#Someone would call CPS if there was a twelve year old trying to run a bookstore (allegedly) all on their own | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goldblcd · 6 years ago

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[ MUSE 6 ] ●● is that BENJAMIN WADSWORTH? no, that’s just MATEO SERRANO, the 16 year old CIS MALE who is an HS SOPHOMORE. some say they’re CALLOUS AND TEMPERAMENTAL, but their family and friends will swear they’re RESILIENT AND INDEPENDENT. when i think of them, i think of bruised knuckles, the faint smell of cigarettes, worn out leather jackets, scars inside and out, distrustful looks, a boy trying to be a man. i wonder if their family know that HE is hiding that HE’S PLANNING TO RUN AWAY AFTER HE SAVES UP SOME MONEY.

rory again! 2/3! getting there. i’m rushing bc i’m meeting my cousin for lunch lol.

tw: mentions of drug abuse, drug overdose, violence, sexual abuse, physical abuse, ptsd.

story time, guys.

so, mateo was born (and raised) in boston to parents that had no business putting a child in the world and that apparently didn’t know how to work a condom. his mother was a junkie who was out of it for most of his childhood, and his dad was an abusive asshole who happened to be part of one of the most violent gangs in the greater boston area. nice.

growing up he was surrounded by violence, and that was ultimately what turned him into an orphan. his mother died of an overdose when he was eleven and his father was murdered by a rival gang when he was twelve. after that, he was put in the foster system, but only a month into his first placement (a group home) he ran away. and every time cps would get their hands on him he’d run away again.

he didn’t have anyone who could trust or anyone he thought had his back, so he learned how to make on his own. and ended up doing not so legal things, especially during the times he was on the streets. stealing is the easiest way to get money in those circumstances shh.

when he was fourteen, one of his father’s old friends (read gang pal) recognized him and asked if he didn’t want to join the gang with all the promises of money and family and people who would look out for him. he knew it was a very very very bad idea, but his options were very few and desperate times call for desperate measures. so, at fourteen he became a prospective member which meant he got to hang around and do whatever the members told him to.

mostly, it was stealing and selling drugs and getting into fights with rivals gangs and they did give him a place to stay, he had food and he even got into the leaders’ good graces ( too much and in ways that no fifteen-year-old should. this man is not a good guy at all ). but some months later it started a conversation of mateo becoming a full member and that meant probably having to murder someone and that’s when he drew the line because this boy couldn’t do that.

the problem is that once you’re in that circle, getting out is not something you can do. which, nice again. but then enters papa armstrong just at the perfect time. if there’s one thing he learned growing up is that he should always look out for yourself and that’s what he did. mateo sang like a bird as soon as papa armstrong offered him protection. he did not expect that to come in form of opening his house to him, but he’s not complaining.

for the past month 3 months, he has been staying with the armstrongs and trying to keep a very low profile. he’s happy to be out of boston and a little away from the gang, i mean, he doubts they’re going to look for him at some affluent suburb. he does feel bad about being there, though. he knows it’s dangerous for all parts involved and these are the nicest people he has ever met, he doesn’t want to be the reason something bad happens to them.

he’s trying to be the best houseguest he can and not overstep his boundaries. help around the house, stay out of trouble do well at school (this boy dropped out before his freshman year ok, he was supposed to be a junior), but it’s all too different and sometimes it can be a little overwhelming. add to that having to look over his shoulder 24/7, he has a lot on his plate right now.

personality, maybe.

mateo is truly a result of his environment. he is extremely independent, resourceful and resilient. no matter what goes down or what’s thrown at him, he will find a way to survive. he has been fighting for as long as he remembers and he will keep on doing just that.he is very pragmatic, there’s not a lot of complaining. shit happens and all you can do is find a way around it and fix it.

a bit of a cynic, though. the world is a dark place and people are intrinsically bad, that’s what he thinks. has a lot of trouble seeing the good in people or expecting them to do anything out of the goodness of their hearts. everyone always wants something in return.

he doesn’t know how to act when people are just nice to him tbh. the armstrongs??? he can not understand why they’re doing this. he knows papa armstrong is keeping him around because he’s important to the case but the rest of the family?? no idea. it’s not like he deserves to be cared about and for, right?

he is an introvert and likes to keep to himself most times, especially around ashcroft where he feels incredibly out of place. he’s the kid at school that’ll spend lunch by himself with a sketchpad. but he isn’t shy, he just doesn’t like to talk when he doesn’t have anything to say. he absolutely hates small talk, those just leave him without knowing what to do with himself.

he will always stand but for the little guy. if he sees a kid being bullied at school you can bet he will give up the whole lay low/don’t get into trouble and get into a fight. and he will not regret it. his means of conflict resolution are fists. that’s it.

he doesn’t do any drugs other than smoking weed and doesn’t really like getting drunk. he has very bad memories about any mind-altering substances so he’s just not a big fan. he does smoke, though. a lot. mostly when he’s nervous or when there’s someone bothering him.

he still has nightmares about everything he’s seen and lived and i would not be surprised if this boy was eventually diagnosed with ptsd because he has all the symptoms, but don’t expect him to get any help.

he loves to draw. doesn’t show it to anyone, but loves to do it and is actually really good at it. not that he thinks that or that he would believe if anyone told him that.

actually, a softie and just needs a hug or fifty.

wanted connections.

i’m getting some heavy ryan atwood (and some jesse mariano) vibes here so i’d love if someone could give me his own seth cohen and marissa cooper (princess falling in love with the outsider? yes pls).

he’s also gonna need some friends that he will try not to get attached but will fail.

maybe someone super naive and he’s just ‘fck this kid’s gonna get themselves eaten alive’ and just becomes protective over them?

tutors! he has missed a lot of school and is still trying to catch up and not have to be stuck in sophomore year.

#ashcroftintro.

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erinyessaturni · 7 years ago

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Just a little open-ness.

