#before being allowed anywhere near the bat cowl

[sing-me-under]

The reason I like the idea that Bruce was a teenage idle then personally experienced some aspect of poverty in his time abroad is because if I ever found out that some privileged rich white man spontaneously decided to go out into the streets and fight criminals hand to hand, I would personally tear his neck out with my teeth. Absolutely the fuck not. If he has no frame of reference for starvation, addiction, or homelessness, he has absolutely no right to enact his so-called justice.

That motherfucker better have fucking empathy in whole ass wheelbarrows OR ELSE.

[lilyofthesword-writes]

Untitled Alchemy (Batman One-Shot) Follow-Up

Thought I would post a snippet of a WIP I’ve been working on now that I’m trying to write again. It isn’t finished yet. Maybe then, I’ll know what to name it.

This is a follow-up to a Batman One-Shot I had done a while back titled Alchemy. If you like what you read here, try giving Alchemy a shot!

Let me know what you all think!

A floorboard creak sent you bolting upright in your shared bed. Sometimes being a light sleeper worked in your favor. Did Torrence have another nightmare?

You swung your feet over the side of the bed and stood. The floor lightly squeaked under your weight. Strange. It wasn’t as loud as—

Clomp! CLOMP!

You snatched up the wooden baseball bat near the bed. That was not Torrence. You glanced toward your partner to find them still fast asleep. It was near impossible to wake them up before their alarm. Sucking in a breath through your nose, you steeled yourself with a white knuckled grip on the bat.

Clomp! CLOMP!

There it was, again… You opened the door and peered into the hallway. Nothing.

Clomp! CLOMP!

Was it coming from upstairs? Was it down the hall? It was hard to tell.

Clomp! Creeeeaaak! CLOMP!

That high-pitched groan… The floorboard in the living room had that particular moan.

You sneaked as quickly as possible on your toes, praying it would minimized the noise, down the hall. The relief you felt from your successful silence was short lived as you peered around the corner.

A bulky, tall figure loomed near the window in your living room. The clouds outside parted to let the moonlight fall on them, harshly highlighting headgear with pointed ears ontop and a nearly floor-length cloak clutching to broad shoulders.

Your grip on the bat tightened impossibly further. You were 100% regreting your decision to confront the intruder alone…

Their head twitched toward the hallway, toward you.

Crap. They couldn’t have possibly heard you… Right?

They turned away from the window. The breath caught in your throat.

The cloak (maybe cape would be a better word) parted as they moved, revealing the black and gray clad form underneath of well-formed muscles suitable to a long practicing fighter, presumably male. A gloved hand reached out slowly, shakily, shifting the cape further. The suit was torn and bloodied.

Then, you finally looked up to his face. The headgear was more like a cowl. All it allowed you to see was a bruised jawline and busted lips.

The breath that had been stuck shoved its way into your lungs as a gasp. This man looked like a train wreck. But… how- why was he in your apartment?

One boot clunked lightly toward you, the other followed clumsily.

Clomp. CLOMP.

Any normal person would have bolted by now. Not you. Something stirred in your chest, a familiar flame. You weren’t going anywhere. You would protect your family.

His pummeled mouth parted, hoarsly calling out.

He- It was… It was your name. He was calling out to you.

The wooden weapon wavered in your hands. You retightened your grip. No. You wouldn’t let him best you.

Then, like shutting off an old CRT television, his figure distorted and vanished. In the window, the clouds shrouded the moon once again. Something else cast its light from a far rooftop onto the cottony canopy - a symbol shaped like a bat.

[soulmate-game]

Curiosity Killed the Exorcist

“And then, see here? You have to be on the lookout for subtle signs like these. This indicates that he’s…” Marinette nodded as Tim continued explaining, pointing out various body language and other clues out on the Batcomputer. It had only been about six months since the Batfam collectively adopted the little ladybug into their menagerie of heroes, and started teaching her deductive habits and skills. She would not allow them anywhere near Paris on pain of death (some of them had already tried, and Bruce was still recovering from the bruise to his ego. The bruise on his ass from being teleported out of the city and onto the stone of the Batcave was gone, though) but she welcomed any help they could give from within Gotham’s city limits.

Usually, at least in the beginning, they did their mentorship at a distance over video call. But then Tim found out her identity, and Marinette made the excuse of wanting to meet with them in person to gauge their trustworthiness for herself and erase their memories of her identity if they failed her test— and, well, it all snowballed from there until she was teleporting to the Batcave every few days for detective lessons. She was practically a Bat herself, if not for her out of theme codename. And she found herself surprisingly comfortable with the thought of them being a… very eccentric extended family.

Tim was flipping to another saved video in the Batcomputer archives to show another example of his current lesson, when Tikki flew up to Marinette in a hurry. She was holding Kaalki’s glasses. The little kwami whispered something in Marinette’s ear, instantly making the teen blanch and force on the glasses.

“Sorry Timmy, gotta cut this short! I’ll come back tomorrow to make up for it! Okay? Okay! Awesome, you’re the best, bye!” She ignored all of Tim’s protests and rapid fire questions, instead opening up a portal and jumping through it as fast as humanly possible. The portal has barely disappeared before an all-too-familiar voice rose up from behind Tim.

“Maybe I’m still drunk, ‘cause I could’a sworn I just saw a portal closing in the damned Batcave, of all places,” the British-accented drawl was accompanied by the flick of a lighter and accompanying fizzle of a flame. Tim groaned, mentally making a note to ask how in the world Marinette had known that John “Annoying asshole” Constantine was showing up soon, and if he could be in on the warning next time. Bruce, cowl still off, walked over from where he had been sparring with Damian and crossed his arms. He had also heard Marinette’s hasty exit, and made a few mental notes of his own before focusing on the exorcist in front of him.

“What do you want, Constantine?” he grumbled. Any time the blond brit showed up, things only got far more complicated than he ever enjoyed. And he always gave Bruce a migraine, to boot.

“Two things actually, Batsy,” John held up to fingers as his free hand tucked his lighter away in his pocket. His unlit cigarette stayed in his mouth though, probably just for the familiar feel of it. “One; I’m gonna need you to tell me why there was a portal closing when I walked in, because I’ll be honest. The implications there are way more interesting than what I came here for in the first place.”

“None of your business. What’s the second thing?” Bruce immediately shot him down, but John was not one to be deterred. He never fucking was.

“But you hate magic! You make sure I know that all too bloody well every time I pay you a visit, so why the sudden change in heart? Huh?”

“Drop it, Constantine. What. Do you. Want?”

“Fine, fine. I need your help with…”

— * — * — * — * — *

A week later, Marinette was sitting with Jason and Damian in one of the manor’s sitting rooms, the three of them just minding their own business and silently enjoying one another’s presence. Even if two of them would never admit it. Jason was reading Jane Eyre for the millionth time, Damian was leaning against Titus on the ground as he sketched, and Marinette was embroidering a sunhat. Unfortunately for her, Alfred the Cat was currently asleep on her lap and thus holding her hostage.

Even as Tikki flew up to her ear in a panic and whispered, making Marinette prick herself with her needle. She hissed for a second but shrugged off the familiar pain, much more concerned with whatever news Tikki had given her. Damian and Jason were already on high alert from the second that a whispered curse had left her lips, and were staring straight at her and her kwami and Marinette frantically tried to find a way to get up without awakening the cat sleeping on her.

“Uh, what’s wrong?” Jason asked, feeling thoroughly confused and left out. On one hand, he knew that if they were in physical danger she would have moved Alfred the Cat without hesitation. On the other, he did not like the sheer amount of anxiety he could see her experiencing. Marinette’s frantic eyes shot over to him, pupils mere pinpricks and hands mouth agape as she tried to form some sort of plan.

“Uh— “

“Ah! You must be the fair maiden that the Bats are comfortable with using magic around them,” John goddamned Constantine threw the door to the sitting room open wide, making it bounce off of the wall and lightly smack back against his shoulder. He ignored it as he grinned at the three younger people in the room, waltzing in casual as anything. He wagged a finger at her playfully. “I’ve been awfully curious about you, ya know? Brucie boy knows a shit ton of magic users, but he never likes seein’ any of us do our thing. And to not only allow you to teleport without any apparent discomfort but to actively protect your identity from me? Now that’s a damn accomplishment and I really gotta applaud you for it,” he mockingly clapped his hands a few times. “So what’s your secret, huh? I won’t tattle.”

“No thanks. Kaalki, a little help?” Marinette carefully pushed Alfred the Cat off of her lap before diving into the portal that Kaalki whipped up for her, the entire process happening so fast that Constantine couldn’t even get out a proper “hey!” before she was gone and the portal closed. He just nodded, hooking his thumbs in his pockets.

“Ya know what? Fair. That’s fair.”

“Goddamn it, Constantine!” Jason threw up his hands in frustration. “Why the fuck do you have to scare away one of the only sane people in this family?”

“Part of my charm, little red riding hood.”

— * — * — * — * — *

“You know, I’ve been pretty damn nice not teleporting right over to you whenever you disappear. So why don’t you just tell me why you’re avoiding me now that we happen to be in the same room by complete accident, huh?” John asked from where he sat in one of Bruce’s lounge chairs sipping on a beer. Marinette mimed choking him, clearly fed up. He had been trying to have a conversation with her for the past three months, ever since that one time he caught the tail end of her portal closing in the Batcave. Three. Long. Months. And he hadn’t given up, because something about this little Parisian teenager intrigued him. She was sixteen, that much he had gathered from the Bats. But to be sixteen and not only in possession of the Horse miraculous but also clearly the Ladybugs, since he had seen Tikki more than once as well, now that was interesting.

