#imagine of titans tower and Jason expects Tim to still be out because of all his injuries but Robin shows up on patrol as usual | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

batfambitches · 3 months ago

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Timothy Jackson Drake Wayne; Red Robin:

Age: 20 (default, flexible)

Alias: Red Robin

Headcanons

Tim is Autistic

Timothy Jackson Drake was born to Jack and Janet Drake, both come from old money but well Jack was born and raised in Gotham Janet was not. When he was younger his parents were around more, and they brought him traveling with them. Once he started school they started leaving him at home, he had a nanny at first when he was younger but by the time he was 8 he had skipped 2 grades in school and they decided he didn't need a dedicated nanny. He spent his weeks boarding at school after all.

They had a driver employed for the trips to and from school on Mondays, Fridays and for holidays, a chef who came to make meals for him on the weekends and hired security on the premises even when he wasn't there. He didn't have a dedicated care taker anymore though, and it was rare that he was at home at the same time as his parents.

The last thing that he remembered doing with them as a family was going to Haly's Circus, he was so excited to see it with them after going by himself his driver was with him, but he's pretty sure he only went in with him out of pity the day before during their first show during their stop in Gotham. He didn't expect what happened with the Grayson's any more than the rest of the audience, and it eventually led him to a life he couldn't have imagined.

After that he spent most of his free time, which was a lot with absent parents and being younger than all his classmates, doing school work and obsessing over Batman and later his new prodigy. He put together pieces and figured things out, until he heard one day that Robin had been killed by The Joker. He had a pit in his stomach at that, because he knew what that meant even if others didn't. The Joker had killed Bruce Wayne's son Jason Todd.

When Batman started going off the deep end he went to find Nightwing and talk to him first, when he dismissed him he showed up at Dick's job and told him "I told you why I'm here last night." to which he was guided out to the mans car by his shoulder with an excuse of 'bringing the kid home.' From there he eventually became Robin officially a few weeks before his 13th birthday, trying his best to live up to the title but feeling like he never would. Eventually he became a part of the Teen Titans along with a few other hero friends, traveling back and forth from Titan Tower and Gotham as he was needed.

In December after his 13th birthday he was kicked out of school for missing to much time, because he had so much other stuff to do Tim came to an agreement with Bruce. He would continue to study and learn what he would be in school independently, and when he turned 16 he would take the GED test and apply for online courses for college. The reason his parents weren't notified? Bruce offered to his parents to keep an eye on him and that basically became them letting him become his temporary legal guardian.

After Damian showed up and was made Robin he felt defeated and replaceable, the taunting that he liked to do didn't help the now 14 year olds complex. Despite the fact he wasn't Batman's Robin anymore? He still went out and rebranded himself as Red Robin and working alone, the first time the other's tried to work with him after this he ignored them before explaining the next day why. They had pushed him to the side like he didn't matter, and even if they didn't mean to? He needed time after that.

He was the first one to figure out that Bruce was alive and trapped in time after he was declared dead only 6 months after Damian had come to live with him. In Bruce's absence he kept his word and took the GED test a year and a half before he was originally planning on, getting lawyers involved to allow him to do so to get it out of the way and he could focus on other things. During this time he became doing what he could to keep Wayne Enterprise running smoothly well Bruce was gone, also joining an online college and taking classes for both a business and finance degree.

Once Bruce had returned Tim stepped back at Wayne enterprise, still stepping in when Bruce needed help because he was busy with Batman things. He was only a few months into his college classes when Bruce came back and now with more time to take electives, he added a few photography classes to his roster. He finished his business and finance degrees by the time he was 18, but he kept signing up for different creative classes such as photography, design, digital editing and so on as he wanted until eventually he inadvertently had enough credits for an arts degree at 19.

His parents by now are no better then when he was younger, he saw them maybe once a year and they barley knew what he was up to unless they saw an article about him. When he turned 18 he went to Bruce with a whole power point style argument about why he should officially adopt him now that his parents couldn't argue against it, he didn't need it though and Bruce interrupted on slide 2. He told him that if he wanted to finish his presentation he could, but he didn't need to convince him and if that's what he wanted he could officially adopt him.

#that's all I got so far I lost my momentum #c; Timothy Drake [RED ROBIN]#;;Muse Info #LISTEN. HIS PARENTS WEREN'T PURPOSEFULLY NEGLECTFUL IT'S JUST ALL THEY KNEW

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youwerenevermeanttofeelalone · 4 years ago

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Bewitched | Damian Wayne

✦ pairing — older!Damian Wayne x Plus Size Reader

✦ word count — 2.8k

✦ request — can I request a older!Damian wayne×reader where they have feelings for each other but are really stubborn and then while they're on a mission the reader almost gets shot and then confess to one another

✦ warnings — light angst, reader and Damian are hostile towards each other until they’re not, poorly channeled feelings, everyone else is tired™︎, mentions of violence, fluff

❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎

Whoever decided you deserved to be punished with Damian Wayne’s presence must’ve hated you. Probably Tim, he had been the one who gave the leadership of the team to Damian. A sweet gesture between brothers that damned your existence.

You supposed he had been happy, Damian had looked pleased with himself, standing tall with an annoyingly smug look in his face as he spoke to his brother mere meters away from you and the team. Thankfully, he ignored you for the first week until he had to give you orders for a mission.

You had been miserable throughout it all, he made you feel so much disgust you felt you would throw up at any given moment. Not even Wally got the reaction you had, it was too visceral — surely no one hated Damian Wayne and his perfect hair more than you.

Your stomach flipped, just as you thought about it he ventured into the room. You glared at him, and he naturally glared back with an intensity that would’ve intimidated anyone who hadn’t heard him complain about petty things. At least he hated you too. With a scoff, Damian fixed his scarf —the green one that only made his eyes pop— and followed the path toward the elevator.

“Ten bucks you chicken out.” Wally’s voice snapped you out of your fixation on the spot Damian had been glaring at you from. Dragging your eyes to the side where the ginger was standing, you tilted your head in confusion.

Gar chortled, “Just ask Robin out and take us out of our misery.”

Unbelievable! They really thought you could ever grow to even tolerate the brat. “I’d rather shoot myself, thank you very much.”

Just because Rachel and Garfield’s relationship worked, it didn’t mean everyone in the team liked each other. And honestly, Gar was either blind or too optimistic to see Damian and you would kill each other if you were left alone in the same room. Wally would’ve probably liked that.

Wally and Gar shared a look. They did that a lot whenever you interacted with Damian — sometimes it wasn’t an interaction what triggered it, you could ask if Robin would stay at The Tower and they would do it; you could say something about how dumb his hood was and they would do it; you could avoid the gym when he was there and they would do it.

Ignoring them, you announced you would go take a walk to shake off the stress Robin gave you.

“You’re acting like a child,” Wally told you, shaking his head.

❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎

Damian was in a horrendous mood. He was being a brat, there was no doubt, but he couldn’t care less.

Titus tried to get his attention, whining and wagging his tail. Damian patted the hound’s head and went back to the book he had been reading. He couldn’t even focus properly, his mind was still reeling out of frustration.

He had come to tolerate Tim a long time ago, Damian now fully saw him as a brother. But Tim seemingly lived to torment him, there was no other explanation as to why he thought it would be a good idea to have him in the same team as you.

He had earned his place as leader, but he didn’t want you around. His gut failed him sparingly, and this time it said he should stay away from you.

Testing you would have been a good idea, perhaps you had mystical powers he wasn’t aware of. That would explain the way his chest tightened when he saw you, you were bewitching him to have a heart attack.

Dropping the book, he patted Titus’ head again before leaving his bedroom. He ran downstairs with an impetuosity he hadn’t felt in months.

Jason’s grunts and the tapping against a keyboard echoed around the Batcave. Damian double checked to make sure no one else was there. Walking directly towards the youngest of his older brothers, he leaned his back against the desk as he stared at Tim.

“Drake, do you have a moment?”

Tim didn’t take his eyes off the screen, “What’s up, Dami?”

He would’ve sneered at the nickname a year ago. Now he ignored it. “Have you tested (L/N)?”

Jason and Tim sighed loudly, tired of hearing him go on and on about you. Everyone in the house avoided Damian whenever he came back from Titan Tower just because of that, it seemed like he was the only one who hadn’t realized what was really going on.

Indulging him, Tim stopped typing and turned to look at his little brother. “Tested her for what?”

“Hidden powers. I believe she is manipulating everyone in the team.”

Tim pursed his lips, humming. It was getting harder and harder not to laugh at Damian’s theories and demeanor. God, if only Dick wasn’t busy! It would’ve been hilarious.

Jason couldn’t help himself, however. Standing from his planking position on the mat, he popped a water bottle open. Bringing it to his lips, he commented, “Maybe it’s time you ask her out.”

“That implies I don’t despise her which is a severely wrong misunderstanding of my character,” Damian stated pridefully.

Leaving the chair to stretch, Tim placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “You’ll learn to like her.”

“I’d rather stab myself and suffer an agonizing death.”

Jason caught the faltering tone in Damian’s voice but decided to keep it to himself. “You’re being childish, demon spawn.”

He opened his mouth to defend himself but was interrupted by Alfred who announced it was time for them to get ready for patrol.

❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎

Rachel insisted that it wasn’t hatred what you were feeling. Listening to her might have been wise, but it would mean entertaining the idea that you found Damian attractive. You couldn’t, it didn’t sound real.

You had said “he’s just not ugly” and tried to move on, but no one believed you.

It didn’t matter because you believed it to be true. You had faith in what you were thinking and feeling. The only thing you felt towards him was repulsión and it was mutual, he had been clear the week prior.

The team had tried to prevent you two from fighting, keeping you out of his way. Aware of the reason behind their tiptoeing, you stormed out and confronted him.

His words had affected you a little bit, you couldn’t deny that, but that was only because you had been accused of doing things you weren’t capable of.

You said things you had never imagined uttering to another living being. You had never been a hateful person, but Damian made you react aggressively 100% of the time. He hadn’t been different, you had never heard him say such things — not even when he faced Deathstroke.

The yelling got to the point where Dick, Kory, and Tim were summoned by Victor who didn’t have time to put up with more fights. After complaining about how sloppy you were and how better the team would be without you, Damian had stormed out on the four of you.

Dick and Tim had been unfazed, clearly used to the bratty behavior. You excused yourself and went directly to your bedroom. You didn’t see him until the next mission.

He regretted every time he had complained of a narrator using a variation of witnessing something in slow motion. He now understood exactly what the narrators meant, and he was doing so in the worst way possible.

Damian had never regretted many things, not since he started living with his father at least, but now he could think of multiple comments and gestures.

He needed to calm down. You were okay, everything was fine — you were capable of taking care of yourself, he didn’t have to worry. You hadn’t even been harmed, but he couldn’t shake the image of that bullet missing you by millimeters.

What would have he done if you were shot? It would’ve been his fault for not giving you the proper orders, for thinking you would eventually quit being part of the team and free him of the oppression in his chest and the lightheadedness.

Turning the lights of his bedroom off, he closed the door. The other wooden doors were closed too, Garfield usually slept for an entire day after missions so Damian imagined everyone was trying to be as silent as possible.

Well, your bedroom door was ajar. You were finishing folding the laundry you had left undone before the mission. Damian knocked out of politeness. “Busy?”

“I’ll have the mission report ready in an hour,” you told him, not bothering to grant him your attention. The only reason you were giving him explanations was that he was your team leader. “I just need to make a phone call.”

