#dick ic

[dramatisperscnae]

He's vaguely awake, caught in that limbo between full consciousness and the oblivion of sleep. Alert enough to register sounds around him, but not quite willing to actually open his eyes yet. He's tired, and there's a background ache in his ribs he'd just as soon put off enduring for a while.

But he can hear Tim talking to someone, and a soft but familiar voice saying his codename. Phen. She's probably worried about him. Which means he ought to try and wake up fully, try to assure her he's okay. Tim's already trying, but she's more likely to believe it if he says it himself.

Slowly blue eyes flutter open. His mask is off, he can tell by feel, but it doesn't matter at this point. Not if Phen's actually here in the Belfry. Dick takes a moment to gauge his ability and the wisdom of actually sitting up, then opts for the less strenuous option of just turning his head.

There's Tim, and there at his side…Dick's eyes soften in a smile. "…Hey, Phen."

@normaltothemax

There’s a presence beside her almost immediately, but it takes several heavy breaths before she’s able to blink her eyes open again to look blearily at it. Tim. He’s blurry, but it’s definitely him. She pushes herself up to sit on her heels with a pained grunt, rubbing at her eyes with one hand, trying to force them to focus properly.

In an attempt to clear her head, she shakes it. Grimaces afterward—it feels like that sent her brain bouncing around the inside of her skull. Yuck, she always hates when they put the bad stuff in her. It always makes her feel awful afterwards, and it takes so long for the effects to completely wear off.

She squints, trying to read Tim despite her fuzzy thoughts. He and Nightwing could be captured. They could be in a new League base she’s just never seen before. She could have ruined everything for them just by not being good enough.

But Tim says safe. He says it’s okay and let me help. Frowning, she looks back over at where Nightwing is laying. “Nightwing?” The word is croaked, her voice scratchy, throat dry, but the concern is still clear as day.

As she tries to push herself to her feet, she doesn’t take Tim’s hand. She needs to show him that she can do it. She needs to prove that she can take care of herself, that she’s not as much of a liability as she made herself seem last night.

@arobinwithoutbatman

[dramatisperscnae]

@thecreativeforge from here bc tumblr is dumb

Breathe. He had to breathe. Nothing had happened, they were fine, just breathe, Grayson. And try not to think about how Roy's hand had felt, there in the small of his back. How it might have felt if it had landed a few inches lower.

The hand on his shoulder made him jump, though he didn't pull away; instead his own hand came up to hold it there as he looked over at Roy, hoping the flush on his cheeks had faded a little even as he found some comfort in the fact that Roy's hadn't. At least Dick wasn't the only one suddenly feeling awkward right now.

He managed a wry grin at the teasing, giving Roy's hand a squeeze but still not letting go. "I'd…call it a tie. Would've been my win if that old brownstone had still been here." He was trying to tease back, but as Roy glanced over and blue eyes met green any further comments died on Dick's lips. His heart was still pounding, albeit a little softer than it had been a few seconds ago, though he wasn't afraid; behind the uncertainty in his eyes absolute trust was shining through.

[notrobinsomethingworse]

Kid!Tim, called to the principles office. Waiting for an adult to come get him.

Dick, storming in: WHAT HAPPENED.

Principal: as you can see Timothy has engaged in-

Dick: SHUT THE FUCK UP. Now Timtam what’s wrong? Are you alright? Do you need a hug? It’s alright.

Tim, pulled the fire alarm because he wanted the last chocolate muffin in the cafeteria but they aren’t allowed seconds: I- I just though I saw a fire. I was trying *hiccup* I was trying to do the right thing. I’m so sorry.

Principal: Mr. Grayson. We have security footage that Timothy pulled the alarm completely purposefully-

Dick: Can’t you see he’s never done anything wrong in his life?

[stars-and-branches]

He's using the batarang as a spoon to eat ice cream

[dramatisperscnae]

It was nice, having Roy in his arms, Roy's head against his chest. Dick settled into the mattress comfortably, still toying with Roy's hair idly. He still didn't like the quiet, the silence, but having someone else there - having Roy there - made it easier to deal with. He could listen to Roy's breathing, focus on the shared warmth and the feeling of Roy's hair against his fingers, and then the silence didn't seem quite so heavy.