Anybody being in the possession of more than one Miraculous was already cause enough to be keeping an eye on them, which was why he had been keeping an eye on the Paris situation and had pieced together on his own that the presence of Tikki meant that this little parisian teenager was none other than Ladybug herself. Now, that? That was a whole new level of concerning, especially since he knew firsthand that the old Grand Guardian was gone and passed his title down to— yeah, Ladybug.

After that deduction, his interest in Marinette had swiftly switched from curiosity to fuck-I-need-to-know-what’s-going-on-here. Because no kid should have to deal with that kind of weight, and Constantine always looked out for kids when he could.

But right then, Marinette was glaring at him. She had been just coming over for a normal “family” dinner with the Waynes, which she attended from time to time. And apparently they had decided to have Constantine already over so that they could chaperone a meeting between them that would hopefully appease the stupid british magic user enough that he left them all alone again until the next time he needed help.

“Believe me when I say, you’d rather not know,” she replied sharply, glaring Dick. He was the one who had convinced her to come despite her recent close calls with Constantine in the past few days. He studiously avoided her gaze. “I just would rather not cross your path, and there’s no reason for us to interact. Why do you care, anyway?”

“You see, now that is an excellent question!” he chugged the last of his beer and gestured to her with the empty bottle. “Normally, I wouldn’t give a flying rat’s ass. But I’ve put two and two together, since I know who Tikki is,” he nodded to the red and black Kwami. “And maybe I just wanna keep an eye on the new Grand Guardian to make sure she’s doin’ alright. That’s an awful lot of magic and responsibility that you don’t deserve, but I’m not about to try to take it away. Keepin’ an eye on you is the next best thing.”

“Try again,” Marinette shot back, crossing her arms. “You were interested in me before you learned about me being Ladybug.”

“I’m nosy, what do you want me to say? I saw a portal in Batman’s man-cave, I get curious. Sue me.”

“Well. I have Bruce and everyone else already watching out for me, so you can leave me alone now. If I need your help, I’ll make sure to ask every other magic user first before contacting you.”

“Woah, now what’s all this venom for?”

“Uh, maybe we should go and actually eat dinner?” Dick tried to step in, hands up. Constantine had stood up from the chair he was in, which was usually a cue to change the subject as fast as possible. “Before Alfred has to come get us?”

“Maybe I’ll be less venomous if you let the subject drop and leave me alone!”

“Context would be nice, though.”

“Seriously guys, let’s go! Food!” Dick was once again ignored.

“Context is the last thing you need in this situation,” Marinette’s voice was suddenly soft, her arms dropping to her sides. “We’ve had this conversation so many times in so many now-deleted timelines. Just drop it this time.”

“If those timelines are now-deleted, then I obviously don’t remember what’s so bad about telling me why you’re acting like I’m some hated family member you’re avoiding!”

Silence.

Pure. Fucking. Silence. As they all watch with front row seats as Marinette flinches at the word ‘family’.

Pure silence as Constantine’s shoulders drop at the sight of her flinch, realization slapping itself on his face.

“No.”

“See? I fucking knew you would— that this would happen. This always happens, you always hate finding it out, but you’re so— so stubborn!” Marinette was blinking away tears, digging in her pockets and bringing out Kaalki’s glasses. “You’ll drop it now, at least. You always do.”

“Now what is that supposed to mean?” Constantine rubbed his forehead, still trying to sort through his amalgam of emotions. Marinette just shook her head, turning to Kaalki.

“Do you mind showing Monsieur Constantine the way out, Kaalki? I’ll grab you a load of sugar cubes afterward.”

“No, wait, hang on a second!”

A portal opened up under him, making John “Stubborn Idiot” Constantine drop ten feet down onto the hardwood, polished floor of his house. His bruised tailbone would take a while to heal, but his frazzled mind was by far the more concerning development. He staggered to his feet, reaching for the nearest bottle of tequila.

“Ugh, fuck my damn life.”

— * — * — * — * — *

“Marinette..?” Damian nudged the girl with his shoulder, frowning. It was after dinner that same day, and as much as he hated to admit it he had grown to actually like having her around. She was a good friend to have. And seeing her slumped back on one of their sofas, sketchbook covering her face and not a single rambling conversation to be had or heard? It was very concerning. She just made a groaning sound to answer him, prompting his frown to deepen. “Are you alright?”

“I just can’t believe that such a sweet, adorable thing like you is half made up of Constantine’s genes,” Jason mused bluntly from the opposite couch, where he tossed a rubber ball up and down out of boredom. “But now I see where you get all of your Disaster Bi-ness from.”

“Shut uuuuup,” She groaned, chucking her sketchbook at him. He caught it in midair, replacing his rubber ball with it and tossing it up and down in the air. “I’m just frustrated. This timeline is still perfectly stable, so I can’t erase it. And I can’t exactly ask ‘hey, can someone commit a horrid atrocity that makes this timeline split from the main one so that I can erase it and we can start over from four months ago?’ because that would be horribly irresponsible of me. But seriously, Jason. If you’re gonna ever commit, like, city-wise arson? I’d probably condone it right now if only so I have an excuse to use time travel to get out of this situation.”

“Not committing arson unless you give me a better reason for it, Pigtails.”

“Damn.”

“But are you okay?” Damian asked again, seeing as she had completely ignored him.

“I’m fine, Damian,” she finally sighed. “And I know how this is gonna go. He’s going to totally ignore me now, until we meet during some magical crisis and he only interacts with me when necessary. Then he pretends we never met, we have a private little one-sided whisper-argument about how he will never make a good father figure and I would be better off leaving him alone, blah blah blah. Avoidance is a coping mechanism I guess I inherited from him.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I’m trying to bite that in the bud then, eh?” Marinette startled out of her sitting position, seeing John stumble into the room…

Drunk off his ass. But apparently still at least mildly coherent.

“I agree with deleted-me’s, I’m not gonna be a dad. Not me,” he tripped, landing on his still-bruised ass and hissing in pain before continuing from the floor; “So if you’re looking for another Daddy dearest, that ain’t me.”

“See, I knew this is how you’d—”

“Let me finish,” he interrupted. “I don’t know how long the booze is gonna last and I need it’s courage here. ‘Kay? ‘Kay. Where was I? Right. But I know magic, ya know. The kind that doesn’t rely on little bobblehead gods to do. I got— like, a million books. Shit ton of books. At my place. Ya can read ‘em. My books. At my place. But I ain’t gonna parent, but I can lend ya books. Maybe give magic advice. Teach a little. Little bit. Didn’t think I’d have a child, but apparently I do and she’s the fuckin’ grand guardian and a damn hero, and I don’t know how the fuck I was able to help make someone like that. But whatever, it’s not like the world’s ever fuckin’ been easy on me,” He pulled out a sample-sized bottle of whiskey from one of the pockets on the inside of his trench coat and chugged it. After a brief wince and hiss at the burn, he kept rambling. “My door’s open, is what I’m tryin’ to say. No guarantee I’ll be in any state to talk to when you walk through it, but it’s open.”

Deciding to steadfastly ignore the tears streaming down her face, Marinette just swallowed thickly and nodded.

“I, uh. I think I can work with that.”

John barely made it to the nearby bin in time to vomit into it.

— * — * — * — * — *

I hate my imagination sometimes, guys. I started imagining a convo between Mari and Constantine at like 4am and it wouldn't leave me alone until I got it down. but by the time I wrote it, I kinda forgot like 60% of the original convo and just winged it. And this was born. I 100% blame @multifandomscribette because their Bio!dad John Constantine headcannons are amazing and even though this isn't in that universe, those headcannons are exactly what inspired this. So blame them, lol.

[phis-corner]

demon’s daughter

I decided to re-open the taglist for this fic because I am sometimes a pushover, so now you can either ask or comment to be on the fic’s taglist or the permanent taglist! 

Additionally, I have no consistent update schedule. My first draft is written by hand- I always like to stay two chapters ahead, so I posted this chapter when I finished copying chapter 5 into a Google Doc and proofreading.

Also, fun fact: I hate chocolate. My senses just do not like it at all. I also have a very sensitive tongue and can taste the barest hint of spiciness in foods, which also means I have zero spice tolerance whatsoever. As a Chinese-American with family in Sichuan, this means I get force-fed a lot of extremely spicy foods anyway.

Masterlist Chapter 1 Chapter 2 [Chapter 3] Chapter 4

“Why are you letting them stay? He tried to kill Dick!” Timothy points at Damian, who glowers at him from across the cave as Alfred stitches Richard’s cuts.

Marinette sighs. “Akhi was not trying to murder Richard. If you paid more attention, you would notice that all of Richard’s wounds are carefully placed in non-lethal areas meant to slow him down instead of severely injuring him.”

Batman does not say a word. He hasn’t spoken since Richard called him to verify their claims.

“They were raised as assassins, Timmy. It’s normal that they’d feel threatened a lot, and act accordingly. They’re family now. Give them a chance.” Richard replies, and Marinette blinks. She did not expect to have Richard defend them so easily.

“Pardon me,” She pipes up. “But ‘they’ are currently present.”

