#for its weakest link is an unyielding heart

[aninconvenientduck]

Some days, man hasn’t changed, and I weep in sorrow.

Others man has not changed, and I weep harder still.

I have a folder called Time is a Flat Circle in which I collect evidence of humanity. Here is most of them.

[gastricpierrot]

Title: Marble to dust

Series: Banana Fish

Relationship: AshEiji / EijiAsh

Rating: T

Warnings: referenced violence and panic attacks

Also on AO3

Ash Lynx was known as many things.

He was an angel carved from marble, ethereal in his beauty. He was a devil formed from crusted blood and rotting viscera. He was a wild cat, a leopard in the snow, a beast in all its glorious ferocity.

He was but a child. A child forced onto a pedestal too high beyond anyone’s reach. Larger than life. Held up solely by his unyielding pride of having survived, again and again and again.

Aslan Callenreese was only a boy.

It took Eiji much too long for that to sink in. Ash was only a few months from turning merely eighteen when they first met. A boy who, in another life, would’ve been at the age to only have to worry about his first crush, passing his finals and graduating high school. Maybe he’d be even fretting over prom, Eiji had the impression that it was a big thing in America.

Yet there Ash was out in the streets, fighting a war far too large for any teenager to be leading. There he was, holding the mafia itself at gunpoint. There he was, wounds carved deep into his flesh, blood marring his skin like acid.

Eiji too, was still a child by his own right. Barely out of school and only a year into college, still coddled and soft. Far too soft. Perhaps if he had strength, had the fortitude to aim a gun and pull the trigger without hesitation, had the brains for strategy or the skills to do anything, anything that could’ve helped Ash and ease his burden—then he could’ve made somewhat of a difference. As miniscule and insignificant as it might be. At the very least, perhaps less people Ash cared for would have died protecting him. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to be the weakest link, the Archilles Heel.

Eiji wished for violence, for the first time in his life. Carnally, desperately. Helplessly. He wanted to destroy everyone and everything that had hurt Ash, wanted to burn them in hellfire until they're nothing, nothing, nothing. Wanted to be stronger, be more. Just—more. So that he could do something, anything.

For Ash, he would’ve done anything.

And yet, what had he really been able to do?

Meanwhile, Ash spent every day dying. Each time he stepped foot into the streets, Ash killed another part of himself. Eiji came to understand that it was the only way he knew to keep going.

Contrary to popular belief, Ash Lynx was not made of marble. Often he bent instead of breaking, twisted and deformed through gritted teeth and the force of sheer will. As though he had a heart of titanium, a soul ablaze with defiance.

But whenever he finally broke, he shattered.

Like bullets shot through glass; sudden, violent, jarring.

Away from prying eyes, Ash cried. He cried in a silent and trembling bundle, folding into himself, hand clasped over his mouth. Sweating and trembling from persistent nightmares, unimaginable in their horror.

He cried; save me, save me, save me.

Eiji had been arrogant. He’d thought he could’ve protected Ash, in some meaningful, wishful way. Perhaps it was a twisted saviour’s complex deep down that drew him to him, that drove him to stay despite all the danger, the violence that inevitably followed.

And Ash looked at him like he truly did save him. He looked at him as though he was made of galaxies, wondrous stardust. He touched him with the reverence of a worshipper. His light, his salvation.

But Eiji was well aware that he was no god. He was painfully, frustratingly, and only human. Unable to even chase Ash’s terrors away, to scream at them to stay back, don’t come any closer. Don’t hurt him anymore.

Eiji did not know what to do the first few times. He had barely even heard Ash, jolting awake from nothing but a horrible feeling deep in his gut. He’d sat up, finding Ash awake, his hunched form a shadow against the darkness of their room—and he’d known, immediately, that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Eiji had since learnt to sleep lightly, even before noticing Ash’s nightmares and panic attacks. It merely came as a package of staying by Ash’s side. There was always a possibility for an ambush, an inside job to capture and take out the only weakness. Eiji may be naïve, but even he knew this much was common sense when it came to being part of this world.

He came to understand too, why Ash preferred to exhaust himself to the bone every single time before he decided it was time to rest. Passing out seemed much preferable to falling asleep. Passing out meant there was no chance for his brilliant mind to turn against itself with scarring memories that should be left buried and forgotten.

Ash did not like being seen in his raw, shaking vulnerability, so Eiji did not look. He would only sit close by his side and face slightly away, still keeping him within his peripheral sight and making sure Ash was able to see him in turn. And then he would count in silence, an attempt to keep his own panic under control. He would count, because if he didn’t distract himself then he’d only be too aware of his own crumbling heart.

Eiji always trusted that if Ash wanted to reach out, he would. And he did, sometimes. Once he got his breathing under control, he would tap Eiji’s shoulder or arm with trembling fingers. A signal. Ash did not speak during his breakdowns.

And Eiji would go to him, keeping his every movement slow and predictable. He would coax him into drinking some water, would use a damp cloth he’d prepared beforehand to wipe his face, his hands. Then he would drape a towel over him, one that’s not thick enough to suffocate but simply there to be a buffer between their bodies—and carefully, tenderly, he’d hold him in his arms.

He would hold him, not a single word leaving his lips—and he would pray.   

Japan was the land of eight million gods and it was so, so far away. Yet Eiji prayed, prayed for even one of them to heed his pleas and grant Ash their fickle blessings. To keep him safe, ease his pain. Heal him. Gods, please help him. He would pay any price. He would give up his flesh, his bones, his beating heart. Please, do all that is beyond his power.

All Eiji could do was hold him, his meagre, mortal body all he had to shield Ash from a world far too cruel towards a boy barely eighteen years of age. Promise him he loved him no matter how broken, tainted and blood-soaked he is. No matter how much he thinks he is undeserving of love. Eiji would love him, a billion times over.

All Eiji could do was love him.

[melvintart]

Winning Together - Melvin Tart's Approach to American Football

Introducing Melvin Tart, a figure of immense dedication, knowledge, and influence in the realm of American football coaching. Before stepping into the coaching field, he was a distinguished athlete himself. Armed with an unyielding spirit, he was a three-year letterman in football during his high school years at Hattiesburg. His athletic prowess didn't stop there - he was also a standout performer in track, demonstrating his versatility. Post-high school, Tart took his talents to Pearl River Community College (PRCC) where he continued to shine on the football field. His passion for sports was matched by his academic pursuits, as he graduated with a degree in Exercise Science in December 2005. These experiences laid a robust foundation for his eventual coaching journey, shaping his unique perspectives and strategies.

As he embarked on his coaching journey, he encountered countless athletes, each with a unique story and distinct set of skills. His commitment to them was unwavering, understanding that every player was like a rough diamond waiting to be polished. He believed that everyone had the potential to shine, provided they were given the opportunity, guidance, and belief in themselves.

From PRCC, Tart embarked on his coaching journey, beginning his career as a volunteer assistant coach. For seven years, he poured his expertise into shaping the promising athletes at Pearl River Community College. His coaching prowess was evident as he was part of the team that won the MACJC state championship in 2005 and 2006, and ended as national runner-ups in 2006. His passion and dedication were key factors in these victories, demonstrating the impact Melvin Tart had on his team. His time at PRCC laid the groundwork for his subsequent success at Jones County Junior College, where he would further refine his coaching style and build on his legacy.

Under his tutelage, his players learned the importance of resilience. They discovered that adversity was not a stumbling block but a stepping stone to success. When injuries, defeats, or setbacks occurred, he reminded them that in football, as in life, the true test of character was how one responded to adversity. This coach encouraged them to get back on their feet, dust themselves off, and forge ahead with even greater determination.

But it was not just about discipline, inspiration, and resilience; this coach also emphasized the significance of teamwork. He taught his players that the strength of a chain lay in its weakest link. In other words, for a team to thrive, every player had to play their part, no matter how small it seemed. Each pass, tackle, and block contributed to the collective effort, and he instilled in them the belief that when they played as one, they were an unstoppable force.

However, his teaching went beyond the confines of the field. He encouraged his players to be leaders not only in football but in their communities as well. They were taught to be men of character, integrity, and honor. He would often remind them that being a true winner meant more than just hoisting a trophy; it meant being a good son, a good brother, and a good friend.

