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iphoenixrising · 3 years ago

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DickTim Week 2021: Day 5 Winged!Talon Tim au

So. another dual prompt and I really regret nothing about this one tbh. I took tomorrow’s Talon and today’s Wings and made a Winged!Talon!Tim fic. Of course, I talked to the wonderful babes on Capes & Coffee about a what if combination and this just, whew. Careful, it might break your heart a little, but damn if it isn’t an interesting idea.

Not beta read, so don't be a hater :D

Previous Talon!Tim universe posts: The initial idea, Babe and I talking it out, Talon Training Ask, Ra’s vs the Court, Talon and Ra’s, Talon and Ra’s take 2, Talon and Shiva short.

Watching B take on the new and improved Talon is really the entertainment of the year.

Once upon a time it had taken all of them plus more to take down as much of the Court of Owls as humanly possible. Of course, like rats, the Bats knew there would be no way to get the entire Court or all the Talons, not when the upper echelons of Gotham had spent the better part of 200 years creating, storing, training, and obtaining more.

Politicians were investigated, corrupt cops removed, and criminals burrowed underground once word of what the capes did to save the day got passed around.

For the first time in years, crime in Gotham was at an all time low.

But, as the coin flip dictates, nothing good lasts forever. Trouble is always brewing below the surface to eventually rise to the top and try to take over.

Case in point:

The Bats of Gotham have come up against a new threat wearing the signature Talon armor, and the call goes out to all available capes for help taking on the undead mercenary before another crime family ends up in the Obituaries rather than Blackgate.

The fact the Court is still up and running after the Batfamily took them down in a fiery blaze that ended with all their Talons gone, Sensei exposed, and most the ruling families imprisoned or poisoned by Lincoln March, is like a kick to the abdomen after they closed that particular book. Worse, with a new Talon soldier is sighted running around Gotham, another circus kid has been kidnapped and turned into the right hand of the Court of Owls. Dick, with his absolute survivors guilt, is the one to make going after the Talon and whoever is still behind the scenes a top priority.

Which is how they find themselves in the middle of Knight’s Stadium facing down a Talon that is too short to be March. Red Hood, Nightwing, Robin, Batgirl, and Black Bat pretty much got their asses handed to them in the first twelve minutes. Pretty hard to understand until you take into account the new and improved Talon facing them now is terrifying in a completely different way than most undead assassins are.

He knows them.

He knows them in ways that lets him fight fast and furious with vicious accuracy, striking at weaknesses few of the vigilantes of Gotham realized they even had.

He isn't as big as Lincoln or even Cobb, not nearly as old. He hasn't been kept in cryostasis waiting for the next generation to need his skills. He doesn't have creaks in his joints from being put on deep freeze too many times.

This one is silent and efficient, obviously trained in multiple types of martial arts, is highly proficient with or without the standard Talon knives, is a master tactician, counters the majority of their moves with alarming consistency–

and the fucking Talon has wings.

Honest-to-God wings.

Everyone had assumed the metal monstrosities on his back were weapons of some kind, but the glint of steel in the streetlight flash a warning before the lumps moved in an arch, extending far out past his shoulder blades, slicing into Red Hood’s body suit with a razor-sharp edge, shredding the armor like paper.

It’s not enough he’s got weapons obviously made specifically for his skill set, it’s not enough he’s an assassin and doesn’t hold to the same standards of non-lethal combat, it’s not enough that he can use his wings to fly or to fight like he’s using another limb to kick the shit out of them, and it’s not enough that he effortlessly counters so many of their attacks that he has to have some kind of inside information on all of them and their fighting styles.

The knives are definitely a thing when the Talon can throw them hard enough to penetrate parts of their suits in between armored plating, which further drives the theory that this is a person they’ve dealt with before. Intimately. Few people in the world know how their suits are made. Even more, few people know particulars enough when their suits are constantly reconstructed.

The only thing on their side that tipped the scales in their favor–

–the Batman.

The wings threw him off his game, obviously, but not enough to stop B from holding his own with swift and merciless force.

It's like watching a dance of fast and furious fists, blades in Talon's hands glinting deadly in the night, finding B's suit over and over and over until he's made it to blood and bone. He takes every hit the Batman can dish out, head snapping back, left, and right with the volley of jaw-breaking blows and bone-shattering kicks.

None of it gives the Talon pause. When a move makes him drop a blade, another is already in hand, cutting into their body suits, wings flipping out to defend or distract, sweeping moves and well coordinated attacks.

The unnatural appendages are like another arm, another leg, an extension working on the same central nervous system, regardless as to how the Court managed to make it happen.

A jump kick off a trash can is a lucky shot as a wing catches B in the ribs hard enough to knock him into the wall of Mike's Famous Hotdogs. The only thing saving the Dark Knight from a concussion or permanent brain damage is the plating in his cowl.

It gives the Talon enough time to make a final bid for a battered Nightwing, Red Hood, and Robin struggling to their feet again, eyes for their fallen mentor.

Before he can lunge forward to start the attack yet again, the Talon just stops, pauses like he’s stuck or something, and in the span of a breath, both wings extend fully, flap powerfully once to propel him up into the Gotham night.

O tries her best to track his flight through the city, but no one’s arms are working well enough to toss a tracker on him.

She loses him over Cape Carmine, slams her palms against her system in frustration, makes sure she gets as much footage from the confrontation as possible.

After some sleep and a whole lot of bandages and ice packs, the Bat family meets in the Cave to watch the footage, breakdown the Talon’s fighting style, his weaponry, and make theories on his identity.

O helps out with readings she has of electronic pulses she managed to capture coming from the armor over his wings. She thinks she might be able to use it to track him if they can get close enough for her equipment to ping the signal again.

B makes a trip to Arkham since Freeze apparently hasn’t stopped producing the formula used to put Talons in cryostasis.

It’s not until Gotham’s power grid has a massive surge that O and the Bats can pinpoint a possible location, all of them invested in one hell of a fight to get the last rats still scurrying in the underground.

The plan of attack comes together smoothly once they’ve scoped out the location, seen the shady activity, and together, they make one hell of a plan.

And because, you know, Gotham, it is completely normal for the Court of Owl's headquarters to have a skylight.

Natch.

For this one, they've got Batgirl and Black Bat, Red Hood and Robin, Nightwing and B, a real family affair.

O's quiet voice over comms leading them through the maze of traps and empty rooms, abandoned libraries and spooky ball rooms. The laboratory isn't the most horrific they've all ever seen (because the Joker's summer place is literally the stuff of nightmares), but a few of them do gag on the smell alone.

The plan, however, goes horribly awry when the clear sounds of tormented screaming echoes from right under their reinforced bootheels.

Black Bat's fists clench hard, her breathing wheezes out when the tone, the utter agony goes right through her.

A shudder slides up Robin's spine as all of them turn toward the noise.

Without a flicker or a word, the Batman moves, strafing in the shadows toward the sound. He can't assume it's an innocent civilian with something the Court wants, but he's betting on the fact that scream will lead them to whoever is running the show.

The medieval room has bars and reinforced locks, implements hanging on the wall. The cement brick is stained rust colored with old blood, the vestiges of training, and the awful realization they've found another hidden niche in the city that always existed right under their noses is punctuated with the abrupt drop in temperature, with the sudden charge in the air, with the zzzzcrack snapping beyond the door, replaced with a muted buzzing Robin can feel in his back teeth.

B is already on his way to the roof, Batgirl down through the floor vent while Nightwing picks the locks with fast precision, knocking the tumblers around.

Robin and Red Hood stay close to the reinforced door, balancing on the balls of their feet, katana and .45s at the ready.

Black Bat takes the high road, ceiling tiles giving way under her Bat-a-rang. She gives a sharp nod before she's up and gone.

"All right. Ready?" Nightwing stands, cracks his neck, flips his escrimas in both hands, works his shoulders to prepare for the strain of each blow he plans to give.

"Ya betcha ass," Hood murmurs low, a cut figure with both guns at his sides, gloved fingers on the trigger guard.

"Don't disappoint," Robin snarls, "either of you."

"Nice pep talk, squirt," Nightwing snickers.

"Tt, back up your mouth with action."

"Better shuddap, Demon. Golden Boy ain't fuckin' 'round. Neither is the Bat. We get one more chance a' this asshole. We ain't gonna blow it again, ya feel me?"

"Finally, something we agree on, Hood."

"Other than N's shitty mullet?"

Nightwing swiftly glares at them both over his shoulder, unconsciously putting himself front and center of the trio, ready to be the first in once they get the signal.

– which is the sound of the glass raining down from the heavens.

Three booted feet kick the door hard enough to take it off the hinges, lying against the faded stains like a fallen body.

First step in the room is the complete opposite to what they'd all been expecting.

The two Owl masks aren't the usual, but a perversion of the originals, crudely drawn yawning mouths complete with fangs dripping blood.

But.

The boy on his knees, arms in a binder holding the appendages hostage at a painful angle, is dripping the real thing. Rivulets down his chest and where his back is partially visible. Some from the base of the wings going into the back of his shoulder blades where the skin is torn and raw.

The bar gag shoved in his mouth doesn't take away from the splatters on his chin, the bruising on his face, the swollen eye. But it's his wings that makes the Bats falter from the initial rushing attack.

His wings are without the armor, are bound straight up above his restrained body with hooks grotesquely puncturing through the downy softness, desecrating the beauty with blood and gore. The angle makes the pull to his back where the wings are part of him just another agony on top of atrocity.

"Fuck," from the first Owl mask, and a swift move frees the Talon's bound arms, the appendages flopping uselessly to the floor, only his trapped, tortured wings keeping him up on his knees.

The second Owl shoves the first back, "let him take care of them. Let's get out of here!"

The first Owl snarls out something low and foreign, the phrases rolling off his tongue.

The words lock into place, and the Talon's head snaps up, snarling around the gag in his mouth.

When his face is finally, finally visible, the protectors of Gotham are frozen in their tracks.

Familiar violet-blue eyes, too-long blue-black hair, cut jawline and pointed nose. Tiny scar on his right cheek from the time he caught Ra's al Ghul's ring across the face.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," is barely heard through the Red Hood's synths and in no way fully expresses his utter horror at what these dirty motherfuckers have done.

Robin wretches, bile burning the back of his throat once those eyes swing up to the masked parody of the Owls and his bare upper body is visible through the blood and sweat on his chest, when the scars peeking through on his collar bones form a half-visible Y-incision, when the coloring of the bared wings now makes sense (robin's wings, Damian Wayne thinks with his heart beating pitter patter fast, and his stomach in knots, they put robin's wings on him...).

And the hurt, agonized noise coming out of Nightwing's chest is the only noise he can make when those dimmed, dazed eyes swing from the Owls back to the vigilantes frozen in their spots, when there's no spark of joy or fondness or stubbornness he's so used to seeing staring him down.

The errant thought, the first instinct, is the only humane way to deal with this new Talon is to put him down for good wars with the man behind the mask that only wants to reach out, wants to pull the Talon into his body and curve over, to scream at the injustice of it all, to rail at himself for not even suspecting.

Another switch flipped and the hooks release his wings, blood splattering on top the old stains.

"Get them! Don't fuck it up this time or you won't get another chance," the second Owl shoves the Talon's injured shoulder in the direction of the horrified vigilantes.

They don't even bother to take the gag out of his mouth before setting him on his target.

A flap of wings, and the Talon is on his feet again, swaying only slightly. He's in the boots and pants from earlier, the rest of his uniform tossed carelessly behind him by his tormentors. A sweep of his feet and the knives glint in bare palms, a whisper of a sound.

The curved, clawed blade glints in the overhead light when the Talon raises it and cuts the strap of the bar gag in his bloody mouth, turns his head to spit it out without looking away from the vigilantes.

The Batman, grim and stoic in the face of this surprising turn of events, gives the barest nod. From her hiding spot behind the complex machinery, Black Bat takes off after the running Owl members, leaving the rest of the family to deal with their former third Robin.

The wings flinchingly flare out and their former bird hunches over, ready for the attack.

“Wait! Wait, wait, wait,” the Red Hood removes the helmet, leaves the domino underneath. He keeps one hand out in peace, slowly dipping down to put his helmet on the ground. “Is us, Tim. Timmy. Baby Bird. Is us. Yer family. Gotta lookit us, yeah?”

For the first time, the Talon speaks, “who’s Tim?”

And then he lunges.

The fight happens very differently this time.

The former power behind the punches is obviously dulled with the Talon’s identity reveal. He doesn’t hold back, is utterly ruthless with his attacks. He takes out B’s right knee, puts Hood down on the stained floor, knocks Robin into the wall with crushing force, and slams Batgirl’s head off the operating table.

He stands over Nightwing, wicked blade in hand and robin’s wings spread wide. He takes a knee, the sharp edge right above N’s adam’s apple, staring down impassively into the whiteouts.

“Timmy,” N spits blood, grunting when one knee pins his arm down. “Timmy, please. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I love you and I’m sorry they did this to you.”

Those eyes don’t change in the slightest. “You should not have tried to oppose the Owls.”

“We beat them once,” Nightwing gasps, “and you helped us, Baby Bird. You were with us then, don’t you remember.”

“I was nothing before the Court perfected me,” the Talon replies emotionlessly.

“You were perfect before they ever touched you.”

“No,” and the Talon leans down, puts them a breath away. “The only thing you and those others do is put the criminals back in prison, back in Arkham for them to escape again, for them to kill and destroy over and over again. Like this, I can stop them permanently.”

“Oh Timmy,” and behind the whiteouts, Nightwing’s eyes spill over, his vision wavery. “Timmy–”

“Don’t call me that. Stop calling me that.”

“You know me, you know us. You have to remember–”

“Lies. All of it lies!”

Nightwing’s chest stutters, his fist clenching, “it’s not. None of it is. Not even this–”

And he’s fast enough to grab the back of the Talon’s neck, to lean up enough against the blade pressed against his throat, can bring their mouths together, can kiss him like he’s dying and the Talon is the only thing that can save him.

It’s sloppy and awkward because the Talon doesn’t know what’s happening, gasps against the vigilante’s mouth. The tongue sliding over his, the muffled moan in his mouth sparks something in the back of his brain where the Court of Owls could never touch.

When Nightwing pulls back, stares up at wide violet-blue eyes, when the blade falls away to clatter against the block, when the Talon’s mouth trembles and tears fill his eyes, when his wings flutter and falter, fold in on them both, when his voice goes hoarse with, “D-Dick?” Nightwing throws both arms around his waist and holds on.

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yellowocaballero · 4 years ago

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Hey wouldn’t it be funny if I wrote a crossover between canon and the roleswap AU.

So I did <3. There’s no reason for this to exist, I was just bored and self-indulgent and amused myself by thinking about how fucking insane the Space Cadet team has to be in comparison to canon. This takes place at S4 Canon!Jon’s time, and basically between chapters 2 and 3 of solitaire. It is not canon. Do not think too hard about it. Enjoy. Story under the cut.

“Yes, in almost every way.” Jon wiped his mouth with a napkin, balling it up and dropping it on the table. “Jonathan Sims, thirty one years old, Aquarius. Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. The Archivist.” He paused a beat, uncertain of how to broach this. “I think Helen may have deposited me in an alternate dimension? Best case scenario.”

Everybody stared at him blankly.

“Well,” Basira said finally, “sounds like the kind of bullshit you get yourself wrapped up in, Jon.”

“I knew it!” Sasha cried, before deflating. “I mean, I didn’t, really, not at all, but that’s fascinating! Will you answer some questions? Who’s the Queen in your universe?”

“I’m back from the dead for a week and my life’s already stupid again,” Tim said blankly.

“Two Jons?” Martin asked, far too excitedly.

“Can I leave you alone,” Melanie gritted out, between clenched teeth, “for five minutes?”

Jon woke up at his desk, which was so common that it was somewhat pathetic.

Not that a lot of things weren’t pathetic about Jon, but seeing as he no longer technically had anywhere to live he’d give himself a pass. Or was it pathetic to be homeless too? Jon felt strongly as if it was, but he was working on the judgemental thing. Martin had always -

Martin. Jon blinked blearily at his empty desk, scrubbing a little at the sleep that had accumulated in the corner of his eyes. Right. Speaking of pathetic. Jon didn’t like admitting that Martin was the first thing he thought about when he woke up and the last thing he thought about before he went to bed, but he was working on being more honest with himself. Denial about the situation didn’t do anyone any favors. Denial was what made him start stalking and hunting people like - like some sort of awful predator. No more denial. Jon knew who he was, and he knew what he was, and he was going to try and be as good a person as he can be despite it. It was the least he could do.

Wait. Why was his desk empty?

It wasn’t completely empty. There was a laptop on the center of it, and some assorted papers stuck haphazardly underneath. The usual recorder was tucked into the corner, clicked off. He swiped his hand over the trackpad of his laptop, quickly logging in, and instead of seeing his usual research or theory maps, he saw...a video game?

Jon squinted at the video game. What was The Sims?

He looked around his office, well-lit with the harsh fluorescent lights. It was his office, complete with the couch on the far wall that Daisy had taken to napping on and the two walls of metal shelving that held filling boxes and collections of tapes. Several filing cabinets were lined up behind Jon, holding his favorite statements. Organized by Entity. He was quite proud of it.

But the Statements seemed to be gone. Some loose papers were always scattered around, slipping out of boxes or sitting in haphazard piles weighed down by tape recorders. None of them were there. Basira must have taken them. Jon stood up, moving around the desk to pull out a box and peer inside. Empty.

Some part of Jon’s brain, growing louder every day, wailed and gnashed its teeth that someone had stolen his Statements, his knowledge. Most of Jon was just worried over what Basira could possibly be doing with them.

Unconsciously, Jon’s hand drifted down to his stomach. It was purely a habit, of course - the hunger never gave him stomach pains. He was so hungry all the time, he could barely feel it anymore.

The Statements were all gone.

Was Basira trying to starve him out…?

Jon shook himself. She wouldn’t - well, she wouldn’t go behind his back to do it. She knew that he’d just start preying on people -

His life had gotten so pathetic.

A loud crash and a yell echoed from the other side of the door, and Jon recognized Melanie’s voice. He winced, and decided to stay in his office for the time being. Best to stay out of her way. She always reacted somewhat explosively to him -

Then the faint, muffled tones of Martin’s voice echoed through the door, and Jon forgot all hesitation as he burst out of his office.

The bullpen was just slightly different from where Jon had seen it last - the desks arranged differently, different detritus scattered around, no sleeping bags or hair dryers - but he wasn’t paying attention to any of that. He was only paying attention to Martin, who was sitting at his desk as easy as you please. He was smiling.

Jon hadn’t seen Martin smile in so long.

He also hadn’t seen Martin wear those adorable little sweatervests in so long, but that wasn’t important right now. Jon cried out softly, like he had been punched - he did feel as if he had been punched, it wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation - and Martin turned slightly in his chair to look at him. He smiled when he saw Jon, so kind and happy and Martin, and Jon felt like he was dying at the sight of Martin just smiling, just looking at him.

“Look, you don’t need to worry about me,” Martin was saying, to an unamused and remarkably composed Melanie. He held up a large combat knife, the metal glinting off the fluorescent lights. “Jon likes it.”

“See, it’s not you I’m worried about,” Melanie said, arms crossed. She was dressed - in her jeans and green flannel, like she used to. Her hair looked clean. The crop top, cut-off shorts, and fishnets, that Jon hadn’t seen her take off in the last month, where - “It’s poor Jon. He’s too desperate for affection to stand up for himself.”

“Jon, you okay?” Tim asked, sitting behind Martin and sipping a margarita. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

That was when Jon - hungry, tired, hallucinating - felt his legs give out. It was just in time, too. He collapsed to the ground just as Martin threw the knife, sending it whistling where his head had been half a second ago.

Then he hit his head on the floor, and blissfully fainted.

****

“ - she’s not his mother, it’s not Georgie’s job to make sure he eats.”

“It’s because Daisy isn’t here.” That was Basira’s voice, almost mournful. “Daisy always used to remind him to eat.”

“How did this guy make it to thirty again?” An unfamiliar voice asked.

“If it wasn’t for this ragtag bunch of lesbians, I would have killed him months ago,” Tim said, then paused a beat. “What? I’m owning up to my mistakes.”

“Remind me to give you a sticker later,” Melanie said dryly.

Jon opened his eyes, to see five faces crowded in front of him. They were all bending over him, identical expressions of mild intrigue on their faces as they bickered with each other. Martin looked very, very mildly concerned, as Melanie and Basira just looked exasperated. Tim - and the woman - who was the woman?

Instinctually, Jon reached out with his mind and sought the answer. But it was as if he was reaching with a limb that had been cut off. No, a limb that had never existed. Dazed, Jon lifted his real hand, if only to make sure that he could still move - and found himself staring at an unmarred, smooth, healthy hand.

“Martin didn’t cut it off,” the woman said helpfully. She had a thick mane of curly brown hair, and brown skin a similar shade to his. She was holding a granola bar, and she easily stuffed it in his outstretched hand. “If that was a concern or anything. When’s the last time you ate, Jon?”

The question spent a spike of anxiety through him, Jon instantly interpreting it as an accusation. The granola bar wasn’t going to do anything. Of course he was hungry, he’s always hungry -

Jon wasn’t hungry.

Jon sat up, letting the assorted people, both alive and dead, step away. He mechanically unwrapped the granola bar and stuffed it in his mouth, chewing lethargically. It didn’t taste like sawdust and cement. It tasted like salt, and nuts.

He swallowed the granola bar, forming a hypothesis. He looked at Basira, who at least was the most familiar here. It galled him even having to ask, not just knowing, but - “What year is it?”

She stared at him, unimpressed. “If you hit your head we’re taking you to C&E. We can’t afford for you to get any stupider, Jon.”

“Your concern is noted,” Jon said, strained.

“Don’t make fun of him, he’s a concussion victim,” Melanie scolded. She smiled at Jon - hideously novel. “It’s 2018. I’m calling Georgie and getting you home, you’re useless to us with a brain injury.”

