#he's dealing

[asilentguardian]

Rituals

also on ao3

Gotham isn’t quiet when it rains.

Most cities slow down, become near empty, when rain is pouring from the sky. But Gotham continues, despite the rain mixing with the rot of the city and bathing the streets in the smell of mildew and seafood. Despite the streets that always flood, roads built on old rivers and inlets. People have jobs to do, families to protect. It becomes easier to hide, to exchange money and drugs and guns in the cover of rain clouds and the water rushing towards the sewers. 

Gotham isn’t quiet, so neither are the Bats.

They’re built for this. All of them live and breathe with the city, they’ve grown up here and the city has grown around them. Rain doesn’t deter them, and waterproof and insulated armor shields them against the rest of it.

The feeling of raindrops pelting his cowl keeps Bruce grounded as he stands over the city. The others–just Damian and Cass tonight–are already steadily making their way home, swinging across rooftops and dipping down to the streets when they spot someone in need. But Bruce stays here, standing and watching as the night creeps into dawn and the night shifts give way to the morning shifts. It’s become a ritual, of sorts.

Down on the streets, the city becomes a jagged, haphazard array of the various shades of horrible things people are capable of. Every block can feel like a new, solitary ecosystem of politics and gangs and survival. But up here, on a tall roof in the outer edges of Gotham, the city becomes the living, breathing thing that Bruce knows it to be. Sometimes, if he’s still enough, Bruce swears he can feel the pulse of it. He can feel the cars speeding down Murphy Avenue, he can feel the quick steps of morning runners in the Diamond District, the shuffling through Park Row, the fear, the anger, the sadness, the hope.

He tries not to examine this too closely.

The rain drowns out any hope of feeling it tonight, anyways. Street lights in the distance begin to flicker off, and Bruce takes that as his queue to follow his kids home. He slides down the ladder on the side of the building, down the stairs, and off the shortest ledge into the alley where he left his bike. The rain has begun to let up, but he still fits his goggles over his eyes.

The ride back to the manor is always quiet at this hour, no one braving the empty roads before the sun peeks over the horizon. Bruce doesn’t pass Damian or Cass on the way there, quiet check-ins on the comms telling him they’re already home, probably eagerly peeling off their armor and racing towards Alfred’s hot chocolate. On nights like tonight, where the rain is constant and cold, even Bruce doesn’t bother with proper reports or storing his gear. Sweating in the cold rain of Gotham is a different kind of hell, and a warm bed is all that’s on all of their minds.

Bruce rumbles into a predictably empty cave, quickly parking his bike next to Cass’ and shutting it off. He pushes back his cowl and sits for a moment. This, too, is a ritual. The cave is never really quiet. The hum of computers and machines, the roar of a waterfall, the chittering of bats. The background noise never changes. It’s too far underground for the sound of rain or thunder or footsteps to reach. There could be a full house upstairs, and you’d never know. 

There’s no one around to hear the way Bruce grunts as he pushes himself off the bike. His bones creak, his muscles protest, and his back reminds him just how cold it was tonight. He’s getting old. Here, where there’s a myriad of evidence of his children, the thought doesn’t scare him as much as it used to.

His bed is just a few hundred feet away, but he’s still careful to put his armor in a vaguely neat pile, still starts uploading the night's footage before he makes his way to the elevator. Bruce pushes the grandfather clock aside to an empty, but warm, sitting room. The warmth of the house slowly begins to chase away the chill in his body, and Bruce gently replaces the clock and heads to his first stop of this third ritual; the kitchen.

The light is brighter in here, but still warm and easy on eyes that have spent hours in the shadows. Cass and Damian sit at the counter, their mugs in front of them. Damian is half asleep against Cass’s shoulder, and, despite the concern Bruce feels, there’s a burst of pride that makes its way through his chest. Damian has had a rough time adjusting, but he’s come so far with all of them. 