This coach's impact extended beyond the football field. His players were not just successful athletes but successful individuals in their respective lives. They went on to become doctors, lawyers, teachers, and community leaders, attributing much of their success to the life lessons they had imbibed under his mentorship.

Currently, Melvin Tart spearheads his fourth season as the wide receivers coach at Jones County Junior College. His deep-rooted passion for the game and firm belief in his unique coaching philosophy have continued to inspire a new generation of athletes. Nurturing talent, fostering team spirit, and emphasizing character development are at the heart of Tart's coaching approach, creating an environment where players can excel both on and off the field. His dedication to the sport and his players serves as an enduring testament to his influence and success in American football. Melvin Tart Kenosha WI

His approach to coaching extended to building a culture of family within the team. He viewed his players not as mere athletes but as his own children. He fostered an environment of trust, camaraderie, and mutual respect. It was this sense of brotherhood that made the players feel like they were part of something greater than themselves, a force that transcended the boundaries of the field and united them as a family.

Melvin Tart’s legacy was not just measured by the trophies and accolades his teams earned. It was defined by the indomitable spirit he instilled in his players, the values he imparted, and the profound impact he had on their lives. His players revered him not just as a coach but as a father figure, a mentor, and a guiding light. Melvin Tart Kenosha WI

In the annals of American football, his name may not be etched in gold, but his influence on the lives he touched is immeasurable. His coaching philosophy, which emphasized the importance of discipline, inspiration, resilience, teamwork, self-belief, and adaptability, was not just about winning games; it was about winning in life.

The story of this coach serves as a testament to the transformative power of sports and the profound impact a dedicated mentor can have on the lives of young athletes. His coaching philosophy, grounded in the values of character and integrity, continues to inspire generations of players to dream big, work hard, and strive for greatness both on and off the field.

Melvin Tart's unwavering dedication to his players' success, both on the field and in their personal lives, has earned him not only the respect of his team but of the entire football community. His philosophy transcends the game, teaching his players the value of perseverance, teamwork, and self-improvement. In doing so, Tart has managed to have a lasting impact on the lives of those he has coached, molding them into not just better athletes, but better people.

[ryukoishida]

QianQiu/Thousand Autumns Fic: [Ch. 2] In which teacher!SQ and mafia leader!YWS talk for the first time.

Title: You’re a Problem I Encounter Fandom: Qian Qiu / Thousand Autumns Characters/Ships: YanShen Rating: NSFW eventually Chapter: 2/?  Summary: Yan Wushi was the proud leader of Huan Yue Group, one of the most influential syndicates in the underground world, who wanted nothing more than to see the world burn. His accidental encounter with the pure-hearted school teacher Shen Qiao was a problem he didn’t expect to get entangled in. A/N: No more touching this fic until I’m done with the finals T.T List of Chapters: [1] [2] [3] 

-

ii. No Saint

It was pitch black when Shen Qiao woke up. He blinked once, twice – endless black, deeper than the night — his breath stuttering in his throat and heart thudding against his ribcage in that strangely familiar, bitter taste of terror: the inability to perceive light, the anxiety of facing the unknown.

“You’re finally awake?”

A deep voice entered his consciousness like distant thunder, rumbling with warmth yet charged with danger.

A light to his left blinked on, cold white fluorescent flooded his peripheral vision and made Shen Qiao’s eyes sting from the sudden brightness. When his pupils adjusted to the light at last, he was able to make out a fuzzy outline of someone sitting by his bedside. The figure was mostly cast in shadow, but even in the best lighting, it would have been impossible for him to see anything further than half an arm’s length with any semblance of crisp clarity.

Driven by habit, Shen Qiao began to reach blindly to the side for his spectacles, which, of course were not there.

“Looking for these?” the man with the same deep, baritone voice asked, placing a piece of mangled metal that used to be his glasses into his hand.

Feeling the warped titanium remnants with his fingers, Shen Qiao heaved a soft sigh. He knew there was no way these could be repaired, so he’d have to endure the inconvenience of blurry vision until he could get new glasses or get his hands on some contact lenses, which had long fallen out during his rough scuffle with He Huan Group’s people.

Not that it was anything new – the cloudy eyesight – since he’d spent most of his childhood with his eyes in even worse state until he was in his early teens when Qi Fengge persuaded him to undergo surgery, which had improved his ability to see if only just slightly.  

Wandering in his own thoughts though never allowing himself to be defenseless in an unfamiliar environment, Shen Qiao suddenly sensed more than heard the stranger invading his personal space – the surrounding air becoming too hot from the man’s exhale and body heat, too stifling from how close and physically intimidating the man’s presence exuded, looming over him like a hunter anticipating the taste of its prey — and Shen Qiao tried to back up as best as he could, given how parts of his body were too numb from sleep or too painful from the fight to move promptly.

The man chuckled but didn’t advance further upon seeing Shen Qiao trying to shuffle back to keep his distance.

“Are you sure you should be moving around like that?” the man sat back down in his chair, arms crossed over his chest as he continued to observe the injured man with an interested gaze.

“I’m sorry.”

Ever the polite gentleman, Shen Qiao realized that he was acting quite rude to the person who’d rescued him from a terrible situation that he very likely wasn’t going to get out of by himself. Still, his delicate frame, warm hazel eyes, gentle smiles, and soft-spoken nature all contributed to a first impression of a man who was agreeable and amiable, maybe even somewhat unassuming to the point of foolish naiveté, yet those who’d been acquainted with him long enough knew that beneath his kind and considerate disposition was someone constructed of steel bones and unyielding morals.

There was a reason why he was known to be an anomaly in the underground world, crawling with all sorts of criminals and infested with coldblooded monsters that found thrills in destruction and the fall of humanity. Shen Qiao was the adopted son of a once-famed assassin Qi Fengge, who’d retired for the last decade now but had since headed one of the largest and most formidable assassin organizations that employed the best professionals good money could hire.  

“You’re a funny one,” the man commented, hint of amusement seeping into his voice. “What are you sorry for?”

“I just… don’t like it when people I don’t know well get too close to me,” Shen Qiao explained quietly, his body visibly relaxed a little once he knew the stranger had backed off. “I did not mean to be disrespectful to someone who’d saved my life.”

When the stranger didn’t immediately respond, Shen Qiao continued with hesitation, “may I know the name of my savior?”

“Yan Wushi.”

He seemed content enough to offer that, at least.

“Leader of Huan Yue Group?”

Shen Qiao’s slight frown didn’t go unnoticed by the ever-observant mafia leader.

“You’ve heard of me?” Yan Wushi leaned in just a degree.

“My father had told me about you.”

Also, Shen Qiao didn’t think it was a good idea to say it out loud, but he knew that in recent years, Yan Wushi – and really, all of Huan Yue Group – was infamous for being gutsy enough to be striding the border between the criminal world and the political sphere, and still benefit greatly from both.

“All good things, I hope.”

“Huan Yue Group mixes with government officials – specifically Yuwen Yong’s faction – and gets on their good side either by offering them financial assistance under the table or getting rid of any political opponents that stand in Yuwen Yong’s way through any means possible,” Shen Qiao recited the information like he was memorizing it from a textbook.

“It’s a mutually beneficial relationship,” Yan Wushi admitted.

Shen Qiao’s frown deepened when he continued, “several deaths and disappearances had been suspected to be connected to members of Huan Yue, but the police never found any solid evidence to arrest or lay charges on anyone.”  

“You can’t possibly blame us for the police department’s incompetence. And here I thought you’re blissfully ignorant of how our side works,” one corner of Yan Wushi’s lips twisted upwards, his interest in this frail-looking man had been elevated from indifference to modest curiosity. “It seems Qi Fengge had taught you the basics after all, despite the fact that you’re not expected to be his successor. Fascinating.”

“Father simply didn’t wish for me to be completely uninformed,” Shen Qiao exhaled, letting his eyes fall close as if he’d suddenly become too tired. “Having knowledge is a kind of advantage, though it may not seem like it at the time. I didn’t want to take over the family business, and father respected my decision, but he said even if I have no desire to work underground, the underground world will still find its way to catch up to me eventually. He was right, of course.”

