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sparkypantaloons · 3 years ago

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A Storm

“I promise you.” Bruce had said. “If you come home, I will keep you safe. I will keep them safe. I will keep us whole. I promise.”

Tim is taken. Each of his family react differently.

There’s a rushing in Tim’s ears. Like a waterfall. It’s so loud he can’t see. Can that happen? Can noise affect sight? He doesn’t know.

There’s a hand on his back. Gentle, but firm. He thinks maybe someone is talking to him, but he can’t see. He can’t see anything over the rushing in his ears.

No, that’s not right. He needs to start again. Try again. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, covers his ears, takes a deep breath.

“Tim?” Is it Bruce? Someone’s hands are on Tim’s arms, pulling his hands from his head. The person in front of him is stooping slightly, so they can look him in the eye. “Can you hear me?”

“'m fine.” Tim says. But his eyes can’t focus, it’s too loud in here. “I just need, I… just need t’sleep.” He grimaces, the noise too bright for his eyes.

There’s more sound then. Voices he thinks, but he’s not sure. He can’t see who they belong to. Then there’s a hand around his ankle, gripping him roughly. He flinches in the hold, starts to struggle as his shoes are removed. Then his socks. What is going on?

His feet? What about his feet? He tries to speak, but it’s so loud in here, he can’t form the words. A forehead presses against his, green eyes bore into his own. Jason?

Hands hold his feet to the floor, press down. More talking. It could be shouting now.

The hands let go of his feet. Move to his face. “Your feet, Timmy. Concentrate on your feet.”

Tim opens his eyes. Jason is still there, his bright green eyes, searching and insistent. “'m home?” Tim mumbles.

“Concentrate on your feet, Timmy. What can you feel?”

Tim closes his eyes again. His feet. He can feel… wood. Wooden floor. Wooden floorboards and the thin gaps between them. The Manor floor. The Manor.

“Yeah, Timmy.” Jason says. His hands move from Tim’s face, pull the teenager into a bear hug. “You’re home. You’re home.”

Leslie pushes her glasses back up her nose. Lets out a sigh. “It’s just going to take time, Bruce.” She says. She’s firm, as always. But there’s a softness in her eyes. A sadness. “Like all things.”

Bruce doesn’t speak. Just rubs his face with his hands. Hangs his head.

“Why is he so disorientated?” Dick asks. His right hand is still bandaged up, swollen, but it’s no longer bleeding through.

Jason sucks his teeth from where he’s leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. Leslie and Dick both ignore him.

“Sensory deprivation, especially for so long-- it can take a little while to recover.” Leslie is matter of fact. There’s no point mincing her words. “You have to take it slow.”

“Touch is best to start with.” Jason says, pushing himself off the wall. “It’s grounding.”

Dick, Leslie and Bruce look over at him. He shrugs. “It worked for me.”

A pained look crosses Dick’s face. Leslie interrupts before he can speak. “Let Tim lead, let him set the pace.” Her words hang in the air. “It’ll take time. But he’s strong.” She says. “He’ll pull through.”

Dick wakes up in a sweat, breathless. His right hand is throbbing. He tries to flex his fingers, flinches as his broken knuckles protest. It’s not the worst injury he’s ever had. Not by far. But the way he got it…

He shakes his head, tries to dislodge the memory of a shattered eye-socket, a dislocated jaw, a cracked skull. Tries to shed the jarring realisation that he broke his hand on a man’s face. Tries to make himself at least feel a sense of responsibility for the damage done. He doesn’t.

He makes his way to the kitchen, pads barefoot through the Manor. He pulls an ice-pack out of the freezer, holds it on his aching fist. The cold seeps into his joints, consumes the burn of displaced bone and absent guilt. He feels calmer.

Touch is grounding, Jason had said. Dick doesn’t want to think about how the younger man, his younger brother, knew that. Doesn’t want to know which one of a lifetime of traumatic experiences had taught him that little gem. But he can’t dispute it. The touch of the cold helps.

He makes his way back upstairs. Turns left, instead of right. To Tim’s room.

The door is pulled to. The most Alfred would allow. Bruce had been adamant about staying by Tim’s side, so had Jason, so had Dick. Alfred had refused all of them.

“Wayne Manor is the safest, most secure building on the eastern seaboard, if not the entire continent. None of you will do Master Timothy any good if you don’t get some sleep. He will be safe, in the meantime.”

Bruce had tried to protest, Jason had made threats, all but hissed at Alfred’s suggestion. The older man hadn’t budged. “I will stay with Master Timothy. In case he wakes.”

He wasn’t wrong. They needed rest, all of them. The search had been… long. Too long. Desperate, and increasingly frantic with each passing hour. And there had been so many hours.

He swallows down a memory. Of the howl that felt like it had been ripped out of his soul when they found Tim. Dick hadn’t even realised the noise had come from his own mouth, didn’t notice the tears of rage on his own face, as he took his hands to the men holding Tim captive. Broke his hands on the men who had taken his brilliant, darling brother. Locked him in the dark, alone, for too, too long.

Dick hovers outside Tim’s door. Holds his ear to the wood. He can’t hear anything over his own breathing, his own heartbeat.

“Just open it, Dickhead.” It’s Jason. He's dressed in a spare pair of Bruce’s pyjamas. Despite his size they're somehow still too big for him. It makes him look young. Too young. Dick stares at him for a moment before doing as he says.

The pair of them fill the doorway. Wait as their eyes adjust to the light in the room. Gloomy shadows fall in through the window; the blinds have been left open. Dick’s eyes scan the bed but his ears hear Jason’s breathing hitch. He feels the younger man go rigid beside him, knows his own body has responded the same. Because Tim is gone. Again.

Panic forces itself into what little space is between them, and Dick is only vaguely aware that Jason is gripping his wrist. Holding him too tightly, clinging onto him as though he’s scared one of them will disappear too.

A small cough brings them back to their senses. Alfred. The older man is sat in the corner of the room, by the window. A patient vigil in the dark. He nods to the far side of the bed.

Jason all but drags Dick with him as he marches into the room. They stop just past the bed. Tim is asleep on the floor. He’s curled into a ball, a single sheet held tight over his head. Dick only knows it’s him from the tuft of hair that’s sticking out.

He feels Jason let go of his wrist. The younger man stumbles backwards. He nods to Alfred then leaves the room, gone as quick as he entered.

Dick watches him go, a new worry blooming in his chest. He looks at Alfred, and the older man shakes his head sadly.

Jason is in his old room. His old en-suite more accurately. His knees protest against the tile as he wretches into the toilet.

I am safe, I am warm, I am whole.

He repeats the words in his mind like a mantra. Tries to control his breathing. He fails. Another wave of nausea has him wretching again. Acid burning its way up his throat.

A hand presses to his back and he flinches. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. Bruce places a glass of water on the floor beside him, pushes his hair back from his face.

Jason wipes his mouth on his sleeve, takes a shaky sip of water. Bruce rubs circles on his back.“Don’t.” Jason croaks, and he hates himself when the warmth of the hand is removed. He looks up at Bruce. “You promised you’d keep them safe.” He says, and he can’t keep the hurt out of his voice. Can’t keep the tears from his eyes. “You promised.”

“I know.” Bruce says. He pulls the younger man into a hug, holds him tight against his chest. “I’m sorry.” His son’s tears soak through his shirt.

Jason doesn’t know how long they sit there. Tangled limbs on the cold, hard tiles of the bathroom floor. Only knows that he needs Bruce to let go. He pulls himself out of his father’s arms, pushes himself to his feet. He needs to brush his teeth.

Bruce sits on the floor behind him, as Jason scrubs the bile and acid from his mouth. He presses too hard with the toothbrush, can taste the copper of blood against mint. But the dig of the bristles in the soft flesh of his gums is grounding. Reminds him he’s still alive.

I am safe, I am warm, I am whole.