Cass’ eyes snap to Bruce as he enters, still alert and fully awake. Bruce knows that she usually doesn’t sleep after she patrols, that she can’t, most times. He used to worry about it, but she insists that the time to herself is helpful, that she uses it to recharge. He tries to trust her on that.

Bruce nods towards Damian. Is he okay?

Cass gives him a sheepish smile and nods.

“Raced to the bike,” she whispers. Bruce sighs. He has long since given up the battle of preventing his children from making a competition or game out of patrol. It always exhausts them, always causes squabbles. But it keeps them young, keeps laughter ringing through the comms, and brings smiles to their faces. It was never a battle he would win.

He still snatches a sip from Cass’ mug in retaliation. She glares at him after he returns it, wrapping a protective arm around her mug and Damian’s. Bruce chuckles, ruffles her hair and lightly touches Damian’s shoulder before moving to the next stop. Damian lets out a vague mumble. Cass will deposit him in his bed eventually, after their own post-patrol rituals. Present and accounted for.

The stairs to the second floor have always creaked and groaned, even when Bruce was young. The only difference now is the loose third step, evidence of a young and energetic Dick Grayson and a Bruce who didn’t know how to handle all of that energy. He carefully skips that step, making a note to fix it, which he will forget to do as always. He makes his way down an equally old hallway, deftly avoiding the noisy floorboards. He has less stops to make than usual tonight, the manor a little emptier, a little quieter. Closer and closer to an empty nest, as Alfred would say. 

Dick’s room is empty, and so is Jason’s. He still places his hand on their door frames, marking his progress. Tim’s door is cracked, his lights off–thank god–and his sheets a chaotic mess around him. He never stops moving, even in his sleep. Cass’ door is open, light spilling into the hallway. Her closet door flung aside and the Black Bat uniform on the floor amongst various other clothes. Bruce rolls his eyes and collects the pieces, tucking them away from view. Its displacement will be reprimand enough. He can never properly scold her for feeling comfortable enough to do it, anyways. 

Duke’s door is firmly closed, and he’s a light sleeper, so Bruce settles with pressing his ear against the door, waiting until he hears Duke’s light snores before he moves on. He’ll lay eyes on him in the afternoon, he reminds himself. Damian’s door is open, too, revealing a much neater chaos than Cass’ room. There are piles everywhere, books and sketch pads and games all in places that only make sense to Damian. Titus lifts his massive head and wags his tail as he spots Bruce, but remains curled up on Damian’s bed. Bruce gives him a scratch behind his ears before moving on to his last stop.

He passes the door to his room—still firmly closed—towards Alfred’s door. It’s wide open, as it usually is. Alfred is sitting upright in his bed, book open in his lap and glasses perched on his nose. The sheets are still the same ones from Bruce’s childhood, though they’ve since faded. Bruce still remembers how it feels to be cocooned within them, to have them and Alfred be the last and strongest defenses against the rest of the world. Alfred looks up, still able to sense the barest bit of movement in a way that eludes Bruce, and quietly shuts his novel. They’re both silent for a moment, taking the other in.

“Go to bed, Bruce,” Alfred says, as he always does. 

“Only after you do,” Bruce always replies. It used to be a longer conversation, and before that it was a heated argument. It used to grate on his nerves, the way Alfred would sit and wait for him in those first few years. He took it as silent judgement, or worse, distrust. Bruce would demand he just go to bed, would snap at him in a way that made him feel 16 years old again. Alfred never budged. And then Bruce became a father, and he understood. Still, in the back of his mind, a distant worry. If Bruce is getting old, what does that make Alfred? Alfred would not approve of that line of thinking, so he’s never voiced it aloud.

Bruce’s father smiles at him and Bruce nods back, softly shutting the door behind himself as he leaves. He retraces his steps to his own door and stops in front of it. Breathes in, and breathes out, tries to shed the worry and anxiety of empty rooms. It gets easier every night. It gets harder every year.

Bruce pushes his door open and stops. Shifts a few things around in his head. Takes a moment to rearrange his routine.