He sounded exhausted, like he’d been running and escaping for years, and every time he thought he’d gotten ahead of the bloody claws of the clandestine world, it came at him snarling with gaping jaws, a cruel reminder that no matter how far he thought he’d gotten away, no matter how hard he’d convinced himself that he wasn’t part of the bloodthirst and violence, the mere fact that he was the son of Qi Fengge, the prodigious assassin’s greatest strength and weakest link, had already sealed him to a certain fate.

Shen Qiao loved and respected Qi Fengge. When Qi Fengge found him beaten and half-starving on the street and took him in one rainy night, five-year-old Shen Qiao would have never thought he’d feel the warmth of family and safety of a home again after he’d lost his parents.

He wanted to repay Qi Fengge in any way he could, but when he was old enough to finally understand what kind of organization Xuan Du was and what Qi Fengge’s real identity entailed, Shen Qiao was torn: he could – no, should – accept the position, train hard to become Qi Fengge’s next successor, and take over Xuan Du and its commitment to only execute those who were deserving of it, if only for the sake of doing what he could to show his gratitude towards his adopted father, yet his righteous moral compass and absolute belief in humanity’s good nature – borne from his education and the teachings of his father – forced him to make one of the most difficult decisions in his life.

It was ironic, how the assassination group operated under Qi Fengge’s guidance: Xuan Du Group only accepted jobs whose targets were beyond anyone’s saving and the victims’ families’ reconciling, their crimes numerous or excessive, their sins unpardonable. But who were counting the number of lives taken away by the hands of Xuan Du’s assassins?

Yan Wushi’s baritone voice pulled Shen Qiao back to the present.

“Everyone says the adopted son of Qi Fengge is different – refined, pristine, pure-hearted, a white water lily untainted by the dirty muck that brought him up,” Yan Wushi watched him closely for any flicker of emotion, “but I don’t believe that a person can truly remain unaffected by the surrounding environment.”

Yan Wushi moved so swiftly that there was no way Shen Qiao could have dodged in his current condition, so when he felt strong fingers gripping his chin and forcing him in place while the mafia leader hovered close – terrifyingly close, breaths hot and vivid against Shen Qiao’s own lips – and the other arm trapping the injured man between himself and the wall, Shen Qiao froze, eyes wide open and the only thing he perceived was Yan Wushi’s eyes.

Dark brown, but almost glowing with the rusted red of blood.  

“You’re exactly the type of people I’d like to see battered and broken.”

Shen Qiao swallowed, silently willing himself in his mind to keep calm, and when he was certain his voice wouldn’t shake, he asked while maintaining their shared gaze, “then why did you save me?”

A short pause as Yan Wushi regarded the composed expression on Shen Qiao’s face, and then he barked out a laugh, roughly letting go of the other man and stepping back.

“Don’t think too highly of me, Shen Qiao. I’m certainly no saint. You were in Sang Jingxing’s possession, and I just happen to hate that man and want to fuck with him. Besides, I enjoy having people owe me.”

From this distance, Shen Qiao couldn’t see Yan Wushi’s facial expression, but years of living with vision disability meant that he’d trained his ears to pick up on the smallest nuances in the rise and fall of a person’s voice. He could almost picture the man uttering the last phrase with a snide grin.    

“Regardless, I’m grateful for what you’ve done,” Shen Qiao lowered his head in a nod of thanks, “if there’s anything I can do in return in the future, please let me know.”

“Anything?”

Shen Qiao could practically hear the smile in that purr.

“Anything within the legal and ethical realm,” Shen Qiao corrected calmly.

[violetsmoak]

Philtatos [10/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47690671

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire–for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there’s more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #warriors #riddle

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

The blade sticks out of Jason’s chest, gleaming unnaturally in the moonlight.

“You were saying?” Cutter purrs.

Somehow, her voice reaches Tim even where he’s pinned, sending a cold chill of dismay surging through his body. He would scream Jason’s name if it weren’t for the unyielding chokehold Dick has him in.

While Tim’s gasping for air, Jason’s attention doesn’t appear to be on the weapon that may have just killed him. From the subtle way his body is straining toward Tim whose attempts to push Dick off of him grow weaker, he seems more preoccupied with Tim than his own predicament.

“Juh…”

His attempts to speak use up valuable air and Tim curses mentally as his vision blurs. He thinks a blood vessel may have burst in his eye.

“What was that, Timmy?” Batman sneers. “Sounds like something’s caught in your throat.”

Great. Even when he’s gone dark side, he’s got to make bad jokes.

Tim tries to keep calm, to control his limited airflow, and think of a way out of this situation. Every beat of his heart feels like it’s jarring his body. And Jason, the poor idiot, keeps trying to inch toward Tim.

Jason, concentrate, she’s about to kill you, or worse!

Tim is distantly cognizant that Damian is still struggling against the way Dick has dangled him, trying to escape. He can hear the shift of leather and Kevlar as Steph struggles to get up.

“I have to say, I was impressed,” Cutter continues, spindly fingers digging into his shoulder as she twists the sword until Jason’s attention on Tim falters. His snarl of pain echoes through the voice modulator but to Tim’s relief, it doesn’t sound wet in a way that would indicate internal bleeding. “Just thinking of all the discord you could cause if those blades of yours were just…a little…corrupted…”

She punctuates each pause with a twist of the blade, and how the hell is Jason not bleeding out right now?

Maybe it’s my imagination…oxygen deprivation…come on, focus! She’s got him with a golden sword—golden arrow? So probably not trying to kill him. And he’s not poisoned with lead the way Dick was which…should be a good thing? Right?

Unless it requires a command to work like the arrow Cutter stabbed Dick with. Tim’s having a hard time coming up with scenarios for the golden diviner, but he thinks that’s more oxygen deprivation than lack of imagination.

Tim shifts beneath the anchor that is Batman, trying to worm his fingers toward the taser trigger in his suit. The way Dick is crowding against him, any charge that goes through him will hit Tim—and Damian—too, so he must be careful of the wattage. Not enough to parboil them all, but enough to allow him some give.

He hopes that because he’s expecting it, he’ll be able to withstand a second or two long enough to get free and get to Jason.

“Hey! Bat-dick!”

Looks like there’s some luck on his side, at least, as Steph, still a bit off-balance, chucks a handful of senbon-like projectiles at him. At the same time, Damian bends upward and wraps himself around Dick’s arm while jamming a knife into the part of his arm not protected by armor. “This one I am not apologizing for!”

“I think what you mean is, ‘sorry not sorry!’” Steph follows up with a swipe of her fist.

Dick snarls, jerks to one side to avoid Steph’s attack, while at the same time flinging the boy off and away from him. Steph grunts in pain as Robin lands on her.

The minute decrease in pressure gives Tim the space he needs to activate the taser. It throws Dick backward with a surge of electricity, which leaves Tim momentarily stunned and gasping against the same pulse.

There’s movement beside Tim, Steph crawling over to his side. “You okay?”

“Been better,” he replies, shaking off the dizziness as he gets to his feet.

“Aren’t you two adorable,” Dick growls, recovered now and stalking toward them. Tim tries to put himself in front of Steph, knowing that her injury will provide too tempting a target, but she snorts and stands beside him.

“Stubborn much?”

“Take a look in the mirror sometime.”

“You two are wasting time,” Damian growls and runs headlong at Dick, skidding low to take his feet out from beneath him.

Dick somersaults in the air to avoid him, lands on his feet in front of Steph, who’s already winding up a punch. Dick lifts off with one foot, twists in the air, knocking the punch off course with his feet and smacking Tim in the face before he can get close. As Steph’s body finishes the botched move, bending double, Dick continues to spin in midair, rolling over her back and flips a knife into his hand, grabs hold of Damian’s cape to wrap around his head, and then plunges the knife downward to pin him to the ground by the material.

Then he’s up and swiping at Tim with another blade, while Tim blocks and dodges out of the way of the wild blows. Seeing an opening, he bends forward and shoulders the older man, hard enough that he turns and faces Steph and her wild swing to the side of his head. Dick ducks, blocks, uses her momentum to flip her to the ground, stomps hard on her gut to leave her gasping, and turns around in time to bob from side to side to avoid Tim’s next onslaught.