He no longer had a hypothesis. Jon shook his head mutely. The last person Jon wanted to field questions from was Georgie. “I’m fine,” Jon said hoarsely. “I think I just need to - lie down a bit.” And not look at Tim. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and was still slurping his margarita obnoxiously. He was leaning against a desk, somewhat heavily. “I’ll be fine.”

Everybody looked at each other, then shrugged. Melanie reached down and helped him up, gently pushing him towards the couch set up in the corner of the bullpen, and he found himself stumbling towards it and lying down. Martin loudly offered to nurse him back to health, which incentivized Basira and Melanie to quickly push him inside the recording room and lock the door for...some reason. Jon wanted to go talk to Martin, figure everything out with him. But he didn’t - paralyzed, or maybe just frightened, or maybe just very tired.

The knife he had thrown was still lying on the floor, somehow innocently. The woman picked it up, inspecting it closely, and sighed.

“There is something off about that guy.”

“None of them are ever going to believe you, Sash,” Tim said dully, flipping through a brightly colored magazine on his desk. Jon’s breath caught in his throat. “Melanie thinks it’s freakier if you haven’t stabbed anyone.”

This was it. This was when Tim would say, ‘Everybody wants to stab Jon’, or something. It’d be fair. If this was a dream, a fantasy of dead friends, then that’s what he would say. But he didn’t. Tim - strangely small, strangely gaunt, with hollow cheeks that reminded Jon a little of Daisy - didn’t look up at Sasha, flipping through his magazine, and Sasha avoided eye contact with him. She looked at Jon instead, from where he was lying on the couch, and gave him a strained smile.

Jon found the courage to speak to her. It should have felt familiar, like Sasha, but nothing about her was familiar. He had listened to her tapes a dozen times, any scrap of her voice he could find, but - well, everybody sounded different on the tapes. “Sasha. Can you get me my phone? And a...Statement?”

Sasha brightened enthusiastically. “You want a Statement? Say no more, Jon, I’ll hook you up. Nice to see somebody taking an interest. Let’s keep this between you and me, okay?”

“What…?”

But she had already disappeared into his office, and the faint sounds of banging echoed throughout the room. Melanie and Basira were standing in the kitchenette, chatting lowly, Basira occasionally laughing at something Melanie said.

Jon wondered where Daisy was, and instinctively tried to reach again before hitting that wall. He gritted his teeth, head still swimming.

The most important thing was figuring out if this place was dangerous or not. Wherever he was, whatever was going on, he had to discern if it was a danger. Could this have anything to do with an unknown ritual? No, how could it? Elias? He wouldn’t put any of this past Elias.

With a twist in his gut Jon remembered the cannibal priest’s Statement. Any suspicion of unreality, any feeling as if things were not as they should be...or was this a pleasant, Lotus Eater’s dream instead? If that was true, would Martin be throwing knives at him?

“Here you go! First one I saw on your desk.”

Jon sat up, mutely taking the paper and phone Sasha held out to him. It wasn’t his mobile - it was much nicer and sleeker than his own battered thing - but he had to assume it was Jon’s. He took the Statement too, scanning it quickly.

Of course, of course. It was Anya Villete’s. Jon thought about this one frequently, captured by the prospect of multiple realities. Not worth the danger of exploring, but there was an intoxicating element of danger. Maybe the Jon that these people thought they were talking to had been reading it, and accidentally triggered something -

“What did I say!”

Before Jon could react, the paper was unceremoniously ripped from his hands. Jon cried out helplessly, only to see Melanie standing in front of him with an unamused expression and his lifeline in her uncaring fists.

“We’ve been over this,” Melanie scolded - scolded? “No statements, they’re bad for your tummy.” She frowned at Sasha, who didn’t seem very guilty. “And I told you to stop enabling him. He’s already sick, and you know these things upset him.”

“I’m gathering data,” Sasha said cheerfully. “Something weird was happening in his eyes when he was reading that Statement. Give it back, I need to record it.”

“Can I have that back, please?” Jon asked planatively. “I need it.”

“You do not.” Melanie folded up the statement tightly, shoving it in her jeans and ignoring Jon’s cry of despair. “If you’re feeling under-stimulated, go play knife monopoly with Martin. Otherwise relax and make sure you aren’t going to faint again.”

“I’m not going to -”

“I will call Georgie,” Melanie threatened, and Jon clicked his mouth shut. Melanie nodded, satisfied in having won the argument. If it was even an argument. “Sasha, if you let Jon find another Statement I will be locking the library and giving the key to Martin.”

“Yes, boss,” Sasha said, depressed.

“Tim, you’re with me, we need to design our plan of attack for chasing down Daisy,” Melanie barked, and Tim straightened in his seat. Jon saw for the first time that there was a folded up cane on his desk. “I need your dumb fear demon powers.”

“That’s not how they -” Tim started, but at Melanie’s look he quailed. “Yeah, boss.”

“Great.” Melanie folded her arms, frowning down at Jon, and at the receiving end of the look Jon found himself quailing too. “If you leave the Archives to do anything other than go to the bathroom the rest of the day, I will tell Georgie that you were exerting yourself while sick again. And she will call you a poor little dear and give you lots of hugs and lots of soup. You will hate it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, boss,” Jon said, depressed.

“Good. I need to go psychologically torment more people, I’ll be in the library. Tim!” She snapped her fingers, and strode off to the library as Tim scrambled up and limped after her.

Jon watched her go dazedly as the library door clicked shut behind her. Sasha sighed and went back to her desk, cracking open the thick books on the top and relaxing. They weren’t even research books, just nonfiction about the Mayflower. Basira was back at her desk too, this time with her chin resting on her arms folded on the desk as she watched a...movie. Was that a romcom?

This was dangerous. The situation was dangerous, doubtless the plot of some force or another that hated Jon personally and wanted him to suffer. He had to do some research, find out what was going on, track down Elias and find his power and dig into that source of infinite knowledge lying dormant in his mind, uproot every terrifying thing that hated him and shake them down for answers.

But he was more scared of Melanie. Just because she didn’t seem to have any knives on her didn’t mean that it was the case. Unless Martin had them all. So Jon lay back on the couch, rotely pressed in the passcode to his phone, and idly opened up the internet browser in complete comfort and relaxation.

The couch was so comfortable and soft, in fact, that Jon soon fell asleep. Easy and smooth, as if he really was still a human, who needed sleep at all.

And when Jon dreamed, he dreamed of blissful and restful nothing.

******

He woke up to someone shaking his shoulder, and Jon screamed himself awake as his eyes flew open.

But it wasn’t anybody dangerous, or anything willing to hurt him. It was just - Basira. Just Basira. Jon exhaled in relief, ignoring Basira’s incredulous expression.

“It’s five, we’re heading out. You feeling well enough for pub night, mate?”

They were going home. The strangeness registered first, the fact that Sasha was shrugging on a jacket and Melanie was stuffing a laptop in a backpack, before Jon remembered where he was. Or where he wasn’t. He mustered a faint smile for Basira, but judging from her frown it came out closer to a grimace.

Pub night. They were going out for drinks, then going to their own flats. Eating dinner. Sleeping. Waking up the next morning, then heading off to work. The mundanity boggled.

Maybe it was a Lotus Eater, Jon thought, dazed. A world where there were no Entities, no fears or harm. Where everybody was human, and happy.

Maybe. He hadn’t actually been allowed to look at any of the Statements, so he didn’t actually know. He couldn’t imagine that this group would be so casual if the Statements really were true.

Part of him wanted to beg off, curl up and sleep in document storage so he wouldn’t have to interact with these people for any longer. He was out of practice: these days he rarely had long conversations with anybody who wasn’t Daisy, and he hadn’t seen Daisy all day. Basira exchanged a few curt sentences with him each day. Melanie...cried and screamed, a lot. Not exactly conducive to social skills.

Sasha’s face was buried in a book, not even looking up as she navigated the desks. Tim was talking a patient Melanie’s ear off about Nietzche.

“I think I can make it,” Jon found himself saying. “Just a pint.”

Besides, he had the feeling that if he curled up in document storage Georgie would...be mad at him. Or something. They were flatmates? Or something?

They walked out the door in a herd, talking and laughing. Jon found himself hanging in the back of the group, next to Sasha. She wasn’t looking up from her book, so Jon felt safe in staring unabashedly at Tim. He was using a cane, just like Daisy had for two or so weeks right out of the coffin. He even used it in the same way: not favoring one leg or the other, using it for strength instead of balance. Muscle weakness. He was just as emancipated as Daisy had been too, in that particular corpse-like way that made him look like a zombie. His hair was long and lanky, brittle strands reaching to his chin instead of his normal lush and gelled look.

The faces in the lobby were the same - Sabrina behind the desk, Roy playing security guard - even as the decorations were different. No portrait of Jonah Magnus, or of the other directors. They broke out into the London street, as smoggy and crowded as ever, and Jon found himself trailing behind the others in a direct route to their usual pub. The same one he, Basira, Melanie, and Daisy go drinking at sometimes. Only sometimes. They went without him more often, but Jon didn’t blame them, really -

“Something on my face, mate?”

Tim’s wry voice startled Jon out of his reverie, and he flushed. Tim smiled at him, thinly and without humor, and gestured him forward as he dropped behind Melanie. Jon stepped forward, tucking his hands into his jacket, fighting the rising swell in his throat.

“You’ve been staring. I’m not that much uglier, am I?” Tim asked lightly, a parody of his old good humor. That, at least, was familiar - Tim’s fragile and brittle humor, tightly leashing rage.

“You...you look good,” Jon said. He buried his hands deeper in his jacket pockets, fighting the lump in his throat. He couldn’t stop himself from adding, “It’s good to see you again.”

It was probably a strange thing for Jon to say - but Tim just smiled, even more bitter than the last. “You’ve always been too nice for your own good, Sims.” First time that’s been said about him. “You forgive too easy.”

“Grudges...aren’t worth it, in my experience.” Jon exhaled slowly, watching Melanie’s red hair glint in the sunlight in front of him. “Life’s too short and all.”

“Really? Thought you people loved grudges.” Tim blinked a second, before clearly remembering something. “We love grudges, right. Still, Jon, I never really…” He trailed off awkwardly. “You know.”

He did not. “Right,” Jon said.

“Apologized,” Tim said hurriedly, when it became clear that Jon wasn’t about to say anything committal. “For trying to kill you all those times. Uh, and trying to get you arrested. And helping frame you for murder. And that whole kidnapping incident -”

Something began to occur to Jon. A rational thought seeped into his brain.

“In the woods,” Jon said slowly. “Because you thought I was a monster.”

Tim winced, confirming Jon’s suspicion. “Right. Trust me, I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I know I was wrong. I’ve turned over a new leaf and everything.” He brightened. “Did you hear I’m bisexual now?”

“Everybody heard you were bisexual now,” Basira said, bored. “Ten times.”

“Good for you,” Jon said, as sincerely as he could. “That’s...great. Bi rights.”

Tim beamed. “Bi rights!” He clapped Jon’s shoulder supportively with his other hand as Melanie held open the door to the pub for them, ducking inside. “Man, I never thought I’d see the inside of a pub again. I only got to go a few times with you guys before everything. Can Martin still hustle the room at pool?”

“One way to find out,” Martin said serenely.

“Please don’t start a pub brawl,” Melanie said, pained. “We’ve been kicked out of three places already, I don’t fancy making it a fourth.”

But when Jon looked backwards, he saw Sasha looking up from her book, staring directly at him, blinking owlishly.

They crowded into a corner booth, squishing up against each other and all talking at once. Jon wanted to drift towards Martin, get him alone and ask what was going on, but after one look at him eyeing up the pool cues speculatively he changed his mind. Only Basira was acting even remotely normal, so he settled for sliding in between her and Sasha. He was dizzy with the noise and the clamor of the familiar pub, overwhelmed by the familiar-unfamiliar tide of voices, and it was taking all of his energy not to spend hours just staring at Sasha, memorizing every line and crease of her face.

The first thing he did was order every single crummy, greasy, soggy serving of pub food he found on the menu, ignoring the way his Assistants laughed at him, before settling in the corner of the booth and pulling out his phone. Jon wasn’t even hungry - he wasn’t hungry - but he was shoving every soggy chip into his mouth until he puked. A human body was a drastically underrated thing.

Out of curiosity, Jon turned on the front camera of his phone and scrutinized his reflection. He had noticed that his hair was shorter, tied back in a puffed bun instead of his customary ragged ponytail, but beyond that he hadn’t checked.

He looked...good. No longer gaunt and malnourished, he was a healthy weight. No bags under his eyes. Well kept fade and modest, well trimmed facial hair. No scar over his throat, no circular worm scars. That was less of a surprise - Tim, Martin, and Sasha were all missing the worm scars.

His eyes were brown. Just brown. No electrifying green, no spinning iris, no churning wheel of knowledge. Just his normal, boring brown.

He hadn’t known how much he missed it.

As the others started arguing passionately about...vlogs? Or something?...Jon pulled out his wallet. Money had the same old Queen on it, along with his old collection of take-out receipts that had all started disappearing when he stopped eating. A photocopy of a picture of his parents, heavily worn and creased. Still an orphan, then. Jon missed the days when that was his biggest problem.

His driver’s license was the same as ever too. Same name - Jonathan Andrew Sims. Same birthday - February 14th, which he had always considered life’s practical joke on him. The United Kingdom still existed, which was either a good or a bad thing.

He replaced his wallet, ignoring Sasha’s curious stare, and pulled out his phone. He had only gone so far as making sure that major world events were the same before passing out. This time, he pressed his text messages, and scrolled down his most recents. As usual, it was only a few people - almost all of which were at this table - but there were a few other people too.

Georgie was the obvious one, and the most recent. He clicked on that conversation, unsurprised to see an immediate photograph of the Admiral looking angelic as he rolled around in some grass in a patch of sun.

Georgie: Baby at the park soaking in some rays!!! <3 <3 <3. I caught him terrorizing a stray dog. Naughty baby!!

Jon blinked at the message. The Admiral did seem a little...more evil, than he once did. Why were his eyes green? Underneath was Jon’s own text, sent twenty minutes before he had woken up that afternoon.

Jon: He’s committing atrocities and you’re laughing. You’re laughing.

Jon couldn’t fight a smile. He missed Georgie.

He switched over to the text conversation just underneath. He squinted at the contact name. That couldn’t be right.

Gerry: can u pick up milk from aldis? and scented candles

Gerry: for necromancy reasons

Jon: Can you raise the dead tomorrow? Helen said she wants to talk to me so I may be home late. If you don’t hear from me in five hours she’s likely kidnapped me. As a heads up.

Gerry: OH, SO LONG AS I HAVE THE HEADS UP?

Gerry: I’m making Georgie give Melanie the money to buy that toddler leash she’s always threatening to get for u. If u die im not resurrecting u.

Jon: Have fun with one less person to share the rent

Gerry: we dont PAY RENT

Gerard Keay. Jon blinked at the phone. That conversation raised as many questions as it answered. Gerard Keay was alive? He was Jon’s flatmate? He practiced necromancy? None of it seemed very relevant right now, but it made Jon wonder who else was resurrected from the dead. Was necromancy common in this universe, like knitting?

Still, Helen explained quite a bit. It also suggested what Jon was already wondering: that the supernatural was far from foreign. If Helen was supernatural, and not just...a jerk.

If Tim was an Avatar of the Hunt...if he had been in the coffin...and Daisy’s been hard to track down…

Jon was interrupted in his increasingly coherent train of thought by his food arriving, and all thoughts were thrown out the window. His basket of fish and chips slid in front of him, and he wasted absolutely no time in cramming the fries into his mouth three at a time, not wasting time salting or putting vinegar on them. They were dripping with crease, soggy and burning his tongue.

They were perfect.

The waiter, looking somewhat intimidated, slid his bacon butty on the table too, and Jon took barely a moment to swallow before stuffing that in his face too. Bacon, butter, brown sauce - it exploded on his tongue, a cavalcade of salt and seasoning. Increasingly terrified, the waiter put his pie and mash on the table and quickly fled, as Jon finished cramming the sandwich into his mouth before moving back to the fish. It was hot, crackling on his tongue, strong and fishy and perfect.

Jon looked up from his food long enough to grab a glass of water and gulp half of it down. It wasn’t until he put his glass down that he saw the looks on the faces of his Assistants. All of whom ranged from frightened to terrified.

Everybody except Martin, whose chin was propped on his hand and was sighing dreamily. “It’s really hot how you can pack it all away, Jon. Do you want to come over to my flat and let me cook for you? I’d make a lot of food. ”

Jon choked on his fish.

That was it for Sasha. She slammed her book down, expression intent, and jabbed a finger at a now wheezing Jon. “Jon would never choke at Martin’s creepy flirting! That isn’t Jonathan Sims!”

Jon stole Tim’s glass of water, ignoring his squawk, and downed that too.

Now everybody really was staring at him, and Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks. As the kids say, busted. He should probably stop eating and make his escape while he still could, before Tim decided to change his mind on his ‘murdering Jon’ stance.

But outside did not have pub food. Inside had pub food. Jon made his decision with the knowledge that, if his Assistants reacted from a reasonable place of Imposter-based trauma and killed him for pretending to be Jonathan Sims, he’d deserve it. He was not moving from this spot until his food was gone or his Assistants killed him.

Jon finished off Tim’s water, dropping it back on the lacquered table, and hoarsely said, “I’ve been having a very strange day.”

Nobody leaped for his throat or pointed a gun at him, which was always nice. It was more than Jon had been expecting. Instead, everybody looked at Melanie, who narrowed her eyes. Jon realized, a second too late, that they were waiting for her. Whatever happened to him, Melanie would decide.

...why Melanie?

Melanie rested her elbows on the table, steepling her fingers in front of her mouth. She locked eyes with Jon, breaking him down like a judge at a dog show, and Jon tried to shovel mash in his mouth as innocently as possible.

“Sasha. What’s your evidence?”

“He’s been acting weird all day,” Sasha said promptly, as if she’d been expecting the question. She shifted her arm purposefully, and Jon realized with a start that she was concealed carrying. Was that legal? “Jon never asks me for Statements outright, he always just sneaks them behind Melanie’s back. If he really fainted because he was hungry, he would have eaten his lunch too, instead of just my granola bar. And he hasn’t talked to Martin since he fainted - he isn’t even sitting next to him.” Sasha drew herself up triumphantly. “And, he looked actually scared when Martin threw that knife at him. He’s never scared of Martin. He normally just role-plays the fear bit.”

“Which I appreciate,” Martin said supportively, making Jon blanch. That elicited more suspicious looks from everyone, which Jon couldn’t even begin to parse. “But he has been acting strange today, hasn’t he?”

“Tim?” Melanie asked sharply.

Tim sniffed loudly, wrinkling his nose a little. “Smells like him.” At Melanie’s intense look, he grudgingly added, “No sawdust or plastic. Flesh and blood, boss.”

Jon began stuffing forkfuls of pastry and meat crumb from the pie in his mouth as Melanie went back to squinting at Jon. Not glaring - just an intense, sidelong look, fingers steepled in front of her. “You aren’t denying it, Jon.”

Jon mumbled something.

“Swallow your food.”

Jon carefully swallowed his mouthful of dough. “I have not eaten human food,” Jon said delicately, “in five months. I will answer your questions momentarily.”

And then Jon cleaned all three of his plates, to the dumbfounded looks of his Assistants.

Finally, after everybody else’s drinks had arrived - including Jon’s pint, which he reached for so quickly that Martin stole it away from him and refused to give it back - and Jon had cleaned all three of his plates, he felt ready to talk. He thumped on his chest, burping a little, and leaned back in his plush seat. Melanie was nursing her pint, sipping from it slowly, as Basira gave him her usual ‘I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you’ look.

“Okay,” Jon said finally. “I apologize for not - ah, clarifying before. I thought I was dreaming. To be honest, I worry that I’m still dreaming.” He looked down at his empty basket and plates. “I dearly hope that wasn’t human flesh or something horrid like that.”

Sasha perked up. “Like in the cannibal priest statement? That’s fascinating -”

“Shut up about cannibal priests,” Melanie groaned, and Sasha guiltily shut up. Oddly rude, but nobody seemed surprised. “You are Jon, right?”

Everybody stared at him blankly.

“Well,” Basira said finally, “sounds like the kind of bullshit you get yourself wrapped up in, Jon.”

“I knew it!” Sasha cried, before deflating. “I mean, I didn’t, really, not at all, but that’s fascinating! Will you answer some questions? Who’s the Queen in your universe?”

“I’m back from the dead for a week and my life’s already stupid again,” Tim said blankly.

“Two Jons?” Martin asked, far too excitedly.

“Can I leave you alone,” Melanie gritted out, between clenched teeth, “for five minutes?”

Then everybody was talking over each other, arguing and exclaiming and yelling, and Jon frantically drank his pint. They were so loud.

Finally, Melanie chopped a hand through the buzz, and everyone quieted. She pursed her lips, looking Jon up and down, and he anxiously let himself get looked at. “How did you know it was an alternate universe? What’s the difference?”

“Martin threw a knife at me and Tim and Sasha are alive,” Jon said instantly.

“I’m not actually dead in your universe,” Tim said quickly, “just trapped in an infernal demon hell coffin. If you can get me out, I’d be really thankful -”

“No, you’re quite dead,” Jon said apologetically. “That happened to Daisy in my universe, though. A - a lot of what you did here, I think, Daisy did.” He looked at Basira, frowning. “Where is Daisy? She’s not…”

“She’s fine,” Basira said curtly, folding her arms and leaning back. “Having lots of fun ditching us and having fun at her little secretary desk. It’s fine. I don’t care. She can do what she wants, she’s an adult.”

“Basira’s been pining tragically ever since Daisy ran off to go work for Peter Lukas,” Melanie said sympathetically.

Jon felt a little called out. “Ah. That’s - that’s very unfortunate.” He slowly turned to Martin, who still seemed caught up in the ‘two Jons’ aspect of this. “And you’re...you would define yourself as full of rage?”

“At all times, all the time, without cessation,” Martin agreed affably. “Why? That’s not weird to you, is it?”