“Boyfriend needs to know where you are?” His tone was harsher than he intended. Damian hated the way you couldn’t even grace him with a glare now.

You folded the pastel yellow t-shirt on your lap carefully. “Sister, actually.”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware that you had siblings.” You hummed. Damian blurted, “Does that mean you don’t have a boyfriend?”

The insistence made you lift your head to stare at him. He could’ve been mocking you and you wouldn’t have been aware. But he wasn’t, his eyes were dancing over your face in expectancy of an answer.

“I don’t.”

“That’s good.”

Planting a foot on the floor, you shrugged. As you split the stacks of clothes to carry them with more ease, you asked, “Is there anything I can help you with?”

God, there were many things; the fact that you had asked was a win on itself. Damian walked into the bedroom, curiously analyzing the bookshelf. He had only been there once, when he was given a tour of the tower — remembering the unnecessarily mean comment he made about the color of the walls, he winced.

The color was fine, but he had hated the way his heart raced when you opened the door and greeted Tim and him. You had been so polite he didn’t recognize you the first time you rolled your eyes at him. He couldn’t blame you for disliking him, he just wished it was different, that you were in the same position he was and with the same worries that had caused him many sleepless nights.

He opened your closet to then take a stack of clothes from the bed. He liked the way you arranged them, it reminded him of the way his mother used to.

“Leave that, I can do it.”

Shaking his head, Damian silently picked another stack of clothes and like he had done before, stored it in your closet. “You should rest.”

He was scaring you now. Since when did he care about your wellbeing? And since when weren’t you healthy enough to do chores?

“I’m not tired.”

“You were almost shot at.”

Oh, that. You had assumed no one had been paying attention, you didn’t even blame them for that when the battle had been so intense.

“Well, you were almost stabbed but I’m not saying anything.”

“You technically are.”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

Damian made a pause. “What if I had been stabbed?” You looked up at him, so innocently confused he had to fight the urge of cupping your full cheeks. “What would you have done?”

Such a great question. Rachel’s voice echoed in your mind — she had been right. She was always right, actually, and you didn’t like it in this instance.

“Does it matter?”

“Sadly.”

“I don’t know,” you confessed. “What I said last week… I didn’t mean it.”

“I know.”

“How come?”

“I didn’t mean anything of what I said either.” He sat on the edge of the bed. Avoiding your eyes, he continued, “I wish— no, that would be a lie too… this isn’t how these things are supposed to go.”

Unsure as to what to say, you decided to remain silent. Only he knew what he wanted to express.

“I don’t want you to leave, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You were more baffled now. “Is there a but?”

“No. I’m afraid there are things I do actually want you to do, though.”

“The report?”

He giggled. Damian Wayne giggled because of something you said. You had never heard a sound that compared with it, there was no point in trying to find something as adorable as a brooding giant giggling because of your perplexed questions.

That was until he said, “I want you to like me. I want you to trust me like you trust West and to talk to me… I want you to tell me about your life, all the things you like and hate.” He let out a scoff, “I know it’s asking too much, but I want you to…”

It shouldn’t have taken him being about to watch you get hurt to realize it. Then again, he wasn’t an expert in emotions. Damian dominated languages, he could talk his way out of almost any situation, he was an expert in many sciences, but emotions had never been his forte.

Emotions were weaknesses where he came from. He wasn’t the child scared of his mother catching him crying out of pain due to a broken arm anymore, but that child still lived inside him. Said child had morphed into a young adult scared of his own self catching him falling in love with the person he least expected.

His fear had come true, and running away from it wouldn’t only be useless but stupid.

Playing with his fingers, he stated, “I want you. That’s it.”

“Me too.” You put your hand on top of both of his.

Damian stared down at your hand for a moment, then turned to look at you. He needed you to be sure of what you were saying, he wouldn’t hold it against you if you couldn’t see past his awful behavior toward you.

You squeezed his fingers. “I mean it.”

Twisting his hand, he pressed his palm on yours. Wiggling his fingers as he intertwined them with yours, thumb brushing the back of your hand, he asked, “Is that okay?”

“More than okay,” you assured, making him grin.

You felt your stomach twist at his gesture. This time you didn’t find the sensation uncomfortable — on the contrary, it was a relief to finally understand it had never meant disgust. Your pride hated it, your mental health was thankful.

Your head drifted closer to his shoulder. The soft material of his sweatshirt invited you to rest it there, and Damian was delighted when you finally did it. He stayed still for a lingering moment, questioning whether he should do it or not — eventually he caved in and kissed the top of your head.

Craning your neck to look at him, now with your cheek pressed on his shoulder, you smiled at him. His eyes lit up as he smiled back, green orbs deviating to your lips.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Kissing you,” he answered truthfully.

Breathing out a small laugh, you said, “do it, then.”

He slowly dropped his lips onto yours, brushing them tentatively at first. You slid your hand off his as you kissed him back, placing it on his other shoulder as you lifted your head without breaking the kiss.

Damian’s arm wrapped around your plump waist, holding your face with his free hand while deepening the kiss. Trailing your hand up to his neck, your thumb traced his jaw while your lips sucked on his bottom lip.

“I still have to call my sister,” you reminded him as he pulled you closer.

Humming, Damian tightened his arm around you to bring you flush against him so you would straddle his lap. “I’m not stopping you, angel. I’m sure you can multitask.”

And so you called home, with an arm around Damian’s neck as your fingers played with his hair and he buried his face in your neck.

The next morning the kitchen was almost empty when you were ready for the day, only Rachel was there already which was how it usually went.

Eventually, the kitchen and therefore the dining room filled. The only one missing was Garfield, but you were used to that after missions. The chatter progressed as it did on a daily basis — Rachel mostly kept to herself unless she had something to say, Victor told Wally to stop talking with his mouth full of food, and Wally disobeyed Victor.

“Good morning.” Damian greeted the team, walking toward the cupboard to retrieve a mug.

Your teammates mumbled greetings. The clattering of silverware against ceramic got louder as they hurried their meal in case Damian and you decided it was a good time to fight.

A warm hand was placed on your hip. You carefully turned around, placing a hot mug in his free hand. “Green with a teaspoon of brown sugar.”

He kissed your forehead, lips still caressing your temple as he spoke, “thank you, beloved.”

Wally’s shocked screech woke Garfield up from his deep slumber two floors up.

#damian wayne x reader #damian wayne x plus size reader #plus size reader #plus size fanfiction #robin x reader #robin x plus size reader #damian wayne #robin #dc x reader #dc x plus size reader #batfam x reader #batfam x plus size reader

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miss-choco-chips · 5 years ago

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Home

Four times Tim just wanted to go home, and one time he’s actually there.

( @animemangasoul I think you’ll like this one)

(I was listening to Home by Machine Gun Kelly X Ambassadors & Bebe Rexha while I wrote this. Might have cried a little. I regret nothing)

----.----

His mom is holding his hand, a rare occurrence. Were he in a more… stable state, he’d squeeze the moment for all it’s worth.

But the coldness of fear had his heart in a ice-like grip, and the scenery around them did little to appease him. Nothing, not even the warmth of being held, could keep him from shaking.

-I want to go home -he whispers in his mother’s ear when she picks him up in her arms. Safe against her body, he thinks he can feel his heart melting a bit around the edges where panic had frozen him over.

Mom tightened her hold, eyes leaving the crying kid and his dead parents for the first time in a long time. He feels how one of her hands drops its place under his leg to pat his back, more comforting than he ever thought she capable of.

-Yes, we are leaving now. Jack? Bring the car over, we’ll wait here.

She doesn’t lower him until they are back at the manor. Then, his parents retire to their rooms, both to rest and prepare for their trip to the Bahamas the following morning.

Tim shivers all night long, yearning for the warmth he was too distracted to appreciate a few hours ago, back at the circus.

This wasn't what he meant, when he asked to go home. He just wanted to feel safe.

----.----

This… wasn’t what he expected. To being caught, that is. Specially by his hero.

Jason (Robin, call him Robin, don’t you dare slip up, he can’t know you know!) is looking down at him, hands on his hips. He’s doing his best to look stern, but the short shorts, pixie boots and unconscious thug at his back ruin the effect of his glare.

Tim, camera held tightly as it’s been for the last couple of minute since the man came out of the shadows to try and steal it from him, distractedly thinks Batman should get on that, teach Robin his famous loom. He’s feeling starstruck, more than fearful.

-It’s too late for a squirt like you to be out. Streets are dangerous, no’ne told you? Specially ‘is parts o’the city -the young vigilante drawled, accent thicker than Tim recalled from back at the gala when their parents introduced them in passing. Not that Jason would remember.

-I… I’m not a squirt, I’m ten -he finally blurts out, wishing he could smack himself the second the words leave his mouth.

-Children should be on bed at this time.

He does his best to calm his erratic heart, and canalizes all the sass on his pint sized body to arch an eyebrow- Hypocrite much?

Robin growls, but Tim can tell he’s doing his best to hide a smile.

-I can leave you here, you know.

He knows Jason is bluffing, looking for a reaction, but the mere idea still makes his barely calming heart kick into overdrive again. The scare of a few minutes ago was too fresh on his mind. He already knows he won’t be going out again soon, not until he could plan a new route to photograph his idols while traveling only by rooftop, to best avoid the scum of the city.

-No, wait… please -he moves forward, hand taking a handful of cape, as if that could stop the vigilante if he actually was planning to leave.

Jason took the chance to wrap him on it like a little blanket, picking him up in his arms like a baby.

-Don’t worry, shortstack. I’m taking you home so I can be sure y’er actually following your bedtime.

Feeling a little braver in his hero’s arms, he fired back- Don’t have any.

-Whatever, you lil liar.

-It’s true. You can ask my parents… that’s it, if you’re willing to go into my house for a chat. Masks are in bad taste though, you’ll have to take yours off.

Truthfully, both his parents are away on business. Not that he needed to know about the bluff.

This time, he didn’t bother to hide his amusement, letting his barking laughter come out.

-You little shit. I’m not giving you my secret that easy.

Tim just shrugs, painting his most innocent smile. It’s difficult to keep it in place when Jason asks for directions, and then drops him at his bedroom’s window.

The giddiness of meeting his hero can’t quench his disappointment when he watches Jason’s back as he leaves.

A little, childish part of himself had believed, hoped (with all the innocence his heart had left), that when Jason said ‘take you home’, he was talking about his own.

----.----

He’s training as hard as possible. His body, shaped by the multiple teachers he hired through the years, hurts in a way he never thought possible, and has been like that ever since he first went to the training mats to face Bruce.

He knows the pain is necessary, what he learns there could be the difference between life or death (his eyes never fail to go to Jason’s suit, his altar, where he, as his whorshipper, would always go ask for strength and courage), but it's hard to remember his purpose for being there when he goes to bed each night with aching limbs.

Still, he endures.

This last week has been both harder than any other, and the best he’s ever had. The first, because a full on out gang war had forced him, Dick and Bruce to work overtime, going out every night for twice their usual hours (thank god for spring break). The second, because to save time and strength, he’d been allowed to stay the night at the manor with them.

He can’t believe how nice it is to have breakfast with someone. Sure, they have it at like three pm, but still. The pained body was so, so worth this.

When they caught their last perps, all tied up and pretty for the GCPD, Tim was simultaneously absolutely beat and the happiest he’s been.

Batman puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, saying ‘let’s go home, Robin’, and he thinks for a moment he’s dreaming again.

He actually sleeps a bit, on the Batmobile trip. Beyond tired, feels his body being raised and then lowered again in a soft surface, something warm over his chest, and then lights out again.

