casually empty it out on the ground between them. For a moment, he watches the water sink into the dirt like a declaration of what is to follow.

"Come," he orders. And, like beaten down fools, they do.

Turns out, Bruce does not need a trunk. The closet in the inn is lockable and small enough to be uncomfortable. It is not, however, soundproof like the one in the manor.

Jason tries to keep quiet, but Bruce has both experience and patience. He knows how long he has to hit Jason and where, to make it really count. To make him bite his lip bloody and then cry out anyway.

Tim still does not have a lick of self-preservation, because he hammers against the closet door, drawing attention in a way that is dangerous. Jason does not want him to be locked in, but he wants him to be dragged out and beaten right alongside Jason even less. They all have their roles to fill, and Jason is not as fragile as Tim. He has taken beatings long before Bruce ever took him in. 

Just like Tim knew isolation before Bruce ever built a sensory deprivation chamber just for him.

"Next time, I should send Superman after you," Bruce says the next morning when they are in the car, driving back towards Gotham. "I'm sure he could make the lesson stick."

Jason shudders. He sits primly, careful not to let his bruised skin touch the back of the seat. Of course, Bruce knows to accelerate fast enough to push them all back far enough to count.

He can only imagine the damage Superman could do if he puts his heart in it. The few times they have met, Superman was always genial, careful when handling normal things and people. Bruce is good at keeping up facades, too, though. Jason does not want to find out how Superman gets rid of his frustration.

Tim is friends with Conner and he never let anything slip. Then again, neither do Jason or Tim.

For a man his size, Bruce knows how to move quietly. It only adds to the quiet threat of omnipresence he likes to wield. There is nowhere they can hide without him finding them, nothing they can say without him hearing it. Privacy is nothing more than a pipe dream in the manor, and Jason has learnt to expect that everything he does will be used against him.

Bruce appears in the door to the dining room, where Jason is trying to get caught up with school work. When they arrived back, Jason's work was laid out for him on the table and he was ordered to get started on it immediately. He could only watch helplessly, as Bruce led Tim further into the manor to lock him up for who knows how long.

"Dick will come for dinner. He wants to hear all about your vacation to Metropolis," he says, his tone mocking but not hiding the threat behind the words.

They will have to conjure up stories about a happy trip that never happened. Not that Jason particularly wants to talk about the truth, about failing to run away, about all the reasons why they even felt they needed to in the first place.

Jason has never found out whether Dick knows what is happening in Wayne Manor behind closed doors. He does not think that Bruce ever touched Dick. The first time Bruce hit Jason was after Alfred died, long after Dick had moved out. Also, Jason could never imagine yelling at Bruce the way Dick does. Jason snaps and curses and shows his teeth, but only when he knows punishment is inevitable. The waiting is always the worst thing for him. Dick, on the other hand, often seems to argue just for the sake of arguing. Jason could never. He does not have a death wish.

Jason straightens his shoulders. "Is there anything specific you want us to prepare?"

Sometimes, Bruce gets out Alfred's cookbooks and gives them impossible tasks in some attempt to relive the old days. Or to set them up for failure. He does not need a reason to punish them, but he still likes to make some up.

Bruce shakes his head and says, "Tim can cook. You and I will train."

Jason swallows. They have been back for barely a day and every movement is hell, pulling on the welts littering his back. He merely nods, though. If Tim is to cook, then Bruce will have to let him out of the chamber. That is good. He will gladly take a few more bruises for that.

Dick comes in bright and smiling. He engulfs Jason in a hug that Jason is sure reopens some of the cuts on his back. He does not make a sound.

"Jaybird. I was so jealous when B told me about your vacation." He pouts as he turns to greet Tim, too. "Why didn't you invite me? We could have made a proper outing of it. All us brothers on the road."

Brothers, Jason thinks and almost scoffs. Tim is his brother, cemented in misery and blood and the doomed need to protect each other. Every minute Tim is out of his sights just allows anxiety to grind down Jason's insides further.

Dick, on the other hand, is just the kid Bruce took in before them, who once did not like Jason for taking his place while not bothering to check whether Jason actually still wants to be here. He is an infrequent guest, who puts Bruce in either a worryingly happy mood or a terrible one. Neither of which is actually good for Tim and Jason. A happy Bruce gets creative. An angry Bruce is just cruel.

"We thought summer is a busy time for you. It was rather spontaneous," Tim answers diplomatically. He is wearing a sweater long enough to hide the burns on his arms. Of course, Bruce was not content with just letting him cook. "You know how it is. The lack of homework and exams paired with summer heat? We just wanted to get out for a bit." Or out for good.

Neither Jason nor Tim had to learn how to lie. True, they used to do it under drastically different circumstances, but at least Bruce deemed them both reasonably capable of keeping their mouths shut without doing it for them or locking them up indefinitely.

Dick sits down at Bruce's right hand, leaning into his space like there is nothing to it, like Bruce's hands are not just there, within easy punching distance.

"It's been ages since I took a vacation, though." He is making puppy dog eyes at them, including Bruce, who smiles in return, broad and honest. The sight just makes Jason's stomach churn.

"Next time, we'll take you," Tim says easily.

Next time. Bruce had said that, too. As if there truly would be a next time. They had their chance and blew it.

Tim moves to serve the soup. His hands are not as stable as Alfred's were, once upon a time. Might be that he has not yet shaken off the hours of being locked up. Might be the burns pressing against the hot china.

"Deal," Dick agrees with all the enthusiasm of someone missing any and all signs of the tension around him. "I hope you didn't get into too much trouble."

Tim and Jason share a quick look, brief enough that Dick does not notice. Bruce, of course, does. He always does.

"Trouble?" Jason takes over to allow Tim enough respite to try to serve the soup without spilling any. "You know Timbers. We were going from one museum to the next. No time for fun when there's things to learn."

No time for fun when they were fearing for their lives, either, but that is just another secret tucked away behind high walls and new scars. Trouble, however, they know intimately.

Picking up Tim was a stroke of luck for Bruce. There is no better way to control someone than by threatening someone they care about. Tim and Jason took to that lesson like ducks to water.

Jason would have either given up or done something drastic ages ago if it were just him and the vengeful bat in the manor. Now, if he goes two hours without seeing Tim, he gets nervous. And pliant.

And Tim, well, Tim will never not try to spare Jason, no matter what that means for himself. He has never learned to think of himself as someone worthy of protection, of love. Jason does his best to rectify that, but life is making that very hard, indeed.

The first time Bruce put a gun in Jason's hand, he thought it was a joke. Batman has rules, principles. Not taking lives is one of them. Probably the most important of them. Batman has gotten a lot laxer about his rules, however. And sending others to do his dirty work does not, apparently, count as breaking the rules at all.

He saw potential in Jason and now bleeds him dry using it.

"I can help," Tim insists one night, a secret whispered only once they are sure Bruce is out of the house. They have taken to sleeping in the same room, as if that would actually make them any safer. If he wants to, Bruce comes for them no matter whether the other watches.

"No," Jason denies him immediately. "I will not let you kill someone." Things are bad enough without loading that on Tim's conscience.

"I wouldn't do it myself," Tim argues stubbornly. "But I can arrange it. If you need a break."

And he could do it. Easily.

But Jason says, "No." And that is that. It is enough that his own hands are bloodied.

Tim's talents lie elsewhere, anyway. He is trained to fight like all of them, but the true magic happens when he is put behind a screen. Recon, research, finding patterns, writing up ridiculous complex formulas to predict all kinds of things, hacking anything and anyone he sets his eyes on.

Jason is strong and Tim is smart. Bruce uses them accordingly.

Bruce is restless. They have been back for a few weeks, but he does not seem willing to let it go, watching everything they do, just waiting for the smallest mistake. It is almost as bad as during those weeks after Alfred had just died. It had broken a dam when Bruce had struck Jason for the first time, when he realized how he could lessen his own pain by putting it on another.

"Perhaps we need to switch it up a bit, since you've been feeling so adventurous lately," Bruce says in the middle of dinner. He pushes away his plate, making Tim and Jason scramble to put their cutlery down. It is a principal rule that nobody eats once Bruce is finished. "Tim, go to the gym and wait for me there."

Tim stands up immediately, even though he looks wide-eyed at Jason before he moves to the door. It is not the prospect of a beating that scares him, Jason knows.

As if Bruce read their minds, he continues, "Jason, you know the way to Tim's chamber."

Chamber, of course, is an entirely cruel name for the cramped, dark box Bruce likes to lock Tim into, taking away his senses and freedom in one go.

"No." That is Tim, standing straight, one hand on the doorknob, not moving. He is pale and trembling, but he looks straight at Bruce, refusing to back down.

"What was that?" Bruce smiles and Jason feels a trap snap close around him.

Tim swallows, his knuckles going white around the doorknob. "I said no," he says, anyway, his voice the only thing that does not waver. And then he makes it worse by adding, "Running was my idea."

Jason is on his feet in an instance. "That's not true," he exclaims, almost stumbling over the words. "I stole the car keys. I convinced him to go."

They are left to glare at each other, unwilling to let the other take the fall, even though they know better, even though they know it is never about whose fault it is. They both ran. They both broke the rules.

"It seems we have a bit of a conundrum." Bruce waves Tim back in. "Sit."

He waits just long enough to watch them both do as they are told. Then he gets up himself and leaves the room, knowing they will not move. Not so soon after having been dragged back here.

When he returns, he has a switch in hand, well-used, familiar. He puts it down on the table between Jason and Tim. He has the gall to be still smiling.

"I think twenty strikes each sound fair. Tim will start." It is the calm in his voice that always, always gets Jason's blood boiling. The way he can sit there and just casually order them hurt. The way they always comply.

Tim remains where he is for a long moment, drawing deep breaths. Then he stands and, with entirely too steady hands, begins to pull his shirt off.

"Oh, no," Bruce interrupts, his smile turning into something sharper. "You will do the honours."

Shirt halfway up his torso, Tim freezes, expression filling with horror as realization dawns. Jason knows his face must mirror Tim's. This is not - Bruce hurts them. They do not hurt each other.

"No," Tim says for the third time this night. No one could ever say he is not brave. Bravery is the surest way to get himself hurt here.

"It's twenty if you do it. Of course, you'll have to repeat strikes if I don't think you're taking things seriously," Bruce says easily, looking at both of them in turn, making it clear what Jason will have to do, too. "If you make me do it, we double it."

Double. Forty. Jason swallows.

They look at each other, Jason and Tim, brothers in misery but also something far more precious. Jason loves Tim. Whatever else happens in this house, Tim is family and there are lines he will not cross. From the determination settling over Tim's features, Jason thinks - hopes - he feels the same.

Forty strikes from Bruce will be brutal. Even if they were to do it themselves, though, there is no telling whether Bruce would not have them repeat strikes to reach the same number, because there is no way Jason could hit Tim in a way that could ever satisfy Bruce. And that is not counting the psychological element of it. It is hard enough to be helpless, to watch when Bruce hurts Tim. He will not be complicit. Not any more than he already is.