Jason can remember sleeping on the floor. He’s slept on so many of them. The dingy corner of their apartment growing up, when all they could afford was a single mattress and Willis refused to let him share. The cardboard box by one of the subway vents behind the old Monarch Theatre. The floor of this very bedroom, the bed too soft for him to sleep in, threatening to drown him as soon as he fell asleep. Then the streets again, when he had wandered aimlessly after his death.

He can remember the dark too. Of being locked in a closet and forgotten for days at a time, when his infant crying became too much for Willis. Of his eyes swollen shut as the Joker beat the life out of him. Of his coffin, as he lay there screaming for Bruce to save him.

Jason’s life was a short but terrible history of hard floors and dark rooms and Tim’s was never meant to be like that.

They’d found him in all but a box, eight feet by eight feet by eight feet. There were no windows, the door had been soldered shut. He was being fed once a day. Some bread and water slid through a hatch in the wall, and a bucket too. Swapped out every 24 hours. Nobody ever spoke to him, nobody ever asked anything of him. No-one ever demanded anything from them either, neither The Bats, nor The Waynes.

He spits into the sink. Toothpaste pink with blood. He rinses his mouth. Splashes his face. Takes a deep breath.

They just took him and kept him. Because they could.

Jason had known people like that too, once. If he clings to it, it’s the only thought that makes him grateful Tim has been left alone for so long. Even as it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Coming home, coming back to his family had been as painful and awful as clawing himself out of his own grave. An endless fight against the pit and its madness, that drove him to hurt the people he loved. An ongoing battle against the deep, deep wound in his heart that The Joker still lived. And a terrifying, haunting fear that he would lose them again. That after all they had been through, after he finally got his family back, they would be taken from him and he would be alone once more.

“I promise you.” Bruce had said. “If you come home, I will keep you safe. I will keep them safe. I will keep us whole. I promise.”

Jason turns away from the sink. Walks back into his room. Leaves Bruce sat on the cold, tiled floor.

Eventually Bruce pulls himself to his feet. Jason’s room is empty when he passes through. He doesn’t allow himself to wonder where he might have gone. Of all the broken promises he has made to Jason, he knows this one has hurt his son the most. That Jason’s single biggest fear is losing the family he has so desperately longed for, both of his lives. That Jason would rather never love at all, than love and lose it all over again. This time had been too close. For Jason. For all of them.

It had taken them too long to get a lead on where Tim was being held. Far too long. And even then, they couldn’t confirm an exact location. They’d had no choice but to split up. Cass, and Damian had joined the Titans on the West Coast. Dick and Jason had come with him on the East.

He pulls out his phone, checks on the location of Cass and Damian for the nineteenth time that night. They’re making steady progress. Will be in Gotham before sunrise. His arms ache with a desperate need to hold them, know that they are safe. To have the physical proof, that all his children are alive and breathing, in his hands.

It had taken him a long time to let go of Tim once they found him. To pass his sweet, brilliant boy over to Leslie, so she could check him over. Confirm he was okay.

Tim was older now than Jason had been when he… Tim was older, but he had still felt just as small and young and broken, when Bruce had lifted him out of that box they’d kept him in. Out of the darkness. His body weak and trembling.

It had been Tim who had been taken, but Bruce had looked at the body in his arms and seen Robin, limbs twisted and broken. Seen Nightwing, lips blue and heart stopped by a hand held to his face. Seen another Robin, sword run through him, splitting his battered body almost in two. Seen Red Robin, riddled with bullet holes, blood running out of every one. He had held Tim and seen everyone of his children dead in his arms. An endless cacophony of death.

He reaches Tim’s room. Stands in the doorway and hopes that Alfred can’t see him in the darkness. He tries to remember back to when he took Dick in. Tries to recall what, in the name of all the Gods, had possessed him to allow his child, his children, out into the night with him. Tries to remember how he reached the conclusion that he could risk their single precious lives for his own crusade. How he could risk their safety for a single second.

He steps into the room. Hears Alfred sigh from his seat by the window.

“Don’t ask me to leave.” Bruce croaks out. His throat is tight, trying to hold a tidal wave of emotion at bay. “Don’t.”

Alfred stands. “Of course not.” He says softly, and he gestures to where Tim is sleeping on the floor. “Did you get any sleep?” He asks.

Bruce doesn’t respond. Just stares down at Tim, eighteen but looking for all the world like the ten year old who had shown up on Bruce’s doorstep all those years ago. The sheet is twisted round his limbs, his face screwed into a frown.

“Why is he on the floor?” Bruce asks. Though he has a good idea already.

Alfred takes a steadying breath. “He’s been…” He pauses. “He’s been sleeping on the floor so long, it’s what he’s used to n—“ He cuts himself off abruptly, turns to the window away from Bruce.

Bruce feels a burn in his throat. Knows that Alfred is fighting down the same tears that he is. He places a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “I’ll stay with him now. Get some rest.”

Alfred nods. Places a hand over Bruce’s but doesn’t look at him. “And you, Bruce.” He says and he leaves. Pulls the door closed gently behind him.

Bruce turns back to Tim. His darling boy. He kneels down, gently detangles the sheets from his son’s legs. Tim doesn’t stir. Bruce lies down next to him, lays the sheet over them both.

Touch is grounding. Jason had said. And it’s all Bruce can do not to pull Tim into his arms and never let go. But Leslie had said baby steps. So instead he settles for running his fingers through Tim’s hair and holding his face in his hands. Moves his head closer so he can feel the soft rise and fall of Tim’s breath.

This would have to do, for now.

#batfic #batfamily fanfic #red hood #red robin #nightwing #tim drake #jason todd #alfred pennyworth #dick grayson #bruce wayne #batdad #spbfic

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red-jaebyrd · 3 years ago

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She Made Everything Better

Summary: Dick has his first cold since moving into the Manor with Bruce. All he wants is the one person he can’t have – his mom. Bruce does his best to fill the void as well as helping an ill and still grieving boy find safety and security in his new guardian.

For @ckbookish

There are many things that Bruce wasn’t prepared for when he took in 8 year old Dick Grayson. Little things like enforcing bedtimes and daily baths; to big things like no swimming in the pool alone and making sure Dick stayed off the front foyer chandelier…or any chandelier in the Manor. The other was taking care of a sick child.

Dick had only been living in the Manor for six months and had yet to come down with any kind of illness. Considering all the stories Bruce had been told by well-meaning co-workers of their kids coming home frequently with colds; he considered himself fortunate that Dick had remained cold-free.

Until one morning when he could hear faint coughing coming from the bedroom down the hall.

“Bruce,” Dick cried, dragging out his name followed by a series of more wet coughs.

Oh no, Bruce thought to himself. Those coughs didn’t sound good at all. He followed the cry and coughs to Dick’s room and saw the boy laying down on his bed bundled in blankets and surrounded by discarded tissues. His cheeks were flushed, his nose was red, and eyes were glassy.

“Hey buddy, what’s wrong?” Bruce asked, sitting on the edge of Dick’s bed.

“My head hurts, my nose won’t stop running, and I’m coughing,” Dick answered, pulling his blankets up to his chin.

Bruce quickly went through a mental checklist of what the boy might need while dealing with a cold. By the looks of the boy’s flushed cheeks, he likely had a fever. What was that saying, ‘feed a cold, starve a fever’; that didn’t sound right to Bruce.

Dick coughed and then groaned, snapping Bruce out of his thoughts.

“Why don’t you drink some water. It’s important to stay hydrated,” Bruce suggested, walking over to Dick’s nightstand and handing him his water bottle.

“No,” Dick whined with a pout pushing the water bottle away. “Water tastes gross, and it hurts when I swallow.”

“Understood,” Bruce said, a bit bewildered by Dick’s whining. Set the water bottle back onto the nightstand. He sat on the bed in front of Dick reaching to feel Dick’s forehead with the front of his wrist. Dick shivered at the contact. “You feel warmer than usual. I’ll be right back with a thermometer.”