When he wakes up the next morning, he’s at Drake Manor. The breakfast table is empty, the hallways colder than he remembered, and he wishes last night had actually been a dream. It would hurt less, if it had been all in his imagination; instead, he has to live with the knowledge of being so close, yet so far.

Not for the first time, he wishes ‘home’ were a different place.

----.----

He sighs, dropping his suitcase uncaringly. Anything important is on his phone anyway, who gives a fuck. Certainly not an overworked seventeen year old kid who’s just getting back after a long day.

The place was clean, spacious and with a modern decoration style he kinda likes. The mechanic fishes certainly give it a nice touch, and the underground nerd cave he built for himself is the cherry on top- bottom, whatever.

It’s a nice house. A place he made for himself, to come back to. With scanners that automatically alert him if some sneaky ninja plants a bug, or a snoopy family member was sniffing around for his toys. He knows everything that happens here, in this little kingdom he built from scratch.

Of course, there are some itty bitty problems with it. Not the layout itself, that one was a dream came true, and no security issue either: all of Ra’s thwarted attempts at having his people breaking in confirmed how tight it was.

But, for some reason, the thermostat didn’t seem to work. It was always way too cold.

The soundproof walls were good at keeping his secrets under wraps, but they also made it seem so unnaturally quiet, it gave him the creeps.

No table in sight. Not that he needed one, he shrugs. Lunch he eats outside, at the office. Dinner is a quick thing, a sandwich while he gets ready for patrol or some other snack while he types away at his computer. Breakfast… he doesn’t know why, but he never feels right when eating it, so he skips it more often than not.

Sighing again, he falls face first into his absurdly pricey couch. Blindly patting the coffee table until he finds the blanket he always keeps there, he thinks about taking a lil nap. He didn’t sleep last night (or the one before that), so it feels like he’s earned this break.

Decision made, Tim takes his phone out of the secret pocket in his coat and selects the app that makes background noise. He always sleeps better with it.

Yeah. This is a nice, comfortable place.

Too bad it’s not home.

-I just want to go home -he whispers to himself before letting unconsciousness claim him.

If asked, he’d said the break in his voice was a yawn and not a sob.

----.----

When he wakes up, it’s to noise all around him. That alone puts him on guard so fast he would have pulled a muscle, if he were anyone else. As a Bat-trained vigilante though, he just tensed before opening his eyes to analyze his surroundings.

This… wasn’t his place, where he distinctly remembers falling asleep, face down on his couch.

This was Titans Tower. Was he losing track of time? Had he been on a fight and got hit on the head?

-Hey, you’re awake -Kon’s head poked out of the kitchen area, smiling as he floated all the way to where Tim was lying, on the living room’s couch.

The sight of his friend was enough to loosen his muscles. Still unsure but immediately comfortable he sat up straight and looked around. He could hear Bart and Cassie bickering on the background, probably the kitchen, Greta’s laughter coming to him from the same place, and those were Anita’s shoes and Cissie’s backpack near the elevator.

The first two and Kon, he could get. They were all Titans. But the three girls? They were retired, so what…

-Hey, boy wonder, let your brain take a break. I can hear you thinking from here and it’s giving me a headache -the super joked, landing by Tim’s side and poking his forehead lightly.

-That’s because you never think, you aren’t used to it -he fires back automatically. Then, a slow blink- What are the girls doing here? What am I doing here? Last thing I remember I was… at the Perch. Sleeping.

-Yeah, and what a deep sleep that was. Been pulling all nighters, haven’t you? -his best friend shook his head, beyond giving Tim a disappointed look. They knew each other way too much to be surprised by their respective bad habits- you didn’t even flinch when I wrapped you up in TTK and flew you here. And about the girls, I told Cassie and Bart I was gonna pick you up, and they decided to make a thing out of this and went to bring them here, just to hang out. Like back in the days, you know?

The mention of their Young Justice times never failed to give Tim a heartache, but this time it just made him feel warm.

He tried to look stern, but the smile he could feel growing on his lips against his will probably ruined it.

-But why did you? Bring me here, I mean.

Kon tilted his head, visibly confused.

-What do you mean? I heard you. You said you wanted to go home.

Something deep and frozen inside him abruptly melted, like it was hit by a flamethrower. The intensity brought tears to his eyes, body shaking uncontrollably as he bent over himself, hands clutching the opposite arm tightly, as if trying to hold himself in one piece.

Kon’s arms were around him in an instant, worried shouts piercing his ears as he plastered the smaller vigilante to his chest, unthinkingly helping him keep his broken pieces together. The warmth from his best friend’s body served as a welder, and Tim could finally breathe without the fear of breaking apart.

-Tim? Fuck, what’s wrong? Are you okay?! Here, dude, I got you.

-Kon? What is i- fuck, what did you do? Hey, Tim!

-Rob? Oh my god he’s crying, why is he crying!

The voices came closer, surrounding him from all directions as multiple hands touched him in an attempt to comfort.

It was too much, too warm, too bright.

He hoped it’d never end.

-I just…

Everyone stopped talking. His voice was broken by sobs, but he sounded happier than they had ever heard him.

-I’m just happy I’m finally home.

#Tim Drake #Young Justice #batfamily #my writting #kon el kent #bart allen #cassie sandsmark #Greta Hayes #Cissie King-Jones #Anita #Bruce Wayne #Dick Grayson #Jason todd #NO EDIT #I WROTE THIS IN ONE SITTING I FEEL LIKE I WAS POSSESED YOU GUYS

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iphoenixrising · 5 years ago

Text

Merry Christmas, Timmy

hi babes. For those of you that don’t celebrate, I still hope you are wonderful wherever you are. Kiddo was with her dad last night, so I was all by myself, got a little sad, and thought of this little thing for the holidays. I’ve done angsty ones before (like this one), but I won’t break your heart with it <3

And the softly falling snow flutters around Gotham, painting the city in a semblance of joy. Christmas lights on buildings and store fronts, a decorated tree in Robinson Square, all signals the city is feeling the good cheer.

Christmas Eve and all is calm.

Except for the vigilante standing at the top of the Wallstone Apartments, grapple in one hand, planning his next jump while the snow piles on his shoulders, and the glinting lights sparkle off his harness in the night.

The muted comm in his ear is silent, no witty banter back-and-forth or calm, cool orders, no sounds of flying over the skyline or fights breaking out against the criminals. It’s as quiet as the city itself.

He hadn’t expected any different, knowing the patrol roster would be empty. The Bats would be at the Manor for hours already, eating and celebrating the holiday, taking a well-deserved night off unless something awful happened, and major crime took them away from the warmth and laughter.

And even if he isn’t part of it all anymore, not since he’d brought back the OG Batman from time, even if he didn’t wear the R in front of his heart like a brand, even if he’d been gone long enough to get the point, that maybe he’d only been the stand-in all along, Red Robin is still determined to keep moving and make damn sure there would be no reason to disturb their family gathering tonight.

The pain in his chest at being the last one left standing had waned in the last year, enough that he could be in the city without it being such fucking agony. It’s easier to stand at his old haunt with nostalgia dogging his steps, looking out for the same hidden niches and fire escapes sturdy enough to hold his weight. It’s easier to stay out of the way when he’s back, to run Wayne Enterprises without getting in Bruce’s sight, to patrol the outskirts and gaps away from the family, to keep his comm on mute, to keep his penthouse Perch his main haven instead of coming back to the Cave or the Manor or the Bunker and pushing himself into their lives where he probably never should have been in the first place.

It’s easier...for everyone.

It’s easier not to make waves but to just bow out gracefully and work on the backend instead. So, yesterday, he’d bid his teammates at Titan’s Tower good-bye as they all left to go to their families for Christmas, and he boarded a plane back to Gotham with every intention of keeping the city safe while the protectors got their time to celebrate.

And the crisp, cold air is hard on his lungs after thwarting the first of three escape attempts from Arkham, bruised to the bone from some pretty good fights along the way. A few hours before dawn and he could go back to his Perch, check his injuries from the last tussle with his team to make sure he isn’t approaching an infection, and pass out for the first time in over sixty hours.

Renee Montoya, as it happens, is also on patrol, and flags him down with a full cup of coffee, grinning at his whiteouts, pulling the collar of her jacket up while they talk about the few B&Es he’d already hit.

A swing to the soup kitchen and further to the homeless shelter. Skimming along the roof of the crooked pawn shop in the Narrows and down to the usual hangout for a few of the lesser gangs, flaring the cape out to be obvious, sending the message someone is out tonight, and a beating might not be the best present for the morning.

An alarm raised at Blackgate, and he’s riding the Ducati at breakneck speed, jaw tight against the bitter cold, ignoring the numbing in his legs and fingers.

It’s no shock someone as smart as Falcone would have his minions try to bust him out when the guard duty is light for the holidays.

He shoves one out of the way of a hail of bullets, his armor taking most of the damage, and his thigh taking another in a bout of stupidly bad luck. He brings them down fast enough to keep the fighting to a minimum and as many guards safe as possible.

He stays long enough to zip tie the cranky ones, waits for the red and blue lights, the scream of sirens signalling back-up is on the way.

The ride back to town is hazy because he didn’t get the tourniquet on fast enough and blood paints a nasty wreath-like shape in the snow.

The Ducati coasts to a shadowy alleyway a few block from his Perch, and he falls off, drags himself behind a dumpster for a breather. Midnight chimes across the city, a Merry Christmas to go with his blood loss.

And when he’s finally caught his breath enough to stand with the whitehot pain in the meat of his thigh starting to be a problem, his ear cracks to life, hazy in his brainpan.

“Can’t trace him. He doesn’t have trackers in his suit.” “What the fuck ya talkin’ ‘bout, O?” “We will absolutely address that later, Hood. For now, we have priorities.”

He laughs off his insane imagination and manages to get to his feet. He hobbles to the Ducati, pushes it behind the dumpster, out of sight, and makes a note to get it in the morning.

The grapple is slippery in his hand, and he fumbles a little on the way up, not realizing it’s because his glove is bloody and not conducive to any kind of a good grip. No running this time, just hobbling his way two rooftops over and he’s home free.

Wavery, he doesn’t fall when Nightwing and the Red Hood land it on either side of him, but damn if it isn’t a close thing.

“Finally!” “Fer fuck’s sake, Red. Ya couldn’ta bother callin’ er some shit?”

Which throws him for an important second because what the hell are they even doing out?

The step away is automatic, stepping back from the vigilantes that, in their own ways, tried to kill him. Jason, at least, didn’t try to hide the intent.

Slowly, N raises a hand, “easy, Red. It’s okay now, we’re–” “Go home,” is all he can think to say. “Go back to your family. I’ve already taken care of the city tonight.” And turns his back on them both with copper in his mouth and the pain in his chest more acute than the one throbbing in his leg.

But the tall, imposing shadow right behind him manages to stop his thought processes because of all things, he sure as hell didn’t expect this.

“The guard at Blackgate reported you could have been hit,” Robin takes a step away from Batman’s side, a hand flying out to sweep the cape back, the reinforced tights stained even in the dim. “It seems he was correct.”

Penned in on all sides, B and Robin, N and Hood, all of them closing in on him.

“Is the bullet still in?” Hand on his shoulder and fuck is it familiar. “Why the hell didn’t cha call fer back-up?!” “We need to get him home. Now.” “Do not strain it, Drake. It may have hit an artery.”

Pulling out of Batman’s hold is not something he can remember doing before tonight, and it’s easier said than done. The hand tightens down for a second before Red makes another try, lunging back to keep them all in his sight.