“Right. Sorry.” Richard has the sense to look guilty. Timothy just glares.

Damian squeezes her hand three times, their signal for I would like to leave. Marinette sighs as she exits the Batcave. Being accepted into the family is… a work in progress.

.o0o.

Slade is put into Blackgate not long after with the information Ubu gave after being interrogated by the Bats. Damian and Marinette were not allowed to go. 

Too young, Richard had said. They had interpreted that as You cannot be trusted to keep him alive. He did make the right call though. Damian would have tried extremely hard had he gotten the chance.

Of course, the League did dispose of him not long after anyway, but it was the thought that counted.

Damian and Marinette spent their days in the Manor sparring, reading, or practicing their instruments. Richard, who seemed determined to bond with them, bought them both new sketchbooks, for Damian’s drawings and Marinette’s designs. She had discovered an affinity for clothing design while undercover on a mission, and had been designing ever since.

Cass (she insisted that they call her that instead of Cassandra,) was always happy to spar when asked, and although nobody ever defeated her, it was a welcomed challenge to fight someone who knew your every move, sometimes even before you did. Damian grudgingly admits she is a worthy sister, which makes Marinette smile and Cass beam.

Jason had his own home and only visited every once in a while, and Timothy was rarely seen. It didn’t help that Damian continued to make snarky comments whenever they did see him, but if Timothy was scarce, Father was practically nonexistent.

Since they came to the Manor, their father has said a total of two words to the both of them, and that was just their names when he exited his study as they passed by.

Marinette is determined to make her new family work, and so when she finds Timothy completely by accident, typing away on a laptop in one of the less-used rooms in the Manor, she takes a chance.

“You do know we are not trying to replace you, right?” She asks softly, sitting down in an armchair and deliberately not making eye contact with him. 

Timothy snorts. “But is that not what you’re doing? Bruce chose to take in everyone else. I had to blackmail him into letting me be Robin. And then the biological kids show up, born and raised like fucking royalty, so who would care about Tim Drake? The little kid whose parents didn’t even want him and his neighbor only adopted him because he knew his most well-kept secret.”

“We have more in common than you think.” Marinette says quietly.

“Yeah, right.” Timothy laughs bitterly. “The Princess of the League-”

“I wasn’t.” Marinette interrupts.

“Huh? But-”

“I wasn’t the Princess.” Marinette keeps her voice calm with considerable effort. “As soon as I was born, Ra’s gave me over to Lady Shiva. He declared me unworthy because I was a girl, and I was raised as the lowest-ranked assassin. I may have been Shiva’s protege, but that just meant she went even harder on me. I did not know even my last name until after my first death when I was five. I did not properly meet my brother until last year. Ra’s decided that I could be acknowledged, but maintained his stance on feminine inferiority.”

She chuckles hollowly. “You fear being replaced by your father figure’s biological children, Timothy. But your fear is unwarranted. Bruce Wayne chose to adopt you, because he is a good man with copious amounts of generosity. However, it evidently does not extend to his biological children. Talia dumped us at Batman’s feet and left without another word, without looking back. And Father? We may have been a complete surprise, but he has said two words in total to us since that first night- our names. You need not worry, Timothy. You shall not be replaced.”

Marinette stands, her message conveyed, and pauses in the doorway of the room. 

“Have a good afternoon, Timothy.”

The next day, Marinette and Damian watch on live television as their father is killed by Darkseid.

.o0o.

The funeral for Batman is somber. Everyone cries except for Marinette and Damian.

She thinks they should be crying, but Marinette simply didn’t know her father well enough to really mourn him. Damian squeezes her hand, and she squeezes back. The twins stand, faces carefully blank, shoulders straight and unmoving, like rocks in an ocean of tears.

Crime in Gotham runs rampant when they think Batman is gone, and so Richard becomes Batman out of necessity- and chooses her twin brother as his Robin.

Nobody else sees how it crushes Timothy, because Cass has left for Hong Kong, abandoning Batgirl and making her own identity as Black Bat. Jason is holed up in a safehouse somewhere, Richard and Damian are in their own little world as they prepare for their first patrol together, and Alfred needs time to mourn too.

So she finds herself knocking on the door to Timothy’s room, one hand holding a plate of sandwiches and a freshly brewed coffee because he hasn’t left his room since the funeral. Marinette quietly enters upon his muffled “Come in” and sets the plate down next to Timothy, whose eyes are red-rimmed and have even larger bags than normal, and yet he continues to work.

“I… noticed you have not come out to eat, so I brought some food and fresh coffee. Black.” She adds, after a moment of hesitation.

“Thanks.” Timothy mumbles, immediately going for the coffee. “Why are you doing this?”

Marinette shrugs. “Everyone else was caught up in their own situation and had issues to work through too. I am relatively unaffected by the circumstances and therefore my observation skills have not declined.” She says simply. “You should also eat. I will not stop you from drinking the coffee, but you cannot work on an empty stomach, either.”

He begrudgingly eats a sandwich, still typing away at his laptop all the while. Marinette notes the tension in his frame.

“Would you like to talk about it? I have read that venting is significantly better for one’s mental health than keeping it bottled up.” She offers.

Timothy suddenly slams the laptop shut, hard, but Marinette doesn’t flinch. The reaction was trained out of her a long time ago. 

“It’s not- it’s- my entire life, I’ve been trying to prove myself. Robin was- Robin was special. I wasn’t the first Robin, but it was a reminder that I was worth something to someone, that I could do good and be useful. And then Bruce dies, Dick becomes Batman, and he just names Damian as his Robin like my opinion on the matter meant nothing, booting me out of the position, without any semblance of an explanation and-” He breaks off into sobs.

The sight of somebody crying makes Marinette more than a little awkward, because what is she doing? She doesn’t know how to comfort a crying person, but she does know that Timothy was touch-starved as a child. However, she isn’t the most touchy-feely person on the planet either, so she just settles for rubbing his back as he lets it all out.

Once he’s run out of tears, she silently hands him the tissue box she plucked from his desk. 

“Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, you are not worthless.” Marinette says sternly. “Nobody is worthless, and you are far from being anywhere near so. You are the cleverest and most intelligent of us all, a capable, quick-thinking strategist, and you have detective skills that rivaled Father’s. I believe Richard chose Damian as Robin because Robin is always supposed to be Batman’s sidekick. He is always taken under Batman’s wing because there are things he hasn’t learned, that Batman can teach him. Richard sees you as an equal, and therefore cannot keep you as his Robin because you have graduated the mantle. It is time you created a new identity and moved on. Do you have anything in mind?”

Timothy sniffs once. “Thank you. I really needed that. And as for the ideas,” He reaches over and pulls out a sketchbook, a smile spreading across his face. “I’ve got a few.”

.o0o.

They brainstorm ideas for almost three hours before Timothy falls asleep. Marinette easily carries his light frame to his bed and drapes a blanket over his shoulders before quietly exiting his room.

Thankfully, she managed to convince Timothy that the cowl was a terrible idea. Marinette returns to her own room for her sketchbook. Batman and Robin will have each other’s backs. But Red Hood works alone, leaving Red Robin with nobody to watch his back.

Timothy is Marinette’s brother too, and everyone else is headed into the field anyway. She, like Damian, also had the phrase ‘justice, not vengeance’ drilled into her head, and Richard had made sure to remind them daily to aim for non-lethal spots. Not that she planned on taking a life ever again anyway.

Marinette flips open her sketchbook to a bookmarked page and smiles. It seems that Starling would be making an appearance very soon.

.o0o.

It is almost time for Richard and Damian’s first patrol as Batman and Robin. Marinette heads downstairs to wish them well, but freezes at the sight of her twin in Timothy’s old suit.

“This is unacceptable!” She screeches, hurrying forward and looking pleadingly at Richard. “You cannot let akhi out into Gotham looking like a traffic light!”

Richard frowns, as does Damian. “But you never had a problem with Tim wearing it.”

“Tt. Timothy had little to no prior experience in combat before being trained as Robin. Damian has been trained to utilize the shadows in combat since birth. Wearing those bright colors will make him stand out and put him at a disadvantage.” Marinette tuts, already scribbling out a new design in her sketchbook.

“Then what do you suggest, ukhti?” Damian asks.

“I have a design in mind. The colors will stay, but the yellow and green will have to be significantly darker, and the red should be dulled as well. Sadly, you will have to wear that monstrosity tonight, but I can have the suit finished in time for patrol tomorrow, as will mine and Timothy’s new suits.” She replies, not glancing up from her book.

“What do you mean, Marinette?” Richard questions, and Marinette feels a tiny twinge of annoyance at how he handled telling Timothy about Robin.

“I mean that Timothy and I have crafted new identities as well. You did not expect him to just stop fighting crime, or for me to just sit at home while everyone else carried out Father’s mission, did you?”

Damian nods, a small smile pulling at his lips. “It will be nice to see you in the field too, ukhti.”

“What will your names be?” Richard prods curiously.

“I will not tell you just yet.” Marinette smirks. She shows her twin the finished design. “Does this look alright, akhi?”

“It looks wonderful, ukhti.” Damian replies. “Thank you.”

She sniffs. “Well, somebody had to fix the lack of fashion sense in this household eventually.”

.o0o.

Everyone else in the family may use capes, but Marinette decided that Richard’s Nightwing suit was by far the best because of its lack of one. Capes were long, heavy, a waste of fabric, and overall useless.