“No,” Dick moaned, reaching his hand out for Bruce from under his blankets. “Don’t leave me.”

“I know you’re feeling bad, Chum, but I need to get a thermometer to see if you have a fever,” Bruce soothed, sweeping Dick’s sweaty bangs from his forehead. He smiled, taking Dick’s hand in his and squeezed it gently. “I’m not leaving I’m just going to your bathroom to get the thermometer.

Bruce walked toward the en-suite bathroom in search of the thermometer but came up empty. He searched all the cabinets, and they didn’t even have any children’s medicine, just polysporin, hospital grade antiseptic and, tons of band-aids. Bruce could have sworn they had children’s Motrin, but sadly there was none.

“Hang on, I’ll be right back,” Bruce said, closing the bathroom door and making his way toward the bedroom door.

“No, don’t leave,” Dick pleaded, reaching out frantically to Bruce this time with both hands. His eyes welled up with unshed tears. Bruce shoulders slumped and he sat down one the bed again, taking Dick’s cold hand in his and rubbing soft circles with his thumb.

Bruce furrowed his brow in concern at Dick’s behavior. It was extremely unusual for Dick to be this clingy and demanding when it came to Bruce. The two did spend more time together now that Bruce had changed his schedule a few months ago. Dick did like to seek attention from his guardian in the most heart stopping ways imaginable. Bruce quickly recalled the first and last time Dick backflipped off the second landing stairs nearly giving Bruce and Alfred a heart attack.

As Bruce had gotten to know Dick, he had learned that the boy liked being with people; liked spending time with Bruce and once Dick had got his fill of ‘peopling’, he’d be off outside or in his room playing alone. The boy liked attention, but he was far from clingy.

“Dick, I’m not leaving. I’m just heading to the intercom near the door to speak to Alfred,” Bruce explained, using his free hand to gently card his fingers through Dick’s hair and resting his hand on the boy’s cheek. “I’m not leaving.”

“Okay,” Dick sniffed, letting go of Bruce’s hand to rub his face with his blanket.

Bruce wrinkled his nose and handed Dick a fresh tissue from the discarded box on his bed. He then headed to the intercom near Dick’s bedroom door and pressed the button hoping Alfred was still in the kitchen.

“Alfred, I need a thermometer. Can you bring one to Dick’s bedroom, please.”

“Right away, Sir,” Alfred answered promptly.

Bruce turned and gave Dick a small smile, but the gesture wasn’t returned. He expected as much considering how poorly the boy felt. It warmed Bruce’s heart to know that Dick found security and safety in his presence. A little hand reached out to him from under the blankets. It made Bruce chuckle, so he made his way back to the bed and sat down taking Dick’s hand. Dick slouched low against his pillows blinking tiredly at Bruce.

“I wasn’t going to leave you. I told you I wasn’t,” Bruce reassured, trying to tuck Dick’s duvet around him with one hand and failing. Dick let go so Bruce could finish with both hands. “Do you want anything to eat?”

Just as Dick was going to answer Alfred arrived with a thermometer and a fresh box of tissues. He handed the thermometer to Bruce and set the tissue box on Dick’s nightstand. He then proceeded to collect the dirty tissues and deposit them in the trash bin.

“Will that be all, Sirs?” Alfred asked, moving the bin closer to the bed so it stayed within Dick’s reach near the nightstand.

Bruce stayed sitting on the bed and gave Alfred a rundown of all the supplies that they would need while Dick blew his nose. As usual Alfred had a pen and notepad on hand and wrote down everything.

“Anything else? Master Dick, would you like something to eat before I go?” Alfred asked, tucking the notepad and pen into his front jacket pocket.

Dick didn’t answer Alfred right away. The boy looked lost in his own thoughts, but mostly he looked tired. Poor guy, Bruce thought to himself, he must be feeling so out of it.

“Dick,” Bruce whispered, gently squeezing Dick’s hand to get his attention. Once the boy’s glassy eyes met his, Bruce took that as a sign to continue, “Are you hungry?

“Oh um –“ Dick stammered, and started playing with the hem of the duvet. “Would – would it be okay to have toast with cinnamon on top, please?”

“Certainly, young sir. I’ll get to it straight away.” Alfred replied and left the room closing the door behind him.

Bruce proceeded to take Dick’s temperature and just as he suspected after the thermometer beeped; he frowned looking at the number on the screen. Dick had a fever. Bruce was trying to remember if he should call a doctor right away or if he was supposed to wait two or three days if nothing improved. He’d likely call Leslie today just to be sure.

“Is it bad?” Dick asked, bringing the blanket up to his eyes.

“Well, it’s not good, 102.2, buddy. We’ll keep an eye on it. Make sure it goes down with meds. If not, I’ll have to call Dr Thompkins,” Bruce clarified, turning the thermometer off and setting it on the nightstand. “So cinnamon toast?”

“Mom would always give it to me whenever I got sick,” Dick swallowed thickly, looking down at his blankets. “She – she said the cinnamon had healing properties that would help make me feel better.”

“I’m sure it did,” Bruce said, brushing Dick’s bangs away from his face. “Moms are good like that aren’t they?”

Bruce tried to give Dick a smile, but it felt stiff on his face as he fought against the lump forming in his throat at the memory of his mom making him chicken noodle soup whenever he got a cold. He remembered loving the noodles and the broth but like all kids his age, Bruce hated the chicken and veggies. Over the years the soup was something that Alfred had tried to replicate, but to no avail. It just wasn’t the same. It wasn’t his mom’s soup.

“My mom would –,” Bruce sniffed and then cleared his throat, but before he could finish his sentence; Dick’s face crumpled, and he started sobbing.

In the short time that Dick had been staying at the Manor, he had only cried a handful of times. Even after a nightmare, tears spilled down silently. Dick was always quick to wipe the tears away before Bruce could fully envelop him in a hug. Always pulling away from the embrace claiming he was fine as the tears continued to fall down his cheeks. Bruce had never pressed as he never felt he had the right words to say. Because ‘I know how you feel’ and ‘I’ve been there too’ didn’t really seem like great words of comfort.

But maybe they were the exact words that Dick needed to hear.

“Oh Dickie, come here,” Bruce offered, his arms outstretched and his own eyes filling with unshed tears. He gathered Dick in his arms and settled him on his lap. The boy practically melted into his embrace.

“I don’t feel good, Bruce,” Dick bawled, his breaths hitching from crying so hard. “I want – I want my mom.

The last sentence was said in a whisper in between sobs. Dick’s fingers tightened as he clung onto Bruce in a desperate hug.

“I m-miss her,” Dick mumbled, trying to catch his breath and failing. “I miss how – how she made everything better.”

Bruce’s heart sank; his own tears finally falling down his cheeks. She made everything better. It echoed in brain and he couldn’t deny that the boy was right. Of course, Dick missed his mom; it made sense that he missed her. Every child who felt ill wanted their mom to be the one holding them, taking care of them, and making their favorite comfort foods; not some stranger they’ve barely known for six months.

He hugged Dick a little tighter and sighed. They had come a long way these past six months, dealing with Dick’s anger and trust issues that had only been fueled by Bruce’s incompetence and neglect in the guise of protection. While necessary changes to his schedule were made to fit Dick into his busy life and it had changed the dynamic in how they interacted with each other; the change still didn’t do much to help Dick feel safe enough to talk to Bruce about the loss of his parents. Until now, so naturally Bruce took advantage of a missed opportunity.

“I know you do. I know you miss her so much and I’m so sorry,” Bruce empathized, resting his cheek on the Dick’s head and rubbing small circles on his back. “I know – I know how you feel, chum. I really do. I’ve been where you are and it – well it sucks.”

Dick nodded in silent agreement and continued to cry.

“I know it feels like – it feels like the pain is so much bigger than you, but one day it won’t feel so big and overwhelming,” Bruce comforted, wiping away his own tears with his free hand. “And – and while the hurt won’t go away completely. It will get better in time. For you, that I promise.”