The vigilantes around him go quiet, all those whiteouts fixed.

“Go home. I came out tonight so the Bats could enjoy Christmas. Arkham’s been secured and so has Blackgate.” He grips his thigh, tightens his hand so the pain helps clear his head a little.

Hood holds up both hand, palms out in the I come in peace that really has no place between them.

(Really, what’s a slit throat and bat-a-rang in the chest between enemies?)

And Nightwing still has a hand out toward him, takes a careful, easy step. But the Batman? He gives absolute no fucks about what his middle son is spewing, just strides up, moves fast and furious enough to have Red Robin up in his arms, tight against the yellow insignia on his chest, turns in a flare of cape, and dives off the roof.

“What the fuck–?!”

The Batmobile slides open silently, and B falls right in the driver’s seat without a ruffle, slams the button to start the massive engine, an arm around Red’s to keep the younger vigilante against his chest, in his lap, held securely. Robin lifts the legs off his seat and joins them.

The Dynamic Duo ignore the pointed, “wait!” as the hatch slides back in place and the car takes off down the silent, snowy street.

Robin reaches to adjust the tourniquet, a quiet, “hold your breath, this shall not be...pleasant.”

B’s hand moves to grip his shoulder while the other pilots the big car, pulling Red Robin deeper into his body, trying to shield him in some crazy way that seems too much, too fucking much, to be real.

The adjustment takes him by surprise, the abruptness of it, of them, of this, taking him completely–

out.

Which is how the Batman leaps out of the Batmobile, with Tim limp and loose in his arms, Damian following on his heels with quicker steps.

“My word,” Alfred turns away from setting up coffee, a hopeful gesture for Master Tim’s sake.

“That’s not what I hoped for,” Stephanie is out of the computer chair in a heartbeat, her ugly Christmas sweater still lighting up since Dick and Jay said there wouldn’t be a need for anyone else to suit up tonight. She and Cass elected to stay behind and keep Alfred company while they boys went to collect their wayward Robin.

Cass moves silently past, already throwing the screen back to the medical bay, her eyes narrowed on the swaying arm and tights darkened with blood.

The echo of Ducatis hits as Alfred scrubs his hands, gloves up, and Steph helps Bruce maneuver around the traps in Tim’s suit.

It’s all hands on deck with Cass and Dami helping to ready supplies, stripping off pieces of the suit when they can.

Dick tosses his gloves and gauntlets the minute they throw themselves off the bikes, Jay dropping the helmet at his workstation on the way.

By the computer, Barbara keeps searching, her likewise ugly Christmas sweater a tacky Riddler dancing with the tastefully done rhyme: Jingle Bells, Batman smells! Robin laid an egg. The Batmobile lost it’s wheel is absolutely perfect for the night.

Until she digs around to see what Red Robin has been in to since his plane hit Gotham, then goes a little further to see what’s been on the Titan’s roster the last few weeks.

The report is grim, and she gives it with a hard tone as Duke comes into the medical bay with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, frowning over bullet fragments pinging in a metal tray.

“By his damn self?” Because Jay feels it bares repeating. “By himself,” Barbara confirms, wheeling cautiously around to reach through the bodies and squeeze the unmoving hand.

The bruises and contusions make the point, drive home some very hard to believe things as the Bats take him in to the skin. The new scars aren’t in his medical report, and B shoves back the cowl, eyes moving to memorize each one, already planning how he’s going to ease Tim in to talking about them all.

Dick runs a bare hand through Tim’s hair while Jay puts in an IV, Damian grips a bare ankle, his expression grim. Cass winds an arm around Steph’s waist to ground her, watches her best friend blink back tears and hold a hand to her mouth in disbelief. Duke stands with arms folded over his chest, looks for any indication he can jump in and help.

In a few hours, everyone is in pajamas, in various stages of passed out around the couch when Tim comes to slowly, strangely warm for being out in the middle of Gotham on Christmas Eve.

(What the fuck?)

He catches his breath when the ceiling above is one he recognizes all too painfully. He doesn’t even get the chance to move to sit up, to try maneuvering around all the bodies splayed in his favorite sitting room in Wayne Manor because Bruce is someone with an instinct that flares when one of his Robins is obviously in need.

He’s awake, completely alert before Tim’s hand moves the blanket off enough to try getting free over the back of the couch and out.

“Thank God,” and Bruce’s expression is so awfully, terribly relieved, Tim has to look away or be reduced to that teenage kid, shoving himself in their lives trying to save this man from himself.

And since, well Batman, Bruce is up on the couch just that fast, holding Tim in his lap, against his chest, rocking him gently back and forth, arms tight.

“I’ve been so worried about you,” breathed against his too long hair, “when you wouldn’t come home, wouldn’t come back. I thought...it doesn’t matter what I thought, but you’re home and we’re going to take care of you.”

“N-no, I can’t...I shouldn’t be here. I– you should have let me go, I don’t...I’m not–” but his voice wavers when those arms lock down, keep him from wiggling away.

“Yes, yes, you should be here. Right here with us where you belong. No more running, Tim. I’m not letting you go back to Titan’s Tower until you tell me everything. We’re going to solve cases and update your files and talk about what a pain in your ass the team is. We’re going to go to WE together next time and text each other in board meetings to keep from falling asleep. You’re going to patrol with me and Dick and Damian until you remember this is your home too.”

And Bruce only lets up enough to pull the blanket up to Tim’s shoulders, rocks them both gently while his other children sleep on.

“Bruce,” is watery and lost, is so many things that make his heart ache painfully.

“I know, well, at least some of it,” he huffs against the top of his son’s messy bedhead, “but this? You coming back? This is my Christmas Miracle, Tim.”

A big hand loosens enough to rub soothing circles on his back, feeling the tremble that go through Tim’s body that has nothing to do with the hole in his leg. But it’s fine because he’ll sit here all day and into the night, just like this if he needs to, will keep his middle son in place if it keeps Tim from running back to the Titans, to give him the evidence he needs to see.

(How much they need him.)

He holds on and soothes while the tree in front of him blinks brightly and the presents below wait for the excitement of his sleeping kids to wake up and rip them open. And strewn around the base, packages and packages marked Tim and Timmy and Drake and Pain in the ass and Boy Wonder and Master Tim all from the last two years without their third Robin are waiting to be piled up in his lap and spill out on the couch beside him. Are waiting for him as patiently as all the sleeping bodies have been. Waiting for him to come home, waiting for him to finally, finally come back.

By the time Alfred comes in with a tray of coffee, hoping to see their missing member awake without trying to leave, Tim is laying exhausted against Bruce’s chest, the two talking softly.

“I just...I–” “I know, kiddo, I’m sorry you ever thought that.” “B...” “It’s okay. We’ll work it out, we’ll work together to make it better for you. Don’t give up on me, Tim.” “Like that’s ever going to happen? The rest of the world thought you were dead, you know.”

Seeing the look on Master Tim’s face when he takes the first sip of coffee is intensely gratifying, watching him devour the omelette (tomatoes and spinach, still his favorite of course) before Alfred’s other charges are awake sets a bit of starch in his spine because the young man is woefully under weight. Another omelette is certainly in order.

Dick barely blinks his eyes open before he’s latching on to his little brother with his own octopus hold engaged, and refuses to relinquish the bird while the others start waking up to gather around him.

Tears are shed and the hugs are so tight, laughter following on the edges. Gifts are piled and the attention is set on him as he slowly opens them, blinking back so his eyes don’t spill over.

And he gets to have this warmth in the niche of Dick’s lap with hands desperately holding on, grounding him here in the Manor instead of in the silent Tower or his empty Perch.

He gets Dami gingerly handing him a wrapped package that’s a book of sketches, him in his red and black, him with a grin and domino, him with an arm around Kon and Bart, him and Dick on patrol, him and B walking to the open Batmobile, ready to take on the night. He gets a serious lecture on the statistics of sepsis and a finger wagging in his face that Dami will not tolerate his family being in such danger, Drake, and yes, that includes you.

He gets Steph holding his hand too tight, her eyes watery and lower lip trembling with whatever she’d seen while he was riding the unconscious train, and Cass rubbing his scalp with her free hand and smiling that same gentle smile from that time she came for him in the fight against Ra’s crazy ass sister.

He gets Jason Todd putting a fresh cup of coffee in his hand and a soft half-smile that seems to tell a story he’d never thought he’d live long enough to hear, and Babs treating him the same as always, going on about the new Ransomware she’d planted in Lonnie’s systems just for a hoot.

He gets to low-five Duke when the guy helps get some of the intense attention away, steering most of them back to the tree to help hand out gifts and get spots cleared so Alfred can bring in food with Jay helping so the butler can catch a seat and accept brightly wrapped packages.

And the day moves into afternoon, terrible Hallmark Christmas movies turn into awful 80′s action movies with Christmas themes (Jason making fun of Lethal Weapon is literally the best thing he’s ever seen), and it’s strange to see someone waiting for him in the hall anytime he’s had to use the bathroom, or hobbles upstairs to change clothes.

(He never suspected he’d still have a room, a place, a workstation, a set of clothes that fit. Never suspected any of this to be waiting, thought these days were long gone and acceptance was the road better taken.)

A chorus of hell no’s! and Dick literally wrapping him up in a stifling hold keeps him in for the night when he follows in the back of the group down to the Cave and picks up his suit, assesses the damage briefly but starts to wrap his wrists anyhow.

Jason is the one to take the tape out of his hand around Dick’s crushing denial, and another finger wagging in his face with some nu-uh Timmers. That shit ain’t gonna happen, feel me? on the side.

Alfred caps it all off, mildly remarking how Master Tim would absolutely be able to work comms in their absence since someone of the household would need to clean-up the mess upstairs since he apparently isn’t getting any younger.

So he finds himself plunked down in the chair by the big computer, O grinning next to him on her laptop, warming up her system to plug into the criminal side of Gotham and get their night started right.

And this chain of events might not be what he imaged a few hours, a few days, a few weeks��ago when memories of the Manor hit him in his roughest moments, gave him a bit of strength to keep moving, but it may just be the evidence he needs to also believe in Christmas miracles.

#winter writes #merry christmas!#tim drake #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #damian wayne #stephanie brown #duke thomas #cassandra cain #alfred pennyworth #you might be a little sad #hurt/comfort #home for the holidays #my drabs #my writing

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dick-g-ayson · 5 years ago

Note

I couldn't resist, so here we go. If you're still taking prompts, "Join Me" for JayKon - I keep thinking bed-sharing (maybe nightmares?) and the cute kind of awkwardness. ❤️

Okay, @red-bri we discussed these at length and I am going to do both, so have some fluffy bed-sharing before the angst.

This went a bit longer than I expected, and not quite the way I envisioned, but I like it none the less. 😊

Warm light filtered in through wide open windows. Soft late evening late casting everything in a purple haze, street noise a quiet hum in the background. A quiet peaceful afternoon.

Too bad Conner couldn't enjoy a second of it.

Another round of sneezes, followed by the loud honk of a nose being blown, broke the peacefulness of the day, as Conner blew his nose for what felt like the hundredth time. His nose was bright red, and dry, his chest hurt when he breathed. Every time he tried to take a deep breath he ended up in a coughing fit.

If Tim and the others didn't get this mess figured out soon, he was going to throw himself out of the Tower and end his own misery.

"Ah-ah-ACHOO!"

"Bless you!"

Conner let his head drop back against the back of the couch, looking to see who had spoken.