This is going to be *exceptionally* long. I’m putting it under a cut.

Curiosity may get the better of some of my followers and that’s okay. I’m trying to be open and work through some things on my own until I can get a therapist. All I ask is that you are respectful and show discretion and being as I am working through things myself, I’m feeling very raw. This whole thing might be raw and scrambled.

If you do intend to read, I’ll just give a warning that it includes mention of abuse (emotional, physical, and sexual) and suicide.

I’m having another difficult night. It’s been almost a week since I’ve gone to bed at a ‘decent’ time. 6am seems to be my bedtime now until about 6pm unless I have to go to work. It’s not something particularly new, but I had got better about my sleeping schedule.

I mentioned earlier that my mom posted something about the abuse she endured from my dad. It didn’t go into immense detail, but she did explain how helpless she felt at the time. How vulnerable. Why she left me and my brother with my dad and how the church handled it. (News flash, not well. Divorce isn’t something you do in her religion)

She’s talked to me about this before, when I asked because I was old enough to want to know. She gave me many tips for when it seemed the abuse turned toward me.

Lately, and especially after the 2016 election, my father and I have drifted further and further apart. I will get into that later, but I think the root starts when I was four.

Four was a big year in my life. Perhaps I could even go as far as to say it started when I was three, but four is where I think it all truly begins.

Four was when my mother finally left. When my father gave her “permission” to leave. Her permission? “Fine then, go.”

That statement is what gave her the final step out of the door. The permission to leave. Apparently, my father was a very angry man even then. He was then and still is a martial artist, and we had a punching bag in the basement of our house. Mom says that he would get angry and go hit it so hard the walls would shake.

Being four, I don’t remember much of any of this. But I do remember the door slamming behind my mother’s retreating form. I remember wondering why she didn’t come home. I remember crying myself to sleep at night for many, many years to come.

Four was the year I lost my brother in a terrible, tragic accident. An accident that I thought was my own fault for many, many years. To this day, I still blame myself just a little though I know better.

Even at four I apparently knew to lie about what happened. I told my dad I tried to catch him. I didn’t want to be in trouble. He believed me. Apparently, he believed me until I was twenty four when we were just discussing various things.

According to my mom, four was also the age where my dad already had a girlfriend. My dad already had a girlfriend.

They weren’t divorced yet.

And he had a fucking girlfriend in the hospital waiting room while my little brother was on life support dying. My mother rushed to the hospital to find him with another woman and a dying son and a four year old who didn’t understand yet the permanency of death.

Thing is, yeah. Memory can get skewed. You can remember things differently many years down the road, especially when you need to explain it to your questioning child. I have heard both sides of the divorce story and I am far more inclined to believe my mom for reasons that will be covered soon.

My brother had two funerals because apparently my dad couldn’t get along with my mom’s family long enough to say goodbye to my brother. I don’t remember both funerals but I think I attended them both. My dad fought and argued with family on a day where everyone was hurting.

I didn’t yet understand that when I put my brother’s little red fire truck and his teddy bear into the casket that it would be the last time I’d look upon him. My little brother, who was only two and a half. The little boy I did everything with.

And my dad chose not to put his differences aside.

They divorced somewhere in here. I don’t know where. I didn’t see my mom much for the next three years because my dad had made my mom feel like she was inadequate and a bad mother. She left us with my dad because she didn’t have a stable living condition, money to her name, etc. She felt like she couldn’t take care of us and so she let us stay. So she could be safe.

My first christmas without my mom or my brother, I can recall clearly. I told my dad and my grandma I didn’t want any presents. I wanted my mom and my brother.

My dad claimed for the next twenty three years (and counting) that my mom abandonned us. Abandonned me. That she never wanted me. He also claims that I didn’t want to see her. I don’t recall ever hating my mom, but being confused and hurt.

My mom claims that she did try to see me as soon as she was able.

My dad claims my mom owes thousands in unpaid child support. My mom says that the court ruled in her favor and she was able to pay less because she couldn’t afford the huge bill.

Because he moved me all the fucking away across the country. Out of her reach.

I didn’t see my mom for a very long time. My dad remarried, giving me a new mom and five stepsiblings. Stepsiblings to hated me. A stepmother who was severely mentally unstable. She was the reason that my entire summer with my mom was reduced to six months, because that’s all her ex got.

This woman was cruel to me. Her children were cruel to me. Less than three years after losing my mother I had a horrible replacement who I was nothing but obedient for. If I didn’t finish my food--all of my food--I would be sent to bed without dinner. I hated crusts and still do. I still can’t eat apple cores. But I went hungry a lot. She washed my mouth out with soap--liquid amway soap that I am pretty sure is toxic--because I said I had finished the litterbox. I was seven and didn’t do it perfectly and honestly thought I had finished.

This bipolar woman (yes, she was diagnosed) had a purse full of pills, had severe anxiety and panic attacks, and could seemingly swing from one extreme to the next in a snap. One day we would be having ‘princess lessons’ where she would dote on me, make things with me, bake with me. The next I would be kicked out of the house until sundown or later. She would threaten to “Pound me into oblivion” if I didn’t finish such and so chore here within a ‘reasonable’ amount of time. She would pull my hair and it was a toss up if I wanted my hair done up (my hair always needed to be up since it was past my butt) or have my hair pulled.

I lived with this woman for five years and her hellspawn that would steal my toys and claim they were theirs. My dad would always take their side. I was constantly in trouble and grounded.

The timeline blurs here a bit, but as I myself can recall as soon as she got pregnant they got a nasty divorce. Nasty, horrible, wicked with child custody battles raging on and on.

I only met my sister perhaps twice. I only got to hold my infant sister once. My father had to have all of his visitation watched because my ex-stepmother started a rumor and accusation that can never be taken back.