"No," Jason says, his throat dry. It does not come out as strong as he hoped, but strength has never helped them anyway. "I will not hurt him."

"Is that so?" Bruce cocks his head to the side, sounding curious. "Tim?"

Wordlessly, Tim shakes his head and then finishes to pull his shirt off. He folds it, showing a calm Jason is certain he does not feel. Then he pulls a chair out of the way, braces his arms against the tabletop, and waits, staring unseeingly at the remains of their dinner.

"So obedient, all of a sudden." Bruce hums and just looks for a long minute. "Stay where you are. Jason, we'll begin with you."

That is the obvious choice, of course. The pain is just half the punishment. The rest is having to watch. Tim might not be fully present by the end. Why give him an easy out?

Jason swallows a curse as he gets to his unsteady feet. He does not bother to fold his shirt but simply throws it on the table.

"Count for me, Tim. And do take care. I'd hate to begin again if you miss one."

Every time, Jason thinks the anticipation is worse than the actual hits. Every time, Bruce proves him wrong.

"One."

"We have to do something," Jason says, two nights later. Bruce is out on patrol and Jason has taken a jammer out of the cave. He is not going to let Bruce overhear this.

Tim sits up in bed. "What can we do?" he asks, sounding utterly exhausted, which has little to do with neither of them being unable to sleep. "Do you think the car broke down out of the blue? You know Bruce. He's weird about his cars."

Which means he let them run for two weeks, just waiting for the right time to bring them low. Like a cat playing with its prey.

"It's only going to get worse."

Tim nods in agreement but still scoffs. "And who'd believe us?"

"Look at us," Jason says, pointing at where bandages peek out from under Tim's sleep shirt. "Who wouldn't believe us?"

"Let me rephrase that." Tim rolls his eyes, Jason knows despite the darkness. "Who would believe us that we could actually contact without Bruce knowing and who would do something about it?"

Jason knows exactly what Tim means, of course. They have been adopted by Bruce Wayne. They should count themselves lucky for that privilege. Surely, being slapped around a bit is an adequate payment for a life otherwise lacking nothing. Nothing that Bruce does not withhold from them.

"You're the computer whiz," Jason says, aiming for a lighter tone and falling painfully short. "Don't tell me it's impossible to get a message out. Hell, one picture should be enough." At least until Bruce's money and lawyers make it like no evidence ever existed. That is the oldest story in the book. Money dictates the world.

"It's not impossible." Tim shrugs. He likely has played through all possible scenarios already. "I just don't know how quickly he'll notice. We can't be around when he finds out."

An involuntary shudder runs through Jason. Getting caught at trying to run away again, after the first time went so terribly wrong just a few weeks ago, could just be the thing that tips Bruce entirely off the edge. And he is barely clinging on as it is.

"He hasn't killed us yet. He likes it too much to have his own personal punching bags," Jason says, although it does not come out as convinced as he would hope.

What if Bruce does tire of them? Worse, what if he wants to exchange them for a younger, less troublesome model and Jason has to die knowing he has condemned another person to this hell?

Tim looks at him, too young and too serious. "He also hasn't had us hurt each other before. Things like this always get worse."

The words settle between them, making the air taste bitter. Although that might just be the bile at the back of Jason's throat.

"So what?" he finally asks. What can they do, if staying is not an option but running is hardly feasible either?

"Superman isn't an option. The way Bruce talks about him, he might already know," Tim says, falling into the familiar rhythm of presenting research. "I can try Conner, though. I mean, I can call for him without technology."

Their civilian identities are still a secret, of course, so they cannot know that Conner will answer if it is not Robin calling.

"And then?" Jason asks anyway. "Wonder Woman loves children."

She pretends to, at least. Then again, Bruce likes to get photographs with the babies at orphanages, too, whenever he has to visit for the Maria Wayne Foundation.

Tim smiles bitterly. "I'm not sure the Justice League will forsake their bankrolling member just because of us." There it is again, the problem with the money.

"Gordon?"

But Tim shakes his head before Jason has fully finished saying the name. "He has taken Batman beginning to kill without protest."

True. So much for the only upstanding commissioner of Gotham.

"Dick?"

They look at each other, full of the same gnawing hesitation. This might be their last chance. They cannot botch it up.

"Assuming he doesn't know," Tim picks up the idea as if it is not a giant, uncertain if. "What could Dick do against Batman?"

The mere thought is laughable, so Jason points out, "Nothing. But against Bruce? He could get us out of the house. He will never reveal Batman's identity and he wouldn't let us do it either, Bruce knows that." Allowing himself a moment of weakness, Jason says, "We could just go living with our older brother."

He expects Tim to shoot down such a stupid pipe dream immediately. Instead, Tim studies him, his features somehow sharper than before.

Then, without the slightest trace of hesitation, he says, "We could also kill him."

"Tim," Jason exclaims, immediately looking at the door, half expecting Bruce to appear as if summoned.

"What?" Tim asks dryly. "He must know we'd think of that eventually. We're trained. He's paranoid but he can't be on alert all the time."

It is true and Jason will not lie and say he never thought about it before. Taking a life, now that he has had practice, is not hard at all. They would have to carefully prepare, but it should be doable. It would, however, just get them into a whole new world of trouble.

"We're not killing Batman," Jason decides, sounding more convinced than he feels. "We're not killers. Not when he does not force us to be."

Tim nods and some of the tension bleeds out of him. "All right."

A small part of Jason is disappointed at Tim's quick acquiescence. "Just like that?"

"I just wanted you to know that's an option." Tim reaches out in the dark, finds Jason's hand and squeezes it. "I would - you know. For you."

Jason turns his hand so they are holding each other. "If it ever comes to that, I would, too. For you."

They do not let go of each other until the sun rises outside.

They needle Dick long enough that he agrees to take them to some kind of event in the zoo. Jason has already forgotten what it is about, but it coincides with an important board meeting at Wayne Enterprises, so they are reasonably sure to be free of Bruce for at least a few hours.

On the way to the zoo, Tim, admirably, keeps up with Dick's excited chatter, pretending for all the world to see that nothing is wrong. Nothing at all. Jason grunts out responses when needed and otherwise tries to keep his heartrate under control. He hopes his lack of excitement can be put down as him being a moody teenager and feeling himself too old to go to the zoo with his brothers. He has never had a talent for acting, and he will not start to try with so many things hinging on this going right.

Once at their destination, they make sure to pass at least four security cameras and then dive into a crowd where it is loud enough that their phones will have trouble picking up their conversation if Bruce decides to listen in. They still ditch their bags there for the moment - and Dick's, too - just to be sure. Bruce is not the only one who can be paranoid. Then they drag Dick off into a corner of the zoo with fewer people and, more importantly, no security cameras.

"What's going on?" Dick asks, because he, too, was trained by the greatest detective and, of course, knows that something strange is happening. He does not resist them, however, which has to count for something.

"We need to talk to you," Tim says simply, sounding like he is chewing glass. "Only you."

Dick raises an eyebrow at the implication but nods, tersely.

When they are suitably out of the way, Jason looks at Tim, suddenly breathless. Are they really doing this? Well, it is now or never and Jason has never liked waiting. 

"We noticed you are yelling a lot at Bruce."

That is not exactly how they were going to start the conversation, but Jason needs to know. All of their plan hinges on Dick being clueless as to what is going on in the manor. After how their last plan ended, Jason is not willing to take any chances.

Dick's shoulders slump. "Boys, it's -" He trails off, looking miserable. His face is so open, guileless. "I'm sorry if it's making you uncomfortable. It has nothing -"

Jason cuts him off, not able to stand the uncertainty any longer. "Has Bruce ever hit you?"

Out of the corner of Jason's eye, he sees Tim wince. He shrugs at him. They are on a strict schedule. They cannot be out of sight of cameras and out of the range of their phones for long.

Dick is staring, opening and closing his mouth several times, before he manages to ask, "What are you talking about?"

Jason crosses his arms in front of himself and shifts slightly, just so that he can slip fully in front of Tim if it becomes necessary. "Has he?" he then demands. Before he does not have a satisfying answer, they cannot push further.

"No, of course not," Dick exclaims, entirely too loud before remembering where they are. Much quieter, he continues, "I know it's not good that we keep arguing so much but -" Dick cuts himself off as he takes a closer look at them, at their sombre expressions, at the way Jason's hands are digging into his arms and Tim is standing entirely too straight. "Did something happen?"

In a measured tone, Tim asks, "Would you believe us if we said that Bruce hit us?"

Dick flinches back and stares at Tim, stares like he can open up their heads and find out exactly what is going on. He clears his throat, but his voice still comes out rough. "Us as in both of you?"

Tim turns abruptly and, after a quick glance around, lifts the back of his shirt. Their backs are looking better, the bruising already more green and yellow than angry blue. The places where Bruce drew blood, however, are unmistakable. Fine, parallel lines like a confession.

"Forty strikes," Tim says, voice sharp, clinical. He has no intention of pulling his punches, so to speak. This might be their only chance. "Well, forty-four, because he did Jason first and then had to start over several times with me because Jason was fighting to stay conscious and did not start counting quickly enough."

Jason wants to close his eyes at the memory, but he keeps watching Dick. This is the moment of truth.

Pure horror takes over Dick's face and Jason cannot help his relieved sigh. Dick did not know. Dick does not approve.

Jason reaches out blindly, finds Tim's arm and squeezes. He is not sure he can keep standing on his own. Tim shrugs his shirt back on properly and then moves against Jason's side. They have practice keeping each other up.

"Is this - are you -" Dick takes a deep breath, then tries again. "Was this the first time?"

"No," Tim says and smiles, no trace of humour on his face. "Far from it."

Dick leans back, pressing his hand against his mouth. He does not look away, however, does not hide his terror. "And you both - you - your trip?"

He is smart, quickly connects the dots. Jason tries not to feel bitter about the fact that they might have gotten help earlier, if only Dick had deigned to see them.

"We were running away," Jason admits, shaking off his misgivings. He learned early on in life not to cry over what ifs. "Unsuccessfully, of course."

To give him credit, Dick does not ask why they did not come to him sooner, why he seems to be their last resort. He knows Bruce, perhaps not as well as they do, but well enough.

"We can't get him arrested."

They know that. Bruce has too much money, too many lawyers just waiting to do his bidding. He has the Justice League and Gotham's police. They are just two kids with nowhere else to go.

Jason and Tim stay silent. They both agreed on the importance of this. Dick must want to help them, must offer to help on his own. Otherwise, he will never stare down Bruce for them to tell him he will lose them both. Well, all three of them, at best.

They watch as Dick thinks, fighting to correlate the Bruce he knows with what he has just learned. Then, he sets his jaw. "What can I do?"

Jason feels like he is taking his first real breath since their stolen car broke down. Tim finds his hand and holds on for dear life. They are not alone anymore.