“Uh huh.” Jon slowly turned to Sasha. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to insult you, but...did you happen to once work as a Constable for the Met?”

Everybody winced. Sasha sighed. “I regret all of my actions and I’m very sorry that I was once a pig and I’ll never do it again because I value due process now.”

“Word, sister,” Tim said, raising his pint.

“Hm,” Jon said, far too much coming together. But that left a big question, one thing that didn’t make sense. “What about me? Do I - eat trauma?”

Basira stared at him blankly. “You try, sometimes, but we usually just spray water at you until you stop.”

“That explains it,” said Jon, despite the fact that it didn’t explain anything.

“Your questions are pointless, and this is a waste of time.” Melanie clapped her hands sharply, making everyone straighten to attention. She stood up from her seat, everybody scrambling to protect their glasses as Melanie clambered on top of the table. “Helen! Get out here!”

“She’s not - she’s not Beetlejuice, you can’t just call her name and make her appear,” Jon said blankly. “How’s she even supposed to hear -”

“She can hear me just fine,” Melanie called, “because she’s been sitting at the bar this whole time.”

Everybody’s heads craned around to look at the bar. Through the stream of people, carrying drinks and laughing, Jon could faintly make out a tall, willowy figure with a large afro sitting on a barstool at the bar, tapping the rim of one elegant martini with a long, manicured fingernail.

Then she swiveled around, and Helen grinned broadly at all of them. She waved cheekily with one hand, fingers waving and rippling strangely in the dim pub lights. “Hello! You rang?”

Melanie jabbed a finger at the table pointedly. “Michael’s too young to be here too, Helen!”

“They’re eighteen, they’re a big non-Euclidean concept!” Helen tittered, as she hopped of the stool. Jon’s draw dropped as a much smaller, slight figure next to her hopped off too. They were a teenager, with a curly mop of blonde hair and big, watery blue eyes that seemed just a little strange. Everything about them was on the edge of familiar, and not in the usual way of the Spiral.

“She was waiting for us to figure it out,” Basira murmured, catching Jon’s attention. “It’s definitely funny to her.”

“Helen defined schadenfreude, I’m afraid,” Jon said, depressed, as Helen and her tagalong popped up at the edge of their table. Melanie had said Michael - and the kid did look like Michael, younger and alive and wide-eyed. Their watery eyes caught on Jon, and they tilted their head curiously. The sight of them hurt Jon’s head more than the Spiral usually did - a testament to the human body he was borrowing.

Human. That was no defense. He was vulnerable, and judging from the angle of Helen’s smile she knew it.

“Enjoying your vacation, Archivist?” Helen tittered, folding her hands girlishly as Melanie hopped off the table and back in her seat. “I’ve been having so much fun in this universe I thought I ought to bring a friend! Buy one plane ticket get one free, you know. I have this coupon for a great spa around here -”

“Helen,” Melanie intoned dangerously.

Helen tittered a nervous laugh. Was she...scared of Melanie? “Don’t worry! Your darling little Jon’s perfectly safe. He’s having a great time in one of my favorite dimensions, this wonderful post-apocalyptic adventure with a werewolf -

“Helen,” Melanie said slowly, danger building with every word, “we talked about what happens when you remove Jons from their native ecosystems.”

“They get sick,” Michael said somberly, nodding their head. “An’ wilt.”

“It is very stressful for the Jon, Helen. You know what we don’t like?”

“A stressed Jon?” Michael volunteered.

“Yes, Michael.” Melanie smiled pleasantly at Helen, who blanched. “A stressed Jon. Because when Jon gets stressed, my girlfriend gets stressed. And when my girlfriend gets stressed, I get stressed. And when I get stressed, everybody is about to have a very bad time. Get it? Helen?”

“Completely understood, very sympathetic, I see your point completely,” Helen said hurriedly. “Really, you can say that I did my dear Archivist a favor! He hasn’t had a human body in almost half a year, the poor dear was so sad about it. It’s a break, really!”

Tim squinted at Jon. “You’re really full on fear demon, then?”

Jon squirmed guiltily, ashamed. “I prefer the term Avatar. But...yes, I’m an amoral monster distant from humanity, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Melanie said impatiently. “You’re about as far from humanity as I am. Having stupid superpowers or cramming shitty food into your mouth doesn’t make you inhuman, it just means you hang out with the wrong crowd. Go back to your own universe and get some rest, I bet you’re stressing out all your friends.”

“I’m really not,” Jon said weakly. “I - I really only have one friend.”

“No wonder you look so tragic all the time,” Sasha said thoughtfully. “Jon gets all mopey without affection. Like an unwatered plant.”

“I eat trauma,” Jon said, bewildered at the perception of harmlessness.

“You and half of the YouTube vlogging community.” Melanie clapped her hands again sharply, pulling everyone to attention. “Helen. Put Jon back where he came from or so help me.”

“Ruining all my fun,” Helen pouted, but at Melanie’s glare she sighed. She held up one hand, and static rippled through the air. The hand elongated, twisted, and turned into Helen’s signature lengthy claw. Michael eyed it with interest, before holding up their own hand and doing the same. “Fun while it lasted, Archivist! Now hold still. I wouldn’t want to lobotomize the wrong lobe.”

“Nice meeting you,” Sasha said politely, to a very freaked out Jon. “Don’t come back, though.”

“Come back if you want,” Basira yawned. “My life’s boring, spice it up a little.”

“Sorry I’m dead in your universe or whatever,” Tim said, waving a hand. “Life and death is meaningless anyway, so I’m sure it’s for the best.”

“I want my Jon back,” Martin complained. “Go on and get out, then.”

“Tell your friends what we told you,” Melanie said. “Don’t they know that you get all tragic when you’re lonely?”

And Jon didn’t know how to say it - that they didn’t know, or if they did then they didn’t care, because they had so many bigger problems than if Jon was sad or not. With Elias’ strange plans, with Jon’s encroaching monsterhood and his slow and steady starvation, with Martin’s loneliness and Basira’s desperation and Melanie’s instability, Jon’s feelings were the least important thing in the world.

Did it matter, to anybody but Jon, that he thought of Martin first thing in the morning and last thing as he went to bed at night?

“Hold still and look straight at me!” Helen said, and Jon had to be thankful - because that let him look at Sasha and Tim, eyes wide and intrigued, as Helen speared her finger through Jon’s forehead.

Jon blacked out, but the images of Sasha and Tim stayed burned behind his eyelids. He dreamed calm dreams, of him and Martin and Sasha and Tim, laughing together, as the world faded away.

****

When Jon woke up, it was with a crick in his neck, and he knew immediately he had fallen asleep on the battered old couch in his office again.

There was a heavy weight on his chest, and when he pried his eyes open he saw the top of Daisy’s head in front of him. Dusty blonde hair pooled on his chest as Daisy snored, deep asleep, arm stretched over his torso.

The taste of salt and grease was on his tongue, and Jon let himself go back to sleep. The dreams would be terrifying and desolate, but at least in them he was never hungry.

#my writing #tma #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #the magnus archives fanfic #im also doing an UNBELIEVABLY self-indulgent tim character study but im not sure if i should post it because tim's not funny #melanie king #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #slaughter!martin #basira hussain #sasha james #helen richardson #michael shelley

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scary-lasagna · 4 years ago

Text

Trust || Part IV

"Tim was always defensive and stubborn, but you could tell there was so much more precious information than he was letting on. It was information that you needed, something that could possibly save your life. And he was being quiet about it. Why? "

Yandere!Hoodie/Brian x Reader

* * * You woke up with another person in your bed the next morning, unfortunately having to share with Tim. Jay moves too much in his sleep, and it was aggravating for the both of you.

But now the smell of tobacco and nicotine was making you sick. The best option was a simple breath of fresh air. You could only hope that you weren't met with a camera like last time, or worse, a red rope and a newly bought knife.

You kept the door open to the building, breathing in the fresh morning air. You even closed your eyes for a few peaceful moments.

Upstairs, though, Tim noticed your absence as soon as your foot touched the wood of the floor. But after getting up to see what you were up to, he paused at the open computer.

It was the only source of light in the room, so it was hard to ignore when it was half-lit due to a notification blocking the white screen.

Clicking on it, Tim saw it was from that ToTheArk account. It was black and white, a style most of the videos held, with static lining the edges.

It was a person, standing in the window, with [Y/N]'s red jacket.

"Ṭ̷̓h̵̟͋ȇ̶̘y̷̒ͅ ̸̦̑a̵̖͝r̵̥̔e̶̢̍ ̶͓̈́n̴̩̍o̷̲͝t̴̝̀ ̸̤̆t̷͕̏ö̸̭́ ̴̨̿b̸̥̋ê̶̪ ̶̰̿t̶̰̃r̶̨̓ṷ̴͌s̴̩̔t̵͓̀e̴̯͆d̶͇̚.̵͈͆"

Not to be trusted? Yeah, thanks, Tim knew that already. That's why he was out of the warm bed in the first place. He ignored the video, for now, deciding on watching it later after he herds you back inside.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling the cardboard of his smoke in the left, and the smooth texture of the picture in his right. He should give it back, Tim didn't mean to take it, but he panicked when he got caught.

Heavy footsteps thumped against the dull and dirty fabric of the carpet.

However, they were not Tim's.

A flash of red was the most warning that you got before being dragged to the ground. The rope lassoed past your vision and secured around your neck. A pair of leather hands grasped your frantic arms and pulled the rope around them behind your back.

And the cool metal of a blade pressed against your neck, "Walk." When you didn't move, the captor simply encouraged you with a harsh push on your spine. You recognized the car as Brian’s. It was one that you always ate McDonald's in after coming home from a class.

You were pushed through the car door, buckled up, and driven off. In the side mirror, you saw Tim, supposedly yelling as he stomped on the dirt and pulled at his brown locks in desperation. Jay joined him with the usual camera he carries, and you caught a glint of it from the lense that caused you to see spots for a short moment.

"Where are you ta-"

"Don't talk," Brian said, glancing side to side before making a turn. You didn't need to ask. You knew he was taking you to Rosswood. Oh god, he was going to kill you. Your own boyfriend.

The one who you've spent so many long nights with. The one who's slept in your arms while you run your digits through his hair after he had a nightmare. The same heartbeat that calmed your insomnia on most nights would now be the one to cease yours.

Not many people were at the park, the clouds in the sky predicted rain for the day.

The ropes burned your skin, even when you weren't trying to free yourself. "Can I at least say goodbye to my friends and family?"

"No." He picked you up and aided you over a log before setting you back down to walk.

You tried to start a conversation again, to hopefully get an insight of what he'll do so you can start planning ahead, "Where are we going?"

"Shhhhshsh." The man hushed you, turning gently towards you. "Just trust me, sweetheart. Have I hurt you yet?

"Yes. I can recall a few times, actually."

His lips pursed, "Then that'll teach you something." He grabbed your elbow, quickening your pace through the woods in hope to beat the rain. It was hard to keep your balance with your hands tied behind your back.

You passed the cement building you met in before, and waited by a cellar door that the hooded man was attempting to open.

You thought about the words he said the last time you met.

"I'll make your life a living hell if you don't learn to love me."

Maybe if you started pretending now, he'd take it easy on you. Hopefully. "How about Hoodie?" You pondered aloud, causing the dirty blonde to freeze with the crowbar.

"Hoodie?" It was like he was testing the name, wondering how good it would sound once you first say 'I love you' to him. "Yeah, I like it." He spared a soft smile, one that wasn't Brian's.

The cellar door popped before banging open with Hoodie's help. He held out his hand, flexing his fingers as he stared into the cellar. You could run. You could escape now. So why were you obeying him and allowing him to help you into his dark and creepy basement?

Maybe it's because you thought Brian was still in there, that he'll find a way to take control and help you. You wanted Brian, you wanted to cuddle on the couch with a shitty movie that neither of you liked. You wanted to feel the tender kisses along your neck, and his large hands sculpting around your curves.

But you couldn't. Brian isn't here now.

Another fucking damp room. If you left rice in here for a few days, it'd be tender.

"It's not the best but it's the safest place."

"Safe from what? Alex?"

"Literally anyone." The scraping of the heavy bar sealed your only exit besides a window next to it. "C'mere." He mumbled, approaching you and fumbling with the rope.

On the way through the rough terrain, your jacket struggled feebly to stay on. Hoodie ran his gloved hand gently over the bruises and you couldn't help but flinch away from the sharp pain his touch caused.

"I'm sorry, I don't know my strength sometimes." He whispered, stepping into your line of sight. He was still covering his eyes with the mask, and yet his mouth was free to feel the damp air of the cellar.

You reached up, slowly and placed your hand on his cheek. How could you not feel something for this man? It's the same one you've been dating for almost a year. But he feels alien.

The tips of your fingers inched under his mask and took advantage of Hoodie leaning into your touch. His gloved hand made his way over yours but didn't attempt to stop your advancements.

"I've watched dormant all of these years." Your captor spoke up in a gravelly voice. "I knew you had to love me. But patience was the key."

You could now see the three freckles that flecked under his left eye, along with the baby hairs around his ear.

"I had to find a way to keep you to myself, without Brian." Your eyes twitched at the name but kept on your journey of taking the mask off. No sudden movements.

"I can tell you still think he's here." His large hand gripped around your fingers. You gulped as he pried your hand away from his skin. "He's not here [Y/N]. I'm in control now, don't you see? Can't you trust me to take care of you better than him? To love me?"

"Br- Hoodie, I don-" "He was always letting you go out with people, your family," His tone sounded disgusted, and his grip only tightened. You were starting to grow worried that he might crush a digit. "And he was always letting everyone touch you. He wasn't worried about losing you." The blonde tilted his head up to look at you, and for the first time, you could see the shape of his eyes through the fabric.

You didn't say anything, you couldn't. Because if you did, you would scream. Scream for mercy, scream for help, scream to just scream. It was hopeless because now you're going to be trapped down here, if what Hoodie says is true. Your eyes must have revealed your thoughts, because his grip loosened, but guided your hand back onto the mask.

You shed the fabric, and what you saw was not Brian. You dropped the stiff cloth that was stained with both blood and sweat. Hoodie's eyes were sunken in, and rimmed with dark circles like never before. Sure, Brian had trouble sleeping, but not like this. But it was the color of his eyes that unnerved you. What used to be a comforting chocolate brown was now replaced with an eccentric auburn.

He sported new scars as well, and his hair was a tad too long for your liking. You wrapped your arms around his neck, you wanted to smell him. To find a trace of your lost boyfriend. It was there, but faint. The smell of the basement overcome the smell of Maplewood and smoke that you knew so well. You used to love sitting in front of that woodfire stove at his place, just to smell the sweetness of the air.

Hoodie didn't allow you to pull away but rather kept you close as he buried his face in your hair. You looked behind him at the dark basement. All of the carpets were torn up and the bricks were painted back. A few paintings and pictures hung here and there, but nothing fancy.

Except for a picture of you sleeping that hung over the TV. That one stood out.

"Hoodie, if we're to live together we need to sort some things out." You needed to start playing into the illusion more. Flip the cards and give the captor a little bit of hope.

"I-I know that." He nodded, parting the embrace, but not too far. "I've written some down for you." The bastard almost sounded hopeful.

"Not just for me, babes." You craned your neck to look up into his auburn eyes.

He shook his head with a chuckle, "No, I'm the one in control. I don't get rules."

"Then I suppose I won't provide you with my end of the deal." You shrugged, unsticking yourself from his grasp. You didn't even get three steps away.

"Deal?!" You whipped around with frightened eyes. You keep forgetting you can't tease as you did with Brian. "This isn't a fucking deal, buttercup. You're here because I'm protecting you. And you will love me, you'll cherish me, and you'll be grateful that you get it this lucky. Because I could’ve done a lot worse in getting you here."

Your chest tightened and your arms flex with your increasing heart rate, "I hate you. I want Brian." You kept your voice level. You haven't spilled any tears yet and you weren't planning to.

"I'm not Br-"

"I. Want. Brian!"

The hooded man stared at you, and if you blinked you would have missed him launching off of his right foot to fight you to the ground. Kicking, screaming, and even biting were futile. You were stuck against his warm body, and his arms locked themselves around you as you thrashed.

He stayed like that, hugging you to his chest for a good five minutes. Your limbs were exhausted while trying to put up a fight against your captor.

You finally went limp after realizing your fate. The bobbing of Hoodie's chest made you feel the primal pang of guilt and pity you got whenever you felt Brian holding back sobs in his nightmares after an argument.

And the waterworks started for you as well. You had no fucking clue why he was crying, but you knew why you were.

You'd never see your family again. Your mom would wonder why you left without a call, and your father would miss the weird way you scrunched up your nose while you were in deep thought like he always does. Tim...He'd probably miss bickering with you on the daily, and Jay would have no one to tell him to get some rest after editing for 10 hours straight.

Your hands were numb by now, and you were exhausted from the fight you put on. Hoodie seemed to be done crying as well, because he was carrying you into the depths of the cellar, with tear stains along his thin cheeks.

"This is your room." He mumbled, setting you down on the soft mattress. Each time you blinked it felt like someone poured soap into your eyes. After a few involuntary sniffles, Hoodie leaned down and pressed gentle kisses to your swollen eyelids.

"You'll feel better after you rest."

#Hoodie #Marble hornets #yandere!Hoodie #brian thomas #creepypasta #trust #tim wright #jay merrick

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heyitsani · 4 years ago

Text

We Might Fall (But We Won’t Break)

Keep on Truckin’ AU Pt 4

Word Count: 7203

Rating: Teen and up

Warnings: Talks about Dick’s time at the juvenile center but nothing more than a mention of racism, mentions of dead parents, mentions of missing parents.

Pairing: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd

Summary: Officer Grayson is asked to take a teen into his home until CPS is able to find him a place to stay.

Notes: Part 4 of my Food Truck owner!Jason au. This is where we add Duke into the mix. I have a couple coda pieces to follow this one that won’t be full installments because they aren’t moving the plot forward, just embellishing it.

I was also asked by an anon to establish ages for reference

Bruce: 42 (Yes, he was 23 when he began fostering Dick. Money talks.) Dick: 27 (Fostered at 8, adopted at 12) Jason: 24 Tim: 21 (Fostered at 10, adopted at 11) Duke: 17 (He is brought in permanently this installment) Damian: 16 (Arrived at 10)

You can also read this on AO3 here and find the entire series here

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

“Hello, Officer Grayson,” the kind voice of the front receptionist greeted Dick as he walked into the precinct on his day off.

“Gracie, how are you doing this lovely day?” He stopped at her desk to lean against it for a moment. He smiled down at her, watching her shrug a shoulder.

“It’s been a weird day so far. Lots of odd visitors and calls.” Dick hummed and glanced at the lock door behind her that would lead him into the main room of offices. “What brings you by today? I know it’s your day off.”

“Sure is. Got big plans. But Commissioner called me to come in to ask me something. He in his office?” The smile on Gracie’s face fell into a frown and that piqued his curiosity. Gordon hadn’t sounded particularly happy on the phone, but he rarely did when calling on official business. Even if he and Dick had known each other since Dick was just a boy being adopted by Bruce Wayne.

“He’s in his office. He’s got a kid in there with him.” A kid? That was certainly curious. “I’ll call and let him know you’re here. Did he say to just go on back?”

“Yeah, said to just walk in because he knew I had plans for the day and didn’t want me to have to wait around.” She nodded and flicked the lock on the door, causing Dick to push off her desk and grab the handle to tug it open. “I’ll see you on my way out. Thanks Gracie!”

He tried not to think about the frown that remained on her face despite the wave she sent his way. He would ask her about it on his way out. Right now he just wanted to get in and out of Gordon’s office so he could meet Jason for lunch.

“Jim?” Dick called out as he knocked and pushed open the door to Commissioner Gordon’s office. The older man looked over his shoulder from where he sat in the chairs usually reserved for the visitors of his office, his bad to the entrance. Dick could see the top of a bowed head of dark hair over his shoulder but focused on his boss.

“Great, Dick. Come on in. Close the door.” Gordon stood and revealed a teenager who sat slouched forward, face buried in his hands. Sending Jim a questioning look, Dick shut the door behind him before walking further into the office and slipping his hands into the pockets of his black slacks. “Duke, this is the man I was telling you about.” The teen seemed to take a shuddering breath before lifting his head and turning red rimmed eyes onto Dick. “Dick this is Duke Thomas and I have a bit of a situation on my hands that I think you’re the best to help with.”

“I’ll help however I can, sir,” Dick replied before he moved closer to Duke. Crouching down, Dick got eye level with Duke and looked into his golden brown eyes while giving him a small smile. “It’s nice to meet you Duke.” The teen said nothing, but nodded before dropping his gaze down to his hands that now rested in his lap. Frowning, Dick looked up at Gordon and waited for some kind of reason for this meeting.

“Duke’s parents were declared missing last night and we’ve run into a bit of a housing situation.” Rising to stand again, Dick remained silent while his boss explained how there were no openings at any of the orphanages and that the juvenile center was the only place who could take him. Unless someone could be deemed an emergency foster home. And that explained why Dick was there.

It also made him aware that he was most likely going to be canceling on Jason.

He had taken the time two years ago to file as an emergency option for kids who were temporarily homeless and had no other place to go. As of that exact moment, he had housed three kids for one night each as Child Services worked to find a more permanent solution. And since Gordon was an officer when Dick had lost his parents and ended up in the juvenile center because all of the orphanages wouldn’t take someone like him, his boss was well aware he wouldn’t want any kid to go there if he had an opening in his home.

“I see,” Dick responded to Gordon before he took the chair one space away from Duke, giving the teen space so he didn’t feel pressured. “Duke, I have had three other kids stay with me in the past. Each one only stayed a single night; just enough time to let CPS do their thing. Jim calls me in these situations because as a kid, I was placed into the juvenile center and I will never stand by and allow another kid go there when I can help.”

Duke looked up at Dick and the older man smiled at him, trying to seem open and welcoming.

“How old are you, Duke?”

“Seventeen.” A year older than Damian. And about to age out of a system he’s about to go into. That was problematic.

“Do you want to come stay with me until we can find you a more permanent place to live?”

