#he still has muscle and is average for a robin

[ax3faire]

I'm thinking about fanon Tim traits and why people write them so often - obviously a lot of the traits are found in first which then informs other fics, and I think people generally read them more than comics so a lot of people get used to them and piggyback off them. Otherwise though, is it just that there's room in a lot of dynamics, both romantic and family wise for someone smaller, more delicate? Is there any single instance in canon that has started off any of these misinterpretations? Like, there are so many fun premises out there for first but Tim is just written so wrong and I'm just wondering where it's all come from.

Also, what are some of your most hated fanon Tim traits and misconceptions?

[manwrre]

It’s bordering on two weeks since Hargrove’s arrival at Hawkins High, when Steve realizes he’s crushing on the guy. Like—‘doodling hearts in the margins of his books and racking up a list of things he likes about him’ type crushing.

They’ve barely interacted after that night at the party. Outside of social gatherings, they just run in different circles; Steve, filling his time with Robin and occasionally third-wheeling Nancy and Jonathan, while Billy hangs out with the more popular crowd.

Their schedules also don’t overlap despite the blonde taking a number of senior-level classes, with the exception of gym and lunch.

The list though, is still so painstakingly long. Ego-stroking-ly lengthy. Embarrassingly indulgent, all on his behalf.

Steve would much rather nosedive into the quarry, than divulge too deeply into it with anyone.

Especially around or to the guy’s actual face, at the risk of Billy’s head becoming too big for his body (even though Steve thinks he’d make an adorable bobble head). Or you know, worse— like him, getting absolutely brained in front of everyone.

Which must say a lot about him as a person because apparently, this is his type. Beautiful, angry, conceited boys.

Regardless, there are some objective mentions on his list though.

Things that the general public would agree on, like Billy’s Michelle-Pfeiffer curls; loose and wavy but so, so golden.

His eyes are a close second, of course because Steve’s seen a lot of bright blues but Billy’s remind him of the vacation he’d spent in Aruba, as a kid. Remind him of a horizon-kissed vastness and warm water lapping at his ankles on a private beach.

The public also agrees that Billy’s got a banging body. He’s thicker than most because he actually gives a shit and ‘works out religiously’ but it’s not all muscle. His abdomen and thighs are firm but his pecs and ass have the right amount of give. A perfect amount of softness.

Steve would know because he’s had to will away many boners at the sight of them.

And Billy’s funny in a witty, sarcastic way. He grins toosharptooprettytoobright and dangerous. He’s smart too, like taking mostly AP classes smart and he’s smug about it all because he knows he’s hot shit. Of course, the bastard is self aware. Cocky. Steve likes him so much. Wants him so bad that it’s dizzying, sickening.

So yeah, there’s stuff that everyone can agree on but then….then, there’s whatever this is.

This being the two penny-sized indents at the base of Billy’s spine. Symmetrical and just defined enough for average eye to discern.

When Steve sees them for the first time though, he promptly drops the basketball in his hands. In front of everyone. During fucking gym class. Purely out of shock.

He catches himself within the same breath and quickly looks away.

Swallows.

Ignores the pointed look that Patrick sends him for flaking out, mid-pass, like some kind of freak and looks around cooly.

Because Billy Hargrove has dimples of venus.

Affectionately dubbed a sign of beauty by Michelangelo. Famed after the Greek goddess’ simulacrum. Called dimples of Apollo on men, which suits Billy all the more, in Steve’s opinion.

The sun child.

Flushed with life. Deserving of avid worshippers. A being deserving of wax poetic. Glittering, dazzling, vibrant and the Camaro, his chariot.

And he knows this because dimples are like, his freckles. His glasses. His braces. They’re a niche, little thing that he finds just devastating. Achingly cute. Nancy has a pair of them near her laugh lines that he would kiss everyday and prod at, endeared.

So he ambles on through practise a little out of breath and red in the face with his newfound knowledge.

Watches Billy jog over to the locker room with everyone else at the end; skin slick and sweat pooling at the divots of his waistband. Tempting.

He stands back and feigns trying to catch his breath, his hands on his knees. Eyes the younger boy’s retreating form from up through his hair. Imagines hooking his thumbs into the depressions of his flesh.

Relishes in the thought of splaying his hands across the width of his waist.

Feels his mouth go dry and a rush of white heat surging south.

Licks his lips absentmindedly as his cock aches to life and makes the decision to skip the locker room schtick, save anyone realizing he’s sporting a half chub.

Instead, he grabs his backpack and heads out to his car. The parking lot is mostly empty by the time he gets there and devoid of anyone interested in him enough to wave him over. He tosses his stuff into the backseat of the Beemer and speeds off before anyone can catch up to him.

It’s a short drive to his house but he spends it envisioning Billy in all sorts of compromising positions. Thinks about the flush on his skin when he plays and the heat in his eyes— wonders how easily he gives in; loud-mouth turned soft and pliant at the faintest hint of pleasure.

He barely makes it inside before shucking his bag off and stripping himself bare of sweat-sticky clothes. In the same breath, he’s fisting a too damp hand around his cock and hissing at the near painful throb. His only relief comes from the coldness of the door against his back as he slumps against it.

Precum beads at the flushed head and he gathers it all on the upstroke to ease the glide. Squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that honeyed galaxies explode behind the lids and he can’t think.

Can’t think about the consequences of jerking off to someone he sees damn near everyday. Doesn’t care enough to avoid the impending embarrassment.

Why would he? Instead, he thinks of Billy laid out beneath him, all pretty and flushed and glittering; his eyes wet with unshed tears and ruddy lower lip between his teeth as he looks over his shoulder at him. Imagines the roughness of his voice and his muscles all pulled taut as Steve knocks the air out of his lungs with each slam of his cock.

He fucks into the tight ‘o’ of his hand, already so goddamn close and conjures up the image of twin dips. Wants to paint pearlescent white across the bronze expanse of Billy’s back; let it pool where he is favored by the Gods.

The thought has him biting back a moan as he grinds into the slickness of his hold. The heat in his gut expands so greatly, so suddenly, that his hips flex with the intensity of it. Until finally,

it snaps.

Like a star beneath the pressures of gravity; with all the strength and ferocity of a supernova. And he’s spilling all over his hand in a few stiff, jerky thrusts and breathing out a low, garbled “Fuck, Billy— shitshitshit.”

And God, he’s so screwed.

[love-toxin]

I’ve been thinking about bimbo!steve. Such a good boy. Especially imagining him in the fruity four. He’d been so needy all day, wanting to help out with the housework even when it wasn’t his turn, tugging on your clothes as he asked for a bit of attention, even when you were talking to Robin or Eddie, and then cuddling with you on the couch, just hiding his whole face away into your neck and whining. You knew that whine. “Hey. Does my baby need some time together?” You ask, feeling Steve stiffen beside you in two ways, before nodding into your shoulder.

You lead him upstairs, making sure to hold his warm hand, and press him gently into the mattress. Getting on top and riding him, so your poor boy didn’t have to do any work. “Poor baby. Been needing me all day huh? I’m sorry I didn’t give you attention earlier, it’s okay.” Shushing him as you don’t move, you just cockwarm him for a little while, knowing he needed it. Especially as he thanks you while gripping onto your hips for dear life.

Eddie comes into your room and even Nancy, and you say “babes, our big strong guy here needed some help relaxing” and Steve melts as Eddie and Nancy don’t tease, but both soothe him, shushing his little whimpers when your hips twitch, stroking back his hair from his flushed face, giving loving pecks all to him as they remind him how good their ‘Stevie’ is and how he deserves a little treat, even Robin calls up saying she has water and Steve’s favourite snack ready for him later.

And with that you tell Steve whatever he says, you two will do. Except you dont get any verbal commands, you know Steve’s a bit too tired for it, he just wants to be ridden, he wants to not have to ask permission to stuff his face between your soft breasts, to be able to cum as soon as he needs, and have you milk it out of him. And so so importantly, to be able to make you cum, and moan his name as he watches that wave of pleasure overcome you. To make you feel so good, be use of him :’)

His favourite is when you fall against his chest, cuddling him, but his cock still twitching inside you. Plugging you with his cum, so just maybe it takes. Until he gets too sensitive, which you’re always the best at picking up on, and you stroke his hair and pull those big muscles around you as you feed him water and kiss away those tears of pleasure as you tell him just how good he is

I NEED THIS!!!! HOLY LORD!!!

(cws: fruity four, bimbo!steve, f!angelface, riding, unprotected sex, praise kink, rimming [m/m])

good god. the image of sweet Stevie just being needy alone is so delicious--when he goes to work, he's the average Steve that everyone knows and loves. he's a protector and a big brother and responsible, he's someone everybody can rely on and he works so hard because inside, he wants people to praise him and acknowledge that he's a strong person. if he's never gonna be the brightest, then he wants to be known and valued as someone who never gives up.

but many times, when he's in the safety of his home and he's with the people he loves, he relinquishes that side of him in favour of being completely at ease. he's kinda afraid that his friends will make fun of him for being dumb, even if it's not malicious, so he reserves it all until he's in a place where he knows that everyone knows his boundaries. weekends like this are a good time for him to get into that little headspace he has, when he can spend the day pattering after you and tugging on you for your attention. cause it makes him feel warm, and safe.

but there's that other effect you also have on him. the one that makes his tummy all fluttery and his cheeks flush red as he starts to sweat, when he noses into your shoulder as you sit on the couch together until you smile and take him upstairs to the bedroom. honestly, he's so worn out from the week he's left behind him, the weight sinks down on his body as soon as his back hits the mattress, and all he can do is whine as you strip his clothes off him and peel his boxers down to get a look at that pretty, flushed cock that's just straining for some more attention.

he doesn't have to say anything, and that's what he loves about you. you just climb on up and drop your comfy shorts off the side of the bed, pull Eddie's baggy Metallica shirt up and over your head, and ease yourself down on his cock with nothing separating you anymore--you know what he needs, and you're so gentle to ease him in, just letting him sit inside you all warm and sweet and kiss all over his face until he whimpers and you feel him twitching inside you, and then you finally start fucking him so good his brain just melts. swirling your hips and touching yourself as you ride him, moaning and whispering his name when you dip down so he knows that he's the one doing this to you. you don't even notice the door opening for Eddie and Nancy to slip in, too wrapped up in reminding Stevie that he's such a good boy, making such a pretty face, gonna make me cum big boy, as you're cresting over your first release and soaking his lap with arousal as you shake and grip his thighs behind you with a tremoring string of gasps.

but when they do make themselves known, they just want to pitch in. he's soon got both of them curled up on either side, warming his body and crooning such sweet praises into his ears for his mind to go numb, all while stroking his chest and his arms and letting him just ride out those waves of pleasure with no restraint. when you finally lift yourself off and you think he's as done as you are, he only takes about ten minutes to rest, though, before he's needy again. pawing at your other two partners who are all worked up themselves from watching, turning his head for kisses and letting all three of you see him growing rock hard again in the open air, like he wasn't just ridden so much he's left you full and leaking with his cum. you would offer to keep going but you're so tired, and Eddie guides you to take his spot in the crook of Steve's arm as he and Nancy get up and strip each other down.

from there, it's obvious that this night is gonna be Steve's. Eddie lifts his knees up and bends them to keep them steady as his head disappears between his thighs, and your sweet boyfriend's hips are already jerking at the feel of Eddie's tongue as Nancy sits herself right where you were, and giggles softly at how she can feel how warm and wet you left him for her to share. it's so much easier to slide down on his cock when he's so slick already, and yet his balls still feel so full squished against Eddie's face as he teases his rim into submitting to his fingers. it's just gonna be a long, slow, fun night for your Stevie--even though he's destined to last much longer than all three of you combined.

[insanescriptist]

Man, I gotta agree with this when it comes to the Pits and Jason's "Pit Madness"; it works as an excuse for Jason's bat-shit characterization in later runs because when it came to Jason, DC threw out his character bible when he got voted off. Sometimes the other comic writers got like three sentences to base his character off of and it's obvious. At the moment it kinda reads like DC's trying to shove him into an edgier Dick Grayson shaped box depending on what you're reading, and it falls flat. Because Jason Todd is not Dick Grayson. Jason's a narrative foil, not the lynchpin of DC.

However I find it interesting that Bruce is hesitating because of the brain damage specifically. It's an interesting line of thought for Bruce to use as a reasoning to not do it. When the pits are said to "heal all ills."

Most of the damage healed by the Lazarus Pits is recent physical trauma ie killing blows. It can only be used by the dying and recently dead (Ra's has been dropped in it dead before, in some of the older comics); it kills the living. This is also where I get to point out that once you're dead, your brain no longer has oxygen and glucose going to it. Your brain cells are dying once what's up there is gone. Which only takes minutes. So since Ra's is still able to think coherently, manage his empire/country/cult and so on, it's very much obvious that the Pits can heal brain damage. But wait, there's more! After all, aging is also damage and when the brain ages, along with the body, the byproducts of brain function are no longer as effectively removed while a person sleeps.

Because of this, one can actually argue that the immediate reaction of "madness," is actually the brain getting healed by the pit. The brain is after all, an organ that takes a lot of care in staying in a constant consistent state; it likes it's soup in a specific way, has specific tolerances and needs or it can't brain. That's kind of why the blood brain barrier exists. Brain doesn't want the icky in blood, it only wants the sugar and the oxygen.

Now then, the "madness," is written to be brief hysterical strength in which whoever it is cannot discern friend from foe. Which again, makes sense. The brain reverts back to base instincts, they feel vulnerable and they lash out. Often killing people. The base instincts I'm pointing to here are obviously Fight or Flight.

And then here we have catatonic Jason Todd.

From the first chapter of Lost Days, we see Jason's brain isn't really functioning, except to stimuli and muscle memory.

And then Talia puts him into a pit.

It's interesting that Lost Days is using an Orange Lazarus Pit, because those are multi-use pits aka a person can be revived in that pit multiple times. The green pits are one time use per person.

Also Jason got pushed in while Ra's was doing his old man bath. He probably tries not to think about that.

More importantly, Jason got pushed in while healthy. Which people go, he has brain damage! That's not okay! And it's not! The Lazarus Pits are known for killing healthy people. Jason has damage, he's short for his age, possibly due to malnutrition as a child (at 15 going towards 16 upon his death, he should not be shoulder height to Talia; the average 12-13 year old would be. Jason's actually older than 16, even without coffin time, since he's been vegging out in the care facility and then living on the streets; he's absolutely tiny for his age) His brain isn't capable of expressing higher and more complex thoughts. But he's been eating well, he's in great shape and he's young. Damaged yes, but otherwise healthy.

So even Jason's "revival" in the pit was a bit atypical in that he wasn't dead or dying of physical trauma. And that the Pit didn't end him!

More importantly, from various Jason recollections across various comics, Jason's memories are intact from prior to his death. He remembers his childhood, he remembers living on the street and other events such as school and being Robin and all the skills that being Robin required! He remembers details clear enough to know the Batmobile's weaknesses! So Batman's assumption of the brain damage might return Jason to life but leave him catatonic is clearly an error-filled assumption!

But what about the hotel room he destroyed after Talia revived him? Surely that was Pit Madness? Didn't he murder the two men?

Brief period of events to recap, Talia and Jason ran half a mile after his "revival" so she could toss him to where he could swim to a spot, gets a hotel, reads Talia's letter and gets the newspaper telling him Joker has been arrested and loses it. Beats up the hotel managers checking on Jason because he's destroying the room, smuggles himself to Gotham in less than twelve hours after being revived, all while avoiding Talia's people, her trackers and doesn't even use the papers she had prepared for him. He took the money and ran after his crying jag. Then he hatches a plan while getting transported to Gotham, gets his supplies, sets up a trade deal on both ends as bait for Batman and then places a bomb on the Batmobile. Decides to not actually kill Batman for his failure to avenge Jason's death. So all week he's been in Gotham, he's been fine enough to not need a panel dedicated to him being pit-mad. Which again, Pit Madness is shown again and again to be immediate violence when people are revived. Only Ra's has said otherwise and he has centuries of exposure.

Let's be honest, the violence is concerning but again, he gave the hotel managers a beatdown. He didn't murder them. (Again, head wounds bleed a lot. They do look absolutely murdered, but they lived afterwards. Talia's agents specify beatdown, not murder. Talia's agents might have murdered them after.) Also there's only two of them and a destroyed hotel room.

Bruce has had arguably worse and longer violent reactions for less reasons than finding out the guy who took you in, cared for you you and adopted you as a son, was your crime-fighting partner ended up not avenging you after you were brutally murdered and replaced you with another partner, another child, another son (presumably.) It's been years and he's still doing the same song and dance with arresting the Joker. Also Jason learning he's lost years of his life due to death, catatonia? Another reason to grieve.

Comparatively Batman has hunted down former henchmen of Rogues to beatdown for any possible information and also just beaten down criminal types at will in order to turn up a lead. Wanna argue? A Death in the Family shows it.

Anyway, it's absolutely thuggish behavior from the World's Greatest Detective. Also Batman ambushes people smuggling medical supplies, because that's exactly what a hero should do. It's arguable who they're smuggling supplies for (government faction vs rebels vs citizens caught in the crossfire) but it's still very dubious actions from someone who's written narratively as a hero.

So even arguably when relatively fresh from the Pit, Jason is less violent than Batman is sometimes. So clearly destroying the hotel room is just an intense episode of grief. Which taking feelings out on objects isn't great, but it's still better than hurting other people because you think they deserve it. Jason only hurt the hotel managers because they were trying to stop Jason from further destroying the room in his grief.

Anyway, Jason's a special guy and has been exposed to more Lazarus based stuff!

Time to get that infamous Task Force Z pic

Tis the Lazarus resin stuff! And also even after, Jason's still not Pit-mad or a zombie!

In fact he apologizes to Deadshot after. Clearly not Pit Mad.

So yeah, you could argue that Jason suffers from Pit-madness consider how his characterization isn't coherent after UtRH and Lost Days.

Or you could argue that Jason is the person least likely to be effected by Pit Madness and has shown that several times now.

You can absolutely hate on #148 for it's terrible writing and cheap conclusion but again, Jason with no Pit Madness upon revival. And again, the Pit healing a mental "injury" in Jason.

Sure you can argue for Pit Madness for Jason on the word of Ra's but you could also argue Jason comes out of the Pits as terrifyingly sane, so all his unhinged behavior is him and his trauma responses that he has less than ideal coping mechanisms for! Kinda what happens when you're the most isolated Robin (no superhero team of his own) and full of C-PTSD from living homeless in the worst part of Gotham, seeing more traumatizing situations as Robin, react to that trauma in what should be a safe space, get benched for it, see a distraction and a possible escape to catch a breather away from Batman/Bruce, get betrayed by your biological mother and then murdered! Not to mention the stuff that's happened to him after he came back to Gotham! Jason's got a lifetime subscription of issues but arguably Pit Madness isn't one.

(But it is fun >:3e)

Okay, we gotta talk about Pit Madness in the comics.

I keep seeing a bunch of people saying it’s not real. Problem. It is. It’s just rarely brought up.

It might not be the earliest reference, but we have this panel with Talia talking about how madness seizes him after dipping in the Lazarus Pit

Batman #244 (1972)

But this isn’t the only time we get reference to this. The panel below also talks about lore of the Lazarus Pits and again mentions that madness.

Batman: Bane of the Demon. Issue 3 (1998)

This gets referenced again in Hush when Bruce is fighting who he thinks is someone pretending to be Jason having been resurrected in the Pits during Hush.

Bruce is thinking about how he almost out Jason in a Pit after his death, but due to the madness the Pit can cause and Jason’s injuries to the head, he thought against it.

Batman # 618 - I think it’s volume 11 in the Hush omnibus (2003)

We see a reference to it again regarding Jason in the Lost Days. What’s super interesting here is that Talia states the Pits did NOT drive Jason mad, but Ra’s warns her that it’s possible the madness can occur up to years after a person’s dip.

I find this particular one fascinating, simply because of the lore that Pit Madness can take hold decades after a dip in a Pit.

Red Hood: the Lost Days #2 (2010)

Now, regarding Jason. There has NEVER been any concrete proof he’s suffered from Pit Madness. It’s very popular as a head cannon simply because Jason’s characterization is so all over the place.

Edit: Please keep in mind Jason was calm, cool, collected, and conniving in Under the Red Hood. Saying he’s Pit Mad there takes away all of the impact and gets rid of his motivations. Please be aware of this.

Now, that’s not saying there’s not a connection between Jason and the Pits. There was an entire arc in Red Hood and the Outlaws (2010) regarding this which also deals with Jason’s time with the All-Caste.

I still haven’t gotten around to reading that part, but it’s where the permanent augmentation theories come from. Oh, and Jason can canonically make constructs from Lazarus Water. Ra’s can too, but yeah… it’s a thing.

Red Hood and the Outlaws 2010 #27 (Released in 2014)

But while there’s no confirmation Jason’s dealt with Pit Madness, you know who has? Cass

Batgirl 1 #72 or 73 (2006)

Cass was revived after taking a blow for someone. And Shiva revived her, but there’s no permanence to it. And to my knowledge, I could be wrong since I’m not as familiar with her runs, this is the only time it gets referenced with her.

But going back to my original point that started this: Pit Madness is real. It’s just rarely seen in the comics. And if you want to use it, that’s fine - just be careful about its use since you can ruin characterization with it.

Edit 2: while there isn’t much of Pit Madness seen in the comics, it does seem to wear off over time. We also know a dip in the Pit temporarily increases brain power and physical strength/ability.

We also know that there’s a Lazarus Pit under Gotham and that its waters leech into Gotham’s water supply.

That’s referenced in Teen Titans vol. 3 issues 40-41 (2007) - forgive me. I don’t feel like looking up those panels

[i-dont-know-nor-care-go-away]

Songs and misunderatings : a Ronance fic, chp 1/3(?)