And then Roy spoke.

Just three words, but they made Dick go still, his breath catching for a moment. It wasn't surprising, honestly - Roy had made it fairly clear he felt some kind of way pretty much since he'd hauled Dick out of Atlantic City - but actually hearing it…it changed things. Made it more real. Sent a rush of icy fire straight through Dick that he wasn't at all sure what to make of.

Did he dare say the words back? He knew he felt some kind of way, too; his feelings for Roy went deeper than just friendship, but how long would that last? There was still far too high a chance that it was simply Dick scrambling to feel wanted after what had happened, to feel needed if not desired, and it was only natural after trauma to cling to someone showing kindness and compassion, wasn't it?

Stifling a sigh Dick pressed a kiss into Roy's hair, holding him closer. "I…can't say it yet," he said, going for total honesty, "but…you mean a lot to me, Roy. You do. Just…give me some time…okay?"

Roy knew Dick was probably right, and he was in no condition to do much but sleep. If the pain in his side continues, he would have to see the doctor again, hopefully not having made it worse; Catalina did throw a mean hit to the place, though he doubted one was enough to do anything. He took some aspirin and laid down in bed, wrapping his arms around Dick in turn as Dick held him close, thoroughly enjoying the fingers running through his red hair.

"Good night, Dick." He murmured before contemplating a long moment. Was it too early? Was it too sudden? No, he felt strongly enough to do all this for him and more, and he would do what he did tonight a thousand times if he had to. He knew what he felt for Dick, and actually having him at his side only affirmed it. Screw it. If this was going to end, let it end with Dick knowing the truth.

"I love you."

[anima89]

A Wayne family trip to Metropolis <3

Of course, they will wear their own merch ^^

Inspired by this! V

Heheheheh.

[ditzybat]

just imagining a teeny tiny tim being absolutely devastated about jason’s death, that he manages to get on to dark forums to contact a mercenary for a hit on the joker’s life.

and who happens to be that mercenary? deathstroke.

tim wires money from his (admittedly very high) allowance to slade, who finishes the job within the week — news outlets are going crazy as nobody knows who pulled off such a stunt — bruce is confused, and dick is both grateful, that someone took the bastard who killed his baby brothers life, and angry, because bruce wasn’t the one to do it.

slade however? wants to investigate, someone finally had the gall to order a hit on the joker and he’s a little curious to see who it is.

only come to find a little boy all alone in a big house who spends his nights following around a vigilante in a furry suit.

and, well, slade hasn’t been the best parent, and probably doesn’t know how to deal with an average kid, but who can blame him when he begins to train tim into becoming a mercenary just like him — after all, how else is he gonna defend himself on the streets of gotham when he gallivants around with an expensive camera, a sign basically saying ‘kidnap me!’ strapped to his chest?

so what if the kid becomes robin and uses those skills in the cape? that’s batman’s problem to figure out.

[dramatisperscnae]

closed starter for @cxpedcrusxder and amnesiac!bruce

It's something they all quietly live in fear of. That one night, someone won't make it back. That some day The Call will come through and they'll be left with one less name in their lives, one less voice to hear. It's a fear, but it's a given. What they do is dangerous, and every night there is always the risk that they won't make it back. Dick knows this. He's known it since he was nine.

That hadn't changed the sudden ice-cold rush of panic he'd gotten when Alfred had called him over a week ago.

He'd just been finishing up his own patrol when the call came through over his comms. The Bat had fallen, badly. Possibly permanently. Dick hadn't hesitated - hell, he hadn't even stopped to pack; he'd just thrown a long coat on over his costume, hopped on his motorcycle, and raced to Gotham with his speedometer pushing 200mph the whole way. By the time he'd arrived Bruce was already in the hospital and Alfred - bless Alfred - was in the waiting room with a cup of coffee and a worrying grave expression.

In the days that followed Dick refused to leave the hospital. It was only at Alfred's insistence - and with his help - that Dick even bothered changing into proper clothes rather than remain in his working gear. Bruce wasn't dead - yet - but he was hardly out of the woods and there was no power in this or any other universe that could pry Dick away from his father's side. Sure their relationship hadn't been the best over the past few years, but none of that mattered. Not now.