“I won’t have to go to the center?”

“No. You are welcome to stay with me for as long as you need to.” Dick watched him look over at Gordon before he looked back to Dick and gave a small, but thankful smile.

“Duke, I need to chat with Dick about a couple of things and have him sign some papers before you leave. You can stay here and we’ll be just next door in the spare office.” Dick rose to his feet and nodded at Duke, who was still watching him, before following Gordon out of the office.

“You could have told me over the phone,” Dick commented as soon as the door was shut. “I would have canceled by plans before coming here. Or at least given him a heads up.”

“I know, but the kid has been with me since we picked him up late last night. I took him everywhere trying to find someplace for him.” Sighing, Dick pulled out his cell phone and looked at the time. He might catch Jason before he leaves. “Go ahead and make the call while I grab the paperwork.”

Dick didn’t bother responding as he pulled up Jason’s contact and let the phone dial.

“I’m leaving in like two minutes, please don’t tell me I’m late.” He couldn’t help but laugh at the other man, knowing full well that Jason was aware of the time.

“About that…”

“You got called into work again?!” Jason groaned and Dick winced. They had rescheduled too many dates recently because the precinct was understaffed, and Dick could never say no when Gordon called. “You need a day off Dick. You’re working yourself into the ground. You fell asleep during sex two nights ago!”

“I was called into work, but not to actually work.”

“Okay? What the hell does that mean?”

Sitting on the edge of the empty desk in the office next to Gordon’s, Dick looked out the wall of windows. “Remember how I told you I’m one of the few emergency foster parents available in the city?” Jason grunted in response. “There’s a seventeen-year-old kid and his parents are missing. All of the homes are full, and the only other place is the juvenile center.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.” Sighing, Dick dropped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. “I can’t say no, Jay. I know I haven’t told you much about the space of time between my parents and Bruce, but it’s ugly. And I can’t let another kid go through that. The same racist piece of shit is still running it and I won’t subject this kid to that.” There was silence on the other end for a moment before Jason’s voice came back, softer.

“What can I do? Do you have food? Want me to go set up the spare room?” And damn if these questions didn’t just cement the fact that Dick was well on his way to being in love with this man.

“I don’t deserve you. But if you could do a food shop? I’m going to ask the kid what he likes to eat and I can send you a list?”

“You are such an idiot, Dickie. You don’t even see the amazing person the rest of us do.” Dick scoffed and rolled his eyes, but was glad Jason couldn’t see the blush that was spreading over his cheeks. “But yeah, send me the list and I’ll get on it.”

“Thanks, Jay.”

“Anything for you. You let me know if I can do anything else.” Dick confirmed and said a soft goodbye just as Gordon walked back into the office with a stack of papers in hand.

By the time everything was squared away with the paperwork and Dick was given a chance to look over the case file, Dick was more than ready to eat his own hand. He had taken a small break to give Duke a paper and pen to write a list of his favorite foods and snacks so he could send it off to Jason, but had spent the majority of the two hours signing his name on the all too familiar paperwork.

“Thanks again for doing this, Dick. I know I ruined your day off, but I knew this wasn’t one you would want to let slip.” Dick shook Gordon’s hand as he and Duke stood at the front door of the building. He said a goodbye to Gracie before guiding Duke out of the building and onto the street.

“I live a few blocks away and actually walked here because I was supposed to meet my boyfriend for lunch at the café down the street. But I sent a message to my dad and he sent us a car,” Dick explained as he guided Duke toward the waiting towncar where Alfred stood waiting.

“Master Richard,” the man greeted with a nod, eyes flicking to Duke.

“Hey Alf,” Dick smiled. “This is Duke Thomas. He’s going to be staying with me for a bit. Thanks for giving us a ride.”

Alfred considered the teenager and Dick knew he was sizing him up in a way only Alfred ever could. “It is a pleasure to meet you Master Duke. And it is certainly no problem. I am happy to help when I can.”

“Just Duke, please. I’m no one’s master.” Dick could see the teen cringing and Alfred was silent for a beat before he nodded.

“Very well.” The older man pulled open the back-passenger door for the pair and waited for the pair to slip in before shutting the door and heading for the driver’s seat.

“I forgot that you’re a Wayne,” Duke muttered, looking uncomfortable in the situation.

Dick nodded, “This is not a normal occurrence for me. I don’t live a lavish lifestyle.” Though Dick did wonder if he should let the kid know he lived in a penthouse that Bruce had bought for him. But it wasn’t like he was riding around in the Bentley and drinking out of crystal. “When we get to the apartment, you can settle in and make yourself at home. If there’s anything from your house that you want but were unable to get, we can go by tomorrow and grab it. You’ve been excused from school for the week, but if you want to go then I’d be happy to call and let them know you’ll be in.”

“Can I decide tomorrow?”

“That works for me,” Dick agreed. If he were honest, he was a little surprised there was any kind of consideration. Most kids were happy to get out of school. He was actually surprised at how collected Duke was about the whole situation. The other kids Dick had taken in had been much younger and that could be why they were a lot more emotional, but Duke seemed to be locking everything up. Dick considered that perhaps he was waiting until he was alone to let go. Gordon had mentioned he had been with the teen since they had picked him up.

The car came to a stop in front of Dick’s building and the older man glanced at Duke to watch his reaction. “Of course you live here. Let me guess, top floor?” Dick winced and shrugged, almost unapologetic. Almost.

“Here we are, sirs,” Alfred said as he pulled open the door so they could climb out. “Master Richard, shall I inform your father of the situation? Or would you like to wait until the situation has resolved?”

“Give me a couple of days. The others were only with me for a day before CPS found homes. Let me see how the cards fall. I’ll call B in a few days.”

“And the young Master?”

“I’ll call Dames tonight and ask him to keep his distance.” That caught Duke’s attention as he stood next to Dick and adjusted his bag. “My youngest brother can be a bit…prickly with strangers when it comes to me.”

“I know Damian. I go to Gotham Academy. He’s chill.” That caught Dick by surprise, and he looked at Alfred who seemed just as surprised.

Shaking his head, Dick smiled at Alfred. “Thanks for the ride, Alfred. I promise I’ll call B in a few days.” The older man nodded and said his goodbyes before rounding the car to drive off. “All right, let’s head in. Jason, my boyfriend, will be here soon with the food. Is that good with you?”

“That you’re gay?”

“Bi, but no. I more meant meeting another new person.” Duke just shrugged his shoulders and followed Dick as he led them into the building. “I know that being thrown into this situation can be hard, but I don’t want you to think you can’t voice an opinion just because it’s my home. If you are uncomfortable with another person coming over then I’ll let Jay know to just ring the doorbell and drop the stuff off.”

Dick smiled down at the teen as warmly as he could, holding a hand to the elevator so that the door would stay open while they got on. Duke just watched, looking as though he was processing what he had been told. When he looked away as the doors slid shut as Dick hit the penthouse button, he let out a sigh.

“I don’t mind if he comes in, but I might just lay down for a bit.”

Dick nodded and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Okay,” was all Dick offered up in my response. He was getting the feeling that Duke wasn’t that chatty of a person and Dick would definitely have to consider that for however long he stayed here.

The remainder of the ride was done in silence and Dick made a mental checklist of all the things he was going to need to handle. The first and foremost would be to call the agent at CPS that he usually worked with. He had a feeling he knew exactly what she would end up telling him and he had a feeling that Alfred knew too, considering he mentioned Bruce. But until Dick knew for sure, he didn’t want to mention anything to Duke. He didn’t want to raise expectations and foster assumptions without any base.

When the elevator doors slid open with a ding, Dick smiled at Duke and led the way to one of the only two doors on the floor. “This is us. I’ll give you a key if you end up staying here for more than a day or two, so you can come and go as you please. Within reason, of course.” Duke just shrugged a shoulder and waited for Dick to unlock the door and step aside for the teen to head inside. Dick watched him take in the wide open space and the modern, clean style. Dick had taken a bit of pride in how he had ended up decorating the place, but he knew it was a little too clinical for most people. But Dick was a minimalist, had been since he had been born. Living on the road with the circus had taught him to keep only what he could carry and only what was necessary.

“Help yourself to whatever in the kitchen, except the booze. I’m a cop,” Dick joked, counting a small victory when Duke huffed a laugh. “TV is usually always on and if it’s not, the music is. I don’t like silence. Growing up in the circus doesn’t foster quiet in someone. But feel free to use both. There’s a tv in the room you’ll stay in, so you can hang out in there too. Here,” Dick gestured to the door that led to the spare room, “is your room. There’s an attached bathroom. But this door is also a bathroom,” he pointed to the door separating the spare room and Dick’s. “That’s my room. Door is pretty much always open so if you need me just go in. Knock if the door is shut.”

Pushing the door open to the spare room, Dick let Duke go ahead of him again so he could check it out and get comfortable. The queen sized bed sat against the far wall, dressed in white and on a raised platform. The opposite wall held a long dresser with a flat screen hanging above it. To the left was the closet and the right the in-suite bathroom.

“I’ll let you get settled. Jason should be here soon so if you want to meet him, you can come out. If not, no problem.”

“Thanks, Officer Grayson.” Dick laughed and shook his head.

“Just call me Dick, Duke.” The teen nodded and set his bags down at the foot of the bed before Dick left and closed the door behind him.

It wasn’t even three minutes later that Dick’s phone was ringing and Jason’s name and face were flashing at him.

“Hey,” he greeted, moving into the kitchen to make some coffee. It was bound to be a long night for him.

“I’m downstairs. Should I come in or just drop and ditch?”

“Drop and ditch? Really?” Jason laughed through the line and Dick felt fondness blossom in his chest. “Come in. The kid said he didn’t care, but I don’t know if he’ll come out to meet you.”

“Cool. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Door is unlocked,” Dick told him before letting his phone drop down onto the counter and he continued setting up the coffee maker. He made enough for Jason even though he knew the other man would probably put on a pot for tea if he stayed for longer than a few minutes.

Dick heard the rustling of bags before he heard Jason. “Hey handsome,” the familiar tone called out as he rounded the corner from the hallway, lazy smile on his face.

“Hey yourself,” Dick smiled back, tilting his head back to accept the kiss the younger man pressed to his mouth before he set the bags down on the counter near the fridge. “Sorry about today. I really was looking forward to it.”

“I was too, but we have plenty of dates ahead of us. I can’t exactly blame you for this one.” And no, Dick supposed he couldn’t. “Besides, I’m still getting to see you. Just because it’s not what we had originally planned doesn’t mean that it’s not just as good.”

“You cheeseball,” Dick teased, leaning back against the island and crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Jason unload the bags. He noticed all the things that had been on the list and a few other items. “Is that…?” Pushing forward, Dick glanced over the items sitting there. “You’ve been talking with Alfred.”

“I figured if I couldn’t spend today with you, I would probably get the chance in the next day or so. And since you’re being you and having such a big heart, I wanted to spoil you for it,” Jason shrugged. Dick let his eyes scan over the ingredients to make crab stuffed mushrooms before reaching up to pull Jason in for a kiss by the back of his neck. There was a soft thud of whatever Jason had been holding as it hit the counter so his arms could circle around Dick’s waist and pull the older man in closer.

Dick knew he should stop this now because Duke was just in the other room and Dick really didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, but Jason was always so tempting and his mouth was just so talented.

“We should stop,” he managed to say, pulling back for a second before surging forward again and reconnecting their mouths. Jason hummed in response, taking control of the kiss so he could slow it down.

“We really should. We don’t want to scar the kid.”

“No, we don’t,” Dick agreed. But even though he had pulled back enough to look into Jason’s turquoise eyes, he didn’t separate their bodies. “But I also don’t want to hide, so…” The silence that fell between them was comfortable as they just soaked each other in. It had become so easy to lose himself in Jason in the months since they had started dating for real. It got easier and easier with each passing day. To the point where Dick was pretty sure this was it.

Jason was it.

“Oh, sorry,” a meek voice sounded, pulling the pair apart.

“Duke, hey,” Dick smiled at the teen, trying to hide the awkwardness. Thankfully, they had stopped the kissing and were just starring at each other at that point. Still awkward, but not as bad. “Did you need something?”

Duke shrugged a shoulder and looked at Jason for a moment before his eyes went back to Dick. “You said I could meet Jason if I wanted to. I also wanted to get something to drink. I could smell the coffee,” he gestured to the now ready pot.

Jason stepped forward with his hand out, “I’m Jason. It’s nice to meet you.” Dick watched them exchange a handshake before he grabbed a mug out of the cabinet for Duke.

“Creamer is in the fridge and sugar next to the coffee maker,” he told Duke as he handed over the mug. “Do you like crab, Duke? Jason brought stuff to make crab stuffed mushrooms. He’s an amazing chef.”

“I like it well enough,” he muttered as he busied himself with the coffee. “You own that food truck. The egg roll one. I’ve had it a few times when you park near GA during lunch.”

Jason nodded. “Yup, that’s me. The kids always enjoy us when we swing by.” Duke nodded and Dick watched him as he fixed up his coffee just how he wanted it. The silence felt awkward and while Dick usually good at filling silences up with his chatter, he wasn’t really sure what to say now. So, he looked over at Jason, who was already looking at him, and raised his brows. Jason’s only response was to shrug as he went back to busying himself with the food.

“Can I help?” Duke spoke up again, pulling both of their attention back to him. “I like to cook.” Glancing back to Jason, Dick found him smiling and nodding.

He held out a bunch of celery and gestured to the knife stand. “Cutting boards are in the cabinet above the knives,” he instructed, and Dick moved out of the way so the two of them could work.

It turned out to be perfect timing as his phone started to ring with the number for CPS flashing.

“I’ll be in my room,” Dick waved his phone at the two of them and left them to their own devices. He picked up the call as he made his way through the living room and toward his room. “This is Grayson,” he answered, walking into the room and shutting the door behind him.

“Dick, it’s Macy,” a familiar voice greeted him. She was a social worker he had known since he had joined the force years ago. “I hear you have Duke Thomas with you.”

“Yeah, Gordon called me in a few hours ago to come in and have me take him in. I wasn’t expecting a call on a Saturday though, Mac. Burning the midnight oil?” He teased as he sat down on the edge of his bed, smiling as he heard his friend laughing on the other end.

“You got me. But truth be told, Duke’s mom is actually one of us. We all kind of jumped on this one.” That made Dick’s eyebrows raise. So, Duke knew that the odds of him being placed in foster care were low. “And we’re in a pickle.”

“Because he’s 17?”

“Exactly. No one wants to take him. And the one home that might, which is a big might, is full and the kids are happy.” Dick sighed, looking at his closed door knowing what he had to do.

“I might have an option.”

“Are you sure? I know what you’re thinking, but do you think he would?” And yeah, Dick was more than certain that this solution would actually work but he didn’t know how comfortable Duke would be.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Dick sighed again. “Yeah, he’ll do it. But Duke doesn’t seem comfortable with my level of affluent. I’m not sure how he’ll handle Bruce’s. Maybe I should just keep him here?”

“I hope you won’t,” Macy said honestly, and Dick made a noise of question. “You’re only able to take one kid at a time given your career and space. If you keep Duke, we lose an emergency home.”

“That’s a good point.” He frowned and thought for a moment, listening to the clacking of Macy obviously on her computer. “Okay, I’ll call Bruce and talk to Duke once I hear what he has to say. I’m going to keep Duke for a few days though.” Macy agreed with his plan and hung up, leaving Dick in silence as he stared down at his phone.

But there wasn’t much to consider in the situation. Duke needed a place and Dick needed to have his room open should another kid need the same help. So Dick dialed Bruce’s number and waited for his father to answer.

“Dick,” the no nonsense greeting came through and a familiar warmth filled his chest.

“Bruce, how are you?” There was a grunt before some background talking and then silence.

“I’m thankful for this interruption to a mundane business meeting that was supposed to happen yesterday and not today,” his adoptive father said into the phone and Dick chuckled. He knew how much Bruce hated the corporate life, but kept it on because it was his father’s company. Thankfully, Tim had enjoyed the business and Dick had been able to pursue a career he enjoyed. “But something tells me that this is not a social call to check in since I’m pretty sure I remember Alfred mentioning you would be with Jason today and for all of us to leave you alone.”

Of course Alfred had told them that. “I am technically with him, but something came up with work so things had to adjust.”

“Dick, you are working too hard. You need a day off. Do no make me call Jim and berate him for overworking my son.”

“I didn’t work today, but Gordon called me in for an emergency foster.” Bruce hummed and Dick knew he was waiting to hear what he had to do with this. “All of the homes were full, and the only option was the juvenile center or me.”

“I see.”

Dick remembered what Bruce had done for him after getting him out of the center when he was eight. He remembered the comfort from the nightmares from the memories of that place. And he knew Bruce would always remember. How he had worked so hard to try and get the monsters removed from the staff, but hadn’t been able to get them all.

“There’s no where for him to go. I just got off the phone with CPS and since Duke’s mom is a social worker, they tried their best but there’s nothing. And they don’t want me to keep him because I can only take one kid at a time.”

Bruce hummed again and Dick waited to see if he would put it together. “I know what you’re getting at, but I would like to talk to him before I agree.”

“Tomorrow? He’s making dinner with Jay and I’d rather not have you meet my boyfriend like this for the first official time,” Dick joked, but Bruce chuckled and agreed.

“I will bring breakfast and coffee.”

“Great. I’ll fill him in on everything tonight. And then call CPS tomorrow.”

“I’ll be over at 9 then. See you then, Chum.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Dick hung up the phone and rubbed at his forehead just as his bedroom door pushed open and Jason’s head popped in.

“Everything okay?” Dick nodded and pushed himself off the bed to head back out. “We just put the mushrooms in, and I have a couple other things working, but Duke wanted to know how to work your record player. Apparently, you have some good vinyl options.”

“Told you I had good taste in music.”

Jason snorted and walked ahead of him as they moved into the living room. “If by good you mean old, then yeah. Sure.”

Dick just shook his head with a wide grin as he walked over to where Duke was flipping through all the records he had near the record player that Damian and Tim had given him for Christmas a few years back after the one he had had before had broken.

“These are classics, Dick. How long have you been collecting?” Duke asked as he looked over a Supremes record.

“Half of them were my dad’s. But I grab the oldies when I see them at the local music shop,” Dick shrugged. It was one of the few things he had kept going after the death of his parents. One of the few things that had brought comfort and not pain. Leaning over, Dick plugged the machine in and flicked it on so Duke could play whatever he fancied.

Once the teen had settled on Simon & Garfunkel, Dick glanced to see where Jason was. Seeing him at the stove, stirring something, he nodded and turned back to Duke. “I need to talk to you about your situation.” That made Duke straighten up and lose a bit of the happiness in his eyes, but Dick knew he needed to be made aware.

“There’s no place for me,” he said, sighing.

“Not in the current homes, no. I could keep you here, but I am one of the few emergency options and can only have one kid at a time because of my job and the lack of space.” Duke nodded and his shoulders drooped a bit. “But my dad has plenty of room and he has taken fosters in the past, two of which he adopted.”

Duke looked confused and Dick smiled. “My brother Tim and I were fosters. And he said he’s happy to have you stay with him, but would like to meet you tomorrow before any decisions are made. He wants to be sure you’d be comfortable and that it would be a good fit.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then I suppose the city will have to either grant me another space or they’ll lose an emergency home.” The relieved look on Duke’s face almost broke Dick’s heart. So he placed a hand on the teen’s shoulder and ducked his head to look him right in the eyes. “I will not let you go to that center. And I will not let you be kicked to the curb by the system when you turn 18. And the entire CPS office is on your side.”

Nodding his head, Dick sighed. “Yeah, they know my mom.” Dick nodded, showing he knew. He gave Duke’s shoulder a squeeze before letting go.

“Bruce will be here tomorrow at 9 with breakfast. You’ll chat and then he’ll leave so you can think it over. There will be no pressure and no rush. You can stay here as long as it takes you to decide.”

“Thanks, Dick.” He sounded a little choked and Dick wanted to hug him, but instead he straightened up and took a step back.

“Duke, I could use a hand if you’re done indulging Dick in his old man music!” Duke laughed and Dick rolled his eyes at the kid before jerking his head in Jason’s direction. Dick watched him put the sleeve for the record down on the table and head back over to Jason to help the older man out. Taking a moment to just observe the two, Dick took a few deep breaths to clear his head before he joined in.

Dick watched the closed door of Duke’s room while he sipped at his cup of coffee, local news playing in the background. He had been up for about two hours already, working on a few things for cases he had at work, waiting for 9 o’clock to roll around and Bruce to arrive. But that was in less than 30 minutes and Duke had yet to emerge from the room. Dick was beginning to think he should knock on the door but didn’t want to pressure the kid or freak him out.

So instead, he turned his focus back to the papers on the coffee table and tried to get some things sorted. Which managed to distract him enough that he didn’t notice the time passing or Duke emerging from his room about five minutes before Bruce was due to arrive.

“Is there more coffee?” The sound of Duke’s voice caught Dick off guard, and he jumped slightly, snapping his gaze up to the teen. The same teen who was currently laughing at him. “Sorry.”

Dick waved it off. “Yeah, there’s still some in the pot. But it’s a couple hours old and Bruce is bringing fresh,” he told Duke. He watched him internally debate whether or not to get a cup now or wait. And then he watched as the decision was pretty much made for him when the sound of the front door opening filled the room.

“Honestly, Damian, knocking is the polite thing to do,” Dick could hear Bruce berating his brother, who he hadn’t thought would be coming by for their usual Sunday morning breakfast given the circumstances.

“What is the point of having a key, which Richard gave me, if I’m not going to use it?” Damian questioned back as they rounded the corner and came into view. The pair immediately paused when they found Dick still seated and Duke standing, watching them both.

“Dames, I didn’t think you’d be coming this morning,” Dick smiled, standing and moving over to greet the pair.

“Thomas, good to see you. Hopefully, Richard has been accommodating.” Damian looked over his peer and gave a nod after Duke nodded.