(this will suck bc I never actually watched the show, I just saw them on this hell site and got attached + my moots love st)

Nancy wheeler was no longer in love with Steve Harrington. She was probably never really in love, she told herself, because whatever happened with him (or Johnathan Byers, but that was different) wasn't even close to how she felt with his best friend, so how could she ever had been in love? He didn't compare to his annoyingly wonderful best friend. Well, also her best friend, but that was unreciprocated. Because while Nancy was not ever in love with little mr. "oh I have the best hair and large muscles that make all the girls like me," Robin Buckely most definitely was. It slightly infuriates her, somehow. The way they were always half on each other, holding hands, casually just being together, then saying they were friends. She wanted that, to be friends with Robin fucking Buckley. But, Nancy Wheeler had never loved Steve and she didn't even need to get over being mad him. So, when Steve has her, Eddie, and Robin over for movie night, she has no right to sit right between the happy "couple" at all. She still did, though. It was just the principle of the matter, her inch of pettiness, and the fact that Robin was the most snuggly person on the planet. Nancy normal gets cold, so it's mutual benefit when she gets warm from Robin. (besides, what's Robin gonna do, snuggle with the Steve or the metal head? Nancy cannot let her do that.) She gets a bit too warm sometimes, her cheeks turn bright red, but Robin is too much of a human koala to escape it. It's on one of those movie nights that she has Robin wrapped around her, fast asleep, that she learns something else. The queen of the night aria was playing and everyone half asleep, because Steve choose an opera film this time. He's really not what he seems, 10x more dorky and love-able than the average jock. it's all fine until he mentions "Robbie could probably sing this, right Edds?" Robin doesn't stir being wrapped around her, and Nancy freezes. Another reminder that Steve and Robin were in their own little world and no matter how she tried, she would always be on the outside. To her right, Eddie munson (God, how did this all happen? she thought she would be a journalist, and here she is, with shotguns and monster fighting and people she'd almost missed the chance to love) replies "Nah, totally not her style." Nancy gives a little "hmp?" and leaves it. But, this sets off a flood of thoughts, no longer about Steve. Robin Buckley could sing. Was that why she and Eddie hung out? Did Robin have a smooth, raspy voice when she sang? Was her voice always so scratchy because she didn't drink enough water?( Robin never drinks, always forgets, Nancy should really carry extra water bottles) Was the same Robin that runs weird and wore too many rings and curses and has wild hair that makes Nancy want to run her hand through it to straighten it out, that Robin, a good little choir girl in church? How was a naturally curious journalist, ever supposed to sleep with all these questions? Well, now Nancy Wheeler can't sleep till Robin sings her a lullaby, she just needs to know. (It did occupy her thoughts before she collapsed into unconsciousness for the next week, in fact)

The next week rolls around and like, clock work, Nancy is at Steve's house, 15 minutes early, because that's what on time actually is, thank you every much. And unlike clockwork, she hears guitar. Not the distorted metal type Munson usually plays, no, this is soft like worn, washed out navy blue. Someone joins the chords, slowly signing "I want to love a boy, the way I love the ocean.." In a heart beat, Nancy knows it's Robin. Robin sings differently than Nancy thought she would. She sounds smooth and light, like a August gust of wind, unexpectedly soft, like her. Nancy padded softly forward, as the next verse floats downstream towards her. "wish I was not afraid, of all I have that's broken.." and Nancy is by the door. Listening to her best friend sing about her ex, and All she wants to do is cry, because of course Robin sings so.. Robin, secretly, soft, and sweet. And of course, Robin is singing about Steve. All she wants to do is cry for no reason, as she hears "I know I must behave, to contain all my emotions, but I want to love a boy, the way I love the ocean.." Robin stops with a sigh and Nancy suddenly realizes how much she should not be here. A soft clack tells her Eddie set down the guitar. He says "She knows, right? Nancy, about you and Steve's ... relationship? or whatever you guys call it. Because, whatever it is, is getting pretty old." Nancy is even more aware she should leave, but now, she can finally get answers, and besides, it's about her. Robin's signature rasp replies "I've told her. 'Platonic with a capital P'! Plus, she said she's over it. and besides, me and Steve is just... and she just..uuhgg" Nancy knows the little air quotes Robin put around that dumb phrase, the way Robin is probably throwing her hands in the air and where this conversation is going. "Look, muson, I love Steve, but Nancy... God the way she keeps looking at me.." With that, everything falls. She takes soft steps back. Then, Nancy Wheeler, owner of multiple shotguns, who fought supernatural beings, ran away from her feelings.

When she stops, she realizes many things. Of which include, that she is now in an empty lot, that Robin and Steve have each other and don't need her mucking it up, and Robin lied to her about it at the library. One other big one is that she is a homosexual. and like that's enough, she is gay for her ex's practically girlfriend. To add a cherry on the the misery Sunday, said crush thinks she is in love with her ex.

End

woo, internalized homophobia/sarcasm. Ok, I typed this all out on fucking MOBILE bc I had it in my head and it's 1:30 o clock in the morning. I'm probably gonna do another chapter from Robin's pov then another to tie it together. Again, never watched the show, they're just my blorbos in law but (a) maya hawke and (b) her song "to love a boy" makes me think of Robin and comp-het and it wouldn't leave my brain. ask to be added or removed from tag list please

@directlyat-thesun @likea-black-widow-baby @pottah-is-it-true-you-fainted @your-very-rude-neighborhood-ace you specially made me obsessed over byler when I didn't know strangers things was even a show, thank you @percabeth4life ily, u inspired me to write so now deal with the consequences @ronanceluvrr bc ur tiktoks made me fall in love with them

also, according to tumblr this is my 10,001 post? I don't trust them but that's fun

[mochegato]

Even the Losers

Chapter 17

Chapter 1     Chapter 16

Marinette shook her head and tried to hide her giggles. Red Robin had to have thought he was being discrete, right?  Unless he was intentionally making himself known as a way to intimidate any more rogues from trying to get to her.  He was discrete enough that the average person probably wouldn’t notice him, but anyone paying attention, looking for him, would see him easily.

She waited until he was looking down at her again and waved at him.  He smiled and waved back before blushing, shaking his head, and motioning for her to continue. Marinette grinned and looked back at the map on her phone.  The restaurant Jason chose was around here somewhere.  One of the places he just ended up at a lot, he said.  Low key and cozy, exactly the kind of place she needed right now.

After that, he said he was planning on following her around for the rest of the day.  He’d said it in a joking tone, but she knew there was nothing joking about his intent.  He would be shadowing her for the rest of the day. He couldn’t hide the gravity behind the statement.  He couldn’t mask the concerned questions, no matter how casually he tried to play them off. The insistence on seeing her apartment, make sure the view was good enough and the kitchen was stocked enough. The way he casually suggested she teach him how to make a baked good she liked.  

Honestly, she was shocked he let her walk there on her own, but he said he’d be have eyes on her anyway.  She looked back up at Red Robin with a smile.  Clearly, he wasn’t kidding.  White lensed eyes.  The smile quickly morphed into a frown when she couldn’t see him.  He hadn’t been hidden this whole time, so where was he now? She squeaked and whirled around into a fighting stance when she heard someone land behind her.  She barely had time to put her hands down before Red Robin was standing next to her, his hand on her shoulder while he looked around, eyes sharp and calculating.

Marinette followed his lead and scanned the crowd. In lieu of knowing what she was looking for, she kept her eye out for anything that seemed out of place. Everything looked normal though. Nothing seemed suspicious.  There were a few people throwing them odd looks, but nothing that seemed hostile or calculating, instead it seemed more curious and fearful of what having a vigilante dropping down in the middle of the night meant for them.

Red Robin turned back to face her.  “Let’s get you somepl…” his hand went up to his ear. “Shit!”

Marinette’s eyes widened in fear.  “What happened?  Did someone get hurt?”

Red Robin’s eyes looked around them again and narrowed at one of the buildings.  He moved his arm to her back and firmly pushed her toward the building. “Nobody is hurt.”

She looked at him doubtfully.  “But…”

“There’s just an issue that needs attention, but nobody has been hurt,” he assured her, looking down briefly to meet her eyes.

Marinette nodded uncertainly, not feeling calmer with his reassurance.  She couldn’t see his eyes past the white filters to gauge his sincerity, and it was unsettling.  “So my friend and brother, my… the Waynes, they’re… nobody is hurt?”

Red Robin paused almost imperceptibly.  If she hadn’t become used to his constant pressure on her back, she wouldn’t have noticed.  He looked back down at her as they walked, the tense muscles in his face softened considerably.  “They’re all safe.  Your friend and brother and family.  They’re all safe.  I promise. I just need to go assist someone, but I don’t want to leave you alone.”

Marinette raised an eyebrow at him.  “I can defend myself you know.”

Red Robin gave her a deadpan expression. She’s sure if he didn’t have a mask, he’d have his own eyebrow raised at her.  “After last night, you can understand that we and your family are a bit concerned and perhaps a bit overprotective just right now.”

Marinette rolled her eyes with a sigh but didn’t fight him.  “So you’re going to, what?  Hide me in some abandoned office until everything blows over?  That sounds safe.”

Red Robin huffed out a laugh.  “Absolutely safe.  That is our standard approach.  I’m glad you understand how we operate.”  He gave her a look she couldn’t quite decipher with his mask in the way.  “No.  I think your family would hunt me down if I did something so reckless with you.  They’re quite protective, you know?”  

Marinette opened her mouth to say something but shut it quickly.  He was a stranger.  There was absolutely no reason to get into her family dynamics with him.  “No,” he continued, oblivious to her uncertainty. “I’m going to stash you with someone we know we can trust.”

Marinette looked up at him with narrowed eyes.  “A babysitter.”

The corners of Red Robin’s mouth quirked up. “Well, if you’re going to whine like a baby…” he teased.

Marinette gasped dramatically.  “If you want whining, I can show you whining.  I grew up with the most spoiled brat in existence.  I can give new meaning to the word.”  Red Robin actually laughed as he opened the door to the business.  “You know, I’m supposed to meet my… um… br… brother,” she stuttered over the word.  “Jason’s going to wonder about me.”

Red Robin cringed slightly.  “You should probably text him.  It isn’t a good idea for you to go out until this is resolved.” Marinette nodded and shot a text off to Jason letting him know she was okay and Red Robin was putting her somewhere safe for a bit.

They heard movement from the building, finally drawing Marinette’s attention to the business they had gone into.  “Can I help… T… Red Robin?  Marinette?” Roy asked pushing out from behind a motorcycle with its transmission in his hands.

“Hey, I was hoping you could watch Marinette while I take care of something.  You’re a friend with the Waynes right?” Red Robin asked pointedly.

Roy stared at him for a few seconds before realization set in.  “Yeah. Yeah, we’re like fam…” he looked over to Marinette, “well, not family family.  But, uh, yeah.”

Red Robin cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips.  “No, I’m pretty sure you are con…” he was cut off by something in his com.  He paused for a moment to listen before turning back to Roy with what Marinette was pretty sure was supposed to be a glare.  “I’m trusting you,” he growled.  “There’s some madness going on.”

Roy’s face turned serious and he gave him a determined nod.  “I’ll protect her.  Go.”

Red Robin looked between them for a second then nodded and took off.  Roy and Marinette watched him leave for a second before turning back to each other. Marinette gave him a shy smile. “Hi,” she waved sheepishly. “Sorry to just drop in on you like this.”

Roy gave her a welcoming smile and motioned to the garage bay.  “Not at all. I guess you’re just visiting sooner than we anticipated.  Can’t say I’m upset at all.”  He moved some parts off of a stool and motioned toward it for her to sit.  “I should say sorry that you have to hunker down here. You definitely look like you were going somewhere a bit nicer.”

Marinette looked down at her outfit analytically, a blood red, long-sleeved blouse, black skinny jeans, and black heeled boots. She’d wanted to wear ladybug colors after the previous night in the Riddler’s facility and the Wayne dining room. Ladybug colors always reminded her of the strongest, most resilient parts of herself.  She looked back up at him, her eyes catching on the coat rack behind him.  “Excuse you. All I need is that jacked over there and I’d fit right in.  In fact, I’d match your baby.”

Roy looked to where she was looking, seeing his black leather jacket hanging up.  He blushed slightly at the idea of her wearing his jacket.  He could picture it on her, the jacket hanging loosely off of her significantly smaller frame, her clinging to him as they rode on his bike… He looked back at her with a soft look. “And you would still be too classy to be here.”

Marinette pouted at him.  “You say that like I don’t fit in.”  She didn’t want to say the ‘with you’ that was running through her head.  Did he think she wouldn’t fit with him?  “I can fit. I can even be helpful.”

Roy shook his head.  “No, not at all just…”  He motioned to his own clothes, an old tee, stained jeans, and a backwards ball cap that was just as stained with grease as his jeans, and then motioned to her.

Marinette looked between the two of them and grinned. “You underestimate my ability to get dirty.  Give me a few minutes and I’ll be as dirty as you.”

Roy’s eyes snapped to the wrench in his hand. Based on the complete lack of amusement or sultriness in her eyes, she did not at all realize what she just said. He took a few seconds, it may have been minutes, to calm his heart and mind.  “Okay, how about you prove it?”

Marinette raised an eyebrow at him.  “Prove what?”

“That you can be helpful.  Roll up those sleeves and help me with this engine.”  He motioned to the transmission on the workbench next to her.  “I can also get you some coveralls so your outfit won’t get dirty if you prefer.” He looked back at her with an amused glint in his eyes.  “They’ll be a bit big on you…”  Marinette narrowed her eyes at him but his eyes danced with even more amusement at her reaction.  “Since you’re so litt…”

“You know what…” she cut him off, standing to get in his personal space.  She stared up at him, her eyes meeting his for a moment before her cheeks burst into color.  She looked away and cleared her throat.  After a second to recover, she motioned to the transmission as she rolled up her sleeves. “Just tell me what you’re doing and how I can help.”

Roy grinned and twirled the wrench in his hand. “Yes, ma’am.”  

He leaned over the transmission and started loosening one of the nuts holding the piece together.  His hand faltered for a fraction of a second when Marinette leaned next to him, close enough for him to feel her breath as she let out a sigh, close enough to feel her body heat.  Close enough he could easily wrap his arms around her and pull her against him.  He had to tighten his hands to keep them from reaching over.

He took a breath to focus.  Now was not the time.  She had just been kidnapped and people could take a bit of time to recover from something like that, especially considering the things she had said about having a breakdown.  He flicked his eyes over to her trying to assess how she was doing.  Her eyes were intently watching his hands as they moved around the transmission.  They were sharp and her body seemed to be relaxing the longer she watched him work.  If he didn’t know better, he’d never know she had been kidnapped and threatened the night before.

She looked up at him questioningly when his hands stilled as he analyzed her.  He gave her a small smile and motioned toward the tool box.  “Um… I need… Can you, um, get me the, um… 5/16th wrench, please?” he stuttered.

Marinette jumped up to search through the wrenches in the box.  She frowned, her lip jutting out as she searched.  “I don’t see it here.  Is there somewhere else it could be?”

Roy’s face scrunched as he tried to remember where else he might have used it.  He’d been working on the bike almost all day.  He looked back at the motorcycle trying to remember what he had done with it. He was broken from his concentration by Marinette’s light giggle.  He looked over to her with a raised brow.  

Marinette looked away quickly, another blush on her cheeks.  She followed where his line of sight had been and searched around the motorcycle, focusing her energy on her search for the wrench instead of the adorable face he made when he was concentrating and the way his nose wrinkled up in thought and his lips quirked to the side.  After a minute of looking she shook her head and held her empty hands out for him to see.

“Any other ideas?” she asked as she came back over to her stool.

Roy sighed deeply and scanned the workbench. He had a backup set of wrenches, but he knew he had used that one recently.  It couldn’t have gone too far. His attention was brought back to Marinette when she giggled again, her giggles turning into full blown laughter.  He gave her a confused look which made her laugh louder.  She reached over the workbench, almost climbing onto it to grab the wrench that was behind the transmission.  She held the wrench out to him triumphantly with a smug, teasing smile on her lips.

Roy fought choking on air at the sight of her climbing onto his workbench and all the images that immediately flooded into his mind involving that particular scenario, especially in his jacket… and nothing else.  He took the wrench, hoping she believed the blush he knew was on his cheek was from embarrassment rather than where his thoughts had gone.  “Thanks,” he managed to mutter out.

“Anytime,” she grinned back.  “See?” she motioned to herself.  “Helpful.”

Roy chuckled and shook his head fondly. “Guess I’ll have to keep you around then.”

Marinette chuckled and let her focus settle back on the part he was working on.  She watched his hands move effortlessly and confidently over the pieces.  “Flathead screwdriver,” he asked, holding out his hand for her.  She quickly grabbed one and slapped it in his hand like he was a surgeon.  He looked up at her with a grin.  “Thanks, nurse.”

Marinette shook her head and let her gaze pass over the garage bay.  She quirked her head to the side when her eyes settled on a bow leaning up against the wall by the door.  “What’s with the bow?”

Roy’s head jerked up.  His eyes immediately found his bow and quiver.  He looked back at her with an almost natural smile. “Oh, I just… like to shoot.”

“It’s yours?” she asked perking up.

“Yeah… I just pulled it out… recently.”  His eyes flicked to the cut on her cheek quickly before returning to the transmission.

Marinette looked back at the bow.  “That sounds fun.  I always wanted to learn.  How did you learn?”

Roy’s eyes took on a far off look and a sentimental smile spread on his lips.  “My father, my adopted father.”

“Oliver?” Marinette asked, confusion clear in her voice as she tried to reconcile the sentimental smile with his description in the bar.

“Ah, so you know,” Roy said quietly, eyes suddenly in focus and pointed at the transmission.

Marinette gave him a sympathetic smile.  “Sorry.  Damian… he um… thought I knew,” she stuttered out.  She really didn’t want to get into that conversation right now.  She was sure Roy would be upset and it was just something she wanted to leave between her and Damian, not someone else.  “He just mentioned it yesterday.”

Roy nodded and flicked his eyes up to her for a second, gauging her reaction, waiting for the questions.  There were always questions.  Questions about Oliver, questions about their relationship, questions about their money.  The exact combination might change but they were always there.  “Sorry for bringing it up,” she said quietly.

Roy shook his head, with a small smile.  “No.  It isn’t your fault.  No not Oliver.  It was before Oliver.  My birth father died saving me from a forest fire and a man named Brave Bow adopted me. He raised me.  He was a really good man.  He taught me how to be a good person and how to shoot… and just about everything else I know.”

The smile on Roy’s face made Marinette smile too. “He sounds like a good father.”

Roy nodded.  “He was,” he said quietly.  He looked over at her hesitantly before focusing back on the piece he was working on. “How are you feeling?”

Marinette quirked her head to the side.  “Feeling?  Not as useful as I could be.  A burden on you more than a help, if I’m being honest,” she shrugged.

Roy snorted.  “Sorry, I’ll try to get you to do more of my work for me.”  He sent her a smirk that got an eye roll out of her.  “And I would never call you a burden.  In fact, I’d fight to keep you nearby,” he added quietly, no longer meeting her eyes.  He tried to focus on the transmission but he could feel her eyes on him, making it impossible to think of anything else.  

After a few seconds he cleared his throat.  “I mean after,” he motioned toward her face, his hand still grasping the gear he had just removed.  “How are you handling it?  The Riddler’s no joke.”

Marinette scoffed and picked up a wrench.  She spun it in her hand as a distraction while she spoke.  “He really isn’t.  I didn’t find him funny at all.”  Roy gave her a flat look and returned to working on the part, letting her decide to continue discussing it or not.  “How did you know?” she asked quietly.

“He broadcast it to all Gotham.  Everybody knows.  Everybody saw you deliver the verbal smack down of the century,” he grinned at her.  “It was inspiring.  You were amazing.”

“I was pissed is what I was,” she grumbled.  She looked away and sighed, running her hand over her face and grimacing when she accidentally touched her cut.  “I forgot everyone would see that.”

She stared at the wrench as she twirled it in her hands.  She knew the Waynes probably knew she was taken.  She’d called Jason to let him know she was fine, but had pretended she had to go talk to the police and cut the call short.  She really didn’t want to talk to them after the scene at dinner. She didn’t want to have the conversations she knew they were going to want to have.  She just wanted to move on.  It didn’t have anything to do with them, especially the kids.  It was her past, one they had no way of knowing about and no way of helping with.  There was no reason to hash through it all again.

But she hadn’t realized they would get to see the full video.  She frowned at the thought.  She’d said so much while she was yelling and she couldn’t remember what all she had said. It was a moment of weakness that now the entire city, possibly the world now knew about.  Thankfully she was positive she didn’t mention anything about the miraculous so to anyone watching she would have looked like any other normal, non-miraculous wielding person.

And on top of it all, she wasn’t sure if she was grateful or upset that M. Wayne hadn’t reached out to see if she was alright. All of the kids had even Lucius had, but not him… or Alfred.  After the way she left, he might not feel like he’s allowed to.  But still… he hadn’t bothered to check on her at all.

She looked up with a weak smile.  “Guess I’ve truly experienced Gotham now.”

Roy grimaced.  “Sorry about that.”  He watched her as she seemed to work through her feelings on the matter, going from annoyed to hurt.  He returned his attention to the engine part.  “I think I need to start calling you Fire Flower.”

Marinette looked up at him curiously.  “Fire Flower?”

“Yeah,” he looked up briefly with a spark in his eyes. “It’s like a fire cracker, but cuter. More impressive to look at.” Marinette blushed and looked down, accidentally dropping the wrench she had been playing with.  Roy grinned widely at her before focusing back on his work. “You sure you feel safe?” he asked, still focusing on the engine.

Marinette nodded.  “I have Adrien and Max.  We might not look like we can protect ourselves, but we’re pretty good at it.” Actually incredibly well.  She was possibly the best protected person in the world right now, but he didn’t have any way of knowing that.

“I’m actually pretty surprised Adrien isn’t with you right now or Max.”  He looked over at her with a raised eyebrow.

Marinette nodded.  “You’re not wrong.  They would be but Max just started work and couldn’t really take a day off immediately and Adrien had a job interview in Metropolis today.  And this is the one he’s really excited about.  I was supposed to go with him and check out Metropolis, but then I wouldn’t have had anyone with me while he was in the interview and that made them a bit too nervous.  Here at least they know I have the bats following me at all times so, they were pretty confident I was safe.”

“The bats are keeping an eye on you, huh?” Roy asked with a secretive grin.

Marinette nodded.  “I’m not sure if they’re trying to be subtle, but yeah.  I don’t know what kind of relationship they have with the Waynes. They mentioned… the bats certainly act like they talk a lot and know each other well.”

Roy froze for a second.  Well, they certainly weren’t being as discrete as they normally are, it would seem.  Although after last night, he could imagine they were pretty flustered.  He had been and she was just an acquaintance to him. He wanted it to be more but… that wasn’t the point.  But at this rate, she was going to figure it out before they told her and he didn’t imagine that going well for them.  “So you’ve caught them a few times?”

“Caught is a liberal term for it.  Is it catching if they aren’t really hiding?  I think Red Robin might have been trying… maybe, but Batman was on our balcony, standing vigil all night last night.”

Roy glanced over for a second.  “Batman was watching over your apartment last night?”

Marinette nodded.  “Markov said he was there until Red Robin took over some time around breakfast.”

Roy paused for a few seconds then tapped the screwdriver against the workbench.  “And… Bruce? Did Bruce check in on you?”

Marinette looked away and licked her lips before pursing them.  She twisted the wrench around a few more times, focusing entirely on that, not meeting Roy’s eyes.  “No,” she finally said in a falsely calm voice.  “I… I didn’t…  Dinner didn’t go so well.”

Roy moved closer to her until he was close enough to reach her comfortably but still gave her space so he wasn’t crowding her. He ducked his head to try to meet her eyes.  She yielded quickly and met his eyes.  “He’s worried about you.  I guarantee you he is.  He’s just… shit at emotions and reading a room.  

“If you guys fought, I promise you he isn’t less worried about you, he’s just afraid that seeing him or hearing from him will upset you more.  I promise you he’s finding out everything he can about how you are from anyone that will tell him.  He cares. Your fight didn’t push him away. He’s just a fucking idiot.  And an asshole, so there’s like a 97% chance if you did fight, it was his fault.  And he probably knows that, just not how to make it up to you.”

Marinette huffed out a laugh despite her eyes suddenly turning glassy. “I don’t need him to make it up, just… it’s not even his fault.  It was mine really.”  She fiddled with the wrench in her hands, testing the strength, trying to bend it, focusing on that as if it was the most interesting thing in the room.

“I doubt it.”  He sighed and readjusted his cap as he tried to come up with the right words.  “I’ve found that when bad things happen at the manor it’s almost always because Bruce was being a controlling little bitch.”  Instead of laughing, she frowned at the wrench. Right, calling her father, she’s trying to connect to a ‘controlling little bitch’ probably isn’t really helping. He sighed and looked back up trying to figure out how to remove the frown.  It didn’t look right on her face.  She should be smiling.  Always. “Do you want a hug?”

Marinette finally looked up from the wrench in surprise.  After a second she gave him a weak smile and shook her head, returning her focus to the wrench.  “I’m fine.”

Roy lightly placed his hand on the wrench to stop its motion. “That’s not what I asked,” he said gently.

She blinked at him a few times before a smirk quirked her lips up. “I mean… I’m not going to object to a handsome man wrapping his arms around me,” she answered slyly, throwing his words from days earlier back at him.  Roy grinned and wrapped his arms around her, gently at first but holding her tighter as the hug went on.  His arms were strong and reassuring, giving a sense of warmth and safety and Marinette quickly found herself melting into his embrace.  She nuzzled into his chest and dear God, she could feel his muscles moving through his shirt with every minute movement.

