#just straight guy things: giving your bro a vial of your blood

[accipio]

Hawke startles, surprised that Cullen has read his intentions so easily. Then again, it only makes sense that a templar would be intimately familiar with the creation of phylacteries. “...Yes. I thought you’d take issue with the…” He trails off, making a face. “...The blood magic. There’s no sense in pretending that’s not what it is.”

He’s distinctly unsurprised that the templars use underboard methods for tracking escaped mages. It’s not as if they’ve ever played by their own rules. He’ll save his righteous anger for when their lives aren’t in danger, though—what’s important right now is that a makeshift phylactery is not only possible, but feasible. “Good,” he says nodding. “I mean, not good-good, but it works out well for us. I assume you know how to create one?”

Is he sure? His father’s disappointed face flashes before his mind’s eye, triggering a rush of hot shame. His parents gave up everything to make sure that he and Bethany never set foot in a Circle, never had to endure the myriad abuses that were the lot of Circle mages. Can he throw that sacrifice away? Can he tie a leash around his neck and hand it to a man who, once upon a time, would have killed him simply for the crime of being born a mage?

He really shouldn’t. It’s foolish. Dangerous, even. Goes against all his principles, to boot. But he believes, despite everything, that Cullen is a good man. Hawke would put his life in that templar bastard’s hands, would do it without the slightest hesitation. That’s all that really matters, in the end.

“Yes.” He looks Cullen in the eye. For once, there’s nothing remotely facetious in his tone. “I’m sure. If I’m to be bound to a templar, I want it to be you.”

Reciprocity. He’s so accustomed to templars demanding trust from mages and offering none in return that the proposal catches him off guard. Surprise mingles with a sudden rush of affection, an unexpected lightness in his chest. Cullen trusts him. Really, really trusts him. 

“You might say that.” He grins slyly, his buoyed spirits making him playful. “It’s impossible to not be familiar with it. I can smell it on you, Cullen. Probably taste it too, if you let me.”

"Hawke," Cullen snorts, acid patient, "If you could turn me into a toad you would've, in Kirkwall. You would've found me a nice little box, then taken me to the Hanged Man, where I'd be crowned Knight-Captain Ribbit." His ribs must be on the mend—it doesn't hurt to chuckle a couple of times.

"Hm, I think I was worse," a teasing lilt to his words, resting Hawke's hand rest atop his chapped lips for a moment. The hot tide of his breath, the beating of his heart, Cullen feels them with his mouth, allows it to bury itself into his soul, inside a locked box of precious memories he has no right to, but still takes.

And then it's over, the sting of absence made no better by acquiescing to his sound logic. Right, try to sit up. Let blood flow properly in his veins, with gravity instead of against it. Bring life back into his limbs.

His thoughts drift to the many mages and templars he met after Kirkwall. Cullen thought it a romantic invention, a literary cliche in those awful novels. His younger self, the zealot Knight-Captain of Kirkwall, thought it a rumor spread to discredit their work, make them out to be lecherous villains—which would've been better than what Otto Alrik ended up proving true. In light of that, the literary cliche was preferable—templars running off with the phylacteries of their mage lovers, uncaring about sides in a religious war, seeking each other throughout all of Thedas. Some stories ended well, and others...

(The corpse of the templar in the Hinterlands, golden filigreed phylactery, Orlesian in make, clutched in his skeletal hands. It'd felt like blasphemy not to see it through. In Redcliffe she was, waiting for him, hoping against hope they'd see each other again. In the end it wasn't to be, but they'd promised her the next best thing—peace, away from the fighting, in the Inquisition.)

Hawke's notably mild, neutral tone shakes him from his reverie. But I don't think you will like it. The empty vial in Hawke's hand. His furrowed brow, staring at Cullen as if he's afraid of the reaction the idea will cause.

Tracking.

Magic.

Ah, of course.

"You're thinking of a phylactery," Cullen states as if reading the morning missive. "Sometimes," he dusts himself off a bit, rubbing at the edge of his mouth with a knuckle, "When a dangerous apostate was loose and we couldn't wait for their actual phylactery to get to us from the White Spire—or wherever it might be—we Knight-Captains and Knight-Commanders were allowed by order of the Grand Cleric to create makeshift ones."