Bruce stepped forward and held his hand out to the teen. “Hello, Duke. I am Bruce, it’s nice to meet you,” his words were formal, but his smile warm. It brought forth a memory long forgotten of the same smile as Dick exited the center to find Bruce waiting by his fancy black car, Dick’s bag in hand.

Duke shook his hand in return and gave a tentative smile. “It’s nice to meet you too, sir.”

“None of that sir, stuff. I am just Bruce. Now, let’s have some breakfast and chat. Leave these two to whatever it is they do on their Sunday mornings.” Bruce clapped a hand onto Duke’s shoulder before guiding him into the kitchen so they could sort through whatever food Alfred had prepared and get their coffee fixed.

“I have that new game, shall we?” Damian’s voice pulled Dick’s eyes away from his dad and the teen before he was pulled into his bedroom so they could play whatever zombie game Damian had managed to convince Bruce he had to have. “Pennyworth made us our usual and I assume you’ve already consumed too much caffeine.”

“None of that judgment stuff,” Dick joked, grabbing the remote and wireless controllers to his game station before taking up his usual spot on the bed and Damian sitting next to him. They waited for the tv to rise from the hidden compartment in his footboard, Dick giving Damian his controller and Damian handing over his egg, bacon, and cheese sandwich. He happily ate his food while Damian logged into the system and pulled up the game from his library.

“Father said you asked him to take Thomas in.” Dick hummed in response and raised a brow when he looked at his brother, trying to figure out if this would be good or bad. “He was one of the few who were kind to me before he even knew me. I would like for him not to be placed in a situation where he would be…where someone might be unkind to him.”

Smiling, Dick wrapped an arm around his brother and gave him a sideways hug. “If B doesn’t take him, he will be staying here.” He watched Damian consider him and what he was saying before he got a nod and his brother turned back to the game. “Now. Let’s get this party started. Wally said this game is intense and I’m curious what he thinks “intense” is these days.”

Damian only snorted a laugh and started the game up for them.

“No! Come on! This algorithm is screwed!” Dick tossed his controller down on the bed as Damian laughed and finished off the remaining zombies that had just killed Dick’s character off. “Hand over the sweets, I earned them,” he grumbled, holding his hand out for the container that he knew had shortbread cookies in it. Damian held it out without complaint before he looked over at the doorway, causing Dick to look up.

“Father,” Damian greeted, and Bruce raised a brow at the sight of the two of them on the bed, food wrappers and various drinks on the bedside tables.

“Is this what you two get up to?”

“Sometimes,” Dick said around the cookie in his mouth. Bruce sent him an unamused look.

“Damian, I would like to speak with Dick for a moment.” Damian nodded and slipped off the bed, grabbing what little trash they had set aside and vacated the room without a backward glance. Dick watched the man walk further into the room and shut the door behind him. “I offered Duke a room in our home. He said he would like a day to think about it and that he would tell you tomorrow before he goes to school what he decided.”

Dick nodded and set the container of cookies down next to him before swinging his legs off the bed. “Thanks, Bruce. I know it’s probably not ideal, but Macy and I didn’t really know what else to do.”

Bruce waved a hand dismissively. “It is fine. My hours at WE are not what they were when I adopted you or Tim and Duke is much older than either of you.” Dick nodded and stood. “I would like to have you over for dinner the day he moves in, if that is the decision he makes. I think it might be a good time to bring Jason with you.”

“Sure, B,” Dick laughed. “I’ll mention it to Jason.”

“I just want to meet the man who seems to have made you so happy. All my sons have wonderful things to say about him and even Duke mentioned him kindly. And all of that has nothing on the fact that Alfred has been talking to him multiple times a week over the phone.” The look on his father’s face made Dick duck his head and rub at the back of his neck.

“I know, I know. I get it, I do. I’ll talk to him about it. I’m sure Artemis can man the truck if it’s a day he’s supposed to work,” Dick said, trying to sound apologetic but not at the same time. “We aren’t avoiding you and he has technically met you before,” Dick reminded him of the hospital but was duly chastised by the look on Bruce’s face. “Things have been weird with my schedule.”

“Of this, I am aware.” And yeah, Bruce had made his opinion clear on the fact that Dick had been working too hard.

“We’ll be there, I promise.” Bruce hummed and nodded. Dick watched the other man for a moment, noticing his gaze on the massive wall of pictures that Donna had put up for him when he had moved into the place. “B?”

Bruce shook himself out of his trance and looked back down to Dick with a smile, “I should get going since I have some work to get done, but I look forward to hearing from you tomorrow.” Dick followed Bruce out of his room and found his brother and Duke in the living room, looking through the records. Dick was coming to realize that Duke definitely had a love of music after him fawning over the player all night last night. “Damian, I am leaving. I assume you will call Alfred to collect you when you are ready to return home, per usual?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Duke, it was nice to meet you and I will wait for Dick’s call with your decision.” The teen nodded and gave a small smile, but remained silent as he watched Bruce head toward the door and Dick followed.

“Thanks again, Dad,” Dick said as he leaned in the doorway, Bruce standing just outside in the hallway.

The smile on Bruce’s face was one he reserved for his sons. “I do not tell you enough, but I am very proud of the man you became. It shows in the amount of people who love you, just as your family does. For whatever impact I had on the person you are, I am glad to have even the smallest influence.”

“Come on, B,” Dick laughed softly. “I have just as much Wayne in me as I have Grayson. You’re a good dad. You have three sons who are good men to prove it.” Bruce only nodded before glancing toward the elevator as it dinged and opened to reveal the only other person who lived on this floor. “Love you, old man. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Love you too, Dick.” Dick watched the older man walk down the hall, nodding a greeting to Dick’s neighbor before slipping onto the still open elevator. With a wave, Dick watched the doors slide shut and turned to head back inside.

#jaydick #dickjay #dick grayson #jason todd #duke thomas #bruce wayne #jim gordon #damian wayne #au: keep on truckin'#officer grayson #food truck owner jason todd #anikah writes #my stuff #fanfiction #batfam #no capes au

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fearfulkittenwrites · 4 years ago

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Their first walks on the Wayne’s garden - Chapter 3: Tim Drake

A glimpse into Bruce's relationships with his kids, seen through the first time he took each of them on a walk through his garden.

Or: Bruce Wayne actually tries to communicate and care for his children. Because fuck canon.

Word count: 1648

Tim wasn’t much of a nature guy. Or an outside guy. Or even a sunshine guy, really. His pale skin could absorb enough D vitamin in five minutes next to the living room window or get nothing at all. He needed to be productive, and being outside wouldn’t help with that. What does help is the batcave, filled to the brim with the most modern tech in existence and all kinds of tools one could imagine or need to do absolutely anything, and no sunlight or fresh air. He spent most of his time there.

Bruce got increasingly worried about his behaviour. Tim had a brilliant mind and when he’d put it to work he always accomplished things Bruce hadn’t ever thought possible, noticing ways to improve perfectly functional equipments and turn them into perfect pieces of machinery, but he hand a tendency to forget that he also needed to be in a decent enough shape to use them. He went down to the cave once, finding Tim staring at the screen, hands shoved into his black hair and looking a little lost.

“Tim,” He called, climbing down the stairs “Is everything okay?”

“Sort of.” He ran a hand down his face and yawned “I’m stuck.” He stretched his arms back like a tired kitten “I want to see if I can convert the batmobile into an eletric car without losing horsepower, but, apparently, I can’t. Except that there must be a way, there’s something I’m missing, I’m sure.”

“How long have you been here for?” Bruce frowned.

“What time is it?” He asked, spinning his chair around to face the other.

“Four in the afternoon.”

“Then...” He thought for a second “Maybe six hours? I took a quick break to pick up lunch.” Bruce’s eyes met an empty bowl. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Please tell me you didn’t have cereal for lunch.” Tim started at him in silence “Was it the sugary kind?” The teen nodded and the man sighed.

“Hey, at least it wasn’t ice cream.” Tim shrugged, turning his chair back to the screen “I mean, I would’ve, but Dick ate the last of it as his dinner. Go bother him about it.”

“I’ll ask Alfred to make you a sandwich.” Bruce walked towards the stairs.

“C’mon Bruce,” The teen complained “I’m fine.”

“I’m not asking you to eat it, I’m telling you to eat it.” The man left the cave, hearing Tim’s annoyed groans. He ignored the protests and walked towards the kitchen, calling for Alfred.

“I don’t know, sometimes I worry about him.” Bruce leaned back against the marble countertop “Am I underestimating him? Should I trust him? I mean, he’s not a regular teenager. Maybe I should just... let him be?”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, not looking up from the sandwich he was assembling “Teenagers should never be trusted to take care of their own health. I’d expect you to know that by now, sir.” Bruce breathed in again, but the butler cut him off “I believe, sir, that this is the best decision you’ve made regarding master Tim in a while.” The man raised an eyebrow at the backhanded compliment.

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.”

Bruce took the sandwich and left, finding Tim still in the same postion, most likely going over the same calculations again, trying to find a solution to the non-issue that was the batmobile’s gas consumption. He sighed.

“Tim,” He called from the top of the cave’s metal staircase “Come take a walk with me.”

The young man opened his mouth to protest, but met Bruce’s serious gaze and decided it wasn’t worth it. He got up and followed him outside, taking the food he was given gratefully, realizing he was hungrier than he noticed. They walked all the way to the garden, Tim biting his way through the sandwich quietly.

“Bruce,” He asked between bites “What are we doing?”

“Taking a break.” He answered, watching the pink carnations growing to his right side.

“Why?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“Why not?”

“Because we still have work to do.” Tim replied “People depend on us to do it.”

“Tim, you were trying to turn my car eletric for six hours straight. That’s not exactly our work.”

“Aren’t you ever afraid we might run out of gas during a mission? Besides, it’s greener.” Tim shrugged “Why shouldn’t I try to improve the thing we use? I can do it, and the better our stuff works, the more good we can do.”

“It’s not about that Tim.” Bruce glanced down at the paved walkway to kick a small rock away “I think it’s great that you are so dedicated to this. You’re a genius, and you can achieve whatever it is that you set your mind on. However, there’s no point in overworking yourself to such an extent as you do.” Tim kept quiet, finishing his sandwich “How many hours of sleep do you get every night?”

“Usually about four hours.” Bruce almost choked.

“You should be getting at least eight. Ideally nine or ten.” Tim rolled his eyes.

“You worry too much. I’m fine.”

“I think I haven’t been worring enough.” Bruce stopped suddenly “I haven’t been taking care of you like I should. I’m sorry.”

“Bruce, there’s nothing to be sorry for. I’m fine.” Tim insisted.

“No. You haven’t been eating properly, or sleeping properly, or even having any adequate amount of leisure time at all.” Bruce shook his head.

“Bruce. Don’t. I’m okay.” Tim repeated “Seriously. I like this life, I feel like I’m made for it, and I don’t mind feeling tired.”

“Tim, this life requires some sacrifices, but not nearly as many as you make. And that’s not what this is about. How do you plan on taking care of Gotham if you won’t even take care of yourself?”

“I am taking care of myself!”

“You’re surviving. That’s not the same thing. Look,” Bruce argued “Here’s what you’re going to do; at least eight hours of sleep and one hour of break. Fifteen minutes in the sun, everyday, away from any screens, and we’ll have every meal together to make sure you’re eating appropriately for the amount of physical effort you’re putting in.”

“That’s too much Bruce.”

“Those are basics Tim.” He crossed his arms “I’m asking you to sleep, eat and sunbathe. I’m not cutting off your arm.”

“Yeah, but like, eight hours of sleep, plus one hour break and around two more hours if you include every meal of the day, that leaves me with only thirteen hours, and several of those will be occupied with school.” Tim complained.

“If you won’t comply, I’ll lock you out of the batcave.”

Tim stared at him, exasperated.

“Oh, c’mon!” He threw his hands up.

“Look, Tim, I know this might not make sense right now...” He set a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“It really doesn’t.”

“But I spent most of my life neglecting my own needs and it took me a lot to recover from it. I’m still recovering from it. I won’t allow you to do that to yourself. I will not sit and watch as your mental and physical health deteriorates in front of my eyes.” Tim kept quiet “I’m not asking you to like it. You don’t have to like it. However, I am your legal guardian. And I’m asking you to respect and trust my decisions as Bruce as much as you respect and trust my decisions as Batman.”

“Fine.” He looked down, but seemed a little less grumpy “You can go now. I’ll spend my fifteen minutes in the sun.” Bruce nodded and walked back inside.

Tim paced around for a couple of minutes, trying to make sense of what he felt. He was angry, right? Angry for being treated like a child. But wasn’t he a child? He sat down next to the geraniums, legs stretched out in front of him, feeling the sun warming up his skin and the flower’s scent invading his nose. He threw his head back, sunshine finding it’s way to his pale neck, and tears gathered in his eyes.

That was the first time Bruce had scolded him. It was the first time anyone scolded him in a long, long time. Tim leaned back, laying down on the cemented floor. He felt... weirdly good. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to hate him and scream, and throw a fit over Bruce’s decision. But he couldn’t. He was annoyed, sure, yet he wasn’t angry, not really. The man’s decision made sense after all. And having the sun directly on his skin felt good. Really good.

The teen turned his head to the side, studying the velvety-looking pink and purplish flowers growing in bushes. Stretching his hand out, he felt one petal under his finger tips, warm tears flowing out of his eyes. His vision got blurry and he looked back up again. He was sobbing now, there was no point in holding it back anymore. He covered his face with his hands for a while. They smelled like bread so that didn’t last long.

Once he opened his eyes again, Dick was sitting by his side.

“You okay?” He asked.

“Yes.” He sobbed. Tim sat up, and threw his arms around his brother’s neck. Dick held him tightly “I-I... I just... I...”

“Shh...” The older man whispered “It’s okay. Take your time.”

“I...” He breathed in “I think... Think I’m... I’m his son.” Tim was full-on ugly crying on his brother’s shoulder, but couldn’t gather any strenght to care. He was falling apart in front of someone and it felt good. For the first time since his early childhood, he allowed himself to be held. He never realized how desperatly he craved this “I think he wants me to be, Dick.”

“Of course he does Tim.” He reassured the kid “We’re family.”

#Their first walks on the Wayne's garden #Walks on the Wayne's garden #Bruce Wayne #Tim Drake #Dick Grayson #Bruce Wayne & Tim Drake #Bruce & Tim #Bruce & Dick #Batfam #Batfamily #bruce wayne is a good parent #fanfic #writing #fanfiction

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1000roughdrafts · 5 years ago

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Family Secrets: Chapter Five

Pretty Thoughts

Summary: After interrogating a demon for weeks on end, she gives you the information you‘ve been hunting for. Enlisting help from Garth brings trouble in the form of Dean Winchester.

A/N: again, sorry about formatting, I’m on mobile. Also, happy halloweeeeeen🎃:)

Warnings: SPN style demon torture (lol), obscenities, slight angst (argument between reader x dean), Dean in slight pain

W/C: 2.7k

Masterlist/schedule

Previous Chapter

"Just give me their names you disgusting rat," you shout through clenched teeth at the thin, black hair and black eyed demon you have strapped to a rusted chair. Dumping holy water onto the demons face you smile as it screams out in agony. With clammy hands you lean in, your face just inches away from it's blood drenched cheek. "You're going to die no mater what, so give me what I need and I'll put you out of your misery."

The demon stays silent, looking at you with it's now chestnut eyes with russet rims. It's long lashes bat once at you. "Mandy," you say gingerly while pushing yourself up to stretch out your back.

Taking a glimpse at the devils trap you've carved into the floorboards of a room you and Rufus had added onto the cabin, it wretchedly begs, "it's been weeks."

"Pretty neat, huh?" You mendaciously chuckle while toying with the dagger. "I've expanded on the normal version. Thought I'd had a trick of my own. You're dying, slowly and never to return again that's to some spells I've learned along the way."

"How cute. A hunter dabbling in magic. Does daddy know that you're no better than those you're in search of?" She puts on a false pout before breaking into laughter, "oh, wait."

Your eyebrows erect to reveal your arrogant eyes and temperate smirk. "Names. Now."

The demon stays silent, continuing to look around for a way out. Fed up with its evasiveness you grab a syringe filled with holy water and finished off with a spell to elongate the effects, to quickly inject the demon before it can scream out. After giving a second dose, you throw the empty syringe back onto the tray.

"Guess I'll see you in a few days, then." You laugh, "if you're still alive that is. See, I do need this information, but if you die before I can get it, well, that just means I have to kill more of your kind. And that's a win win for me."

You stealthily turn to walk towards the wooden block of a door that leads to the cabin. As you approach the first step, the demon lets out a thundering, frustration driven growl. Twisting around to face the demon, you smile, "yes?"

"Allanah Sandburn, Rose Coach, Taylor something and Violet Yasmin."

"Who else?" you demand while striding over and paralleling you're torso to the demons, pulling your dagger to her cheek.

"Guess you're gonna have to get another 'rat' to tell you that one," it shrieks, spitting at you. "That's all I know."

"Good one," you say, wiping the saliva from your cheek with the back of your hand and letting out a small chuckle. "I guess you're right."

Thrusting the blade into the left center of the demons chest it lets out one last ear piercing shrill, throwing its head back in torment. The body twitches and convulses and the last bit of essence vanished from the vessel in a luminous flash of vivid energy.

After showering the dagger in holy water you use your handkerchief to wipe it dry before dialing a number into your cell. "Hi, Garth." You pause and smile, "yeah, grab a piece of paper, would ya?"

You rotate around and stride over to the demon. "Can you do me a solid and have a look-see at a few names?"

—

A nauseating stench vents into the smokey air as you glare into the pit and gawk at the burning carcass. You reach into your pocket and put the singing phone to your ear, "what's the word?"

"Why are you asking Garth to track down a coven?"

"Grumpy? What are you doing with Garths cell?"

"What? I'm no- didn't you see the number before you answered?"

"Luckily for you, I didn't. Slick move leaving your card behind, I thought I had your number blocked."

"Yeah, well," Dean clears his throat. "Sam says I may have been a little too tough on you."

"Tough?" You called me a fucking monster, asshole, your thoughts scream.

"Now, I know I called you a monster and hey," he chuckles, "I've been there. Like you said, a lot of hunters have a bounty on my head."

"And?" Do you expect me to fucking care? You think as you sit on the cement steps in front of the porch.

"And I'm not expecting you to care or anything, but, uh, I thought 'what the hell, let's give her a shot'. What do you say?"

"Give me a shot?" Better make sure that's an iron bullet, you cynically joke.

"No, look, I'm not fixin' to shoot you," he says quickly and then more smoothly, "I'm saying I want a second chance."

"Yeah well you can take that and-"

"Shove it where the sun don't shine? Tried that. It can right on back."

You can hear a playful grin that he's attempting to suppress, and roll your eyes at the image. "I have gone a very long time with just myself, I think I can handle-"

"You're not doing it on your own. Covens typically meet in groups of-"

"Thirteen. I'm aware. I wasn't born yesterday."

"Says the girl who doesn't even know when she was born," he scowls.

You laugh, "aw, would you look at that, it didn't even take more than five minutes for your true colors to shine back through."

"Okay, smarty pants, I'm looking at this from a logical point of view. Thirteen against one are not great odds. You want to get yourself killed? Be my first. But if you want help, do nothing until we get back. What do you say?"

"That's assuming that I'm not already being logical about this." You pause, "tell me what Garth found out and I light agree to that."

He sighs, "the main one you're looking for Allanah. I guess she was last seen somewhere near Kansas City, but seriously... don't go poking around until me and Sam get back to the cabin. Just stay where you are. Do you hear me?"

You switch the phone to your alternate ear, standing up from the steps. "You are not in charge of me, Dean! We met purely coincidentally, you threatened me and I went off on my own remember? I didn't even want to hear from you again!" What does he care anyway?

"Whatever. I don't care. Just don't drag Garth into it."

"Oh," you scoff. "So that's a perfectly acceptable thing for Dean Winchester, but I can't?" Asshole.

"What did you just say?"

Louder this time, you repeat yourself, "I'm saying you don't own him. You can't just keep bossing people aro-"

"No, something about an ass."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I could have sworn you called me an asshole."

Immediately you end the call and hold the phone against your chest. "How in the hell could he have heard that?" You say aloud, too scared to say anything mentally.

Walking inside to grab yourself a much needed beer you try to drown out the idea of Dean Winchester heading your every thought. You're trying to keep them concealed and nothing too personal, but after a lifetime of privacy as far as thoughts go, it's not as easy as you hope. Opening the beer, your phone rings again.

"Leave me alone," you growl.

"Oh," Tim says, "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were upset with me."

You put your palm to your forehead, "I'm not, Tim. I'm sorry. I was just on the phone with someone else, and... what's up?"

"Well, there's this guy missing from my town. The police don't seem to be doing much, but I really gotta know if he's okay, you know?" He sniffles, "I figured since you're part of the FBI or CSI or secret service or something you could look into it?"

"Oh, I don't know, Tim," you sigh. "It doesn't really... work that way."

"Please? It would really mean a lot to me."

"Just... just text me the location."

By the time you arrive, the neighborhood is dark. No street or porch lights are on. Most of the houses are guarded up with rusted chains on the windows and skirted with tall metal fences. You grab your pistol from the glove box and double check the clip. With the dagger still in your boot, you sneak out while checking for wandering eyes. The sidewalk that interrupts a dandelion garden leads to a golden brown door. Checking over your shoulder once more, you pick the lock and creep inside.

What you presume used to be a coffee table is wearing the couch and underneath the two is a torn up rug. Shards of splintered wood litter the floor where the dining table had collapsed. A thick coating of muddy red blood is splattered over the previously cotton white walls and wooden floor. You aren't sure whether it came from one person or more, but it is enough to leave a man dead. The only room unscathed is the office, which seems to remain orderly if it weren't for the papers scattered around.

Whoever is doing this was looking for something.

After bowing to your knees, you rummage through the cluster trying to find a clue. You check the mahogany dressers of his desk, and find nothing to suggest he had a life outside of work. You open the screen of his laptop and smile when it pulls everything up with no need to enter a password. Finding nothing but excel worksheets and business projects, you focus your attention to the matching bookshelf to see much of the sale.