He felt his heart stop for a moment, before beating again hard. For once, since this whole "no-powers, you're human now bitch + Haha you're sick too!", mess had started, Conner was glad the fever had given him a flush all over. Otherwise Jason would have seen the blush that spread across his face, and down his neck.

"Jeez, I'm s'prised y'didn't blow th'roof offa this place."

Conner just blinked at him through the haze of his fever, watched as he walked further into the communal floor. There was a slight hitch in his step. 'His knee must be acting up.'

"Although if what Timmers tells me is true, you couldn't even take the Baby-Bat right now."

Conner groaned and let himself slide down the couch, burying his face in a pillow.

"Ugh! I can't believe he told you of all people." He raised his head enough to glare at Jason, who was now standing at the foot of the couch, hands on his hips and a smirk on his face. "That why you're hear? To mock me in my hour of pain and misery?"

Jason laughed and Conner buried his face back into the couch, ignoring the pleasant twist in his abdomen, as the rich sound of it washed over him.

"Nah, I try not t'kick a man when he's down."

That got a disbelieving snort out of Conner, muffled as it was.

"Okay, I try not to kick friends when they're down. How's that?" Conner could imagine the eye roll that accompanied that statement.

"More believable at least."

Jason laughed again as he nudged at Conner's foot, "Golly gee, thanks mister. Now, budge up SuperClone. Y'don't need th'whole couch t'yerself."

Conner scowled and kicked out sluggishly when Jason continued to prod at his legs. Not stopping until Conner reluctantly pulled his feet up and twisted his body. He was now leaning on the couch instead of laying on it face first. "God,you are such a dick!"

"Nah, that's m'brother" Jason smirked as he flopped onto the couch. "Betcha y'can breathe easier now though. Cantcha."

Conner scowled, looking away, crossing his arms huffing over his chest.

Jason cackled in response as he kicked his feet up onto the table, crossing his arms behind his head. Letting his eyes drift shut with a satisfied smile.

It was only then that Conner noticed that the other was in casual clothes. A plain dark t-shirt, blue jeans, and boots. It was probably the most casual Conner had ever seen the other man dress. It wasn't a bad look.

"So why are you here?" Conner found himself asking after a few moments of silence.

"Hmm? Oh, Tim asked me t'swing by an' make sure y'weren't workin' y'self to death."

Conner scoffed, "Please, was he looking in a mirror when he said that?"

"Right! I told the little workaholic tha' he was bein' a hypocrite, but the little shit insisted." Jason shrugged his broad shoulders, tilting his head a bit to smirk over at the flustered Clone. "So here I am."

"Joy. I'm touched really, but as you-you can see I'm f-fine." Conner's words dissolved into a coughing fit that had the teasing melting off of Jason's face. He vaulted over the arm of the couch and dissapeared from sight, as Conner fought to get his breathing under control.

The coughing stopped after a minute and Conner was panting like he'd run a marathon, tears in his eyes, and starting to trail down his cheeks.

He opened his eyes to see Jason crouched in front of him glass of water in his hand.

"Here, drink this. Slow."

Conner nodded as he reached for the cool glass with a shaking hand, and Jason didn't release it until Conner had a good grip.

Once he was sure he wasn't going to chug it down, Jason stood and disappeared again.

Conner didn't hear him again for several minutes, when the sound of heavy boots approaching roused him from the light stupor, he had fallen into, while trying to remember how to breathe.

He looked up when Jason stopped in front of him, sitting on the table before the couch. He handed him a tiny cup filled with a dark purple liquid.

"Drink that, too. It'll help wit' th'congestion."

"This shit doesn't work, I'm -"

"Half Kryptonian, blah blah." Jason waved a hand, interrupting him. "Tha's th'half that's bein' suppressed, so right now you," he reached over and poked Conner in the forehead. "Are all human. And good humans take their meds. Now drink up, or do I gotta make ya?"

Conner scowled as Jason continued to smirk at him, shaking the little cup obnoxiously.

He relented with a roll of eyes, taking the cup and downing it in one shot. The bitter black cherry flavour hits the back of his throat and makes him cough again.

"Dude! I thought you said this was supposed to help?"

"It does when y'drink it like a normal person." Jason laughed as he took the cup back, setting it on the table. "Come on, up y'get. You're goin' t'bed t'sleep."

Conner tucks his feet up onto the couch with him, pulling the blanket he had been using tight around himself. His voice is almost child like, when he asks, "Why can't I just sleep out here."

"Because ev'ry Titan knows it's impossible t'sleep on the communal floor. Y'get tired out here, but y'can't actually fall asleep." Jason pushed himself off the table and stood hands on his hips, as he stared down at the sick and grumpy man before him. "Now you gonna get up on yer own?"

"What are you gonna do if I don't? Carry me?"

The smirk that Jason gives him is almost predatory in it's eagerness. "If I have to."

'He wouldn't dare, there's no way.'

Conner opens his mouth before he can stop himself. If he's asked later what made him say it, he's gonna blame the fever.

"Prove it."

Jason grin widens and he moves without hesitation. And for the first time, Conner can see why people fear the Red Hood. He moves easily, not as fluid as Dick and Tim, but still with effortless grace and power, and he can't help but choke silently at it, losing his breath for a moment.

Although that may also be from the shoulder digging into his gut, as Jason leans down, grabs one arm, and lifts. Conner rises off the couch easily, as if he weighed nothing.

"If y'thought I wasn't gonna take th'chance to flip a Super over m'shoulder, ta spare your dignity. Y'were dead wrong."

"Jason! Put me down!" Conner tried to push off Jason's back, but he found his arms almost like noodles. "Did you put a sedative in the cough syrup!?"

"Course not." Jason just patted the back of his thigh. "It's just extra strength, and since yer not used ta takin' meds, it's hittin' ya a bit harder. That's all."

"You-you villain!"

"Guilty!"

Conner continued to spout insults and snark into the small of Jason's back, as he was carried down the hall to the teams individual rooms. Only really paying attention when he realized Jason had walked into his room.

He looked up at the taller vigilante, as he was dropped unceremoniously onto his bed. "How'd you know where my room was?"

Jason shrugged not meeting his gaze for a second, "Learned th'layout of yer teams Tower awhile ago." There was a guilty look on his face as he refused to look at Conner.

Conner blinked as he tried to get his thoughts in order, everything was starting to feel like cotton balls in his head. "Why would...oh! Oh right....umm, sorry?"

Jason looked at him then, it was an oddly fond look. "What're you apologizin' for? I'm the one that came back messed up and hurt people what didn't deserve it."

Conner opened his mouth to argue the point, that it wasn't completely his fault, but a wave ofc Jason's hand cut him off.

"Anyway, tha's'in th'past now. Present issue, is tha'you," he leaned forward and shoved gently at Conner's shoulders pushing him back onto the bed. "Need some Z's, if y'wanna kick this cold y'have goin' on."

"I'm fine, Jay honest." He tries to get his arms underneath him, to at least lean on his elbows, but Jason just grabs his ankles, and still with that same smirk, pulls him further down the bed, so he's laid out flat. "What the-"

"Now, now, language."

"Were you born this much of an asshole, or is it something every Robin learns?"

Jason laughs loud and full, and Conner can't help chuckling in response, even if it makes his chest tight.

"Would y'believe me if I'said it was both?"

"With you? Yes. Totally believable. Now are you gonna let me up?"

"Nope."

"Jaaaayy..."

"Quit your whining, Kon." Conner hears the thunk of boots hitting the floor and raises his head just in time to watch Jason drop onto the bed next to him.

He throws one leg over Conner's closest leg, effectively pinning him to the bed.

"Wh-what're-"

"Doin'? Keepin' ya company." He grabs a book that Conner now realizes he must have placed there earlier. Probably when he went to get the cold meds. "Ya mind?"

"Uh, oh no, no! I don't mind at all." Conner blushes, and he's positive that it's visible over the flush of the fever, but Jason doesn't comment on it. Just adjusts his leg, and settles further against the headboard, smirk smoothing out into something gentler.

"Alrigh' then."

They settle into a companionable silence and it's not long until Jason feels a weight settle against his hip. A quick glance down shows him exactly what he expects, Conner passed out, using his hip asxa pillow.

He reaches down with one hand, smoothing some of Conner's hair away from his face, feeling the heat rising of his skin.

He removes his hand and pulls his phone carefully out of a thigh pocket and sends an update to Tim. He drops it on the bed on his other side and settles back in to watch and wait. And make sure whatever this is doesn't kill the Clone.

Once Tim and the others find a cure for this, he and the Outlaws may have to go pay Luthor a visit, and show him just why it's a bad idea to go after someone he cares about.

#sidhe answers #sidhe writes fanfiction #jason todd #conner kent #jaykon #fluff #sick fic

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kindaangelic · 7 years ago

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Brother Dearest, or Damian's Bonding with Tim