At this point the nurses seem to have realized the family is not going to leave, given they've stopped bothering to remind Dick and the others about visiting hours. Only discussion - okay, an argument - between himself and his brothers pulls Dick from Bruce's bedside, and that only occasionally; they've set up a patrol rotation, picking up the slack while Batman is incapacitated to ensure that neither Bruce nor Gotham is left untended.

Tonight it's Dick's turn at Bruce's side, Tim and Damian having charge of the city under Alfred's guidance - and with some quiet help from Jason, not that anyone will openly say so. Dick's pulled his chair right beside Bruce's bed, a book open on his lap as he reads quietly aloud. Maybe Bruce can hear him, maybe he can't, but either way it's something, isn't it? It's at least doing more than just sitting there worrying and praying Bruce wakes up.

[dramatisperscnae]

@the-mocking-robin

A phone call. From an unfamiliar number. The voice at the other end of the call is small, young and more than a little scared sounding. "H-hello? Mister Dick Grayson? Hi. I don't know if you remember me? You talked to my brother about your car. Uh — I'm sorry, I got your number from Jason's phone." "Uh. My mom said... Well. Jason. He's not doing too good. Mom said he's sick. That his brain isn't... Right... Right now. And I heard him yelling and things broke and..." "I know it's late. I'm just scared for him. I don't know what to do. It was hard just getting him down from the roof... He didn't speak or anything. And no one knows who else to call."

Dick isn't generally in the habit of answering his phone if he doesn't know the number. Telemarketers, daring reporters, it's just more hassle than it's worth. Of course, it's incredibly difficult for anyone to get his number without his giving it to them in the first place, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen.

Tonight, when his phone goes off with the ringtone reserved for strangers - Rockwell's 'Somebody's Watching Me' - he eyes the thing for a few seconds before shrugging and actually answering it. He's bored, he might as well fuck with whoever's on the other end before going on patrol.

Except that whoever's on the other end is a kid. A scared kid. Who knows his name and - more importantly - knows Jason. And Jason is…in trouble. Just what kind Dick has no idea, but the kind that has the tenement kids worried for him and that's enough for Dick.

"I'll be right over. Okay? Take a deep breath for me. It's gonna be okay." God he hopes so. "You can stay on the phone with me if you want, okay? While I drive over there." Dick's already moving, not even bothering to change out of his casual shorts and t-shirt; he barely even bothers sliding shoes on before heading down to the garage. He's not taking the Nightbird this time; she's fast, sure, but she's not as nimble as his motorcycle. On the bike Dick can take shortcuts through alleys and weave through Gotham's constant traffic.

"Just keep me updated on what he's doing, can you do that? I'm switching you over to Bluetooth so I can drive, but I'm still here, I promise."

[dramatisperscnae]

@thecreativeforge [Forehead touch prompts || accepting]

[ EXHAUSTION ]:     having just overcome a massive obstacle (e.g. using a massive display of their powers, fighting through a sizable army, embarking on a perilous journey, writing up a PhD thesis etc.) the sender and receiver reunite, and the sender drops their head forward to rest against the receivers, thoroughly exhausted but glad to be reunited at last.

Why did hell have to break loose so damned often? After a certain point, shouldn't there be no more hell left to break loose? Dick took a few seconds to look around, leaning against the remnants of what had been a wall until about ten minutes ago. Yet another fight that left half a city in rubble and had needed some serious heavy hitters to resolve…but they'd come through it. He was eexhausted, bloodied, bruised, but still standing.

Pushing off the wall Dick started off through the wreckage of the battlefield, eyes scanning for a flash of red. Not the red of blood - there was more than enough of that as it was - but a brighter, distinctive shade. He'd seen the arrows, heard the smart-assed comments over the comms, knew the man was here somewhere; he just had to find him.

It took a good few minutes, given he had to pick off a few stragglers, but soon enough the man he sought was there at the end of the street. Blue eyes brightened behind a dust-stained mask, exhaustion forgotten as he broke into a run.

"Arsenal!"