[blancheludis]

Whumptober 2024 Day 16: swamp, wound cleaning

Fandom: Batman Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne Tags: Tim is a Witch, Magic, Accidental Brother Acquisition, Dysfunctional Family, Tim Gets Adopted

Summary:

"So, let me just reiterate," Tim says slowly and puts down his tea in case things heat up. "You want to kill your brother because he died and is angry about it?"

Damian pulls his shoulders back, clearly ready for a long-winded correction, but then he just says, "Yes."

Tim cannot stop himself and asks, "Have you tried therapy?

---

It has taken some effort, but Tim managed to turn the path to his home into the perfect mixture of hostile and strangely welcoming. Those who know where they are going can follow the gentle lapping of the water and the buzzing lights of the will-o’-wisps, while those will ill-intent are in constant danger of getting swallowed by the swamp. It is an effective system, which affords Tim safety, peace of mind, and a renewable source of ingredients. Every now and then, someone makes it through nonetheless, but he is more than equipped to deal with enemies. The swamp is an old place and magic has always come easy to him.

Usually, when someone closes in on his home, Tim has about an hour to prepare after the first alarm. That is enough time to clear up any clutter, get into appropriate clothing and put the kettle on. He likes to be prepared.

The kid takes just under thirty minutes.

He is young and old at the same time, something that Tim knows all too well, but while there is some dark energy humming around him, he is not magic himself. He cannot be more than twelve, but carries himself with the gravitas of someone used to fight to get what he wants. Literally, considering he is carrying a sword and several knives in plain sight, and who knows how many more are hidden. He knocks on the door but waits, warily, when Tim opens it with a flick of his hand from across the room.

"Come in," Tim calls out.

His voice is not deep enough to make it into a low, mysterious threat. He could use magic to help along, let the wind rustle along with his voice and the lights dim, but he usually only bothers with the people who look like they want to be impressed. The kid looks the complete opposite. Determined, even eager, while aiming for bored. He is not here to be bewitched but to get results. Tim can respect that.

"You are the witch?" he asks, finally coming into the house. "Timothy Drake?"

He first assesses Tim himself, eyes roaming over the flowing coat but lingering on the sweater and jeans just visible underneath. He does not linger on Tim's face, like so many people do when they realize how young he is, which earns him immediate bonus points. Then, he takes in the room around him, clocks every window and door, sniffs when he finds the cauldron bubbling. It is stew, because Tim likes to batch cook and that is the biggest pot he owns. He has cleaned it thoroughly. Potatoes do not mix well with hemlock and eyes of newt.

"Tim," he corrects when the kid's eyes are back on him. "At your service." His smile remains unanswered.

Straightening his already perfect posture, the kid fixes Tim with a flat stare. "I need to kill someone."

That is not what Tim expected. Strangely, it is also not unexpected. Something about the way the kid carries himself. Those blades are not for show. The shadows hiding in his eyes are not, either.

"How about you come in first," Tim says, waving him closer towards the table where he usually conducts business. And eats dinner. "Tea?"

He expects this to be a Conversation. Having a mug to hold onto usually helps. And a few herbs to calm the nerves.

The kid narrows his eyes. "Is that a requirement to hire your services?"

Laughter bubbles up Tim's throat, but he pushes it back down. "It's polite," he says instead, all respectful.

"I don't have time for politeness," the kid shoots back but follows after him nonetheless.

He eyes the table and chair with more wariness than the simple wooden furniture deserves, but then sits down. His muscles stay every bit as tense, making him just look ridiculous.

Tim busies himself with making tea. He chooses a couple simple earthen mugs. The kid looks like he has a temper underneath all that icy control, and Tim is not going to waste the good china on him if this ends in a tantrum.

"Well," he says once the tea is on the table and he has sat down himself. "I don't kill."

There, just barely noticeable, is displeasure flitting over the kid's face. A simple tightening of his jaw, his chin rising just so. "I have been told -"

"What," Tim interrupts him gently, only slightly mocking. "You've been reading reviews? You can't believe everything you find on the internet."

People talk too freely when they think they can post anonymously. And they do not understand Tim's business the way he does. There are a number of reviews praising his effective love potions, as if he would ever create such an evil thing, trapping strangers against their will in emotions not their own. Five-year-old him might have thought differently, when he was vying for his parents' attention, but he has learned that the real thing is what counts. He only helps nudge things along, bolsters confidence or creativity. He does not create feelings where there are none. Other witches might do anything for money, but he sticks to his morals.

The kid watches him closely. "You help people get rid of dangers all the time."

Tim nods his head but says, "That is quite different than wanting to kill someone."

Life is fragile, that is true. He has all kinds of people coming to his door. Desperate and hopeful, tired and full of energy. He has helped people end their life with dignity, but all parties were aware of what was happening and, usually, they gathered their family around to ease their passing. That is probably not what the kid has in mind, though.

"I need to," the kid corrects, as if there is truly a difference between need and want. It all comes down to perspective.

Tim leans back in his chair, makes a show of taking a sip of his tea. The fragrance in the air is calming, but it works much better when ingested.

"You look quite capable yourself," Tim points out, gesturing vaguely at the sword. Usually he has a 'no weapons in the house' policy, but he is not going to lecture a twelve-year-old who looks like his blades are just another body part of his. He is a witch, not suicidal.

Brief pleasure at the praise lightens the kid's expression, before he sobers again, quickly. "Nobody can know it was me." He sounds irritated at that, too. Clearly someone who prefers sticking in the blade himself and then twisting it for good measure.

"So, you want poison," Tim says, testing the words. "Something slow-acting."

With his chin rising just a bit higher, the kid counters, "Not too slow."

Tim has to smother another smile. It should probably not be amusing to him. Kids should not want to kill anybody. But this seems more like a cry for help than any actual murderous intent. He could be wrong, of course. Has been wrong before. Will be again. That is life.

"Who?" he asks, simply, deciding to get on with it.

"My father's former son," the kid replies, suddenly sounding eager, like he thinks he has Tim all but convinced. "He died but was brought back angry. He does not stick to the rules and it upsets Father and - he ruins everything."

That is a lot to unpack. Tim's quiet evening has just dissolved into a delectable puzzle. A murderous child wanting to go after his own brother, no doubt in a bid for who is the best son. Only absolutely messed up.

"So, let me just reiterate," Tim says slowly and puts down his tea in case things heat up. "You want to kill your brother because he died and is angry about it?"

The kid pulls his shoulders back further, clearly ready for a long-winded correction, but then he just says, "Yes."

Tim cannot stop himself and asks, "Have you tried therapy?

It was the wrong thing to say, he knows that before the kid's posture stiffens further. The hands that have come halfway towards the mug clench into fist before disappearing under the table.

"If you cannot help, I will not waste my time any longer," he hisses, finally shedding the polite facade and letting out his feral side that Tim expected to be there ever since he knocked.

What about my time, Tim thinks, but then he hears himself saying, "I'll help."

Where did that come from? The kid clearly has daddy issues and self-esteem issues and a whole lot of other issues on top of that. He would never admit it out loud, but Tim feels a kind of kinship. Well, he never had a brother he wanted to kill to get his father's attention, but he can recognize the desperation in the other boy. The hunger for something safe and the willingness to go quite some length for it.

Surprise mellows the kid. "You will?" he asks, hopeful, before he remembers to be nonchalant. He does not quite pull it off.

Tim sighs but it is too late to bow out now. "What's your name?" he asks instead. They have missed quite a few steps in the kid's eagerness to discuss murder.

"Is that necessary?"

Tim raises an eyebrow at him. "Yes." There are people Tim does not mess with and he will not make an exception for cute, feral kids.

"Damian Wayne."

That is not ideal. It has been a while since Tim came out here and kept up with gossip from home. How could he forget Bruce Wayne, though? After Jason died, Tim briefly contemplated to try and get Bruce to adopt him instead. That seemed to be a thing with Bruce. And Tim, at that time, was desperate for some connection. He did not go through with his vague plans but moved to a swamp instead. Clearly the better life choice, considering Jason apparently came back from the dead - or some new dead Wayne kid - and is now in danger of being killed again by his little brother. People are crazy.

"I see," he says carefully.

His lack of enthusiasm just deflates Damian. "You know my family." The way he puts special inflection on my only wants Tim to pull Damian into a hug. Serioues issues, there.

"I have a Wayne laptop," Tim deflects, but he is sure he does not quite pull it off. Trying to salvage the situation, he says, "All right, I'll get you some poison."

He is absolutely not sure this is the right decision, but no one should feel unwanted in their own home. From what he remembers of the Waynes, they are loving and loyal, but also fiercely stubborn. Losing his parents had messed Bruce up to the point where he became a masked vigilante. Losing Jason just pushed him further down a destructive spiral. Back then, Tim thought he might be destined to save Batman, but then decided he would be better off honing his own gifts. Other people might pull off magic and vigilantism, but he is quite content with where he ended up.

Tim gets up and wanders over to a cabinet in the back, wondering what the right action will be here. He is obviously not aiding and abetting in killing Damian's Wayne mystery brother. Jason was Tim's Robin, after all. And if it is not Jason, then the new kid surely has some redeeming qualities, too. Most people do. But Damian clearly needs help, too. It seems they all need a push to realize what they have. That some people do not have any family at all and they should be a bit more grateful for the gift they have been given.

Choosing the right vial, Tim goes back to the table and puts it down between them but keeps his finger on it.

"You'll have to get it in contact with his blood," Tim says, staring Damian down with utter seriousness. "But guessing on the number of blades you carry, that won't be a problem."

Damian's hands are twitching, impatient to reach out and take the vial. "They can't know it's my fault," he still argues. Then, sounding distinctly put off, adds, "I'm not supposed to kill."

Yeah, Tim will not touch that with a ten-foot pole, thank you very much. Still, if any of the people who raised Damian ever come knocking on his door, he has a few choice words for them. And a few vials of more potent stuff he keeps in the back.

"A small cut is enough," Tim keeps explaining. "Surely you'll manage that without getting found out?"

Clearly insulted, Damian scoffs. "Of course."

"Here." He pushes the vial towards Damian, almost smiling at how quickly he scoops it up. "You'll only need to add a drop of your blood. Mix it up and then put it on your blade."

"My blood?" Damian asks, sharply. All traces of childish emotion are gone from his face, leaving behind something hardened. "Why?"

Because this will not work, otherwise. Because Tim really hopes Damian is just lonely and does not really want to murder his brother in cold blood. Intent is important. Even the intent people are not aware of.

"Blood is a powerful ingredient," Tim says easily. "It enhances potency. Without it, this potion's all but useless. Might give your brother indigestion."

Damian narrows his eyes, but he does not let go of the vial. "Why don't you add blood then?"

Tim takes his time to walk back to his chair and sit down. He smiles at Damian, little actual amusement in the gesture. "I don't want your brother dead."