Tim leaves himself open, and Dick turns his back, elbowing him in the face from behind.

“You want to know why I fired you?” Dick sneers at Tim, gripping him close. “It wasn’t because Damian needed Robin.” He pulls Tim’s arm over his shoulder and flips him over his back; without letting go, he unleashes a flurry of kicks to the small of his back. “It was because you were never meant to have the title.”

As Tim lists, Dick kicks his heel into his chest.

“Right—because I’m going to listen to anything you say right now,” Tim grunts, fumbling a moment before skidding back on his feet. He forcibly ignores the long-dormant doubts trying to surface in response to his brother’s diatribe, flings out several small explosives as Dick renews his attack, dodging nimbly between the bursts. 

“You’ve always been the weakest—better suited to being behind a computer than in the field.” He throws a handful of Batarangs at Tim, who crosses his arms in front of his face to block them; two of them get embedded in his upper arm. “And you’re still mediocre at that compared to someone like Oracle.”

“Everyone’s mediocre compared to Oracle.”

“Keep telling yourself, if it makes you feel better about yourself. Not like you’ve got much else.” Dick catches hold of him, presses the metal deeper through flesh and muscle, making cry out. “Bruce never wanted you. Not as Robin.”

Tim falters a bit at that, if only because he knows that’s true. He lived that himself.

It’s enough of a pause for Dick to take advantage.

“Not as a son.” More pressure, and Tim grits his teeth. “He adopted you out of pity. Because he wanted to protect his secret.” Dick tugs one of the blades loose, turning it in his hand to set it beneath Tim’s chin. “You’ll never measure up to my legacy. Hell, you can’t even live up to the Robin that died!”

“No!” Jason croaks, trying to take another step forward, but kept frozen in place.

“For one of the All-Caste’s chosen, you appear oddly preoccupied with a mere mortal boy,” Cutter muses. “And look what that’s already cost you.”

“Lady, you have no idea,” Jason spits through gritted teeth.

“No need to fret, though. Such affection…it will soon be directed to me instead. That way, it won’t even hurt when Batman crushes his throat.” She stands on tiptoes, mouth near the side of Jason’s helmet. “Now—devote your love to me. Be useful to me and serve my needs. Kill them all as a gift to me.”

She pulls back and for an instant, it seems like the golden sword has duplicated—one is in her hand, the other still stuck in Jason’s abdomen. But the latter vanishes, flickering out of existence the same as the dart that downed Dick.

Somehow, there’s no blood spreading across Jason’s abdomen, or even a hint of a gaping wound. He claws at his gut in surprise.

Meanwhile, as Dick goes to swipe the blade across Tim’s throat, his arm is hauled back, and he is levered to the ground.

Damian stands in his place, cape gone and a furious flush in his cheeks.  

“Back off,” he orders. “I won’t have Drake’s death on your conscience, however useless he is.”

“Thanks…” Tim wheezes as he tries to recover. “Really feeling the love.”

“You’re not fooling anyone with that act, little brother,” Dick tells Damian with an unkind smile. “All your talk about emotions and weakness, and all your League training—and you’re as soft as any other kid.”

“I am not a child!”

“Whatever you are, you still bleed.”

There’s a burst of gunfire, causing everyone to duck reflexively, except for Dick. Whether out of reflex, or thanks to the thickness of his mask, he avoids the rounds that skim just past his cheek, leaving red welt of burned flesh in its wake.

“Funny,” Jason growls, from behind clenched teeth it sounds like. “I was going to say the same about you.”

Cutter watches him, wide mouth curling into a cold smile.

Dick shifts his body, accommodating for a possible new enemy. “Are you going to try to kill me now, Little Wing?”

Jason takes another step forward, raising mismatched guns, and takes a shot.

“No!” Steph cries even as Dick throws himself out of the path of the shot.

A second later, Tim notices the weapon Red Hood is leveling at Dick isn’t one of his custom pistoles—it’s one of the tranquilizer guns from the cave. In the same instant, Jason’s whipped around and fired a volley at Cutter, who shrieks and dodges out of the way.

“What?” Cutter demands.

I’ll second that…

“How…?”

“Alright, babybird?” Jason calls, edging back toward Tim, still firing on Cutter who persists in evading.

“How are you still…?”

“I’m just that good.”

“That’s impossible!” Cutter snarls, recovering. “The winged brat himself is powerless against the golden—! How did you—?” She takes note of Jason’s protective stance in front of Tim, and her expression becomes sharp. “Unless…”

She doesn’t finish her thought, instead shakes her head.

“No matter. If you won’t serve me as the Bat does, you’ll die beside your beloved!”  

She charges and vaults through the air, bringing down her swords upon Jason’s head—and just as before, out of nowhere, there’s a burst of golden flame that solidifies into swords in Jason’s hands, catching the diviners.

“Help Todd,” Damian orders Tim. “Otherwise the moron will become distracted and get stabbed again.”

“We’ve got this,” Steph agrees.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, bat bitch, you sure?” Dick taunts.

Tim can almost hear Steph’s knuckles crack as she forms a fist. “Oh, I’m so getting my second wind.”

“Just remember he’s not himself,” Tim reminds her.

“No promises.”

“I have alerted Pennyworth,” Damian interjects in. “Presumably he will arrive before anyone dies.”

“You hope,” Tim mutters, already hurrying to Jason’s side to take a position against Cutter. “Any chance you can lend me one of those magic swords?”

“Sorry, Red, they’re sort of soul-coded.”

“Of course they are,” Tim sighs, bringing out his spare bo-staff and clicking the button to elongate it. “You’re explaining that at some point.”

“Help me take this broad down and it’s a date.”

“Stop flirting!” Steph shouts as she holds of Dick’s incoming fists onehanded. She’s using what Tim recognizes as several modified Wing Chun techniques. They’re suited to taking down a normal thug, but right now it just barely allows her to hold her own against Batman. The only thing keeping him from targeting her injured arm is Damian, who has taken his sword back up and levies a savage assault on their older brother that Dick is forced to block.

Meanwhile, Jason and Tim dart toward Cutter, Jason in front and Tim flanking. Her blade arcs to meet him in an overhand swing, the force of it knocking Jason back even as Tim takes position behind her and strikes downward to her shoulder.

She spins and catches it with her other sword, stabbing forward with the first; Tim jerks back as Jason rallies and slices toward her; she catches that, sweeping down low to knock Tim odd his feet, and as she uncoils meets Jason’s blade with sparks, the momentum of the blow throwing him to the ground.

“I’m getting tired of eating dirt,” Jason mutters.

“There’s got to be a way we can get an opening,” Tim agrees, picking himself back up again.

Nearby, Dick grabs Steph, yanks and tosses her over his head, as Damian takes a running jump and launches himself forward. He aims a double kick, which Dick blocks with crossed arms that he uses to shove the boy backward. Damian flips in the air, lands in a lunge, sword still at the ready.

With Jason still on the ground, Tim has to defend when Cutter swings at him, ducking and whipping the staff at her. She twists out of the way in the air, regaining her hold on her swords which come down on Tim. He meets every blow, rapidly shifting his staff to catch the edges.

It works for a bit until one of her blades slices right through.

“Okay. Not just magic, also super sharp,” he grunts. “Noted.”

Mentally cursing, he adjusts his stance to fight with the remaining staff pieces, arcs them around and aims for her head.

Cutter gets out of the way of one of them, but the other hits her in the face. She falls to one knee, but it’s not because she dazed so much as she is trying to pincushion him from below.

Tim jumps back as she lunges forward with an underhanded swing, but Jason is recovered, sliding over and catching them with one of his swords.

“That’s it!” Cutter hisses. “Unleash your savage nature and stop me if you dare!”

“Oh, I dare,” Jason growls. “You killed a kid, Carrie. The only thing you deserve is savage.”

Cutter laughs. “It was a necessary sacrifice.”

“I doubt Green Arrow would think that,” Jason counters. “He’s a bit of a douche, but even he wouldn’t be impressed with a child killer.”

Cutter growls at this, but her moves slow incrementally.

Tim narrows his eyes in calculation.

Why would that affect her? Not worried about killing a kid…but worried about the Green Arrow judging her? Actually, now that I think about it, she slowed down before when Jason mentioned Green Arrow.