Nothing seems to be helpful until you notice that one is remarkably shallow compared to the other. Quickly and quietly, you pull everything out and using the heel of your gun you give the makeshift bottom a rough tap. After a few attempts it opens just enough to reach inside. The tips of your fingers are instantly cold to the touch of a large skeleton key.

"I believe that belongs to me, sweetheart."

Drawing your weapon you whip around and lime the barrel between the mans eyes.

"Ah, the ol' gun to the head trick," he laughs with his arks in the air. "Go ahead, love, wouldn't work on me anyway." He drops his arms as you bend to reach the dagger, keeping him in sight. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. I know what you're going for, darling, and I'd strongly advice against it."

"Who are you?" Dean help! You scream in your mind, putting as much strength and emphasis onto the name as you can, hoping that he can hear you.

"Trying to cut out the foreplay I see," he snarls while walking to your side. "Very well, then. The names Crowley," he says proudly, chin held high.

Bursting through the door of the cabin, the Winchester's lug in their bags and plop them into the floor. Sam shuffled through one of the books shelves while Dean is staring out of a, foolishly open, window. He steps back and forth along the floor before throwing his arms out and halts his pacing, “we have four missing people, and never seen or heard of before weather patterns."

Sam lets out an exasperated sigh, "are we sure they're even connected?" He pulls a book from the case and settles in at the table to flip through it. He scans the room, twisting his body in both directions, "said a minute. Wasn't Blue supposed to be here?"

"I couldn't give a -" in completion of a sentence, Dean screams obscenities as he drops to the floor boards, holding his head in his hands.

"Woah, what's going on?" Sam scrambles to his side, dropping to the floor with him.

"I don't-" Dean belts out another cry of pain, "I don't know. I can hear her though."

"Who?" Sam pulls his brother up by the shirt and sits him upright. "Who do you hear?"

Dean clasps at his chest, looking up at Sam with wide eyes, "Blue. She's in trouble."

"I'm only here for one thing." He puts his lips next to your ear, and a hand in your hair. "And I'd hate to break those lovely little fingers of yours to get it, but you see, I'd do anything to get what I want." After rolling his fingers down your sleeve he removed his hand to point at the key, "and what I want is that."

"Did you kill him? What's so special about this key anyway?"

He chuckles, taking a short breath and turning his back to you. "You're such a naive, little, what? Hunger, are you? You really think I would waste my precious time on this fool?" He side eyes you while walking over to the bookshelf. "The key," he says, pouring some bourbon into a glass, "is really for me to know and for you," he paused with a grin and takes it down in one gulp, "to never find out."

"Wow," you scoff. Dean! Dean! Dean! Grumpy! Dean!

His eyes squint before trailing up and down your figure. When they meet back up with yours they are curious, and intrigued, "what's your name, love?"

"I'm not about to play share and tell with a demon," you scowl.

"King of Hell," he says through his teeth. "I could snap your neck with a snap of my fingers," he smiles and holds his hand up, "humor me."

"But I've piqued you're interest, haven't I? You could have done that from the start, but you didn't." You mirror the expression on his face as he pours himself another glass without removing his eyes from yours. "Which means you need me alive, don't you? Why?"

"Because we made a deal," a woman's voice fills the room before she can be seen. Grumpy, please! She slowly walks to Crowleys side, glancing at him once before resting an arm on his shoulder. She smiles at you, "hi, Y/N. It's been so long since I've seen you. So for the sake of meeting in, oh I don't know, twenty or so years, I'm Allanah."

She makes her way over to you, wrapping her arms sound your back and grabbing the key. She hands it to Crowley, who disappears instantly.

Allanah laughs, "the part he doesn't know is that without you, that key is nothing more than a paper weight."

Dean drops his hands to his knees and struggled to get his words out through chunky breaths, "have you seen a woman?"

"I run a bar, kid. You're gonna have to be a lot more specific than that," the man scoffs.

"I got this," Sam whispers and turns to face the bald and bearded man behind the counter. Clearing his throat, he asserts, "I'm agent Scott and uh, my partner here is Agent Paxton." Dean sits at the bar, using it as a pillow and only raises a hand in acknowledgment.

Sliding a picture onto the counter, Sam continues, "her name is Blue. Have you seen her come by in the last month or so?"

The man only shakes his head, Sam puts a palm down on the counter. "She may have had a, uh, fling with one of your employees."

The man laughs, "if you think that narrows it down, you'd be mistaken."

"I believe his name was Tim."

"That sounds about right. That Tim sure did have a way with the ladies," she shakes his head with another chuckle.

"Did?"

"Yeah, he quit comin' round about two weeks ago. No calls, nothing. Was a shame, too. It's difficult to find people who work in this damn town."

Dean... please, I'm begging you. Please.

"Shut up!" Dean yells, pounding the counter with his fist and capturing the attention of the people in the bar. When he noticed all eyes are on him, he adjusts his tie and gives a tired chuckle, "bad dream," he jokes with a half nod and light wave before dropping his upper portion back onto the counter.

Sam pulls a card from his suit and places it onto the bar, "if you hear anything." He lifts his eyebrows while tilting his head slightly and adds force to his words, "from either of them, give me a call."

Next Chapter

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FS<3: @lilulo-12 (I hope I’m tagging the right one for you, if not lemme know :) @vicmc624

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cdelphiki · 6 years ago

Text

It was all Drake’s fault.

Of that, Damian had no doubt. How it was Drake’s fault remained to be seen, but it certainly was not Damian who gave away their location, causing them to be outnumbered and subdued. By a drug lord’s cronies, of all things.

Not even a big-named villain.

But drug dealers.

And now, Damian was kneeling on the ground, next to a mostly unconscious Red Robin, his hands tightly bound behind his back to his legs. No amount of pulling at the cuffs were helping them come loose, and it was maddening. He didn’t even have enough mobility to try to pull out the lock picks he kept hidden in his sleeve.

“Quit struggling, boy,” a new voice sneered from Damian’s left, “my men cemented the lock, it’s not coming off.”

Scowling, Robin hissed, “You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

“Shove it, kid,” one of the thugs said, just as his boot collided with Damian’s head.

Damian wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he next came to. He was laying on the ground and his left arm was asleep. So it’d probably been at least ten minutes.

And now, his head was on fire. No, it was worse than on fire, it felt like someone was stabbing him from inside. Like his brain was expanding and pushing against the skull, seconds away from exploding.

He knew he was being dramatic, of course. It was just a concussion, but he was allowed to be as dramatic as he wanted inside his own head. Especially when this was all Drake’s fault.

Once they got out of there, Drake was dead.

“There we go,” a gruff voice said from about six feet in front of Damian.

Robin didn’t want to alert his captors to his regained consciousness, not yet, so he kept his eyes shut. Besides, he just knew the lights in the warehouse were going to be a bitch on his headache. And he’d like to delay the inevitable as long as possible.

Then Drake groaned and mumbled out a pathetic, “wha’re you doin’,” and Damian could hear what sounded like someone being dragged across the floor. So he probably should open his eyes and check.

He needed to know what the idiots were doing with Red Robin. Father would not be very pleased if Damian let the moron die.

“Wha’ you jus’ do,” the teen mumbled from where he was now sitting on the opposite side of the room, and if Damian could see Drake’s eyes, he was sure he’d be blinking slowly and blearily.

“Just give it a minute,” one of the thugs sneered. There were five of them in the room, two standing at the doorway, two on either side of Red Robin, and the fifth standing in front of Red Robin with his back toward Damian.

That was a mistake on his part.

Or… it would be. If Damian could freaking move. He pulled at his restraints again, and used the momentum to get back up onto his knees.

“Looks like the little one’s awake, Boss,” one of the lackeys said, and Damian wanted to roll his eyes.

But he knew that would just make his head hurt worse, so instead he scoffed, “Tt, impressive deduction skills.”

“Don’t worry, little guy,” ‘Boss’ said, “you’ll get your turn next.”

“My turn with what?” he asked darkly, narrowing his eyes at Red Robin. What, exactly, were they doing to him?

At the moment, it appeared to be nothing. No one was even touching the imbecile, just standing around him.

“Our newest creation, of course,” Boss said happily, and Damian was having flashbacks to moments spent around Scarecrow or the Joker.

What was with loons in Gotham and their obsession with weird drugs?

“Oh,” Red Robin said dreamily, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, “hehe. This’s good.”

“What did you do to him?” Robin demanded a bit more forcefully, “what did you give him?” Drake did not giggle. And he rarely smiled in such a… a… weird way. Light? No, Drake’s smiles were usually either kind or smug. Not carefree and happy.

“Hush, child,” Boss said, waving a hand at him.

Damian saw red and started thrashing against his restraints. They were all dead. All of them.

Not dead dead, of course, but dead.

“Ha,” Drake laughed, “you called him ‘child.’ He hates that.”

“Oh yeah?” Boss asked, “What does he prefer to be called?”

Drake snorted and lulled his head to the side. “He don’t like any nicknames.”

“Is that so?” Boss looked back at Damian and shot him a sly smile. “So what is his name?”

Damian narrowed his eyes at Red Robin. He had no idea what that drug was doing to him, but hopefully loosening his lips was not included. Because if it were… well then. Maybe they were all dead dead.

“Demon,” Drake said, grinning wide now.

“Fuck you, Red,” Robin growled, tugging at his asleep arm. He couldn’t really feel anything in it, anyway, might as well take advantage of that and force it free of the restraints.

“Tsk tsk,” Red Robin chided, “Batman wouldn’t approve of that language.”

That made the Boss raise an eyebrow, “And what about Batman?”

Red Robin shifted and turned a happy-go-lucky smile toward the Boss. “What about him?”

“Who is he?”

“Red, stop talking,” Damian hissed.

In response, the Boss nodded his head to one of the goons, who walked over and lifted Damian off the ground a bit by his hair. “Shut it, kid.”

“Hey,” Red Robin shouted, “Don’t be mean to my little brother. Only I get to be mean to him.”

Damian growled as he wiggled his way out of the man’s grasp. He was not little and they were not brothers! What the hell was that drug doing.

Luckily, all his hair stayed on his head when he finally won his freedom. That would have hurt like a bitch. As it was, the rough treatment was doing nothing for his headache.

Boss ignored Damian and asked, “So then tell me, who is Batman?”

Tim bounced his head back and forth and blurted out, “He’s my dad,” in an extremely chipper tone. Just the sound of it made Damian want to gag. He really hoped they didn't give him the drug, because he'd rather die than act the way Drake was behaving.

“Who is your dad?” Boss pressed.

Imitating Father’s gravel, Tim said, “Batman,” then fell to his side in a fit of laughter.

Yes. Die.

“Very amusing. What is Batman’s real name?”

“Batman's real name,” Red Robin repeated, looking over at Damian pleadingly.

“Yes, what is it?” the Boss asked patiently.

And Damian could tell Tim was actually really struggling to not speak. Obviously, whatever was going through his system had some sort of truth serum in it. Something to mess with his dialogue filter and force him to blurt the first thing that came to mind. That renewed Robin’s determination to break free. He knew his idiot of a colleague was pretty strong, but if he were at the point of struggling and begging Damian for help, there was no telling how much longer he’d last.

“Oh!” Red shouted, “Did you know that it’s possible to not have a middle name? And it’s actually really common in some parts of the world? How weird.”

The thugs exchanged a puzzled look with one another, and Damian used the distraction to his advantage. Clenching his jaw, he pulled his thumb inside his left fist and squeezed as tight as he could. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, allowing the pain to seep out with his breath as the thumb snapped. Slipping his now broken left hand out from the cuffs silently, he looked around, forming his plan of attack.

“Okay,” Boss said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “Can you tell us what your name is?”

“My name?” Red asked, cocking his head.

“Yes. Your name.”

Tim grinned and said, “It’s Red Robin! It’s like Robin, but red. Because I have a red uniform, see?”

The boss was growing impatient, just like Damian, and demanded, “What is your first name?”

At that, Damian sprang to his still bound feet and knocked the goon guarding him out with a well placed kick to the head. Using the guy’s head as a springboard, he vaulted his way across the room, making quick work of all the idiots.

He was sick of this stupid interrogation and it took less than a minute to incapacitate all five men.

And no, they were not dead dead. Damian did make sure, however, that each man would wake up with a headache just as bad as his.

Damian hopped over to where Drake was lying and dragged him up to his knees.

“Hop hop hop like a bunny,” Tim sang once he was sitting up, and it took a lot of self control for Damian not to just knock the moron back over and make him sit up on his own.

He looked around and found a chain cutter against the wall and cut the chain linking his feet together, then Tim’s chains so he could stand. “Get up, Red.”

“Those guys really like names,” Tim said as he took Damian’s offered hand and stood, “whoa the world is spinny.”

“Yes,” Damian drawled, keeping his not broken hand clasped around Tim’s forearm while he led them out of the warehouse. He managed to dig around in his belt for his back up comm with his left hand and called for Batman, giving the man a quick synopsis of Drake’s condition.

“ETA four minutes,” Father responded crisply. And wasn't that just perfect. Damian was going to have to withstand a lecture from Batman because of stupid Drake.

“I like names, too,” Drake continued, stumbling along behind Robin, “Your name is funny. We can call you James or Jamie. Wait. No. that’s not right.”

“Silence, Red,” Damian barked, looking around for good cover. He wanted to get them up a bit higher, but wasn’t sure how feasible that was. He felt extremely exposed and vulnerable on the ground with a broken hand and high Tim Drake. In the end, he decided to cross the street and slip into an alley where there were a couple dumpsters that should do a decent job concealing them.

Drake ambled along behind Damian, allowing him to pull him toward the alley. “Heh. Red. Red Robin. Red Hood. Redbird. Red X. We should be called the red-family.”

“Keep moving, Red,” Damian snapped, annoyed.

“Oh! We should call you Green Robin to add more colors to the family. Or Black Robin? Does that sound racist? It’s because of all the black on your uniform. Or Robin Hood!” Tim cut off his ramble to let out a high-pitched giggle, “because you wear a hood.”

Damian sighed audibly and let go of his idiot of a not-brother to lean back against the wall in the alley. His head wasn’t hurting as bad as it had been, but the weariness of the injury along with all the aches and pains his captivity had caused were catching up to him.

At least he wasn’t high as a kite like Drake, though.

“Then we’d all match. I’m Red Robin, Red Hood, and Robin Hood. We’d all share names.”

“Yes,” Damian drawled, pushing Drake a bit more out of sight, between the two dumpsters, because the moron was in no condition to fight, “very amusing.”

“B would never call us by the right name. Ever. It’d be so funny.”

“Tt.” Damian huffed, putting a hand up to his ear, “Batman, what is your location? Red requires medical attention.”

“Two minutes. How severe are his injuries?”

“Physically he is intact. Mentally, however, is another story,” Robin reported, giving the teen a sideways look.

Tim stumbled forward, and without thinking Damian lunged forward to catch him, draping one of Tim’s arms around his shoulders to help support him. “Would you quit moving?” he snapped, trying to push him back into the gap between the dumpsters.

Giggling again, Tim slumped further onto Damian and wrapped his other arm around. “You’re my annoying little baby brother.”

“Knock it off, Drake,” Damian growled lowly, trying to free himself from Tim’s grasp. Punching him while he was in that state would probably be incredibly rude and lecture-worthy.

But the teenager was insufferable.

And where the hell was this even coming from? They were not brothers. Tim was very clear on that on multiple occasions. And Damian agreed. They were not brothers. And yet Drake kept insisting on calling him 'little brother' tonight. It was infuriating.

Drake was just an imbecile that Father considered a son. Just like Grayson and Todd. Grayson was the only acceptable one of the lot, and therefore the only one he would consider a brother.

“I love you anyway,” Drake added, letting go of the child.

“Tt.” The faster Father got there, the better. He was so done with this annoyingly chipper and chatty Drake with all his stupid words and emotions.

And, as if the powers-that-be could read his thoughts, the Batmobile pulled up. As Nightwing stepped out of the Batmobile, Tim perked up. Damian would never admit he, too, was extremely pleased that Grayson had accompanied Father.

“And I love you, too,” Tim shouted, stumbling forward out of Damian’s grasp.

Nightwing cocked his head and looked over at Damian, “Whats wrong with him?”

“He's high.”

At that, Drake grinned wide and said, “I feel like I’m floating in the clouds.”

“Oh….” Grayson said, looking back and forth between the two younger vigilantes, then finished with a lame, “kay then.”

“Just take him back to the cave,” Damian growled as he shoved Drake toward his older brother, “he’s just getting worse and less coherent the longer this is in his system.”

“All of you,” Batman ordered, “get in.”

“I’m fine,” Damian insisted, “I can continue patrolling.”

Nightwing nodded as he gently guided Tim into the Batmobile. “I’ll stay with Robin. You can handle Red.”

“Little assassin baby needs a hug,” Drake sang, “his hand hurts.”

Betrayal. That’s what Damian felt. Utter betrayal. How did Drake even know that, anyway?

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Grayson said, turning his disappointed glare at Damian, “Let me see that hand.”

Damian grumbled a few curses and lifted his left hand for the man to inspect.

Dick whistled. “Damn. You’re coming back, too.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, pulling his hand back to himself. He was fine. He’d fought with worse. Really, it was his head killing him, anyway. He barely even noticed the hand.

But there was no way he was telling them that.

“Nope, get in,” Dick said, dragging Damian along by his cape.

——

As it turned out, Damian did not have a concussion. Just a pretty nasty knot on his head. Father had not been pleased about him concealing a broken hand and a head injury, however, and Damian found himself grounded.

Drake’s fault. All of it.

But while the initial hour on the drugs had put Drake into a euphoric state, the last several sent him deep into horrible withdrawal symptoms. He spent the majority of the night expelling anything and everything put into his system, and at some point he even cried from whatever pain the drug was causing.

So Damian figured they were even. There was no need to kill him.

This time.

Thankfully, however, in Grayson’s words since Damian didn’t care, the drug did no lasting damage. Once it worked its way through Tim’s system, he was fine.

Not thankfully, though, part of Damian’s punishment was doing chores for Pennyworth. So when Tim was finally recovered enough to eat, Damian found himself forced to bring a bowl of soup and pack of crackers to Drake in his bedroom. Even though he had a freaking cast on his hand.

Smacking the tray down a bit too roughly, Damian snapped a half-hearted, “Pennyworth demanded I bring you this,” before turning on his heels to leave the room as quickly as possible.

“Thanks, Dames,” Tim rasped, sitting up some.

Damian scowled and turned back around, hoping his withering glare would make the teen cry. “My name is Damian, Drake.”

“And mine’s Tim,” he retorted, “Guess neither of us get our way.”

“Tt,” he pouted, crossing his arms across his chest petulantly. That was completely different. Drake could call him ‘Wayne’ and it’d be perfectly acceptable. Damian was simply using the teenager’s name. Drake, on the other hand, was purposely mincing his name, knowing it would upset him.

“Sorry about yesterday,” Drake said, swirling his spoon around in his bowl a bit, “it’s like my filter got turned off…”

Shifting on his feet a bit, Damian said, “Yes you said plenty of asinine things”

Still staring down at his soup, Tim added with a frown, “None of it wasn’t true”

Damian wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he averted his gaze off to the wall above Drake's desk.

And that's when he noticed the dozen of pictures pinned there. Damian had never actually noticed it before, because he never went into Tim’s room. He had dozens of pictures on the wall, all of candid pictures of the ‘family.’ And he was mildly surprised to find himself in a lot of the pictures.

Okay, a bit more the mildly. Why would he have pictures of Damian up above his desk? Where he spent a lot of his time?

Maybe...

Maybe Tim did see them as brothers.

Drake slurped a spoonful of his soup before continuing, “I can’t believe you broke your own thumb, though.”

“It’s not like you were in any condition to save us,” Damian snapped, pulling his attention away from the stupid pictures. Who cared whether the teen saw them as brothers. They weren’t.

“Thanks, Dami.”

“Whatever. Just don’t get us captured again," he spat, turning back around to exit his brother's room dramatically.

Because it was definitely Drake's fault.

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown. org/works/16654726

#Damian Wayne #Tim Drake #Bruce Wayne #Dick Grayson #Alfred Pennyworth #Hurt/comfort #batbros #fanfiction #Tim and Damian being brothers #BECAUSE THEY LOVE EACH OTHER #but you know they can't tell anyone that #because they're too cool for that #cross posted on Ao3 #a while ago actually

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braingray · 6 years ago

Text

Fandom: Batman (Comics)

Rating: M

Warnings: Non-con elements, angst, a deal with the proverbial devil, emotional/mental manipulation

Relationships: Slade/Jason

Characters: Jason Todd, Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake

For @skeletoncloset and this lovely anon! Big thanks to @britaisy for the awesome plot idea!

You shouldn’t have bartered with a villain. The thought pulsed in his head like a wound, but he couldn’t ignore it like he would a bruise or a scrape, even if the intense focus on it only made the pain worse.

Slade hooked his fingers around Jason’s chin. It wasn’t an unusual gesture, not since Talia al Ghul had dragged him from the Lazarus Pit and deposited him in the man’s care as a loyal, if unwilling, pupil. But this? This challenged his devotion, tore and bit at what few shreds of positive emotion he had left.

“You swore to me,” Jason said, blandly. It was as much an effort to convince the man he felt nothing as it was to keep his own voice steady. “You said you would let them go if I promised to stay on as your apprentice.”

As smoothly as could be, Slade returned, “I lied.”

Jason’s jaw flexed with a flash of anger at the nonchalance, but any budding thoughts of defiance disappeared once he looked back down at Dick and Tim, lying still in their chains until the latter started to shake off the drugs. Jason wondered if he was the first to awaken simply because he was small, or because he’d already had more practice being narcotized; either way, his chest ached, racked with guilt.

With the unwavering grip on his face, he has no choice but to watch the way the kid’s eyes flutter open, dart around to calculate, then shoot wide when they land on him and Slade. A slurred call of Jason’s name came out first. Slowly, after one long, burning look, Jason shut his eyes.