She tried to hide her frown when he pulled away after a few minutes. But, it turned into a smile when he stopped after a few inches, just enough to look down at her.  Roy smiled softly and rubbed her cheek with his thumb a few times.  Marinette leaned into his hand, captivated by the feel of his hand on her face.  He started to lean down but jumped away with the sound of clattering right next to them.  Roy moved in front of her, caging her in behind him as he looked for the source of the sound.

Marinette grimaced and leaned down to pick up the wrench that had slipped through her fingers when she was looking at Roy.  He chuckled awkwardly and moved back to his transmission. He started working on it again a lot slower than he had been before.  His hands were shaking slightly.  He could still feel the traces of her on his fingers and around his chest, trilling through him.  “Can you… um… the.  Can you hand me the Phillips head, please?” he stuttered, unable to get his mind settled.

Marinette stared at him for a few seconds, her cheeks still bright red, as her mind tried to kick back into gear.  She looked at the tools in the toolbox and back to him. “Is… that’s a tool, not like a horror movie thing, right?”

Roy blinked a few times before breaking out in laughter.  Marinette smiled at his laughter, beyond grateful for the change of topic.  “The one with the cross for a head,” he said motioning toward the screwdrivers.

“Oh,” Marinette nodded in understanding. “Tournevis cruciform,” she muttered to herself as she searched through the tools for the right screwdriver. “Americans and their naming things.”

Roy grinned at her outrage.  “And what do you call it?  The cross screwdriver.” he teased.

“That is literally what it translates to,” she deadpanned.

Roy puckered his lips in an attempt at keeping a smile off his lips and make his annoyed wrinkled brow more believable.  “Oh, well I bow to your superior naming capabilities,” he snarked with a fake bow.

Marinette nodded graciously and passed the screwdriver to him.  “Thank you. That’s all I ask.”

Roy laughed and returned to the transmission, pretending like he could focus on that instead of the kiss they almost had. Marinette watched, almost transfixed as he moved the gears synchronously on the transmission, creating intricate and ever changing patterns.  She pulled her sketchbook and pencil out to capture a sudden idea.

“The wrench?” Roy called out, not looking up from the transmission.  He held out his hand and waited for a few seconds before adding, “Please?”  He waited a little longer before repeating it a bit louder.  “Wrench, please?”  He finally looked up when she still hadn’t handed it to him.  “Marinette?”  He looked over to her concerned.  His face immediately softened when he saw her.

Marinette’s face was frozen in intense concentration on her sketchbook as she drew confidently and without hesitation.  She held the sketchbook out and tilted it slightly. She narrowed her eyes at it and tilted it a different way.  Her mouth curved into a satisfied smirk before she added in more details and notes. Her eyes lit up with inspiration, bright and clear.  She shook her head to get a stray strand of hair out of her eyes, hands too busy committing her inspiration to paper to waste time with such trivialities.  Roy shook his head, mentally berating himself for having backed off before.  She had been right there and leaning toward him.  Maybe Jason and Dick… and Tim and Damian, were right.  He was an idiot.

Before Roy realized what he was doing, he had reached out to tuck it behind her ear, being careful to avoid her cut as his fingers brushed her face.  Marinette jumped at the unexpected contact.  She looked up at him wide eyed but a sheepish look quickly overtook her expression. She looked down in embarrassment, but that only pressed her face further into Roy’s hand, which made her embarrassed blush deepen but not due to embarrassment this time.  “Sorry.  Did you need a tool?”

Roy shook his head.  He smiled and moved his hand slightly so it was cupping her face this time.  “It’s fine. I was enjoying watching you get caught up in inspiration.”

Marinette looked down again and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.  It is probably the most embarrassing face.”

Roy smiled softly at her, his eyes shining with sincerity and fondness.  “No. It wasn’t.  It was cute.”  He took a step closer to her and leaned a bit closer, more intimately.  “I wouldn’t mind seeing it more.”

“More of my too distracted to pay attention to you face?” she smirked and leaned closer to him.

“Any version of your face you’ll let me see. Although I would prefer to see it with fewer cuts,” he frowned at the cut on her cheek as he rubbed a soothing line just below the bruise that had formed around the cut.  He leaned closer to examine the cut until his lips were centimeters from her cheek.  He flicked his eyes to her half lidded ones and leaned to close the distance.

“Hey, guys!” Dick boomed as he came into the room. Marinette and Roy jumped apart, or rather Roy jumped away and Marinette straightened up on the stool, grabbing the workbench to keep from falling off.  “Sorry I’m late.  And sorry I’m here instead of Jason.  He got… caught up in the attack.  Not personally!” he rushed to assure Marinette when her eyes widened and body stiffened.  “I meant he’s dealing with the fallout.  Jason is fine.  He’d just be really, really late and asked if I could come over here instead.  If that’s okay.”

Marinette nodded, but her eyes were still slightly widened.  “Of course. But you’re sure Jason’s okay?”

“Absolutely,” Dick shot her a charming smile.  “He’s just going to need a bit of time to deal with things,” he lied smoothly.  He looked between Marinette and Roy with narrowed eyes and moved between them as he hugged Marinette.  “He really, really wanted to be here with you today.  I think he’s planning on attaching himself to you tomorrow though.”

Marinette chuckled lightly.  “That’s okay.  We’ll have fun doing something.”  Her face suddenly sobered.  “Oh, no, wait.  I have lunch with Duke and Cass tomorrow.  I mean… I think I have lunch with them.  We had planned it, but that was before…” she trailed off, not wanting to go into detail at all, but especially in front of Roy.

“I’m sure you still do,” Dick assured her.  “They’re probably just waiting to get confirmation from you in case the last few days were a bit much and you wanted a break.”

“No!” Marinette exclaimed.  “No.  I’ll text them.  Thanks.”

“But I get you for tonight.  How do you feel about a movie marathon?” he grinned widely, already planning a full night’s marathon with her, Adrien, and Max.  She had to love Disney movies, right?  Who didn’t love Disney movies?

“I like movies,” Roy chirped with a teasing grin.

“No,” he answered sharply.  He turned back to Marinette with a mock sympathetic smile. “You must have been so bored here.”

Roy narrowed his eyes back at him but Marinette jumped up to defend Roy.  “Not at all. It was interesting watching him working on the bike.  I got some good inspiration too.”

Roy raised a pointed eyebrow at him with a smug grin.  “Motorcycles remind her of her grandmother.”

Dick looked back at Marinette who was looking back at Roy with a surprised expression.  “Good memory.”

“I remember important things,” he shrugged.

Dick glared at him.  “Uh huh.  But not to check if things are loaded.”  He looked back at Marinette.  “You’ve got something just there,” he motioned to the cheek Roy had stroked earlier. “You might want to get that grease off.”

“Oh!” Marinette exclaimed grabbing her cheek, almost succeeding in covering the blush that flushed on her cheeks.  “Do you have a bathroom I can use?”

Roy nodded and motioned toward the bathroom. “Just right over there.”

As soon as the door closed, Dick punched Roy’s shoulder.  Roy frowned at him.  “What?”

“What the Hell are you doing?” Dick hissed and motioned toward the bathroom.

“What?” Roy answered rubbing his shoulder.  At least it was just Dick.  If it was Jason, he’d be rubbing his jaw right now.  “Tim dropped her off here.  What was I supposed to do?  Ignore her?”

“You were supposed to not hit on her,” he grumbled.

“That’s just unreasonable,” Roy rolled his eyes and leaned back against the workbench.  He motioned to the bathroom.  “Have you met her? She’s smart and sassy and really sweet.  She's funny and obviously gorgeous.  Who doesn’t want to hit on her?”

“Yeah.  I’ve met her. Didn’t hit on her.” Dick let out a long suffering sigh. “Jesus, Roy!  I’ve had her as a sister for like a week.  I don’t want to lose her because I’m in jail for killing you.”

“You’re her brother, you don’t count in the hitting on her count.  And please,” Roy scoffed, “you’re too good to go to jail for it.”

“True.  Just…” he narrowed his eyes at him and pointed at him threateningly, “if you mess around and hurt her… I’ll choose her over you.  And I won’t forget to load the magazines and Jason will be more than happy to use them.”

“That’s hurtful,” Roy groused.  “One time.  I forgot to load the magazines one time.”

“Yeah, in the middle of a mission!” Dick whisper hissed.

“You survived,” Roy shrugged.  “Stop being such a baby.  But I get it.  I’d choose her over me too.  Or you. But if you were going to kill anyone for hurting her, Riddler wouldn’t still be alive… or Bruce.”

Dick pursed his lips at the reminder of how Bruce had treated Marinette, of everything that had come up the night before. His anger quickly deflating.  He looked toward the bathroom, his eyes softening. They really needed to work harder to support her, to assure her they weren’t holding her at arm’s length. Maybe talk to Bruce about telling her the truth.  That seemed like the only possible way to salvage this.  “How does she seem to be doing?”

Roy shrugged and watched the bathroom door to make sure she wouldn’t walk in on the conversation.  “Actually doesn’t seem too bothered by the Riddler incident.  She’s more anxious about the family knowing.” He pursed his lips and picked up a transmission piece, pretending to examine it.  “Bruce hasn’t said anything or made any attempts as far as she knows.”

Dick sighed and massaged his temples.  “That should surprise me more than it does.” He let out a heavy sigh.  “Last night… dinner didn’t… some things came out that Bruce didn’t know.  Things she had to go through.  He’s beating himself up over it.  Too ashamed to talk to her.”

Roy sighed and shook his head.  Bruce was going to lose her before he even had her at this point.  “That have anything to do with why she’s so unaffected by having been taken captive by one of the most dangerous rogues in Gotham?” Dick’s resigned sigh was enough confirmation for him.  “Fuck,” he grumbled.  “She thinks it’s her fault he doesn’t want to bother with her anymore.”

“Damn it,” Dick grumbled, drawing out the words in frustration.  He ran his hand over his face and collapsed on the stool she had been on earlier.  “Good to know.  Thanks.”

Roy nodded and threw the part back on the workbench.  “How’s Jay doing?”

“He’ll be okay.  Tim got there in time to stop him from going too far, but he’s going to need a few hours, maybe the night to let the Pit Madness recede.  And I think he’s really nervous about showing any part of that to Marinette.”

They both snapped their attention to Marinette when she came back.  “My cheek look better?” she turned her cheek for them to see.  “I mean obviously not the cut.”

“Yeah, you look beautiful.”  Roy assured her and handed her purse to her.  

Dick glared at Roy.  “Could you stop hitting on my sister for five seconds?” he hissed low enough for Marinette not to hear.  He turned to Marinette before Roy could respond.  “Ready to go?  I don’t know about you but I’m hungry.”

Marinette rolled her eyes.  “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Dick walked ahead of her, pretending like he didn’t notice her lag behind. When he was almost out the door, she turned to Roy and gave him a lingering kiss on his cheek.  “Thank you for babysitting me today and for the tour the other day.  I’ve had a lot of fun.”

Roy nodded and handed her his phone with a spot for Fire Flower already started in his contacts.  “If your plans ever get canceled again or you need to hide out or you need to borrow a jacket so you fit in, give me a call, Fire Flower.”

Marinette put her number in and passed it back to him with a grin.  “You have extra you can just loan out?”

Roy grinned back and nodded.  “A few jackets, suit coats, shirts, ties, clean pants, even a few pairs of coveralls, none of which would fit you, but if you ever need them… Or even if you don’t need anything, just want to talk or hang out, let me know.”

“Marinette!  I thought you were ready to go?” Dick yelled.

Marinette shook her head and sighed.  She waved to Roy as she rushed out.  “Thanks again!”

Roy watched her leave until he couldn’t see her anymore.  He let out a deep sigh and collapsed against the workbench. He looked at his phone and quickly sent a text with a smile.

Tags:

@maribat-bdbwm @jayjayspixiepop @redscarlet95 @alice-hazelwood @deathssilentapproach-blog @unoriginalmess @alyssadeliv @emotionalsupportginger @frieddonutsweets @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks @toodaloo-kangaroo @colorfulmongerpsychicranch @iloontjeboontje @wolf-for-life @maribatserver @aespades @prettylittlebutterflie @imarivers8  @ certainmuffinbagelcalzone @ritacrow-blog @unoriginalmess @demonicbusiness @kking13 @lady-bee-fechin @blur-of-colours @kittenmywaythrulife @kashlyn @loysydark

[jessekellywould]

For people who enjoy the Racetrack as Robin AU,( @jitterbug-mai and @happyotpplease I’m looking at you.) :)

The following is a file compiled by Batman about the individual Racetrack Higgins, somethings have been left out for the sake of length or are in editing. Possible trigger warning for just being a vigilante in general:

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

Batcomputer file #07429: Born of fire and water

Vital statistics:

Subject:

Racetrack Higgins

Real Name: [REDACTED] Higgins

Other Aliases: Tyler Wayne, Robin (past), Orphan (past), Nightwalker (current).

Zeta-tub Designation: A47

Species: Human. Caucasian with Italian and Irish ancestry.

Physical Description:

Gender: Male

Hair color: Blond. Black as Tyler.  

Eye color: Blue

Description:

Racetrack is just under average height and has a lean, well-toned build from years of training. His eyes are an electric blue and his hair is light blond curls though when he goes out as Tyler Wayne he dyes it black. When I originally met Racetrack, he was underweight and skinny due to not having enough food to eat while living on the streets; he had limited muscle strength and looked like he had been in his fair share of fights. Nowadays he’s gained weight and muscles and might be just as tall as me one day, but for now, every time I look at him I’ll still see that young boy with a black eye and a toothy smile. 

Personality: [Race is a very gummy-like person - Stephanie. No -Bruce] Usually when other heroes, villains too, meet Racetrack he gives off an air of being childish, snarky, and annoying, most likely to get on their nerves. While I admit he acts like this from time to time, it is hardly the only thing to his personality. The reason I think most people see Racetrack this way is because compared to the rest of the family he is rather jovial and silly usually cracking jokes and keeping the mood light. This doesn’t prevent Racetrack from taking on a more serious and focused attitude towards the circumstances at hand though he still has a long way to go to be completely mature. What’s more is that while you wouldn’t think from his cheery mood that he could become angry or pull off intimidating, but that would be the wrong assumption as I have personally had to pull him off of a man that had insulted Stephanie. <p> Racetrack is also a very determined individual with the right types of know-how to back him up and paired with his never-ending loyalty he is a force to be reckoned with. Another thing that aids him is his friendliness and ability to listen, often being the one many of my kids turn to for comfort. The last side of him I would like to mention is his tactical side that he perfected over hours of playing board and card games that require the tactical eye. He would make a good, even great leader if he ever decided to get out of the house and start his own team. For now, he is content with simple team-ups.                  

Relationships:

Biological Relatives:

Father: Carlo Higgins (deceased)

Mother: Bella Franklin (nee Rossi)

Siblings: (full) Bo, (half) Gretel, Selene, Elisabeth

Others:

Step-father: Warren Franklin  

Uncle: Ricardo Rossi

Aunt: Emma Rossi  

Cousin: Andrew Rossi

Grandfather: James Rossi (deceased)  

Grandmother: Marie Rossi

Grandmother: Jenna Higgins

“Brother”: Thomas Humphrey

+

Legal Guardian: Bruce Wayne

Adopted Relatives:

Siblings:

Dick Grayson

Jason Todd

Tim Drake

Cassandra Cain

Damian Wayne

Duke Thomas

Surrogate Brother:

Jack Kelly  

Others:

Grandfather: Thomas Wayne (deceased)  

Grandmother: Martha Wayne (deceased)  

“Grandfather”: Alfred Pennyworth

Aunts: Kathy Webb-Kane, Gabi Kane (deceased), Kate Kane, Beth Kane (deceased), Diana Prince, Lois Lane.

Uncles: Nathan Kane, Jacob Kane, Clark Kent.

Cousin: Bette Kane.  

Affiliations:

The Batfamily  

Speedy

Fey

Lagoon Boy

Martian Manhunter

Jakeem Williams

Thunderbolt

Jack Kelly’s gang

Spot Conlon’s gang

Smalls Larkin’s gang

The Kent Family

Mentor: Batman

[Further Depth Into Some Of These Relationships Will Come At A Later Date]

Equipment/Abilities/Powers:

Powers:

N/A. Racetrack possesses no known superhuman powers or meta-human gene.

Equipment:

Believe it or not Racetrack designed his own main weapon. Based on a Balisword and the collapsible feature of Tim’s bo staff Racetrack’s weapon is what he likes to call enknives or foldables. These knives possess the ability to slide in and out of their hilt with ease and lock into place acting either as escrima sticks or knives. Their length is 13 inches sheathed and 22 inches unsheathed, they sit inside holsters on Racetrack’s thighs. The inventory of Racetrack’s utility belt includes batarangs, smoke bombs, a grappling hook, earplugs, gas capsules, gas mask, rebreather, small First-Aid Kit, ultrasonic bat-beacon/batcall, hand-cuffs, a  slotted screwdriver, bat-tracers, bat bombs, bat-bolas, bat-blow darts, evidence bags, EMP device, mini drones, and bat listening device. Other devices Racetrack has but are not kept in his utility belt include matches, a comm-link, lock picks, and a flashlight.  

Abilities:

While training to become Robin or another hero under my guidance, my mentees enhance their abilities in speed, endurance, agility, strength, stealth, and reflexes to the point of almost peak human capability, Racetrack is no exception having trained to the point of being at or just over average in all five categories other than strength. Nevertheless, I have to add a note here about his speed: Racetrack may only have a slightly above average speed but he has spent years perfecting the art of running so while you think you might be able to beat him in a sprint you can not, so for the sake of your ego do not challenge him to a foot race. Moving on, Racetrack is strong enough to easily carry one other human his own weight and punch a full-grown man out in one take, so it is easy to say Racetrack is stronger than your average adult which helps to put his martial arts training to good use. Racetrack’s fighting style is very much based around being close up, as his weapon requires this, though through the years Dick has taught him many acrobatic skills, and alongside Damian teaching him sword fighting they have made Racetrack all the more deadly.

[He has also developed a habit of kicking his opponent, so in combat training protect the nuts -Jason. …Yes.]

As with most of my family, he has developed the skill of Multilingualism, being able to speak a total of nine languages, fully he knows English, Italian, Irish and Arabic. Next down the line, or the ones he knows just not as well are Spanish, and Mandarin. Lastly, are the ones he only knows limited conversational which are German, Russian and French. He says he’s planning on learning Polish next. In our family, it is also very common to pick up ASL which he did while taking dance classes with Cassandra. This takes me to my next point, and while Racetrack stopped learning dance a long time ago, he is still skilled in the art. Other abilities Racetrack had to learn and pick up from his years training under me are a genius-level intellect that makes him a master tactician, strategic planner, and able detective and hacker, so while he might not be on Tim or Barbara’s level he can still keep up with most of the family. Having a job at Wayne Tech also means he is a computer technician and mathematician, now I know most kids at Racetracks’ age hate math with a seething passion but much to Thea’s disbelief he actually enjoys math being fairly good at the subject. As per requirement with both me and Gotham Academy Racetrack is also skilled in the subject of literature being familiar with works of literature and many myths such as Sun Tzu's The Art of War, William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, and the Greek myth of Orpheus, to name a few. I do have a feeling that this is mostly Jason’s fault as Racetrack was not that into literature when we first met, but slowly he grew to enjoy it. As required to properly use a Batarang one must develop marksman abilities which Racetrack has done being able to cleanly throw Batarangs and use a firearm. The remaining training Racetrack had to go through as Robin was espionage, and escapology which he is adequate at though being so busy learning other skills these are his weakest. <p> After hours of spending time in the game room with the others, Racetrack has taught himself how to be an expert card, and board game player being able to shuffle cards rapidly and beat me in a simple game of Slapjack. While growing up on the streets Racetrack picked up the ability to play the Harmonica with ease, and the skill of sleight of hand. With the help of Alfred, Racetrack is also an average cook knowing a few recipes and not being banned from the kitchen. After much begging from most of my kids, I am being forced to add this but Racetrack’s imitation of my Batman voice sounds strangely like Alex Brightman’s Beetlejuice voice.

Vehicles:

Motorbike, and Batglider. The motorbike is called the Night Bike and is equipped with tracking, GPS, camouflage, bulletproof window, Auto-pilot, and has wheels built for all types of terrain. The Batglider is a black-colored glider used to stay in the air for long periods of time allowing the user to patrol in the air.  

Robin Suit: Racetrack’s Robin suit has a red torso with green leggings: the pelvis area has heating tech for the winter, and he has black boots. A bright yellow cape accompanies this along with green gauntlet gloves that cover his hands and forearms, a black utility belt, and a black domino mask. On his left pectoral is a Robin symbol identical to the one on Stephanie’s Robin suit. This suit was built to be flexible yet durable. It can withstand a direct bullet shot at the chest but will still provide Racetrack with much mobility. I added elbow and knee pads after Racetrack’s second patrol. <p> The gauntlets contain a Holographic computer including TRS connector cables and a USB port. Racetrack’s domino mask has similar functions as the nano-tech contact lenses, meaning the domino mask can detect heartbeats, show infrared, and provide the wearer with X-ray. It has a sample analyzer, subject identifier, visual recorder, and speech recognition software. When captured on camera it will distort the user's face and provide the wearer with an optical User Interface.

Nightwalker Suit:

Racetrack’s Nightwalker suit has a darker aesthetic ditching the bright yellow cape for a hooded black one that is detachable. His torso is now black with red stripes down the sides and his sleeves are full arm length with black on top and red underneath. His symbol is now a yellow bat made of a semi-metallic material. His leggings are black but his boots are now green and equipped with toe spikes to combat ice. His utility belt is now yellow and equipped with Mini drones, and (as per Racetrack’s request) neon paint packets. Things that were almost taken directly from the Robin suit design include: the knee pads, the heater in the pelvis area, the gloves, and the domino mask yet the latter two have both been upgraded. The gloves now include a taser technique in the fingertips and the following have been added to Racetrack’s domino mask: Telescopic view, Keypad decoder, Vital reader, Language translator, Mini Drone's video feed, and the infrared has been updated to night vision infrared.        

Education:

High School Education. Planning on taking college-level courses in Criminology, Culture Studies, and classes needed to earn a degree in Automotive Engineering.      

History: [For the sake of length History has been left out, and it is still under editing. I might post it later]

Relationships →Advanced: [For the sake of length Relationships/Advanced has been left out, and it is still under editing. I will probably post about this later]

Weakness: Racetrack is only human. He is vulnerable to sickness, age, cold, heat, chemicals, regular weapons, magical attacks, mental attacks, poisons, trauma, injuries, he needs air to breathe, and all other human weaknesses so to defeat him all you’d need to do is overpower him, distract him or put him in a situation he wouldn’t be able to get out of.

Contingency Plan: [As Added And Later Deleted By Tim] The only reason Racetrack is on this list is because 1) I don’t trust him, 2) he’s bonding with Damian, and 3) he doesn’t need us he never did. Taking on Racetrack face-to-face would be dumb, I have more brains and training on him but he has more streets smarts and would stoup to levels I wouldn’t. Racetrack isn’t immune to Scarecrow toxin so my plan to take him out would be to douse him with a blast of Fear Toxin made to cause fear breakdowns, basically being doused with this would cause you to be so overcome with fear that you would essentially freeze in fear. After that, I would dispose of him. If no fear toxin was available my plan would become a whole lot more complicated. First off I would have to lure him into a building rigged with EMPs stopping the use of electronics, and then I’d have to fight him one-on-one with earplugs in so he couldn’t use his words to fight back. Using my knowledge of the layout of the building I’d be able to lead Racetrack into a trap and because he isn’t all that great at escapology he’d be stuck, meaning I’d beat him. Basically a death-trap. There are other ways to defeat him but these are how I would go about it.