Because how could the Chantry allow something as inconsequential as procedure to keep them from enacting the Maker's justice? Cullen always found it a bit perfidious, to allow mages to believe they only had to worry about one phylactery, when in reality others could be created without their consent as long as samples of their blood where available.

But why is Cullen telling Hawke this? This will not engender trust. And he wants Hawke to trust him.

Wait.

What?

"Hawke, a—are you sure?" An anchor and a chain. This is a level of trust reserved for, well, lovers. Cullen's mouth struggles to work as if fighting the blush out of his throat. "I mean, I—that is to say, um—oh, Andraste—"

Get it together!

"Damn it. What I meant was that yes, I can help you make one. And yes, I'll be able to track it. Normally they are only made from magical beings—mages—but I've drank so much lyrium for so long you could, theoretically, make one of me too." Theoretically. Because why would the Chantry use that as a link when they'd already chained templars with the lyrium itself? Pointless. "I assume you're familiar with the signature of lyrium?" It's a rhetorical question—of course mages are. They can guzzle the stuff and not get addicted.

Lucky them.

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

Undefeated - unforgiven series

Characters: Dick Grayson, Scarecrow, Damian Wayne, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, bits of others Summary: Dick lost them already, through his and Bruce’s own faults. He would not lose them here. He would never lose them again. A/N: Ending is trash, sorry. Pure adrenaline is why Dick’s injuries from the previous part aren’t bothering him. I love me a Dickie G who will straight up kill for his bros. I don’t know what this is. *thumbs up emoji*

Unforgiven series.

~~

It wasn’t hard to find Crane. Never was – like all of Batman’s foes, the guy loved to be in the spotlight. Especially when he thought he was being extra clever.

Besides, even for the bad doctor, it was always a warehouse. Always down by the docks, or the river. Never a high-rise. Never downtown. Hell, never even a damn hospital. Just some nasty ass warehouse that really could be demolished and not be missed.

Regardless, none of these facts eased the pain in Dick’s heart, even as he raced there. Because Crane still had his brothers. Crane had still hurt his brothers, and could very easily kill them if he so pleased, purposefully or accidentally. Could put a gun to their heads, or just overdose them both on untested fear toxin. Could do so easily, but the worst part – quickly.

And Dick could just as easily not make it in time, no matter how fast he could force his motorcycle to go.

Not to mention – Batman wasn’t helping. Batman was brooding, a voice in his ear saying they needed to go slow, make a plan. Bruce was hesitating and honestly, Dick could strangle him for that right now.

He’d let his brothers go before, and was still suffering the consequences of that. He wasn’t about to lose them again, with a potentially even worse outcome.

So he grabbed Bruce by the cape and dragged him to their vehicles. Ignored Bruce’s growls and orders. Ignored Barbara too. Kept his focus on one thing and one thing alone.

Because he would. Not. Lose. Them. Again.

So he revved his bike. Kept the lead, even as Bruce continued to air grievances behind him. Honestly, Bruce could stop right now and Dick wouldn’t care. He’d go in alone, if it came to that. Fight tooth and nail if he needed. Kill, if he had to.

He ignored the sudden wave of thugs as he reached the grid of warehouses. Let Bruce deal with them if he felt he needed to.

But he let the wave guide him. The more henchmen that appeared, the closer he clearly was. And when he spotted a light up ahead, he barely stopped his bike before jumping off and storming inside.

“Nightwing, wait for me.” Bruce demanded over the comms.

“No.” Dick spat back. And he didn’t.

The henchmen didn’t stop him in here. Just sneered and laughed, watching him go towards the main room. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything else.

He could see Scarecrow in the room, standing behind a table full of papers, though he wasn’t looking at them. Was staring at the other side of the room, a smirk playing across the wrinkles of his mask.

Dick held his breath as he approached, knowing what Scarecrow was looking at, but still hoping he was wrong.

He, of course, wasn’t. As he approached the doorway, he looked that direction himself and found exactly what he feared.