Bruce looked ponderingly at his youngest son, who was placidly milking Batcow in the corner of the cave. In all the time that he had been living with Bruce and his children, Damian had only managed to forge meaningful relationships with his animals, who loved him unconditionally and showered him with affectionate nuzzles, and Dick, who loved him unconditionally, and- Oh. Perhaps there was a pattern to this, Bruce mused, as he watched Dick cuddle up to Tim on the medical cot, squishing the younger boy as he curled himself around him like a snake. “Dick, don't smother your brother,” Bruce called. “Let him rest, he's sick.” Tim gave a sad sniffle as Dick slunk off to go and cuddle Jason instead. That could only end in tears, Bruce thought to himself, watching Dick slide closer, panther-like, to a recalcitrant Jason. Bruce directed his attention back to Damian, who was scoffing quietly at Tim’s pained moans, and frowned. This lack of empathy simply would not do. Bruce resolved to do something about Damian’s behavior towards Tim, but in the meantime, he took a moment to watch Dick try and fail in his efforts to snuggle Jason. ------------ It was late at night - or very early in the morning - as Bruce watched Damian putter around the Batcave in his too-long Gotham University t-shirt, courtesy of Dick. Bruce waited for Damian to walk a little closer before snagging his youngest and plopping him down on his lap. “Father! Have you been afflicted by Grayson’s ridiculous urge to “have hugsies”!? Release me at once!” “Not until I've said my piece,” Bruce hummed, adjusting Damian on his lap. “Now listen carefully, Damian, what I'm about to tell you is very important.” Damian perked up and sat at attention, eager to absorb whatever pearl of wisdom Bruce was about to impart. “You've been Dick’s Robin for some time now, and mine as well. You're doing a good job, and so I would like to give you some more delicate responsibilities,” Bruce said, then paused for dramatic effect. “It is your responsibility to look after not only the animals, but also your siblings, specifically Tim.” Damian made to scoff, but Bruce cut him off, “Your old father won't be here forever, and you know that Tim is sick. He tends to work himself to the edge, and I can't help but worry about what will happen to him once I'm gone.” Bruce let his words sink in, and felt a little guilty at how Damian’s eyes widened at the mention of his inevitable mortal death. “Robin holds the family together, he or she always has,” Bruce added. “Starting with Dick, then Jason, until the Legacy passed down to you. Dick only had me to take care of, but you have your brother as well. So Damian,” Bruce said, meeting his son’s wide eyes, “will you do it? Can I count on you to take care of Tim when I'm old and decrepit? Forever?” Damian squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “I will,” he said firmly. “I will care for everyone, including Drake. He will know a love so fierce that he will learn to submit to my tender ministrations!” Bruce frowned at Damian’s war cry, but decided that it would have to do for now. ----------- Tim roused himself from the clutches of sleep, sniffling to clear his blocked nose. He rubbed his gritty eyes and forced them open, only to reveal poisonous green eyes looking right into his. “Agh!” Damian held up a pot of tea and a handful of Strepsils, and said, “Take these, Drake.” Tim hiked his blankets up to his chin in response, looking at the strained expression on Damian’s face. “What at you dong with your face?” “I'm smiling,” Damian hissed through (what Tim imagined were) his fangs. “Oh my god, why, you evil gnome?” The “smile” grew wider. “Because I love and care for you. Now,” Damian whispered sinisterly, “take your medicine, Drake.” “AAGH!” ---------- Tim ran upstairs two at a time, tears obscuring his vision. He had just argued with Conner about his unhealthy (it was not) intake of coffee, which resulted in Conner calling him a hopeless addict and declaring that coffee would lead to his downfall and that he would not catch Tim when he inevitably fell. This had resulted in Tim slapping his mouthy boyfriend and running out of Titans Tower all the way back to Wayne Manor, where he could drown himself in a pot of coffee and Dick’s All Purpose Hugs for Family and Friends. This was how Damian found his brothers, with Tim sobbing into Dick’s stomach, and clutching a bag of coffee beans to his chest. “How c-could he s-say that to me? After all the t-t-times he was upset about Clark, and L-Lex, and I calmed him down?” “I know, I know,” Dick sympathized, and imparted the age old bit of wisdom that Bruce had once imparted to him, “All men are dogs, and he doesn't deserve you.” Hidden behind the wall, Damian simmered with rage. If Drake cried himself sick, then he would make the clone pay. It was time for preemptive measures. ----------- Later that afternoon, Tim received a delivery of a bouquet of roses and a note that read: “Dearest Drake, I apologize for my inexcusable behavior with the hopes that you will see fit to forgive me. Please do not cry yourself into an early grave, for if you do, I shall exile myself to a life of misery in the far reaches of outer space, living with your memory as my only companion. Much emotion and mouth kisses unto you. Yours, The Clone.” Tim stared at the note in abject horror, before inspecting the roses, only to fling them away when he noticed that they were a pitch black colour with a crudely (creepily) drawn cardboard smiley face stuck to them that was saying “I LOVE YOU DRAKE” in a speech bubble. Tim’s resultant shriek was Damian’s indication that the plan had not been successful. ----------- With his original plan in shambles, Damian headed to Titans Tower. He strode inside, stopping when he got to Conner. Conner looked down at the tiny Robin in surprise, and was further shocked when he was yanked down to his eye level by his shirt. “Listen here, Clone,” Damian hissed, “If Drake succumbs to illness because you have caused him distress, I will skin you alive and present your pelt to him to have stuffed and use as target practice. You will make amends immediately, do you understand me?” He demanded, brandishing his favourite knife. Conner went cross-eyed as he nodded while trying to keep the blade in sight. “Good,” Damian said, satisfied. “You will now thank me for saving your relationship with Drake. Though he is the least of us, he is still far out of your league. Come to think of it, we Waynes are out of everyone’s league,” he muttered to himself. Conner continued to stare, dumbfounded, as Damian waited for his undying gratitude. “Bah, you're as dull as an ameboa,” Damian huffed. “Make amends quickly, Clone, I don't want to have failed in my mission because of you.” With that, Damian left, returning to Wayne Manor where he was anticipating Tim’s praise and everlasting worship. ------------ How wrong he was. “Damian,” Bruce said, discomfort written across his face, “come here.” Damian went to Bruce with his head held high, and smirked at Tim who was partially hidden behind Bruce. “Ah, Drake, you're here. Are you going to profess your undying love and worship for me now? It's to be expected, after all, I've been taking such good care of you.” Tim cried in horror as Bruce hid his face in his hands. “You see!?” Tim shrieked, “He's lost his mind! He wants me to love him!” “Of course I do! It is only natural, given my tender care of your person!” “AAGH!” “Damian-” Bruce started, but was cut off by Dick and Jason charging into the room. “League of Assassins spotted on top of the Gotham Metro! They're wreacking havoc in the city!” Bruce gave his younger sons a stern look before ordering them to go and suit up, hoping that Damian’s new obsession over Tim would not be a roadblock in their fight for justice. “Careful, Drake, don't take your old grappling hook,” Damian said earnestly, cutting into Bruce’s thoughts. “Here, use mine.” “BRUCE!” “Yes, yes, tell Father about my caring nature. I'm sure he'll be proud of me.” Bruce shook his head in despair and went to face the horrors of the night, which were infinitely better than the horrors in his house. ------------ “Damian, my Little Beloved, join us,” Talia purred for the millionth time. The fight had concluded, with the assassins having been dispatched by the Bats, and only Talia was left standing. “You belong with the League, it is your destiny!” “Mother, I cannot simply neglect my other responsibilities,” Damian huffed. “I am Robin, I have to look after so many things! I have Gotham, my cat, my dog, my cow, my Drake!” “AAAGGH!” Everyone turned to see Tim flying away as fast as he could, as Dick, Jason, and the wounded assassins collapsed from laughter. Talia looked questioningly at Damian, who only smirked. “My plans must be working, he's probably retiring early to get on a regular sleep schedule. Health is wealth, isn't it Mother? Mother?” Damian asked questioningly as Talia collapsed in fits of laughter as well. Bruce groaned, picking up his wayward children and making his way home. ----------- “Bruce, do something! It's not right, we’re brothers!” “Tim...” “I can't believe Dami has a crush! Awww!” “Shut up, Dick!” “Yes, shut up, son,” Bruce grumbled. “Oh my god,” Jason chimed in, “all that time he spent ‘hating’ Tim was just pulling his pigtails!?” “AWWW!” Bruce silenced his unhelpful children with a patented BatDad Glare (TM) and faced an angry Tim once more. “Tim, I know...” “He sent me flowers pretending to be Kon! He threatened Kon and made him cry! He made me tea! What the heckity heck Bruce!?!” Bruce hung his head. “I'm to blame for this,” he declared defeatedly. “Damian, come down here, please,” Bruce called, which had his youngest skittering into to the cave. “Yes, Father?” “Damian,” Bruce breathed heavily, “I think you may have misinterpreted the specifics of what I told you. When I asked you to take care of Tim-” “It wAS yOu!?” Tim yelled, horrified. “-I meant it in a brotherly fashion. I don't intend for you to care for him...incestuously.” Damian wrinkled his nose and stepped back in horror. “Father, how could you?” He demanded, aghast. “I would never! I have only been caring for Drake because you told me that he was infirm and that I must shower him with attention to make sure he stays healthy! I've been planning and plotting all to make sure that Dake stays in good mental and physical health!” The cave was silent after Damian’s defense of his actions. Finally, Tim roused himself enough to ask, “That explains the tea. What about the flowers and your creepy card, pretending to be Kon?” “I didn't think that you would see through the pretense,” Damian admitted, surprised. “You were weeping like a lovestruck fool, and I was concerned that you would cry yourself to the point of sickness, or be compromised in the field. The pretense was to snap you out of your mood. If left to me, I would advise you that the Clone is not worthy of a Wayne, and that you should discard him immediately. I would much rather you dated a worthy ally or even a foe, or better yet, remain celibate. Clearly, your romantic choices of Fatgirl and the Clone show your impaired ability to judge people.” Tim stared at Damian with wide eyes for several seconds before deflating. “So you were just...” “I was trying to fulfill the mission that Father has set for me! I shall not fail!” Tim burst out laughing maniacally and swooped Damian up into a hug. “Oh thank Satan! You don't have a crush on me! You're just socially maladjusted!” Dick and Jason looked disappointed that their ideas for their own family soap opera had not panned out, and sulked while Damian spluttered in Tim’s embrace. “Damn,” Jason huffed, “The Bold and the Batty just got cancelled. Guess I’ll have to start thinking of a script for my new family soap opera.” “Jason, your siblings do not exist for your entertainment,” Bruce growled. “Ah!” Jason gasped, as inspiration hit him. “But you do! In the next season of B.A.T.M.A.N., stay tuned as Bruce and Ollie get it on in a drunken one night stand! What will the batkids think? OW!” Jason cried as Bruce whacked him around the head. “Father!” Damian yelled, scandalized. “How could you!? I refuse to have that sub-par, arrow-toting, elf as my papa!” Bruce glared at his sons and slunk away into the shadows to ruminate about his two infinitely stupid sons (Dick and Jason), his traumatized son (Tim), his hyper-impressionable son (Damian), and to wonder when Cassandra would come back home.

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iphoenixrising · 5 years ago

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Welp, it’s @commanderrice‘s birthday, and since babe sent a thing that almost killed me (this thing), we’re just going to have something short ;)

And it’s been–

A good fucking night.

Tim’s 21st birthday had been celebrated with a gala at Wayne Enterprises with posturing and posing, wining and dining the elite in Gotham when he really should have been playing beer pong somewhere with vomit on his shirt.

Still, afterwards, he gets to relax at the Manor, flop down on his favorite couch in the first floor entertainment room, tie pulled apart, and just be.

Dami had already come in to ruffle his hair and demand he get sleep, Drake. You aren’t getting any younger, and we are on tomorrow night.

Bring my cane, Baby Bat.

Tt. Bring it yourself. We shall play rooftop tag to warm up your old bones.

It was nice that his room upstairs was made up with some of his random tech scattered around on the desktop and bookshelves. The Minecraft sheets under the big comforter have been washed and probably smell like heaven.

He takes a minute to deliberate the gloriousness of clean sheets and pajamas the right kind of worn upstairs in the bottom right-hand drawer versus staying right in this couch, sunk in perfectly.

His wake-up call is B, Jay, and Dick finding him, carrying a bottle of something expensive and dark.

For the next few hours, the three of them are in the kitchen with Alfred, sitting around the island on barstools until their asses go numb and standing to get circulation back gets harder and harder the more the bottle goes dry.

It’s really just a replay of some of his best (and worst) moments since he got the cape.

“And that,” Jay tries to wheeze out, “that daft asshole got hit by his own fucking trap. Timmer is just standing–standing there like. ‘Thought this was s’ppose ta be a fight er some shit? Like, this is how the Riddler rolls?”

Bruce legit snort laughs, and that just makes shit more hilarious.

At some point they’re all in old sweats and t-shirts, swapped around enough times that B’s Green Arrow symbol is completely cool while Tim’s got the one with the quote from Little Women. Jason apparently doesn’t notice how the Gotham Knights one is pulling at his shoulders while Dick has one for Lucky Charms with the autograph from Dr. Fate.

There’s absolutely no place else he’d rather be.

But Bruce and Alfred finally call it quits when there’s only the smallest bit left in the bottom, and Dick has to make sure the toilet in the downstairs bathroom is still wobbling because that? Could be a problem in the morning.

So it’s left to him and Jay, arms over each other’s shoulders to hold one another on the barstools as much as it is because Jay’s really a sap at heart.

And maybe Tim is too because he has to drain the bottom of his tumbler before telling (his) the second Robin how happy he is for them. They’re good for each other, and dammit, they both deserve the utter best.

Which turns in to a ramble on Dick’s absolutely amazing characteristics–

(It’s only a teensy bit bittersweet because he totally knows how amazing they both are)ˆ

“S’riously, Timmers, date a guy who says things like “Drive save” “text me when you’re home safe” “Choke me harder” “I can’t wait to see you” “I’m proud of you.” You know, that sort of sappy shit.”

He’s obviously hammered, but still, there’s something hitting him right in the brain pan. “Mmm, something in there doesn’t quite fit in with ‘sappy.’ What was that third one again?”