I had CPS visit while I was visiting my mom to ask me if anyone had ever touched me badly. I was confused, already very mixed up, I didn’t understand why they would ask me something like that. My daddy would never. I had the presence of mind to know *exactly* what they were asking of me. I had grown up too fast. I was only twelve.

Those charges were dropped. For a time.

Though I never knew there were any actual charges anyway.

My dad eventually gave up any and all rights to my sister. For his and my safety, apparently. My ex-stepmother was a piece of work to be sure...but I never saw my sister again. I think she’s 15 or 16 now. I went snooping once and last I knew owls were her favorite and her favorie movie was Guardians of Gahool or whatever it’s called. Still haven’t seen that movie. Still can’t listen to “part of your world” because that was the last song I sang to her because I wanted SO BADLY to have my little sister. To have a sibling no matter how far apart in age we were.

Expunged

This next part is very sensitive. I’m not even sure if I should post it. I don’t know if I should post any of this. I know there’s a whole other half of this story. I know I’m a terrible person because there were more victims than just me. I know that these victims suffered so much more than I did and for a lot longer. I’m trying to work through this and trying to forgive.

When I was 17 I was with my mom for the summer. Everything was great until one fateful day. Someone messaged me who I thought was a friend saying my father was on the run and was going to be dragged to jail. Panicking I called him and he was at home with no idea what was going on.

A week later apparently he was in jail for the thing my ex-stepmother had begun. This was used against him. Everything about this is such a blur, but I nearly didn’t come home that summer. Without much detail, my dad was accused of a V E R Y serious crime. There were multiple witnesses, etc, etc, etc. This was all later proven to be absolutely false and the victims were threatened to give such testimony. And unfortunately their suffering didn’t end for years. I don’t really know what happened to them, but my father was proven innocent and it was instead another man.

I know I’m a monster for...I don’t want to say I don’t care. I considered these people friends once. But with so much hurt already, I’ve closed my heart on this situation for my own safety. It’s been ten years and I hope in time I can be as forgiving as everyone else has been.

But that summer is the year that everything truly went south with me and my dad. That summer was the end.

My dad had become a bit paranoid and with good reason. Enemies were lurking amongst friends. But we dealt with it.

He said I didn’t look at him the same way. Such events change a person, but I was still his loving child. I still viewed us as friends. I was always more friends with my dad than anything.

We would tell each other everything. I needed to know everything that was going on because (surprise surprise I found out later) I have anxiety. He was the cool dad, the fun dad. The dad who spoilt me rotten and gave me everything I wanted. The dad who told other parents that they were too strict and that he let me do whatever the hell I wanted because I was a good kid. He’s lucky I didn’t get myself in big fucking trouble with drugs, alcohol, the law, etc. He’s lucky I didn’t come home pregnant.

Honestly, as my mom puts it, he needed me more than I needed him.

By about november of 2010 when I was 19, I told him I was moving out. By this point his yelling had escalated, I couldn’t do anything right. I never wanted to be home, I don’t remember there being any good food in the house. The heat was off in the middle of winter. He had married the woman--the mother--of those who had accused my father a year before. He’s still married to her.

I moved out and into my grandmother’s house on my mom’s side. My grandma and grandpa who I loved but never saw much because I just...my dad kept me away or something. I never got close to them until I moved in.

I moved out with his blessing on one condition. That I’d attend this ‘training’. It was a cult thing. Supposed to be uplifting and help you learn about yourself and get rid of bad habits, I don’t know. I attended the children’s version around 8 or 9.

I did it to get him off my back, but this place was like a cult. Under the guise of bettering yourself, you endure a week of abuse. I left that training starved, dehydrated (they don’t let you out for breaks in an 8 hour session except like. Once? Maybe twice?) and I had already thrown up foam after being emotionally stressed out during a “hit the chair and let your feelings out” session. For someone as empathetic as I am that was NOT a good situation. Another man in the room BROKE his chair and broke his hand.

But I survived it. I smiled and pretended everything was hunkydory. Hunkydory what a word.

I graduated highschool late, and my dad attended my graduation. As did my mom and some of her family. My dad hung out at the back and didn’t engage much. I was trying to juggle everyone. He eventually just kinda congratulated me and left. This was the start of him pulling away.

My dad pulled away from me. Said it was to give me space and let me live my life. But then he starts throwing fits, asking why I don’t talk to him, etc, etc. I’ve told him time and time and time again that he can emssage me. I’m just busy. I’m working, I’m just trying to survive day to day life. It doesn’t eman I don’t love him.

He still refuses to message me first, even just a hello.

And now

After the 2016 election. I think he’s gone off the deep end.

He supports Trump, which is against everything I stand for and everything that I am. He’s militant about it. He goes and posts on EVERYTHING political. It’s a bunch of psychobabble bullshit that I don’t think he even understands. I am 98% sure he’s paranoid. Like. Everyone is out to get him and he’s been like that for years, but now it’s so much worse.

He posts on MY stuff to argue. He messages me privately. And keep in mind, this is also with him not talking to me on a regular basis. All he seems to want to do is fight and argue. It’s like he wants to push me away.

My mom is trying to gently coax me to cut him off. Just for a while. But aside from his political ranting and basically calling me stupid and without indpendant thought (He thinks I’m a fucking sheep) in so many words he doesn’t talk to me. I barely got a happy birthday message and as mad as I am at him, I still cried over it. I got a very blunt message on my fb wall of just ‘happy birthday’. Thing is I could cut him off but it wouldn’t do anything. If I do it quietly I’ll hear about it eventually. If I give him a long speech about how terrible he is, it’ll be worse.

Remember how we used to talk about everything? He once told me that he would have committed suicide a long time ago if I weren’t in his life. And I CANNOT handle that. I CANNOT handle something like that. I cannot handle the thought of it. I cannot handle the possibility.

I CAN NOT.

If this were a romantic relationship I would have cut him off so fucking long ago.

But he’s my fucking father.