Tim and Damian were in the corner, clothes torn and covered in blood. Any exposed skin was cut or bruised, and Damian had a clear black eye. Damian was also clinging to Tim’s torso like his life depended on it.

Or maybe…like Tim’s depended on it.

Damian looked tired, sure, and completely beaten down. It was obvious none of their injuries had been taken care of in any way. But his eyes were still clear, full of fury and annoyance. Mentally, he was fine.

But…Tim.

He was trembling, breathing shallowly. Sweating. He had his arms around Damian’s shoulders in return and his fingers were twitching randomly into his skin, creating more scratches, drawing more blood. His eyelids were fluttering, pupils darting this way and that.

Obvious symptoms of a heavy dose of fear toxin.

“It’s perfect, isn’t it?” Scarecrow hummed. Dick didn’t look at him, watched Tim jerk and gasp and try to hold Damian even tighter, feet scrambling on the smooth floor. Damian just tried to hold him just as tightly back. Mutter something, trying to cut through the voices Tim was no doubt hearing. “Exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

Dick grit his teeth and slowly looked Scarecrow’s way. “Let them go.”

Crane glanced at him. “Why should I?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll beat your face in.” Dick hissed, slowly pulling an escrima from his back, and taking a step towards Scarecrow. “I’ll do worse than beat your face in, actually.”

“Feeling guilty?” Scarecrow sneered. “Because you’re their hero and they tried to protect you?” A laugh. Giddy, like he was truly enjoying all of their pain. And Dick realized – he probably was. “They tried to do something nice, just like the heroes they admire, and ended up here. How funny.”

Dick took another step. “Let. Them. Go.”

“Ah, ah!” Crane sang. Held up a vial of a glowing green liquid. “One more step, Nightwing, and I dose the little one.”

Dick paused then. Glanced back to the corner. Damian was watching them now, eyes wide and angry. Tim was practically in the fetal position around him. Shivering and whimpering.

“And this is an even newer new strain.” Crane continued. Dick reluctantly looked away from Damian. “Haven’t even tested it yet. Made it just ten minutes ago. That young man will make the perfect first test subject, I think. A proper dose for someone of his size is about a third of this tube.” Crane grinned, shook the vial. “And I’ll happily give him the whole thing.”

“Don’t-” Dick lunged. Scarecrow just backed up, held the vial above his head. “Don’t you dare touch that kid…!”

Suddenly, Tim shrieked. Both Dick and Crane jumped and looked over to him, and found him already sobbing.

“No!” He yelled. “Not…please don’t take him too. I.” Damian began squirming, trying to cover Tim’s mouth. Even in his state, Tim was bigger, slightly stronger, and pulled away. “I’ve already lost my dad. My big brother. Please. Please don’t take Damian too. Please.”

Dick’s heart shattered. He didn’t know what Tim was seeing, or how sounds were being distorted in his mind, but it didn’t matter. Watching Tim scramble to hold Damian as tight as he could, and Damian in turn attempting to comfort him, was bad enough.

“Damian, hm?” Crane sneered. There was a grin on his face when Dick looked back. “What a handsome name.” Scarecrow turned towards him completely now. Crouched slightly. “And what’s your brother’s name, Damian?”

“Fuck off.” Damian spat, wincing in pain as Tim shifted his body.

“Now that was rude.” Scarecrow tsked. “You should apologize, young man.”

“Make me.”

“Well.” Crane sighed, like he was disappointed. “If you insist.”

Dick’s chest tightened and he instantly began to lift his weapon to hit Jonathan Crane as hard as he could. But suddenly there was a hand around his wrist. An arm around his throat, and a gun barrel pushed into his chin.

At the same time the henchmen were grabbing him, Crane was snapping his fingers to the others swarming into the room. “Bring the little one to me.”

“No.” Dick grunted. He watched as Tim whined and kicked. Watched as a henchman punched him in the face and wrenched Damian up with an awkward grip on his shoulder. “No!”

The man dragged Damian, kicking and screaming himself, across the floor. Another thug stayed above Tim, hitting him over and over every time he tried to stand.

“No!” Dick repeated. “Dammit – it’s me you came after in that apartment! Let them go!”