"He's not my brother," Damian insists, face darkening further.

Yes, Tim thinks, this might just work out.

"All right," he exclaims, clapping his hand for good measure. "Let me ring you up."

He has no trouble demanding payment for this. It is not extortion of minors when Damian comes here with more blades than fingers and a distinct thirst for blood. It is also not extortion when Tim, too, is a minor and just trying to make a living. Either way, Damian pays without a fuss. Other people are not that gracious. He does not even demand to split the bill, to pay half only after the fact.

"And, if you want," Tim says as he brings Damian to the door. "There's a ghoul that moved in under the second bridge. He's always trying to eat my customers."

He expects Damian to lift his chin before he actually does it.

"I'm not going to clean up after you," he snaps but sounds interested nonetheless.

Tim shrugs like he does not care either way. He could deal with the ghoul himself, but he does not particularly want to. Ghouls are a messy business, and since he skipped getting trained by Batman, it tends to be a hassle.

"Just in case you want to swirl that sword without someone getting on your case about it," he says and knows he has won when Damian scoffs again.

He inclines his head stiffly. "I will leave a review when it's done."

And Tim cannot help himself and says, "Might want to do that anonymously."

The kid glares as he walks out but closes the door quietly. Cute, feral and polite. If that entire family reunion thing does not work out, Tim thinks he might want to adopt Damian himself.

---

The next time Damian comes, he needs just under half an hour. And he brings a guest.

It is the middle of the night and Tim has to change out of his pyjamas when the first alarm rings. That does not put him in a better mood. But he has been expecting something to happen. Damian did not seem like the most patient of people and it has already been two weeks since his last visit.

Nighttime visits usually mean trouble, so he unlocks the door before he puts on the kettle. He does not need broken door hinges on top of a sleepless night.

When the door is pushed open without even a cursory knock first, it is Jason Todd who rushes into Tim's home. He is out of breath, too much so, even after rushing through the swamp, and his eyes are burning, a light sheen of green over the usual blue. He looks around the room, less like he is cataloguing his surroundings and more like his mind is focused on a single thing and nothing else matters. He finds Tim standing in the kitchenette, kettle in one hand and the other reaching slowly for his knife block. Damian comes in after him, looking, only for a second, relieved that they are both still breathing.

"What did you do?" Jason yells as he takes a threatening step forward. It is not completely steady, but he looks like he does not need steady to break Tim's neck. At least if Tim were some defenceless waif lost in the swamp.

"What did I do?" Tim asks back and raises an eyebrow at Damian. He gets a third mug out of the cupboard and makes a whole show of not being worried.

When he turns back, Jason's face is scrunched up into wordless anger, while Damian steps forward and tugs up Jason's shirt, revealing the ugly mess underneath. The wound spans Jason's side from hipbone to ribcage, an angry red cut, the edges jagged and blackened. It is rather unhygienic - and stupid - to not cover it up properly.

Tim leans forward, makes a show of studying Damian and his handiwork, before he drawls, "My, that doesn't look good."

With an animalistic snarl, Jason tries to step forward, but is stopped by Damian's hand on his shoulder.

"He's not dying," Damian points out and does not sound happy about it. In fact, his lower lip pushes out into a small pout, before he clearly catches what he is doing and smooths his expression back into something blank.

Jason pulls himself free but thankfully stays where he is. "He is in pain, though, asshole, thanks to you," he snaps, throwing accusing glares at both of them.

Tim sighs. This is going to be a long night. He should have expected this from a bat-themed vigilante family. It would be strange if they kept normal hours.

"Is your father coming, too?" he asks. He is not prepared to deal with Bruce Wayne himself.

Immediately, Damian's eyes narrow. "Why do you want to know?"

So, they have not told Bruce about this. Perhaps Batman is losing his touch if he missed this. Or things are still not really happy in Wayne Manor.

Tim shrugs, projecting nonchalance like his life depends on it. "To see whether I need the big teapot." He smiles at Damian, which stays completely unappreciated.

Completely predictable, Jason snaps, "We're not here for tea."

They totally are brothers. Their bedside manner is nearly identical. Did Alfred not instil a healthy appreciation of tea in them?

Three mugs it is, then. "What are you here for?" Tim asks while he carries the mugs over to the table. He makes sure not to pass too closely to the murder brothers.

"To get rid of this," Jason says and pulls up his shirt again to show off the blackened, oozing wound.

Tim pointedly does not look at it again. It was unpleasant enough the first time. Then he shifts his gaze to Damian. "I told you I don't kill people."

Damian crosses his arms in front of him. "Clearly."

"But you poison them so that their wounds eat them alive?" Jason looks ready to strangle the both of them. He is still not moving, though, which probably counts as a win.

Putting down the mugs, Tim puts the table between himself and his visitors before fully turning back towards them. "No, seriously, what is it you're asking me to do here?"

Damian's jaw works as he clearly considers and dismisses several replies. Finally, he settles on, "We need an antidote."

That is character growth right there.

Of course, Jason ruins it by jabbing a finger at Damian, although without actually touching him. "I need a vial of whatever this is so I can carve up this idiot."

This family has become entirely too bloodthirsty. Tim is glad he chose the swamp. Who knows what kind of person he would be now if he had not.

"What happened to killing him?" Tim has to ask.

Damian shifts on his feet, even while his back remains painfully straight. "Father is not happy at the prospect of losing Todd," he reports, but somehow manages to sound surprised about it. "He - I may have miscalculated the outcome."

Just barely, Tim swallows a laugh. "So, the two of you have now bonded?"

"Hell, no," Jason spits in time with pure disgust crinkling up Damian's face.

They are both here in Tim's little swamp, alive, standing shoulder to shoulder without actively harming each other. He counts that as a success.

Still, he asks, just to be sure, "But you don't want him dead anymore?"

The green in Jason's eyes flares briefly before dying down. "I want to wring his little neck and -"

"Jason," Tim cuts him off, utterly unimpressed. They were making such progress, too.

"Don't Jason me," Jason snaps but has lost most of his intimidating air. "The demon brat poisoned me. You gave him poison to kill me."

Tim meets his glare head on. "He is a customer and left with what he asked for." Then he points at the table. "Sit," he orders. "And take off your shirt."

Nobody moves. Tim should have expected that.

"What for?" Jason asks, with more suspicion than is warranted, considering they came to him.

Leaning his hip against the table, Tim asks, "You want me to help or not?"

Damian still looks unsure about that, but Jason's glare deepens, very much unhappy about this entire situation.

"Do I have to be half-naked for you to help?" he asks, somehow managing to not sound completely undignified about it.

Tim did not expect a vigilante to be prudish. Well, they do the whole secrecy and masks thing, so maybe it fits, after all. Still, he rolls his eyes. "You can be fully naked if that's more your jam. I don't care."

"I care," Damian pipes up, disgust plain in his voice.

Like a proper big brother, Jason turns to him immediately. "Aw, I didn't know you where into me, demon."

"I am n-"

"Enough, kids," Tim says, raising his voice just so. He is already tired. If he had only given Damian real poison, he would not have to deal with this right now. At least, it might make for a funny story, one day. If Jason does not decide to kill them, after all.

"You," he glares at Jason, "shirt off." Then he turns to Damian, softening his expression just so. "And you, put on the kettle."

Damian scoffs but walks towards the kitchenette. "We don't need more tea," he says over his shoulder, likely only to be contrary.

"Debatable," Tim shoots back dryly."

Jason looks between them, face unreadable. Whatever conclusion he comes to, he finally pulls off his shirt and comes towards the table. The movement pulls at the wound and he looks a little bit paler, which is the first indication he has given that he is actually in pain. For the umpteenth time since Damian came here, Tim is glad he gave vigilantism a pass. These kids do not have any self-preservation instinct. They would probably do well with moving to a swamp and doing some soul-searching.

Tim waits where he is, relatively safe behind the table, while Jason pulls out a chair and sits down, somehow making it look petulant. Only then does Tim go to get a first-aid kit. He can see Jason is a little disappointed at the sight of it, considering it is a rather mundane thing. Perhaps he hoped for something flashier, more befitting the witch in the swamp. Tim is not going to lecture him on proper wound care. As a vigilante, he should know about that, already. He has a number of poultices and potions at hand, but plain old disinfectant works wonders.

"Do you need painkillers?" Tim asks, thinking these two need a bit more kindness in their lives. "Alcohol?"

Jason's eyebrows shoot up as he studies Tim. "Are you even old enough to drink?"

Tim is not old enough to do a lot of things. The frogs outside do not ask.

"Are you?" he shoots back as he gets out alcohol pads and clean wipes.

"I'm legally dead," Jason answers in a perfectly flat tone. "No one cares what I drink."

Tim very much hopes that is not true. Otherwise, he completely misinterpreted Bruce's behaviour. But he is not going to point fingers. Instead, he shrugs and says, "And I live in a swamp. Nobody around to care."

Wrong thing to say, he realizes, even before Jason's eyes narrow at him. "Where are your parents?"

Without missing a beat, Tim shoots back, "Where's your dad?"

Jason very much does not look happy about that question. "Don't change the topic."

"I didn’t." Tim takes a closer look at the wound and just barely keeps from grimacing. It is not a nice sight. Even while not deadly in itself, it should hurt. "This might sting a little."

That is all the warning Tim gives before pressing the alcohol pad against the ugly wound. Jason yells out loudly before cursing up a storm. He holds very still, though. A model patient. Clearly experienced.

"Damian," Tim calls out without looking up. "Get me one of the purple vials from the second shelf to the right. Mix in another drop of your blood."

Jason's cursing stops long enough for him to glare at Tim. "You poisoned me with his blood? No wonder -"

Tim presses the alcohol pad down, effectively cutting off whatever insult Jason was about to say. Honestly, it is a miracle that these two went so long without murdering each other. It is a good thing they came to him. Other people are less patient with the criminally petulant.

Quietly, Damian appears at his side and puts the vial down on the table. His right thumb has a little smear of blood on it. Nobody makes a comment on his helpfulness, and Tim is very proud of all of them for it.

"Will he live?" Damian asks, in a mixture of roughly equal parts earnestness and unhappiness. Perhaps a little bit more unhappy.

"Yes, Damian," Tim answers, just barely swallowing a sigh. "He will live."

With a somewhat softened glare, Jason cuts in, "No thanks to you."

Even though it lacks real bite, Tim decides to mediate before these two begin to bicker again. "He brought you back here," he points out and decides to never, ever tell them that this particular strand of poison is not meant to kill. That everything worked out more or less like Tim planned.

"After poisoning me in the first place," Jason shoots back, miffed more than angry.

Tim picks up the vial and lets a few drops fall directly on the wound. "I'm sure you've never done something impulsive that you then regretted."

"I don't regret it," Damian snaps, effectively ruining Tim's defence of him.