And this is barely the tip of the iceburg.

This isn’t all of it.

This was supposed to just be about my father and trying to get some feeligns. But it...it’s all kind of fucking connected isn’t it?

I know no one is goign to read this buf if you made it this far...I’m sorry you got a glimpse of what my life has been like. This isn’t here to gain sympathy or get ‘poor you’s from anyone.

I just needed to put it out there. I had to just...put it out there. Because while I have a spouse who loves me and supports me, they can’t handle all of my baggage and damage on top of theirs. And I’m not going to make them.

This has gone on long enough. I feel sick and my head hurts so bad...

Until my next rant.

#Personal #Just a lot of fucked up life shit #Khrys is just being open with themselves

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iphoenixrising · 8 years ago

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Doctor!Tim Drabble

ll because of my lovely @satire-please. Ah, also Yang12 left a comment on the AO3 version of this thing and is a doctor. I got a cookie, so I did a little research hoping for another ;) Ah, sorry if some of it is inaccurate and terribly edited since I’m running on Tim’s usual sleep-deprivation slowly being worn down by immense amounts of coffee.

“Please. He cannot die”

And this? This is going to get him killed eventually.

(But it’s not like that possibility is going to stop him, is it? He’s already too far gone)

His body moves through the dark recesses of the Narrows, Gotham’s notorious underground, and he’s very, very lucky he got Steph’s dark purple scrubs today instead of his usual blue, or he would have stood out ever more than usual against the darkness.

And while he’s trying to breathe, trying to push his body faster, trying to fucking get there, he’s not thinking about the potential slew of criminals that would probably love to take him down for his shoes and wallet; he tries not to think about the hundreds of kids all over this part of town that hadn’t seen a doctor ever. He tries not to think about the drug addicts and petty crooks trying to feed their families.

He tries very hard not to think.

Instead, he focuses on the burn of his calves and thighs and lungs where he feels like he can’t get a full breath and not because he’s running his ass off. He feels the handle of his doctor’s bag probably permanently embedded in his palm from the grip (because he needs it and no one is going to take it, oh fuck no).

He tries to maintain his usual logical progression of thoughts, the next steps in the process, the possible deviations and plans contingencies depending on what he falls into once he fucking gets there.

He’s up in the air, jumping over the bus bench and subsequent homeless patron already asleep, landing it without pausing.

The text still on the main screen of his phone is terrifying, burning in his pocket as much as his calves are.

Three more blocks.

And of course he knew what could happen, what has already happened, what the dangers are, what strains are put on the body. In the last year, he’s learned with real hands-on experience that there are no lines in their world. No one to call time. No one to stop it from happening. He knows the statistics and probabilities, he’s made the calculations himself, given them the numbers because, you know, he needs them to understand. He needs them to know.

And he almost skids past the alleyway, chest heaving, legs trembling slightly with the twelve block sprint.

Robin’s body reacts instinctively to possible danger, arm raised to throw something potentially fatal before he seems to realize who’s already moving into their space.

Tim falls hard to his knees, muscle in his jaw twitching with how hard his teeth are clenched.

“Deets, Rob,” and he can’t pause, he can’t take a second to look at Nightwing’s closed eyes and slack features, he can’t just be the terrified boyfriend that wants to grip the hand and beg for some sign of life.

He’s never been able to be that guy.

No matter how much he secretly wanted to be.

Robin (Damian) eases down slightly when the bag snaps open and gloves are automatic, when hands rip into the skin-tight bodysuit, and the motions are smooth, unhurried, knowledgeable, just like when Robin throws a punch or a kick, when he takes down the wicked.

And even though he feels this man to be an interloper, an intruder, an outsider, to their world, he cannot help but be relieved (grateful) at watching things happen quickly.

“Crane...The Scarecrow—”

“Gas? Some other fear agent?” He cuts in, ripping open antiseptic wipes and cleaning the blood (while for some reason, the ABCDEs— Airway, Breathing, Circulation, Disability, Exposure— keep running over his singed nerves).

“Possibly,” Robin admits low and graveled (because he feels guilty and Tim gets the picture of what probably happened), “he was wearing his re-breather, but Crane had his scythe, he could have-”

Robin pauses abruptly, one gloved hand coming up to his ear, tapping the comm to on.

Tim goes back to it, assessing the deep slice bisecting Nightwing’s thorax (and things like aortic disruption slap him in the face with the bruises of more blunt trauma), but a few seconds with the stethoscope gives him enough to know he’s not going to have to be worried about aortic trauma or pneumothorax. While he’s taking care of the laceration, he’s thinking about the effect of fear toxin and what kind of things N will have to deal with once he regains consciousness and—

“The Doctor,” is Robin’s reply to something, filtering around his running thoughts. “He is prepping N for transport.”

Am I? And with the stitches already started, he guesses he is.

“Do you have an antidote for the toxin?” Is the next thought, turning to Robin briefly. The rancid smell of old fish sticks finally filters in now that he’s not in frantic save my boyfriend mode. If the Red Hood was here, he would probably be worse, but at least Kory and Roy would take good care of him while he was away.

“Administered,” Robin answers shortly, listening to whoever is on the other side of the comm.

As the last necessary stitch is done, Nightwing jerks to awareness (not that he would necessarily be able to tell with the whiteouts but muscles tensing isn’t really something he’d be able to miss this close).

“Hey, hey, it’s me okay?” He tries while tying off and pulling out gauze pads, “Nightwing, can you hear me?”

The gloved hand finding his ankle is all the answer he needs.

“You were hurt in a fight with the Scarecrow. Do you remember anything?”

A huff of air, something that ends on a pained noise.

“I know, I know. I’ve got you so far. Robin gave you the antidote, so you just need to relax. We’re out of sight.”

And his fingers tremble just slightly when he pulls one glove off and reaches to touch the spot on the domino to slide the whiteout lenses up so he can see those dazed blue eyes looking right at him.