Far behind him, Steph launches herself at Dick, aiming a kick at the small of his back; Damian, waiting in the wings, charges forward and launches into his older brother’s chest. It’s not enough to wind him, given the body armor, but does put him off balance.

Before he can take advantage of it, though, Dick flings a bolo outward. The cables wrap around Damian, knocking him off his feet.

Steph has her nightstick out, uses it to knock Dick straight across the jaw to send him sprawling as well.

“Stay down…bat bitch,” she pants.

Jason is still running his mouth.

“I mean, it’s one thing trying to off his lady friend, but a kid? That’s one of those relationship dealbreakers, I’m thinking.”

Cutter narrows her eyes, once again faltering.

Tim decides it’s enough evidence to run with his theory.

“There will never be a chance for you two,” he speaks up, injecting a taunting note into his voice. “No matter who much power you think you have.”

“He won’t have a choice!” Cutter snarls. Her eyes flicker, red to green and back. “I’ll make him love me, in a way I never could before!”

“Will you really?” Jason asks. “Or is that just what your secret god friend told you you’d do? Because you’ve spent an awful lot of time everywhere else but tracking down the Green Arrow.”

“Yeah, Star City’s about 2500 miles that way. You could have been there a week ago, with the diviners, if you hadn’t gotten sidetracked by—who’s plan was it?”

“You…are beneath…her,” Cutter replies through gritted teeth.

“'Her?’” Tim echoes. “Well, that’s a help.” He pretends to consider it. “Although, maybe that’s it. Maybe she’s not bringing you to make Green Arrow yours because she doesn’t think you should be with him?”

“No!” Cutter yells, and her eyes are completely back to green now. The overwhelming sense of presence surrounding her fades and Tim knows that she’s suddenly just Carrie Cutter again.

Jason knows too because he’s ditched his magic swords and now brandishes a tranq gun, shooting her with it in the back.

Cutter goes rigid, and falls to the ground, only just catching herself on her elbows.

“That should have taken her down,” Tim says, dismayed.

“Guess it wasn’t enough to take down a god, huh?”

Behind them, Damian slices through the heavy cable holding him prisoner, as Steph readies her own tranquilizer gun to shoot at Dick.

Jason readies the gun to shoot again. “You’re done, Carrie. This ends now.”

Before he can shoot, though, her wrist lashes out to one side, and—shit, the black sword has reverted to its crossbow form!—trains her weapon on Tim.

“I guarantee I can shoot your boyfriend even if you pull that trigger,” she hisses. “And I have a feeling capturing me isn’t worth him hating you.”

Jason freezes.

“Shoot her!” Tim snaps.

“I…”

Jason’s hand shakes.

“No!” Steph yells from behind them, and its reflex to turn towards it.

Dick seizes hold of Steph’s bo, twisting it out of her hands and jabs upward, intent to crush her throat with its edge.

Instantly, Damian is there, grabbing hold of the staff to slow it enough that she can move; in doing so, he ends up having to grapple hand to hand with Dick.  Steph stumbles and gets a grip on the gun, hesitating a moment, before shooting.

At the exact moment that Dick gets hold of Damian and moves him into the path of the projectile, Jason gives a grunt and he’s thrown to one side. When Tim turns back, it’s to see Cutter streaking off into the surrounding woods, leaving her bike behind.

“Looks like that dose is a bit too much for the brat,” Dick observes distantly.

“He’s going into respiratory distress!” Steph yells. She’s trying to get to the boy, but Dick is in her path.

Tim and Jason look at each other. They can’t risk Cutter getting away—but they can’t risk Damian dying. Even though Tim can’t read his expression behind the helmet, he knows that they’ve made the decision together.

Instantly, Tim scrambles over to Damian, while Jason throws himself in Dick’s path, his magic swords vanishing into the ether. “You don’t want to hurt that kid, Dickhead! Why not try someone your own size?”

Dick growls, teeth gritted, and darts forward, using Steph as a stepping stone to get to Jason. He stomps down hard on her already injured side, in a way that grants him momentum

Before Jason can react, Dick’s thighs are wrapped around his neck, twisting him around and using the force of it to throw him to the ground. If it weren’t for the reinforced neck hear, Tim’s sure Dick would have snapped his neck.

Can’t think about that right now.

He feels for Damian’s pulse and checks the other vitals, while Steph pulls a manual resuscitator from her utility pouch. Even as she fits it over his face and Tim keeps an eye out lest Dick somehow make it over to them, he knows Cutter’s already vanished.

“Heart’s stopping,” he grunts, tense as he tries to calculate in his head how high the tranquilizer dose was and how it’s interacting with Damian’s body weight.

“Help me get through the body armor,” Steph orders.

Tim doesn’t have a cast saw on him, or any edged tool that could get through Damian’s body armor, but he does have a modified laser he’s used to open tricky safe doors before. If he holds it the right distance away, it can get through the armor without burning Damian’s skin too badly beneath him.

As he cuts, he tries not to let his attention stray to where Jason, unable to free himself from Dick’s hold, digs tear-gas bombs from his belt and smashes them in Dick’s face. They don’t cause lasting damage considering the thickness of the cowl, but the force is enough to make Dick let up and stagger back with surprise.

Jason crouches to regain his footing, swings a leg out, which Dick avoids, and then jumps up and kicks him in the face, which he doesn’t.

Steph is already peeling the armor to the side before Tim’s stopped cutting and slaps two portable defibrillator patches on Damian.  

“Clear!” she barks, activating the charge.

There’s a sizzling sound, and Damian’s body bows upward.

Steph begins CPR, while Tim monitors their patient.  

Two minutes pass, rife with grunts and curses from the fight behind them. Dick’s voice echoes in the background.

“You’ve always been jealous.”

“I’d blame getting whammied by Eros’ arrows for the cliché, but you’ve always had the lame one-liners.”

“That why you spent your childhood trying to be me?” he smirks.

“Someone’s got an ego—but then, everyone already knew that.”

“Still not responding,” Tim says through gritted teeth.

“Going to try adrenaline,” Steph says. She’s got a syringe of epinephrine at the ready, and without ceremony, jams it into the part of Damian’s thigh not covered by gear.

As she starts another round of CPR, Jason and Dick continue to trade punches in the background, until Dick somehow gets a hold of Jason and hoists him upward, then twists and throws him face-first onto the ground.

“Come on, Dami!” Steph grunts.

Tim checks his pulse again and frowns. “Still don’t like this pulse.”

“Plan B then.” She’s got another syringe now, this time amiodarone. “If you die on me, you little shit…”

Jason grabs a handful of dirt and chucks it in Dicks’ face, putting him off-guard for a moment and allowing Jason the time to get to his feet. Then he’s running, sliding down to take Dick out at the knees before leaping up with a knife.

“You think it’s ego?” Dick asks, edging to one side to avoid it. “Let’s look at the evidence then.” He captures Jason’s descending arm and twists. “You jumped into my costume—” He uses the leverage to put Jason on the ground, “—into my home—” Jason knocks his head backward into Dick’s jaw, forcing him to let go, but only long enough for Jason to turn around before Dick grasps him by the throat, “—stole my father,”—He tightens his grip, “—my friends—” Jason is forced back and downward, “—my girlfriend.”

Bracing himself, Jason slides his arms upward and out to break through Dicks’ grip on him, follows up with a palm to his abdomen and staggers to his feet. He barely gives himself a pause before jumping and kicking Dick in the face with both feet, even as it propels him back to the ground.

It barely fazes Dick, who’s already stalking back over to him.

“And on top of that, you got yourself killed and turned into a martyr that could do no wrong in everyone’s memory. Even when you’ve fucked up, you get let off with everything.”

Jason spits blood on the ground. “I’ve got stints in jail and Arkham that say different.”

“And you should have stayed there,” Dick growls.

Jason flips him off, but Dick is there again, grabbing him by the front.

“Monsters like you need to be locked up.” He grasps Jason by the throat. “You’re just as bad as every piece of shit you ever locked up. Just look at what’s going on now.” He tightens his grip. “All of this is happening so we can stop you from fucking our brother.”

Tim’s stomach churns at that.

Is that what he actually thinks?