That sigh finally breaks free. "Drink," Tim says before Jason can answer. Only when Jason has the vial against his lips, does Tim say, pointedly, "Perhaps, next time, you can all sit down for dinner and talk. You know, like civilized people."

Immediately, both of them look outraged. Really, what an unrealistic idea. Talking. Before either of them can say anything, however, a knock on the door interrupts them. Immediately, tension rackets up and both Jason and Damian grow still, muscles locking in place.

Watching them worriedly, Tim nonetheless calls, "Come in." He has a few tricks up his sleeve if things get ugly. And, since his alarms did not go off, things actually might. The alarms are more of a fancy door bell system than meant for professional enemies. There are a lot of people in this world who would not trip them. Tim wants none of them here.

The door opens and Bruce Wayne himself enters. He is wearing a suit - definitely not bat-themed - and a blatantly fake guileless expression that hides neither the fact that he is concerned for his sons nor that he is prepared for a fight if necessary.

"Boys?" he asks, even while his eyes take Tim's home apart, looking for dangers and opportunities. "What happened?"

Damian and Jason very pointedly do not look at each other, but neither of them breaks out in accusations, either.

Tim sighs again. Not that the dam broke there is no holding that back.

"Mr. Wayne, I presume," he says, as if he did not have a dossier on Gotham's most famous mask back when he was living in the city. That, and a detailed ten-step plan to get adopted by him. "Jason has a cursed wound. Damian brought him here to get it treated." Nobody has to know how Jason got that wound.

Bruce Wayne scrutinizes him, digging past all his shields and manners to get at his core. And he makes it look easy. "And you are?" he asks, still calm, still gentle.

"Tim," he introduces himself and waves, noticing too late that he is holding a bloody wipe. "Your friendly swamp witch."

He emphasizes the friendly, not that he thinks it will do much in his favour. Batman has always had his own opinions on things. And he is a very good detective. The best argument in Tim's favour is probably that he is currently cleaning up Jason's wound.

Bruce hums as he comes closer. He does not look threatening, does not come within easy reaching distance. Tim's fingertips still itch with the urge to call magic to his defence.

"How does Damian know you?"

It would be so easy to throw Damian under the bus here. One word and he could get Damian and Jason to bicker again. Bruce would forget all about Tim, then.

Instead, Tim smiles. It is even an honest smile. "He took care of a ghoul for me, a while back. He assumed correctly that I have a few things to deal with wounds like that." None of that is a lie.

Still, neither Damian nor Jason speak up. It almost feels like a truce. Or like they know they have lost.

Bruce studies the wound, eyes narrowing in worry. Could be anger. Who knows, Bruce is a good actor. "And you can deal with it?"

"See for yourself, sir. It's already closing up," Tim says, relieved he managed to feed Jason the potion before Bruce came in. Closing up is perhaps a bit too optimistic, but the necrosis will not spread further now and the oozing has stopped. It will heal, now, and quickly at that. "Jason will be sore for a few days and he should remain under observation, but he should make a full recovery."

Twin glares hit Tim as he says observation, but he merely swallows his grin. He is owed a bit of payback for having to deal with family issues of this kind.

"It does look better," Bruce says, eyeing the potion vial more than the wound. Then he straightens, looks Tim directly into the eyes. "Thank you, Tim. What do I owe you?"

"Nothing, sir," Tim responds as sunnily as he dares. "As I said, Damian did me a favour a while back. He's a good kid."

And he already paid for this. Both monetarily and in having to endure a life lesson. Also, he is not giving his bank information to Bruce Wayne, who, as everybody knows, cannot let anything go. He already looks far too interested in Tim. He has a good life. Nobody is allowed to upset that.

"I'm not a kid," Damian snaps expectedly, but glares at Bruce rather than at Tim. Which, okay, was not expected.

They share a look, father and son, before Bruce turns back to Tim, his expression entirely too intent. "Speaking of kids. You don't live out here alone, do you?"

Tim feels Jason's grin burn into his back, the little shit. "I don't think I feel comfortable speaking about my living arrangements with strange adults." It is supposed to sound cool. Instead, it just makes him seem younger, but he cannot take it back anymore, so he simply straightens his shoulders and waits for judgement.

Bruce raises a hand in what is surely supposed to be a reassuring manner. "I'm just worried."

"We should bring Tim to the Manor," Jason pipes up, that damnable grin audible now as he ruins everything. "In case I need further treatment. Invite him for dinner while we're at it."

Tim whirls around to glare at him. "I don't -"

"Yes," Damian cuts in, agreeing with Jason for perhaps the first time, judging on the way they glare at each other immediately.

Tim is not sure what is happening, but he very much does not like it. "I have a business to run," he points out but weakly.

Bruce nods sagely. "We would, of course, recompense you for your trouble of monitoring Jason's wound."

"I - what are you doing?" he mouths at Jason, only to get a shit-eating grin from him. And a painfully earnest look from Damian. Well, he was going to adopt Damian if this did not work out. "All right?"

"Perfect." Bruce smiles like a shark, making Tim wonder who played whom here. "I'll bandage up Jason while you pack your things."

In a daze, Tim nods. He is not quite sure anymore what was in his ten-step plan - lie - but making himself useful was somewhere at the top. Well, now he was useful and Bruce Wayne himself invited him to the manor. He is not the desperate kid haunting an empty house anymore, but he is still lonely.

It is only for a few nights, anyway. But if he plays his cards right, they might become something like friends, and then he might have somewhere to go when he needs to get out of the house for a while, out of his own head. So, he packs his bag, locks up his door, and, on the way to the Wayne's car, shows Damian some of the traps he has littered on the way. Just in case, he ever wants to take a more direct route to Tim's home or is ever in a hurry. Just in case.

[blancheludis]

Whumptober 2024 Day 14: "cause I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted"

Fandom: Star Wars, Clone Wars Characters: Fox, Thorn Tags: Hurt Fox, Mind Control, Institutional Abuse, Protective Thorn

Summary:

Fox wakes up with blood on his hands and no idea how he got to Coruscant's lower levels. This is not the first time he went missing for days without remembering a single thing.

"I've killed someone," Fox whispers, later, when the panic has died down to a manageable level. "It's not the first time."

Thorn hums, which sounds more like an automatic response, something he would do for any shiny after their first time a meeting with a senator went wrong. His hand never stops drawing circles on Fox' back, though. He never stops holding Fox up.

"Did you hide all the evidence or do I need to clean it up?" he then asks as if inquiring about a change in the patrol schedule, or like other people might talk about the weather.

---

Fox wakes up with blood on his hands and a dull ache in the back of his head. He is sitting in some dark, dirty alley in what he guesses must be the lower levels of Coruscant. A quick check does not reveal any new pressing injuries. Just the same throbbing of the marks on his back, stretching uncomfortably with every breath he takes and the ever-present pain in his right shoulder.

It takes him too long to notice that he is not wearing armour but all black slacks. Not even the regulation undersuits but something unfamiliar, non-descriptive. Scratchy cloth that sticks to the skin of his arms and abdomen. Heartbeat picking up, he raises a hand to his face, finds the same flimsy cloth covering the lower half of it and a hood pulled in deep. No helmet, leaving too much of his face bare in a city where a drunk civilian does not make a difference between droid or clone when wanting to air their frustrations at the war.

This is not - Fox breaks his own rules all the time, especially the ones about taking breaks and not sticking out, but he never goes out without his armour, without his bucket. This is the surest way to get killed. Or to invite more regulations and punishment down on the Guard.

Something is wrong. Seriously wrong. It is entirely possible for a Guard to be overwhelmed during patrol, to be taken to the lower and quieter parts of the city, to be taught a lesson. Usually, they do not find that brother until it is too late, though. They are not unharmed, out of armour, and covered in blood that apparently is not theirs.

Fox has no comms on him, no other clue to tell him where he is or why he is here.

Carefully, he pushes himself to his feet. Long practice makes him barely waver when the dizziness hits. It takes a bit longer than usual and his throat is parched to the point where it stings when he tries to swallow. Not just a quick stint out of the barracks then. Some time must have passed.

He leans against the wall as he waits for the world to come into focus around him. For the briefest of moments, he contemplates simply leaving. He is stranded somewhere out of sight with no idea what happened, but something must have happened, something that might be a neat end for Marshal Commander Fox. He could get off Coruscant to a faraway corner of the galaxy and retire. He could rest his shoulder and see whether the damage is actually permanent if he does not aggravate the injury again and again. He could sleep.

With an unhappy frown at himself, he starts walking. Whatever else happened, Fox would never abandon his brothers. The men under his command are what keep him going day after day. As much as he would love for everything to just stop, he would never throw them to the wolves for it. Later, he might regret that he survived whatever happened here, but regret is something he knows intimately by now, like a second skin, a second heartbeat right beside his own, only faltering less often.

First things first, he needs to get back to the barracks without being seen. Everything else, he can deal with after.

---

He has made it all of three halls down from the entrance, when Thorn falls into step beside him. He barely reacts at the sight of Fox out of his armour, but Fox knows him well, sees the way his back is straight to the point of pain, the way he is turned towards Fox as if expecting he has to catch him any moment now. Something aches deep inside of him at that. With the life they lead, they could have easily forgotten how to care, how to love. Instead, they still care so much, for better or worse.

"Are you hurt?" Thorn asks, instead of a thousand more important things.

Fox glances at him from the side. "What happened?"

Thorn's step falters for just a second before he collects himself. "You tell me," he says, his voice rough even through the vocoder. "You went to see the Chancellor and then disappeared for three days without a word."

"Three days?" Fox stops in the middle of the hallway, re-evaluates what little information he has, and tries to ignore the pit of horror opening up in his stomach.

Three days means he did not go out sleepwalking, even ignoring how unlikely that ever was, considering how far down he went and in unfamiliar clothes. It means he did not go out drinking and pass out in an alleyway, either. Even desperate and tired, he would not abandon his brothers for three days.

The Chancellor is going to throw a fit. What if he summoned Fox and he was not there? What if one of the more difficult senators boxed through more decommissioning requests without him being able to run interference?

And what could he have possible done for three days? He did not think it was that much blood on him, but he could have changed clothes, could have done a lot more terrible things in that much time than he can guess at the moment. He could have -

A hand on his shoulder snaps him back to the present. He flinches back, one arm raises instinctively to protect his head. When he blinks, it is still just Thorn with him. Quickly, he loses the defensive position. Neither of them says anything about his panic. They do not need to. They have held each other through panic attacks too often to count. Talking will not make it better. Nothing will make it better as long as they are still here, still on Coruscant, still under the care of people who like breaking them.

"You didn't get any of our messages?" Thorn asks once they start walking again.

"I don't have my comm with me."

"What happened?" Thorn asks again, barely disguised urgency in his voice.

This is not a conversation for the hallway. Fox is not sure this is a conversation for anywhere, really. As a good second-in-command, Thorn should report him, have him decommissioned. Leaving his post without warning, missing time, waking up covered in blood. All of that just says he is not fit to lead. 