The Starling suit was primarily black, with a dark emerald mask covering the lower half of her face (because why carry a gas mask and rebreather when it can be built in?) with gloves and boots in the same color. A single silver star with curved sides was splayed on her chest, and a dark green utility belt rested on her waist. Her steel war fans had holsters strapped to her thighs.

All in all, the suit was built for the shadows. Marinette had learned to master slipping through the dark, unseen, and Gotham was the perfect place to utilize that. Starling would be nothing more than a ghost, a legend, if she had her way. After all, the less citizens knew, the less likely the information would hit the underworld, and that way, the vigilantes wouldn’t have all their cards out in the open.

Damian looks much better in his new suit as well, and Timothy is also grinning when he steps out of the male’s changing room. (A/N: the new 52 suit. I’m not letting him out of the Cave with that ugly cowl, or the traffic light costume with an extra R. Don’t even get me started on the Drake one.)

Richard, cowl still down, smiles as bright as the sun itself. “Good to see you, Robin. Tim, Marinette, can I ask your names?”

Timothy fastens his domino. “Red Robin.”

Marinette pulls her face mask up and curtsies with perfect posture. “Starling. I wish to work in the shadows, if that is alright.”

Richard puts on the cowl and becomes Batman. “You guys all look amazing.” He grins, and it is unsettling to see Batman smile. Oracle logs into the comms from the Clocktower.

“You all ready?”

They split the city in half. Red Robin and Starling take the North while Batman & Robin will cover the South. 

Starling trails Red Robin from afar, leaping from building to building and only using her grappling hook when the distance is too great to close by foot. They stop four muggings and two attempted assaults, all without Starling being spotted. The criminals think they hit their head on the alley walls or each other instead of her fist from behind.

It’s almost three in the morning when Batman calls it quits and they return to the Cave, changing out of their suits and showering. They are somehow all unharmed, so Alfred sends them up to bed.

Damian and Marinette brush their teeth before climbing into bed and flipping off the lights.

“Tonight was actually quite enjoyable.” Marinette remarks. “It is a nice feeling, to know that you are helping people.”

Damian hums sleepily. “It is good to know that we are continuing Father’s legacy.”

Marinette smiles. “Yes, I suppose so.” She burrows deeper into her blankets. “Sleep well, akhi.”

“The same goes for you, ukhti.”

For once, Marinette doesn’t have a nightmare.

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[sohotthateveryonedied]

You Knock Me Out, I Fall Apart

Read here on AO3!

Summary:

“I do not have a concussion. You’re simply so irritating that it makes my head spin.”

“Alfred, tell him he has a concussion.”

“Master Damian—”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Pennyworth. I’m fine.”

Dick tugs off his cowl, his sweat-soaked hair flopping back into place. He’ll never get used to the hundred-pound leather batsuit; he has no clue how Bruce managed to feel more comfortable in this thing than in his own skin. It’s like wearing a sweaty head-to-toe smock. “Stop being difficult about this, Damian.” “Stop treating me like a child,” the literal child challenges. “Sorry to break it to you, but you are a child.” Damian rips off his own mask as he stomps through the Batcave, shoving past Alfred like his anger has eaten all of the polite genes in his body. Or maybe he’s thrown more off balance than he cares to admit. “Fuck you.” Dick sighs. “Alfred, will you please check his head? He got hit with a baseball bat on patrol. I think he has a concussion.” “I do not have a concussion. You’re simply so irritating that it makes my head spin.” “Alfred, tell him he has a concussion.” “Master Damian—” “Don’t finish that sentence, Pennyworth. I’m fine.”

Damian doesn’t even bother properly putting away his costume. He throws his gloves and cape on the ground as he goes upstairs, leaving the pieces of his costume to be picked up by someone else. Dick is still working on teaching him the whole “respect” thing. Dick rubs the back of his neck, massages out the cricks. He’s so exhausted wrangling this kid day in, day out. They’ve only been patrolling together for three days and it’s a constant battle to reign Damian in, keep him from doing something he’ll regret. Dick understands how Damian is feeling. Of course he’s hurt over his father’s death, no matter how little time they had together before it happened. Dick gets loss, knows exactly what it’s like to lose a parent at a young age. And he wants to help the kid, but he’s woefully out of his depth here. He’s never done this before. Even with Jason and Tim, Bruce was the primary mentor/father figure. Dick was just the cool older brother who gave good hugs and was always around to talk shit about said mentor/father figure. Now Dick is the mentor/father figure. He’s not cut out for this. “I’d advise you to be patient with the boy,” Alfred tells him. “He is going through a loss, just as you are. Not to mention the violent tendencies he is still overcoming.” “I’ve been patient. He’s just not getting it.” “Need I remind you that you posed your own challenge when you first came to live with us? Master Bruce must have spent weeks breaking down your walls and getting you to open up to us.” Dick rolls his eyes. “I was never this difficult when I was Damian’s age.” “Trust me, you were. But Bruce adapted. He realized that if he wanted to get through to you, he needed to work with you, rather than against you.” “And that worked?” “With time.” Alfred puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Be gentle with him. Damian may be an assassin, but beneath all that he is still a boy who lost his father. Keep that in mind when you talk to him, hm?” He hands Dick an ice pack. “Good luck.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------

Damian is perfectly fine. No one in the League of Assassins ever took a day off because of a little concussion, if it even is that. He sits on his bed, having changed out of his Robin uniform and into some pajamas. He was about to brush his teeth, but his head is spinning too much to stand at the moment. It feels like he’s on a carnival ride, but it’s fine. He’s fine. He can get stabbed five times and not break a sweat. He can handle a small head injury. Then, like it’s teasing him on purpose, his stomach cartwheels and Damian goes pale. He bounds up and runs to the bathroom. He makes it there just in time to vomit, retching up his pre-patrol dinner. Someone knocks on the door. “Damian? Are you okay?” Damian chokes on bile, willing the dizziness to subside. “Go away, Grayson.” There’s a sigh on the other side of the door. “I’m just trying to help.” “I don’t”—Damian pitches forward and vomits again—“I don’t need any help.” How many times does he need to say it? He was just fine before Grayson decided to meddle in his life, acting like he cares. The nausea eventually passes. Damian stands on shaky legs, squinting against the brightness of the bathroom. When he leaves he finds Grayson sitting on his bed with an ice pack and a bottle of ibuprofen. “How are you feeling?” “Don’t patronize me.” “I’m not.” Dick holds out the pills. “Here. For the headache.” “I don’t have a headache.” Even though he does. “Humor me.” Reluctantly, Damian takes the pills. Not because his head hurts badly enough to warrant painkillers, of course not. But if he gives in, maybe Grayson will stop whining and leave him alone. He just wants to go to sleep. The lights in here are even brighter than in the bathroom, but to turn them off while Grayson is still here would be broadcasting his weakness. Damian climbs onto the bed, keeping a safe distance. Grayson tries to give him the ice pack, but Damian swats him away. “I don’t need that.” “Your head hurts.” “I can handle it.” Grayson sighs again. “Just let me check your head and make sure it’s a minor concussion. Two seconds.” “I’m fine.” How many times does Damian need to say it? “You’re not.” Damian’s eyes narrow. “Don’t try and tell me what I’m feeling. My well-being is none of your business.” “Actually, it is my business. We’re partners now, which makes your health my responsibility. That’s how being Batman and Robin works.” Damian scoffs. “Don’t pretend that being Batman gives you any real authority. You aren’t anywhere near my father’s level.” “I know I’m not, but I’m trying my best. If we’re going to be a team, then I need you to meet me halfway.” Damian can’t help but snort. “Suddenly we’re a team? If you really trusted me, you would believe me when I say I’m fine. You wouldn’t coddle me against my will, treating me like a helpless child.” “You are a child, Damian. You’re a ten-year-old boy. Like it or not, you’re a child. And right now, my job is to keep you safe. That means making sure you’re okay whenever a thug with a baseball bat whacks you in the skull. That’s my job.” “I can take care of myself!” “No, actually, you can’t! If tonight is any indication, I can’t trust you to look after your own health. And I know I’m annoying and the worst person on the face of the earth for daring to help you, but kiddo—” Damian’s head snaps to face him, his body going rigid. “Don’t call me that. I am not your son, and you are not my father!” Dick flinches like he’s been struck. “That’s—Damian, I’m not—” He stops. Closes his eyes, takes a breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, quieter this time. “I’m not trying to replace your dad. Our dad. That’s not what I want.” “Whatever.” Damian pulls his pillow over his face, trying to drown out the sights and sounds around him. “Just go away.” For once, Grayson allows himself to be stern when he says, “No. We’re talking about this now. Take off the pillow and look at me.” For some absurd reason, Damian finds himself obeying. It’s the first time Grayson has shown to have anything resembling a spine in the last three days. “I’m not Bruce,” he says. “I couldn’t be him if I tried. But just because Bruce is...because he’s gone, that doesn’t mean we’re going to forget about him. I will never forget him for as long as I live, and I know you won’t either. You deserve to have your father, and I know exactly how you feel now that he’s gone. But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere if I can help it. I’ll be whatever you need, if that’s a brother or a mentor or a Batman.” He looks into Damian’s eyes, open and sincere. “I promise you, Damian, I will never take your father’s place if you don’t want me to.” Damian keeps his expression carefully unchanged. “Good.” “But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to guide you and keep you safe however I can. So, how about this: I won’t try and take Bruce’s place as your dad, and you let me help you when you need it. Like when you have a head injury, for example.” He sticks out his hand. “Deal?” After a moment of deliberation, Damian shakes his hand. “Deal.”