“How messed up is that?” Dick mocks, putting himself right into Jason’s face.

Jason snarls. “He’s—not—my—brother!”

There’s a violent flash, as the Red Hood suit panels explode at their highest frequency and send Dick flying several meters away.

He doesn’t get up again.

In the same instant, there’s a sudden flash of light from overhead as the Batplaneappears out of nowhere, and Damian shoots into a sitting position, gasping and cursing.

For a moment, nobody moves, trying to process everything that’s just happened.

Beneath the lenses of his mask, his eyes are wild and he whips his head around, before croaking, “Where’s Cutter? Don’t tell me you lost her.”

Tim snorts as he and Steph fall back from him.

“Typical,” he mutters.

⁂

Once Alfred has Dick loaded into the Batplane—heavily sedated lest he wakes up mid-flight—Jason and the rest of the motley Bat crew stumble back to the Batmobile.

“Well, that sucked,” Steph mutters.

“The last time we had our collective asses handed to us like that, the Joker tried to throw a dinner party,” Jason agrees.

“Ugh, so glad I missed that one.”

“Given the fact you are all in sub-optimal condition, I will be the one to drive us home,” Damian announces.

“Nice try, demon baby, but I’m driving.”

“Father would not be pleased with an outsider driving the Batmobile.”

“He’ll be less pleased if I let a twelve-year-old drive.”

“I’m fourteen!”

“You just got resuscitated. We’re not trusting your reflexes.”

Damian grumbles mutinously.

“You’re just lucky it was your left arm and not your right one Dick totaled,” Tim tells her quietly.

“Lucky?” Damian sniffs. “I tol—”

“If you say ‘I told you so’, I swear to god, I will tranq you again,” Jason growls.

“You will not,” Tim interjects, “Not after all the trouble we went through to save his life. Which we’re still waiting to hear a ‘thank you’ for, by the way.”

“Why should I thank you for letting the perpetrator escape?”

““On the bright side, at least we didn’t have to deal with Ivy on top of all that,” Steph muses. When Jason and Damian shoot her identical unimpressed looks, she shrugs her uninjured side. “What?”

Batgirl and Robin climb into the car. As the doors close, Damian warns, “Try not to get us killed, Brown. I’ve seen you drive.”

Jason rolls his eyes and follows Tim to the spot where they parked earlier. The younger man is being worryingly silent, but Jason has a feeling he knows what it’s about.

How much I screwed up, probably.

The redbird tires kick up dirt with the force Tim uses to spin them around and toward the main road. Jason reflexively grips Tim’s hand over the gear stick, not out of fear or apprehension, but just reassured at skin contact after their latest ordeal.

Tim apparently doesn’t feel the same.

“Damn it, Jay, we’re not reenacting the end of Thelma and Louise,” Tim snaps with a little more bite than usual. “I need my hand to drive.”

Jason immediately relinquishes his hold, ignores the spark of hurt and something else that leaps in his stomach as he forces himself to lean toward the passenger side door.

Tim notices and then softens. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to—”

“It’s cool,” Jason replies quickly, not wanting to seem like it actually bothered him. He pounces on the first thing he can think of to change the subject. “I can’t believe you’ve seen Thelma and Louise but not Casablanca.”

“What is your obsession with that movie?”

“It’s a classic representation of a bygone era in cinematic history.”

“And I’m supposed to be the nerd in the family…”

“The toys all over your room would confirm that.”

“You mean figurines.”

“I rest my case.”

They side-eye each other, but Jason can see the way Tim’s mouth is twitching like he’s trying hard not to smile given the circumstances.

What I wouldn’t give for him to actually smile at me.

The thought isn’t as out of left field as earlier in the week; Jason supposes he’s just acclimating to the weird stuff Eros’ blood is making him say. Tim’s pretty good about not taking any of it seriously at least.

“So, I have questions,” Tim says after a while, eyes flicking back to the road.

“Starting with who or what the hell is wearing Carrie Cutter as a costume?”

“That—and what’s the deal with those swords?”

“Eros did say they could change form into other weapons.”

“Not talking about Cupid’s swords,” Tim grunts, in that same exasperated tone Bruce always uses when he knows Jason’s being evasive. “You. Those blades you had came out of nowhere. So I’m guessing that’s not part of Eros’ infection. You’ve had access to them for a while.”

“They’re not exactly something I can whip out in the middle of any fight when things get dicey,” Jason defends. “Only works against a certain kind of foe, which don’t show up often enough for you bat-stalkers to get a good look at them.” He pauses. “Actually, I don’t think they even show up on cameras, so it might be that.”

“Not answering the question, Jason.”

“You’re cute when you’re mad.”

Tim makes a choked sound and his cheeks and neck go red in what Jason expects is frustration, so he takes pity on him.

“It’s a long story, okay? None of which I really want to repeat right now,” he scowls. Not telling him they’re powered by my soul, something tells me he’ll take issue with that. “All you need to know is they only show up in the presence of true evil.”

“True evil,” Tim muses. “So, when they disappeared while you were fighting her…?”

“Carrie was back in the driver’s seat. And crazy doesn’t always mean evil, I guess. Never tested it before.” He pauses to think for a minute. “I should really try them out on the Joker some time.”

“Magic swords…” Tim shakes his head as they speed over the Kane Memorial Bridge. “Not my area.” Then he frowns and shoots Jason a look. “Are they why it didn’t work on you?”

“Huh?”

“Her sword. She stabbed you with the gold one, which I figure is analogous to the golden-tipped arrows. It’s the same thing she did to Dick with the lead one. But you were immune.”

“Thankfully. I don’t know what that was, and I wasn’t exactly expecting it.”

“No shit,” Tim says, and suddenly he sounds harsh again. “You weren’t expecting anything because you turned around to check on me.”

“You were in trouble.”

“I had a plan! I always have a plan.”

“Yeah, I saw your plan. It involved electrocuting yourself.”

“To get Dick off of me.”

“That’s the worst plan ever.”

“Better than you getting stabbed, Jason! If she’d used a normal sword on you instead of the diviners, you could have…” Tim trails off, shakes his head and glares at Jason. “I know you’re not exactly firing on all cylinders lately, but that was a really stupid oversight.”

Jason opens his mouth to retort, and then pauses as something occurs to him. 

Tim’s not angry with him, but at himself somehow. Like he thinks it's his fault.

How the hell did he end up coming to that conclusion?

“Hey, stop that,” he orders. “You can’t blame you for this. It’s like blaming a girl for being attacked because of the clothes she’s wearing.”

“This isn’t the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?”

Jason’s hand gravitates back to Tim’s, resting gently on top as he grips the gear-shift.

They sit in silence for a while, discomfort filling the small space. It’s not until they make the turn-off toward the hidden entrance to the Cave that Tim speaks again, taking up their conversation from before. 

“Whatever kept you immune is probably down to what Eros did to you.”

“Maybe, maybe not. He’s not immune himself, remember?”

“Right. She said that, didn’t she? I could have to do with your super-secret swords.”

“Still not the time to talk about that.”

“Fine, fine…back to the fight. Clearly it’s possible to hurt her when Carrie’s in control instead of whoever’s hitched a ride in her body. So how do we keep her in that state long enough to take her down?”

“Other than mentioning Green Arrow? That did something.”

“We could ask Oliver to make a trip out here.”

“Great idea. If she kills him, it’s one less rich asshole in the world.”

“Jason!”

“Kidding, kidding…”

Except not really, because Queen’s a douche.

“Let’s just…unpack everything. Her behavior, her mannerisms, things she said…”

“The crazy and the crazier…”

“What was that thing she mumbled when she stabbed Dick?” Tim wonders. “It sounded kind of familiar.”

“It’s from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“What?”

“The play,” Jason enunciates and when Tim still looks nonplussed, he adds, “by Shakespeare?”

The younger man shifts uncomfortably. “I sort of…zoned out of most of those classes.” Jason shoots him a disgusted look and he raises his free hand in defense. “What? Half the time I was exhausted from patrol the night before, and the other half—” He makes an exasperated noise. “It was needlessly confusing. Language has evolved since then. Also, all the plots are ridiculous.”

“I’ll say it again. You’re a heathen. I don’t know why I like you.”