He is silent until they make it to Fox' office. It is just as he remembers leaving it when he went for patrol. He does not remember being summoned by the Chancellor.

Taking a few precious moments to breathe, he gets to his side of the desk and only then turns towards Thorn, schooling his expression into something more appropriately blank. He misses his bucket.

"I don't know," he says. If he cannot be honest with Thorn, the Guard's struggle is already lost.

Neither of them sits down, too restless. Instead, they remain standing still, which does nothing for the trembling energy simmering in Fox' bones, but at least it is familiar. Standing, watching, ignoring what he feels or thinks, what people throw at him.

"What?" Thorn asks, clipped and altogether too collected. Inside, he must be close too screaming. Fox definitely is.

"I remember being on shift in the Senate. Next thing, I wake up in the sublevels."

He does not mention the blood. That he has to at least try to figure out for himself first. If he did something that will get him killed, he cannot take Thorn down with him. Somebody has to take over. Stone is a good commander, good with the shinies, but not able to deal with everything. Fox is not able to deal with everything, but he does so, anyway. Perhaps it was only ever a question of when his mind would break, not if.

Thorn stares at him, gaze burning even through the bucket. "Without comms or armour." 

The nagging feeling that something is wrong is just getting worse. Fox does not take breaks. He sleeps only when he cannot keep himself up any longer, ignoring a dozen warning signs before that. And even then, he always has his comms on him. The clock does not stop on Coruscant. Their brothers do not stop being in danger. What use is he if they cannot reach him?

When he does not say anything, Thorn asks, "What about the meeting with the Chancellor?"

Fox shrugs, uselessly searching his mind. The headache just grows worse. Silently, he shakes his head.

"Do you have any idea what you did for three days?"

Killed someone, probably. It is hard to say how much blood is actually on him from the dried mess that is his shirt. Also, Fox has learned how to fight cleanly. He could have done any manner of things without leaving damning evidence.

Trying for a careless smile, Fox says, "I was hoping someone with a grudge got me."

He would not be alive then, surely. He certainly would not have woken up by himself, abandoned and in fairly good condition. That would still be better than any other explanation he can come up with.

"No," Thorn says slowly, studying him. "You sent a message that you were on your way to Palpatine. Nobody has seen you since."

Well, there they have their someone who likes to take their frustrations out on those who cannot fight back. He does not need to say that out loud, though. Most often, Thorn is the one who has to stitch Fox back together after the worst meetings. If anyone knows, it is him.

"Nothing to be done, then," Fox says, as good as an admission of defeat.

"Are you hurt?" Thorn asks again, insistent as usual.

"No." Just exhausted. Just terrified. Just fighting a losing battle and not knowing how long he will be able to keep it up.

"You can't go back there alone."

A laugh breaks over Fox' lips, as sharp as it is short-lived. As if he would ever let anyone else deal with Palpatine. It is his duty to protect his brothers and he already throws them to enough wolves. He will not do this, too. He is already giving everything. Why not his mind, too? As long as he wakes up again to do his job, it is a sacrifice he is willing to make. He carefully does not think about the blood, about the hundreds of terrible things he could have been doing. The Guard is his first priority. Everything else, he tells himself, comes after.

"What did I miss?" Fox asks, ignoring Thorn's helpless fury as much as he does his words. They have no time to dwell on dreams. There is work to be done.

---

They keep their ears to the ground, but crime happens every day in Coruscant. A dozen unnamed bodies turn up every hour, more disappear without anyone ever finding out. All Fox has is a bad feeling and a headache that returns with a vengeance every time he tries to remember something, anything. He files it away as a momentary break. He has too much actual work to do without running after dead ends.

---

Then it happens again. Well, this time he does not wake up in an alleyway but comes to in his bunk. He is missing another day, though, and has a fresh cut across his right collarbone, deep and angry and hurting every time he moves, a constant reminder that something is wrong. He did not get injured in training, neither the regular sessions nor in any meeting with the Chancellor. His bucket says he never stepped a foot out of HQ but instead took a day-long nap as if anything that miraculous would ever happen to a Marshal Commander, much less Fox.

This time, he does find a message from the Chancellor summoning Fox right before he blacked out. This time, Thorn is not willing to just brush it off.

"What is he doing?" he hisses late one night when they are actually off duty at the same time for once.

And Fox, exhausted to the bones, says with a smile showing way too many teeth, "Whatever the kark he wants."

---

Fox does a lot of things he does not want to do. Every Guard does. It haunts his every waking hour. The losses, the pain, the degradation, the helplessness. Before, he would have been glad to just unburden his mind of everything for a while, to forget his constant, crushing reality. Now, he realizes that not knowing is worse. Terror is their reality. He has no illusions what he is capable of, what he would do willingly and without hesitation if only pushed in the right way. Either these are psychotic breaks, which would not speak well for his continued ability to lead, or someone makes him forget what happens, what he has to do. His mind does not need further inventive to paint the most horrible scenarios it can think of.

If Fox is willing to do terrible things with his eyes wide open, what does he do when he is out of his mind, out of his own control?

Thorn frowns and tells him not to worry himself crazy. Fox has been made to worry, though. And insanity just lurks around every corner.

When he goes to their medbay and asks for a tracking chip to be inserted under the skin of his arm, Stitches looks at him like he has gone crazy. Which he probably has, he just cannot tell his men that, because they depend on him.

"Whatever for?" Stitches asks, conveniently forgetting that even the CMO has to follow orders when his Marshal Commander wants something and it will not directly lead to any medical issues.

"As a precaution."

"In case of what?" Stitches has his arms crossed in front of him, the very picture of stubbornness. He cannot beat a master at his game, though.

Fox cocks his head to the side and offers simply, "We need to be prepared for anything." That is how they have survived so far, after all.

Not one to be shot down easily, Stitches asks, "What is going on?"

"Nothing that impedes my physical ability to do my job." Although it does. Being away from his post does, technically, hinder him physically from working. He is not here to argue semantics, however. He also, carefully, does not mention his mental state either.

The men notice, of course, when Fox is not there for hours and days at a time. When Thorn tells them Fox is on missions, they do not doubt him. Adding his request for a tracking chip into the mix might clue Stitches in on the fact that something is wrong, and he might badger Fox into more frequent check-ups, but he will not upset the fragile balance in the HQ. The men are desperate enough.

"It would be easier to not go out by yourself but always take a partner." With biting sarcasm, Stitched adds, "You know, follow your own rules?"

"Easier is not always possible." Pretty much never, if Fox is honest with himself.

Stitches sighs, a terribly weary sound that tells Fox he has won.

"Give me your arm."

---

The next time Fox wakes up with holes in his memories, he also has fresh burns all over his body, twisting branches of angry red stretching out from his left arm. He knows the damage electricity leaves, by now. Thorn drags him to the medbay and Stitch scrapes the scarred remains of the tracking chip out of Fox' arm.

Fox pointedly looks away, his other fist clenched, while Thorn and Stitches have a silent conversation that he is sure is not favourable for him. Neither of them says anything out loud, though.

Finally, Stitches sighs. "Let's get you some ice packs." Because what little bacta they have left needs to be saved for actual emergencies, not for a few burns.

"This is a message," Thorn says when they are back in the privacy of Fox' office.

Fox cocks an eyebrow, too tired to move anything else. "How?"

"You couldn't do that to yourself," Thorn points out, a hint of relief in his tone that Fox does not know what to do with. "So, it's someone else. And destroying the chip was a message."

Fox is not sure whether that is actually a good thing, but it is not like he can do anything against it.

---

Fox was wrong. Knowing is not better.

---

He wakes up bent over the unmoving body of a Twi’lek, the blood on his hands matching the blood caking the man’s front, running down from the slit throat. He turns and barely manages not to vomit on the body. He has seen dead bodies before, of course, but his insides clench up at the closeness, at the stickiness on his skin, at the inescapable insistence of knowing what he has done.

Mechanically, he cleans up, gets rid of the body and any sign he was ever there. Something pings in his memory, accompanied by stabbing pain. He knows with absolute certainty that this is not the first time. That every time he does not remember follows a similar script that ends with someone dead and Fox hiding any signs of it.

Thorn holds him when he makes it back, out of breath and immediately heaving again the moment he lets his mind wander.

“I’ve got you,” Thorn promises, empty as the words are.

Fox does not want to tell him what happened, does not want to drag him down further. He feels dirty, inside and out.

"I've killed someone," he still whispers, the words dragging up his throat like shards of glass. "It's not the first time."

Thorn hums, which sounds more like an automatic response, something he would do for any shiny after their first time a meeting with a senator went wrong. His hand never stops drawing circles on Fox' back, though. He never stops holding Fox up.

"Did you hide all the evidence or do I need to clean it up?" he then asks as if inquiring about a change in the patrol schedule, or like other people might talk about the weather.

Something inside of Fox gives, making his eyes burn and his chest constrict. "You can't - I'm -"

"You're a good man, Fox," Thorn interrupts him, gentle in a way they can seldom allow themselves to be. "Look at you. We've been trained to kill. You wouldn't throw up over something you want to do. Something that has to be done."

He is right, of course. The feeling of a blaster in his hands is as familiar as breathing. They spent more time learning how to throw a punch than on how to greet someone correctly. They were bred for war, but this is not that.

"How can you just accept this?" Fox asks, even though he is afraid of the answer, good or bad.

"Easily," Thorn says without even a hint of hesitation. "Now, let's get you to bed."

Fox struggles against Thorn's hold. "No. There's work -"

Thorn pushes him back down on the cot. "I cleared your schedule for the entire day," he says calmly, leaving no room for argument. "No need to overcomplicate things by forcing you back into it."

"Thorn," Fox protests anyway, but then lets himself sink against his bedding, like a marionette with his strings cut. He is just so tired.

"You're welcome, Commander."

---

The next day, the Chancellor summons Fox.

“I noticed you looked a bit piqued yesterday, CC-1010. Is something wrong?” he asks with that grandfatherly smile of his that is not enough anymore to hide the sharpness underneath, the honed cruelty.

Fox recognizes that as the warning it is and stands up straighter. “No, sir,” he replies, not a muscle out of place.

---

Knowing is not better, but knowing the Chancellor is just turning him into even more of a tool strangely is. He still has blood on his hands and entire days missing in his memory, but he has not snapped, he has not become a danger to his men.

“What’s going on?” Thorn asks him, later, in the perceived privacy of Fox' office.

“It’s not me,” Fox answers, too relieved to hide all of it. He taps the Chancellor’s seal on one of the documents on his desk. Some things are better not said out loud. Nowhere is private on Coruscant.

But Thorn understands. His spine goes rigid as he spats, “Kriffing bastard.”

“It’s not me,” Fox repeats, still dizzy with the realization.

“Of course not,” Thorn assured him immediately.  