---

This took way too long and it’s not even perfected but I just had to put this out there. I hope you enjoyed it and if you have questions about this by all means ask them.

If you’ve reached this point congrats! Also you can breathe okay? You can go get a drink of water, or go outside for some sun. You are valued and people care about you. :)

[dibs4ever]

Young Barbara’s Crush

13-year-old Dick Grayson happily followed behind his Best friend Barbara Gordon as they made their way through her apartment toward her bedroom so they could have a homework session.

He’d been so busy lately with Robin duties he’d hardly gotten to see her. To top it off he had to keep Robin a secret from her which made things even harder to do when he’d unexpectedly cancel on her or made excuses not to hang out after school.

“I’m glad we get to do this.” Dick smiled

Barbara nodded “I know it’s been forever. I swear you have either the stupid ballroom dance classes Bruce is making you take or the Chess team practice every day.”

Dick chuckled “Yeah chess.”

She looked over her shoulder at him oddly but didn’t question anything.

Dick knew Barbara was smart and often wondered if she doubted he had those extracurriculars.

She opened her bedroom door and Dick paused at what was staring back at him from across the room

“Is that-do you have a large poster of Robin on your wall?” He questioned

Barbara flashed him an embarrassed smile “Well I mean it’s not the best picture of him cause he’s in action and it was taken while he was in a mid-fight by a newspaper reporter. That’s what I admire about Batman and Robin yeah know. They fight and leave, they are doing it for the good of the people cause they don’t stick around and talk to the press and do photo ops. Therefore no decent photos of him exist”

Dick nodded “ Why no poster of Batman then?” He asked stepping further into her room. Had it been so long that he’d been to her place that she’d gotten a huge poster of well HIM plastered on her wall above her desk?

Barbara shrugged “Cause I didn’t want Batman.”

He furrowed his eyebrows “Oh...”

She looked up at the poster, it featured Robin doing a high kick in the street of Gotham. An intimidating look on his face. His cape blowing flawlessly, his hair tousled with some strands in his face. It didn’t show who he was fighting and honestly, Dick couldn’t didn't know himself. He fought so.many thugs a week it could be anyone.

She looked over her shoulder at him “Remember when I told you I met them once?”

Dick smiled nodding, remembering that night and how he was so nervous seeing her as Robin. Jim got the wrong idea from his awkward stare and said “Not on your life Boy Wonder” after she had left. Then the next day at school Barbara practically tackled him in the hall with excitement clenching his sore bicep as she told him all about meeting Batman and Robin. She was the one everyone wanted to talk to at school for the next week because so few had seen -let alone gotten a ‘private meeting’ with the duo.

She looked back at the photo and smiled “He has the cutest butt.”

Dick’s eyes widened “What!”

Barbara bit her lip “Okay hear me out I know it sounds weird but I don’t know.” She sighed sitting in her chair

“Babs, I’m your best friend but-“ Dick began

She shook her head “I know -I know I mean maybe it was all these puberty hormones or maybe it was the tights but like when I met him his butt was where my eyes went it’s so....perky. And his swept hair and his eyes-“

Dick chucked “You couldn’t see his eyes”

Barbara rolled her eyes “Touché- I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s cause he’s a bad boy...I mean he’s the opposite of a bad boy cause he fights bad guys but at the same time he’s doing it illegally, then again my dad allows him to....idk he’s got this intimidating, strong, daring level to him.”

Everything she was saying was rushing to Dick “Babs are you- are you saying you have a crush on Robin.”

Barbara smirked “Gee thought I made it pretty clear when I said I was checking out his butt the night I met him”

Dick swallowed -his best friend was checking out his butt....well technically she didn’t know she was but still.

“He’s not that great.” Dick tried to brush off

She smiled “You’re one of a few who think so. Half the school has a crush on him”

Dick coughed “Half?”

She tilted her head from side to side “Well maybe not half. Take the number of people who are attracted to males, that’s about 50%, and then probably about 35 to 40% of them have a crush on Robin,so maybe 35% in all.”

Dick sat on the edge of her bed “Still doesn’t mean he’s that great. I could run circles around him given the chance.”

She laughed “Please, Dick you’re great and all but a Mathlete, chess-playing, ballroom dancing, ward to a billionaire. Vs a Daring, strong, intimidating, though and handsome Vigilante.....pretty obvious Robin is kicking your ass.” Barbara pointed

Dick rose an eyebrow “Believe what you want but one day I’ll prove you wrong Ms.Gordon”

She smirked “Oh yeah? And how do you intend to square up with Robin, Mr.Grayson?”

He shrugged “I have my resources “

“Oh yes and next you’re going to tell me you bench 150lbs “ she stuck her tongue out

Dick chuckled “Actually it’s 135, I’m working my way up to 150” he stuck his tongue back out at her. Acting like he was joking when he was indeed telling the truth. Considering the average bench pressing weight for someone their age was 75lbs his little ‘joke’sounded just like that....a joke. Even though it was the truth. The day Barbara eagerly clung onto his bicep as she eagerly told him about her meeting with Batman and Robin. He not only tried to act shocked but also prayed she wouldn’t notice the large amount of muscles he had

She laughed lightly “come on let’s get to work, our parental’s won’t be too pleased if they come back to find we just joked around instead of doing homework again”

He nodded thankful they conversation was ending “Yeah let’s start with Science.” He reached for his school tablet, as he did couldn’t but help but think - How fun would it be to talk to Barbara about Batman stuff if she knew he was Robin?

[batboyimagines]

Cold-blooded part two [Damian Wayne x Male Reader]

You will want to read the first part of this! And another note, I feel it’s important to say I haven’t actually seen the movie this is loosely based off of? I only know it’s vague plot. So heads up, this will definitely be deviating from that plot!

“So first things first, I’m gonna need supplies for this.” Your dad says.

You, Dad, Robin, and the rest of the Teen Titans have regrouped in the living room. After much planning and replanning, there’s finally a plan.

“I��m going to have to swing by an old flame’s to get some extra muscle for this ritual we’re setting up. It’s not made for a single person to do.”

“My ma?” You ask. Dad makes a constipated look.

“No,” He says, “her name is Zatanna. She’s helped the Justice League before and I’m sure she’d be willing to help them now.”

“Oh, okay.” You say sinking back into the couch, arms crossed. Though you know they’re in danger, you still feel a bit weird about helping them out. It’s a bit ridiculous, only Wonder Woman and Aquaman really have ties to the gods. And Aquaman’s not in any danger, so you don’t have to worry about him.

But you know your Ma, and you know how bitter she is over what they did to her. Which is totally fair. It’s just that you’re not sure how she’d feel about you saving one of the god’s pet projects.

“... and that’s that. So, when do we need to leave?” Your dad finishes. Oh shoot, you spaced.

“It would be best if we went right now.” Nightwing replies. He pushes off the wall and his team follows suit, readying to depart. Your dad turns to you.

“Listen, bud, do you think you’ll be fine holding down the fort while I’m gone?” He asks. You hesitate.

“Uh, actually, I was wonder if... I dunno, I could come along?” Your dad reels a bit.

“Kiddo, this isn’t a safe ‘Bring your kid to work’ deal, this is dangerous. You could get hurt.”

“I know, but I feel weird hanging out here while you’re not around. And I’m a bit worried that some rando could come to the door and I won’t know what to do. Also I’m an all magic half snake being with unknown powers sooo.” 

Your dad thins his lips, looking thoughtful.

“Really, Dad, I’ll be fine. I’ll stick out of the action and whatnot and if I think I’m in any danger I’ll run as far as possible.” You plead. “I’ll have my phone with me? I know how to call now.”

“... alright. But you stay out of trouble.” He relents. You push to your feet with a grin and go to get your coat.

Under your breath, you hiss, “Hell yesss.”

The great thing about living with a magic user is that they have the best modes of transport. In your somewhat short life, you yourself haven’t traveled very much. When your mother is exiled and has no way of getting off her small prison of an island, you tend to not go anywhere. 

Being passed between your Ma and your Pa is a pretty recent development. This is the most traveling you’ve done in your entire life, and the option to go to different places is still a marvel to you. Really, the average person can just walk down a street, hop on a train, and go to an entirely new place, no fuss? What a concept.

An exciting, and sort of terrifying, concept.

“I’ve got a short cut to hers down in that alley,” Your father explains, leading you and the Titans through the empty streets, “though I try not to use it much.”

“Why not?” You ask from his side, shivering a little and shrinking into your coat. Though you’re thankful that early mornings mean that only the occasional jogger is awake, they are unfortunately very cold. And you are part snake. With cold blood.

“We didn’t exactly part on good terms.” 

“Are you sure she’ll help us?” Koriander asks.

“Oh she will, she’s not my biggest fan, but she wouldn’t leave you lot to the wolves just because she doesn’t like me.” He finally comes to a stop in front of the alley. You, more focused on not letting your teeth chatter, bump into his back. 

“This is it right?” You say, muffled into the collar of your coat. Man, you wish you brought a scarf. 

“Sure is.”

The alley is a dead end, entirely ordinary and bland. There’s not even a dumpster shoved against one of its grimy brick walls. 

But your father walks in, as if it leads somewhere, and you and the Titans follow. As you approach the bricked end, you expect your father to do, well, something to open the wall or whatever. But no, he just walks straight through the bricks.

You blink a bit. Since you’ve come to the modern world, you’ve been getting into video games. Shitty, old video games that your Pa bought from a thrift shop in panic before you had arrived for the first time. And your father walking through the bricks sort of reminds you of when you clip through walls.

Even so, you don’t want to be left behind. So even though that looked really weird, you walk through too.

The other side is much darker, and much, much grimier. And the air is stuffier. Your eyes water and you hack a bit.

“You alright there bud?” Your Pa asks in concern, laying a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“The air here sucks!” You wheeze, blinking  tears from your sensitive eyes. 

“I agree.” Robin grumbles from your side. Looks like the Titans made it through fine as well. Your father raises an eyebrow.

“This is your city, isn’t it?” He asks. His city? 

“Just because I protect this wretched place, does not mean I enjoy breathing it’s polluted air.” Robin gripes. Nightwing makes an amused face at that. 

“Whatever,” Pa shrugs, “Zatanna’s down this way.”

Down that way, a quaint, hole in the wall magic shop glows. Back home with Ma, your light sources are either the sun, fire, or a magical doodad that somehow wound up in your possession. So no matter how many times you see light bulbs or neon lights, you don’t think the marvel will ever wear off.

The door rings a cheery jingle as your Pa pushes it open and you hit a wall of hot air when you enter. You revel in its heat. Living with cold blood is such a drag. Sometimes you miss the warm beaches of your mothers prison, though the nights leave warmth to be desired. 

After soaking in the warm air, you take a moment to survey the inside. It’s... a bit cluttered. And dusty. For some reason, magical items are always old and it seems like old things are always a little dirty. 

You brush a finger on one of the wooden tables displaying merchandise, yep, that’s some dusty stuff alright. You stick your tongue out. It smells dusty too. And like books and perfume. Flowery perfume. You hate flowery perfume. You tuck your tongue back in your mouth and grimace. 

It’s one of the worse human inventions. One time Dad came home from what you gathered was some sort of fling, stinking like someone’s nasty perfume. Though you sort of feel guilty for it now, you couldn’t stick around in his presence for more than two minutes. 

“Zatanna! You in?” Your father calls out into the maze of tall shelves. If you’re not imagining it, he’s making his voice just that bit more obnoxious. 

Robin looks at you and catches your eye. He makes a face at your father’s behavior that has you stifling a snort.

“Zataaaaannaaaaaaa, aaaare yoooou heeeeereeee?”

Wow, he’s laying the annoying on thick.

“Zataaaaaa-“

“Yes! Oh my god, I’m here!” A dark haired woman gripes as she appears through the shelves.

“Zatanna! My good friend,” your father grins, “how’ve you been?”

“Great, until you waltzed back into my life.” She says flatly.

“Good, good, anyways,” you zone out at your father says things. 

You’re distracted by the displays of magical items that you’re not totally sure are real. There’s not doubt in your mind that this Zatanna lady is a magic user, she totally is, but would she actually sell magic items? That stuff is no joke, your Ma’s told you plenty of horror stories about magic gone wrong. And you fell asleep in the middle of half of those!

“See something you like?” Oh shoot, she’s talking to you.

“Uhhh,” fuck, how do you respond? Well, there’s nothing catching your eye you guess, “uhm.. no?”

“It’s just that you seem so interested in the display,” she says amusedly gesturing towards the general space you just staring at.

“Well, I was just wondering if any of this stuff is real, cause, magic stuffs... dangerous usually.” 

“I have real items, but I keep those in the back. This stuff is for the common folk.” 

“Oh cool.”

“So,” Zatanna turns back to the others. You take that as a sign to go back to spacing out. 

Heaters are awesome. They’re the best invention of the modern world, in your humble opinion. All the hot air is coming from a vent in the wall next to you. You scooch in front of it. Hot airrr, hell yeahhh. This rocks. You could stand right here for hours.

“C’mon kiddo, we’re off.” 

GOD. DAMN IT.

Dejectedly, you trudge to the open door, where your Pa awaits. Ugh, that chilly breeze is not welcoming. 

[yellowocaballero]

hi i know it's been the hottest of seconds but director's cut for the prophetic spring if you're still doing these? 👀

Sure! I’ve spoken a lot about the prophetic spring, but I’m fairly certain I could give some meta information about my intense life-long obsession with Tim Drake. Dude has been showing up in my fics since I was 14.

But actually, the ficlet I wrote ages ago might be more interesting? So here it is. Exploring a dynamic that was WAY underserved for how important it is: the Steph, Cass, Tim dynamic!

No CW that haven’t appeared in the prophetic spring, but specific mention for drug addiction and drug depiction, as well as references to molestation, abortion, torture, and suicide. Story under the cut. 

Tim stared down into the toilet bowl. It was a little yellowed. He needed to clean it. 

He stared at the small baggie of pills in his hand. 

He visualized dropping it into the bowl, flushing it. Possibly mutating an alligator, or giving the race of mole people that lived in the Gotham sewers a nice surprise. 

Tim sighed, and pocketed the drugs. Maybe tomorrow. 

**

A month after the incident with a runaway foster kid and a, in retrospect, kind of embarrassing fake fight with his older brother, Tim got a text from an unknown number. To make matters worse, it was at an insane hour of the day - noon. 

Texts from strangers were hardly uncommon. Tim had an extensive contact network, growing larger by the day, but he had set up a Google Voice on his computer so they were all routed through a program there. Being bothered at all hours of the day on his phone was hardly his idea of a good time. The only people who really had his real number were his bullshit ‘friends’ and his asshole ‘family’. He hadn’t even given his number to his ‘friends’ - he had given it to Kon under strict confidentiality, and then Kon had given it to all of Young Justice. Asshole. 

405-555-1998: dropping by in three hours so make sure ur presentable :)

As Tim had just woken up, most of his brain was occupied by a single whuh? 

Just as his mind swirled in sleepy confusion, his phone buzzed again.

405-555-1998: B1706XQE45

The code checked out. It was an ally, not an unknown or an enemy. 

Tim groaned, covering his eyes with an elbow. He needed coffee.

****

The coffee was a new thing - rather, it was something he had drunk plenty of growing up, because there had been nobody around to inform him that coffee was bad for developing brains. Growing up completely unsupervised was probably why Tim was a drug addict now. He could totally blame this on his parents never loving him. 

Not a drug addict, Tim thought to himself anxiously as the coffee sputtered into the extra large gallon pot. Just someone who...uses drugs...in an unhealthy way. Substance abu - substance user, who just used it maybe as a bad coping mechanism. Not that Tim had good coping mechanisms, but it was better than sawing off heads or becoming a drug lord. When you thought about it, it was either being a serial killer or doing drugs, so logically it means that he should do more drugs to decrease the amount of fun little murders he does -

Tim made toast.

The coffee was a new thing, because he was trying to use it to replace the drugs. He had cut back. The stupid little sorority that called themselves the Birds of Prey had been talking to him about it. He had agreed to try. It was best to set expectations low, so he couldn’t disappoint. Actually, Tim loved disappointing, maybe he should set them higher. Maybe he could make inspirational speeches about how he was a good guy now? Ha ha. 

The three hours had been a deft move. The texter knew noon was his average wake-up time at best, and the three hours gave him enough time to sober up if he had been high or drunk at the time. Tim didn’t like to start popping the minute he woke up, but - well, sometimes he did. Or sometimes he was awake at noon because he had been on an all-nighter drug binge. They hadn’t given their name, either, which meant that it was somebody who he wouldn’t want to see. 

He could bounce, escape to some corner of Gotham until they gave up. Except he had the sense that whoever had gone through the effort to get his number wasn’t the type to give up. Almost nobody Tim knew was the type to give up. His ‘friends’ and his ‘family’ never gave up. On anybody but him. 

A voice in his head, not quite yet suffocated, sounding altogether too much like the Replacement, echoed in endless attempts to get him to come back. Oh, whatever. Kid was a try-hard. He needed better taste in made up families. 

Over the next three hours, he debated his tactics. If he wasn’t escaping and the texter was playing the buddy card, then the situation probably wasn’t dangerous. He strapped in his armor under the baggy pyjamas that he never took off anyway, and spitefully made no effort to control his hair. He did put on make-up, an old hand from keeping CPS off Bruce’s trail - man, he should have pretended Bruce was molesting him, that would have been funny as fuck - to hide the bags under his eyes. No use looking pathetic. 

He hid a few more weapons around his apartment. He anxiously checked his phone, staring not at the new texts but at Harley’s offer sent a week ago. He still hadn’t replied. He didn’t know what to do with it. 

As if he could ever feel safe sleeping under the same roof as her?

As if he ever felt safe anywhere?

Maybe he had nothing to lose. That was the greatest part about this, the most wonderful aspect of what he had done to everybody in his life. When you have nothing, you have nothing to lose. That’s freedom, or so Janis had always told him. She knew what she was about. Overdosing on heroin at 27 - that was understanding what it meant, to have nothing. To be free.  He was almost jealous. 

At two on the dot, a polite knock echoed through the apartment. Tim looked up from where he was relaxing on the couch, with all of the possible entry points in his line of sight. That wasn’t a knock he had memorized, and he had memorized everyone’s knocks. 

Nothing for it. He’d have to get rid of them as quickly as possible. Maybe he can pull the insane sociopath schtick again; that had always been effective in ditching his parents. Tim sighed, walked over to the door, swiped his thumb against the keypad, undid the three deadbolts, and opened door only to see - 

Stephanie Brown, hands propped on her hips and smiling widely. Cassandra Wayne, standing right behind her, serene as ever. 

Tim closed the door - or he tried. Steph had expected the move, and the minute he had opened the door her foot had jutted out and blocked him from closing the door. Effortlessly, she wrenched it back open and stepped into his apartment, forcing him to press against the wall and scowl as insane women infiltrated his space. 

“Wow,” Steph said loudly, “this place looks like a wreck!”

Tim groaned. 

***

The thing with Steph and Cass was this:

How to describe it?

The sister he had never expected, the best friend he had never thought he would have. Cass was his twin, Robin’s shadow, the other side of his mountain. Bruce had adopted Cass barely five months after he became Robin, and Tim had unabashedly resented her for stealing Bruce’s attention so quickly. He had always liked her more, but Bruce had liked everyone more than Tim, so maybe it was no surprise. She was sweet, kind, gentle, and no trouble. Tim wasn’t any trouble either, but he couldn’t be the rest of it if it bit him in his ass. 

Robin was the brain. Cass was the muscle. They were a team so closely linked, conjoined at the hip, that Tim couldn’t remember a patrol ever done without her. Bruce had let them start patrolling alone at fourteen (“You didn’t let me work alone until I was fifteen, and I was an assassin,” Damian had spat), and they had been an unbeatable team. Robin’s hand-to-hand was weak, but nobody ever got through Batgirl. Batgirl struggled with technical knowledge, reading and writing and investigating and chasing down leads, the only area where Tim had ever excelled. Together, they had almost been as good as Batman. Sometimes, Tim had let himself think that they might be better.

They had been so similar. Everyone had always said so. They’re both so quiet, the Justice League had said. Emotionless little freaks, the Rogues had said. Neither of them blink, their schoolmates had said. But there had been nothing to say, not between them: they could have a conversation without words, without even Sign. Cass had known every twitch of Tim’s body, had understood him down to his core. Nobody else ever had. Everybody had always called Tim inscrutable and impossible to understand - but to Cass, Tim had been an open book. She knew every inch of him. And she had loved him anyway. 

And Steph! When Steph had found them when they were fourteen veering on fifteen, and from then on it was as if she had always been there. She was so big, so smiling, so much, and she had never apologized for any of it. Nothing scared her. To Tim, that was the perfect vigilante - somebody who was scared of nothing, who never hesitated, who was good. 

Not even Bruce could intimidate her. When Tim was fourteen, he had thought that was the most amazing thing in the world. Bruce intimidated everyone, but Steph had just stuck out her tongue and kept badly backflipping off roofs anyway. Through twin convincing, Tim and Cass had convinced Bruce to give her a chance, and Spoiler had slot into their dynamic perfectly. She was their best friend, always. 

She wasn’t good at hand-to-hand at first, but Tim had improved by then, and they could cover her. She improved faster than he had, and judging from the reconnaissance footage Tim had frantically consumed after he came back to life, she was amazing now. She was wickedly smart, practical and down to Earth. If Tim was better at hacking into a computer, Steph was the one who found the post-it note with the password stuck under the desk. 

But more than any of that, she had brought the social skills. She had brought the calming presence, the sweet hand to victims and civilians, and her good humor was infectious. Steph was good with people. She was a born leader. Resilient. Brave. Everybody liked her. Everybody loved her. Tim had. She had loved him too. She could have done so much better than Tim and Cass, weird little societal rejects, but she had chosen them as her family. 

It had been the three of them. For as long as Tim’s life had meaning, for as long as he had been loved, they had loved him. Tim had grown up alone, in a world of one, and they had infiltrated it. They had expanded it, and they dragged his life into more than just Tim. Into Tim-and-Cass-and-Steph. Into Robin-Batgirl-Spoiler. Into meaning, and love. 

Tim hated them. And he wanted them to suffer. 

“That’s the Stephanie Brown I remember,” Tim sneered, closing the door behind him. Steph had quickly thrown herself onto Tim’s couch, clearly somewhat surprised at how comfortable it was, and Cass had  perched daintily on the arm. Cass had always refused to sit like a normal person - she would rather sit on the backs of sofas, or on the arm, or perched on chairs like a bird - “If I had known you were coming I would have jumped cities.”

“We would have chased you down and you know that,” Steph said cheerfully, like she said fucking everything. “Besides, if you had known we were coming you would have gone into witness protection. You’ve been avoiding the fuck outta us.”

“Wonder why,” Tim said, injecting as much mean-spirited sarcasm into his voice as possible. “I need more coffee, don’t go through my shit.”

The apartment was small, and the kitchen had a cut-away wall where he could see through into the living room. Stephanie hated nothing more than being ignored or looked down upon, and if he dismissed her and didn’t react then she’d grow infuriated with him and leave. He couldn’t fight with her, because if it came down to a battle of rhetoric or emotions she’d win single-handedly. She was so good with words. Cass...had no weaknesses. 

Which was inconvenient, because it was Cass he absolutely had to get rid of as soon as possible. She was very emotional, and more than a little sensitive. Especially to rejection. If he was cruel enough to her, she’d start crying and leave. There was only one problem with that. 