“Children need to learn not to meddle in others’ affairs. They should have left you in that gutter, Nightwing, and they need to understand that.” Crane hummed. The man with Damian had stopped in front of him now. “Just like they need to understand the consequences of being a brat. Open his mouth.”

The man complied, taking hold of Damian’s chin. Tim was still screaming on the other side of the room, and grunting every time he was hit. Crane started laughing.

And Dick saw red.

Well. A deeper red than he already saw.

He twisted his leg backwards, sweeping them against the legs of the one holding him, then immediately grabbed the gun and whipped it against the second man, before launching it with all his might at the head of the one assaulting Tim. It was a direct hit, and the man crumpled to the ground.

He launched himself forward, tackling the man holding Damian to the ground and pinching a pressure point until he too went limp.

Then he turned towards Scarecrow.

Crane had already backed up a step, but Dick could see in his eye that he was still debating on attempting to give Damian the fear toxin. Debating how quickly he could jump forward himself, how quickly he could grab the child now fallen to his hands and knees.

And that hesitation was his downfall.

Dick leapt at him, grabbing his face with both hands and slamming it into his knee, then spinning Crane around to slam his head against the paper-filled table, breaking it in half with the force.

He let Crane drop to the floor then, but stood over him, grabbing his second escrima stick, and hitting the button to set off its electricity. Then slammed it right into Scarecrow’s throat.

Crane screamed, but Dick didn’t let up. Didn’t pull away. In fact, he just pushed the weapon further into his throat, practically grinning himself when Crane shrieked louder.

Someone else shouted in the room, but Dick didn’t care. Ignored it for the sweet sounds of Scarecrow’s own pain, his own fear. At least, until they shouted again, closer, and someone grabbed his wrist once more.

But he was ready this time. And spun around with his other hand already curled into a fist.

And found Batman.

“…Stop.” Bruce breathed. And suddenly, the world wasn’t so red. Bruce held his arm a moment more, before dropping it and stepping back. “You need to stop, Nightwing. Get away from him.”

Dick looked back down at Crane, now sniveling and whimpering on the ground.

“No.” Dick snapped, grabbing the vial still in Crane’s hand to hold in his own. “He needs to pay for what he’s done here.”

“And those boys need you more.” Batman whispered. Dick blinked and glanced up. Found Damian already trying to hobble painfully back to a wide-eyed and dazed Tim. “I’ll handle Scarecrow from here.”

Dick swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, practically jumping to his feet. He stared at the liquid in his hand for a moment before shattering it against the ground and walking cautiously towards his brother.

“Damian.” He murmured. He watched Tim blink and look over at the sound. Damian looked back too, more bruises already forming from where the thug had grabbed his face.

He didn’t say anything else as he approached. Just carefully lifted Damian into the safety of his arms. Damian didn’t say anything either. Just leaned into Dick’s embrace, clinging to Dick’s neck with two trembling arms.

“No…” Tim breathed, lurching up into a sitting position. “No! You…you put him down!”

“Tim…” Dick tried, walking towards him. Tim began shaking his head, almost violently.

“No!” He yelled. “No, you…you already…you can’t have him! You can’t have my brother! Give him back!” He tried to stomp at the ground, like a tantruming toddler. “You give him back right now!”

“Tim, it’s alright.” Dick cooed, crouching in front of him. Tim immediately latched onto Damian’s sleeve, tugging weakly. “You’re safe.”

“You can’t have him.” Tim repeated harshly. “You…you two already took my dad. And my brother. You can’t have this one.” Another pull of Damian’s tattered shirt. “You can’t have Damian.”

“Tim, it’s me.” Dick tried. Damian raised his head weakly, and reached his hand out for Tim to take instead. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“Of course I know who I’m talking to.” Tim snapped. He clutched Damian’s hand in both of his. “I’m talking to Nightwing, the one who took my older brother away.”

Dick blinked. “Tim, do you-”

“He thinks you and Nightwing are two separate people.” Damian rasped in his arms. “Drake, relax. Nightwing and Batman will-”

“Batman killed our dad.” Tim huffed. “So they will not do anything with us.” He sniffed, wiped at his still-watery eyes. “I won’t let them take you too, Damian. I promise.”