Hal Jordan, ever present wrench in his plans, is asleep in his bed. Home early, which could be a good thing or a bad thing, and curled up on the side furthest from the door. He came in through the window, if the trail of clothes is anything to go off of. Bruce picks them up and tosses them in the hamper, trying not to be overly annoyed about it.

He takes a moment to drink in the sight of Hal, safe here in his bed, before he slips into the bathroom. His clothes are shed quickly, pointedly tossed into a hamper. The walls are thick enough that the shower shouldn’t wake Hal, but Bruce still moves through the motions with brutal efficiency, scrubbing away mud and sweat and the last of the cold Gotham air clinging to his body.

The steady pelting of the shower grounds him in a way that the cold rain doesn’t. Here, it’s soft and warm. If Bruce stays here long enough, he’ll feel a different pulse underneath his feet and in his chest. Steady breathing in and out, the pitter-patter of four-legged creatures, the settling of a centuries-old house. This, too, Bruce doesn’t examine too closely.

Bruce shuts the water off and dries himself with a towel, continuing to move through the familiar rhythm of his routine. He exits the bathroom and blindly grabs a pair of sweatpants from the dresser, a lifetime of children at his door dissuading him from jumping straight under the sheets.

He carefully pulls on the pants, distantly registering the Ferris Air logo down the sides, before turning towards his bed. Hal is now facing him, brown eyes silently watching Bruce. Bruce doesn’t bother suppressing a soft smile as he makes his way over and crawls under the covers as Hal lifts them up. Bruce settles in, and Hal drops the covers.

“Hi,” Hal whispers. Bruce clings onto that single word, already picking it apart from every angle, trying to determine how Hal’s feeling, where his head is.

“Hi,” Bruce whispers back, still watching Hal’s face, still searching for any changes. Hal reaches out and rests his hand on Bruce’s face, his thumb tracing his brow, his cheekbone, his lips. Bruce catches his hand, presses a kiss to his palm, and intertwines their fingers.

“Okay?” Bruce asks. A single word, a compromise between silence and a veritable interrogation. Another product of well worn arguments. Hal’s answering smile is soft. Fond.

“Yeah. You?” Hal asks. An admission of the same fears. A lot can happen in just a few days.

“Yeah,” Bruce responds. Hal tugs on their joined hands, and Bruce shuffles closer, bodies slotting together. Their lips meet, and the last piece of Bruce shifts into place. His muscles relax, starting at every point of contact between him and Hal. Hal’s lips shift to his jaw, his cheek, his forehead, and Bruce’s eyes drift shut.

“Sleep, baby,” Hal whispers into his hair. Bruce hums an acknowledgement and lets the warmth of Hal pull him under, lets the hand caressing his neck lull him towards sleep. 

-----

Awareness comes quicker than sleep, a habit Bruce doesn’t think he can ever get away from. It’s a trait that he foolishly hopes his children didn’t pick up. He knows better.

His mind is quick to catalog his surroundings. The bed beside him is empty, but warm, recently vacated. The light streaming through the window means it’s at least 11, six hours of sleep more than Bruce had expected. The rain has passed. The door is slightly ajar, and the laundry hamper is missing. Bruce huffs a laugh. Message received and heard.

Bruce lets himself be sluggish in his movements. He slides to the edge of the bed and checks his phone. No urgent notifications or alerts about the end of the world, so Bruce braves a glance at the perpetually-muted family group chat. A slew of incomprehensible jokes and minor arguments. A good morning dweebs from Dick, sent two hours ago. A middle finger emoji from Jason in response. Accounted for.

The most recent text is a picture from Tim of Alfred the Cat sitting on his laptop, captioned come get your spy dami. He taps out a quick reply.

Bruce: Good cat.

There's an onslaught of reactions and responses, and Bruce is quick to shut off his phone.

He finally gets up, finds a sweatshirt that he’s pretty sure is his, and exits his room. A glance at Alfred’s door, open and room empty as anticipated.