As he jammed more grounds into the machine he watched the girls out of the corner of his eye. They weren’t talking or whispering to each other, both fully aware of how well Tim could read lips. They weren’t even having one of those body language conversations they could only have with each other, aware that Tim could crack that too. Instead Stephanie was casually sprawled on his couch, looking for all the world like a middle aged dad watching the football game, looking around the room. Cass, as usual, was zoning out. Or, of course, looked like she was zoning out - Tim could tell that she was waiting for something to happen, and was preparing herself for it. 

Shit. Tim fought the urge to gnaw on his fingernail. Cass was going to be a problem. 

He risked another glance backwards. She could see him, so she knew. Fuck. He had never been on the other side of her mind reading. It was fucking inconvenient. Psychics should be shot on sight. 

The coffee sloshed into the biggest cup he could find in his kitchen, and Tim began draining it immediately as he leaned over the cutaway. He kept the cup held up to his face, obscuring it. Face covered, everything under the elbows covered - best he could do without preparation. 

“This little field trip sanctified by Sgt. Brother?” Tim asked, sipping the scalding hot coffee. Not hot enough. He needed - he needed - they’d see -

“We’re nineteen, we don’t need his permission for everything we do,” Steph said, amused. So she was going to speak for Cass - hardly unusual, as whenever they were all together Steph tended to be the only one who spoke - but seeing as Tim was Tim then it was definitely a strategy. 

“He lets his precious baby sisters knock on the door of drug lords for fun?” Tim sneered. 

“If they’re incompetent and retired, sure!”

Tim gritted his teeth. Don’t rise to her bait. Don’t. She was the best person in the family at getting a rise out of their enemies. He didn’t stand a chance. 

“What do you want?”

“We thought we’d take you roller skating at the rink,” Steph chirped. 

Tim stared at her. 

“Or the pool,” Steph said, faux-thoughtfully. “Or just the mall?”

Fuck this. Tim headed for the door, ready to walk out of the building barefoot in his pyjamas. He tugged at the doorknob, only to find that it wouldn’t open. 

Tim breathed in through his nose, then out through his mouth. There were other exits. He was not trapped. Had his apartment always been so small? He could have sworn that it was bigger. 

He turned around slowly. Stephanie was grinning at him, twirling what looked like a small plastic cylinder. Tim recognized it instantly - fancy League tech. Overrides all electronic locks and controls them. They all used it to trap perps and heighten their fear tactics. Tim jammed his thumb on the keypad. Nothing happened. 

Cass glanced at Steph, and made a small motion. Tim couldn’t interpret it. Why couldn’t he interpret it? Did they have a new code? It was Cass. When nobody else had understood her, Tim always had. Now they had their own language, one that Tim couldn’t interpret anymore. Tim was lost in translation, always drifting. 

“We aren’t bringing you in,” Steph said, just as light as ever. No trace of pity or caution or gentleness in her voice: just relentless cheer. “Literally all we want to do is talk. Play a board game, maybe?”

 Tim’s eyes flickered to the hidden panel in the wall next to him where he had stashed a gun and a sword. 

“Bro,” Steph said, “you really don’t want to escalate this.”

“Do you think you can take me?” Tim asked curiously, letting his hand drift to his arm. He shook his long pyjama sleeve down to cover his wrist. “That’s pretty cute. Last time I checked, you’re the shittiest at hand-to-hand in your team.”

But Steph just rolled her eyes. Shit, wasn’t he supposed to be ignoring her? He couldn’t, not so long as she kept pushing and pushing. Not so long as she was in his house. “Leave off. Just because Jay and I are the last people in the fam who weren’t trained in Mystical Ninja Arts doesn’t mean I’m incompetent. Hands in the air, by the way.”

Stephanie was overly sentimental. New tactic. He raised his hands slightly in the air, caught reaching for the weapon hidden in his armor. “Incompetent enough to let me die.”

There. Finally. Thank god, Tim thought he was losing his touch. The muscles clenched in Stephanie’s jaw, and just a twitch of her eye - banishing a bad memory. “Everybody’s been saying you’ve turned rude. I guess you’ve just been avoiding us because you don’t want to hurt our feelings, right?”

“I didn’t remember a lot when I was first resurrected,” Tim said casually, despite the fact that he had never told anybody about the first awful six months. Something about Steph and Cass just pried it out of him, like invasive surgery. Or an autopsy. “I remember everything about those six months, though. Homeless. Practically retarded. Brain damage does that to you, you know. I lived on the streets, did you know that? It was a miracle I lived through it.” He gasped, as if he was remembering something. “I slept on 34th street! You lived near there, didn’t you? Maybe you even walked by me.”

Steph went white. Cass’ expression froze. He was pushing hard, but these two wouldn’t react to anything less. Steph could trade barbs better than he could, even now. 

“It’s a good thing Talia found me,” Tim continued. “She was the only one who cared.”

That did it. Steph tensed, leaning forward, and even Cass stiffened. “Is that what she told you? How can you believe her?”

Tim just shrugged, walking back to the kitchen and hiding his body language again. He took an extra loud slurp of the coffee, just to be annoying. “Talia never lied to me. She said that nobody cared enough to save me. And guess what!”

Steph’s jaw clenched again. She was a hot head. A fierce temper, an impulsive girl who jumped in feet first and sanity second. Woman, now. When had that happened? “Cut that shit out. We all know what you’re doing. You’ve been doing it to everyone. Did you think Connor didn’t warn us?”

Snitch. Tim slurped his coffee again. “Connor’s been telling everyone to give me space.”

“Yeah, everyone but us.” She stood up now, ignoring the flicker of a frown on Cass’ face, and folded her arms. A challenge against the world. Against Tim. It didn’t matter. “You don’t believe half the shit you’re spewing. You’ve never believed your own bullshit, Tim. You’re just saying it to drive everybody away. It’s not going to work on us.”

“Why?” Tim asked innocently. “You’re too thick?”

“Because we love you!” Steph cried. Tim rolled his eyes. As if he hadn’t heard that one before. “Saving Richie proved it, you aren’t as insane as you keep pretending you are. You know what you’re doing is wrong, you just don’t care.”

“Wow, you caught me.” Tim took another long swig of his coffee. It was making his hands jittery. Good. “Local genius aware of his actions. Call the press. Call Uncle Clark, he needs a scoop.” He arched an eyebrow at Steph. She hated that expression of his - she had always found it so aristocratic and pretentious. Joke’s on her, he was pretentious. “Do you mind if I go do a line? I’m not high enough for this conversation.”

If she had told him who she was, he would have done a line anyway just to spite her, and she knew it. “You don’t want to try,” Steph said stubbornly, “but you’re trying. You don’t want to care, but you care. You don’t want to feel it, but it hurts so much you can’t bear it. You can’t get anything past us, Tim. It’s always just been us. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Doesn’t that mean -

“What that means,” Tim said, and he found the words scraping his throat. He found himself talking a little louder than he meant to. The coffee, you know. Made you jittery. “is that you should have saved me. If you loved me so fucking much, you would have been anything other than useless. You’ve always been the most useless girl in the world, Steph. You couldn’t save your crook of a dad or your junkie of a mom. You couldn’t save your baby and you couldn’t save me. You’re ghetto trash putting on airs, and everyone can smell it on you.”

As soon as he said it, he tensed. He shifted his stance, ready to throw the coffee and spill the scalding liquid on her. Obscure her vision. It would take a second for her to vault the cover, so he could duck down. From there he could get the gun, shoot the window, jump out the window. She couldn’t win. Tim had the most powerful weapon in the world in his disposal and that was his infinite, burning hate. His hate for Steph and Cass burned him to the ground, and his world with it, and he was going to burn them to cinders because he couldn’t do anything else. 

But Steph didn’t move. Cass got off the sofa. She walked up to Steph, and gently pressed a hand on her shoulder. She squeezed. Steph exhaled, long and shaking, and nodded at Cass. She walked into Tim’s bedroom - hey! - and shut the door. 

Then Cass stared at Tim, and there was no more need for words. Not between them. 

Tim vaulted the cut away wall, aiming for her feet first. Cass didn’t dodge - that would imply that she moved like an object moved. She moved like water moved - swift and supple, with such infinite grace and precision that it was like she wasn’t human at all. 

But he had gotten better. He didn’t spend two and half years trained by the League of Assassins in crochet. Tim lashed out with a foot, she dodged again. He threw a punch, she moved. He feinted, clearly leaving her an opening, and she didn’t take it. 

Bitch. 

Cass shoved away his coffee table, sending it skidding across the floor and opening the floor space. The rug became their arena, tight and intimate, no room for maneuverability. Tim acted and she reacted, Tim lashed out a sweep kick and she jumped over it, Tim tried to grapple and she broke his hold. She never threw him to the ground, never pinned him. She just moved. 

She was good, but not good enough to toy with him and win completely. The way to win against Cass was to leverage your height - Tim was taller than he once was, although that wasn’t saying much - weight, and strength against her. A couple good hits and she was down. 

The issue, of course, was hitting her. 

He got a hit in. It was much easier when she wasn’t even fighting back. She rolled with it effortlessly, taking the impact to gain a little space between them. She breathed deeply, sweat rolling down her neck. Tim used to take a cold compress and press it to that neck. She used to smile at him. Thank you. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Cass said. 

“Too bad,” Tim said. 

Fights weren’t like in television, long and choreographed extended scenes to entertain and thrill. When Ro - Tim was in a fight, a real fight, it was typically finished in less than a minute. The only way that a match can get long is if the other person was deliberately tiring you out - a risky strategy - or if you were of completely equal strengths with similar fighting styles. Or if it was a spar. 

As Tim tried to hit her again and again, he realized that it was a spar. 

No, not even that. It was a conversation. 

Tim grabbed her wrist, and said: I want you to hurt. Cass broke the hold, telling him that he can’t. Tim leveraged the motion and kneed her in the back, telling her that the only goal of this fight was pain. Cass let the impact take her down to the mat, an incredibly disadvantageous position, but rolled out of the way just as Tim tried to exploit the opportunity. I’m not scared of you. Tim hit again, and again, and again, failing every time. I want you gone, Tim said, and this is the only way I know how to do it. 

This is what Tim said: as much as I once loved you, I now hate you. The infinite depths of my love, my twin sister, how we moved in perfect sync. I hate it all. As much as I cared, I now hate. Feel this hate. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Cass said. 

They moved in perfect sync, even now. Cass couldn’t predict his movements before he made them, like she used to - his training was different now, developed and refined. But Cass knew the League of Assassins too, had been trained by them just as he had, and they were written into her bones when they were only carved into Tim’s. After his third patented Talia move, she adjusted to fit his style, and their fight metamorphosed into more of a dance. Like they used to. 

“Why not!” Tim screamed, the stupidest possible thing to do in a fight, but Cass didn’t take advantage of his exhale. He lashed out a fist to cover the opening, but it was lazy and over-extended, and she dodged easily. “I’m going to kill you!”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Tim desperately tried to call the green to his vision. It was so easy. All he had to do was tap into that rage. Talia had called it blood lust. Said it was normal, even good. But it wouldn’t come. Where was it? It was his only friend. 

Desperately, Tim went in for another punch to the face - Cass’ jaw was the weakest part of her body, an old injury - but he over-extended again, and this time Cass took the opportunity. She grabbed his arm and pulled him forward, dropping him to the mat. She didn’t try to twist him around, instead landing him on his back. Bad move for her. 

She kneed him in the chest, putting her full hundred and thirty pounds on him. She twisted his hands behind his back, pinning him, and Tim could do barely more than wheeze. 

He looked at her in the eyes for the first time. They were infuriatingly calm. Her hair was tangled and clumped with sweat, but she wasn’t breathing hard. Her expression was placid and serene, as if she was watching one of her stupid fucking nature documentaries instead of pinning her brother to a hard and scratchy rug in a shithole apartment, three years after he was tortured to insanity and shot himself in the head. 

So much time had passed. So much had happened, nasty and festering and putrid, and Tim had let it happen. He had made it happen. There was a rot in Tim, and it had eaten him up until there was nothing inside. If you cut him open, would it spill out? Would it infect her, infect Steph? Could he make them suffer?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Cass repeated. “So don’t be scared.”

“Scared?! I’m not fucking -” Tim wheezed, cut off by the lack of air as Cass pressed down. 

“I’m sorry you’re scared. I didn’t mean to leave you alone. But I did. I’m sorry.”

“I’m going to kill -”

Cass pressed down on his chest again, cutting him off. She had finally done the one thing nobody in Tim’s life had ever figured out: how to make him shut up. “You can be as mean to me as you want. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll stay.”

Tim wheezed. In that, maybe, Cass heard something, because she continued as if he had spoken. Or maybe she just wanted the chance to talk. It had been stolen from her for thirteen years, and it was valuable to her. 

“You do not have to be kind. You do not have to hug me, even if I want you to. You do not have to be my brother. I know it hurts too much. But you are me. I am you. You do not even have to try for that. I do not have to give it to you. You have it.”

Tim couldn’t help it. He cried a little, and then he couldn’t stop. 

Cass got off him, but she kept her promise. She didn’t hug him. She just propped him up against the sofa, holding his hand, and didn’t speak. At some point the door creaked, and he felt Stephanie next to him. 

This is why, Tim thought hysterically, he had been avoiding them.

He knew this would happen. There was no hiding from Cass. There was no posturing, no pretending. She didn’t want anything from him. She never had. There was nothing he could say that would drive her away, because Cass did not listen to the words people spoke. She spoke only for clarity, when she could not afford for her words to be misconstrued, and for the comfort of others. 

Cass knew that he had been lying out of his ass. Cass knew that he wasn’t as insane as he pretended, as cruel as he wanted to be. 

He couldn’t make Cass hate him. Shit. 

None of them said anything. Nothing needed to be said, not between the three of them. Cass might be having a silent conversation in Sign with Steph, but he didn’t care enough to open his eyes and look. When they had first met, it used to make Steph so mad that Tim and Cass were having ‘secret conversations’. She had poured over her dictionaries, learning as quickly as physically possible so she could keep up. Everything Steph had, she had worked hard for. 

Steph was in college now. Premed. She wanted to be an ER doctor. Steph wasn’t a genius, she had to study hard. She wouldn’t be able to superhero in med school, so she was ready to hang up her cape for a few years until she achieved her dream. Steph said that she could do just as much good as a doctor as a superhero. She hadn’t always wanted it. When they were kids and Bruce used to ask her what she wanted to do when she grew up, in his awkward faux-dad way, she had always shrugged and said that she might be a nurse. 

“Why not med school?” Bruce had suggested, between sleepy spoonfuls of oatmeal. She used to spend more nights at their place than at her own. Her mom hadn’t noticed. 

Steph had just shrugged awkwardly, nibbling her whole-wheat organic toast that she would stare at suspiciously. Rich people, she would say, sighing. “I would never be able to afford it. And no way I’m smart enough.”

“You’re good enough,” Bruce said, which was the closest he ever came to praising somebody. “I’ll pay for it.”

Steph had gaped. Cass had eaten her Lucky Charms smugly. Tim had rolled his eyes. “An in-the-know doctor for the vigilante community would be invaluable,” he had informed her, pretentious and callous. “We could use you.”

“You deserve it,” Cass had signed. 

“You have a bright future, Stephanie,” Bruce said, buckling under the panic of being a responsible adult. “I would hate to see you waste it.”

He would hate to see any of them waste their future. He had hated to see what Tim had become. He knew that. The last time he had ever seen Bruce, it was just to disappoint him. Bruce was the only parent he had ever had, and his standards were so sky high it was impossible to do anything other than disappoint. 

The fact of the matter was this: he loved Cass and Steph more than he loved Bruce. He could hate Bruce. He could hate himself. But Cass and Steph…

Bruce had ear-marked a lot of money for Steph, both for whatever continuing education she chose and for her future. It had raised a lot of questions among the lawyer team, but ultimately she had been written off as another of his strays. Tim had left her a lot of money too. There probably wasn’t any point: when she married Cass she’d have equal access to the fortune. Rich people, Stephanie used to whisper in awe, looking at organic toast. 

Cass was majoring in dance. She wanted to be a ballerina. 

Tim’s future...Tim’s future…

“Or we can watch a nature documentary,” Steph said out loud. “If we all promise not to say a fucking word.”

Incredibly, unmistakably, irrevocably, Tim groaned. “Not the fucking bee one again.”

“I like the bees,” Cass said serenely. 

“If you aren’t going to get out of my house can I at least smoke up?” Tim asked miserably. 

“I brought gummy bears,” Steph said, chipper as ever, “which are way better.”

“I’m going to the fucking bathroom,” Tim grumbled, which everybody knew was as good as a yes. 

“If you take anything I’ll know,” Cass said serenely, and also threatened. 

“Fuck you, bitch.”

Steph and Cass high-fived, and Tim sulked angrily to the bathroom. He took a second to look at himself in the mirror - looking for Tim Drake, failing, as always - before opening it and grabbing his baggie of pills. 

He looked at it. He looked at the toilet. He looked at the baggie. 

He didn’t flush them. He put them back in the medicine cabinet. Tomorrow. He’ll do them tomorrow. Not today. He can hold out for 24 hours. It’ll be fine. 

For a wild, stupid, insane second, Tim wondered if he could say that tomorrow too. If tomorrow he would look at them and say: maybe tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that…

If there was a future, for a fuck-up like him. 

The faint strains of Cass’ stupid fucking bee documentary began playing through the thin walls of his shitty little apartment, and Tim turned out the lights of his bathroom and closed the door, locking it securely behind him. 

[batarella]

The Commander - Part 8 (Arkham Knight x Reader)

We finally know the Commander’s history! Leave a comment and tell me what you think!

WORDS: 3165 WARNINGS: VIOLENCE. ANGST. WEW.

Masterlist

THE COMMANDER - MASTERLIST

-----

Breathe in. Breathe out.

One thousand yards.  Only a hundred yards further than the last one. This should be the farthest she’ll hit. If she actually does hit it. There were a number of birds flying over the trees standing above them. She wanted to hit them instead, but they weren’t far enough.

She only barely hit nine hundred yards yesterday. Once out of the thirty times she tried over and over again. A thousand will have to take the whole of her senses away. If only she could block out her own sense of touch, that would be great. She didn’t need them when firing a sniper.

And there was tall grass in her optics as well. Some yellow, some green, and they waved around with the wind. The target was already small as it is. She could barely see it with all these plants in the way.

She squared her shoulders, placed her good eye on the scope and breathed. She pulled the trigger and felt the sharp recoil on her shoulder.

She’d learned to ignore the ringing that came after it.

After a minute, Uncle placed a hand on her other shoulder, and her stomach sank. That wasn’t good. With binoculars on his other hand, he murmured. “A bit off to the left. Again.”

Young Y/N bit her gum. She was hungry. But there was no getting anywhere if she kept doing it like this. She quickly reloaded the rifle and placed her elbow on top of her folded knee, with the other one flat on the ground.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

The recoil felt just a tad bit more painful. Y/N looked into the scope and still, the bullet hole hit slightly to the right.

“What’s going on?” Uncle asked her. He wasn’t mad. This was her first time at a thousand yards.

“I think it’s the wind.”

“You can't work around the wind. If you keep crying about how it ruins your shots, you’ll never hit the center.”

“I know.”

“Again.” He folded his arms in front of his chest.

Breathe. Keep breathing.

And she did it. Over and over and over. Kept breathing, pulling the trigger, the pain in her shoulder less and less bearable.

Just another day. She got over it a long time ago.

“I can't do it, Uncle.”

“Yes you will.” His voice was stern. He never got angry. But she never pushed him enough to go ballistic on her either.

“I want to go home.”

“Fire the shot, Y/N.”

The ringing on her right ear became harder to ignore. She was gonna go deaf if this kept going on.

“Slow your heartbeat. I can feel you getting tense.”

The sun was starting to fall under, and the country side was a dark place if not for the sun. She’ll have three hours for her nap. Tops. Before they leave for the city tonight. The mafia leader who hired him wanted an entire rival gang gone. Uncle told her it was good if she came along, maybe even pull the trigger herself if it was close enough.

��I’m scared about tonight.”

“Stop being scared,” he said. “This is how you learn.”

“What if Batman and that red and yellow sidekick comes around again? We barely made it out the last time.”

They ambushed her and her uncle up on a rooftop. Robin was a hard one to fight off, and the snarky remarks he made while she tried her best landing a good one in the head didn’t help either. Like a parrot that just wouldn’t shut up.

“Two Face has been paid to stage a bank robbery as a distraction. Either he takes care of that or a warehouse full of drug dealers.”

Y/N had her gun lowered. Her limbs began giving out.

“Again.”

Breathe. Again. Slow the heart.

She looked back into the scope and fired.

xxxxx

Every single day. She’s held a gun in her hands.

Every day, she fired at a target that stood further and further away, each time she hits the center.

For tonight, it was farther than any average shooter could manage. She stood atop of the barracks’ roof, surrounded by nothing but grass and a few trees. The night was cool, warm enough for her to be staying out at this hour and not freeze to death. She breathed and a cool cloud of smoke escaped her lips.

In. out.

A whopping two thousand yards

Even with the scope, it was difficult to focus on. She had no assistance of any type. There were no troops around. She had no vision enhancing technology. It was just her, the moon, the gun in her hand, and target. A scarecrow from a far away barn.

The wind wasn’t strong, but it could easily move the bullet.

There were no tensions anywhere in her body. Her muscles were fully relaxed, her eyes completely focused, her mind in a calm, thoughtless state. This was her zone. This is when she felt most peaceful.

Her finger pulled the trigger.

The loud noise that followed after were enough to possibly deaf any passer by, but she remained unbothered. Uncle had made sure her ears had the strength of steel. Nothing deafened her anymore. Not even if a large drum hit close to her face.

Guns were an extension to her limbs. An extension to what she was. She could feel it merge with her body the moment she picks one up from the armory. She took out her binoculars and looked into the target.

Bullseye.

Xxxx

“What happened?”

They’d only just arrived yesterday. The Commander barged down the halls of the barracks with her Lieutenant Commander, Beckett, trailing behind her and keeping up with her pace.

“His name is Peter Hugo. He was recruited a few weeks ago-“

“How many weeks, Lieutenant?”

“Four weeks. He stayed with eight other men in the second floor. Unit 14.”

They turned to the corner, past the canteen. They said they held the culprit in the underground.

“Is the Knight coming?”

“Lieutenant Gray should be on his way to tell him.”

“Run me down exactly what happened. Don’t miss a detail.”

Beckett swallowed. “Hugo waited until you and the Knight were gone for Gotham. His first strike was about two days ago, just as you left. He was found hiding in the meeting area where he knew Deathstroke would be meeting with Crane and the other Lieutenants. It wasn’t until after the meeting when the cleaners found Slade’s cup of coffee laced with poison.”

“Poison?” The Commander shrugged. The man knew he couldn’t beat Slade at combat.

“The next day, we found him going into the kitchens with another batch of poisons with him. He’s been in the undergrounds since. Slade’s instructions.”

They went down the stairs, where they were met with a small, mechanical elevator. Beckett pulled the metal gate open and the Commander stepped inside.

“Right down here, sir.”

“That son of a bitch should’ve been taken out by now.”

Jason, fully clothed in his armor and his face covered with the same blue visor. He didn’t give her so much as a glance when the two Lieutenants gave him the room to step inside. Commander Y/N took a step to the right, then the Lieutenants went in with them and stood at the front, closing the gates and turning the lever.

The buzz from the noise made the lift last longer than it already did. The walls were dark, and they could see it move upward as they descended. They only had a single light bulb at the top, and the room, as cramped up as it already was, was made even smaller when Jason folded his big arms in front of him.

The Commander slightly turned her head, just to glance at him with the side of her eye, but looked forward before he’d come to notice.

As far as she knew, nothing happened in Gotham.

The elevator reached the underground. And the hallway leading down seemed even darker. The lights were so dim, she couldn’t see past the only lit room a few doors down. When they reached there, it didn’t even look like an interrogation room. It was like a supply closet emptied out. At the center was a man, held together with ropes around his legs and chest, his arms tied to the back of the chair as he held his head down.