Bruce continued to hold Dick as his body calmed from his crying jag. The boy’s breaths slowly regulating from shuddering gasps to hiccups. Bruce was happy to finally be able to provide such comfort to Dick after so many months of him pushing him away. His feelings were never hurt from the boy’s rejection, Bruce understood firsthand that type of vulnerability and transparency in grief can be scary, especially in an unknown environment.

He had hoped that their conversation today would help pave the way to more talks and further healing for Dick. Bruce was confident the boy would be alright, but these difficult conversations had to be something that Bruce initiated and participated in as well.

“Any time you want to talk ab out your mom or your dad; come find me, okay?” Bruce offered, giving Dick a reassuring smile. He wiped away Dick’s remaining tears with his thumb. “Even if it’s in the middle of night. Understand?”

Dick nodded, his breaths finally evening out.

They sat on the bed in companionable silence. Bruce hummed a tune he remembered his mom singing whenever she was knitting or just needed to fill the silence. He could slowly start to feel Dick’s body going boneless against his chest with exhaustion; his breaths gradually getting deeper with sleep.

Just as Bruce was about to close his eyes a knock on the door startled him and woke up Dick.

“Here is your toast, Master Dick,” Alfred announced, setting a tray on the other side of the bed. “I also added a few digestives and the last juice box until I can get the apple juice you requested.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Dick sniffed, still clinging onto Bruce.

Bruce brought the tray closer to Dick so the boy wouldn’t have to move from his place of comfort.

“You are very welcome, young sir. If there is nothing else you require of me, I shall leave to retrieve the necessary items.”

An hour later, once Alfred returned with the medicine, Bruce was pleased to finally be able to give the boy some much needed relief from the headache and congestion. Dick still wouldn’t let Bruce leave, so Bruce suggested they move to the media room to watch a movie.

Bruce covered them with a blanket thin enough to make Dick comfortable, but not too thick to spike his fever. Dick settled himself right up against Bruce’s side, draping a thin arm around him and using Bruce’s chest as a pillow. Dick fell asleep ten minutes into the movie. Bruce stayed watching the rest of the movie, carding his fingers gently though Dick’s hair relishing the closeness and comfort he was finally able to provide his hurting foster son.

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batfoonery · 4 years ago

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Batfam at the Dentist...

I am tired and my gums hurt. Take this offering bc it was all I was thinking about while getting my teeth cleaned.

Dick

He is a grown man, but when it comes to the dentist Bruce has to drive all the way to Bludhaven and drag him all the way back to Gotham. A whole grown man, but he's terrified of the dentist, which is why he still goes to the same practice in Gotham that the family has been using for forever.

Once he gets there he's all smiles and charm, but Bruce knows it is a lie

He doesn't often have cavities, but when he does he calls Bruce in tears like it's the end of the world.

Apparently he's fine with the hygenists. It's the dentist herself that he's opposed to, because she lectures him about his nutritional choices. Bruce can't blame him, the woman is more strict than Leslie and possibly more intimidating than Alfred.

Jason

Surprisingly good at keeping his appointments for dental cleanings

Always gets praised for his good flossing habits, there's no risk of cavities here boi!

He also uses the same practice, and always seems to get the same hygenist. No one ever thinks about the possible security risk of using the same hygenist from before he died.....

If she notices that "Tason Jodd" has records that match the deceased Jason Todd's perfectly, she says nothing but always makes sure he gets a small tube of his favorite chapstick flavor.

Cass

She had never been to the dentist as a kid (surprise surprise). The first time is a bit traumatic for everyone involved.

Thankfully the office has a therapy animal. Usually it's only needed for small children and elder patients with alzheimers, but Cass is much better behaved when the little poodle sat on her lap.

Had a few cavities the first time, but has been cavity-free ever since.

That being said. Bruce does also have to drag his young adult daughter to the dentist every time.

Tim

Always ends up with appointments first thing in the morning. Does the hygenist hate him?!

Doesn't really ever have cavities, but still gets lectured anyways because he does always have stains on his teeth from coffee and tea.

The Drakes had also used this dentist (all the wealthy Gotham families do, the practice has been handed through the same family for generations) and sometimes the dentist will start going off on tangents about how cute he was when he was little

Bruce is an avid listener, and always teases him about his childhood toothbrush-character choices in the car ride home

Duke

Uses an electric toothbrush and a waterpik flosser to avoid those cavities.

Woe be the day when a villain knocks out one of his expertly attended teeth. He's got a very nice smile and he knows it. As a kid he had needed braces, and he never wants to go through the pain of a major orthodontal proceedure again.

Probably still has a bottom retainer cemented in. They've offered to take it out and give him a removable one for nights, but he knows he'd forget to ever use it.

Doesn't need the therapy dog, but rather likes her. It's best to schedule his appointments the same day as Cass so they can both play with the dog and calm each other down.

Damian

Cannot be scheduled for appointments the same day as Dick. If he sees the oldest boy freaking out, he also freaks out.

Does a good job keeping his teeth clean, doesn't really have cavities. Does have a couple of retained baby teeth though, and has to have them removed.

Doesn't like cleanings because he doesn't like the feeling of the suction in his mouth. He's bitten many a hygenist, only the bravest risk going into his room.

Scares the therapy dog, necessitating the need for a therapy sibling. Tim has gotten very good at squishing his brother and staying out of the way of the dental tray. More often than not they recruit Steph to do it though. They pay for her dental cleanings for the trouble.

Bruce

Listen. This man was raised by Alfred. Do you think he'd have anything other than perfect dental hygene?

Has had a ton of dental work done because his teeth keep getting broken/knocked out during fights though. It drives his dentist crazy. She keeps threatening to fire him as her client, but she never does. She was very fond of his father. It used to drive Martha up the wall.

Does she not fire him due to nostalgia reasons? Perhaps. He does resemble Thomas greatly. She also is fond of his little pack of hooligans.

Alfred

If he and the dentist know each other from their days in the service, well that's their secret.

She always makes fun of him for stereotypic reasons, but it's all in good fun. He's good about not getting cavities. He does have a few crooked teeth, but at his age refuses to get braces.

They complain about the aches and pains that come with getting old together.

Every year he sends her a holiday card, it features all the kids and one of their staff members, one Tason Jodd. The staff smiles and coos before hanging it up with others that they get, and if the dentist knows perhaps a bit more than she should, if she likes the annual reassurance that all is well in the Wayne household, well. That's for her and Alfred to know.

#I feel like all 10-13 year olds are little shits about going to the dentist #it doesn't matter if there's a cute dog he still goes feral #Duke was probably really a cute kid with his braces #Lives in eternal fear of rubber bands #You know the ones #Tim gets really embarrassed about his teeth stains #batfam #batfamily headcanons #batman #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #cassandra cain #tim drake #duke thomas #damian wayne #alfred pennyworth

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thepoppypress · 3 years ago

Text

An Apple A Day Keeps The Doctor Away (If Thrown Hard Enough)

Synopsis:

Alternatively,

5 times Dr. Peter Parker took care of the Bat Family.

+1 time they took care of him.

Peter rued the day he became a doctor. He should’ve listened to Mr. Stark and went to MIT like the genius had wanted him to. No. No, instead, he had to go to medical school. He wanted to ‘help people’ and ‘heal them,’ like Dr. Strange. What a fucking joke.

(On the other hand, Dr. Strange was near tears when Peter told him he had gotten accepted into medical school.)

And then, he gets hired by one of the richest, if not the most wealthy bachelor in Gotham City (a city that Mr. Stark hadn’t wanted him to move to in the first place) and his multiple children (most of whom are not related to him) through a mutual acquaintance, Dr. Leslie Thompkins, to be their in-home family doctor. He was on top of the world. If only he knew it was all downhill from there.

-----

1) Bruce:

Peter stared at the handsome man sitting atop the bed in incredulity. Everyone else in the room was silent. Very much so silent. Even Alfred kept himself out of this. He knew better.