But they could not have been sure. All of them have learned things about themselves they never thought they would be capable of. How far they could push themselves, how often they could go over their limits. How hard it is to not fight back, how easy to lose oneself. Fox would not be the first trooper to snap. He is just the hardest one to replace.

“What will we do?”

The correct question would be, what can they do. The answer to which, of course, is nothing. So, they have learned to stop asking it. Instead, they have become practiced in bending rules and shifting lines, in setting up paper trails that are as false as most senators' tax documents.

“We need to find a pattern," Thorn says, as if that could give them some control back. "We need to find what he wants.”

Fox shrugs. That one is easy. “More power. To get rid of people in his way.”

“He can’t kill everyone in his way," Thorn argues but sounds doubtful about it. "Not even by proxy. So, who makes the cut?”

Fox can understand the need to do something. Beneath his own relief, he is desperate for it, too. Knowing is not better, but it is what he has, now, so he needs to decide what to do with that knowledge, how to turn this situation around so it will not fall on his brothers. 

“We’ll work on it," Thorn answers his own question, before fixing Fox with a stare. "Are you hurt?”

Always the same question. Fox shakes his head. “It was just a warning.”

Thorn is not convinced. “He’s made warnings do lasting damage before.” Spoken words do not drive the point home as much as when a lesson is carved into Fox' skin, after all.

“Not this time,” Fox promises. Not the physical kind, at least. He is not sure the blood will ever wash out, but he will carry it just like the lives of his brothers. He is practiced enough in that.

---

They develop a system. Whenever Fox is missing time, they take note of every documented death, every missing person, every shady deal, every public person changing their mind on something. They make some notes in code but do not dare to write comprehensive lists. If their data will be recovered, things will only get worse for the Guard. 

"What will we even do with this information?" Fox asks one night as they are up late, growing desperate at the sheer number of things going on beneath the surface of Coruscant's shiny Senate.

Thorn leans back in his chair, keeps his eyes firmly on the desk. "We could hand it over to the Jedi. Once the war is over," he offers, voice even, although Fox does not believe his calm for even a second. "They can make sure that he does not stay in office."

If the war will be over. If any of them will still be alive to see that happen. 

"Will you shoot me," Fox says slowly, deliberately calm, "if I ever become a danger?" Someone needs to make sure he does not stay in office either, if he becomes a problem.

Thorn's head shoots up, eyes wide. "Fox," he calls, a plea and an admonishment both.

But Fox cannot budge from this. "He can control me. I don't know how or for how long. But I know that I don't remember anything he does not want me to and I assume I do anything he tells me to." He stops briefly, swallows to clear his throat. "If he turns me against you, against the Guard, promise me you'll kill me."

Thorn, steady, unflappable Thorn, looks terrified. "If he can control you, he can control all of us."

That is possible, but there must be a reason Fox is the only clone they know of who is missing time. Fox is the only one he likes to call into his office to make him suffer.

"We don't know how he does it. Maybe he can only do one person at a time. Maybe -" Fox shakes his head He has to concentrate on what is important here, not on things he cannot change. "It does not matter. When I am lost, I need you to kill me. The moment I turn against one of our brothers. I don't care if you think I might snap out of it again. I will not be used to hurt our own. Promise me."

"If, not when" Thorn corrects, his voice nothing but a whisper

"If," Fox amends but cannot hide that he only does it to appease Thorn. Fox does not believe in happy endings. No, the ending that is reserved for him is cold and drawn out and painful. Most days, he is sure he is already right in the middle of it.

Something shutters behind Thorn's eyes, but when he speaks again, it is with familiar determination. "Only if you do the same."

"Yes," Fox vows solemnly. Nothing has ever been easier. He is here to protect his men. That is the only thing holding him up. Everything else, the war, the Republic, does not matter in comparison to that.

"I promise." Thorn reaches out, squeezes Fox' hand, and they lean against each other, holding each other up.

Perhaps they have a twisted sense of morality, but their loyalty for each other, their love, will never be in question.

[blancheludis]

Whumptober 2024 Day 13: Team as Family

Fandom: Batman Characters: Jason Todd & Dick Grayson Tags: Team as Family, Protective Dick, Hurt Jayson, Stitches, Brothers

Summary:

“Do you want to find out what weapon I’m pointing at you or do you want to do us both a favour and leave?” Jason snaps, barricaded in his bathroom, hoping Dick will, for once, listen to him.

Of course, he does not. Dick opens the door and barely even lingers on the gun. It is almost insulting how easily he dismisses it and the accompanying threat.

“Is that a needle sticking out of your arm?” Dick’s wide-eyed attempt at innocence turns quickly into outrage. “Please tell me you didn’t store it in there while getting ready to fight an intruder.”

---

Revenge is a lonely business. Jason has wrapped himself in so many layers of simmering rage and cold grave dirt that he barely notices it, but sometimes the numbness spreads, reaching out from his core to cover him whole. He has been raised on pain and hunger, out there in the streets of Gotham, but this is something unique, spikes of hot red landing where he thought himself untouchable.

When he looks in the mirror, he is not quite sure who is looking back at him, anymore. He has died and been raised again, remade into something less prone to breaking. Yet, in the early hours of the morning, after endless patrols, he has never felt more brittle.

A bruise sits right under his ribcage, almost innocent against the map of scars marring his skin. It is not even the worst wound he carries right now, did not even bleed. That cut on his arm probably needs stitches. But he cannot turn away from that miscoloured piece of evidence that his family thinks him a villain, unredeemable. Better if he had stayed dead.

A lifetime ago, Dick taught him about safety during training, more pedantic about it even than Bruce. Someone who used to walk the tightrope way too many feet off the ground has a very different kind of understanding about what is safe and where one might need assistance before spreading one’s wings. Gotham’s streets do not deal in safety nets and tapping out of fights. Once, Jason thought he could embody both. These days, he knows which side of the divide he has fallen on.

No use on dwelling on the past, however. With a sigh, he pulls his medical kit out from under the sink, his hands doing all the work without him having to actually look. This is a familiar routine. Going out on the streets and coming back a little less whole, a lot more beaten.

He breathes through the sting of first washing off any grime and blood and then disinfecting his various scraps and scratches and cuts.

As Robin, he used to be more careful on patrol. He still had something to prove, then. Now, he just cares about results.

The pit has washed his history clear off his skin, stealing scars and sanity in equal parts. By now, he is not a clean canvas anymore. He has gathered enough new marks, although there is no forgetting the old ones. Still, he does not dwell on them as he prepares to stitch himself up, sinks into a kind of post-fight meditation as he lets his fingers do what they are used to.

The sound of a window opening has Jason freeze. He stands bare-chested in his bathroom, bloody bandages in his sink and a needle in his hand that has yet to go through at least two more inches of flesh. Ten more minutes and he would have been done.

With a sigh, Jason places the needle right where he left off and pushes it through his skin. No need to waste his effort. He can finish this later.

While straining his ears, he reaches for the gun strapped on the underside of a cabinet and feels briefly for the knife still strapped to his thigh. In ten more minutes, he might have been stitched up but might also have been all naked and wet under the shower. There is no such thing as a bad time for intruders. Not when he makes a point to always be prepared for new unpleasant business to hit.

Jason clicks off the safety of the gun and turns towards the door. Whoever just climbed in through his window, they are quiet. Probably a professional. Or plain stupid. Coming after him like this.

“Jason?”

Definitely not a professional.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jason does not push the door open. He does not lower the gun either. In another lifetime, he might have called Dick a brother, and even then only tentatively, but they have moved past that. Dying can do that.

Knowing that Dick does not like to do the sensible thing, Jason angles himself away from the door, just enough that he will not be in Dick’s direct path if he comes in.

Steps come closer and then halt directly outside the bathroom.

“Are you pointing a weapon at me?” Dick asks, sounding tired more than accusatory.

They will never agree on Jason’s choice of weaponry, these days. And Jason will not keep arguing about it.

“Did you bring the cavalry?” Jason demands. There is no one else in his flat. There was only one set of steps. And Bruce would have hardly been subtle. He would not waste time on calling out for Jason either, much less wait for permission to enter anywhere he wants to go.

That does not mean that the others are not involved. None of the Bats have ever learned to leave well enough alone.

“Nobody knows I’m here.”

Jason knows Dick is sighing more than he can actually hear it. He can picture the goody-two-shoes frown on his stupid face, too. He glares at the door, hopes Dick can feel it through the cheap wood. 

“How do you know where here is?”

This is not his only safehouse. Not even his favourite. Just the one that was closest. One with hot water and a store around the corner that is open twenty-four hours.

Only, it is not that safe anymore.

There is a dull thud against the door, as if Dick has half-heartedly dropped a fist against it. Or his forehead.

“As much as I love talking to a door, could you please come out? You took a nasty hit.”

Yes, Jason very much did. Because Nightwing – heroic and brave and holier-than-thou Nightwing – felt the need to distract Jason at the most inopportune moment because his delicate sensibilities could not deal with some criminal scum getting their ass kicked. Jason does not need help out on the streets, and he needs a moral compass even less. Red Hood is not striving to take over gang business anymore, but he still has his own methods, with which he can protect the people under his care best.

Quietly, Jason counts to ten as he breathes. It does not help.

“Do you want to find out what weapon I’m pointing at you or do you want to do us both a favour and leave?” he snaps, gesturing with the gun just so, even though Dick cannot see it.

There is another sigh in response, a perfect copy of how Bruce used to sound whenever Jason was acting out. These days, he does not get a sigh anymore. They usually turn right to using their fists. Or batarangs, of course.

“I’m coming in.”

Oh, no, you don’t, Jason thinks but by then the door is already moving. Curse Dick and his inability to let anything go.

It is instinct to back up and stubbornness to keep the gun raised, even if he is aiming right above Dick’s shoulder. It is stupid. If their roles were reversed, none of the Bats would hesitate to put him down. They do not bother with sentimentalities.

Dick barely even lingers on the gun. It is almost insulting how easily he dismisses it and the accompanying threat. Instead, he looks over Jason, gaze running over his face, over the new bandages decorating his chest in various places. And then -

“Is that a needle sticking out of your arm?” Dick’s wide-eyed attempt at innocence turns quickly into outrage. “Please tell me you didn’t store it in there while getting ready to fight an intruder.”

Just for a moment, Jason looks down at where the needle is half-buried inside him, a drop of fresh blood trailing down from it.

“As opposed to doing what?” he asks, surprised enough that his confrontational tone suffers from it.

This is probably safer than letting the needle just dangle. If it got stuck somewhere it could ruin all of his careful work, could even make the wound worse. They have both been raised by Bruce, who is the king of pragmatism and practicality.

“Not stitching yourself up in your bathroom?”

Not like he has many alternatives. But Dick knows that as well as he does. He looks like he is fighting with himself for a moment, caught between wariness and determination. Finally, he steps forward, pushing Jason’s hand with the gun aside like it means nothing.

“Let me help.”