Peter Hugo wasn’t much of a brute. In fact, he was quite thin. But the sharp look of his eye and the scars on his neck told them he was, in fact, quite the fighter.

Jason walked up to the man and gripped his hair.

“Who sent you?”

“I’m not talking to you!”

A hit to the jaw.

“If you keep hitting him like that, he won't be able to speak at all,” the Commander said.

Jason didn’t listen to her. He grabbed him by the hair again, pulling the chair along with him into place. He was bleeding through his mouth. Jason pulled on his scalp until Hugo’s screeching cries were too hard to hear.

“Talk.”

“Fuck you.”

A gun swiftly points at his forehead. Hugo didn’t even have the time to look up. He stared onward, still avoiding the terrifying look on Jason’s visor.

“You talk, and I’ll kill you quick enough to make it painless. Waste our time and you’ll beg me to pull the trigger.”

“Watch me.”

Jason hit the back of his head, pushing the chair down so his head would hit the ground. “Gray. Beckett. Spit it out of him.”

The Commander stood aside and watched. Not a strain on her face. Beckett was first to strike, landing the tip of his shoe right at Hugo’s unarmored chest. Gray didn’t hold back either, and his hits landed right on his teeth. A few spattered onto the floor and his blood pool started to spread further out.

“Talk!”

A painful scream when a couple of his ribs broke. It took a few minutes, and Hugo finally squealed.

“Some mogul from Armenia hired S-Slade-“ he coughed blood. “Then the bastard held off when he wanted double the pay last minute.”

“So he asked you to kill him? A small time mercenary who thought poison was the way to do it?” The Commander finally spoke.

“Fuck off!”

Beckett hit his head again. He was too weak to move. “Fuck!” Hugo cried.

“What do we do with him, sir?”

“I’m playing my end of the bargain. We kill him. Nice and quick.”

The Commander stepped forward, eyeing the man. She didn’t remember much about him. Just that he was timid, mediocre in her training sessions and couldn’t fire a bullet even when the target was in front of him.

Jason turned to her.

Slowly, he walked up to her, and spoke so silently she could make out his real voice from the visor’s filter.

“Kill him.”

He handed her the gun.

And the look Hugo hand on her when Beckett pulled the chair up again, making him look at the commander straight into her eyes, it was like he was daring her.

This woman couldn’t do it.

What does she have that made her the commander?

Anyone can take her place.

The Knight must’ve wanted her ass to look at up on the platform.

Some of these men forgot who she was. Who she really was.

“Take him upstairs. I want everyone to watch.”

They were wrong to think she was the commander for just her marksmanship, her knowledge in battle strategies, her will to lead. It was none of that. In fact, the men who knew exactly who she was, didn’t give the decision a second thought.

Some of these men forgot, or simply didn’t know. And the look Hugo gave her, it was obvious, he hadn’t a speck of an idea.

The Commander was the woman hired by the United States Secretary of State to assassinate three political enemies in their own homes on the same night.

The Commander was the woman called by three rival drug lords in Mexico to kill each other, and all three ended up with bullets stuck to their mouths.

The Commander was the woman who staged a suicide on a certain American financer convicted as a sex offender, paid millions by the biggest names in the world involved in the famous scandal.

The Commander was the woman who had the highest, and most notable, kill count out of all the men in the barracks.

She wasn’t here because she was good. She was the Commander because she’s proven it. Before she was even recruited. Only she had Deathstroke have a run for his money.

And she took them all out without having to stand less than five hundred yards away.

These men were mercenaries from all over the world. But everyone who knew her, who knew who her uncle was, kept their silence. And when they all turned to her, holding a gun while the Lieutenants lugged a man tied to a chair, brought him up to the platform where dozens of men watched on, she knew they had it right to keep silent.

Hugo looked at her, and the Commander reveled at the hundred pairs of eyes, watching as she let everyone knew why she was who she was.

She shot him right in the forehead. And the man didn’t even fall to the ground as his lifeless eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, blood dripping into his sockets.

Jason watched, and everyone was silent.

Another integral part of her training involved this moment. The hindrance of any feeling of guilt the moment you’ve pulled the trigger.

She’s mastered that quite well.

Xxxx

Bullseye.

Again.

And again.

Two thousand one hundred yards this time. That was her estimate. She moved from the scarecrow to the rooster wind vane above the same farm. So far it had three bullet holes on his little head. Y/N reloaded her gun and looked into her scope for the fifth time that night.

She had to keep her hands busy, otherwise she’d be stuck in her quarters and be forced to mull over him.

But the universe wasn’t that kind to her.

“You know.”

The chilling voice filter that had gone all too familiar. She hated it. She wanted to tear it off his face and smash it with her boot. Y/N ignored the voice behind her and pulled the trigger.

She couldn’t hear the wind vane, but it spun viciously like a storm had hit. This time it was just at the rooster’s thin neck.

“Get out of here.”

“Who told you?”

Commander Y/N reloaded her gun. She had three bullets left.

Jason didn’t sound angry. But she had no right to play victim.

“My uncle.”

She could hear him wrap his hand in a tight fist, even from a distance. The Commander focused on the scope.

“I didn’t know Joker called in Deadshot, too.”

“He did. Floyd was in Belle Reeves. But he didn’t want even if he could. He isn’t like that.”

“How nice of him. Everyone else didn’t seem to think so. Two Face. Penguin. Riddler. They all took turns at the crowbar,” Jason said. “How did he tell you?”

Y/N didn’t want to have this conversation. There wasn’t anything he said that she didn’t already know. “About a year ago when I last visited him.”

She fired another shot. The bullet landed on the wind vane’s arrow. She slowly pulled out another one.

“Why?”

Reloaded. Deep breaths. In and out.

“’Cuz he asked if I wanted to go into Arkham and… torture you.”

She fired the bullet before she could even focus on the scope. The wind vane didn’t turn. She hit the rooftop.

“You were in there for a year,” she whispered. “How are you still alive…”

“Did you hope I’d die?” Jason’s filtered voice echoed. “Maybe you should’ve taken Joker’s offer.”

“Don’t pretend we weren’t out to kill each other! No one wanted to hire me after you took me down every fucking time I got close to a target, Robin.” Y/N finally turned around.

“Part of the job. And you were the only one who was out to kill me, kid. Batman wouldn’t let me even if I wanted to.”

“Is that why you recruited me? So you could kill me from within?”

Jason fucking laughed. “You give yourself too much credit.”

She finally placed the gun to the floor, turning around to face him.

“We were enemies. You called me in to the militia knowing you had your history with Deadshot’s little partner.”

“Sidekick.”

“Partner!”

She was fuming, standing close to him while his eerie looking visor stared back.

“I only want Batman dead. I don’t care about anyone else,” he growled. “And I knew you. I knew what you could do. That’s why I called you in. This isn’t about some grudge.”

Jason took a step back. His voice was starting to crack. “Joker… beat any smidge of hope left in me. And turned me into this…” he choked.  

Y/N watched him slowly crumble, holding himself up. A part of her hated him so much. The same part that destroys her from the guilt that came with her knowing.  

And the other part wanted to pull him close and tell him how the nightmares will be over soon, that it hurt her to even think about him being hurt, too.

“I’m sorry…” she said. “I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t!” Jason took a step back and screamed. “You knew what happened.”

“I couldn’t do what Joker did to you-“

“How does it feel, huh? To have known I was in an abandoned wing in Arkham, tortured everyday at the brink of death and you didn’t do anything about it…”

“Jason-“

“You could’ve helped me. Or helped Joker. Either way, I didn’t expect you to just sit there and be some coward hoping I’d die.”

“Fuck you-“

“You were right. Deadshot turned you into a mindless machin-“

A strong, massive punch right into his visor. And it broke, some of the pieces scattered on the floor. Y/N’s hand immediately formed a bruise and she winced at the painful shocks running up her arm. Jason almost toppled to the ground, turning his head back before she landed her knee right into his chest.

Jason fell to the ground, but as the Commander charged, he caught her leg and flung her across the ground. He stood up, brushing the pain off his chest. Her hit went past through the armor. Good. Her strength will diminish before long.

Y/N pulled herself up, tearing a part of her suit to wrap around her knuckles. The pain can be ignored. For now.

Batman’s and Deadshot’s young wards. Now the Arkham Knight and the Militia Commander. The fight that was always meant to be.

If they were lucky, no one had to be thrown out of the roof before the sun rises.

-----

THE COMMANDER - MASTERLIST

-----

  Taglist: everyartistwas-firstanamateur  @sarcasmismyfirstlove @damned-queen-of-gotham @idkmanicantenglish @wunderstell @birdy-bat-riya @get-loki@everyday-imfangirling @comic-nerd-dc @multifandoms916 @icequeen208@offendedfishnoises @egdolan @xemiefx @arkhamtoddler @elsenthal@mythicbitchx @supremehaunter @ burning-alive

[piraticalarchive]

𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑻. repost,  don’t reblog (this is for my *robin hood bbc au)

basics !

FULL NAME.   Killian Odran Jones NICKNAME.   “Hook” or “Captain Hook” GENDER.  male. HEIGHT.    5′11 AGE.  33 ZODIAC.    Aries (birthday: March 21) LANGUAGES.   English. semi-fluent in French, Middle Irish  [which started evolving into modern Irish in the 12th century, more specifically the year 1101. It was still early stages by Killian’s birth in 1164 (this is his birth year specifically for his nottingham verse. the other sheets will have different birth years) ], he is semi fluent in a conglomeration of other languages as well. He knows enough Latin to read it successfully. HAIR COLOR.   dark brown EYE COLOR.   forget-me-not blue SKIN TONE.    White BODY TYPE.    Scientifically, he’s be classified as a mesomorph. Males with this bodytype are considered the ‘middle’ of the types. Characteristics include being lean and muscular simultaneously and having a natural athletics build with well defined muscles. He definitely leans more toward ‘lean’, but the strength and definition is still there. ACCENT. Due to his extensive travel, he doesn’t really have one. He had a strong English accent while growing up in his father’s care, but eventually it gave way to a more neutral one.  VOICE.    Fairly average in pitch, though it does tend to gravitate towards being a bit ‘higher’ when compared to some other men. It lends itself useful to coming across as nonthreatening when it suits him, but lowers and becomes gruff when agressive/angry/threatening. DOMINANT HAND. His left hand was his dominant hand. He’s had to learn to use the right since losing it. He does fairly well and most don’t know the difference, though the occasional fumble or slip or moment of ‘okay, how do i do this?’ is still present in the occasional new situation/a situation he hasn’t been in enough to yet master. POSTURE.   He is much more relaxed in Nottingham. The rigidness of being a captain wears away after a bit, though it does return when visiting his men. He can most often be seen leaning against a wall, tree, etc, appearing bored - however, it’s usually a guise in order to take stock of a situation/environment in case he needs to act in a different manner later on.  SCARS.   There is ugly scarring on the end of his left wrist due to Bill Jukes’s semi hack job when removing his hand. He has a small scar under his right eye to an accidental self inflicted injury (cough. his face itched. cough.), though he will make up literally every story under the sun on its origin. He has faint, near impossible to see unless you’re paying attention, scarring on some places near his collarbone and a particularly pale but slightly raised on under his left shoulder (which he garnered in the same fight which cost his hand). TATTOOS.  The circumstances of Milah are different in this verse, so though he did care for her, he does not have a tattoo. He eventually gets a small fleur-de-lis at the pulse point of his right list. No idea why. It’s a complete mystery. BIRTHMARKS.   None. MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).   I’m gonna take a leap and say it’s probably the hook on his left wrist, but...I could be wrong. Other than that, most people often comment on immediately being taken in by his smile, eyes, or both.

childhood !

PLACE OF BIRTH.   Gaelic Ireland. I’m fudging history/dates a bit in this verse (it’s fiction mate, back the fuck up. It’s a robin hood bbc verse. They had zippers in the show!! zippers!!) and though the Norman Invasion didn’t technically take place until 1169 while Hook’s birthyear in this verse is 1164 - we’re fudging it, okay? His father was an english knight who had uh.. less than wonderful interactions with his mother. He returned when Killian was 4, found out she had given birth to a son and took him despite the fact he was a bastard. It was easy to identify Killian as his own since the timing seemed right and he had his father’s dark hair in blue eyes, contrasting greatly against his mother’s. HOMETOWN.    Ipswich. Ipswich was a settlement of great economic importance to England throughout its history, particularly in trade. The town's historical dock was known as the largest and most important dock in the kingdom. It is thought to have been #8 in the top 10 largest villages/cities during the beginning of the Middle Ages. It’s closeness to the sea is eventually what led Killian to run away. BIRTH WEIGHT.    Unknown - but if it had been recorded he would have been roughly around 6lbs (or, 2.72 kg) BIRTH HEIGHT.    Literally no idea. FIRST WORDS.    Mother. There’s really no record of specific words during the time of Middle Irish, so I’m gonna go with something similar to máthair - which is the word in the language as it is now. SIBLINGS.  one older half-brother, Liam. As a lord, his father wanted an heir and a spare, hence him bringing Killian back to England. Liam eventually passes away but it is after Killian has already ‘made a break for it’. When he does run into his father (he’s a black knight - i mean really. not a nice guy.) and finds he is technically the ‘heir’ pending this his father legitimize him, his immediate and final reaction is “over my dead body”. PARENTS.   Mother of uknown name. Father was David Jones (which was a surname likely devolved from a former Jon in their family but my head hurts and I’m not getting into it.) PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT.    His mother was very loving and cared deeply about her son, despite his resemblance to the man who had broken her heart. She instilled in him a love for tales and an inner strength that would eventually serve him well. Once he was taken away by his father, his life greatly changed. His father was a ‘task-master’ as they’re called, and pushed Killian beyond his limits on more than one occasion. He was determined to show the strength and power of his line, wanting it to be more than evident even in his bastard son despite his less than desirable origins (his words, not mine. back off.).  Killian was taught languages, swordplay, reading, writing, how to ride a horse .. he was meant to be prepared should he ever be ‘called to arms’ so to speak. 

adult life !

OCCUPATION.   Pirate! Was this the historically accurate term during this time period? probably not. but i have done so much research into this by this point - i’m giving google a break lmao. He also served as a ‘mercenary’ of sorts. Completing certain missions for coin etc etc. CURRENT RESIDENCE.   Nottingham, England. The Jolly Roger is docked at Portsmouth. It’s a long fucking journey, okay. Starkey’s got this though. CLOSE FRIENDS.   Starkey (amy i can’t remember the surname you gave him, im so sorry) to begin with. He is the one who helps while his wrist heals and serves as ‘first mate’. Smee is okay, though Hook thinks hes daft. Obviously, his closest friend above all others becomes Guy. RELATIONSHIP STATUS.   Oh so very thoroughly taken. FINANCIAL STATUS. He’s never hurting, we’ll leave it at that. DRIVER’S LICENSE.    He can sail lmao. CRIMINAL RECORD.    lmao VICES.    drink. Though, it’s a form of self medicating due to chronic phantom pains in his wrist. Also gambling. (and i mean theres the super general ones but like... those are obvious and come with the territory, right?) SEXUAL ORIENTATION. Bisexual. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION.   Demiromantic PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE.    submissive  |  dominant  | switch PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE.   submissive  |  dominant  |  switch LIBIDO.    Dear god. So fucking high. So high.. TURN ON’S.    Guy. Guy breathing, Guy blinking, Guy yawning, Guy sneezing - sensing a pattern? In a more general sense, he’s always been attracted to people who don’t back down easily. Who fight for what they want and aren’t afraid to go for it. Someone who easily turns the tables or outwits him is .. sexy. TURN OFF’S.    Bad hygiene. Hook is described as being very conscious of his health and hygiene (particular his nails) and is also said to be hedonistic. Don’t come to him perpetually gross.  LOVE LANGUAGE.   quality time together. RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES.  Not easily jealous, but when he is .. he is. Very snarky, likes to push boundaries. He likes to make Guy laugh and loves to entertain. that never changes.

miscellaneous !

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG.   Thrift Shop, Vitamin String Quartet.  HOBBIES TO PASS TIME.   there’s that whole.. pirate... thing. He also likes sex and just lounging around. Eating. Eating is good. Drinking is even better. Regaling dumb peasants with stories they find easily believable is another great one. He will read too. Drawing has turned to nothing more than sketches since the loss of his hand, but he still occasionally takes part in it. MENTAL ILLNESSES.   PTSD. Need I say more?  PHYSICAL ILLNESSES.  None. Though I suppose chronic PLP (phantom limb pain) counts as one. This type is severe and usually non responsive to modern medications which means Hook in the 1100s would be one giant ouch. LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED.   First I wanna point out that this theory has been proved dated and invalid and does in fact not really exist because no matter what sort of ‘task’ you are completing - you receive input from both sides of your brain. The only thing that has the potential to interfere with this is some mental illnesses. But I digress - I guess if we were going by the cliche theory, he would be considered ‘right brained’ - though there is a good deal bit of left brain attributes in his thinking as well. FEARS.   Death. Fading into history un remembered. Being easily forgotten. Being seen as weak or cowardly. Any sort of social constraints. SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL.    Dear God. (high) VULNERABILITIES.   His missing hand. His gauntlet becomes a sort of physical ‘wall’ between him and being perceived as anything less than capable. He hardly ever removes it though the way it rubs on sensitive scar tissue and other areas of his lower arm and wrist due to not a perfect fit results in pain that often keeps him awake, especially when coupled with his plm. 

i stole this from the dash and did it solely to see if a) i had the patience and b) so that i could tag @twistedwit​ as a gift because she lives for this stuff.

[blancheludis]

@whumptober2021 Day 1: Bound / Gagges / “You have to let go.”

Fandom: Batman, DC Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne Tags: Dick Grayson Whump, Kidnapped, Emotionally Repressed Bruce, Trauma Words: 2.874

Summary: Dick remembers vividly how all he wanted to do as a child was to fly. He is all grown-up now, though - becoming an orphan does that – and he wants nothing more than solid ground beneath his feet and the memory of snapping bones scratched out of his mind.

But when Bruce tells him to let go and jump, he tries. Right until he is shot out of the air.

---

The first rule of working with the trapeze is to never let go unless he is completely sure he will land again safely. Dick’s parents told him that long before he was ever allowed to even begin training with them, before he made his first longing steps on the high wire, already imagining himself soaring through the air with them.

So, when Bruce tells him, “You have to let go,” the first time he is dangling mid-air over a rooftop because nobody told him that working with the grappling hook would throw him right back to his first trapeze trainings with his parents, it is all he can do not to curl up into a ball and hope someone will catch him.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asks, somewhere below him, gentle in his own way, even if he has nothing on Dick’s father.

Dick remembers vividly how all he wanted to do as a child was to fly. He is all grown-up now, though - becoming an orphan does that – and he wants nothing more than solid ground beneath his feet and the memory of snapping bones scratched out of his mind.

“Is it safe?” Dick asks, his voice too high and too thin. If he had ever sounded like this at home, his mother would have pulled him to their trailer and hugged him close, feeding him cookies and hot cocoa.

“Yes.” Bruce’s tone is gruff, not impatient but like he is wondering why Dick cannot see the obvious. No explanation, no reassurance, no gentle guiding through the motions.

Dick never wanted too many instructions as a child, too eager, too fearless. His parents had to teach him patience. And life taught him fear.

What if I fall? Dick does not ask. He has always known what falling meant, even before it claimed his parents. He just never thought it would ever be an issue for him. The Flying Graysons – it is in the name. Flying, not –

“Robin,” Bruce says with a sigh.

His mother’s nickname for him jars Dick enough that he lets go abruptly, curling up to cushion his fall. This name has no place here, even though Dick proposed it himself as his alias. He is not brave anymore.

“Good.” Bruce is already turning, ready to return to patrol, but he briefly lays a hand on Dick’s shoulder.

Something in Dick’s mind screams. Never let go unless you’re sure. Never jump blindly. Never rely on somebody catching you. But the rules have changed.

When Dick gets to his feet, Bruce has already moved on.

---

The bat signal lights up and Dick knows this night will be an unpleasant one. Their slow patrol has just now changed into a chase. Bruce never said something out loud, but after Dick’s almost panic attack the first time he was using the grapple, they have been taking longer routes, travelling from rooftop to rooftop instead of rushing at neck-breaking speed through the night.

Dick is not sure whether to be grateful for that. In small doses, fear is a useful tool, life-saving even. But his entire life has changed and safe does not really have any room in it anymore.

“Keep up,” Bruce calls and then he is off, vanishing into the night without any more directions. Well, it is clear where they are going, Dick just has to follow.

Perhaps he is a coward, but he keeps going slowly, at first, walking when he could fly, but he has trusted his parents for longer than he has trusted Bruce, if he does at all. Gotham does not have any safety nets, no helping hands. Worse, he is the helping hand and Bruce trusts him to keep up.

The first two times he uses the grappling hook, everything goes well. He knows the motions, has the needed strength and agility. It is just his head that is the problem. But he manages it. Grapple, jump, fall, land. Grapple, jump, fall, land. Grapple, jump, fall –

Something hits him in mid-air, hard enough to loosen his grip. Years of practice make him cling to the line, knowing his life might depend on it. Breathing heavily, Dick chances a glance around, suspended in the air. The city is dark and nothing is moving. Bruce is long gone by now and –

Another hit, this one needle-sharp in his upper arm. Burning spreads across his skin, jolting him from his stupor. He still does not see where it is coming from but Bruce’s voice sounds sharp and clear in his head. You have to let go. Because right now, he is nothing but a target. Bright green and yellow, a beacon in the darkness.

Sweat covers Dick’s forehead as he stares into the dark, trying to see where he will land. Only his vision swims, going blurry from more than just adrenaline. And his skin is burning even hotter now and – he feels his hands slipping and then he is falling.

 ---

When Dick comes to, he remembers the fall but not how he landed. Just that terrifying, exhilarating moment of weightlessness before the crash. His entire body hurts, so he guesses he is not dead.

There is something wrong, though, he notices as his sluggish mind tries to make sense of what happened. He is sitting upright, too upright for having only woken up, and his eyelids are heavy. He has to put serious effort into lifting them. And then he wishes he had not.

He is not out on the rooftops anymore but in what looks like an abandoned workshop. Metal floor and metal tables, a lone lamp giving light somewhere behind him. He is sitting on a chair, pressed against the hard surface.

“My, my, look at what the cat dragged in. A little birdie,” a voice calls out as footsteps come close.

Dick barely notices that. All he can do is stare at his hands, bound to the metal chair with barbed wire. And there, around his chest, another piece bound several times around him. The pain does not even register over the pounding behind his eyelids. It is the blood that gets him. A dozen tiny trails of crimson run down his skin, reminding him so eerily of his parents bleeding out.

What happened? He was trying to follow after Bruce when he was hit by something. And now he is bound – with barbed wire – in a strange place with someone who does not sound like he is here to help-

Focus, his father’s voice sounds, if you let your mind wander, you’ll get hurt.

Dick has already broken one of his parents’ rules today and see where it got him. So, he takes a deep breath and tears his eyes away from his hands, trying his best to stay utterly still.

A man steps into his sight. Average height and build, small eyes that light up when he notices Dick looking at him. If he strains his ears, there are a few more voices talking quietly in his back, and Dick does not know what to make of that. It only makes his situation worse, but at least he was not taken out by a single opponent.

Considering the position he is in and how little care they have taken with his body, like they do not care if he ends up broken, it might not matter. Bruce will not bother to lecture him, if he is dead.

Dead. Dick might die today. All his life he has done things defying death. Soaring through the air with only ropes and his parents’ hands to save him. But it never felt like he was in any danger. His mother taught him to respect the height, and his father trained him to trust himself. He always knew the danger before he gave himself over to it.