“I can’t wait to see you.” “Back-up.” “Drive safe?” “Nope, that’s not it.”

Jay is apparently a little drunk by the toothy smile and flailing hands that are probably some kind of, I tried gesture.

Dick manages to wander back in, and looks enough together that Tim is actually wondering if he imagined a half-full bottle that started out the night. “What are we talking about?” With a lean-down and drunk kiss on the face, something so fucking adorable.

Tim makes kissy noises at them, leaning an elbow on the island so he can hold himself up. “Oh nothing, I just found out that you’re a closeted freak between the sheets, Dick.”

It’s not humanly possible for someone not to get whiplash when they spin around that fast:

“JASON. I left you alone for ten minutes–”

But a move like that takes space and momentum. They’re vigilantes. They know all about it.

Which makes it even worse when he gets caught on Dick’s flailing hand, Jason loses his balance because of the fast move, and Dick completely overcompensated, and all three of them are on the ground.

He happens to land in the middle, ass in Jason’s fucking lap, and Dick sprawled all over him.

The second hand gives three ticks.

And the three of them are laughing so hard, Tim is really starting to get worried he might either piss himself or pull a fucking muscle because Jason fucking snorts this time and off they go again.

Dick might actually hyperventilate and Jay gives up on everything. The three of them flopping around Wayne Manor’s kitchen floor at ass o’clock.

Hands down, this is living right here.

When they finally calm it the hell down and it looks very much like time for bed, Tim really doesn’t focus on how Dick is literally pinning him against the front of Jay’s body or how warm they both are. Nope, he’s going to live for this moment, drag his weary ass to bed, and probably make a promise to never drink again (which will probably be broken in Titan’s Tower at some undetermined future date).

When he’s about to start shoving himself free, Jay’s arm around his chest gets a little tight.

“I mean, whadda ya expect, Dickie? If Timmy’s interested, he’s gonna wanna know what he’s getting in bed, y’ feel me?”

Dick’s eyes are twinkling blue, his grin utterly unrepentant, “you’re honestly going to bring this up while we’re all sleep deprived and sloshed? I thought we’d wait to ask him out when all of us are sober.”

“Ain’t no time like the present,” Jay counters, craning his neck to look down. “Baby Bird might actually take us seriously if we ask ‘im now.”

“Ask him out?”

He’s dreaming. He’s already passed out somewhere drooling on his pillow. This? This is like BEST BIRTHDAY FUCKING EVER kind of dream.

“Mmhm,” Dick leans up to sloppily nose against his face, “but not tonight. We’re going upstairs to pass the hell out. We’ll be miserable together with the hangover. Tomorrow, we’re going to ask you out, and you are going to say yes.”

“Can–can I just say yes right now?”

“Not ‘till ya hear this asshole sawing logs, Timmy.” Leave it to Jason to haul all of them on their feet and untangle him from Dick’s octopus hold. “C’mon, gotta make you motherfuckers get up the stairs without breaking yer fool necks.”

It takes some fumbling and falling around, but for Tim Drake’s 21st Birthday, he gets the middle of the bed and two vigilantes wrapped around him.

But if he’s a very good vigilante, he might get the same thing again next year.

#happy birthday babe!#drabble #dcu #dc comics #dick grayson #Jason Todd #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #damian wayne #based on that text post #my fic #my drabble #hints of #dickjaytim

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iphoenixrising · 6 years ago

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For 700 Followers!

Hi babe.

That is terribly angsty and now I’m intrigued.

(Just a note for babe not familiar with No Home for Dead Birds or Fracture: I write a scene in which Tim literally has a gun to head. This is not lighthearted angst, please be warned if you read this.)

At one time, his colors had been red, gold, and green.

At one time, he’d been part of something bigger, something important. A legacy.

At one time, he’d been able to fly without being afraid of falling.

Being Robin had been the epitome. Even with all the terrible things he’d endured, all the injuries, all the catastrophes, all the insane megalomaniacal baddies breathing down his neck, he wouldn’t have traded the tunic for anything in the world.

(Dick had known it, had known how painful it was for Tim give it up once his Dad found out.)

He would have died with the R on his chest and never had a single regret.

Realistically, he couldn’t have been Robin forever, and he’d known that someday he would have to give it up and either move on with his life as a regular person, or take on another name, another mask, to keep fighting the good fight.

He hadn’t expected Dick would take it without a thank-you or fuck you to mark the end. That hadn’t been in the plan.

But it’s fine because Dick was the first and Robin had been his anyway, right?

Right.

Wrong.

Staring down the .45 in hand, the gun his father hadn’t had the chance to use to save his own life, Tim Drake wonders how it all came down to this.

(Last one left standing. Of fucking course.)

How it had all come out so badly, how he could barely step foot back in Gotham, how he had to avoid the Manor, the Carriage House, his own family home. How he couldn’t pick up the phone or answer texts coming from his former team. How he could barely keep himself the fuck together now that Bruce was back. How his hands would start to shake when the Manor phone number popped up (Alfred). How his mind’s eye would go back to Dick at the Big Computer in the Batsuit, telling him they were still equals. How he would imagine what would happen if he hadn’t caught himself when that zip line was cut. How he would sit in his safe house, off the Bat radar, and mourn the times when he was actually–

(happy)

–part of a family.

The pictures from an old Vans shoebox, the ones he’d taken back when he’d had the run of Gotham, following Batman and Robin (Jason), are burning in the kitchen sink. He watches Nightwing’s blurry face melt away and pretends there aren’t tears in his eyes.

The old memorabilia from Haley’s Circus is in a storage unit outside the city, along with a box that has his last Robin suit.

The lawyer has strict instructions to deliver the key and a letter to his former adopted father, Bruce Wayne, upon news of his death so anything incriminating can be properly disposed.

(They wouldn’t need any of it anyway. They could just shred all of it and wash their hands of him. The Robin that never should have been.)

A map with all his safe houses would be send to Conner Kent, along with a letter of apology.

His favorite nerd shirts would go to Ives.

The sundries in his Perch would be for Steph, and the penthouse itself would go to Babs in case things in the theatre went sideways.

Bart would get a zip drive with all their old shenanigans on video, the only copies left once his systems uploaded relevant data to Titan’s Tower and his electronic footprint would be–

gone.

The box with the Red Robin costume he wore was already sealed and addressed to Jason Todd. The note on top was short and sweet: You were right. It never should have been me after all.

He’d already arranged for his share in Wayne Enterprises to be returned to Bruce Wayne immediately, handing him his family’s company back without any strings attached.

Months ago, he’d returned The Red Bird to the Cave when he was sure no one would be around to catch him. The implication that Robin would need the car one day right there in the fact he’d brought it back because honestly, it was never really his in the first place.

Alfred would get his pick of antiques from Drake Manor, and the house itself would be given to the city to be used as a halfway home for runaway teens. He’d made sure the funding would be there to run it for a few years. The donation was made in his mother’s name.

The hilt molds to his palm, the barrel glinting bright in the night. To his credit, his hands aren’t shaky when he slides the clip home and pulls the slide back to put one in the chamber.

(The team had been working fine without him for a while now. Even if they did need someone, there was another Robin to join the roster and keep them moving forward.)

An abrupt light in the darkness, his phone screen lighting up with a missed call notification.

Missed call: Dick the OG

Ironic since the last time he’d come this far, it had been him calling out to the last person he thought could pull him back.

(Not this time. He has a new little brother, a new Robin.)

Slowly, without putting down the .45, he presses the ignore when the phone starts buzzing against with another incoming call. He thumbs the button on the side to turn the phone completely off without listening to the voicemail.

The clip makes a difference, but the absurdity of it, of the last time he did this, was when his future self was a murdering, gun-toting Batman, and the only way he could see to stop it was to stop himself.

The press of the barrel is familiar, and not in that soothing kind of way.

He blinks, just blinks, and his face is wet, which is really stupid because no one is going to miss him any damn way.

His chest gets tight when he fingers the trigger guard, giving himself the time he needs to do it right. In the final moments, he inanely thinks about the time he was huddled against Dick, right after he'd almost tried cloning his dead best friends in an insane attempt to bring them back. It's really the last time he remembers being held, being warm, feeling like he still fucking mattered. It was Dick holding him tight with restraining, breathing against the top of his head, fingers buried in his hair.

It's when he could be weak while still in the mask, babbling to Dick about how he can't do this, he can't lose them all. He was crying then, too, when he told Dick about his mom and dad leaving, leaving, always fucking leaving. About how he got used to seeing their backs more than their faces. How he was left standing on his own for too damn long to just let it keep happening. He couldn't keep losing them, couldn't keep seeing people walk away, how it fucking breaks him.

And in the here and now, his chest hitches, eyes fluttering, hand tightening down because he'd said...and Dick had...

"But I'm here, Timmy. I'm always going to be your big brother!"

It had been the last time he'd been surrounded by the famed octopus hold.

(It was the last time for a lot of things.)

He laughed, smothered in Dick shoulder, something further away from a sob. "Then I guess you'll at least never leave me, right?"

"You will never be able to get rid of me. C'mon. We're going the hell home and having a movie day. Screw the Lazarus Pit, Robin. It's time for some R and R."

Dick had half-carried him to the waiting Batplane and talked him down out of trying to use the Pit for his own gain ever again.

The first knuckle rests on the smooth curve, a six-pound trigger.

(In the end, they all leave.)

(Not again.)

Conner's terrible mohawk and leather jacket.

Bart racing Wally at a hotdog eating competition.

Cassie running full tilt to throw herself at him when he'd come to Titan's Tower to ask them for help when Ra's was going to kill everyone Batman ever loved.

Raven nuzzling Gar out of plain sight so no one would think she was totally gone for him.

Jason coming to the Tower, alive good God, and the Robin he used to be super-imposed to be his hero and enemy in the same ghostly figure.

Bruce putting a hand on his shoulder on a ride back to the Cave, chasing the dawn, the Good work, tonight tired but sincere, and his whole body lights up.

His mother looking at peace in her coffin, a lily in her folded hands.

His eyes close on the out-of-the-way safe house, the plain beige walls, stripped and soulless. He keeps the team in his mind, the times he was happy.

Now.

Instead of a resounding boom followed by his grey matter splattering his personality, intelligence, imagination, him all over–

the wall to the safe house caves in under a super punch.

Conner is white as a sheet on the other side, brick and mortar crumbling under his hands. "No! Tim. Tim. Put. The. Gun. Down."

His mouth is dry and his brain pan full of nothing but pain and disappointment.

(But you brought it all on yourself, didn't you? The Robin nobody wanted. The son nobody asked for.)

He isn't numb enough to be calm, cool, and collected. "All...all you have to do–" a hitch in his breathing "–is walk away."

The meta floats in a little closer, hovering over the flooring instead of outside. His hands stretch out, gaze focused and intense.

"Can't do that, buddy. Looks like I should have been more of an asshole after all the League of Assassins shenanigans. Sorry, my bad."

Kon knows he's in trouble when Tim Drake doesn't laugh.

"Tim," he goes to serious in about two point five seconds because the hand holding that shiny automatic tightens enough for him to hear the screws in the hilt strain, "Tim. It's me here, okay? It's just you and me, just like it's always been. We’re besties, whether you're Robin or Red Robin or Tim fucking Drake because that guy is so damn cool." He inches closer, wondering if he's fast enough, wondering if he can really get to Tim in time–

Like the former Robin can read his mind, those violet-blue eye give him a blink.