He felt instead of saw the gun being pressed into his hand, cold and unforgiving metal. “Pick one,” Slade commanded. “It’s your final test. The last thing you must do to prove that you belong to me.”

Jason knew it was useless, but he shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

Dick was waking up, aided by Tim thrashing against his back, and Jason knew by pure instinct that it meant his time was running out. Seconds ticked by so painfully he thought, in a moment of insanity, he could hear them. Like the sound of a watch, even if there wasn’t one around.

“You don’t have a choice.”

Not anymore. He shouldn’t have promised himself to Slade in the first place. Worse, shouldn’t have kept that promise. It didn’t matter now, not when all he’s known since the dawn of a new life has been Slade’s praises, Slade’s damnation, Slade’s voice. His hands, his tongue, and the rest of him. There wasn’t an inch of Jason’s body that didn’t already belong to his captor.

This was the last stretch of road left to travel to finish the job. There were no weaknesses before he let Dick Grayson back into his life, and then, slowly, over time, Tim Drake. It was foolish to hand pieces of his heart over when he knew it wasn’t his to begin with, but he’d done it anyway, and now he was going to pay the price.

He opened his eyes and pressed the barrel of the gun to his own temple. “What if I don’t give you the satisfaction?” he asked as he listened to Dick mutter profanity under his breath and start twisting in his bonds. Unlike with Tim, when his eyes met the forms of his captors and his pupils shrank in fear -- in recognition, in dawning panic -- the first name out of his mouth wasn’t Jason’s.

“Slade,” he hissed, like he knew. Jason felt something twist in his chest. He didn’t want him to know, didn’t want him to see the way the man’s hand dragged from his chin to his throat, thumb resting on his bottom lip.

“Pick, now,” Slade demanded.

Dick made a face, trying to assess what he’d missed in his unconscious state. Tim came to his aid with a series of shaky words: “One of us is going to die.”

Slade, with a hum, swept a gloved hand down Jason’s front. Down past his chest armor, past the badge marking him, past his stomach, then his belt. Jason closed his eyes again.

Delivered in a carefully-leveled baritone, the answer to his earlier question finally came: “If you off yourself, I’ll take both of them in your place.” His guts churned at that.

Dick had wide eyes trained on the movements of Slade’s hand, where it was cupping Jason through his pants in a grotesque display of ownership that sent a burn of shame through his entire body.

Tim was face-down, forehead pressed to the cold tile of the roof. To anyone else, it might have looked like he’d given up hope, but Jason could see plainly the way nimble hands steadily worked at the lock to his binds. In a foolish bid for more time, he looked over at Slade. “And if I don’t shoot anyone?”

“My answer remains the same.”

“Jason, no,” Dick begged. “You can step away. You’re better than this.”

“No,” Slade answered for him, calmly, smugly. He took Jason’s chin in his hand again and leaned in like he might have been entertaining the idea to kiss him. “He really isn’t. Are you, pet?”

Like hypnosis, the touch reminded Jason why he was alive, who he worked for, who owned him. It may have been with a jolt of nausea that he realized it, but he couldn’t risk what he already had for what he never would, not wholly. “No,” he admitted, and the emotion it dredged up must have been enough to catch Tim’s attention, because he snapped his head up to look. His breaths were ragged, audible even past the brisk Gotham wind.

Jason thought about weakness and all the stupid, useless love left in what was veritably his corpse. If there was ever a chance at rebirth, it only made sense to take it, right? To get rid of the biggest threat, the one who says Slade’s name with a special brand of bitterness and watches his hands creep over Jason’s hips like he knows why they’re there and pities him for it. Well, he didn’t want that pity; didn’t want him to dive through the city every night thinking about how Jason might be confined to a bed somewhere, submitting to a threat he’d long since stopped fighting against.

He aimed the gun at Dick’s head and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked, thrumming uselessly when presented with an empty chamber, no bullet to propel. Tim opened his mouth and made a broken sobbing sound that drove the ache in Jason’s chest deeper. Dick’s eyes were sad, but not shocked. That hurt worse.

Slade laughed. Low, cruel. “See? I told you I’d let them go. And shouldn’t you trust me by now, pet?” He shook Jason’s wrist until the gun clattered to the cement, then jerked him a step closer.

You shouldn’t have bartered with a villain.

“Congratulations,” the man said, with a predatory curl of his lips that Jason could feel against the shell of his ear. “You passed. And you know what that means?” A satisfied hum, then, “You’re mine for good.”

#lori writes #thank you guys for requesting!!#bad things happen bingo

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bat-losers-inc · 6 years ago

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Collisions in the Dark (Ch 8): Pawn Break

Summary: They're just steps from the finish line when Jason makes a sacrifice for Tim.

Pairings: Tim Drake/Jason Todd & Ra’s al Ghul/Tim Drake

Chapter Note: Pawn Break: A pawn move that attacks an enemy pawn in order to open up lines and/or challenge the opponent's pawn structure.

“Your hands fell through me two lights I almost broke in half wanting. Tell me what you thought you were doing when you tried to lay your body into that ground.” — “Letter from the Icefield, December”, Sara Eliza Johnson.

The hand placed on Tim’s shoulder awoke him with a start and a flail that dislodged the hand and bolted him upright. It was not Ra’s or Jason that stood over him, but rather one of Ra’s attendants, the same one that had brought him those fancy dining clothes so long ago, and he neither cowered nor loomed, just simply blinked patiently at Tim.

Tim cleared his throat and glanced around the room for a clock. “Yes?”

Tim spotted the clock on the side table. As the man talked, Tim squinted sleep-blurred eyes at it, trying to discern numbers out of black blobs like it was a Rorschach test.

“I was told to wake you when the plane landed. The Demon Head asks that you meet him in the command center to watch the mission outcome with him.”

And suddenly those black blobs transformed into numbers and Tim knew exactly what time it was. Jason had left early this morning with his team to plant the devices. According to the man standing in front of him, the plane had just landed in New York.

He hurried an agreeable response to the attendant and flipped back the covers in search of his pants.

“Would you like me to bring you breakfast in your room, sir?”

“Huh?” Tim stopped with one leg shoved through his pants and mentally went through what the other had just asked him. He was afraid of what would happen to the command center’s floors if he ate breakfast then watched that mission on an uneasy stomach. “No, no. I’m not hungry. You can go.”

When the door closed behind him, Tim scrambled into the rest of his clothing. He wanted to race down the halls to the command center, afraid to miss any second of the mission at hand, but he knew that he needed to pause and reflect on the plan. If the mission was a success, the weapon would be deployed in the building, the Justice League would arrive, and Jason would slip away in the fray. It would be Tim’s responsibility to slip out this evening, stealing a car from the car park and signalling Dick to pick him up.

Tim reminded himself to breathe. He inhaled deeply and opened the door, racing off down the hall.

The command center was in a frenzy of movement as Tim walked through the glass doors. Well, Tim amended his statement, as his eyes landed on the center of the room. The technicians were in a frenzy at the computers and tables that circled the pit in the middle of the room. Ra’s stood alone in that pit, eyes on the large screens that dominated the wall in front of him. He was the solid rock that the river of workers parted around.

Tim waded through the bodies, like a salmon swimming against the current, until he stood at his side.

“I knew you wouldn’t want to miss any of the excitement.” said Ra’s when Tim stopped next to him.

“Yeah,” Tim replied with a smile. “Thanks for waking me.”

He checked himself a moment later. Had he just genuinely smiled at Ra’s al Ghul and thanked him? God he needed to leave here as fast as possible. Tim feared what would happen to his psyche if he stayed any longer.

Ra’s reached around a computer, one of many that sat on the circular table that ringed the pit. He offered his open palm towards Tim, and in it sat a comm unit.

“Incase we need to relay instructions.” said Ra’s.

Tim knew that he meant incase something went wrong. He tried to keep his mask in place, afraid to betray any emotions. What if this was just another one of Ra’s tests? Tim had thought that he’d passed all of them at this stage, but as much as he thought he understood Ra’s, deep down he knew that he only understood a small part of him. And that part was the one Ra’s displayed openly… his constant distrust in everyone.

Despite Ra’s praises towards him, Tim had a feeling that he was held under the same scrutiny.

Tim slipped the comm over his ear. Don’t freak out, he reminded himself. After all, the command center had eyes all around the U.N. building, both inside and out. This was just added security.

Two large screens on Tim’s right were solely for displaying each mission members live video and audio feed, with the person’s name displayed in the corner of their video feed. Tim moved to stand behind the technician who was in charge of monitoring the feeds as well as each team member’s vitals.

“When will we be able to see what they’re seeing?” asked Tim, trying not to hover overly much. Tim itched to be sitting in the man’s seat, to have all that technology in his grasp. Despite Ra’s claim that Tim was a tactician, Tim’s true love was hacking and monitoring. He didn’t give a damn about leading armies. Give him a computer and he’d make an army of code to dismantle any company or secrete organization that stood in his way.

“They would have turned on the cameras after they cleared the U.N. security. The video transmissions should be coming up any minute now.”

Tim back stepped until he could get a clear look at the screens again. The videos sparked to life one by one. Tim’s eyes scanned the names until he found Jason’s and waited with bated breath until Jason’s video transmission came alive and the partial view of a nose and eyes filled his screen.

“Did I get it? How do we know if they’re receiving this?” His voice came through the speakers of the command center.

Ra’s pace a hand to the comm link in his ear. “We’re receiving everyone right now, Jason.”

“Oh,” The eye that filled the screen blinked and pulled back hurriedly.

Talia’s voice relayed their current location. “We’re outside touring the grounds now. We’ll break off from the tour group when we near the building. From there, we’ll bypass the security details, and find the M.E.P. room. After that all that’s left is to plant the devices in the air vents that will circulate the toxin throughout the entire building.”

Tim’s stomach churned at the thought.

He watched on silently as the team moved in a slow walk with the tour group, the unassuming people in front of them nodding along to the tour leader and snapping pictures. Tim tried not to pay attention to their faces, too afraid that they might come into contact with the anthrax. He was already troubled by this mission enough as it was, he didn’t need to add more faces to the ones that were already haunting his dreams.

“Okay,” said Talia, “Everyone ready?”

There was a chorus of agreements delivered in hushed voices into their jackets. “Move out.”

Tim leaned towards the technician in charge of the cameras. “What floor of the general assembly building is the mechanical room on?”

“For a building of this size, probably basement level.”

Well, at least they didn’t have to sneak far into the building, thought Tim. He watched as the six team members waded through the milling groups of people that dominated the entrance area of the building. They slipped down a hallway, and continued down it until they had passed the small conference rooms on the ground floor. They came to a stop at a doorway labeled personnel only. Talia stepped to the side to allow one man to pick at the locks while the rest flattened themselves against the wall, keeping an eye out for security guards.

Tim’s eyes switched between Talia’s video feed, which dominated the center screen of the command center, and Jason’s feed off to the right. He watched Jason’s headset camera jerk around at the sound of the door popping open from the lock.

The group filed down a cement staircase and yanked the heavy metal door of the mechanical room open.

“We’re in the M.E.P room,” stated Talia. “Everyone take a bag and fan out to the ventilation systems. Activate the devices and toss them into the vents.”

Tim’s eyes were glued onto Jason’s video feed as he accepted a backpack and moved through the network of pipes, water tanks, and electrical boxes, his camera bouncing between the floor and the ceiling, until he stopped under a series of vents.

Jason dropped his backpack onto the floor in front of him and crouched down, unzipping it and pulling it open. Tim stared at the collection of spray cans that lay inside the bag. They were small, travel sized bottles, disguised to look like anything from bug spray to body spray. So that was how they’d managed to get them past the security scanners.

Jason stared into the bag, his hands gripping the zipper edges like he was afraid of what his hands would do if he let go. Tim was right there with him and he knew what he was thinking… about how he could be using his those hands to kill more people. However these people didn’t deserve what was coming to them, unlike the criminals that Jason took out as the Red Hood. Despite the verbal abuse that Jason received from all of his other family members about morals, Tim now understood Jason’s side of it. That flimsy reasoning, that they were bad people who deserved it, seemed to mean everything to Tim in that moment. Tim understood, like Jason did, that this action would be so much different from all of Jason’s other actions. If people died today, they would be innocent and Jason would have no excuse but the priority of completing the mission to defend himself with.

Tim and Jason had known that they would have to give up a lot to complete this mission. Be it morals, comfort, or relationships. They had known, but this moment, at the end of all of it, and after everything that they had already suffered through… this felt like the moment when they were crossing the line of no return. The deliberate action of terrorism that they were being forced to participate in, The action that went against everything they stood for, but was required to uphold their values and save lives. Tim wished he could be by Jason’s side in that moment, to give his support and pull him gently over that line. To show him that he would not be alone in crossing it, through it might feel like he was alone in that moment, with this final decision staring him in the face.

Tim placed his fingers against the comm in his ear. “Jason.”

It was all he could manage, but it seemed to be enough, kicking Jason back into motion. Jason didn’t react quickly, however, like he wanted to get this done as soon as possible. Instead Jason took his time, like he had all the time in the world. Tim watched as Jason’s hands hovered over the open backpack. Jason’s fingers brushed over the aerosol bottles. He took them out gently and placed them on the floor next to the bag. One by one. Then he waited.

Into their microphones, the other five team members reported the completion of their tasks. Tim’s eyes flickered to the last member’s video feed as he twisted the top of his last can and tossed it into the vents. The camera jerked as the man turned and ran back up the stairs that lead to the ground floor.

“I’m so sorry, Tim.”

Tim jerked back around to Jason’s video feed. His was the only stationary camera, the only one not running through the hallway on the ground floor and slipping out into the city streets.

Tim’s hand was on his comm in an instant. “Jason? What’s going on? Get out of there!”

Jason’s video feed swayed from side to side with the sake of his head. “I can’t do that, Tim. I’m sorry, but that wasn’t part of the agreement.”

Jason’s video feed replaced Talia’s on the central screen, enlarged so that Tim had a clear view of Jason’s shaking hands as he fumbled a radio out of his pocket.

“What is that? What is he doing with that radio?” Ra’s demanded from behind him.

“Justice League move in!” cried Jason. “Anthrax has been released into the ventilation system. The building needs to be evacuated immediately!”

“No!” cried Ra’s.

And like Jason could sense his outrage, Jason spoke into his comm. “I couldn’t let you win everything, now could I?”

Ra’s anger seemed to transform in an instant from fire into ice. “Yes, well you won’t be able to ruin everything next time. You’ll be dead by the end of the day.”

Tim felt like he got sucker punched in the chest. Suddenly he knew what Ra’s was doing, displaying Jason’s demise for all to see like a gladiator’s death in a coliseum. Ra’s was the emperor and he held Jason’s life or death in his hands. Tim’s emotions bubbled up and threatened to choke him to death. His eyes watered with the pain of it.

“What agreement, Jason?” He nearly screamed. “Why won’t you get out of there?”

The camera shook as Jason hacked into the crook of his arm, the toxic air already affecting his lungs. “He knew, Tim. I wasn’t going to let both us die here. Better it’s me. Better that you make it out of this one.”

“I would have had to be blind not to see it,” said Ra’s. “You grew careless, Timothy. You thought you were in control of the chess board, but you forgot who you were playing against.”

Tim turned to fix a suddenly watery gaze on him. Tim couldn’t stand here doing nothing. He wasn’t going to just watch Jason die.

Tim clutched at Ra’s arms. At his shirt front. “ Please! You have me. Just get him out of there, get him to a hospital, and I’ll be yours. I’ll do anything you want, I’ll be whoever you want me to be. I swear I will. Please, make a deal with me instead. My life for his.”

Ra’s hands stroked the back of Tim’s head and down his arms. Behind him on the screen, Jason choked and sputtered. In between labored breaths, Jason mumbled something incomprehensible, over and over again. Tim wished that he could spare a moment to listen, but all of his focus was on Ra’s, at convincing him in any way he had to to spare Jason’s life.

A small smile make it’s way onto Ra’s lips after what felt like a lifetime of waiting.

“But, Timothy,” stated Ra’s. “I already have you, here, at my mercy. You can’t make a deal if you have nothing to bargain with.”

Tim’s knees cracked against the floor, the breath in his lungs leaving him in one go. The only part of him that seems to be working were his eyes. He blinked hard and let the tears flow. The room was silent and it was in that still moment that Tim could finally understand the words that Jason had been speaking.

I love you. I love you so much.

“Oh God.” Tim moaned, clutched at himself as he realized that it was now, as Jason was dying that he finally said the words Tim had longed to hear. Tim fumbled for the comm on his ear. He crawled on the floor until he could see Jason’s feed on the screen. Tim wasn’t going to let Jason die on him without telling him how he felt.

“Jason…” Tim croaked, his throat was tight with a pain that radiated up from his gut, constricting his muscles until he feared he couldn’t breathe. “Jason, I—”

Ra’s ripped the comm off of his ear and crushed it under his boot. In front of him, the screen went dark.

“I don’t want you to speak his name anymore,” ordered Ra’s. “Jason Todd is dead. From now on there is only you and me.”

Tim closed his eyes tight and pressed his face to the floor. His body spasmed with sobs he couldn’t contain.

I love you, Jason. He whispered to the stones beneath his body, hoping that somehow his words would tunnel through the earth to find the spot where Jason lay. Tim pressed himself into the ground and tried to travel that distance… tried to remember the feel Jason’s touches and kisses. And Tim hoped that Jason felt them too… for one last time.

#batman #bat-losers-inc #LittleDarlingXOX #JayTim #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #Jason Todd/Tim Drake #ra'stim #Talia al Ghul #batman fic #collisions in the dark

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brokaw22 · 7 years ago

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Fic: Reality or Nightmare

ff.net

Day Three of TImDrakeWeek: Prompt: Dream / Reality

Tim doesn’t know if this is reality or a dream, but if it’s a dream, it’s a nightmare.

He hits the ground hard, and groans. He doesn’t register the pain, which is probably a bad sign, but Tim doesn’t have time to worry about that right now. He needs to get up and keep moving.

They’re coming for him, and he’s out of anything useful to fight back with. His only option is finding an escape, although Tim knows that there’s only so long he can keep going with his current injuries. He doesn’t know what the hell happened or why they’re after him, but that hardly matters at the moment. All Tim knows is that if he doesn’t get up and find some way to lose his pursuers; his family is going to have another former Robin to bury, and they don’t need another dead Robin on their conscience.

The fact that his pursuers happen to be his family is also irrelevant. Tim assumes there was some sort of incident while Batman, Nightwing, and Red Hood were on patrol…most likely something involving Poison Ivy, Joker, or Scarecrow, or possibly all three, if the murderous intent in the other three is any indicator. Tim doesn’t remember anything before that first hit. He was standing on a rooftop, trying to track Robin’s location when a heavy boot connected with the back of his head. He never even heard Batman arrive. He careened into Red Hood’s fist, which sent him flying into Nightwing’s elbow.

From there it was a long series of attempting to block and dodge punches and kicks from all three of them, and failing more often than not. Tim managed to make a run for it after Red Hood pistol whipped him and sent him crashing down a fire escape, but he honestly doesn’t even know where he is anymore. The streets and buildings are blurring together and his lungs are burning with the need for air. He hears the distinct sound of a grappling gun being fired somewhere above him and his heart rate increases dramatically.

This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. He can’t lose them. Tim’s good, but he’s not this good. Not when his left shoulder is dislocated, his right knee feels like it’s going to buckle under his weight any second, and his vision keeps swimming. The blood dripping down his face from his hairline isn’t helping matters, and Tim can’t seem to catch his breath. He needs to rest, but there’s no time. If this is a dream, he desperately wants to wake up, and if this is reality…well, Tim just hopes that this isn’t reality.

He stops dead, nearly slamming into Nightwing, who has blocked his path. Tim spins on his heel, narrowly dodging Red Hood. Jason hasn’t shot at him yet, though Tim doesn’t know why. Jason has been using rubber bullets since he’s started regularly patrolling with them, but at this range even rubber bullets would definitely do some serious damage.

Tim doesn’t make it very far before Batman slams into his back. Tim’s head thuds against the ground and it takes him a second to reorient himself. There’s a thick glove clad hand buried in his cape, dragging him back, and Tim scrambles to tear it away. He manages to escape and makes a break for it, but he doesn’t get very far before Jason knocks his feet out from under him again.

Suddenly, smoke envelops the entire area and Tim chokes on it. He shakily gets to his feet and hits into a wall. There’s movement from behind him. Someone is closing in on him, but Tim can’t tell who the shadow belongs to. He claws at the wall, trying to find a handhold, a lose brick, or something…anything to aid him in this moment. His pulse is pounding in his ears, or maybe that’s just his headache. Tim doesn’t know anymore.

His hands are bare and bleeding, but that doesn’t make any sense. He was wearing gloves only a moment ago. Tim’s breath comes out in short rasps, and he’d scream if he thought it would do any good. He’s failed and there’s nothing that he can do but accept whatever is going to happen next. He turns to the slowly approaching individual, bloody fists clenched and teeth grinding together.

Abruptly, there’s a flash of light, the deafening crack of thunder, and a sudden downpour that smothers the smoke. Tim’s drenched within seconds, but the figure is finally illuminated and he sees Robin approaching him, hands held out in a placating gesture. “Stand down, we need to go now!”

Tim tries to catch his breath, but instead coughs. He feels like he’s drowning on the raindrops cascading down his face. He shakes the water out of his eyes, ignoring how it mixes with the blood still seeping down his brow. “Where are the others?”

“There’s no time. Come with me now.” There’s something off about Damian’s voice. It isn’t fear, or his normal impatience. It’s…Tim doesn’t know what it is. He expected exasperation, taunting, or even criticism. This…this is new, and problematic.

Tim shakes his head. There’s something wrong here. He doesn’t know if Damian was exposed to whatever has caused Batman, Nightwing, and Red Hood to attack him. It doesn’t seem like it. After all, the others just came out of nowhere; they didn’t say a word, and they certainly didn’t try to lure him anywhere. No, they just attacked. However, this is Damian, and Damian has always been different. He’s always been an unknown factor. Tim’s wary, but even he knows that they can’t just stay here.