Dick threw his arms around the archer, pulling him into as tight a hug as he could - one shoulder had been dislocated in the battle; he'd reset it but it was still angry at him - before pulling back enough to rest their heads together out of sheer relief. "…still the proverbial bad penny, huh?" he asked with a warm smile. "Just can't get rid of you."

[dramatisperscnae]

@therebetterbepie [-drops a half-dead Dickiebird at your feet like a cat-]

He's tired. He's been pushing himself nonstop for days, ever since the cemetery. Since Jason. Since learning his baby brother hates him. He's always assumed that would be the case, of course - why the hell would Jason think otherwise? - but to have it confirmed…to know that Jason is alive and well, somehow, and wants nothing to do with him. Has disowned him. After everything else he's lost over these past few months, what else does Dick have left but his work?

He can't even go back to Bruce. Not now. Not after Blockbuster. After Bludhaven. And if Bruce knew about Jason? Knew and didn't tell him? What does that say about their relationship? More than enough. The weight of his failures is crushing him, each one parading through his head almost non-stop. Getting fired from the 'haven PD. Losing Babs. Killing Blockbuster. Catalina, god he wishes he could forget her; every time she crosses his mind it makes his skin crawl. Sophie, and Slade, and Chemo falling on Bludhaven, and now Jason, back from the dead…

The only thing that stops the parade is his work. It gives him something to focus on, something to do, even though a part of him knows this is stupid. Self-destructive. Dangerous. The rest of him doesn't care. Hell, it almost welcomes the pain. How many fights tonight alone? Six? Seven? He's lost count. Took a couple bullets here and there. A knife, once. And now he's finishing up on a herd of Talons that damn near came close to ripping him to shreds. But he's still standing, somehow.

Still standing.

Barely.

A part of him is disappointed by that.

Arm tucked over his stomach Dick stumbles his way out of the alley, fetching up against a wall once or twice and leaving a streak of blood behind each time. He should probably call for help. He has to keep moving. Get to the next fight. There's always a next fight. But maybe…

Is there a chill in the air?

Maybe this time there won't be. He runs into the wall again, slides down it. Tired. Getting darker. Light must be out here; happens sometimes in these alleys, no one bothers to check the bulbs on the regular. Footsteps approaching. Should reach for his sticks. Sit up. Too tired. Sticks already in hand. Doesn't matter. Can't move. And this is Gotham. Maybe the footsteps will just pass by. Just leave him here. It's dark, he's in black. Easy to miss. Right?

[dramatisperscnae]

[my muse was unexpectedly kidnapped, found a year later barely alive, injured, and bound.]

@lazaruspitreborn

Where there would be some snarky commentary there was silence and cautiousness when Red Hood found frigging Nightwing dumped inside what he could only consider a murder shack at the outskirts of Gotham. A scene so shocking he couldn't even bring any words out of his mouth or brain. No, he scanned the place a second and third time with his scan-bug (one of his latest creations) and upon not finding anything that called for extra caution, rushed to Dick. They never stopped looking for him. Never! They lost Bruce too soon, couldn't lose Dick as well! But as the days went on, hope dwindled in spite of the Babs', Tim's and Jason's efforts. And with criminal activity rising again, their time became more and more limited, only making their search even harder. "H-Hey, hey, hey! It's fine. It's me, Bluebird." Jason's voice was hushed and way softer when he stopped what he thought was an attempt on a punch. "Holy shit! You're alive... Dick! Dick, no, no, no! Do not fucking go dead on me!" Gods! Jason slided on his knees to take a better look at Dick, craddling his head and face against his own chest while he measure his pulse - weak, but still there. "I'm here. I'm here Dick. You're safe." A wave of relief washed over him, so powerful that Jason completely forgot to send word back to the Belfry for quite a few minutes while he checked Dick's wounds and ascertained himself that he didn't have anything broken.

Cold. So cold. What was left of his suit wasn't nearly enough to keep the cold out. Wrists hurt. Ankles. Everything, just one constant dull ache. Where was he? Had they moved him again? They kept moving him, never too long in one place, never more than a few days…weeks? He didn't know. Time had stopped meaning anything a while back. Impossible to tell time without clocks. Without light. Without anything to go by. He could only guess.