"I’ve always wondered if you really are faster than a speeding bullet."

“No!”

(...as it turns out, he isn’t.)

#so there's that #winter answers #700 followers #loves to you babe #warnings for possible triggers #you will probably cry #tim drake #kon-el #i cried so yeah #comment if i should continue #my fic #my writing

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iphoenixrising · 7 years ago

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I said I was kind of going on a hiatus. Too many things in my brain pan, but I connected with such a wonderful person, @careamorran, and had to write a thing based on a spectacular piece of art :D The post is here, and I really just wanted a little fun and maybe a little angst ;)

The blast of sunlight in his eyes is the conscious train rolling down the track. You know, right at his face.

After his syrupy thoughts evaluated the stabbing to his eyes as something non-lethal, the need to throw something sharp and vaguely bat-shaped at the defenseless windows fades enough that he can squint at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

Dammit.

He and Jay have plans for the day. Partially because it’s been two years today, and since Jason Todd is actually a sentimental cinnamon roll underneath the intense murder you vibe, Tim had managed to wrangle his reluctant significant other into finally getting the new ident set-up. It’s been a long time coming, and they’ve been arguing on and off about seeing to the details for weeks.

(“Things like a driver’s license, Jay.”)

(A careless shrug with a mouth full of meatball sub, “I drive, Timmers. I drive all the time.”)

(“Legally. The key here is legally.”)

His boyfriend had finally caved for their anniversary, and Tim would be damned if they missed the opportunity because of a long night in Gotham’s seedy underworld.

(Black Mask? Totally an ass hat, and no, he gives no shits about ruining the guy’s night. Seriously, fuck him. Mask literally hit on the Red Hood, right in front of him.)

With a soft groan of the newly conscious, Tim sits up, still wavery, and in desperate need of caffeine.

Desperate. Need.

The yawn is jaw-cracking, and he’s already reaching over for the lump of still-snoozing, just a tuft of dark hair peeking out from under their fluffy comforter in Jay’s room at the Manor.

If he grins a little, thinking someone as bad ass as the Red Hood is incredibly cute, well, no one else would ever have to know.

“Jay,” his voice still husky is bordering on fond, “we should get up, it’s late.”

He’s expected the inevitable, “where’s m’ good morning kiss, Timmy?” and to be pulled back down because Jay is really just as bad as Dick when it comes to pre-consciousness cuddling.

The hand moving fast to grab his wrist, to stop him from making contact isn’t necessarily unexpected because of reasons like ingrained instincts and Robin training. The occasional accidental injuries aren’t anything new. At times, it might be things like terrible nightmares or remnants of the Lazarus Pit. On the flip side, it might be residual panic because instead of Kon or Bart or Steph or Bruce, it’s Jason spitting out a mouth full of blood and gripping his harness with wide eyes and stuttering heart.

“Hey, calm down, it’s just--”

And whatever he’d been about to say in the usual soothing way dies in his throat when Jay turns, still in the t-shirt he’d thrown in before they’d fallen into bed last night, and--

Tim’s eyes go wide in shock and surprise.

Who the fuck is in bed with me!?

The set of jawline and ensuing frown is so painfully familiar--

From that time when Tim was a kid with a camera and Robin dove in out of the night to save him from a thug.

A Robin in his prime.

A Robin that’s fifteen instead of twenty-five.

Holy shit, Batman.

“Oh…” is about all his half-wired brain can muster.

Those eyes, the same ones from the painting in the main hall that used to be one of his safe places, the eyes without the green flecks, take stock, roving over Tim’s sleep-mussed hair, his face, his bare throat and chest, his too-big boxers.

And something seems to click.

“WHAAT THE FUUUCK?!!”

Is about as horrified as you can imagine.

The ensuing fight is really anticlimactic. Jason has aged-down equivalently, so while he can still duck, dodge, and fight better than any average person, he doesn’t have memories further than now meanwhile Tim hasn’t lost an ounce of his edge.

“You need to calm it down, Robin,” he tries while blocking a punch that is decidedly lower than what he’s used to. Yeah, throwing out that little bombshell is really a 50/50, but nothing else he can possibly say would help either:

*I’m your boyfriend, and you will be seriously pissed at yourself if you hurt me.

*I was the Robin after you, promise. I only got pants because those green panties were a hard ‘no.’

*You haven’t tried killing me in a whole year. Can we stop trying to break the record?

As it turns out, maybe he should have because those eyes go wide and the fight takes on a more desperate turn.

Well, fuck.

He catches the knee before it takes out his jaw, his suddenly longer reach catching the much smaller fist in the palm of his hand. “That’s enough, Jay. You’re going to--” get yourself hurt.

But the younger is panting and red-face, gritting his teeth with narrowed eyes, and an obvious plan in the works when he realizes he’s not going to beat Tim.

“Who,” and the tone isn’t as low and growling as the Red Hood, but it still jars Tim right in all the places where he’s still mesmerized by the second Robin, “the fuck are you and how didja find out?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so I’m going to let Bruce and Dick fill you in,” he replies, easing back slowly.

The teenager’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“How about this then: you hide books all over the Manor. Alfred found A Separate Peace, The Outsiders, 1984, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Once and Future King just to name a few.” He leaves the ones he’s found off the list just because the memories of his post-Robin life are apparently gone, and Tim is in no hurry to fill him in on the horrific events starting with the trip to Ethiopia.

Jason’s mouth falls open in a little ‘o’ of shock.

“One more just so you feel better about this: the first time B got hurt, seriously hurt, defending you, you called Dick at Titan’s Tower in New York.” His hands up in that not dangerous pose, he eases just slightly closer, tilting his head to actually look down. “It was that time with Killer Croc and you were freaked out.”

“How--” the teenager struggles, blinking at him with those blue, blue eyes, all of it without the Pit’s influence riding him.

With that realization, a horrible kind of plan hits Tim right in the brain pan.

“I know you’re Robin, so there’s some evidence, Mister Junior Detective.”

Jay gives him a huffing sneer, “real wise ass, ain’t cha?”

“Learned from the best,” he deadpans with a sad half-smile and fond eyes, “So, I vote we go downstairs, find Alfred so I can have some coffee, and then Bruce so he can have a holy shit moment of his own.”

Still staring at him, still calculating the risks and possible nefarious plots afoot, Jason only follows because he’s planning the best way to take this guy he’d woken up with down (and maybe staring down at his ass) while they went down the grand staircase.

Luckily, as it happens to go in Wayne Manor, at least someone has the patience to deal with things like utter fuckery.

That person will always be Alfred Pennyworth.

“Good morning Master--”

If Tim wasn’t as light and fast on his feet, there would be a whole lot of smashed ceramic all over the floor.

“My-my word, Master...Master Jason?”

“Mornin’ Alf,” the teenager waves a little, grinning sheepishly. “Found Slick here runnin’ the halls, so’s I thought maybe ya know who he is.”

(Slick? Tim arches a brow at that because really)

Alfred blatantly looks over, immediately getting back his usual calm, cool, and collected. “I do hope the scuffle I heard upstairs did not result in any bloodshed on the Turkish carpets, Master Tim.”

“I’m hurt at your complete lack of faith in my kick-ass skills, Alfred,” he waves a hand on his way to the sideboard where wonderful things (like coffee, please, please, please give him coffee to be able to deal with this and what he should very much not tell Jason) waited. He pauses to get his thoughts together, makes a mental Venn Diagram of the potential backlash of both scenarios, and adds cream with a little sugar so he doesn’t down the first mug liked boiling lava.

“I’m Tim Drake. Nice to meet you, by the way. It’s much nicer when we’re not trying to kill each other,” and yeah, that’s Alfred clearing his throat just a little. “I’m also a vigilante, so of course I’ve heard of Robin,” luckily, the way to trip up Jason’s radar is to tell the lie with just enough truth mixed in, “and I do work with Batman sometimes on out-of-town cases. I also do data collection and reconnaissance for the Titans, who I’m sure you’ve at least met at this juncture.” First few desperate sips accomplished, he moves to take a spot at the table and wait until Jason warily joins him, scrappy and scrawny, eyes that take in everything.

And he moves lighter on his feet, without a hell of a lot of burdens and probably a mass of missing scars from things like crowbars and insane psychopaths that deal in megalomaniacal delusions of grandeur. It’s a Jason Tim’s only known with a mask, and it’s a rough moment to stop himself from reaching out across the table to grip those twitchy fingers, but all he can do is swallow his heart back down in the vicinity of his chest, glance at Alfred with a little Batanese using just his eyebrows.

Without giving the his younger boyfriend an opportunity to ask, he cuts in with, “occasionally, B lets me stay over when a case gets...rough. It was last night anyway. I’m sorry I surprised you, but I’d been awake for about seventy-odd hours by then, so I was pretty compromised.”

Pretty much all true.

During the distraction, Alfred turns to busy himself at the sideboard. A glow in Tim’s peripheral is probably the butler texting the fam. B, Come downstairs immediately; Damian, please do not yet come downstairs. I shall bring breakfast up straight away. Dick, your presence would be appreciated at the Manor. It seems we have a situation. To make it a little more obvious he’s being serious, Alfred completely takes advantage of a displaced Jason, too busy staring Tim down from across the table, to snap a discreet picture to follow-up all those texts.

A fresh glass of juice and a side cup of coffee makes some of the tension ease from Jay’s shoulders, “sounds pretty stupid, you feel me? First rule of being a cape: take care a’ yerself. What we got against these crazy assholes? At the end of the day, it’s yer fists and yer brains, so ya gotta make sure ya got enough in ya ta take the beating.”

And it’s a fifteen-year-old Jason pointing a finger at him around his juice and all mock-serious, which it totally why he starts laughing without snorting coffee up his nose. Points for him.

“You are terrible at mocking B in lecture-mode. Terrible,” he shakes his head a little once he’s sure he isn’t going to choke, “more practice, okay? You’ll totally get there, but don’t think you’re ever beating out Dick. He is the official runner-up in the Best Dad Lecture category.”

A heartbeat and Jason starts to crack a grin, laughing out loud in that younger voice, the blue of his eyes without the Pit lingering, without the grim realizations of the day he’s going to die (again). He’s so heartbreakingly innocent of it all (and Tim just wonders how Bruce is going to take this because things like tears and BatDad are going to go down soon--he can feel it).

So by the time Alfred emerges from the kitchen with warm eggs and fluffy waffles, the tension has eased down between the former Robins by the way they throw stories back and forth.

“Yer kiddin’ me,” Jason deadpans back.

“All true, I swear. Freeze and Ivy watched him bust his bat ass--”

“Y’know, there was one time he fell through a crappy roof right inta a ladies’ shower, right?”

“I’m sorry what now?”

“That ain’t what she was thinking, Timmy. Just takin’ a shower and boom, there’s the Bat admiring the decor an’ shit.”

The mental image is enough to get him started all over again, laughing while huddled over his precious, beautiful coffee and lost staring at the fucking beautiful sight of his younger, unburdened significant other. Even better, more evidence in favor of the formulating plan clicks into place with Jason’s easy laugh and wild gestures. But it all comes down to basic facts: fifteen or twenty-five, this is the crazy idiot he loves. And if this is a golden opportunity to give the guy a second chance, one without the Joker and ticking bombs, without being buried alive, and thrown in the Lazarus Pit, it might well be worth the effort.

#based on fanart #love this panel #thank-you for letting me write something!#tim drake #jason todd #de-aged Jason!#someday I'll write more about Jason patrolling as Robin #you know B has BatDad feels #my fic #my writing

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