His smile might be shaky but at least the adrenaline has finally worn the fuck off and the hand around his ankle tightens again.

If he’d have known Robin was talking to Batman (you know, the motherfucking Batman), he would have made more of an effort to get the hell gone after making sure Nightwing wasn’t in any immediate peril.

When the rumbling sound of oh shit, run hits the mouth of the alley, Dr. Drake has an oh shit moment because he realizes who is providing transport tonight (and if he hadn’t been completely focused on Dick and the possible problems fear toxin could cause, he would have already been ghost).

Because he hasn’t met the Batman and hadn’t seen Bruce Wayne, his neighbor, since his parents were murdered a few months after he’d turned twelve. Bruce was the first person other than police to show up at his door once word Jack and Janet Drake weren’t coming back from overseas (where he learned a guy name the Obeah Man had poisoned them both) and offer him a place in Wayne Manor until CPS could figure out what to do with him.

He’d spent a night in Wayne Manor, supposedly between Jason and Dami’s run as Robin, and went back to the Drake Estate the next day.

(And maybe he’d secretly hoped Bruce Wayne would have offered him a place since, you know, orphans and such, but he always understood it was too soon after Jason died…he remembered the down spiral of the Batman, of how close he’d come to dying so many times before the JLA got Dick involved).

He’d known back then too but hadn’t felt any need to tell the billionaire/vigilante about his mounds of evidence. He’d gone into the system while caretakers kept the Estate and Drake Industries running.

This time he’d face the Batman who was probably seriously annoyed someone else outside “the family” knew the big secret.

It’s not the meeting he’d been looking forward to. You know, ever. As long as he stayed away from the vigilante, just catered to Nightwing and the Red Hood, kept himself firmly in the role of civilian, he’d hoped maybe Batman could overlook him, ignore him, whatever. But the imposing shadow falls over them while he’s working at the last vestiges of bandages around N’s upper body and checking the dilation of his pupils at intervals.

“Shit,” he manages very, very softly, slowly raising both gloved hands, palm out in the whole I surrender, don’t kick my ass motion he’s got going on. Slowly, he eases away from Nightwing while Robin already crosses the dirty alleyway to put himself right in front of the Dark Knight to apparently take the blame for calling in a civilian.

The two only get about sixty seconds of banter before Nightwing comes to abrupt, terrifying fear-toxined consciousness and takes Tim down to the ground with one leap (not that it isn’t a stretch or anything). His eyes are a wild, insane blue while he wraps both hands around Tim’s throat and proceeds to use all his vigilante experience to strangle him.

Tim gets barely a breath to hold before the hands, those hands, the ones that held him with absurd tenderness, that mapped out his body, that gripped his hips, that gave and took pleasure, that defended Gotham from the worst type of criminal, the hands Tim would stupidly hold on to once Nightwing finally passed out for the night/day, when those hands constricted his airway and show him the real danger behind the exterior.

He only gets a heartbeat or two before the shadow of the Bat was right over Nightwing’s shoulder, moving with incredible speed to catch Nightwing’s shoulder in an unbreakable grip and throw him the hell off Tim.

Robin, for as much as he seriously hates Tim, is still there, gripping the surgeon under the arms while he’s trying to get some air back into his body, pulling him up and away from where the Batman is facing off with Nightwing.

And even dizzy, almost unconscious himself, he can see the fine trembling of Nightwing’s muscles, the glint off his teeth white in the night.

It might be the lack of oxygen, but the two fighting looks like fast and furious swishes taking pieces out of the darkness, or it could be the way Robin is trying to drag him up to the side of the building so he can use the grapple and get Tim the hell out of there.

Either way, Crane’s fear toxin could hit Nightwing’s heart, accelerate it to the point of ventricular fibrillation and…

Woozy, he pulls out of Robin’s hands as the shortest vigilante fires his grapple, and manages to stumble forward on shaky legs, calling out a series of numbers.

Eight numbers.

Nightwing would know. Would know the year, the date, the day. Would know it was the same day he met a small boy who thought he was the world.

Like he’d thrown a switch, Nightwing stops long enough to stare at him, long enough for the flapping suit to still, and the bandage over his chest seem that much more white.

“It seems like everything is wrong and dangerous and scary,” he hurries regardless of the owfuck that is his treachea since his heavily compromised significant other pauses, “your brain is telling you these things, but I swear. Dick, I swear, it’s just me. It’s me and B and Little D, okay? Whatever you’re seeing is just the fear chemicals in your brain. It’s not real. I wouldn’t lie to you about this.”

He barely feels the gloved hand gripping the scrub top, pulling him back a step with real strength, but below the domino, Robin’s face is frozen in a stern scowl, the younger vigilante putting himself in front of Tim without a hitch.

“Grayson,” is the low entreaty, “he does not lie. Crane’s scythe was poisoned. And you...you fool. I should have been the one to take that hit. I was the one too slow. I underestimated him and we both know it. You should have let me—”

And a shuddering breath, Nightwing closes his eyes, muscles trembling finely while his pants fill up the alleyway.

The Batman, however, doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to be breathing. “With us?”

“I...Boss, the toxin—”

And who knew what kind of hallucinations are right there in N’s frontal lobe for the toxin to play with. Who knew what kind of monsters were right there?

The Batman did apparently.

“Sorry, Dick.”

Tim just blinks and the Batman is just that fast because he only sees a blur where the back of the gauntleted hand takes out N’s lower jaw with enough force to topple the struggling vigilante.

“Get in,” is the only thing he registers while watching the Batman load Nightwing’s unconscious body into the front seat (and yes, he’s staring at it a little dazed because it’s the fucking Batmobile) while Robin hops into the back.

“Wh—? I’m sorry?” He manages hoarsely, coming out of his nerdgasm.

The way the cowl turns toward him gives the impression of impending doom. He’s pretty sure that Batman does really like to repeat himself.