“Because you’re infected with the blood of the god of love?” Tim suggests, and though Jason knows he’s trying for a joke, there’s something tense in his words. 

He feels like he needs to reassure him. “To be fair, you were my favorite before that.”

“I was…what?”

“As much as it’s possible to have a favorite pain in the ass,” Jason continues thoughtfully. “And next to Cass, of course. Just because I’m pretty sure she’s everyone’s favorite.”

“Of course…” Tim repeats faintly.

“But yeah, you’re definitely less annoying than the rest of the brood. And you forgave me for almost killing you those times, which is pretty cool of you.”

Silence meets his explanation, and he glances over to find Tim staring at him, mouth agape.

Way to sound like a kid with a crush, Todd. Great job.

“Hey, watch the road,” Jason snaps, ears heating up.

Tim clears his throat and gives a minute shake of his head. There’s another taut silence as they pull into the Cave garage and he puts the car in park.

Jason stays silent, letting Tim brood with his thinking face on; just watches him with what feels like a stupid look on his face until Tim shakes his head and they get out of the car.

“So a nameless mythical deity that possesses people and likes to quote Shakespeare?”

“I admit, it was kind of odd and out of the blue for her to say that,” Jason agrees. “Maybe she was trying to be dramatic. I mean, she butchered the delivery anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, in the play, that part’s about making someone fall in love, not overtly causing them to hate other people.

Tim is silent for a few moments, parsing Jason’s explanation.

“Okay, so she was trying to be clever?” he suggests. “Or, whoever’s wearing her is being clever.”

“Maybe they have an appreciation for the Bard.”

Tim ignores that. “It just seems so out of place with everything else that happened in the fight.”

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” Jason points out.

“And sometimes it’s a stick of dynamite.”

As they head to the stairs, they pause in front of the containment unit where Dick is lying unconscious, divested of cowl and tools. That’s a preventative measure since there’s no cure for the arrow that they know of, and no telling what he’ll do upon waking.

Watching over him, arms crossed and a forbidding expression on his face, is Bruce.

Shit. Daddy’s home.

When he hears them approach, the original Batman turns to face them, expression thunderous.

“This isn’t going to be good,” Tim murmurs under his breath, lips barely moving.

Jason snorts with laughter. “Well, damn, babybird, you made me miss my curfew.”

Tim groans. “Not now, Jason.”

Before they can do more than blink, Bruce is in front of Jason, fingers clenched in the material above his body armor, lifting him enough that Jason finds himself balancing on his toes.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Bruce demands.

“Bruce, stop it!” Tim yells, trying to put himself between them.

“Stephanie’s injured! Dick is out of commission—Damian could have died—!”

“As if that’s different from any other night,” Damian mutters from across the way where he’s beadily watching Alfred treat Steph’s fracture.

She shushes him and elbows him with her good arm.

“This is exactly the kind of recklessness you wanted to prevent when you contacted me!” Bruce continues. “What was the point if you were just going to go out anyway?”

“Bruce, it wasn’t Jason’s idea,” Tim insists, trying to put himself between the two of them. “It was mine.”

Bruce pauses, somewhat caught off-guard. It gives Jason the opportunity to free himself and step back, arms crossed. “Way to shoot first and ask questions later, B.”

“You were told to wait,” Bruce growls at Tim.

“For what?” Tim argues with unexpected vigor. “A few more hours and you’d have been here, but what would it have changed?”

“Dick and Stephanie wouldn’t be injured, for one.”

“You don’t know that,” Jason interjects.

Tim nods in agreement. “Even you couldn’t have accounted for Cutter actually being possessed by some god. It might even have been much worse if you had been there.”

“Tim has a point,” Steph pipes up. “She could have whammied Batman—well, she did whammy Batman, but not the broody Batman. Things might have been worse than a broken arm.”

Bruce shoots Steph a look like he doesn’t know whether to be more irritated by her speaking up, or by the implication that he would have been taken out in the same fashion as Dick.

“Basically, I kind of think we got off easy. In the long run,” she concludes sagely. A beat later, she giggle-snorts. “'Got off’.”

Damian wrinkles his nose in disgust. “I honestly can’t tell if this is your base sense of humor or if Pennyworth put you on the good painkillers.”

Impaired or not, Steph’s clearly making enough sense to make Bruce think twice. He doesn’t look like he likes that, either, and Jason can see by his face he’s deciding on a different tack.

“You still should not have removed Jason from the premises. Red Hood is not cleared for fieldwork until this situation is resolved, and you put everyone in danger by allowing it.”

“Excuse me? No one ‘allows’ me to do anything,” Jason scoffs.

Bruce ignores him. “You couldn’t have known what heightened adrenaline might do to this infection.”

“It was a chance to get the diviners back, and I wasn’t going to waste it.”

“And now you’ve compromised any element of surprise that we had,” Bruce points out. “Cupid and whatever entity is backing her now knows you’re looking to get them back. This was incredibly short-sighted of you, Tim. I’m disappointed.”

Tim’s mouth thins, something flashing across his face that Jason doesn’t quite catch, before he straightens his back and does his best to loom right back.

Jason swallows, feeling a little hotter beneath his gear.

That’s hot. Why is that hot?

Bruce ignores it, continuing on.

“And it’s not just Tim who should have known better. Damian, Alfred, you do know better.”

“I am quite sure the man I raised isn’t presuming to chastise me,” Alfred replies calmly. “Just as I’m sure any and all attempts I may or may not have made to dissuade the young masters would have been as summarily ignored. Much in the same way similar attempts with their father have been rebuffed all these years.”

Bruce clenches his jaw.

Score one for the Englishman.

“What good does knowing better do me if no one listens?” Damian mutters, clenching his fists.

“Just wait ‘til you’re taller, little man,” Steph soothes.

“Shut up, Brown.”

“And you did not see the state Master Jason was descending into,” Alfred says, not as an excuse but as fact. “This was a judgment call made with the information we had at the time.”

“Information based on Tim’s analysis—Tim, who has been compromised about this from the beginning!”

Tim’s cheeks flare red and there’s something that looks almost like panic in his eyes. Jason doesn’t know the reason for it, but he knows that he’ll gladly fight the guy who put it there.

“Yeah, screw you, B,” he snaps, putting himself directly in his face. “It’s not like there’s a manual for this sort of thing. “Tim’s doing his best.”

Bruce shakes his head, mind clearly made up.

“Jason should be quarantined again—” He ignores their noises of protest, “—Tim can stay close by to offset whatever symptoms manifest, but outside. It’s safer that way if the infection progresses in such a way where he becomes dangerous.”

“No!” Tim argues. “Right now, the best place for Jason is next to me—without a bulletproof glass wall between us. We’ve already seen that the more often we’re separated, the more debilitating the symptoms become.”

“That won’t always work.”

“But for now it does.” Tim crosses his arms. “I’m staying with him.”

“Then you’re officially benched.”

“If you think either of us going to sit back and wait for you to solve a case that involves us, you’ve taken one too many blows to the head,” Jason snorts.

“Don’t you see, Bruce? Working the case—it’s helping Jason occupy himself. Otherwise, he’s literally tearing his hair out.”

Damian opens his mouth and Jason snaps a finger in his general direction. “Make one crack about my hairline, baby demon, and I swear I’ll—"

“It’s clear to me that Jason is not the only one compromised—Tim, you shouldn’t be in the field either. I don’t want to see you out there, is that clear?”

“You’re not going to stop us.”

“Tim.”

It’s one word, said with enough warning as to remind Tim exactly who he’s talking to.

“Okay, fine, you probably could stop us, physically,” Tim allows. “But we won’t make it easy. And then we’re both out of here and screw your help.”

“Just listen to yourself! You’re no longer sounding like you,” Bruce says, narrowing his eyes. “That’s enough to confirm everything I’m saying.”

“I’m not sounding like me because I’m not just going along with everything you say?” Tim counters. “Newsflash, Bruce, you don’t always know what’s best. Jason’s been saying it for years and everyone ignores him, but maybe he’s on to something!”

“Tim!” Steph protests.

He throws up his hand in disgust. “You know what? Fine. We’re benched. We won’t go out in the field anymore. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up on this case, I can still investigate from a distance. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean we have to stay down here with you!”