[eliemo]

Batman didn’t miss. 

It was a well known fact, an unspoken understanding in the League, the city he stalked, the villains that stood before him. Batman didn’t do human error, he didn’t do mistakes, and placing trust in Gotham’s protector wasn’t a gamble. The Bat wasn’t human, he couldn’t afford to be a man when he put the cowl on. Gotham had a predator, a calculating machine, and Bruce held onto that bitter reminder as he leveled the crossbow into the air, the spear just below his fingers, the weapon he’d crafted with his own two hands glowing a deathly green against the sunlight. 

Time seemed to slow, a thousand scenarios racing through his mind, every worst case scenarios playing and replaying as they always did before he did anything, the blood he could draw, the lives he could take, the pain he could cause. Batman never hesitated. Bruce Wayne had to. 

Lex and Superman were locked together, Clark holding him still a good two hundred feet in the air, and Batman leveled the weapon higher, eyes locked on the power module at the center of Lex’s chest. His target was dangerously close to Superman, but the effects of being so close to the spear should hit him slow enough that his fall to the ground wouldn’t be dangerous. If he wasn’t fast enough to catch himself, Lantern or Wonder Woman would catch him. It had taken Batman a long time to understand that with the Justice League, having a team meant there would always be someone else ready to catch him, or any fallen teammate. It was His responsibility to keep them safe, to keep them alive and functioning, but it had been a long time since he’d felt so utterly alone with the weight of that task. 

But it was his shot that would end this battle, his shot that would have to lodge the Krpytonite spear so close to Superman’s heart, his shot that he couldn’t afford to miss. 

He took a breath and curled a glove finger around the string, zeroing in on Lex’s suit, calculating and recalucilating the workings of that suit, how long it would take Lex to fall, how he could make sure neither his or Clark’s descent was deadly. He was well aware of the eyes on him, of the tension on the rooftop, of the trust being placed in his hands. Clark looked determined, steady, and the obvious show of faith made something swell dangerously in Bruce’s chest. 

Bruce Wayne was hesitating, fighting to claw his way to the surface, an anxious mess riddled with the possible worst case scenarios that would follow taking this shot, of allowing a weapon he’d been stupid enough to create in a moment of panic anywhere near Clark. He couldn’t allow something so deadly anywhere near him, Superman a ray of sunlight he;d never been allowed to experience before, something precious and suddenly so dangerously fragile. 

Batman didn’t hesitate. With carefully practiced precision he pulled thre string taunt, steadied his aim and-

‘Bruce, don’t shoot.’

The voice in his head came so suddenly, J’onn’s panic and desperation hitting like a tidal wave, the sudden presence of another being in his mind sending a jolt of panic down his spine, a distraction Batman never should be able to experience. The call for Bruce, the raw emotion J’onn always inhabited, in and out of League busisness, sent his control spiraling, his hold over Batman’s precision spilling from his fingers as the anxieities and doubts wormed their way back to the surface, and the string fell from his hands before he was steady again, the spear sailing through the air at a nauseating speed. 

No one moved, no one said a word, watching as the spear found its mark, loding into the metal of Lex’s suit. An inch too high, the damage meaningless. 

Bruce couldn’t make out what Luthor was saying, couldn’t hear if anyone said anything over the comms, everything drowned out by the ringing in his ears and the poudning of his heart as he started forward, not quite sure what he could possibly do, watching with detached horror as Lex ripped the spear from his suit and plunged it right through Clark’s chest. 

The world stopped, and Bruce couldn’t breathe. 

Do you guys wanna see a sneak peek of a thing I’m writing where Clark dies in Bruce’s arms

[walters-tampon-string]

Leeches

Fandom: Batman

Rating: K+

Warnings: A bit sad in nature and Jervis references drugs, but it is p light and nothing specific.

Characters: Jervis Tetch/Mad Hatter, Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow

Relationship(s): None

Description: They were both just a couple of leeches, weren’t they?

Jervis stared at the man sitting across the table from him curiously, trying to see if he could glean something from the man’s face or eyes. Something that would answer the question bouncing around in his head. He had yet to be successful, but he was going to keep trying. He was sure he could get something soon.

He had been starting for so long that he was actually rather surprised that Jonathan hadn’t snapped at him about it yet. After all, Jonathan, in Jervis’s humble opinion, could be awfully prickly at times. It seemed to him if someone so much as breathed in the taller man’s direction, they were susceptible to a caustic comment or two from Jonathan, should he be in a particularly foul mood at that moment, which seemed to be a lot of the time. So how he was being spared despite the fact that he was, admittedly rather rudely, staring at the other owlishly was beyond him.

He noted the dark bags under the man’s eyes. Perhaps the other man was simply too tired to fight or notice. Then again, those bags seemed to have a permanent residence on Jonathan’s face, as Jervis had never seen them not shading the underneath of Jonathan’s eyes. Maybe the lack of sleep attributed to his nasty temper. Jervis could relate to sleeping problems. Twittering thoughts inside his mind often prevented him from resting. Thoughts of Wonderland, Alice, and people with bat cowls who liked to tear down the happy, magical escape of fantasy and try to enforce the harsh, boring world of sanity. These were the types of thoughts he was plagued with at night.

Even when he could manage to get his brain to quiet down enough for him to get rest, his mind could still plague him. Dreams of snapping Jabberwocks and elusive bats and raining fists. He resisted the urge to shudder. Quite dreadful, indeed!

He highly doubted though that if Jonathan’s mind did plague him, he had the same thoughts and nightmares as Jervis. Jonathan had no imagination. He would never be able to think such unique and dreadful things. However, despite how different their minds probably were, Jervis wondered if he could help.

He had a drug that could be brewed into tea that could put one out like a light. He’d used it quite a few times himself. He could attest to it being quite helpful. He even knew the dose amounts and everything! It might not be healthy, but going without sleep wasn’t healthy either, so he was sure it balanced out somehow.

A part of him considered bringing it up right then and there. It would certainly help bring some conversation to this awfully silent table. But he quickly thought better of it.

He’d tried to help Jonathan bunches of times in the past, and the man always growled and snapped at him, insisting that he was fine. Jervis didn’t think that was the case, but he had enough self-preservation skills within him to know not to push it. Besides, he couldn’t help someone who didn’t want to help himself.

Now, if only the doctors back at Arkham were able to apply that same logic back on him.

Even if Jonathan was open-minded, he still couldn’t envision Jonathan reacting well to the subject of drugs, at least, when Jervis was talking about them. He’d only agreed to do this tea of sorts if he saw Jervis make the tea. And he meant that quite literally too. He had practically breathed down Jervis’s neck as the hatter prepared things, standing incredibly close. Even Jervis, who didn’t take much issue with personal space felt a little uncomfortable then.

Jonathan’s paranoia didn’t stretch just to drinks though. He also adamantly refused to wear a hat anywhere near Jervis, no matter how much Tetch cried and begged.

The lack of trust in him was unfair in Jervis’s mind. Okay, so many <i> one time </i> Jervis had put a mind-control device in one of Jonathan’s hats. First of all, Jonathan wasn’t even under his control for that long. The  Batman had made sure of that. And besides, Jervis had been doing it for Jonathan’s benefit! There was no way the man would’ve tried to see how magical and fantabulous the world of fantasy was unless he had done that!

Besides, he thought he’d been a rather good sport about the whole thing. When Jonathan had fear gassed some of his henchmen, he had decided to let it pass, figuring that was a fair compensation.

But all of this did lead to the question that had been bothering Jervis since the very beginning of this little tea party. If Jonathan didn’t seem to trust him, or hell, even like him, then why was he here? Why did he show up every now and again when Jervis invited him? He was the only rogue to ever do so.

Hell, even Jonathan seemed to wonder the same thing. Every time Jervis said something that even vaguely annoyed him, he would hear the other man grumble, “Why do I even come here?”

Part of him had suspected Jonathan wanted something, but Jonathan had never offered any propositions nor had he ever attacked or threatened Jervis.

Once he had scratched that off his mental checklist, he wondered if perhaps Jonathan enjoyed his company more than he showed and that was why this was happening. But Jervis doubted it. After all, people didn’t tend to like Jervis and Jonathan didn’t tend to like people.

Jervis couldn’t help but wonder though if the friend theory was right though, though perhaps in its most fundamental elements.

Maybe, somewhere, subconsciously, Jonathan did long for human companionship of any kind, and he was willing to put up with someone he found obnoxious, simply because that person was the only one who would allow it.

Maybe Jonathan was simply leeching off of Jervis’s friendliness to get a free meal, free tea, and just a tad bit of social interaction every now and then. It seemed plausible.

The idea of Jonathan leeching off of him was depressing in a way, and Jervis knew that he probably should be angry at the idea, but he wasn’t. After all, he was a leech as well.

He actually had the wherewithal to admit that he was lonely. And even if Jonathan didn’t like his company, he could find himself enjoying Jonathan’s. The man was intelligent and the amount of work that went into his research was compelling.

So maybe they were both leeches, simply putting up with one another for some mutual benefit.