“Get. In.”

Welp, okay. Getting in then.

He manages to maneuver Nightwing’s unconscious body around so they can share the front seat, his significant other pretty much laying on top of him with both Tim’s arms around him to keep them both in the seat when they reach impossible speeds. He manages to get one arm high enough to keep two fingers on the meaty beat at N’s jugular.

And the rumble of his thighs, the glass dome overhead, all of it just amazing (but would be life affirming if his boyfriend wasn’t fear-toxined as fuck and could come to and kick his ass easily at any possible second).

Before they reach the outskirts of Gotham, Robin leans forward from the emergency back-seat and starts tying a blindfold around his eyes, taking the nearly imperceptible nod from the Batman as some secret language (who knew, maybe they kidnap civilians all the time?). He doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t try to fight it, just shifts his grip on Nightwing and tries to swallow past the ache in his throat.

Both Bats are silent on the fast and furious ride, and he doesn’t say a word since the pulse under his fingers is steady at sixty-seven beats per minute. (And it’s nice, not hitting tachycardia right about now. Shit, now he jinxed himself).

“I understand you found out,” is the first thing he’s heard when the car finally slows and rolls to a final stop.

“Are we speaking the same language?” He asks, turning his head even with the blindfold, “found out? I mean, he told you, didn’t he?”

There’s a “tt,” loud enough to be obvious before the feel of air and movement behind them. The top has retracted and Robin already out.

Movement from beside him is the Batman leaping out, talking while he comes around the front of the car. Tim tracks him even if the echo might be messing with his equilibrium, “they told me you figured it out when Dick was in the cape.”

Abruptly, the blindfold is jerked off, and it’s literally a bat cave. It’s a bat cave.

A Bat Cave.

His inner fanboy is almost comatose.

He gets it together when Nightwing is pulled out of his arm, and the cowl moves in a subtle “here boy, heel,” motion.

Pet Doctor it is then.

Tim scrambles out over the side of the car, his “vigilante only” doctor’s bag with him as he breathes and tries to take it all in.

There’s a huge dinosaur and a penny the size of a small building. He pretty much drools over the massive supercomputer across the room, and bites down on his lip hard when they pass a massive workbench of microscopes, beakers, and more fun things than he’d had in the last year as an Attending. Still, he has to give them props for having state-of-the-art equipment in their contained medical area.

Once he steps across the curtain, he’s on his game, stepping into the role.

The Batman is laying Nightwing out while Tim does a quick scrub up before re-gloving. He’s turning on devices, ripping the suit further to attach the pads so he’s got a familiar litany of beeping and brightly colored read-outs.

He takes a step to the side, eyes wandering over the wall of containers, guessing at which one had saline IV bags to try flushing the drug out faster.

He’s already got tubing and a labeled clear bag without the Bats bothering to stop him.

Well, since he’s right on the edge of his nerves anyway, the unavoidable word vomit starts up anyway, “Crane is pretty consistent with the building blocks of his fear toxins. That makes it easier to treat, something to neutralize one of the components is enough to knock out most of the formula. The patient might experience more subtle hallucinations, but that’s about it. The full effects are gone within twenty minutes or so. I mean, if you’ve got a little—”

“How do you know all this?” Is Robin’s voice from the bottom of the gurney. “I believed you to be a surgeon.”

“I have other hobbies,” is his short comeback while focusing on getting the IV home. “Dating vigilantes is one of the more mild ones.”

And yes. Just yes. He sees the smallest quirk to the Batman’s mouth and totally gives himself a gold star.

But it’s just like back in his bedroom when he admitted to the truth, it’s something that has to come out because...because he has to make sure they know. It doesn’t matter if they believe, if he has no other part in their world other than patching up potentially lethal injuries and giving two former Robins a perch free of all this. So he pauses once the IV is taped down, looking up at the cowled crime fighter and then at his sidekick (son) with eyes dark and a straight spine. With his purple scrubs, he looks so utterly badass.

“I’ve never told anyone. I wouldn’t do that, not with all the good you guys do for Gotham.” His gloved hands are braced on the rails by Nightwing’s bicep. “I’ve seen first-hand what these crazy assholes will do to innocent people. I’ve had enough of them on my fucking table to get why you guys are fighting the good fight.” A little softer even with his half-hoarse voice anyway, “Gotham is lucky to have you.”

The creepy Bat-stillness just makes him take in a painful breath, go back to the massive wall-o-medical-supplies to pull out drawers until he finds the right sealed trays he needs. “So. I mean, I won’t tell anyone. Your secret is safe, Mr. Wayne.”

In his peripheral, Robin doesn’t really twitch, but it’s a close thing.

The quirk to the Batman’s mouth gets sharper, and while he’s attaching the tube to the syringe, a gloved hand rises, makes a few presses before the cowl is swept off over the lower half of the face to reveal disheveled dark hair and electric blue eyes, eyes that missed nothing. Eyes that saw it all.

Tim almost drops the syringe when he’s looking at Bruce Wayne in the Batsuit.

Best.

Reveal.

In.

History.

When he realizes his mouth is hanging open in shock (and wow, he’s never getting an invite back to the BAT CAVE. Good job him), his jaw click shut and he goes right back to drawing blood out of the crook of his boyfriend’s arm.

“Bruce,” the crime fighter replies. “ It’s nice to see you again, Tim.”

And just like that, Robin pulls off the domino to become Damian Wayne, his expression neutral, but the head nod is really more than he would have ever imagined.

Tim looks from one to another while pressing a cotton ball on the tiny wound, holding up a blood sample in his other hand that he fully intended to take over to that workbench and analyze. He fully intended to talk out the components, to use the very expensive and handy-as-hell equipment, give Batm—Bruce—B—the full breakdown and give a comparison of possible ways to counter the effects.