He turns on his heel and stalks off back down the stairs, his cape flaring behind him in such a Batman-reminiscent fashion that Jason would laugh if he weren’t so stunned at what’s just transpired.

He’s not the only one having trouble processing, it seems.

Alfred sighs in a way that’s supposed to sound like exasperation, but which everyone knows masks worry. Damian and Steph are actually open-mouthed. Bruce looks like he’s trying to remain blank-faced, but there’s calculation going on in those eyes.

Jason doesn’t want to know what that calculation is coming up with.

Instead, he shakes his head and jabs his thumb in Tim’s direction.

“I’m with him,” he says, already walking away. “Because of the whole…you know. Infection. But also, you’re a douche.”

“Jason—”

“Let them go, Master Bruce,” Alfred says. “I believe we all need to take a few moments…”

Damian says something, but honestly, Jason’s no longer listening, too intent on going after Tim.

He’s feeling something strange and buoyant, something that’s edging dangerously close to validation.

It’s a novelty because he’s always the scapegoat, the family screw-up and cautionary tale. No one ever defends him—it’s almost required that everyone have a caustic comment for him by now, and normally he takes it in stride, gives as good as he gets.

But Tim, of all people, is on his side this time and that’s put a ridiculous smile on his face.

That smile vanishes when he gets down the stairs and he sees the way Tim’s expression is twisted, not with righteous anger, but with guilt and doubt.

“He’s right,” Tim murmurs, pacing back and forth. “This isn’t like me.”

“Are you kidding?” Jason asks, trying for levity. “That was amazing.”

“You’re just saying that because I told off Bruce, and you’re happy when anyone tells him off.”

“Well, yeah. But also, how many people have the balls to stand up to the Big Bat? Present company excluded.”

“He’s just so…” Tim trails off, gesturing wildly to encompass his meaning, and then throws down his hands in annoyance. “You know what? There isn’t even a word.”

“Been saying that for years.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s wrong. We should have waited. We didn’t even get anything out of this.” Tim runs his fingers through his hair, agitated. “Except for him getting pissed off at you. And you’re the one who he’s supposed to be helping.”

Jason shrugs. He’s too used to that sort of thing for it to be a surprise. He moves in closer to Tim, filled with the urge to protect him somehow. 

“And I’m supposed to be helping, but I just made it worse.”

“Bullshit. This whole situation is fucked up, it’s not all on you.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you weren’t hopped up on Olympian blood.”

“Okay, then, how about I go take a swing at B? I’m always up for that.”

Tim snorts. “I don’t think one thing necessarily cancels out the other.”

But he’s smiling now, expression going clear and relaxed for a minute and for a second Jason sees the kid as he is when he’s not pretending to be red robin or Tim drake Wayne or dutiful son or terrifyingly clever master planner that goes head to head with Ra's al Ghul.

And Jason can’t help really help himself anymore.

Maybe it’s the infection, or the lingering adrenaline from the fight with Cupid, or the argument with Bruce. Or just the way Tim, fresh off standing up for Jason against everyone else, is looking at him just then.

But before he can really think better of it, he’s leaning in and covering Tim’s mouth with his.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

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[ecotone99]

[FN] Native Born: Part 1

The Forest was on the move. Kuri could hear the groans of the mangrove trees as their roots clawed through the walls. The thirty-five year old rogue scientist had packed his ruddy briefcase and was ready to go. All of the forest creatures he had let squat in his cabin had checked out before him, leaving Kuri to turn off the lights in an uncharacteristic silence. Only an adventurous Chimera remained, wrapped around his ankle like a bracelet, or a bird tag. Its scales scratched against Kuri’s skin as it pressed its head and tongue forward to taste the air. Kuri, on the other hand, was beyond sensation. He was standing in his dim makeshift study for the last time, trapped in a daze that clouded his thoughts like the fog that blocks the hills from the morning light. He couldn’t bring the old fashioned books that lined the walls, or the desk that he had carved out of a fallen tree. The roots were puncturing through the drywall at the pace of Aa lava, undeniably slow but unyielding. Meanwhile, little streams began to manifest themselves on the stone floor and scurry along according to gravity’s will with the motions of Pahoehoe lava. Who would have thought the Dark Continent would be as tumultuous as his home country, the Land of Fire? Kuri mused.

The Forest had decided to migrate all the way to the shore, and the destruction of the newly minted Jamestown that stood in its path would be an added bonus. The Forest was more or less just taking a stroll now, but Kuri had ventured into its thickets, into its heart, and had seen swells of roots move like deep ocean waves in a storm. He watched them clutch hold of a mountain within minutes with staccato movements like a spider wrapping its legs around its captured prey. And most of all, he had felt the ground tremble.

Kuri tuned into the Link he had engineered to communicate with the Forest. It was a rudimentary beta version, so he could only vaguely comprehend the Forest’s, Porvaka’s, thoughts. Porvaka liked Kuri, and did not want to devour him. But he had already stated his desire to protect the town, and so he had chosen sides. Kuri’s books were thrown to the floor as a tree trunk now began to shimmy its way into the study. This was the most gentle nudge out the door Porvaka could give.

Kuri had to be the messenger to deliver the Forest’s eviction notice to the townspeople. He switched his Link off so Porvaka wouldn’t hear as he prayed that they wouldn’t shoot him. He packed a single spare change of clothes, some dried meal bars and a survival kit along with the tablet he kept all of his logs on and three extra hardrives, two with information for the Institute and the truly invaluable one for himself. The third one, of course, was not callously thrown into the briefcase but encapsulated into a Freshan cage and sewn into the palm of his hand.

Shall we steal the boat, Rudin? Kuri mused to his friend. Rudin had already unraveled himself from Kuri and had now taken the form of a small hunting dog. Rudin, of course, did not speak Eyrie, Kuri had only spoken the language aloud to maintain his own sanity. He still found communication through the Link rattling, even though it was his own creation and was functionally similar to the Connection, the way the people of Eyrie communicated with their Guardian. But the difference is unnerving, Kuri helplessly muttered internally. Kuri couldn’t lie through the Link.

And so, when Kuri spoke to Rudin, his unease was articulated precisely as well. Rudin heard Kuri’s thoughts in their abstractions, their associated geometries, colors and movements rather than words or concrete images. Kuri loved the Forest, but could not betray his own kind. Kuri assumed he would fail in his mission to some degree, and that’s why he was thinking of last-ditch covert and even violent actions. The townspeople saw the Forest as a thing to be harnessed, to serve their Guardians rather than be included in the Pantheon of Guardians.

So...Shall we steal the boat, Rudin?

Complex shapes of uncertainty, eagerness, and ….irritation? No, Rudin replied. We should think about how we will convince the weakest to leave on the ship. The rest can hike along the beach. The Forest is merciful to those who adapt, and migration will show your peoples' flexibility. Rudin explained.

There is no reason for unfounded pessimism, Rudin added. It’s such a damper to the journey.

They’re used to a different world order, Kuri replied. The non-human life in Eyrie, Kuri explained, is fully compatible with human society. It may have all been made by humans in the distant past, or perhaps they simply evolved together over a very long time.

Evolve? Rudin cocked his head at the term and the chaos associated with it.

It’s a secondary, random process in species generation. Kuri got excited explaining the science, in spite of his overarching mood. Changes happen in the environment, and so only the members with the right mutations survive…

Kuri paused and looked at Rudin. How would that even apply to you?

Rudin gave Kuri a toothy dog smile and wagged his tail. That is our secret, he said. Even though Rudin’s mind was open to Kuri, he couldn’t understand the thoughts that were flashing through it now. Kuri could only translate based on his own experiences.

The ground gave a lurch as a giant root punched and penetrated its fragile crust somewhere outside his cabin, the ground tremor nearly throwing Kuri’s gangly frame to the floor. Time to go.

Kuri grabbed the newspaper on his doorstep, amazed that that little boy on a bicycle never failed to make it out to his homestead. He then threw his briefcase in the back of the jeep and hopped into the car. Rudin took the form of a small monkey and perched neatly on the passenger’s seat. Kuri hit the gas, and the odd pair made their way down the rugged road into Jamestown.

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