Or maybe all of these theories were wrong and there was a whole different motivation behind it all. Jonathan, like many of the Gotham rogues, was an interesting character, after all. Their motives didn’t tend to be so black and white.

Jervis decided he wasn’t going to think about it anymore. It was much too complicated and he prefered to live in the moment.

So, beaming at Jonathan, who looked at him curiously, he raised a teacup in one hand and said, “You are a mighty interesting character, you know that, Jonathan Crane?”

Jonathan threw him a confused look, scowling, “And where did that come from?”

“Oh, nowhere really. You offer no conversation, so I was simply left to think a few things through in my mind is all,” Jervis tittered, before taking a sip of his tea.

“You know, if you want conversation, you should probably just say so…” Jonathan growled, annoyance creeping into his tone. However, he did surprise Jervis by going on about some crime the Joker and Harley Quinn had done, going over all the logistics of how it affected things for the other rogues and why the two of them failed.

Jervis listened on eagerly, nodding along and smiling. His smile grew even wider with interest when Jonathan began detailing what his next plans were going to be in the coming weeks. Apparently he plotted to target one of Joker and Harley’s holdings while they were down to steal some chemicals.

Yes, Jonathan Crane was an interesting character indeed.

[dontfeedthebabytigers]

You’ve Got So Much Heart: Chapter 5

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When Batman was able to retrain all of the cultists and confirm that the package was a misdirect, he went to the rooftop, fists clenched and ready to defend his Robin. The sight of the Joker and Red Hood hogtied with grapple wire was not what he had expected. Only years of expert training kept Batman from displaying his confusion, but he almost slipped and showed his relief when his eyes landed on Robin. His partner sat on an AC unit nearby, a quick glance over didn’t reveal any major injuries, maybe some bruising on his cheek that was already clearing. Robin didn’t move towards him, just sat and watched as Batman walked towards him.

        “Are you okay?” Robin wasn’t the best of keeping track of his injuries, so the nod he gave didn’t ease Batman’s concern. But just asking Robin was good practice for the boy to observe what his body needed.

        “He’s fine.” Red Hood grumbled from where he was tied on the ground.

        Batman glared at Red Hood, at the man his son had become. His eyes landed on the guns that were unloaded and disassembled next Robin, and he looked back over to Red Hood. This time felt more like an accusation than the regular contempt that Tim was familiar with.

“You can’t honestly believe that I would try to hurt him?” Even with all the family resentment that grew a little more potent every day he still felt something for the kid, something hard to place and abstract. Whatever he felt wasn’t easy to pull dissect in his mind, and there wasn’t anybody around in the single bedroom apartment that he was squatting in. So, Tim decided there were better tasks to focus on than whatever mess his family relationships had become.

“What are you doing here, Red Hood?” Batman asked with a bite in his tone that Time was used to hearing by now.

“’You’re welcome for the rescue, Red.’” Tim said with a deep growl that mimicked Batman’s before responding in a peppy voice--- not unlike the one he used as Robin. “Don’t worry about, I live to serve.”

“He can handle himself,” Batman said as Tim wondered how anyone thought that Superman was the sanctimonious one.

“That’s a great policy against that lunatic. Must have been why he was seconds away from cutting the kids throat.” Tim smirked when he saw a little twitch of a frown on Batman’s face. Finally, a reaction. “Don’t feel that you’re still three-out-of-four on Robin’s you’ve failed. Now, I never got the chance to finish high school, but if I’m not mistaken that’s still a passing grade.”

Batman had turned his attention to Robin during Tim’s jab, but the Boy Wonder looked anywhere but the white lenses of the cowl. The bravado dropped for a minute, and Batman went over to Tim and cut him loose.

“Thanks, Old man. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think there’s a gang war that needs my attention and thanks to the kid I have to go find some new weapons.”

Tim turned to leave him, but a strong hand grabbed his bicep.

“Red Hood,” Batman’s voice had that weird softness to it that Tim remembered from nights when he had fallen asleep in front of the computer, waiting for his dad to come home.

Every muscle in Tim’s body tensed on contact. He hated those memories and the way they made his gut twist and his trigger finger twitch. The only thing that kept him from ripping his arm out of his father’s grasp was a genuine curiosity of what Batman was going to say.

“Leave the Joker to us.” The Bat said. “Next time, I will have you arrested.”

Typical.

“Yeah, good seeing you too, Old Man.” Tim was about to leave when he stopped and looked at his little brother. “You are okay, right?”

Robin hid his confusion well, but Tim knew he wasn’t expecting any kind of interaction from how long it took him to nod. Tim thought that he may have seen a smile on the kid’s lips, but he called it a trick of the light and shot of his grapple to carry him away.

He was a twisting hurricane of emotions that only got more intense when he ran into Batman and Robin. Nightwing always acted entitled enough when Tim was a child that he could cut himself off and feel little for the loss of their relationship. He didn’t run into Bluejay much--- even after his brother moved back to Gotham--- and their mutual frustrations made up for the tension that had existed when Jason had first taken the title of Robin from him.

Batman and Robin were different. They were a mirror of a happier time, but a cracked and splintered one. Batman was colder now. Thought he had pulled himself together for the de--taloned bird. That ruthlessness only seemed to come back when Batman had to face what Tim had done, the failure he had become.

Tim couldn’t deal with this. He didn’t have the tools to even begin. What he did have was a utility belt and a semi-automatic at ‘home’ that called him. He had the city that killed his blood father and destroyed Tim in so many new and interesting ways. That seemed a good a place as any to start.

Batman, Robin, Bluejay, and Spoiler brought the Joker to Arkham, along with all the Laughing Widows that they could capture. Bluejay didn’t stick around and said something about staying in Jump City for the night, and Spoiler stormed off after hearing how Bruce treated Red Hood. This left Batman and Robin returning home to an almost empty Man. They showered without a word, and the silence was only broken when Bruce caught Dick in an attempt to sneak upstairs.

“Not so fast, chum. You know the drill.”

Dick threw his head back in a dramatic fashion that let Bruce know that not all the performing instincts had been removed from his ward. They went to the Med Bay, where Bruce pulled on a pair of latex gloves as Dick climbed on one of the many cots. Dick pulled off the Gotham Academy sweater--- one that Bruce recognized from Damian’s wardrobe--- with practiced ease.

Bruce got to work testing Dick’s range of motion--- each of his movements televised and in the same order that they always occurred. His ward seemed to be telling the truth when he said that he had no injuries. The light bruising that had been on his jaw was already a pale yellow and would be gone by morning. Physically, his son was okay, but there was something brewing behind his blue eyes.

“That was the first time you faced the Joker in a while. How are you doing?”

Dick shrugged, and other than that motion he seemed indifferent to the events of the night.

All of Bruce’s children had run-ins with the Joker, they ranged from disturbing to unspeakable in their horror. The encounters left his own stomach turning on the best night. He had expected that Dick would be immune to the horrors of the Joker after the trauma he had experienced at the hands of the Court. But the madman had his way of ruining minds. He frustrated Damian, drove Tim to extremes, angered Jason, and, somehow, managed to make Dick wake up in a cold sweat.

His ward would never admit his fear; he didn’t know how. Bruce would worry more if Dick wasn’t so good at bouncing back from the horrific encounters with the Joker. His unshakable optimism was a mystery to Bruce and catnip for the Joker. Maybe he shouldn’t have Robin out tonight, even if it was assumed to be a punishment. Better to be upset for a while then face another criminal intent on destroying his already corrupted innocence. Bruce wondered if Dick would listen to him, or if that would be the last straw. Dick had been a rule-breaker in the beginning, and Bruce was waiting for the day that his ward’s rebellious streak came back.

He would need to consult with the others before any decisions were made about Dick being allowed to confront the Joker. In the meantime, he chose to focus on the nasty bruise that he found on Dick’s shoulder blade.

“I see your nightly activities went smoothly,” Alfred commented on the lack of gaping wounds as he entered the Med Bay with a tray that carried two hot chocolates. “How are you feeling, Master Dick?”

Dick took his mug and held out a thumb up.

“Then there’s cause for celebration. How does blueberry pancakes for breakfast sound?”

Dick beamed at his grandfather that knew that Dick’s all-time favorite was blueberry pancakes.

“Of course, I don’t believe those pancakes would take nearly as delicious when the person eating them is sleep deprived. I shudder to think that any blueberry pancakes might go to waste.” Alfred put all of his Shakespearean training into his performance.

Dick’s sense of theater still needed working on as he was soon staring wide-eyed and worried at Alfred.

“A jest, my lad. However, I must insist you make up for last night with at least eight hours of rest.”

Dick considered, but he soon nodded in agreement.

“Why don’t you head up, chum,” Bruce said, snapping off the gloves and throwing them away. “I’ll join you in a few minutes to lock up the Manor.”

He nodded once, put the sweater back on, and jumped off the table.

Once they were out of his exceptional earshot, Bruce deflated with a curse.

“I take it capturing the Joker did not go as well as I had originally thought,” Alfred said handed Bruce his hot chocolate.

“He separated us, and somehow got the upper hand on Dick.” Bruce took a long drink from his hot chocolate and hoped it would soothe his nerves like the drink had when he was a scared child. “Red Hood was there too.”

Alfred looked down. “I see. How was Master Tim, did he look healthy?”

“He did, just pissed at me for the most part.”

“So, I see nothing has changed.”