Damian’s room, empty of the boy and the dog. Duke’s room, also empty, but with a perfectly made bed. Cass’ room, empty with a closet door pointedly closed. Tim’s room, occupied.

Bruce pauses and taps on the door frame. Tim glances up from his desk, free of its feline occupant, who has made himself comfortable in Tim’s lap. Tim, present and accounted for, healthy and not obviously injured.

“Good morning,” Bruce says, his voice still gravely from sleep. Tim grunts in acknowledgement, turning back to whatever more interesting thing he’s working on. Bruce shakes his head. Teenagers.

Jason’s room, empty. Dick’s room, empty. The floor creaks. The third stair is loose. The kitchen lights are brighter, there’s soft voices in the dining room. Bruce follows the noise.

Hal sits with his back to the doorway, facing Cass. He has Cass’ full attention as he tells a–likely exaggerated–version of his recent stint in space. He’s always been a wonderful storyteller, complete with impressions and sound effects. Bruce makes a conscious effort to make his steps audible and deliberate, not wanting to interrupt the story and stop the wonderful sound of Hal’s voice.

He drops a kiss on top of Hal’s head, rolling his eyes at Cass as she scrunches her nose and sticks her tongue out at them. Hal barely pauses the story, reaching up and squeezing Bruce’s hand.

Bruce sees the coffee on the far end of the table and gently flicks Cass’ forehead as he passes by. He lets the rhythm of Hal’s voice and Cass’ answering questions wash over him as he pours his coffee and takes his spot next to Hal, shifting so their knees rest against each other. 

“But you made it? Everything is okay?” Cass is asking, voice serious despite Hal’s smile.

“As always, Miss Wayne,” Hal responds in an exaggerated voice vaguely reminiscent of Alfred’s accent.

“Hm,” Bruce responds. Hal sighs dramatically.

“I can’t catch a break with this guy,” Hal says to Cass, gesturing to Bruce. Cass giggles, a noise that will never fail to warm Bruce’s chest.

“I didn’t say anything,” Bruce responds, desperately hiding a smile behind a sip of coffee.

“You did though. That was your I disagree with you noise. I should know, I hear it often,” Hal insists. Bruce raises an eyebrow.

“Oh? And what other noises are you familiar with?” Bruce asks. Cass lets out a quiet ew, and Hal’s answering grin is wicked.

“This conversation is over now,” Duke says loudly as he enters from the kitchen, carrying a plate stacked with pancakes. Duke, present and accounted for, healthy and not obviously injured. Maybe a little bit stiff, but otherwise moving normally. 

“Babies,” Hal says gleefully. Duke just flips him off and sits down to start eating. Bruce’s stomach rumbles loudly. Hal laughs softly and presses his knee a bit more firmly against Bruce’s.

“Go get food, Sleeping Beauty. Cass and I already got some,” Hal says, turning to look at Bruce.

“Damian?” Bruce asks. Hal doesn’t laugh, or poke fun at him, but his smile does turn slightly amused.

“Yeah, baby, he ate before us. Went to take Titus for a walk. Tim already ate, too,” Hal says. Bruce is a little startled at the answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet, but nods jerkily anyways. He sets his coffee down and gives Duke another once over. Is he leaning more to his left? Hal nudges his knee harder, so Bruce gets up and heads for the kitchen.

“How’d the test go, Duke?” He hears Hal ask as he pushes through the door. He wasn’t aware Duke had a test, but his response seems positive so he lets it go.

Alfred is moving around the kitchen, cleaning and putting things away. A single, warm plate sits on the counter, pancakes made exactly like Bruce has always liked. Alfred glances over at him.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the finally is implied, “Eat your breakfast, Master Bruce,” Alfred says. Bruce’s lips twitch.

“Only after you do,” he responds. Alfred nods in acknowledgement, smiling. He finishes the tidying, grabbing his own plate from the oven. Bruce grabs his plate, but doesn’t head for the door yet. Alfred raises an eyebrow at him.