‘They should all know better by now,’ Peter thought bitterly.

“So let me get this straight,” Peter said, breaking out of his disbelieving stare and pinching the bridge of his nose. Bruce cut in before the doctor could continue.

“There’s not much to get straight, Dr. Parker.” Peter gave his boss a deadpan stare.

“So you’re saying that you currently have three, three holes in you because of a horseback riding incident?”

“Exactly, Doctor.” Bruce nodded sagely, completely serious. Well, at least that’s what he seemed like. Peter’s expression did not change.

“And that I had to dig the bullets of said three holes because yOU WERE SHOT DURING A HORSEBACK RIDING INCIDENT?! DO YOU KNOW HOW RIDICULOUS YOU SOUND?!” The five other men in the background winced as the doctor started chewing out the head of the household, boss or not.

‘Master Bruce, you loveable and absolute moron,’ Alfred thought while Peter was still flailing his arms about, lecturing Bruce Wayne like it was his place. And Bruce was letting him.

“IS THERE ANYTHING YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?!” A beat of silence dropped before Bruce’s deep baritone said something, eyes entirely too innocent.

“It was an accident?” It was said as a question. Peter stared in absolute mortification. Slowly, the pale skin of his face turned a lovely shade of pink as a flush of anger slowly made its way towards the roots of his hair.

‘Bruce,’ his sons collectively thought with a flinch. The doctor would not like that answer.

“ARE YOU FU-” Peter seemed to burst outward like an explosion.

‘Oh dear,’ Alfred thought while sweating lightly, ‘it looks as though we’ll be there for a while.’ Afterall, it was an official rule. No one interrupted when the good doctor was lecturing.

(It also seemed like Dr. Parker knew. Oh damn it all to hell.)

-----

2) Dick:

“I want you to stay off of that for a few weeks Dick. I know it’s a sprain but I don’t want any lasting damage. Promise me you will.” It was a demand, plain and simple.

“I promise.” The statement was said with a beaming smile. Peter gave a terse one back and sent the first son on his way. After he was gone, Peter thought a bit.

It was entirely too innocent and convincing enough, he supposed. But he knew better. Dr. Peter Parker sighed in frustration.

‘Like father, like son, it seems.’

------

Dick collapsed onto the couch, Damian grunting as he drops his eldest brother unceremoniously. He then slumped down next to his brother as they groaned in unison. The Riddler. Again.

Bruce, Tim, and Jason were also in the room, slouching in their own chairs, licking their own wounds that really shouldn’t have gotten. If only they hadn’t started playing that damn game in the middle of the battle, despite Bruce’s good efforts to stop it halfway through once he realized what his sons were doing.

The oldest Wayne son fidgeted a bit before hissing in pain, clutching his leg. The same one that was injured about a week ago. Damian’s eyes lit up in mild alarm.

“Grayson, is that not the leg that Dr. Parker told you to stay off?” Cobalt blue eyes swiveled to meet jade green before a sheepish smile filled out Dick’s face. Three other sets of eyes came to stare at their oldest brother expectedly.

“Well-” A voice seemed to come from nowhere.

“Why yes it is, Damian. How keen of you to notice.” Said doctor melted out of the shadows. The sons startled and even Bruce seemed to be slightly panicked. Sometimes, it was as if he was better than them at going places undetected.

“P-Peter.” Dick was the first to snap out of it and instantly knew what position he was put in. “Look, I-I know I shouldn’t have-” Dick stopped mid-sentence, realizing his mistake.

“Shouldn’t have what, Dick?” Peter waited for his patient to self incriminate himself. “It’s okay, I’m not mad. I just want to know what you shouldn’t have done.” It was a siren’s croon, lulling them into a false sense of security. It was dangerous, they all knew. Oh, did they know. Dick gulped.

“I actually have no idea what you’re talking about.” The others seemed to shrink back into their chairs as the dark aura around the doctor grew.

‘Oh shit,’ they all thought.

“Oh,” it was said mildly enough, but the murderous intent behind it was obvious. “Is that so?” Dick pressed closer to Damian as Peter stalked forward, procuring a wheelchair from seemingly nowhere.

Positioning it in front of the couch, Peter reached forward and lifted Dick like he weighed nothing (as if he didn’t have five inches and about 40 pounds on him) and deposited him onto the seat. Before the acrobat could wriggle and squirm about, Peter pressed a button that released restraints on the oldest, holding him in place. Horror was evident on Dick’s face.

“B! B! Help me!” He pleaded to his adoptive father as he sat at the desk. Bruce only stared at the wood beneath his elbows, back and shoulders tense. It seemed that he would not be helping him tonight.

“Shall we go now? It seems we need to revisit some old lessons.” The smile on Peter’s face was sweet, but his teeth gleamed white and sharp, eyes even sharper. Dick wailed as Peter forcibly removed him from the room. They were gone all of three seconds before Jason burst out laughing.

“Oh shit! May he rest in peace! Good luck Dickiebird! You’re gonna need it!” The man convulsed with laughter, a sentiment neither of his other brother’s shared for they both felt the dark aura moving towards the room once again.

Peter poked his head back in, Dick still struggling against the restraints with the force of a wildman. Jason, once he caught sight of the good doctor, stopped laughing immediately.

“Don’t think you guys are off the hook.” There it was. That entirely too-sweet smile. “I’m coming back for you all. We’ll be talking about that game of Hide-And-Go-Seek-Tag in the middle of a mission..”

He disappeared again, dragging Dick off to his quarters, leaving the remaining brothers and their father with one thought in their heads, and while they would’ve escaped while they could if it was someone else, they knew better than that. It was Peter after all.

‘Fuck,’ was the collective thought.

-----

3) Jason:

Alfred sipped his tea quietly, content to the core as Bruce read the weekly newspaper and Damian buttered some toast for himself. It was a beautiful Monday morning in the Wayne Manor in the middle of May. The butler’s expression didn’t change one bit as a resounding crash was heard above them.

“GET BACK IN THE BED, JASON PETER TODD!”

“NO, FUCK YOU!” More thumps occurred as Alfred continued to drink his hot beverage. There was a struggle before Dr. Peter Parker’s strangled voice demanded,

“DICK! GO GET THE TRANQUILIZER!”

“YESSIR!” Loud footsteps trailed away. The three in the dining room did not pause in their activities. Alfred continued to sip, Bruce continued to read, and Damian bit into the toast.

“TIM! THE ROPES!” More footsteps amongst the loud struggle.

“FUCK OFF! YOU’RE NOT MY MOM!”

“I’M YOUR DOCTOR. I’M WORSE!”

“HERE’S THE TRANQ! AND THE ROPES!”

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! AN INVITATION?! FUCKING SHOOT HIM ALREADY!” Another struggle on the floor before a loud thump and the mansion quieted. Bruce paused in reading, looking up to the ceiling.

“Seems like they finally got Jason back into bed.”

“It would seem that way, sir.”

“Tt.”

‘How peaceful,’ Alfred thinks.

-----

4) Tim:

Paranoia swept through Tim as the family doctor watched him bring his coffee to his lips. Said doctor had brought said coffee and said doctor’s eyes were on said coffee. Tim’s eyes widened. There was something wrong with the coffee. Hurriedly, he brought his favorite drink the whole wide world into the nearest bathroom to pour it out, tears in his eyes as he did so.

‘Such a waste,’ he bemoaned. Tim trudged back into the hallway, bypassing Peter who had followed him to make another cup of coffee, on his own so he was sure there was nothing in it. Like prescribed sleeping pills.

Even as he did make it, Peter’s doe brown eyes never left him. More waves of paranoia crashed into Tim, even more than the tiredness. Peter’s eyes were still on the cup. Tim’s mental voice was screaming with outrage and loss.

There must’ve been something in the coffee beans. Tim took a sip and instantly spit it back out. It tasted fine but there must be something wrong. There had to be.