“Maybe,” Bruce said. “He saved Dick”

“They were always close.” Alfred smiled as fond memories of laughter from happier times played in his mind.

“yeah, they were.” Bruce meant to say more, as he always did. He had a bad habit of only speaking his mind when it wasn’t necessary or wanted. “I should get up there to him.”

“Best not to leave the lad waiting,” Alfred said, and only when Bruce was near the stairs did he call to him. “Be sure to get some rest yourself, Master Bruce. I would hate if your pancake experience was anything less than sublime.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched in the small smile that he had gotten so good at over the years. He then headed up stone stairs and left Alfred alone as the butler pulled a picture from his breast pocket. It was old, two long creases in it from being folded for years. The photo stayed with him always. The only remaining photo of Timothy Drake that remained outside of the Manor’s attic. He smiled and held on to that sweet sound of laughter for just a little longer before folding the photo and putting it away again.

[onehaleofanadventure]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Relationship: Jason Todd/Dick Grayson

Summary: 

Bond flares are very common in the first six months or so, the pain—both emotional and physical—accounts for the Broken Heart Syndrome that kills the surviving partner so soon after the other in a large percent of the population.

Dolorous: feeling or expressing great sorrow or distress

The first few months after Dick finds out about Jason's death are the hardest—not that it will ever be easy to deal with. In a fit of self-hatred and rage, Dick pushes away everyone who cares for him. Alone in Bludhaven, he suffers through his bond flares as some sort of penance for the horrors his would-be-mate suffered, for the horrors he could've protected Jay from and didn’t.

Bond flares are very common in the first six months or so, the pain—both emotional and physical—accounts for the Broken Heart Syndrome that kills the surviving partner so soon after the other in a large percent of the population. After the first six months, bond flares happen sporadically for the rest of a lifetime; these flares can last anywhere from hours to weeks, on occasion, they have been documented to last up to a few months. Bond flares can be caused by anything, usually a specific memory or sensation that reminds the surviving bond member of his or her mate.

For those first few months, Dick and Bruce's relationship becomes even more strained. Despite knowing and seeing the obvious need for closure—what little could be offered—Bruce refuses to allow Dick to even visit Jason's grave.

---

When Tim showed up at Dick's apartment asking about Robin, Dick felt the largest bond flare since he learned of Jason's death, and sent Tim away. He couldn’t be Robin again, even if he was willing: Robin was Jason's.

After Tim approaches Bruce—and the chaos that ensues from Tim’s (stalking) knowledge of their identities—and becomes Robin, Bruce settles some. Tim would never be as close to Bruce as Jason was, but he would stand by Batman when necessary, and these days there was more Batman than Bruce.

More balanced and somewhat content, Bruce allows Dick to visit Jason, just not as often as he wanted. These meager visitation rights were the only thing that kept Dick from strangling Bruce and destroying the horrid glass-encased shrine he had made of Jason's uniform as some sort of war-memorial/cautionary-tale for the future.

---

Dick makes the effort this time, for the most part, to be a good big brother. In the beginning, his interactions with Tim were awkward and stressful; not in the least due to Tim's near obsession with the second Robin. Part of Dick wants to hate Tim, to prove to him, that the young beta could never good enough for Jason. However, a bigger part of himself wonders if maybe Tim would’ve been better for Jay, would’ve loved him and cared for him as he should've been. Mostly, though, Dick hates himself for being a big reason why Tim would never get to meet Jay, get to experience that all-encompassing passion in everything Jay did.

With Dick and Tim being closer, and Dick agreeing to teach Tim his acrobatics, Bruce—with some not-so-gentle prodding from Alfred—makes an attempt to mend his relationship with his eldest child. They will never be the same, but after a few years—and some challenging times—Dick feels that their relationship has gotten better.

---

Even with as civil as they’ve become, Dick knows he will never be forgiven for some of his more self-destructive behaviors.

The first time he encountered the Joker after Jason's death is mostly a blank spot in his memory, one of the few times he has ever allowed his instincts to take over rationality. He was helping Batman while Robin was being forced to wait in the cave.

They were calm, as calm as can be expected given the mass-murdering psychopath who murder a member of their family, prancing about in front of them. Dick was fine, under control. Until the bastard started bragging about clipping the last Robin's wings. After that, it’s a blur of blood and crunching bones; then, Bruce yanking Dick off the bloody mess and flinging him across the room. Personally, Dick thinks he should’ve done worse, should’ve made sure the Joker could never hurt anyone else. Hurting the Joker was the first thing to make the numbness receded into some other than pain. Killing the Joker is not what Dick wants, but Arkham isn’t good enough, he needs to be stopped.

After the Joker came Slade. Dick being reckless and unfeeling left him open to Slade’s onslaught. The flirting had little to no effect, Dick wasn’t really interested in relationships anymore—a bond is forever, even if one person is gone. The blatant propositions, even if he felt like he was betraying Jason, were progressively harder to ignore—at 19 and unmated, he had certain needs to fill. The on-going, random booty-calls are a difficult subject with the rest of the Bat-brood, and some of the heroes, but Dick is tired of the pitying looks from those who know and the concerned looks from those who don’t.

Then comes Blockbuster. He could have saved the man if he tried, but letting him die was better for the city. The guilt still weighs heavy on his conscience. The man was already dying, and destroying Bludhaven, but Nightwing has no right to decide who lives and who dies.

Despite all of that, Dick’s biggest mistake in the last five years is the Red Hood. The man is an anomaly, and Dick never should have let him get so close to destroying Nightwing.

---

Despite what most people might think, the worst moment of Jason’s life—up until this point, because a street rat always knows that it can get worse—is not being blown-up or the hours of vicious beating with a crowbar. Nor is it the harsh rejection and bond-induced first heat, or even the Lazarus pit. No, the worst moment of Jason’s life has to be young zombie, catatonic Jason crawling his way out of his own grave, in the throes of the worst heat he has experience since the first—due to six months without suppressants from being, you know, dead and all—alone.

After Talia picks him up and dumps him into the Lazarus pit, he vows to never suffer through heats again. He has no desire for a relationship given the disaster that was his bond; and, not that he would ever tell anyone, he doubts his capability to parent a child considering the stellar examples he had, he will never be so irresponsible as to make a child suffer for his own idiocy.

After going through Talia’s training, and pretending to go along with her ridiculous plan, Jason designs one of his own. He is going to make Bruce and Dick—the two people who were supposed to love and care for him—pay for replacing him, for not even caring that he died.

---

The first time Dick met the Red Hood, the man nearly kills him. The fight is a lot of blood and snarling—alphas fighting for dominance—and unfortunately Dick loses. At the end of the fight, the Red Hood flies off with a bitter laugh and spitting hatred, while Nightwing hobbles away with a broken leg and a clear warning that next time the Hood will shoot to kill.

Each encounter with the man has to be handled delicately, to avoid any more serious injuries, and Hood seems to take every precaution to make sure he is never so much as touched. Beyond their encounters, the Red Hood was strange: he built up one of the strongest followings, through completely distasteful means, in the Gotham, even branching into Bludhaven, and then gave them rules about children and women. Also, the people living on the streets praise him for to beating up or killing the abusive pimps and the dealers who sold to kids. If he wasn’t so prone to murder, and didn’t clearly hate the Bats, Dick would almost consider him a vigilante.

Still, somehow it’s a surprise when Nightwing stumbles upon the Red Hood hurt: a nasty shot just between the straps of his body armor and his jacket. The smell of his blood is oddly enticing, something spicy and sweet under all the metal and leather, gun powder, sweat, and suppressants. Dick doesn’t know what possess him to do it, but he removes his own glove and reaches out to the man’s wound.

The connection is instantaneous and just as electric as the first time, and for the second time in his life, Dick runs from his bond-mate.

---

Hood disappears for a few days after that, which makes avoiding him all the easier for Dick. It’s a little more difficult to do when he comes back, but it’s clear that Hood doesn’t want anything to do with him either. This bond could be something dangerous, and even though the pain is excruciating, he has lived it all before and will not risk his family for something he doesn’t deserve.

Bonds are supposed to be rare, supposed to last forever. It’s a one in a trillion, or hundreds of trillions, chance for someone to have more than one bond. In all of history, there has been a recorded total of two. Dick doesn’t think he should be allowed to join those ranks, to have another bond, after what he did to Jason. So, despite knowing he shouldn’t, he hides that he re-bonded, doesn’t tell Bruce, and hopes that Red Hood doesn’t use this to hurt them.

---

The next time he sees Hood is by far the worst moment of his life.

He followed a distress call from Bruce—from Alfred, on behalf of Bruce, who was watching the cowl’s camera feed—and found an old abandoned apartment building. Just as he was marking the correct window, the entire building explodes in flames and a shower of debris.

Dick rushes to the settling rubble, searching for any sign of life. He finds Bruce, lugging a battered but living Joker under a few smaller pieces of debris. Before he can so much as ask of Bruce’s condition, he is shoved aside and Bruce is frantically digging through the rubble from the other side of the building.

As Dick gets closer, he can he the wheezing, bubbling sounds of a person choking on blood, soft under the crunching, scraping sound of concrete and brick.

When the last bit of debris is lifted, Dick gasps, unable to do more than stare in shock. Below him is the Red Hood, grasping at the large gash, spurting blood, on the side of his neck, a blood-stained malicious smile on his—older, but undeniably familiar—face. Lightly curled black hair, with a strange white streak, matted with blood. Eyes glazed, and little too green, but still Robin’s Egg blue, and spicy-sweet scent from the bloody puddle forming around him. Jason.