This is different. This man does not care for Dick’s life. If the way he shot him out of the air and bound his battered body to a chair is not enough of a hint, the manic condescension in his face as he looks at Dick definitely is.

“Let’s see how long it’ll take for Batman to come for you,” the man says, his tone almost conspiratorial like he is just a concerned citizen trying to help Dick find his way home.

Dick knows Batman will not come, because Dick was supposed to keep up but could not. The rules here are very simple if not as clearly communicated as they were at home. But Dick was always a quick learner, even if it takes him some time to forget old lessons.

He only realizes he must have spoken some of that out loud, when the guy in front of him grins, full of crooked teeth and malice. “Then we’ll have to make you scream for him.”

The first punch hits Dick square in the jaw and the unexpectedness of it is probably worse than the pain. At least until Dick instinctively wants to shy away, trying to raise his hands in defence. The barbed wire bites into his already raw skin like a thousand tiny teeth hungry for blood. It starts as something sharp and then it burns, worse than anything Dick has experienced before. An entirely too rational voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Bruce tells him to relax, that it will only get worse if he fights against the wire. But he does not know how. He just wants to get away, but it follows his movements, digging deeper until it feels like it is clawing right through his core.

“I wouldn’t struggle so much if I were you,” the man says, caressing Dick’s face as if he had not just hit him. “You want to keep those pretty hands, right?”

Blind panic floods through Dick. Surely the barbed wire is not enough to cut through muscle and bone. Right? He is nothing without his hands. He cannot be Robin anymore and Bruce will not have any more use for him. He will have to leave, live out on the streets because what does anybody want with a circus brat without hands?

Despite his best intentions, Dick tries to free himself, fights against the bindings even though that only makes the pain worse. His breath comes in gasping bouts, barely enough to fill his lungs with air, but he cannot calm down. He is burning up from the inside.

He jumped before he was ready to and now he will die just like his parents, cut loose and with nowhere to land. This is not how this was supposed to happen. Bruce wanted to give him a second chance but Dick could not even do that.

Distantly, he hears the guy laughing, a full-bellied sound that belongs anywhere but here. “Scream, little birdie,” he taunts. “Scream or I’ll make you.”

Dick tries not to. It is not a matter of pride but merely that he is fighting to hold still despite the futility of it.

“Oh, well,” the man says, stepping closer. “This way will be more fun.”

The next punch hits Dick right in the stomach and he doubles over – or tries to if not for the barbed wire around his chest. And then he screams.

---

It is over as quickly as it began. Bruce arrives without noise or warning. One moment, punches rain down on Dick, a sickening drum-beat of pain, the next there is only cold air and burning skin.

Later, Dick will be ashamed by how easily Bruce dispatched of the men who took him while all Dick did was panic. Later, he will think he is not ready to fly again and yet he will jump with less caution. Because falling is surely better than being left behind.

He can barely concentrate as Bruce frees him from the barbed wire, peeling off the metal teeth with an unreadable look on his face. Dick can imagine what is happening beneath the mask. Disappointment. Anger at having to double back to get Dick out. Doubt he did the right thing when taking Dick in.

For all that Dick does not have much experience with disappointing other people, he is catching up on it very quickly. Perhaps his parents were simply wrong about him.

“Let’s go home,” Bruce says, not letting go of Dick after he helped him up to his feet. He looks like he is contemplating carrying him.

“What about the signal?” Dick asks, making sure he is steady on his feet before he pushes Bruce’s hands away. His mind is in disarray, but pain is still filling every corner of it. It leaves him strangely calm. The panic is sitting right beneath the surface but it cannot reach him and Tim really wants to keep it that way. Even without another full-blown panic attack is he afraid this might be the last time Bruce wants to take him home.

“Gordon will take care of it.” Despite the dismissive sound, Bruce is clearly frustrated.

The bat signal is explicitly for the cases where Batman is needed. If Gordon wanted to handle it on his own, the signal would not have been lit.

Guilt rises in the pit of Dick’s stomach, almost more powerful than the thousand tiny wounds marring his skin. “I can get back on my own,” he says, even though the world is threatening to tilt to the side, still blurry at the edges.

That must be the drugs. But they will wear off, and he can really take his time now. It will be fine, certainly.

Bruce does not look like it will be fine. He puts an arm on Dick’s shoulder as he turns. “Come.”

Dick wants to protest, wants to do at least one thing right, but he almost falls as soon as he takes the first step and only Bruce’s hand keeps him upright. The back of his eyes burns but he blinks furiously, desperate not to make this night any worse. He keeps his gaze down so Bruce will not see and concentrates on walking.

“You make a target of yourself if you stay too long in the air,” Bruce says while they are walking slowly, one step after the other. He does not make it sound like a reprimand but what else could it be? “You have to let go.”

“What if I don’t know where I’ll land?” Dick asks quietly. He does not want to bring his parents into this, because they are dead and will not be able to catch him.

“We’ll practice until you do.”

That sounds as if Dick will not be thrown out as soon as they get back, as if he will get a third chance. It does not reassure him as much as it probably should. His entire body is throbbing with pain and someone just used him as a punching bag for no other reason than to attract Batman’s attention. All his life, he was taught safety is the most important thing. If this is what the alternative looks like, he is not sure he wants to unlearn that.

But he nods anyway, because all he wants right now is something for the pain and Alfred’s hot chocolate and a warm bed. He wants to forget this night ever happened.

“Are you all right?” Bruce asks later, once Dick is bandaged up and out of uniform.

Dick bites the inside of his cheek. No is not the right answer here. He is not a child anymore, not a son. He is Robin, whose task is to assist Batman.

Living here with Bruce and Alfred in a mansion where all his needs are taken care of – that is his safety net. This is perhaps not the kind of safe his parents wanted for him, but it is the only thing he has left.

Not trusting his voice to hold steady, Dick nods. He keeps his head up while Bruce studies him, searching for any doubts.

Finally, Bruce says with that barely-there smile of his, “Next time, keep up.”

And Dick does.

---

Much later, when falling has become second nature and Bruce has found himself another child to teach self-destructive skills to, Dick composes a list.

If you need something, tell him, because Bruce won’t ask. If you’re feeling unwell, get Alfred involved, he’ll know what to do. If you’re hurting, stop. Never jump unless you know where you’re landing.

There are a few points at the very bottom of the list that he crossed out again. He has learned by now not to make promises he cannot keep. He won’t throw you out, even if you’re not perfect. Your home in the manor is not dependant on being Robin.

The first time Dick meets Jason, he knows he will never hand that list over. This is a boy with a chip on his shoulder if he ever met one, eager to prove himself, with already too many scars.

“Call me, if you need anything,” Dick still says when it is time to go, tone as insistent as he dares with Bruce hovering in the background. “Anytime.”

They all need to learn to jump, but Dick still thinks they still should have someone to catch them.

[letgraysonsheart]

Stab Wound

Tim doesn’t understand where all these freaking ninjas are coming from. It’s like they’re crawling out of every open space, every broken board, every hole in the old warehouse floor. They don’t seem to be stopping either. He’s got both Robin and Red Hood fighting with him, in an odd turn of events, and they’re still only barely keeping the upper hand.

Dodging the quick arms, the knives and the punches coming for him, he tries to move closer to the center of the room. He shoots a quick look over at Hood and Robin because they should be doing the same. It’s their game plan after all. They seem to be doing.. okay, he guesses. Further into the room than before, at least, and he can't ask for more.

Why did it have to be ninjas? They’re so sly and moving so fast, it’s tiring keeping up with them. Their little stabby knives more annoying than useful, he figures. They have yet to hurt any of them more than a few superficial scrapes, or so he assumes; he can’t spot any major bleeding wounds on any of his current teammates. Damian, a little ninja assassin himself, probably thinks this is fun. It for sure looks like it, the way the youngest of them is flipping around, wielding his katana.

While he's busy checking on Damian, one of the ninjas gets in a kick to his stomach which, ow, is not nice at all. Now he has to both focus on blocking and trying to get some air back into his poor abused lungs. That’s for sure going to bruise, it may have done some damage to his ribs too. Alfred will for sure give him a frown, maybe even a sarcastic unimpressed comment. He has to bite back a hiss as he straightens up to continue on.

A yelp to his right grabs his attention because ninjas don’t yelp - but baby demon brats do. He shoots a quick look over at Damian. It seems like in an unexpected turn of events, a ninja has managed to sneak up on the brat and got him with a sword. The wound doesn't seem too serious, Tim sees and releases a sigh of relief, even if it's bleeding. Damian himself looks even angrier than before.

Still, the younger is now fighting off multiple ninjas by himself. It looks like he's starting to get stressed too, Tim notes and frowns. Damian has got his tongue poking out, only the tip of it showing, smushed between his lips. He's concentrating, hard enough to let a small tell like that slip out.

Tim sighs, and hits a ninja with his bo staff, knocking them down. The ninja stays down, which he isn't mad about at all, as he starts making his way towards the younger.

He’s almost there, preparing to help Damian tackle the flow of ninjas when there’s a sharp pinch in his side. He reacts on instinct, lashing out with his staff and letting the tip of it connect with full force in the offending ninja’s stomach. The ninja doubles over and falls to the side, gasping for air. Serves him right, Tim figures, as he knocks him unconscious with another hit. Without looking he lets one hand move down to where it’s still throbbing a little from where the ninja got him. There's a growing hurt spreading through his stomach, and yep - that’s a stab wound.

Stabby ninjas are the worst kind of ninjas.

It doesn’t seem too serious, it’s not an unbelievable pain, and it’s not hurting too much.

No need to call it a night yet.

He continues his track towards the demon brat because even if the Robin would never admit to it, it sure looks like he could use a hand.

Tim knows Damian could take on all the ninjas and win. Hell, he's probably winning as it is, but Tim would rather see it happening with minimal damage, then well, the opposite. And that.. ain’t what's happening right now. He can see that the younger has a growing redness on his cheek where a ninja must have gotten a hit in. There’s a small knife wound on his arm, adding to the one from before, too.

A hurt, benched Robin is the worst kind of Robin, and to be frank, Tim would like not to deal with that. That, and the massive illogical guilt he'd be consumed by if anything real serious were to happen. Another great perk he's gotten from being a bat. Or he could have had it from before.

Whatever.

Damian doesn’t bite out anything as Tim comes up on his side. Tim hopes it means the younger has realized that he could use a little help. It’s nice, that Damian is actually showing some signs of aging, of becoming more mature. Or that his training is going through his thick skull at least.

The younger boy, he's .. not as insufferable any more, and it’s making working with both the Bat himself and Robin a whole lot easier.

Together they manage to force the ninjas further back, into the middle of the room. There’s a hole in the floor that some of the ninjas actually came crawling up out of when the fight first started. Jason joins their side too, at some point, watching their backs. So continuing as a little unexpected but united trio, they push the ninjas backward and down. Some of them even scramble back into the hell hole they came from.

They’re winning now, actually a more clear win than in a long time. Which means Tim's tired body gets a new shot of energy and motivation, enough to keep him pushing on. His side is still itching, more and more actually, but it’s not enough to stop him from fighting.

He's had worse.

After what seems like forever, the sound of Damian’s katana going back into its sheath fills the room. The top of Tim’s bo staff has at one point gotten sliced clean off when he’d dodged an attack from a jumping ninja (and really? It wasn’t enough coming at him from the ground?)

Jason is zip-tying the ninjas who hadn’t fled, both their hands and feet, in a methodical order. Tim steps towards the hole in the ground, where the last of the ninjas, when realizing their defeat, had disappeared into. It’s always annoying when they end up with loose ends, but there was no stopping them. They’re already long gone, he assumes, having sacrificed their weakest to get away themselves. Tim suspects they must have had some kind of hierarchy. It was clear who fled and who had to stay behind and fight to keep him and the two others busy.

As he takes another step, he feels a wave of dizziness hit him, which is usually not good. He puts his staff into the ground, steadying himself, leaning onto it.

“You alright there Tim?” Jason is by his side now, only a meter away, and when did he move over? Tim didn't hear his steps as he came towards him.

His knees feel weak and shaky. Pain shoots up his body when Jason hits his shoulder in what's supposed to be a friendly pat. Crap. He knows what this is, what happens now.

He’s coming down. The fight is over, and his body is taking in all the damage it has sustained. The adrenaline leaving behind a drained shell.

His fingers go to his stomach, his gloves get soaked in seconds.

“Tim?” Jason says again, as Tim’s vision tunnels, the darkness creeping into the edges.

“Tim!” Jason yells again, moving closer, but looking more like an unfocused blob made of red and grey.

Huh, that's weird.

Tim’s knees hit the hard floor of the warehouse as his vision tunnels. Though he doesn't feel any pain at the unexpected meeting between his boney knee and the cement flooring. Huh. That's weird.

He barely feels himself slipping, falling, and doesn’t even know if he hits the ground or not.

-

When he comes too again, he’s laying down, reclined, on something cushy and comfortable. He’s belted fast, but the straps don’t hurt. They’re not too tight like they would be if someone had kidnapped him, not cutting off his blood flow or gnawing at his skin.

There’s a familiar rumbling sound that his brain is still too muddled from blood-loss to understand what is. Whatever he’s laying on, or in? slows down a little. He hadn’t even realized he was moving at all, before.

His head is throbbing, but so is his side which - right, there was a stab wound. He wills his fingers, which takes a worrying amount of effort, to move towards his side. Is he still bleeding out? It doesn't feel like it. He would for sure not be alive right now if that was the case.

“You awake over there?” A gruff voice, lower than Dick’s but still lighter than Bruce’s, asks out of nowhere. Jason, his brain finally supplies. That’s Jason. Who he had been fighting with, plus the demon brat. Who’s either not there or being unusually quiet.

He can’t quite get himself to make his voice work, but he does manage to pry his own eyes open. It's relieving that he isn’t met by a blinding light. At least he isn't in some bed in the med-bay at the cave, or worse - the hospital. In fact, it’s dark, and there’s a window, he can see the outside rushing past.

Oh. That explains it. The rumbling, the movement. They’re in the batmobile. It makes sense he’s strapped in then. It's the seatbelts, costume made for the batmobile and its makeshift emergency med-bed passenger seat. He looks down his torso and sees that parts of his uniform have disappeared and been replaced by a white gauze. His fingers had never quite managed to reach the wound.

“Damian?” he croaks because there is no way the kid is in the car. He knows for a fact this exact car only has two seats, and not much more space to sit in. He was once crammed in the passenger seat with Dick, while Bruce drove them home. It's not an experience he wants to relive, not with Dick, and not with Damian. There is no way two over-average muscle built guys should fit in the seat, and they don't.

“The brat?” Jason asks with a huff, though Tim can spy a hint of a smile ghosting over the older's lips through the windshield. “He went to help B clean up once we figured you weren’t going to die,” the older continues. Tim notices there's a little bit more anger in his voice now.

He stays silent and leans his head on the rest while closing his eyes.

“Why didn’t you say you were hurt?” Jason asks, apparently unable to deal with the quiet only interrupted by the steady hum of the motor. “I know that the bat likes to be dramatic and shit, but passing out like that? Not nice against your fellow teammates, dude.”

Tim knows Jason is trying to sound casual, like he doesn’t care, but instead it's so absolutely obvious that he does. That his older brother was in fact worried. Tim can actually feel how it warms his heart, brings some heat to his cheeks, even if he wants to chalk it up to the blood loss. It's not exactly a regular thing that happens, Jason Todd showing that he cares. Then again, Bruce isn't there with his deafening silence and judging eyes. Perhaps that makes it easier.

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” Tim answers when he realizes that he's let the silence drag on a little too long while he was lost in thought. He can’t be bothered to open his eyes again, so he’ll just assume Jason is glaring at him. It for sure feels like it, his skin is prickling.

“You were stabbed. In the gut. You didn’t think that was bad?” Jason barks out, sentenced chopped and hard. Tim can feel the car swinging in a turn. He hopes they’re going to be home soon. Then Alfred can patch him up and he can climb into his big comfy bed and sleep for like, ten hours at least.

He should probably answer Jason too, at some point.

“I don’t know, I didn’t feel it until the fight was over,” Tim argues back, and can’t keep the slight irritation out of his voice. He’s tired god damn it, and lost too much blood to have this fight right now. So what if he smooths the details out a little? The wound had been an irritating pulse in the back of his head after he got it, yes, but nothing.. nothing that seemed dangerous.

Plus, Bruce will do the same exact dance with him when they discuss the case later. The less worrying he makes it sound to Jason, the less serious it will sound to Bruce. Keeping the story consistent and all that.

Jason takes a deep breath and breathes it out with a sigh, “I'm still mad at you, but, I guess that’s sound reasoning, adrenaline, and all. We've all been there.”

Was that Jason agreeing with him? Letting the matter go? What?

Tim cracks an eye open, looks at Jason’s face through the mirror. The older is biting his lip, staring at the road ahead, though his mind looks to be elsewhere. He wonders if he should be worried about Jason’s driving. Then again, he’s seen the Robin turned crimelord turn vigilante driving much more reckless, while distracted, before.

“You okay?” Tim hears himself asking, his voice sounding too soft. Then again, he can and will blame that on the blood loss too.

“Yeah, a few lacerations, one of the ninjas got in a good kick to my ribs too. Figured it was better I drove you to the manor. Let Robin join Batman,” Jason says before quickly adding, “not that I wanted to do that, even if I were in perfect health. Join Batman, I mean.”

Tim laughs a little at Jason's ramble. It sounds more like a croak, but it makes Jason look at him through the mirror with hardened eyes. It only makes him want to laugh more.

They drive in silence for a little while longer, and Tim lets his eyes slip closed again. In the darkness, he tries to feel the turns the car takes and guess where they’re at, but it's impossible. Usually, he could drive these streets blindfolded, or, he assumes he could. He hasn’t tried, if being so sleep deprived you’re seeing triple doesn’t count.

“Thanks,” he mutters, feeling sleep creep upon him. They’re going to be home soon, but a little nap won’t hurt. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t got any head injuries. Jason hasn’t mentioned anything and he knows the older has been watching him. That’s what they do.

“No need to thank me. When you faint right in front of me like a bigger drama queen then B, I can’t exactly leave you there to bleed out,” Jason answers. There's laughter in his voice, even though his words tells so much about his growth.

“You could've,” Tim says, letting the following silence hang in the air for a few seconds before continuing. “You could’ve left me. Or let Damian deal with it alone, or called Batman, but you didn’t. So thanks,” he finishes and stares up in the dark roof of the car. There's a small light there he hasn't noticed before, though it's turned off now.

He takes a deep breath, feeling the itching of his wound, it hurts - but not too bad. Maybe there's a numbing agent on the gauze, they use that sometimes if they have it on hand. His side is throbbing, but the sticking pain he remembers from before is almost gone.

Jason is being worryingly silent after the little proclamation Tim just finished.

“It’s the blood loss talking,” Tim reassures as he realizes there's a real chance he's hit some dark emotional spot in his older brother. He opens his eyes in time to see Jason’s shoulders sinking. The fingers cradling the wheel like a lifeline eases up, letting blood flow into them again.

“Yeah," Jason says, after a while, after too long. He's not looking in the mirror at all, keeping his eyes steady on the road, avoiding Tim’s eyes. Another defused emotional bomb added to Tim's belt.

"Do you really think-," Jason's voice stops midway through the sentence. He's still staring right head, eyes hard and guarded.

"Do I think what, Jason?" Tim is too exhausted for word games right now, and for any kind of emotions really. Maybe he hadn't defused the bomb, just deactivated the timer so now it could explode at any time by a single wrong move.

“I’m going to take a nap,” Tim states then, instead of commenting on anything more, and it doesn't seem like Jason is going to answer. He's too tired, so with a sigh, he tries to relax his tense muscles while shutting his eyes. As he breathes in deep it pulls at his wound again, and it makes it sting all the way through his chest. He forces his face to be natural, hoping Jason doesn't notice.

Anyway, it's kind of nice too, the pain, a screwed up part of his brain says. It means he's alive, that he's not dying yet. That's nice.

“We’re going to be home in like, five minutes,” Jason answers like Tim is being ridiculous thinking about taking a nap. Tim doesn’t dare comment on how Jason called the manor home, nop, not at all, not touching that with a ten-foot pole. Especially not after all the other emotions he's stirred up since waking up. He has some tact, even with a blood loss brain.

“It’ll be a short nap,” he argues back, voice already more groggy. A more comfortable than before darkness creeps into his mind, slowly taking over.

He’s asleep before he hears if Jason answers or not.

-

This was originally written for the “stab wound” prompt in whumptober, but all my plans failed, so the only thing i got around to writing was filing this prompt for my friend @marianne-in-wonderland

[badacts]

waterlogged

There’s nothing more unpleasant than patrol in the rain. 

It’s dangerous - everything is slippery, from their gloves to the concrete and tile rooflines that serve as their highway. Visibility is terrible. No matter how waterproof their costumes are, everything leaks at least a little bit with enough rain. And cold bodies and cold brains are twice as likely to make a mistake in a fight.

Tim, perched in the lee of probably the ugliest concrete window surround in Gotham, curls his cape around him and sniffs sullenly. He’s overlooking the pitch-dark waters of Gotham harbour and the docks, and he’s miserable about it.

There’s nothing happening down on ground level. Even the people being paid to work are shuffling back and forth in wet-weather gear, hunched and well inside the spotlit areas. However, there were reports of a smuggling handover taking place here tonight, so here he is.

He’s not sure what. Best case scenario is drugs or stolen goods. Weapons aren’t too bad, except the people guarding them tend to be better armed than your average thug. The worst is always human trafficking: Tim has cracked open enough shipping containers full of dehydrated, hungry, frightened people without adding another tonight.

Of course, just as he’s debating that, there’s a small commotion in the shadows near one of the dark warehouses. Tim turns his attention to it, flicking over the array in his lenses to thermals as he does. It shows him three figures, the middle-most of which seems to be being frogmarched towards the water. They look unconscious, or at least restrained.

He’s already moving when light catches off the smooth dome of a familiar helmet.

Chances that the smuggling tonight involved human trafficking have gone up, if Red Hood is involved.

Tim swings across to the next roof, bolts over it, and then hurls himself down towards the water to land on one of the wharves. The two men have hauled their burden halfway along, and are debating in muttered voices with no idea that he’s coming up fast behind them.

“Here’s fine,” one of them hisses.

“’S not deep enough,” the other replies. “This is Red Hood. You wanna half-ass it?”

“Stop,” Tim says in his Red Robin voice, and they freeze. “Let him go.”

Unfortunately, at least one of them isn’t as stupid as they look, trying to get rid of a Gotham vigilante by tossing him in what can’t be more than twenty feet of water. He takes one look at Tim, and then, in one mighty heave, shoves Jason away from himself and into the water.

Then both of them turn on him, draw guns, and start firing.

Tim would like to hurl the both of them into the harbour after Jason, weapons and all. However, he has priorities, and the top of that list is not dealing with Bruce if he lets Jason drown. He leaps off of the wharf, puncturing the water in a smooth dive amidst a veritable hail of bullets.

Underneath, everything is muffled, even the gunshots. It’s dark and he’s loathe to give away his position by turning a light on, so he relies on feel rather than sight as he swims forwards. Jason is mostly muscle, so it’s not surprising Tim’s fingers hit leather closer to the harbour floor than to the surface.

Winding an arm around Jason’s chest, Tim pushes for the surface with his legs and remaining arm. For a moment, underwater, it feels easy - it’s only when he breaks the surface underneath the wharf that he realises that he’s possibly in trouble.

He’s a strong swimmer, of course. However, the water is choppy with the wind, and it’s hard to keep Jason’s head above the surface as well as his own. He curses until he realises it’s letting too much dank water into his mouth - oh god, he’s going to mutate into Killer Croc’s skinnier brother.