And well, yes, he was already moving that way, sliding on a conveniently placed stool, picking out a blank slide from the box caddy-cornered to the microscope, and to putting a sample on a blank slide to study. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out what they needed to know to synthesize another cure more specialized to this strain of toxin and—

Divesting himself of gloves and gauntlets, cape and the body suit somewhere along the way, Bruce is moving into the secondary work space, taking the syringe to get his own sample and start-up with warming the equipment to get to work.

Apparently at some point, he his life his Wonderland proportions because he’s about to do the legwork on the Scarecrow’s fear toxin with the real Batman.

It’s another foot in their world, another step closer to danger and possible horrible death, the stupid things Dick and Jason worry about all the time, their paranoia just another reason his locks are new and suddenly his windows are oddly reinforced.

Even though it’s a terrifying thing, to be thrown into their world where the odds will always be stacked against them, where there’s little more than pain and fear and bad guys and hard nights, he’s oddly can’t find anything wrong with sitting his ass right here and picking out the four major building blocks while Bruce is pulling together what they would need to counteract them.

When Dick’s heart picks up abruptly, quickly, the phrase ventricular fibrillation, he’s the one across the room like a shot, throwing himself up on the gurney to straddle Dick’s hips and use both palms over his heart to try slowing the fluttering rhythm the hard way the antidote goes through the final few minutes of preparation.

If he babbles stupid things about how no, you don’t get to do this and you’re not going to lay down and die on me and fight, Dick. Fucking FIGHT!, neither Bruce or Damian say a word about it, not while Damian grips Dick’s bicep, face furrowed and closed-off and Bruce hurries the process, eyes moving from Tim on Dick’s chest to the final countdown until the antidote is ready.

“Please, babe,” he finally breathes out, husky voice catching while his shoulders and arms start feeling the strain. “Please.”

Dick’s body jerks once, a sharp spasm that almost throws him off, but Tim hangs on long enough for Bruce to shove the syringe in Dick’s neck and push the plunger.

Thirty seconds.

He tastes copper in the back of his mouth.

One minute.

The machines are blaring as a side note, but fuck, he can’t give up. Bruce is staunch beside him, Damian unconsciously leaning closer.

Two minutes.

And the beats even out, slow down to the steady rhythm of his hands.

Dick’s whole body seems to go slack under his thighs.

Even as he eases off with chest compressions, all three of them let out a hard, deep sigh of relief. He unwinds his stethoscope free hand gripping Dick’s shoulder like a lifeline while he presses the disc right over the calming heart. He doesn’t ease up for long, aching minutes, even when Bruce and Damian step away.

“I assume coffee and dinner wouldn’t be remiss at the moment, Master Timothy.”

Blinking because he’d been kind of lost counting Dick’s heartbeat and staring down at his closed eyes, he turns to a slightly older Alfred Pennyworth. The man still striking in his professional suit, a calm eye in the storm.

“Coffee?” He repeats dumbly, almost desperately, several of his vertebrae cracking sharply (and there’s no clock so he has no idea how long he’s been leaning over his vigilante boyfriend/patient, just listening to his heartbeat).

“Indeed,” the butler cajoles with an easy, pleasant air, “perhaps the homemade pizza would also be to your liking, Sir?”

“Coffee and pizza?”

Yup. Count him in.

Free food and caffeine is always a win.

Bruce and Damian sit at a workbench with him and the three of them devour enough to make Alfred Pennyworth look please enough to bring more.

Somehow, between the sixth slice and bottom of his third cup of coffee, he somehow wedges himself under the medical gurney Dick’s laying on to sleep the sleep of the just and highly over-worked while the steady beat of the heart monitor lulls him further under. If someone (like Damian) throws a blanket over him before they go upstairs for the night, well, the surveillance footage of the Bat Cave accessed later by the Red Hood would never show it.

#doctor!tim #tim drake #dick grayson #bruce wayne #damian wayne #this was fun #mentions of Dickjaytim #my fic #my writing #long post

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centurymanoffdarails · 6 years ago

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Okoboji to key west

Let’s start this blog off by saying I’m extremely thankful and blessed to have Justin Hanneken and Ends of the Earth cycling in my life.

When I met Justin last June on the Break the Cgcle 200: Okoboji I knew God had placed him in my path for a particular reason, but neither one of us knew why at the time.

My story doesn’t start out like any other story, however. I was born July twelve 1991 in Des Moines, Iowa. I was born with a ‘condition’ called Hydrocephalus. Simple translation is water head. Hydrocephalus is caused by a fluid build up on the brain caused by a blockage of the cerebral spinal fluid. Which if not caught could cause some really bad health issues, including death. Hydrocephalus is similar to cerebral palsy. CP effects multiple limbs, and the vocal cords. Hydrocephalus effects one limb, and no vocal setbacks. Hydrocephalus can also affect vision. My vision is good distance wise, but I have very little peripheral vision. So in other words. I can NOT drive. Ok. That’s cool. I’ll ride my bike.

Fast forward ten years to 2002 my story gets deep as I lost my grandpa to cancer. As being a ten year old that is a tough thing to understand. Looking back it was an eye opening experience for me. Two summers later I was at camp in Clear Lake, Iowa. My councilor pulled me aside. I had been doubting my salvation since my grandpa’s passing. Not going to tell any of my family though. So I that night accepted Christ as my savior and I believed in my heart for the first time I was going to Heaven to be reunited with my grandpa that day. This was also my first summer of RAGBRAI vacation for me.

The summer of 2006 was when I really had to dig deep spiritually as my parents divorced. I was 14 at the time and didn’t know how to process that. So I turned to God and started reading my Bible and trying to pray everyday. I was in a public school and I saw a lot of stuff I didn’t care for so I knew I had to trust in God for leading. After 2006. Things kind of slowed down for awhile. And I settled in to a life of living with mom most days and dad on the weekends.