“Duke?” Bruce asks.

“Pulled a muscle, is all. Now quit worrying and go sit,” Alfred commands, no room for the follow up questions burning to get out. Bruce nods, resigned, and heads back to the dining room. He holds the door for Alfred and watches as he carefully lowers himself into his seat. Alfred notices his watching and glares at him.

“Sit,” Alfred says. It’s Bruce’s turn to sigh dramatically as he returns to his spot beside Hal, who smirks at him but wisely keeps the comment to himself. Their knees brush together again, and Hal rests a hand against his leg. A steady, grounding presence.

Bruce looks at Hal again, notes his relaxed posture, the laugh lines next to his eyes. He’s okay. He’s here. Present and accounted for, healthy and not obviously injured. Bruce nods to himself, reaches for his food.

“Plans for the day?” He asks Hal.

“Not a thing,” Hal responds. Bruce smiles.

[demi-pixellated]

Sorry Sonic, Your stay in the story has been extended. Indefinitely.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Expertise can't help you here.

[business-as-usual-bats]

Idk if anyone else remembers, but Batman canonically carries around Bat-cookies according to the Batman/Scooby-Doo crossover.

I LOVE to think Batman carries them around as snacks for Robin. I love it even more to think he uses said cookies to bribe Robin into good behavior in a similar fashion to Scooby Snacks.

Little Dick Grayson: I don't wanna go to some stupid Gala! U can't make me!

Bruce, in desperation: would u do it for a bat-cookie?

Dick: woah! Bat-shaped! Cool!

Bruce: andddd you can have another one after the party

Dick, mouth full of cookie: okay :)

Bruce, internally: thank fuck a parenting hack that works

Batman: stop! Don't kill him!

Red Hood: and why do I give a fuck what you-

Batman: would u spare his life for a Bat-cookie?

Red Hood:

Red Hood: I'm not a kid anymore-

Batman: they're fresh, look, still warm

Red Hood: ...

Red Hood: this works ONCE. This ONE time. Gimme that damn cookie.

Batman: of course

Red Hood: Fuck I've missed these what the hell does Alfred put in em

Bruce: go to sleep, Tim

Tim: I'm almost done-

Bruce: go to sleep now and you can have a bat-cookie

Tim: a what?

Bruce: a bat-cookie. See? Here, first taste is free. Try it.

Tim: bribery? Really?

Bruce: positive reinforcement

Tim: giving me treats like I'm some kind of dog?

Bruce: try it and then we'll debate the ethics

Tim [eats cookie]:

Tim:

Tim: okay

Bruce: Okay?

Tim: if I promise to sleep a full 8 hours I want two more and a glass of milk

Bruce: u drive a hard bargain but I accept

Dick: aw, c'mon, Damian. One picture. For me, to remember your first day of high school. Do it for a bat-cookie?

Damian: -tt- I've heard of these so-called "bat-cookies" Insulting. I am not a child. I refuse to participate in such an asinine tradition.

Dick: shame. Alfred made animal-friendly ones so you can share with Ace and Batcow. I guess they don't get any treats either, then

Damian: well

Damian: since it would please you so very much, I will overlook this patronizing lapse in judgment

Damian [tries one bite of cookie]:

Damian:

Damian: given Batcows higher food intake requirements, I will require at least a dozen.

Damian [takes another bite]: perhaps two dozen

Duke: you agree I did a good job today?

Bruce: yes? I suppose. Earlier, when you stopped that-

Duke: shut it. Don't care. Cookie me.

Bruce: excuse me?

Duke: I know about the cookies, old man. You've been holding out on me. The cat's out of the bag. I did a good job, I get a cookie. That's how it works, right?

Bruce: uh well

Bruce: that was a long time ago

Bruce: i had to discontinue that method after-

Duke: are you saying I'm not a valid member of this family because I was never Robin?

Bruce: of course you are! But I don't have any on me-

Duke: don't. Lie. To. Me.