How long had he been gone? Weeks? Months? How long since they'd taken him? How long until they came back? They always came back. Every time he though it was over, every time he woke up on a new chair, a new floor, every time he thought he'd made it out, they always came back. What would it be this time? Gas? Injection? Or going old-school with blades and blunt instruments? Or a combination of them all?

Breath rasped in his chest, the sound of hurried footsteps making him twitch. Here it came, all over again, and he didn't have the strength to fight them off. He barely had the strength to struggle against the hands pulling him from the floor, trying to pull away until his arms were immobilized and a hushed voice spoke.

It's me, Bluebird.

He looked up to see a red mask, featureless but for white lenses, looking back at him. Talking to him. Red. Not white. They didn't use red masks. And their masks didn't look like this, not remotely. It wasn't them. It wasn't them. He sagged, what little energy that had been driving him flowing out as his eyes slid closed again.

And then he heard his name. His real name. And he was being lifted, cradled against a broad chest. Forcing his eyes open again he looked up, hazily, at the red mask - no. Red helmet - above him. A helmet he knew. Voice he knew. Assuring him. Safe. He's safe. Bluebird. "…Jason…" His voice was weak, barely a whisper, hoarse from overuse or underuse or some unholy combination of both; as dry as his mouth felt, he was surprised he could speak at all right now.

There was nothing broken - at least, not recently, though from the looks of things at least one or two fingers had been broken and forcibly reset a few times. Around his wrists and ankles his struggles against his bonds had left clear tracks in the flesh beneath that had never gotten a chance to heal, while beneath the shreds of what had once been his suit were scars - some fresh, some months old, none of them clean or pretty - scattered amongst bruises and fresh wounds while his arms bore the tell-tale marks of needles. IV, syringes, his captors had regularly introduced various things into his system, though whether to keep him alive or to torment him further - or both - was anyone's guess.

[dramatisperscnae]

@lazaruspitreborn

"One of us needs to stop getting in the other's territory. We've become characters in erotica online." Jason commented as he took a break from his work-out. "The dark and spicy kind."

It's reflexive. Dick's stomach clenches just on hearing it. Oh, he knows things get written about him - and drawn - but he'd just as soon never actually think about it. It's invasive in the worst way.

He really doesn't want to know just what Jason was doing to find that out.

Still, he's not going to shut the conversation down immediately; not when Jason clearly has something on his mind concerning the whole thing. "…Oh yeah?" He looks up from his own stretches, watching Jay carefully. "Red Hood and Nightwing, I'm guessing?"

[dramatisperscnae]

Any other night and Dick might have pulled away when Jason suddenly bristles, worried about having crossed a line he'd been unaware of.

Not tonight.

He meets that burning stare evenly, not backing down a single inch. "I wouldn't ask them to." Which Jason should know - Dick would never spring something like that on anyone, even if it had occurred to him in the first place - but kneejerk reactions are hard for even the best of them to control. With all the bullshit Jason's been through by now, Dick can't fault him in the least for immediately vetoing what he likely sees as the worst case scenario.

"I just meant did you want to try and jog them loose," he continues, giving Jason a gentle shake of reassurance. "Especially if some of them are coming back on their own, that means others could too. And you know you can always ask me about them. Or Alfred." Or Bruce, but Dick knows better than to suggest that; Jason's barely on speaking terms with the man on the best of days, there's no way in hell he'd willingly let the man know about his amnesia. "What do you remember?"

This time, he does tense up the slightest bit with the touch, before quickly relaxing under Dick’s arm. It only lasts a few moments before he’s going rigid again, bristling. Jaw tight and eyes blazing, he looks back at his brother. “No one’s fucking with my head.” His voice is pure conviction and solid steel, leaving absolutely no room for argument.

He doesn’t know what exactly Dick has in mind for trying to get them back, but he knows both the JLA and the Titans have magic users, telepathic aliens, and probably all kinds of other shit that could rummage around in his brain to hypothetically find any missing memories he may have.

But he’s had more than enough of various forms of head-fuckery for a lifetime, thanks. Hard pass.