2007-2008 school year starts and I find out I get to be reunited with my friends and family back at Gravdview Park Baptist school, now Grand View Christian school, where I graduated in 2010. Looking back that was where I really started to mature spiritually. When I graduated in 2010 I wasn’t for sure what I wanted to do. With that being said, I knew I wanted to do RAGBRAI again. This time my goal was to complete every mile minus the century loop as it was my first one in six years. So that’s what I did. Not realizing it would be an annual tradition for me.

After a few years of doing RAGBRAI I knew there was more rides out there and that God had bigger plans for me. So I got in to the endurance riding real seriously. That is where I got hooked up with the Break the Cycle 200 ride. Break the Cycle is a one day 200 mile road ride ridden at 18.5 to 19 mph average to raise fynds and awareness to put a stop to human trafficking here in America and in Asia. There are more slaves in the world today than were in slaved during the 18 and 19th centuries. Last year we raised 160000+ thousand dollars to put a dent in the trade. That’s where I met Justin Hannaken. Justin and I actually stayed together at the same over night host and stayed in contact.

After RAGBRAI Justin and I stayed in contact and looked to me to come on a couple Ends of the Earth cycling trip last fall. Financially I couldn’t do it. Fast forward to October and the state of the union and key west Bike ride dates were announced. I had no choice but to say yes. So I signed up and started my fundraising campaign. For anyone who knows me, I’m not one to ask others for money since I like to do things by myself. I knew though that If I wanted to have successful trip I had to trust God to provide me with the people to ask and the funds would take care of themselves. I had my 500$ dollar minimum before I could blink. I then set my sights on the thousand dollar goal, and I had that before I left for Florida.

When Justin and I talked about me coming down I knew he would put me in some uncomfortable spots whether that be leading a group on tour or sharing my story on more than one occasion at youth group and on tour the day before the century ride. My original intention was riding first, serving second. God’s intention, serving first, riding second. As I got closer to departure day on March 11, 2019 I knew I had to change my view on this trip, otherwise it wouldn’t be for God’s glory, it would be for mine. I told justin I was coming down because of cheaper flights, not totally true. I went down to get acclimated to the Florida heat. It was 18 degrees when u left. It was 87 when I got to Fort Myers Florida. Best thing I could have done was going down early.

I hit the ground running and starting serving where I could. I had my whole schedule planned out for me in advance. I didn’t eat alone and had not much time to sleep. I was going all day long. I did whatever Justin asked me to and did it with a smile. It was a lot of work and a lot of fun.

When we got to the ride The first afternoon is prefield orientation, and a short ten mile ride to figure out which group you would ride with. After that we had a dinner and appetizers at pushing boundaries. As many of my friends know. I’m a natural at pushing the limits of what someone with hydrocephalus can do. So this was a cool experience for me. At the end of the presentation we were challenged to support some area of ministry financially. God put it on my heart to support a couple at ends of the earth cycling so that’s exactly what I did.

Day one of the ride was a hot spring day with winds out of the southeast at 7-12 mph. Just a shade over 80 miles. I rode with the pace line that day and I was struggling. It was more of a race than enjoyable ride. When I signed up. The paceline is listed at 16+ mph, emphasis on the plus for this ride. I was hanging on by the skin of my teeth. Oh, I was also NOT smiling. I made the eighty miles, but I also knew I had to back it down and drop back to journey lovers group. I was much happier. Even though I could hang with the pace line group, I was NOT contributing. So I decided to drop back to help them out.

Day two was eighty plus miles from Everglades city to Homestead Miami, this was also the day of the ‘optional’ century loop. As many of my friends know. I’m a glutton for the century ride thing. So I told EVERYONE on Facebook that it was ‘MANDATORY.’ Whoops. That was a mistake as I was called out on it as we came to the end point of the day. The century that day was a 20+ mile out and back loop on the route. That day I also decided to wear my hydrocephalus awareness jersey as motivation. Did not work. Oh well. I’ll get the loop next year. When you are on an Ends of the Earth cycling tour and you complete the century. You get this really cool patch! I already have one so that’s why I did not go out for those extra miles.

The next day was a recovery day after two long days in the saddle. It was forty miles and a glorious tail wind! So we road a ‘recovery’ day and we still averaged close 18 mph, but we coasted a lot of the day. When we rode this tour the groups I was with were all quality riders so I was confident in riding pace lines and taking turns at the front for two to three miles, at a time. Once again. A mistake. As I would take longer to recover in between pulls. Day three was Miami to key largo, with key lime pie at the end. I had a couple pieces. IT WAS AWESOME!

Day four was challenging as it rained ALL DAY LONG. Growing up in Iowa do I mind the rain? No. On the bike is another thing though as it is a cold rain. In Florida however it is warm and glorious. Day four was 50 miles roughly and wind. A few of the riders didn’t care for the wind and packed it in early. Wind doesn’t bother me as I ride in it all the time so a 25 mph crosswind didn’t get me too worked up. Day four was key largo to Marathon. And some good sea food at the end.

Day five started off with a six man tire change as the day before I had to ride across s bridge to avoid changing it on the bridge for safety reasons. I didn’t realize it but there was a three inch gash in the tire. That tire was garbage. That was the only thing that was disappointing about the trip was a lot of flat tires in general. We kept our mechanic hoping. I think personally I had 5 flats including a tire change. I try not to think about that though. Back to the ride. Day five was picture perfect with weather as we finished out the ride with three days of tailwinds. One of things I enjoyed the last day was riding seven mile bridge. Best view I’ve had for a photo in a long time as a cyclist.

Total mileage for the trip since I went down early to get acclimated was 400+ miles with only 2000 feet of climb.

When Justin and I met we both knew God had a plan for both of us, but neither one of us knew where or what that was. We both tried to get me on a tour last season, but could not get it to work out. When key west came up as an option I knew it was a God thing. When I knew Justin had a special plan for me without saying much until right before.

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