The process repeated five more times. Each time Tim remade the coffee, Peter eyed it and it made Tim spit it back out and remake another one, insisting within his own mind that there was something wrong with it.

Eventually, Tim gave up on coffee for the day and went back up to his office, coffee-less. Peter followed him there too.

Thirty minutes later, Tim could barely keep his eyes open. Squinting up at the figure leaning against the doorway, he screeched out.

“Why?! What did I do to you?!” The figure said nothing. They only waved. Two larger figures joined the lone one. “WHY?!” A deep voice shushed him.

“Relax, Replacement. This was a long time coming. You’re lucky the doc held out until now.” Tim dry-heaved, head dizzy with the need to sleep.

But Tim couldn’t sleep.

“I have work to do!” He wailed desperately.

“We know, babybird. That’s why Damian’s going to help out.” The second youngest son sobbed at the name.

“He’s going to ruin everything!” A voice scoffed.

“I appreciate your faith in me, Drake.”

“Alright,” Peter’s voice cut through, and was soft but no less commanding, “take him away, boys. Do whatever it takes to keep him in bed.” Tim could hear the smirk in Jason’s voice as he turned to plead helplessly at Peter’s kind, beautiful face. If only that face matched the personality.

“Will do, doc.” With that, Dick and Jason dragged their little brother away for some much needed sleep.

Tim’s screams echoed through the mansion.

(Frankly, Damian thought they were a rather beautiful sound. One he could definitely fall asleep to.)

-----

5) Damian:

Jason waited with an evil grin on his face, waiting for his youngest brother to get out of the operation room. Damian Al Ghul-Wayne, Ibn al Xu Ffasch, had just gotten his wisdom teeth removed. Already 18 years old, Damian had insisted that he not needed them taken out but was left in pain for the past few days. It turns out that one of them had gotten infected somehow and they needed to be removed post-haste.

Peter waited with the rest of the Wayne family (being a doctor, he didn’t know the first thing about teeth. He was no expert in that field. But when Damian had insisted that he get them out himself, he suddenly became an expert at wrestling a scalpel away from a trained child-assassin while simultaneously holding a conversation with a colleague of his on rushing the surgery. Thank God for rich people.) while Damian was in surgery.

About an hour later, they had successfully removed the abscess and Damian’s wisdom teeth while doping him on a lot of anesthesia. Jason rubbed his hands together gleefully, itching to get to his phone to start recording. Blondie would love this one.

-----

By the time they got home, Damian was still asleep. Dick and Bruce carried Damian (for an 18 year old, he sure was large) into Peter’s office, laying him down on the bed for monitoring. While it was only wisdom teeth removal, Peter had to make sure the stitches were cleaned thoroughly and rinsed out with salt water.

Only thirty minutes had passed when Damian groggily woke and evidently, high on the anesthesia. Tim, who was sitting right next to the bed, quietly engaging Peter in an interesting conversation about the theory of time and relativity, was instantly at attention.

“Damian?” Tim whispered and Damian’s eyes popped right open, staring up at Tim in disbelief. “Damian?”

“Oh my God.” Tim glanced at Peter, who was also slightly confused and a bit amused. “This is Heaven. Hi Dr. Parker.” Peter chuckled.

“Hello Damian.” Said man smiled dopily (at which point Tim started recording), before turning back to his brother with puzzlement.

“Wait, if this is Heaven, why are you here?” A moment of silence passed before Tim’s expression became deadpan and Peter’s shoulders shook with laughter.

“It’s part of an exchange program. Gandhi’s down there at a strip club with Mussolini.” That made Peter laugh outright. It wasn’t much longer before Damian went back to sleep.

-----

“Hey Jason.”

“Hmm?”

“Wake up your brother so I can take care of his gums.”

“Okay.”

“...”

“I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU HIT HIM-”

“Okay, okay! Jeez!”

-----

+1) Peter:

“ACHOO!” Dick winced as the doctor of the house sniffled into the tissue. Warm temperature, runny nose, and bad cough meant a sick Dr. Peter Parker.

“You need to relax, Pete.” Dick’s tone was pleading. For someone who took such good care of others, he was a bad patient when it came to himself.

“Ugh,” Peter’s nasally tone broke through, obviously horribly congested. “I’m fine, Dick. I just need to walk it off.” Disbelief showed on the eldest Wayne sibling’s face as Peter attempted to get out of his bed. A calloused hand pushed him back down and even while sitting on the bed, he swayed dangerously. Dick was very concerned.

“Nope. I can’t do this alone. I’m getting Alfred.”

Not five minutes later, Alfred arrived with warm, spicy soup (cooked about an hour ago when Alfred had heard the telltale signs of a cold), a damp rag, and some medicine.

“Here, Dr. Parker. Eat some soup before drinking the medicine.” The spice cleared his sinuses well and the medicine made him very sleepy. It wasn’t long before he was out like a light, unaware of the adoring looks sent his way.

-----

Come early morning, Peter woke up well rested and feeling better than ever. The only problem was he couldn’t move. Turning his head to his right, he found Damian, in his tall and well muscled form clinging to his arm like a child.

It made Peter coo internally.

Dick was on his left, cradling Peter to his side and Tim snuggled on Dick’s chest, a blanket draped over all four of them.

All three brothers were positioned so that the doctor wouldn’t be able to escape without alerting any of the others.

He couldn’t move his legs either, Peter realized. Looking down, he noticed Jason’s head pillowed on the meat of his calf, arresting his movement and trapping him in a very comfortable and warm prison.

Bruce was beside the bed, sitting in a chair in an uncomfortable looking position that would surely put a crick in his neck.

‘Oh well,’ Peter thinks with a smile on his face, halfway back to sleep already, ‘it’s not like I can move any time soon.’

The ‘just the way I like it,’ was unsaid but unconsciously there.

#Peter Parker #Batfam #Bruce Wayne #Damian Wayne #Dick Grayson #Tim Drake #Jason Todd #Alfred Pennyworth #Dr. Peter Parker #Doctor AU #Batfam Drabble

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dibs4ever · 4 years ago

Text

Gone

Barbara stared at the test in her hands ”Crap” she mumbled to herself, she bit her lip. The past couple days she’d been feeling uneasy and then counted up her days and realized she was late. So while her husband was at work she decided to take a test without him knowing.

He always wanted 3 kids

She was comfortable with one.

So they settled on a median of 2, which she was thankful for because she wouldnt trade their daughter for anything.

“Looks like you got your way Boy Wonder.” She sighed leaning back against the bathtub from where she sat on the master bathroom floor.

There was a tiny knock at the door “Mama?” Came the voice of her first born

“I’ll be out in a second sweetie, is your sister awake?” She questioned through the door

He replied a second later “No, she’s sleeping. Mama are you okay?”

Barbara smiled. He was so kind, she couldn’t ask for a sweeter little boy. Next week he would be 3.

Her eyes widened as realization dawned on her.

She had a 3 year old and a 4 month old.

She was pregnant again, how far along she didn’t yet know but she couldn’t imagine she was too far along

How would she ever be Batgirl again? She’d just gotten back into the rhythm of the business after their daughter

Taking a deep breath she stood and hid the test before stepping out

“Mommy!” Her son smiled, his bright blue eyes gleaming up at her

Barbara grinned and scooped up the young boy “Hello sweetness” she kissed his cheek “Wanna go make lunch before the baby wakes up?”

Nathan nodded “Yes mommy” he hugged her neck “I love you mommy.”

Barbara smiled as she carried him to the kitchen. Perhaps having a third Grayson baby wasn’t so bad. After all they did make really cute kids.

A few days later Barbara was prepared to tell Dick the news

That was until Joker took over the city, using mind control turning thousands of people into mind controlled goons.

It was bad. They weren’t just in Gotham. They were in Star City, Central City and now Bludhaven.

A phone call came from Dick- who was currently working as Nightwing.