A pause.

“…Please don’t take him too.” Tim’s voice cracked. “I…if you take him, I won’t have much family left.”

Dick shifted Damian to one arm, then gently took hold of Tim’s shoulder. Tim glanced up at him, eyes still darting around, looking like the child Dick first met, all those years ago after Jason died.

“Tim.” He said sternly. “I promise, I won’t take Damian away from you. I swear on my life.” Tim didn’t look like he believed him. “But can I take you both with me? So I can get you two safe, and fix up your injuries?”

Tim seemed unsure, tried to pull away, but the wall he was propped against stopped him.

“I believe him, Drake.” Damian tried. “I…I think we should trust him.”

And that hurt, how unsure even Damian sounded at that. How much it sounded like he didn’t want to say that at all.

Tim just stared, for almost a minute, hands still tight around Damian’s, body still tense and trembling.

“…Drake.”

“Fine.” He whispered quickly. “Fine. But I go where Damian goes. We are not separated. Got it?”

Dick smiled. “Of course.”

Damian pulled his hand back just as Dick heard reinforcements arrive. Black Bat, Batgirl and the GCPD. Batman came over to them then, but Tim immediately flinched back, shaking his head vigorously once more when Bruce offered to carry him.

“You killed my dad.” Tim accused again. “You killed my dad multiple times.”

Cassandra and Stephanie took over then, lifting Tim between them and situating him on Stephanie’s back. He didn’t seem real happy to see them either, but didn’t accuse them of murdering their civilian counterparts, so it was good enough for the moment.

Once the Scarecrow was handcuffed and being led away, Bruce ordered Dick and Stephanie to get the boys home, that he and Cassandra would stay on scene and work everything out with the cops. Jason rang in on the communicators then, said he and Alfred were almost finished synthesizing an antidote, and that it’d be ready by the time they returned to the cave.

They took the Batmobile home. Stephanie drove, Tim in the front seat. Dick sat in the back, with Damian still across his lap so he could reach Tim’s searching hand.

He wasn’t kidding when he demanded they not be separated.

The ride was mostly silent, save for a curse here and there from Steph about bad drivers, and a painful moan from Tim or Damian. So Dick was a little surprised when Damian suddenly shifted midway home, slipping his free hand into the one Dick had across his knees and whispered: “Grayson?”

Dick squeezed his fingers. “Yeah, bud.”

“You’re not hurt, are you?” He asked. “I didn’t get a chance to look at you much before we were ambushed.”

And leave it to Damian to be the kindest human on the planet. Bleeding and beaten, and still asking someone else – the person he was hurt because of – if they were okay.

“I’m fine. They didn’t get me too bad earlier.” Dick murmured into his hair. “But I’ll feel way better when you and Tim are fixed up, so let’s just worry about you two for right now, okay?”

Damian just hummed, and leaned deeper into Dick’s chest. In the front seat, Tim was starting to doze off too. By the time they reached the cave, they were both completely out.

Jason met them as they parked, opening the door before Steph had the engine off and gently tugging Tim from the seat. Tim groaned a little, but had apparently been hit by his exhaustion, and didn’t put up much of a fight. Only stirred when Damian’s hand slipped from his, but relaxed instantly by Jason and Stephanie’s reassurances.

Damian remained asleep until Dick began to gently lay him on the med-bay cot. Then he lashed out, retaking Dick’s hand and squeezing as tight as he could.

“Are you going to stay?” He pleaded. “…Please?”

Dick smiled, running his hand over Damian’s hair as Alfred appeared between his and Tim’s cots, hooking them up to monitors and oxygen tanks.

I’m never leaving you and Tim again as long as I live. No matter what. He didn’t say.

“Sure.” He hummed instead, pulling his eye mask off. He glanced up at Tim, knowing full-well that things wouldn’t be fixed, even when Tim was clear minded and off the fear toxin. In fact, they may be even worse. Who knew. “As long as you guys need me, kiddo.”

Damian nodded, then glanced over at Tim. Once he was satisfied that Tim was getting stabilized, he nodded to himself and, without letting go of Dick’s hand, allowed himself to fall asleep.