They have to get moving before the others return. However, that doesn’t exactly make sense, either. Tim needs to know where the other three are and where they went, but he knows better than to waste time asking such questions. Still, Tim doesn’t understand why the three of them would abandon their target. Unless…unless Batman, Nightwing, and Red Hood didn’t abandon their target. Tim wants to quickly glance around, find where they’re hiding and make a break for it, but he knows that would be too obvious, so instead he does what he does best.

Tim slowly approaches Damian. He makes a show of keeping his eyes locked on the kid at all times. Once he’s close enough, Tim moves as fast as he possibly can. He blocks Damian’s attempt to immobilize him, grabs a hold of Robin’s cape, and wraps it around him. Tim tugs the fabric as hard as he can, and uses it to position Damian perfectly. “I’m sorry,” Tim whispers before slamming his head into Damian’s, and shoving him away.

Tim sways as he takes off running, not even bothering to listen to the sound of Damian hitting the ground. The others have to be close behind him now, and he’s wasted valuable time. His heart is still pounding and his chest hurts from lack of oxygen. His vision dims again, but Tim pushes through it and keeps going. His boots can barely get enough traction on the wet cement and he nearly falls numerous times. Tim is only able to keep himself upright due to extensive years of training. He picks up speed as he blinks water out of his eyes and tries to think of some place to run to.

His mind blanks, and he’s pretty sure that he’s wasting precious breath panicking. Tim uses a light pole to help him make a sharp turn down a side street. His foot catches on the edge of an uneven sidewalk, and he slams into the pavement in the middle of the street. Bright lights bear down on him and his ears ring with the sound of a car horn. He’s too tired to stand or roll out of the way, so he simply shuts his eyes and waits for the pain to be over.

However, before the car can hit him, two strong arms wrap around him. “It’s okay; you’re safe now, little brother.” As Tim’s head lolls to the side, and the world around him goes dark, he’s struck with the thought that whatever Nightwing was hit with must have worn off, because that was definitely Dick’s voice.

XYZXYZ

Tim’s eyes open an indeterminate amount of time later, and he just stares at the dark ceiling of the cave. It takes him a second to realize that there’s a heavy hand in his and he looks down to see Dick clutching his hand with a white knuckle grip. He glances over at Dick’s face only to see that his older brother is fast asleep. Tim shifts, trying to assess the damage to his body, but just trying to move even that much sends a jolt of pain through his entire body.

His sudden gasp of pain has Dick bolting upright and leaning over him. “Finally, you’re awake. You gave us quite a scare, little brother.”

“What…” Tim coughs to clear his throat, and Dick immediately hands him a bottle of water. He downs as much of it as he can and works his throat a few times before trying to speak again. “What happened?”

Dick stares at him for a long moment, seemingly worried. “What do you remember?”

Tim thinks about the attack, about running, about nearly dying, and decides to just shake his head. He doesn’t know what’s real anymore, because it doesn’t make sense that Dick was there to save him. Not when he was one of the people who attacked him in the first place, and there are too many gaps…too many things that don’t make sense, so he settles on, “Not much,” and lets Dick tell him the rest.

Dick sighs heavily as he holds onto Tim’s hand tighter. “You were exposed to a new form of Scarecrow toxin.”

Tim breathes out a breath. There’s still a lot of information that he doesn’t have yet, but at least certain thinks are starting to make sense now. “Well, that explains a lot.”

Dick stares at him for a long moment, before launching into an explanation of what exactly happened. “At first, you were extremely uncoordinated and unsteady on your feet. We thought that we had plenty of time to get you back to the cave. However, we didn’t get very far before you had started to lose focus. You insisted that you could make it, but I should have known better.”

Tim coughs again and swallows. “Not your fault.”

Dick merely shakes his head, before continuing. “Yeah, well, after that, I assume whatever hallucinations you were having must have gotten pretty bad, because you ran away from us in terror. We caught up to you a couple of times, but you were fighting pretty hard to lose us.”

Tim nods, because that fits certain things that he remembers. “Yeah, I vaguely remember running, but what about the injuries?”

Dick sighs again as he shakes his head. “I’m not entirely sure how you got all of your injuries. I can tell you that some of them were self inflicted, but I’m pretty sure a portion of them were from when you slammed into walls and fire escapes while you were running away. You’re damn good at evading us, little brother, even while drugged.”

Tim’s not entirely sure if that’s a compliment or not, especially since he certainly didn’t think that a few hours ago. “Thanks, I think.”

Dick huffs out a breath as he rubs his thumb over Tim’s wrist. It takes a second for Tim to realize that Dick is feeling his pulse. “That said, Damian did finally manage to corner you after a while. At first, we thought he had gotten through to you, but then you attacked him and managed to knock him out. Trust me; he wasn’t pleased about that, by the way. Anyway, I found you shortly after that. You had collapsed in the middle of the street and were about to be hit by an oncoming vehicle.” Dick takes a deep shuddering breath before continuing. “I almost didn’t get to you in time.”

Tim squeezes Dick’s hand and gives him the most sincere smile that he can muster right now. “But you did.”

Dick nods, but he’s still rubbing Tim’s pulse point in his wrist rhythmically. “Anyway, you passed out shortly after that, but your breathing, heart rate, and temperature were all elevated. By the time I got you back to the cave, you were convulsing, and then your heart stopped. I…I didn’t think you were gonna make it, Timmy.”

Tim’s not exactly surprised. He remembers the chest pain and elevated heart rate. Not to mention, the way everything hurts right now, despite the fog of pain killers. Tim merely blinks a few times and gestures for Dick to come closer. Once he has him in range, Tim gathers his big brother into a hug, despite the pain. “It’s okay. I’m still breathing. I’m here. You got there in time, and I’m fine.”

Dick tightens the embrace, but only marginally, knowing exactly how much pain Tim is in. ��What were you seeing, little brother? Why did you run from us?”

Tim merely shakes his head. None of them need to know the truth. “I don’t remember, and it doesn’t matter. You saved me, and that’s all that counts.”

Dick pets his hair before releasing him. “If you’re up for it, I’ll go tell the others your awake now.”

Tim smiles softly. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.” He yawns as he snuggles back into the pillow behind his head. “I don’t know how long I’ll be awake, though.”

Dick pats his arm affectionately. “Just do your best to wait for Alfred and Bruce, okay?”

Tim nods, and does his best to stifle another yawn. “Love ya, Dick.”

Dick smiles before he turns to head up the stairs. “Love ya, too, little brother.”

Tim does his best not to jostle any of his injuries as he lies back and waits for the others. He yawns once again as he considers that, even with the pain, Tim definitely prefers reality over that nightmare.

The End

#timdrakeweek2k17 #timdrakeweek #Tim Drake #dick grayson #Damian Wayne #fanfic

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loxare · 8 years ago

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A Talon by Any Other Name

Chapter 10 - Spiralling

The only sounds coming from the comm. was bitten back shouts of pain and muttered curses. Tim was fighting to hold back tears. Bruce had sent him upstairs, trying to protect him, but he had forgotten the comm. unit Tim had had in his pocket. He'd heard everything. He was still hearing everything.

“Dick? Hood? Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Please, answer me. Dick, we found Hood's name. Please, we know who he was. Bats hasn't told me, but I know he knows. Your name got taken, but we can give that back too. We can give them both back.” If the Talons could hear, no matter what state they were in, they would find some way to answer.

Nothing for a solid minute. Then, “Hey, Acrobat?”

“Yeah Hood?”

“Think they'll... find us?”

“'Course Little Wing. Why -agh- why wouldn't they?”

“I'm not sure I'm worth it. You have hope in you Acrobat. I saw the record... of your -urgh- assignments. Nothing worse than... the murder of a corrupt political figure. I've done a lot worse.”

Tim shook his head. Hood couldn't hear him, but he spoke anyways. “No Hood. No. What you did then wasn't your fault.”

Dick seemed to have the same idea. “Not your fault Little Wing. Not... your... faul...t.”

Hood let out a small, pained chuckle. “Good idea. Can't feel it if you're unconscious. Don't worry. I'll keep watch.” He gave out a gasp, then a slow inhale. The quality on this call was really good. Near perfect clarity. Tim stifled a sob. “You had a name, right? I remember calling you something else. But it's... ow, it's gone.” Hood fell silent.

There was a few hours of this, silence with nothing to distract Tim from his thoughts. Hood and Dick were not here. They were hurt and not only could he do nothing to find them, he was stuck in his room. Alfred was “dusting” outside, probably to keep him from running off. He just... felt so useless! He opened the feed to the Batcave on his computer. He'd planted a camera there a few days ago, which Bats had obviously found within the hour. But he hadn't found the secondary camera, the one that was smaller and better hidden. Not as good quality, but better than nothing.

Bruce was typing frantically. A million windows were plastered across the screens, with traffic cams of all locations and angles displayed. He'd hacked the financial records of every Owl he knew of, looking for purchased houses, ware houses, sheds, bolt holes, boats, anything and everything that was big enough to hold two Talons.

Talons? Tim didn't want to call them Talons anymore. Because they weren't. Talons were cold, calculating, horrible. Murderers. Dick and Hood were warm and full of laughter and they could bring so much goodness to this world if they were given the chance.

Dick had called him a brother. So that was what he was. Timothy Jackson Drake, adopted son of Bryce Wayne, vigilante Red Wing, and the younger brother of Richard John Grayson and Hood.

...That last part sounded weird. He'd have to get Hood's name from Bruce later.

Tim was just about to open a feed to the Batcomputer, to lend a hand, when an alert flared across the screen. Joker again, this time with Ivy. Already, they were planting bombs downtown. Most likely some mix of Joker toxin and pheromone pollen. Bruce flexed his hands in his gloves, obviously conflicted.

Finally, he pulled his cowl over his head and headed for the Batmobile, locking down the Batcomputer to finish the tasks without him.

Of course, now Tim couldn't help with that either. With a cry of frustration, he slammed his fist into the ground. Then, again. And again. It wasn't a productive use of his energy, in any way, shape, or format, but it was very satisfying. Right up until his knuckles started bleeding, and a little after.

He probably would have kept going, but a sound from the comm. brought him out of his stupor, diving for the dropped and forgotten unit to better hear everything that was said.

“Ahhh ah, ow, that was my intestine. Hate gut wounds. The acid goes ever-ahhhowow-where. Yeah, yeah, Cobb. I can see your little camera. Not gonna make me scream.”

There was a muffled beep, followed by a series of thuds and an electrical whine. When it stopped, Hood lay panting for a minute, the laughed. “Nope. Nice try. Electrocution always sucks. Be careful though. Don't want to waste the battery on this thing or it won't have enough juice to kill me.”

There was a groan. “You up Acrobat?”

“I... yeah, I oh, OW! That's...”

“Stomach acid. Yeah.”

“Hate it when that happens.” There was a cough, then scraping as someone shifted position. “Hood, about what you said earlier...” Another cough, this time from Hood. “You're worth it Hood. You are.”

“No, I'm no-”

“No! You are. Ow, shouldn't have shouted. Hood, I saw it four years ago, and I still see it. You're -ow- good. No, shut up, you are. You're not a Talon anymore. You can be... you can be a Robin.”

“Haha-ow-ha. A what?”

“A Robin. That's what my mooo-ow-oom used to call me. Her little bird on the trapeze.”

“I'm not a Robin Acrobat. I've never been on a trapeze. Ouch. How do you even remember this?” A whimper. Tim wasn't sure who it was from.

“They didn't know I remembered it, so they didn't -agh- know to take it away. And that's not the point you brat.” Somehow, they managed to share a laugh. “What I mean is, you're still bright. Not innocent anymore, you've seen too much. But you glow with life, with goodness.” There was a moment of silence. “You said I had hope in me. That was because of you Little Wing. Before I -urgh- met you, I did horrible things. I wasn't a... person. But I saw you and I rebuilt myself around being your brother. You just have to rebuild yourself too. You don't believe me. I can see it. Don't -ah- worry. You will. You'll see it some day.” There was some more shifting. “Hm? Hood? What's -ow- that?”

“It's a comm... The comm. Batman gave us.”

Jimmy the Snake was a low level thug. Of course, he fancied himself the next Falcone, but so did half the people in his gang. They'd gotten picked up recently, to help keep the Bat away while Joker and Ivy set up their latest “destroy Gotham” plan. A good plan, but they would need more than the measly hundred guys they'd gotten if they really wanted to keep the Bat off of them. Good pay though. Which was the only reason Jimmy the Snake was standing here, holding a semi-automatic and trying to look tough. Fairly easy when he stood at 6'4” and had a face that looked like it'd been through a blender.

Not the point. Point was, he'd been around the block. He'd seen the Bat take out twice this many guys with a paper clip and seventeen oranges. That had been a day. But he'd never seen this.

They saw the Bat coming. That was unusual enough. Normally, he snuck up on them, swooped down from the nearest tall building. And there were a lot of tall building to choose from. But instead he drove in, right up main street like it was nothing. Then, still half a block away, he launched himself out. Honest to God launched. The... what was it... momentum threw him over the heads of the small army Ivy had collected and right into Joker. Seriously, his feet landed on Joker's face. Before the clown could fall, he was pushing off, flying back into the crowd.

And that was where things got surreal. The Bat was the most seamless fighter Jimmy had ever seen. The absolute best. Of course, one day, Jimmy would get lucky and take the Bat out – blaming it on his mad skills of course – but that was for later. When he had time to cement his criminal empire. This though...

He was fighting like the thugs he took out. All heavy fists and no finesse. Bats usually moved like water, but now he was like a jerky automaton. Rigid punch, followed by rigid kick, then rigid elbow to the rib cage. Not only that, but he was getting injured and stuff. Greggie Manfred scored himself a blow to the ribs, and Greggie was the worst fighter in Jimmy's outfit. Jimmy himself managed to sneak up on the Bat and ram a knife into his side. Skittered off the Kevlar, missed the kidneys, but it was in there. On any other day, he would have been over the moon over this. Jimmy the Snake, and he slithered in and stabbed the Bat.

But he had snuck up on the Bat. People don't just sneak up on the Bat. This one time, Jimmy had watched Annie Grimes sneak up on him. The warehouse they'd been in had been incredibly noisy, and Annie had always been quiet. But just as she'd been about to blow his brains out point blank,he'd reached over his shoulder, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and had Annie face first on the ground and cuffed before anyone could blink. People didn't just sneak up on the Bat. Didn't matter if it was in a noisy warehouse or a noisy fight, it didn't happen. But Jimmy had.

So excuse Jimmy for being a little worried. Bats was his greatest nemesis, and Jimmy the snake was Bat's (well, one day). But he couldn't rise to the top of the top if he didn't have the Bat to oppose him. Sure, Red Wing would be fine, seeing as he wasn't here or nothing, but there was no glory to be grabbed by fighting someone half his age for the rest of his life.

His worry lasted right up until Bat's got a hold of him. Jimmy had been keeping count. The Bat had a few broken ribs, sprained ankle, four bullet holes and half a dozen knife wounds, but he still managed to grab Jimmy by the head, snap both of his arms, beat him half senseless, and drop him, all in the span of about ten seconds.

Bats could go screw himself. Clearly, he was fine.

If Batman had been thinking clearly, he would be worried about how he was behaving. Of the hundred or so thugs that were in the area, he had maybe twenty left, and he was starting to wear down. He couldn't quite curl the fingers on his right hand into a proper fist anymore. Repeated connections with one too many thugs' faces. Not only were they bruised, they were bleeding under his gloves and one of them was dislocated. But he wasn't. Worried, that is. All he could think about was the missing boys, their feed still coming through the comm.

THUD

A small moan of pain, its intensity in no way affected by its size.

THUD THUD BAM CRUNCH

Even unconscious, Dick cried out, louder than he would have if he'd been awake.

WHAM CRACK THUD CRUNCH

The loudest noise that came from Hood was a whimper, but Batman could hear the suppressed screams in every one.

THUD THUD THUD THUd THud Thud thud thud ...

The criminal he had in his hands was begging for him to stop. His entire face was a swollen bleeding mask. Barely aware of his surroundings, Batman stood up. The one he had been beating to death had been the last one, so he slowly turned to Joker and Ivy, who were still here for whatever reason. He shot out his grapple gun, reeling himself in so he flew right past Joker, arm-barring him in the throat. While the Joker wheezed chuckles, he turned to Ivy.

Something in his face made her surrender immediately. The Joker just kept laughing. “Haha-wheeze-hahaha. Batsy! I love this... new side to you.”

Later, much later, Batman would remember Joker's words and be horrified. After all, he had just beaten a hundred people half to death with nothing more than his fists. But right now, Dick and Hood needed him. These people were standing between him and finding them. So, with a simple, decisive punch, he knocked Joker unconscious. “Shut up.”

He knocked out Ivy, cuffed both villains, and shut down their machine. It looked like it would spread pollen, laced with Joker Gas, into the air. The pollen would kill off the humans, Ivy would get her plant paradise, Joker would get his laugh, the standard fare for these kind of scenarios.

He took a few samples, less neatly than usual, then called the Batmobile. He had to admit, he had stopped listening to the comm. when the Joker had spoken to him. He tuned back in, just in time to hear Hood say, “The comm. Batman gave us.”

He took the Batmobile at max speed back to the Cave.

“It's a comm...” Urgh. Ah, that one hurt. Whatever Cobb had put on them, it was moving. Slowly. “The comm. Batman gave us.” And it was cold. So cold. Probably coated in -ow- that anti-Talon juice. Or secreting it or something.

He tried to move closer to the comm., to try and turn it on, but was stopped by an intense pain every time he moved his leg. Ah. Ow. Right. The thing had drilled through his pelvis. Hadn't healed yet.

Acrobat was moving to the comm. too, and making better progress than Hood was. Just looking at him hurt. Not because of the torment they were both going through, although that was... hhnngghh-ow. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Where was he?

Acrobat. Acrobat had a name. He did. And it was there, hovering at the edge of his brain. It reminded him of that time the Court had run out of anti-Talon juice, but he had back-talked one of the Owls for the millionth time. They had tossed him in a large pit for a week. The sides had been beveled so the bottom was wider than the top. No food, no water. Once, day six or so, they had dangled a water bottle on a string at him. It had been agony, being so close to grabbing it, but every time his fingers barely grazed it.

This was worse.

Acrobat was at the comm. With a final grunt, he grabbed it, pulling it closer to his chest, a movement which made Hood realize that his arm was broken. Not surprising. With this what-ever-it-was in them, their bodies weren't focusing on healing little things like broken bones and contusions. Hood himself had fourteen broken bones and... um. He hadn't counted the cuts. But there was a lot.

Crawling closer to Acrobat, he saw that the older Talon had almost managed to find the switch. Honestly, these Bat-people and not labeling their tech. He flipped the switch, and almost immediately, there was a screaming from Hood's abdomen. Acrobat's too from the way he cried out.

The thing had reached his diaphragm. Already, he was having trouble breathing. But his hearing still worked. And thankfully, there was a voice talking at them.

“Hood! Dick! Are you alright?” Red. He was safe. The Talons let out a sigh of relief.

Wait. What did he say? “Dick? Is that Acrobat's name?”

“Yes! Richard John Grayson! But Hood, you said that Dick suited him better. Where are you two?”

For the first time, Hood took a look at his surroundings. “Not a building. A cavern. And not one I recognize, so not anywhere near the Court.”

Acrobat – Dick – coughed, then chimed in. “Walls are dry. Not close to any water source. And there's a tiny bit of light coming from a hole in the ceiling. Can't see anything though. Just sky.”

“Rock is grey. Don't know if that helps.” The thing traveling through him felt like it was trailing something. Like a string thing that kept it attached to the device still latching on to his leg. If he could, he would pull it out. But the device had its claws in deep, sinking into his femur. And with his hands on a short chain attached to his neck, there wasn't any good position to pull it off.

Breathing got really difficult all of a sudden. The thing, it was eating through a lung, at an angle. Why at an angle? “Red, we won't be able to... talk pretty soon. Just wanted to say... I don't regret a minute of it. Those two free weeks -wheeze -were the best in my... life. I think -gasp- my whole life, even the before stuff. So thanks. And you need... to work on defending from attacks... coming from your left.” His lung was filling with blood. He coughed out a damp cough, feeling the red trickle down his chin.

“What are you talking about? Tell me all of this later Hood.” There was the sound of keys clicking. Was Tim trying to find them?

Another breathless cough from Dick. “Sure, but we want... to tell you now too Red. Ha. What kind of brother... am I? One of you is dying right -gasp- next to me, and I'm leaving the other one to fend for himself.”

Was it just him, or was his intestine healing? “You're not! You're not leaving me! We're going to find you and you're going to be fine!”

“Sure Red. But hey, while I... have you, I just wanted to say thanks as well. You gave... me my memories... back. You know, I'd given up... on them? But you -cough- gave them back, just like you and Hood gave back... my self. Without you too, I'd probably be... another Cobb. You're my brothers, and I'll always... love you.”

Hood wanted to reply. But the thing chose that moment to finish with his first lung and start in on his second.

Suddenly, there wasn't enough air. He gasped, sucking in air and having none of it do a lick of good. Beside him, Dick was wheezing and still trying to rasp out words, but there wasn't any air.

His lungs burned, or, the parts of them not ruined by the thing did. Those parts were cold, freezing him from the inside out. Pressure started building in his head. He wasn't getting enough air, he wasn't getting any air!

Tim was shouting. “...at's going on? Are you two alr... ... alk to m... ...ease Hood, Dick! Say som...”

His lungs were burning and still the thing kept moving. Faster now. No apparent reason. His chest was heaving, taking in massive quantities of air and losing most of it. Blood rushed in from the millions of openings. Every exhale had a river following it, every inhale rattled and sloshed. Dick, his friend, his brother, was facing him. Together, they slipped into darkness.

#Loxie's fics #Brainwashing #Torture #Lots of torture #Blood #Injuries #Bad times #Talon AU #Bruce Wayne #Dick Grayson #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #Alfred Pennyworth #William Cobb #Bruceman #Jay #Timmers #Dickie #Alfie

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