He called her on her personal phone. Something never done before “Babs, We need you. The goons are everywhere, the family is all out fighting.” She heard a grunt her heart skipping a beat till his voice returned several seconds later “Hide the kids, you’ll never make it to the Manor in time to drop them off with Alfred. They could use your help in Central City”

Barbara bit her lip “But Dick-“

“Babs, I’m in Bludhaven I promise I won’t let them get to our babies. Okay?” He pleaded

She couldn’t tell him now, besides, she’d patrolled with Nathan the first 10 weeks of her pregnancy. Due to not knowing she was pregnant.

One night wouldn’t hurt right?

She could hear sirens in the distance. They lived in a well secured gated community but was it anything against jokers goons?

She looked over at her son, lounging on the couch innocently watching a cartoon. Her daughter in the bouncer kicking her legs. Happy because she had just been fed and her little stomach was full.

She walked into the living room and picked up the bouncer with her daughter still in it, “Nay Nay, follow mommy please.” She instructed, turning off the television set.

Nathan tilted his head but followed her anyways

She lead him into her and Dick’s bedroom. She pulled things out of her large closet “Mommy has to go somewhere.” She informed Setting the bouncer down in the back of the closet. Little Leah smiled up at her. Barbara bent down and smoothed her fuzzy red hair with her fingers

Nathan stepped into the closet “Where you goin?” The almost 3 year old asked

“Mommy has to help daddy and Grampie with something. But I don’t have time to take you to grandfather .” She said running a hand along her sons cheek “You get to stay here with your baby sister. Listen to me.” She held his face to ensure she had his full attention “You and Leah are staying in here. Mommy is going to lock the door. Whatever you hear don’t leave and try not to make any noise. Okay?”

Nathan nodded “I be bwave mama” he whispered

She smiled and kissed his forehead. She picked him up, setting him down againest the back wall and moved the baby bouncer beside him. Barbara leaned down kissing her daughters cheek. Looking her over taking in every inch of her tiny 4 month body. The little fuzzy blush pink sleeper she’d just dressed her in. Her blue eyes that she was sure were beginning to turned green. Dick’s nose and ears. Her red hair and lips.

Then she moved onto her son. Dressed in his Green Arrow pajama’s. His favorite super hero. Little did the boy know in less then 15 minutes his mom would be fighting along side him.

His long raven hair, bright blue eyes. Her nose and ears along with a splash of freckles along his cheekbones . Dick’s lips.

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I love you both so much .” She told him before standing and backing out.

Barbara pushed a wardrobe up against the closet door, barricading the two kids inside while also hiding the door from view . The house had a central sprinkler system so a fire was the least of her worries.

She suited up and then went out. Praying everything would turn out fine

Six hours later Dick rushed into the clinic “Where is she.” He demanded

Leslie and Dinah both ran along side him “She’s lost a lot of blood.” Dinah said

Leslie nodded “She is very weak and drowsy”

He stopped and turned toward the two women “Take me to my wife now.”

The both gulped...Dick had actually admitted a small bit of fear in the two women something hard to do.

Dinah nodded “Come.” She waved

Dick entered the room and swallowed upon seeing the love his life looking so helpless lied up in the hospital bed. She’d been stabbed in her arm and almost bled out. Had it not been for Ollie’s basic medical training that saved her

“Her arm will be fine. It’ll make a full recovery. But...” she paused “The other bleeding ontop of the arm is what added to the substantial blood loss.”

He paused “What other blood loss?”

Dinah then realized he didn’t know “Barbara was pregnant. Not very far along 6 weeks at most....she lost the baby.-we haven’t told her yet.”

Dick’s heart sank. They’d made another baby. Another product of their love. And now just like that it was gone?

“Can we be alone?” He asked looking at his sleeping wife

Dinah nodded and exited the room

Dick approached the bed, sitting in a nearby chair. He was sore and probably had a few injuries he should be getting checked out himself but they could wait

He grabbed her hand in both of his. Bringing it to his lips he placed a soft kiss to the top of her hand.

Slowly Barbara stirred awake

“Hey beautiful.” He whispered

Her eyes were only had open “Dick, you’re okay.” A smile played on her lips. Which were now a pale pink

He nodded

“Kids?” She said, her voice a sleepy rasp

“As soon as we got the mind control turned off I ran to the house. They’re fine. Nate had Leah in his lap and she was sleeping. He told me he was protecting her” Dick grinned down at his childhood best friend as he softly brushed away the hair in her face.

He watched as her left hand slowly inched toward her belly “I’m so sorry Dick.”

Dick furrowed his eyebrows “For what Love?”

She closed her eyes “The baby, it’s gone.”

She knew, of course she knew it was Barbara. Tears were welling her eyes. As much as she didn’t plan for another child the idea of having a third baby with Dick was starting to excite her.

He leaned forward and hugged her to his chest “Barbara it’s okay.” He turned his head and kissed her temple “You did nothing wrong. “

She shook her head in his shoulder “They were beating my abdomen after stabbing my shoulder. Green Arrow came over and stopped them but it was too late. I knew the baby was gone”

He nodded “Its alright Babs. We have two beautiful children at home. They are safe because of your quick thinking.” He kissed her cheek and pulled back to look at her “You’re okay I’m okay. Yes we lost the baby. Yes I’m heartbroken as I know you are but we have each other.”

She smiled “I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you”

He nodded “Neither do I.

#dickbabs #dick grayson #barbara gordon #nightwing #batfamily #batgirl #batfam headcanons

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bigfan-fanfic · 4 years ago

Note

I saw your post on The Dark Knight rises, could you expand a little on Batdad and Selina interacting?

Well, I’d like to introduce some interesting dynamics between Batdad, Batman, and Selina. Because in those years Bruce is gone training and Batdad is running Wayne Enterprises as its CEO, I think Selina too is just starting out on her journey and slowly working up the courage to force her way up the social ladder and maybe secure something for herself.

And maybe Selina tries to seduce Batdad, not realizing that he is very very gay, but they work up an alliance. Because trying to keep Wayne Enterprises clean and out of the hands of the mob and crime syndicates and families and corrupt bureaucrats and politicians and rich folks is impossible without playing dirty. So Selina becomes his spy. They bond a little because they both come from poverty, or near-poverty.

Selina doesn’t even blame Batdad for his meteoric rise to the top of society because he got dumped there by his parents and he’s trying to give that wealth back out to those who need it. She sees himself as his dark conscience, ready to remind him that he’s not one of them, the rich up in their towers, he’s from the streets of the Narrows and Park Row and if he hadn’t gotten lucky, he’d still be down there with the rest of them.

So Batdad gets some inside information from Selina, Selina gets to fleece some richies out of their ill-gotten gains, and everyone’s happy. They even become, if not friends, then staunch allies, despite Alfred’s disapproval. It gets good, until Batdad can establish a foothold and force his way past the powers-that-be preventing him from doing the good work, and getting good people into positions of power. He, with Selina’s help, and Lucius Fox’s help, and the help of a young beat cop named Blake and the moral support of Leslie Thompkins and Alfred’s calling in of some old friends and favors, is starting the process of rebuilding Gotham.

Selina and he eventually fall out, not in an unfriendly way, but Selina has realized she needs more than the good feelings of being on the side of light. She gets paid, but that isn’t enough. She wants the thrill, she wants the power of punishing the rich for hurting people like her, squashing them under her boot in the same way they do to people like her every day.

Selina doesn’t know Bruce is Batman. But Batman knows, and initially Batdad vouches for her as a tenuous ally. I don’t know if at this point Selina would change if she knew Bruce’s identity. All I know is that they know each other now. They were allies, if not friends. And it just... hurts.

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lookforanewangle · 4 years ago

Text

and we’ll be carrying each other (until our dying day) || batfam || 2.9k; part 2 of 2 || part one dick comes back to visit after his time with spyral, and spends patrol with damian. things don’t quite go as planned. || ao3

ch 2: time means nothing (say that you’ll stay)

A shower and a quick medical patch up later finds Damian and Jason up in the rafters, just like Jason had promised. Damian’s head is throbbing, pulsing with every beat of his heart and every pound is like a hammer against his skull, but he does not say a word. Jason would take him upstairs like Father had wanted, and Damian refuses to leave the cave

He will not leave until he can ensure that Grayson will survive.