He has a rebreather in his belt, but if he grabs for it the choice is to let go of Jason or stop swimming, and neither of those is great options. Also, there’s still the odd bullet hitting the water, because apparently these idiots being terrible shots isn’t a good reason for their boss to not give them plenty of ammunition to not hit things with.

Just as Tim’s contemplating his poor life choices, Jason jerks in his very professional life-saving hold and regains consciousness fighting.

They both go under immediately. Tim pushes Jason away from him in the black murk, and barely catches sight of the silvery flash of a knife before it hits him. 

He surfaces, Jason doing the same just outside of arm’s reach. Tim sputters, “Fuck! It’s me!”

“Red?” Jason asks, shaking his still-masked head. The thing has got to be at least a quarter full of water, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“Yeah. You know, your brother?” Tim says. Jason is swimming pretty well for someone who is either drugged or concussed, but Tim is keeping a close eye on him even so. If he has to go under for a third time tonight, he’s staying down there. By choice.

“I know who you are,” Jason mutters.

“Jason,” Tim says, “You stabbed me.”

“Fuck. Did I?” 

“You didn’t get through my armour,” Tim admits, “But still.”

“Thank god,” Jason says, with a degree of relief that doesn’t make sense until he continues, “Imagine what you’d turn into if you got this water in your bloodstream.”

“I hate you,” Tim mumbles. There’s yet another gunshot above them, this one fired through the wharf and into the water less than six feet from Tim. “Shit!”

“Fecking hell,” Jason says. “C’mon, baby bird. Start swimming. We’ve got a creepy human auction to stop.”

[incoherentbabblings]

Take Back the Cake, Burn the Shoes, and Boil the Rice (1/11)

Within two months there have been two murders of Gotham newlyweds moments after the ceremony. The only connecting factor was both brides wore the same designer's work. Needing to establish who exactly is behind the crimes, Bruce enlists Tim and Stephanie to have the biggest wedding Gotham high society has seen in decades, putting a target on their heads not just for the killer, but Gotham society too. It goes about as well as you'd expect. 

Ao3 link here!

Hey, @thatblondeperson​ @our-happygirl500-fan the odyssey begins, huh? Thank you both for your help with this, I imagine I will keep bugging you with questions and pictures of pretty dresses going forward.

“No way.”

“Batgirl.”

“No! Are you serious? Look, I did the trip to England – even though I have a life here and didn’t want to – because it was like only for a semester and it was to help people… but this? No.”

“I agree.” Red Robin chimed, bolstering Batgirl against Batman. He pulled back his cowl, revealing the tired young man underneath. He didn’t look wholly invested in anything Bruce had to say. “Can’t you fake it? With Selina or… I don’t know. Zatanna or…” Tim shrugged uselessly. “I’ve already had a fake engagement! One’s enough, thank you.”

“No-one is going to believe Bruce Wayne’s engagement… They know it will all fall through.” Dick chimed up. He was sat at the batcomputer, feet up on the keyboard, eating chunks of mango and watermelon and looking completely indifferent to the outraged faces around him. He looked briefly at Bruce. “No offense.”

“Well you do it then!” Stephanie argued. “You’re a…fully grown adult. No-one would blink an eye if you and Babs got engaged! Everyone knows you’re sweet on each other.”

Dick slowed the chewing of his fruit. Looking Steph straight in the eye, he spat out seeds over the edge of the ground down in the depths of the cave. Tim watched out of the corner of his eye as Bruce folded his arms, exasperated. Finally, after a tense stare off, Dick grinned.

“Can’t. Going off world on Friday. Can’t get married if you’re not on Earth. And this case really needs to be closed asap.”

It was a shit eating grin, one that made Steph want to instinctively slap it off his face as she felt increasingly crowded into a corner. Tim meanwhile screwed up his lips.

“You seriously think the designer has something to do with it?”

“Two murders at a wedding in two months. Both bride and groom.”

“No such thing as a coincidence?” Asked Stephanie. She tugged off her cape, hair getting caught as she did so. After a brief fight with the cowl, she tossed both aside and spun back to look at Batman.

“No. Not in these instances.”

“But what’s the connection?”

“Both brides were wearing the same designer.”

Tim nodded, catching on. “So… someone either has it out for the designer and wants her life to collapse… or she’s a wedding dress designer who hates happy couples.”

“Potentially.” Bruce walked towards Tim, seeing he was less aggressively opposed then Stephanie. “All you have to do is pretend. Hire her for the dress, plan the wedding. I’ll find the truth.”

Stephanie was not moved. “Using us as decoys? Really? And with what spare time am I supposed to plan a wedding? This is my final year of college… I can’t drop it all for the sake of a lie.” She looked to Tim, hoping to implore him to side with her. Bruce couldn’t make them both agree, surely.

To her growing distress, Tim was frowning off to the side, pulling his usual thinking face when he was musing something over.

“We’d seriously have to go through with it? Like from engagement, planning…wedding. All of it?” Something sparked in Tim’s eyes, and Stephanie’s stomach dropped.

She shook her head at him, unable to beg out loud. Bruce’s large chest heaved up and down with an exaggerated breath.

“It would have to be public. We’ll be making you targets. Big ones.”

If anything, this seemed to further motivate Tim, rather than placing the pressing guilt that had formed in Stephanie’s lungs. He looked to Bruce, expression serious and earnest.

“But we’d be potentially redirecting it from innocent people.”

Dick blinked, his somewhat sadistic enjoyment of their discomfort shifting as he too noticed Tim’s expression. A sort of desperation that Stephanie recognized in a way that made her breath short.

Panic went through her then, and she blurted out a, “What if I say no?” She tried to put her foot down, but instead it came out quiet and pleading.

“Then I won’t do it either.” Tim said, looking her in the eye for the first time since the idea was brought up. “I don’t want to. Not without her.”

Dick’s expression morphed into what only could have been described as pity. Tim and Stephanie were not dating, hadn’t been for years, but everyone knew from watching that they still knew each other inside and out, better than most anyone else. For all Tim had been drifting in and out of closeness with Bruce and Dick the past three years, it seemed he had only relocated positions within the family. Always to Cassandra first, his sister in every way that counted, and, despite his initial reservations, also to Stephanie, who had taken every effort to move past the worst of their adolescence with open arms.

They had grown closer (still not close enough in Tim’s opinion) but a level of shyness, of fragility remained. One wrong step and the false peace they had put together the past few years would crumble and reveal structural faults that neither could fix.

For all Tim wanted a partner to ensure that his loneliness would depart from him permanently; for all Tim wanted Stephanie to be that partner – Stephanie in all her hard fought and earned independence – Tim knew he couldn’t force her to do anything. Neither could Bruce. Not anymore. That lesson, they had both learned a long time ago.

He had been treading on eggshells for some time now, desperate to not upset her, even if it came at the cost of his own happiness.

Stephanie knew all of this. She had watched him argue with himself and twitch in a way that indicated he wanted to move closer, and she had watched him refuse to verbalise any of it.

He wouldn’t speak; therefore, she wouldn’t speak. Ergo, their relationship was at a dead end.

Unless he could get her to agree to lie with him.

Which would make her miserable. Because he wouldn’t be talking to her. Not truly.

And the uroboros of a Catch-22 situation would continue to eat its tail.

Bruce watched the naked relief play out on Stephanie’s face that she had Tim’s conditional support. He gave another sigh, and Dick watched from his seat, knowing that Bruce was about to play dirty.

“I do not trust anyone else to follow this through.”

Tim groaned, and hung his head down, and Dick knew Bruce had won. Stephanie meanwhile, for a lack of a better term, flipped out.

“No.” She said, and she began to tear off her uniform until she was only in her black tank top and leggings, stomping barefooted back up the stairs.

Trying to not take it personally, Tim rushed to the changing area to get into his shirt and jeans and socks. Maybe if he just caught her…

Dick watched the pair go, chewing loudly on a crunchy piece of fruit.

“Sometimes you’re really cruel.”

“…I know.”

Stephanie rushed into one of the drawing rooms, grabbing her bag she had left resting on a seat to pull out her shoes, collapsing to the expensive rug. Her little purple car was parked out front, so she could make a quick getaway.

Tim practically fell into the room, having thrown on a checked shirt and jeans that made his butt look good.

Stupid Tim.

“Steph.” He breathlessly plead. She tied her shoelaces, ignoring his tone. Finding the expensive cream rug much more interesting, she aggressively tied knots in her shoes.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“We could end up saving a lot of people down the line and –”

“You know that throwing yourself in front of a bullet isn’t going to make daddy love you any better, right?”

Tim stopped breathing, and she knew instantly she had crossed a line. She slumped forward, head banging against her knees. Tim watched her shoulders heave with silent sobs. Instantly he moved to be level with her, curled up on the floor, hidden out of sight from Alfred, or Bruce, or anyone.

His hand hovered, wanting to stroke her hair, but instead he settled for her bare forearm. He felt her muscle spasm under his cold fingers and watched as goosebumps appeared on her arm. She was looking paler than normal.

“Steph I won’t... I won’t force you to do it. But, if we can make ourselves targets then we could be saving someone else, and if Bruce closes the case before we even get to the alter… It doesn’t have to be serious...” He murmured the last part, trying to hide the paranoid part of him that believed Stephanie was reacting so strongly to the idea of being tied to him again – even temporarily.

“Tim, if this were five years ago, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. And not just because there’s no-one else I’d rather do this with...”

Tim smiled, despite the general mood of the room. Stephanie, with her head pressed to her knees, did not see.

“But I’m not going to be fake marrying a nice boy from down the road.”

“What do you mean?”

She finally looked up at him, and her eyes were dry and clear.

“Your name, Tim. Bruce’s name.”

He blinked, still not comprehending. Her fingers crept forward, absently stroking the fabric of his shirt.

“If you were me... If you were just an average Gothamite, and you saw that one of the richest and most handsome guys in Gotham, the one who spends his life in the public eye... If you saw he was marrying a girl who has a father on death row, and a mother who has a history of drug abuse. A girl who he hasn’t publicly associated with before outside of days where his sister was present... A girl who got pregnant at fifteen... How would that look? A two-month engagement?”

“I’d think it was none of my business.”

“And then the marriage breaks off after a month. Or they don’t even make it to the marriage stage. What do you think happens to that girl? How do you think her life is going to be afterwards?”

Tim couldn’t help it, with his free hand he reached for one of hers. Tangling their fingers together, he felt her trembling. She squeezed back tightly, their fingers turning a little purple.

“Bruce and I wouldn’t let anything like that happen.” Tim swore.

“You can’t promise that.”

Still so jaded, under all that optimism. Still so doubtful of how kind the world actually was.

“Yes, I can. I can.”

“God Tim, you’re so naïve!”

She tried to pull away, but Tim held tight, not letting her leave. She stared at him outraged, as he tried to convince her.

“Please Steph. Bruce doesn’t make mistakes about this sort of thing. More people are going to die unless we do something.”

Pale blue eyes stared into indigo, and a long moment passed in silence, the clock on the mantle providing the only noise. Some garden birds chirped outside, and the fluttering of their wings past the window made Stephanie flinch out of the moment. She breathed unsteadily. Tim tugged their conjoined hands closer to his chest.

“You’d honestly rather do it with no-one else?” He asked, smiling crookedly.

She blinked, unable to stand the vulnerability anymore, frowned and looked out the window. “You said the same thing downstairs.”

He blushed, and she tugged her hands finally free. Tim tried not to grimace at the feeling. Steph was always warm, a beacon of tanned skin and golden hair. Without her, his fingers quickly grew cold.

He had run home once, on a cold Gotham day, when he and his dad had spent an afternoon playing catch outside. His parents had been home for two months that time, and he had run in to find his mother and beg for a hot chocolate. He had been only six, and Janet had been sat in front of the computer, dark red hair piled up in a messy bun. Tim remembered her always looking well put together, even in her messier more relaxed moments.

“Mom, mom!” He had cried, cheeks flushed red from the temperature. His mother’s stress lines had disappeared when she spied him coming her way, and she held out her arms to catch him. She had been in a good mood that day. Ready to indulge him.

She pulled him up onto her lap, and Tim had laughed.

“Feel my hands!” And he had put his frozen fingers on her cheeks, causing her to gasp exaggeratedly.

“Frozen solid!” And she had kissed and kissed and kissed him and with each kiss he felt warmer and warmer. “Cold hands mean a warm heart though Tim. That’s the most important bit.”

And his father had entered the room, and the smile had slipped from Janet’s face, and the soft moment with his mother had been over. The warmth fled him, her and the house.

Fifteen years later, Tim wasn’t sure he believed Janet’s little saying anymore. Steph was just plain warm. From her head to her toes, her golden skin gave off warmth like she had been laying in the sun all day. Like she held the sun in her chest, and her hair was the yellow rays escaping. His mother and father’s warmth had come and gone with their moods. Stephanie’s was ever present. Even when she was angry, even when she was being cruel, she seemed incapable of being cold whilst being so.

Tim blinked, realising he had completely drifted off and away from the present moment, and was daydreaming again. Stephanie sat with her legs splayed out, still upset but more reserved than before.

"I’m going to go home.” She declared. “And I am going to think it over. Give me a day.”

“You gonna talk to your mom?”

“If I do go through with it, she’ll need to know.” Stephanie shifted, putting on her other shoe. “You’re already on thin ice with her you know. Have been for years.”

Tim was going to tease her and ask why it mattered what her mother thought of him, but like Steph said, he was treading on thin ice. Even getting her to consider it was a victory in his eyes.

She said her goodbye and got up, Tim remaining sat on the floor. Impulsively, she tugged at his hair playfully. Tim may have imagined it, but he felt her hand stroke his hair, like she used to when he’d rest his head on her stomach. It had started when she had pulled him down in her room, on her little bed, to see if he could hear or feel her baby move. It had continued long after the baby had been given up for adoption. She had said his hair was nice to play with.

Stephanie paused, looking down on him.

“You really won’t do it with someone else? Just me?”

“Promise.”

She sighed and went to go. She stopped, blond hair swinging round her shoulders, and looked like she was going to say something else. She thought better of it, and gave a half-hearted wave.

“See you tomorrow.” She uttered, then she was gone.

Tim remained sat on the floor long after she left. He heard her car switch on and roll off, and he remained on the carpet. His mind was racing.

Bruce eventually found him. Out of costume, in a white t-shirt and black trousers, he sat on the loveseat by Tim.

Keeping his head down, Tim spoke.

“She said… she wanted the day to think about it.”

“Okay.”

Tim stared off, knowing Bruce was waiting for him to ask the burning question.

“Why us?”

Tim heard the frame of the seat creak as Bruce shifted. Neither man was looking at the other.

“As I said. I trust you two will do a good job.”

“And no-one else.”

“You work well together.”

“Do we?”

“Tim…”

“She said that she was afraid of how people would react. Poor girl and a rich boy get hitched quickly and all that.”

Bruce’s response was firm and immediate. “I won’t let people think of her that way.”

Tim tilted his head to look at his father, comforted by the protective nature in his tone. “That’s what I said. She didn’t believe me.”

“Hnn.” Bruce placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder, and squeezed reassuringly. “She’ll help. She won’t turn away from people in need. I’ll leave you to deal with the… nitty gritty of it all.”

He got up to leave, allowing Tim to brood alone on the floor.

“Bruce?”

Bruce turned, looking at him expectantly. Tim swallowed.

“You honestly think we work well together?”

Bruce chewed his tongue, thinking of how best to respond. “I remember, how happy you made each other, and I trust her with you. You’ll both do well in this.”

And that was all. Tim stared at the now empty doorframe, unsure of what to make of Bruce’s statement. His fingers twitched, craving the warmth of Stephanie’s grip once more.

He couldn’t decide if he was being selfish or not for wanting her to agree to such a silly idea. A silly idea that could save several people down the line. Maybe. Or maybe he just wanted an excuse to spend time with her outside of the costume. Only if she wanted it though. He wasn’t that cruel. Falling forward to the floor, butt up in the air, Tim grumbled to himself about how lovesick he was.

Stephanie meanwhile had to pull over halfway home, so emotional that she needed to catch her breath.

This was what was going to bring Tim and her together once more? Another lie?

She couldn’t bare it. To have to pretend to be happy and in love when really what she would be was miserable. But still in love.

She’d never stopped. She still craved his eyes on her (and only her), to hear him say how proud he was.

No.

No, she was past that. That was the point. The point of Batgirl, the point of returning to Gotham.

She rubbed aggressively at her eyes, sat on the layby of the road, and called her mother, unable to wait until she reached home. She put on the speaker, and set the phone on the dashboard.

Her mother had the next three days off, so with some luck she would catch her.

“Hiya Stephie.” She answered. “All good?”

“Yeah. Just driving back.”

“Then why’d you call?”

“I… mom… I’ve been asked to do something. For work.” She clarified. Her mother would understand. “And I’m not sure I should.”

“Why?”

Something in Stephanie snapped, and three years of grief came pouring out. Her mother listened, saying nothing. Stephanie knew that her mother was wary of Tim, of Batgirl, of the whole thing, but she was also the one who could give a somewhat neutral response. As she ranted, Stephanie grew more distressed. She knew from the outside she must have looked like a mad woman, arms flailing and legs kicking. As she drew to a close, Stephanie rested her forehead on the wheel of her car.

“...But I want to help people. And I want to be with him. And I don’t know if that makes me weak.”

“It makes you lovesick.”

Her mother’s tone was soft, sad, and empathetic. Stephanie didn’t know which emotion was comforting and which was upsetting. She sniffed loudly, pressing the heel of the palms of her hands so tightly to her eyes that she saw stars. Crystal was silent, letting her daughter think her rant through. A minute passed, and Stephanie lowered her hands from her eyes, feelings slowly clicking into place.

“Thanks mom.”

“You made your mind up?”

“Yeah.”

Turning her engine back on, she picked up the phone once more. “Gonna be a bit longer until I get back. We need anything from the shops?”

“Another two cartons of milk wouldn’t hurt.”

“’Kay.” She buckled her seatbelt on. “Love you. Bye.”

“Love you too, Stephie. Glutton for punishment that you are.”

Stephanie laughed, then hung up. The smile quickly faded, and she stared at her home screen. Closing her eyes, taking a breath, and flicking her indicator on, she got back on the main road, looking for a place to do a u-turn.

Alfred opened the door to find Stephanie hopping up the steps to the front door, having let her back through the front gates. She smiled bashfully at the butler.

“I’ll inform Master Bruce that you’ve returned.” He said, ushering her inside.

“And Tim?”

“Of course. Make your way to the kitchen, Miss Stephanie. There are some baked goods cooling. You can take some home for you and your mother.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Alfred.”

She perched herself on one of the breakfast bar stools, staring at the banana muffins on the cooling rack. They smelled very good.

Tim arrived first, Bruce following behind. Both men looked expectant.

There was a brief pause as Stephanie collected her words.

“I’ll do it.” Bruce nodded, and Tim, betraying himself utterly, smiled broadly. It made something in her gut jerk, and she continued despite herself. “Only to help you solve the case. You promise to protect me from bad press?”

Bruce’s eyes tightened. “We’ll need a lot of publicity to ensure we capture their attention.”

“Good publicity.”

“Yes.” Stephanie’s eyes flittered to Tim as he moved closer to her, only partially listening to Bruce. “You’ll both have the family clout behind you. Use it.”

“Fine.” She nodded one last time. Tim opened his mouth to say something, but Stephanie turned away to grab one of Alfred’s muffins. Sensing the mood of the room, Bruce left, passing ownership of the task to the two young adults.

Tim moved closer than she would have preferred, close enough to feel his warm breath move her hair, but she still couldn’t look him in the eye.

“Stephanie…”

Taking a large bite, she inspected the granite worktops, finding the little silver glimmers fascinating. Tim saw she was going to be unresponsive. Hating himself a little, he began to dictate their plan going forward.

“We’ll go on a few dates first. People have seen you, me and Cassandra hanging out, so it won’t be a total shock. When do you next have a spare afternoon?”

She bristled at being told what to do in the manner Tim had slipped into, but she answered quietly.

“Thursday.”

“I’ll pick you up from campus. We’ll go to Robinson Park.” Colour rose to Tim’s cheeks as he got lost in his own head. Stephanie continued not to look at him, finding Alfred’s baking less upsetting. He was looking at her longingly. She knew that look well enough that she could sense it on him.

“Sounds good.” She said around a mouthful of muffin.

“You still want me to teach you how to ride my skateboard?”

That got her to look at him. She shook her head, trying not to give in to his puppy dog eyes.

“Tim, not like that. Not with everyone watching.”

This is what she had been dreading. Things she wanted, things she craved, but built on a foundation of lies. She and Tim weren’t going on a real date, so why should she do something she wanted for real? She was fine with lying, she did it every day of her life, but not for this. Not when half-truths were thrown in with Tim.

Tim seemed confused. “You said it just the other day. This is a good as reason as any.” He pushed his way closer into her personal space. Frustratingly, she wasn’t unnerved by it. “Steph… It gets easier. Those guys being around taking photos... Bruce has so much hold over them they don’t come near any of us.”

“Frightened of the big bad bat?”

“More like the billionaire with a big pocket for legal fees.” Tim snorted. “Honest. You’ll forget they’re there.” His tone turned a bit more serious, a bit more somber. “I know the whole thing is…less than ideal. So, let’s try and have some fun, yeah?”

Tim thought he knew that Steph knew that he still loved her. He’d said as much. But that was years ago. He’d also tried to kiss her. But that was also years ago.

Okay, so maybe being forced to get engaged and married wasn’t the best foundation to start a genuine courtship, but Tim could make it work.

So he smiled at her, and Stephanie smiled back. It was genuine.

He could make her happy.

“Okay.” She picked up two muffins to take home. “I’ll see you Thursday then.”

Tim’s smile widened as he watched her go. Mind racing, he twirled around in the kitchen, smacking his hands repeatedly off the counter.

“So… you’re going to tell her that you want to pursue a genuine relationship once this is all over or…?”

Dick’s voice drifted over from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, one foot resting on his other ankle. His body language was casual, but his expression was deadly serious. Tim dismissed his concerns.

“Won’t need to. I will…show her that I am emotionally ready to get back in a relationship with her, and I know she still loves me so… by the end, the lie can be over, and she can ask me.”

“She has to ask you?”

Dick sounded so unapproving that Tim’s hackles rose. He walked around to the other side of the counter, further separating him from his elder brother.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Tim shook his head, baffled. “Because I’m the one doing all the work.”

Dick tilted his head, frustrated with Tim. “Define ‘work’? Buying her a nice dinner counts as work?”

“No! But I… She’s frightened. I’ll prove she doesn’t need to be.”

Dick’s eyes tightened. Like Stephanie, he thought Tim was being awfully naïve. Tim grumbled to himself.

“Just… go do your space adventure. When you come back in two months… you’ll see. We’ll catch the bad guy, innocent people will be saved, the press will love Steph as much as I do, and we’ll be on our merry way to getting out all the bad air between us.”

“By…not talking about the bad air.”

“We’ll talk! She… she has to start it. ‘Cause I did all the talking in the past. It’s her turn now. That’s all.”

Dick chewed on the inside of his cheek. Tim picked up a muffin and threw it at his brother, unable to bear the condescension. “You have no room to judge. I’ve loved her for half my life. I’m not going to have a mission be another nail in the coffin.”

Dick caught the muffin, ripping the top off and inspecting the inside. He turned to go, knowing he would get nowhere with Tim. Once the boy had made his mind up, it took a plan exploding in his face to realise he’d done wrong.

“No,” Dick said, nibbling as he walked away. “You want a lie to be the kiss of life.”

Tim stood in the kitchen, his loneliness creeping up on him. Looking desperately around, he grabbed his own baked good, then rushed downstairs to take his car back to his apartment.

He could make this work.