[redrobin-detective]

Prompt idea - Deathstroke has kidnapped a wounded Dick Grayson. Batman and Dick's siblings come to the rescue. Points for some interesting introspection as Deathstroke tells bat family why he thinks Dick is the perfect son/protégé for him and manages to his some nerves.

This ended up being… very curious. Let’s see what you all make of it.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?” Batman, Bruce, chastises in a very rare loss of composure in the cowl. Tim shifts slightly in the seat beside him, he’s been the one who’s been toying with the jet to increase speed and efficiency so the comment really was directed at him.

“We’re going as fast as we can given the size and weight of the ship,” he responds lightly. “We’re going to get him back B, you know how tough Wing is.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to leave him in the hands of that lunatic for any longer than necessary,” Bruce grounds out turning to glare at his middle son. “You don’t understand what Deathstroke is capable of Tim, the Titans have only gotten a taste of what that man is capable of, and he’s had Dick for hours.” Even Tim, who’s well-practiced at the art of ignoring Batman’s glares, shrinks a bit under the force of this one.

“Alright, I know it’s good fun to beat up the kid but lighten up B.” Jason says from the back, giving Bruce’s chair a kick to stop his lecturing. “Besides, we all know that Slade is super in love with Dickie Bird and won’t touch a hair on his head, it’s been that way since I wore short pants.” Jay shrugged as we went back to lounging in the back seat, completely unworried. He bets by the time they get there, Dick will have already beaten Deathstroke and be waiting for pick-up.

“Nightwing took several bad hits before he was taken,” Damian interjects, about as edgy as Hood was calm. He’d been unable to stop his partner from being viciously beaten nor stop his kidnapping. If something happened to Grayson he would never forgive himself. “And it’s unwise to underestimate Deathstroke. Even my Grandfather holds him in high regard which goes to show how cunning and skilled he is. He must be if he gives Grayson such a difficult time.”

“It’ll be fine,” Tim concludes quietly, “Dick is tough and has handled Deathstroke before. Besides he has all of us there to back him up if need be.”

“Amen to that Little Red,” Hood says cheerfully. “And look at that, it seems we’re coming up on Wing’s location.” Batman takes over manual control of the plane, as the tracking device in Dick’s suit alerts them that they’re nearing their destination. He rolls in shoulders in preparation of, what he hopes, is a pretty awesome brawl.  

“Oh man, what is going on down there?” Tim mutters quietly as he looks out the window. Immediately Dami looks out his while Hood unbuckles from his seat and crowds over Damian.

“What the hell?” Jason mutters as they fly over a deserted beach and see Deathstroke and Nightwing, sitting on the sand seemingly without care. “What are you doing Dick?” He asks to himself as B, observing their reactions, brings the plane down into a dive and lands in a rough, but still passable manner just a few hundred yards from where Dick and Deathstroke were sitting.

“Be prepared for anything,” Batman growls as he throws off his seatbelt and makes last second additions to his belt. “Deathstroke is known for his unpredictability but priority one is getting Nightwing out safely." He continues curtly before stalking off the plane, completely forgoing any attempt at stealth. Deathstroke was changing the rules, the usual techniques no longer applied.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Wayne,” Deathstroke says once the four Bats are in ear shot, “and Mr. Todd-Wayne, Mr. Drake-Wayne and the young Mr. Wayne as well. Lovely day out isn’t it?” Slade is methodically sharpening a collection of knives on the beach, not even in a threatening manner, just in a professional, casual way.

“What have you done to Nightwing?” Batman barks taking a few more steps closer but the knife Slade is sharpening comes up and the Bat halts. They stay that way for a moment before Slade goes back to his task.

“We’re just talking, nothing big, just normal stuff.” And true to form, Dick doesn’t look to be in any harm. The injuries from earlier appear to have been attended to, his belt and gloves are not on him but laid to the side about a foot away. Other than that, he’s just sitting there with a relaxed look on his face. “He was a bit of trouble when I was patching up his injuries so I gave him a muscle relaxant. He’s a little less chatty than normal but still perfectly aware of what’s going on.”

“Let him go Deathstroke, you’re through hurting him.” Robin spat out vicious, running forward to attack the assassin only to be stopped in his tracks by both Batman and Hood grabbing at his shoulders.

“Hurt him?” Deathstroke says innocently, “I would never dream of hurting him. Look at him boy, does he look hurt to you?” Damian’s face draws up into a sneer but the man continues. “Have I not treated his injuries? Brought him to a relaxing location to put his busy mind and body at ease? He’s not even bound, should he wish to leave, he could have done so at any time.” Through the black and orange mask, they could feel him smiling. “In fact, the ones who regularly hurt him have just interrupted our little chat.”

“You dirty liar,” Damian said, squirming and kicking but the elder Bats held on firm as much as they wanted to rush into the assassin. Whatever this was, it was new and they couldn’t just dive in and risk setting whatever trap Slade had set.

“Guys relax, it’s okay,” Dick said suddenly from his spot, still looking a bit dazed but there wasn’t any fear or anger in his tone. “We were just talking.”

“You see?” Deathstroke nodded, lightly gesturing to Dick with his knife. “We’ve been having a great conversation. Dick’s told me some stories from his time in the circus, we compared training regimes, I even shared with him one of my prized slow cooker recipes. Just guy talk.”

“The hell are you up to?” Hood demanded, debating if he should let the brat go at it so they could end whatever the hell was happening.

“I just decided to switch things up a bit, thank to you Timothy.” Slade said gently with a nod in the direction of Red Robin. “The Titans stole two of my children from me, when Rose finally betrayed me, the Robin at the time commented how they always turned because I never treated them with the love and respect they needed. I never gave them a reason to stay.”

“Rose and Joey left you because you were a manipulative, abusive asshole and talking recipes isn’t going to change that, or make Dick want to stay with you.” Red Robin said sternly, feeling a bit uncomfortable at the silent accusations coming from his team.

“Oh I agree. After all, what kind of father would take a young, vulnerable child who’s already suffered enough to last a lifetime and put them in a costume and throw them out into the rough, unrelenting world of capes and criminals.” Batman tensed up, “now that sounds pretty abusive to me, I think Dick agrees too.”

“You don’t-” Batman started before he was cut off.

“Of course if I’d treated Joey or Rose with more respect, allowed them to grow on their own instead of confining them to my side, forcing them to aid in my growth and progression while denying them their own, they might have stayed. They might not have run off to join the Teen Titans or anywhere really just to get away from their cruel, merciless father who can’t see beyond the mission.” Dick’s eyes narrow on Bruce as Deathstroke keeps talking and even the other Bats are side-eyeing their mentor. It’s one thing to live through it, another to have it stated so plainly.

“Maybe if Joey and Rose got on better it would have been different as well,” the assassin sighs. “I was an only child so I can’t imagine the heartache siblings would cause. Reckless younger brothers who refuse to listen, taking advantage of the older sibling’s good will and cheer and use and abuse him for their own purposes. No wonder the children left me.” There’s more wincing from the Bats and Deathstroke can only smile. That’s enough for one day, the seeds have been planted, not just in Grayson but all of them. He bets by the end of the year, Dick will be on the outs with his supposed family again and maybe, just maybe, might end up on his doorstep. He sets down the knife and begins packing up.

“Well it has been an illuminating talk but Dick here probably does need his rest and I’m sure you’re all tired from the rather bruising battle this morning. Why don’t you take him back home and we’ll fight it out again some other time?” He leaned over and patted Dick’s knee. “Time to go, your weapons are to your right. I’m sure your family will take the very best care of you, after all, they don’t want to follow my example now would they?” Deathstroke carefully got to his feet. “It’s been a pleasure as always, safe flight home.” And with that, he picked up the bag at his feet and began to walk away from the small, tense group.

Damian wriggled out of his captors’ grasp and ran over to his brother. He knelt down and gently patted the older man to assess for any unknown injuries. He was surprised and more than a little hurt when Dick brushed his hands aside.

“I’m fine,” the acrobat said, struggling to his feet. “The relaxant is wearing off, I can walk on my own.” He says in a quiet monotone, walking silently past Damian and the others to get back onto the plane.

“Dick,” Bruce said calmly, reaching out a hand to his oldest. “You know what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to put cracks in our infrastructure, to plant doubt and conflict in an attempt to draw you onto his side. You know he’s just saying those things to manipulate you.” Dick frowns and steps out of the reach of Bruce’s hand.

“Yeah, I know he is but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t bring up valid points. I just,” the man sighed, feeling far older than his 25 years. “I just need some time to think.” With that, he walked silently onto the plane and the Bats exchanged worried looks with one another. This was going to be a long, awkward flight back to Gotham.

[angstandhappiness]

Interesting

The reason I like the idea that Bruce was a teenage idle then personally experienced some aspect of poverty in his time abroad is because if I ever found out that some privileged rich white man spontaneously decided to go out into the streets and fight criminals hand to hand, I would personally tear his neck out with my teeth. Absolutely the fuck not. If he has no frame of reference for starvation, addiction, or homelessness, he has absolutely no right to enact his so-called justice.

That motherfucker better have fucking empathy in whole ass wheelbarrows OR ELSE.