Bruce: Okay! Okay. You're right, I'm sorry. Here, take it. Just... do me a favor, and don't go announcing to the whole cave you got-

Duke: YES. MY FIRST BAT-COOKIE! SCORE!

Every batmember in the vicinity: BAT-COOKIES ARE BACK????

Bruce: NO! stay back! Stay back you animals! Alfred! Alfred! It's happening again-

Alfred, sighing: I'll preheat the oven, sir

[wishfulsketching]

I have finally finished season 2 of Arcane and can now enjoy your art without fear!!! They should be happy together 🥺

I take it "they" means zaundads because that is what I've been drawing the most BUT, lets be honest, applies to like 98% of the characters in the show.

They should've been a big happy familyyyy

[asha-mage]

Broke: Merlin is a royalist because he is a class traitor boot licker

Woke: Merlin is a royalist because he was raised a peasant in the sixth century and he has the perspective and values typical of that time period on top of his personal experiences with Arthur to give him faith in the enlightened despotism favored by Catherine the Great and Frederick of Prussia.

Bespoke: Merlin is a royalist because anyone who had to live through both the English Civil War and Voltaire's exile to Britain would come out the other side thinking democracy is stupid.

Transcendent: Merlin is not a royalist. He is the divine right of kings in human form. The avatar of Albion and its magic. He does not believe in kings because of Arthur. He believes in Arthur so Arthur gets to be king.

[soapbbox]

I like that Megatron is essentially leading a bunch of senior citizens

[tediousmalcontentt]

my favorite scene in all of literature is when Neil Josten wakes up in Columbia after being drugged, hurls an alarm clock at Aaron, dumps his water on the floor and throws the cup at Aaron, stuff his clothes down the toilet and squeezes out through the window, has the foresight to call Matt from a pay phone to protect his shit, hitch hikes back to campus, eyes back to brown?? shows up on Wymack’s door like 😜 and reveals he could speak German the whole time?? CHARACTER OF ALL TIME, that is a protagonist who knows how MOVE THE MFING PLOT ALONG

[stevenrogered]

Bobby, I know I do dumb things sometimes and generally drive you crazy. You’re an important person in my life, Bobby. One of the most important.

[resvarie]

inevitable anders dragon age qifrey wha cover redraw

[chloesimaginationthings]

Springtrap making friends in Dead by Daylight,,

[sabertoothwalrus]

question: is there a way to make edgeworth look good with facial hair or is this an impossible task?

hypothesis: it's just edgeworth's middle-parted boyband bangs that would make it look weird, so if his hair was longer, a beard could hypothetically work

experiment:

conclusion: ?????????

[a1sart]

if there's one thing this last episode has affirmed for me about Alastor it's that he FUCKING HATES being reminded that he's not the most powerful creature in hell.

Like, he hates being ignored by Carmilla when she says she doesn't care why he was gone

He hates Lucifer ON SIGHT

He threatens to KILL Husk when he dares to mention that Alastor is working for someone more powerful than him

and now this.

Alastor freaking out because he almost died. Something almost killed him. He can fucking die. There is something more powerful than him out there. And it's not something he can ignore or brush off because it almost killed him.

Alastor hates the reminder that he's not as powerful as he tells people he is. He isn't indestructible, he isn't invincible. And he fucking hates that.

[captainkirkk]

Concept: Peter actually got bitten by a totally normal spider. It's just a coincidence that his mutant powers were awakened around the same time

[kiddokori]

hes got something going on

[ID: Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint fanart. Kim Dokja shrugs casually and says, "Yeah I feel no connection to my name and barely recognize myself, honestly I feel like an intruder in my own body lol." Han Sooyoung stares at him with a thought bubble of the trans flag. Yoo Joonghyuk scowls at him and thinks "god he is just like me fr." Yoo Sangah looks worried and thinks of the Wikipedia page on dissociation. End ID]

thank youu @nebulations for the ID :]

[artkaninchenbau]

A h-heartfelt reunion..?

Bonus