Jason can only stare. “I don’t need your help,” he says, even knowing that Dick on a mission cannot be stopped so easily.

“Clearly you do,” Dick counters, too soft for Jason to handle. But before he can even open his mouth, Dick cuts him off, “No arguments, Jason.”

Later, Jason will deny that he simply sat down on the edge of his bathtub and gave in. Later, nobody will ask and he will not even have to lie.

For now, he is silently glad to rest his legs, to not have to keep his hands steady.

He flicks the safety of the gun back on, but does not put it down. Trusting Dick with a few stitches does not mean Jason trusts him with anything else.

---

If Jason is honest with himself, he is not even in it for revenge anymore. Revenge does not save anyone – even if there was still someone left to be saved. He should know, he is the one who died. If someone served him the Joker on a silver platter, he would not hesitate to bash his head in. But until then, he is out. Revenge only makes sense when there is someone still grieving. And everybody he knows has washed their hands off him, or are still working on it and trying their best to wash him down the drain along with all the blood he spilled.

“What are you doing here?” Jason asks once Dick has successfully manoeuvred them to the couch, clucking at the needle sticking out of Jason’s arm.

Dick does not stop moving but glances at Jason with clear worry. “Did you hit your head, too?”

Bitterness rises in Jason’s throat like bile. “Don’t pretend like you coming to my place, which you definitely shouldn’t know about, by the way, is not a cause for concern.”

They are in the middle of Crime Alley. This is no place for Bats. Only for the washed-up remains of one.

Dick’s fingers still for just a moment, which is how Jason knows this will be bad.

“Tim found you,” Dick says quietly.

Green washes across Jason’s vision, as quickly gone as it appeared. It has nothing to do with Drake, specifically, and more with Dick not being the only person who knows where he hides.

“Replacement?” Jason hisses with as much bite as he can put into it.

It cannot be a coincidence that Dick pulls the needle out in this exact moment, pinching Jason’s skin a bit too much. It is paired with one of Alfred’s patented looks of exasperation that fills Jason with a sudden homesickness that he would never ever admit to feeling.

“He’s your brother, too,” Dick simply says before resuming his work.

Jason wonders about them being brothers. About the emphasis on too. He used to think of Bruce as his father, once upon a time. Siblings never quite played into that, however. Before Jason died, Dick had always been a little too distant, too caught up in his own problems with Bruce. And after – well, they do not need to talk about after. Tim is very clearly packed into after.

He thinks about arguing, but there is no denying Dick when he has gotten an idea in his head. They can all just roll with it and try to make the jump before everything inevitably ends up in disaster.

Dick knows what he is doing. Just like Jason and Tim, he knew how to stitch up wounds before he ever met Bruce Wayne or his night-shaped alter ego. Contrary to his brothers, though, he moves with patience, like he is still sitting in his family’s trailer in the circus, like the world did not crash and burn around him multiple times, spitting him out again and again, each time a little worse for wear and still not ready to give up.

Jason used to despise Dick for always coming back. He stills does. But these days, he can admit to also being a little envious. He will never call it bravery, but Bruce never needed them to be brave, just to get back to their feet. Stubbornness runs in the family. And maybe they have shed enough blood with each other that they cannot be called anything else.

Jason is hyperaware of Dick’s fingers against his skin. He tells himself it is unease at being vulnerable, at letting someone else get close to him with something sharp.

He is not sure when someone last touched him. He has been punched and kicked and cut dozens of times in recent memory, but he has avoided going to Leslie’s clinic and otherwise spends his time alone.

It is not a problem. He does not need anyone. His fate was sealed the moment he came back to life.

But the subtle movements of Dick wake memories Jason thought he had buried: Dick and him watching cartoons on Sunday morning, their shoulders touching as they sink into the couch. Alfred hugging him good night. Bruce’s hand on his back, praising him for a job well done.

Jason blinks. That time is over. He did not have anyone to cuddle with as a child, he surely does not need anyone now. Especially not an estranged brother who would sooner push him off a roof. Or kick him in the chest, the proof of which he carries in a rapidly swelling bruise.

With every passing moment, the air grows thicker, moving sluggishly in and out of his lungs. Tension creeps back into his muscles that had not even realized he released. He barely manages to remain still until Dick is done.

“I think that’s enough,” Jason says the moment the thread is cut. He extricates himself from Dick’s touch with the ease of someone who has had a lifetime of experience in running away.

Dick frowns but must see someone on Jason’s face that is very much not for him to see.

“It’ll be easier if you’ll let me finish the bandage,” he argues but still lets Jason go. He keeps his distance as if he knows what Jason is thinking, as if Jason’s skin is actually burning and not just feeling that way.

Jason gets up from the couch, fishes a pack of band aids out of the medical kit, and walks away as far as the small room allows. It is not enough distance between them. The window is still open, likely from Dick’s unorthodox entrance. The hinges look slightly crooked. Jason concentrates on that as if that is important.

He carefully avoids his eyes as he puts the band aid on, getting the sides all messed up from the awkward angle. Dick does not offer his help again, and Jason slowly begins to breathe again.  

“You need to leave now if you want to get home before sunrise,” he says once he has found a shirt of dubious cleanliness to put on.

All he wants is to usher Dick out the door, pack up his things and find himself a new safehouse. And then sleep for two days straight. Life is never about what he wants, however, and he usually does not even dwell on that anymore. He is used to fighting, to making up ground against all odds.

“We’re not actually bats, you know that,” Dick chides quietly, accepting this new argument in place of everything else they are not saying. “I’m fine with seeing the city during the day for once.”

But Jason shakes his head. He needs to be alone, needs to get back to the status quo. Getting coddled has not place in their lives.

“Get out,” Jason says, still not turning around. The alley across the window is empty, and he wonders whether he could get away with simply throwing Dick through the window. He is an acrobat. He would be fine. It would certainly get Jason’s point across.

Instead, Jason stays where he is and gives Dick the chance to make everything worse.

“It’s all right to call us,” Dick says, still too gentle. They have never been gentle with each other before. “When you’re bleeding, but also when you’re not. We’re –”

“Nothing,” Jason cuts in, harsh, once again out of breath. “We’re not anything anymore. Just ask Bruce.”

For months, now, he has tried to ignore Bruce’s existence. And yet he is still haunting Jason, still filling too much space, creeping into a void he caused himself.

“Bruce is not here, though. And he doesn’t know about this. Doesn’t need to.” Dick sighs, sounding all world-weary for a moment. When Jason finally chances a glance, he looks the part, too. They have all grown older, and not in a flattering way.

“I don’t agree with what you’re doing,” Dick continues, finally some steel in his voice. “The killing, the vengeance, the whole being a criminal thing. But I like it even less that you think you need to do everything on your own.”

Jason’s lips curl up into an automatic snarl, showing off teeth. “You’re contradicting yourself there, Dickie.”

Usually, Jason is good at provoking his former family. Usually, his mere present is enough. But Dick came here out of his own volition. He broke in and pushed through Jason’s defences, just like that.

“No. I’m saying, call me. Call us,” Dick says, his face so earnest it hurts to look at. As if anything is that easy. “And for fuck’s sake, next time to you cut the thread and don’t stick a needle inside you before you get ready for a fight.”

Laughter bubbles over Jason’s lips, just for a moment before he cuts it off mercilessly. It is so like Dick to get hung up over such a small thing. As if he will get killed again by a needle of all things. As if a negligible pain like that even matters with everything that has already happened.

“Shooting a gun wouldn’t have done anything to that needle,” Jason argues, because he will never say any of the rest.

And finally, there is a small crack in Dick’s composure. “You are infuriating. No wonder you died fi-” he cuts himself off, looks away quickly. But Jason has already seen the horror in his eyes, the regret.

It could be funny, really, how people think his biggest problem would be the dying. Sure, that was excruciating, the betrayal as much as the bloody crowbar. But it will always be Bruce’s indifference that cut the deepest, his father’s willingness to save Jason’s murderer, just so he would not go against his precious principles.

Death has been a part of Jason’s life far longer than the idea of what family is supposed to be.

Jason straightens his shoulders, finally finding his equilibrium again. He knows how to argue. It is softness he has no idea how to deal with.  

“And yet death spat me up again so I could be your problem a while longer,” he throws at Dick, teeth bared.

He can see it, the red creeping up Dick’s neck, the indignation. The hurt over Jason’s callousness that will, irrevocably, turn into arguing.

They have done this a thousand times and Jason is ready to fall back into old patterns.

Instead, Dick deflates, slumping on the couch as if Jason cut his strings and punched him in the gut all in one go.

“I’m sorry,” he says and sounds like he means it.

“You should be,” Jason snaps, even while he is talking about something entirely different than Dick. They have to be. “I have a door, you know,” he continues, gesturing towards the hallway as if that alone will carry Dick out. “If you broke my window I’ll throw you through it.”

Dick does not have the decency to even blink at that. “I figured you’d booby trap your door,” he says, probably knowing it for a fact. “And I wanted to help, not make a mess.”

Whatever that is supposed to mean. Jason scoffs and quietly curses himself when it comes out weak, wanting.

“Good job, Dickie,” he drawls, putting as much condescension into the nickname as he can muster. “Now, leave.”

Still, Dick does not move. “Only if you promise you’ll call.”

As if they have the kind of relationship where Jason would trust Dick enough to come if he needs him. As if he would actually want to make himself more vulnerable.

“Simply don’t distract me next time, and I won’t need stitches,” he shoots back, rubbing the growing bruise through his shirt.

“Please.” Dick stops himself, swallows. Then he pulls some humour into his expression that is painfully fake. “I’m sure the world will not stop turning, if you don’t stick yourself with a needle at least once a week.”

“Funny,” Jason deadpans and stares until Dick finally, finally has the decency to get up.

“All right, all right. I’m going.” He does not go towards the door, however. No, he walks to Jason and, slowly, choreographing clearly what he is doing, pulls Jason into a hug.

Jason is rooted in place. He remembers Dick’s hugs, of course, he does. Warm and soft and always the right kind of insistent. It has been years but Jason wants to melt into Dick like it has been only yesterday.

“Call me,” Dick orders as he lets go. “I’ll bring Alfred’s cookies.”

Long after he is gone, Jason still stands in front of his window. He blames the cold travelling through his body on the breeze coming in from outside. All he can do is breathe and wonder why it feels like something has shifted. All he can do is wonder whether that is a good thing.

---

Revenge is cold and lonely and, sometimes, necessary. But it does not have to be everything there is. Jason has blood on his hands and countless scars on his skin, even after his slate has been swept clean once.

For years, he had his brothers’ numbers memorized, useless knowledge of another life. These days, he has a phone he does not throw away every week, and a fixed list of contacts on it. He even picks up when it rings. Most of the time, at least.

[blancheludis]

my father burned until i was burning, too

georges bataille — amatullah bourdon — in the blood by john mayer — sophocles, transl. anne carson — schuyler peck.

[blancheludis]

The Panama Canal