His hackles lower a bit after that—Dick wouldn’t force that on him, he wouldn’t, Jason knows he wouldn’t—but the scowl remains firmly in place. God, this is so stupid. He’d been doing fine. No one had known, Jason was dealing, and it’d been fine. One bad night and some hot cocoa was apparently all it took to undo all that.

Still, he decides to throw Dick a bone and shrugs sullenly. “Some of ‘em have been coming back. Sometimes. Probably.” Hanging his head, he presses a hand over his eyes, elbow braced on his thigh, and huffs out a humorless laugh. “I dunno how much of it is real and how much is—” he gestures vaguely to his head with his other hand. “But…sometimes I get stuff I didn’t remember before.”

[dramatisperscnae]

adding to @normaltothemax's draft count for reasons >w>

It's been a week. Maybe longer, it's hard to say; the days seem to blur together sometimes. Have ever since he got the news. Clint dead. Killed in action. Natasha told him, quiet and serious, and for all she's got a better poker face than he does Dick could still pick up on her agitation. She'd clearly been upset. That meant it was real.

He hasn't taken the ring off. Not yet. He can't bear to. It's all he has of Clint right now, until he's allowed to go back to Clint's apartment, start packing up his things. SHIELD thinks he's a civilian, won't let him in there until they've made sure nothing confidential is left. But Natasha had at least brought Lucky over; it's the least Dick can do, to make sure Clint's dog still has a home

Besides, having Lucky to take care of means he has something outside of his work to focus on. Which he needs. He knows from experience that living the life 24/7 is a bad idea, but it's his natural response to a situation like this. Lucky keeps him from doing that.

It's been a long few days, though; even without his throwing himself into his work, he's been unable to really sleep. His bed feels far too big, too empty now, with Clint gone. Stupid, maybe, since they hadn't always shared a bed as it was, but…well, they won't ever be sharing a bed again, will they? Clint's gone.

Dick runs a hand through his hair as he drags himself back up to the Wayne Tower penthouse, pulling his mask off and preparing to catch an excited Lucky as he usually does when he gets home from patrol. When he steps inside the penthouse, though, there's no sign of Lucky at all…and the television's on. It hasn't been on for days. And it's playing Dog Cops; he recognizes the theme song with a pang. Clint loved that show.

Surely Lucky hasn't figured out how to use the remote, has he?

Confused and cautious, he peers into the living room, not sure what he expects to see. Whatever it is, it's not a far-too-familiar blond man lounging on his sofa, drinking coffee straight out of the pot with his feet on the table and Lucky tucked against his side.

That can't be possible. It can't be. Dick's not even aware he's taken a step or two forward, staring in mute shock. This has to be some trick, or he's finally just snapped, or something; that can't be Clint Barton just sitting in his living room like nothing happened at all. Can it…?

[dramatisperscnae]

closed starter for @cxpedcrusxder's Grim, because why tf not >w>

--------------------

He's not exactly sure just what good coming here will do, but he's got to know. He's got to see for himself. After that very public arrest, after everything…the media's had a field day with this, but even at fifteen years old Dick knows the media doesn't always give the full picture.

So here he is. Sneaking into Gotham's most secure mental hospital in the dead of night, to do…what, exactly? Satisfy his own curiosity? Maybe. The man he's coming to see has a pretty twisted view of how things should be in this city, and Dick wants to know why. No one else will tell him. Possibly no one else can.

The people at the orphanage tell him not to ask questions like that. They worry about him. They'd probably worry a lot more if they knew where he is now, what he's doing. They'd definitely worry if they knew he's been sneaking out regularly since he'd cme to live there in the first place, but that's a different issue.

The hallways are quiet as Dick slips carefully down them. They always are at this hour; he's been watching the guard rotation and routine for a while now, taking stock of the various security measures. He won't have much time to talk, once he finds the right room, but he'll have some.

And there it is. Arguably the most secure room in this entire facility, due to the nature and abilities of the man it holds. A man who may or may not actually be awake at this hour, but Dick's going to find out. He knocks at the door - a transparent affair made of reinforced, just-about-everything-proof glass that removes any sense of privacy this man has - and steps back a pace, arms folded. "…Anyone awake in there?"