Of course he will survive, his mind snarls. If he does not…

He will, he insists. He’ll make it. Damian does not want to think of what would happen, or what he would do, if Richard did not.

The two of them are quiet as they perch in the shadows, not wanting to tip off Father or interfere with the situation below, regardless of how much Damian wants to be by Richard’s side. You’ll just be in the way, Todd had insisted. Damian scowls at the thought. He knows how to maintain a necessary distance during medical treatments, and he would not ever impede on the operation below. He shifts, impatient. Father would be furious at both of them, especially Damian, but if he could just—

“Don’t even think about it, Baby Bat,” Todd says calmly, cleaning beneath his nails with the tip of his dagger. Damian’s eyebrows furrow further.

“I was not going to—”

“You were, and that’s not gonna fly,” he interrupts, catching Damian’s gaze and cocking an eyebrow.

Try me.

“Stay out of their way, they’ll finish up faster. Faster they’re done, the sooner you can check on Goldie.”

Damian crosses his arms tightly against his chest and ducks his head away, his eyes burning in frustration. Jason is right of course, but Damian refuses to voice his concession.

They wait.

Nearly an hour later, the frantic energy of the med bay dies down. Damian straightens in his perch, stretching out the muscles that have gone stiff in his back and legs. His headache has not subsided, but he ignores it for now. He will ask Pennyworth for painkillers if it continues to persist after he has checked on Richard.

Beside him, Jason tucks his blade back into its sheath and shifts into a crouch on the support beam, watching the scene below with bored interest. Pennyworth is beginning to sanitize medical equipment at the sink, and Dr. Thompkins scrubs out, packing up her medical bag and speaking softly to Father. As she strides towards the elevator, Father looks up at the both of them, and Damian freezes.

Father's eyes narrow at the two of them. He points sternly at them, and then to the ground in front of him. Come here. Now.

Damian glowers at their discovery. Todd, on the other hand, has the audacity to wave back at him down below.

"Mornin', Boss," he calls down with a lazy grin.

"Hrn," Father replies, mouth pressed into a thin line. "Get down here, both of you."

“I don’t follow your orders anymore, B,” Todd shouts back. Despite his call, he pulls a wire from his belt, secures it, and swings down to drop heavily to the cave floor. Damian watches him go in confusion before following. Father stares them down sternly as they approach.

Damian follows Todd, his steps hesitant and his eyes shifting anxiously between Father and the gurney across the bay. Richard’s chest is moving and Father is not very upset or in a panic, so why won’t Damian’s heart stop racing? His fingers tremble and he clenches them into fists, tucking them beneath his arms that he crosses again over his chest in defense. Mother would have never allowed such a show of discomfort, but Damian has learned differently here. Shows of emotion were encouraged by Richard, by Pennyworth and Brown, and occasionally by Father. Despite all of this, his cheeks still flush in discomfort at the motion. He unfolds himself as he comes to a stop feet away from his father. He hears the man take a deep, controlled breath, and Father's attention shifts back to his two sons in front of him. He eyes Jason first, skin around his eyes tight in frustration and something else that Damian can't put a name to.

This...this tentative peace between Father and Todd is so new, and so fresh, and still so strained as they find their footing, that all Damian can do is sit by, hold his breath, and watch.

"I thought I told you to take him upstairs," Father comments, voice low like an approaching storm, glare tightening his features.

Todd glares right back.

"Come on, old man, you know as well as I do that he would have snuck right back down here," Todd argues. Damian doesn't counter his point, though his shoulders creep up towards his ears, self-conscious. Todd is correct in his assessment, but Damian will not admit it out loud. "He was just gonna keep comin' back until he could make sure dear ol' Dickie survived the night."

Father heaves a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. Dropping his hand, he turns his glare to Damian. Damian meets his gaze head-on, fists clenched at his sides and his face set in a determined pout. He straightens, shoulders easing away from his ears and he tilts his chin up just enough in defiance for Father to catch.

"Richard was my partner," he says, standing his ground. "I will not leave him alone when he is injured."

Father’s face softens imperceptibly, and Damian waits, tense. Father's hulking frame crouches before him, the leather and kevlar of the suit creaking as his knees pop in protest, his pale eyes roving over his face and looking for...Damian doesn't know what.

“You know that Alfred and Leslie had everything handled,” Father comments offhandedly. It is meant to be reassuring, Damian knows, but he cannot help but feel like Father does not understand. Damian clenches his jaw.

“Yes,” he admits. “That still does not negate the fact that I would like to check on him myself.”

Father continues to just look at him, as if trying to read every intention beneath his words. His intentions are true, Damian knows this as sure as he knows anything, but Father...Father still struggles to trust him, sometimes. Damian’s chest twinges at the thought, just as his vision swims for a single second as his head pounds in reminder of his injury. He doesn’t think he gives any indication of the effect, but Father’s brows tighten in concern.

“You’re injured,” he says.

Jason scowls.

“I thought you said you weren’t hurt anywhere else, twerp.”

Bruce shoots Todd a look. Damian glares at him.

“Hey, don’t look at me,” Todd says, hands up in surrender. “I checked him over and he said he was fine.”

“I lied,” Damian says, his voice tight and head throbbing harder now at his admission, as if it had been waiting for the moment to finally show his weakness. Father pushes to his feet, joints protesting the movements

“Cot. Now.”

Damian tenses at the tone, but he follows to the bed next to Richard’s, brushing his fingers against Richard’s blankets as if touching the mattress alone would tell him of his current state.

Richard’s chest rises and falls, and Damian crawls into his own cot.

Father’s fingers are impossibly gentle as he examines him for injury, cradling his chin in his hands as he shines a penlight into Damian’s eyes. Damian winces and pulls away from the light, head pounding, but Father holds him steady, a sturdy safe haven in a storm. As the light pulls back, Damian squeezes his eyes tight, willing the pain away. He hears the light shut off with a sharp click, feels Father’s hand hesitate against his chin, shifting to cradle his face in his large, calloused palm. Damian opens his eyes in muted surprise, catching his father’s gaze warily. He just watches him again for a moment, some emotion behind the gaze soothing Damian against his notice. He takes a breath. Father strokes his thumb across Damian’s cheek in some sort of comfort, and Damian allows himself to lean into the motion. Just this once, of course. Tears suddenly well in his eyes, and he blinks them away rapidly.

“What’s wrong?” Father asks, urgency bleeding into his tone, thumb stilling on his face.

“I...” Damian chokes, gaze flitting away to the still form on the bed beyond. His heart fills with dread. “I— it was my fault that Grayson—”

Bruce crouches down in front of him, catching his other hand with his free one.

“This wasn’t your fault.”

Damian bristles.

“But I—”

“Damian.”

His name is said so softly, so quietly, that Damian stills. There is no anger in his father’s tone, no disgust or disgrace on his features. Tears well in his eyes again and Bruce’s thumb resumes its motion across his cheek to wipe them away.

“I messed up,” he grits around the lump taking up residence in his throat, “and Grayson paid the price for my mistake. If that does not indicate that his injury is my fault—”

“Enough.”

Damian quiets again, ducking his head down and away as his tears continue to fall. He sniffles and Father moves, pushes to stand, and plucks Damian right off the cot and into his arms. Damian’s head swims at the motion and he ducks his face against his Father’s neck, the scents of sweat and leather and motor oil filling his nostrils. He’s stiff for only a moment before he sags against his father’s chest, tears falling and disappearing into the cape tucked under his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he cries quietly, and Father shushes him, rubbing his palm gently against his back. He clutches Damian tight, lets him cry himself out, and holds him as he drifts off to sleep in his exhaustion.

~***~

When Damian wakes, there is a hand carding through his hair. He sighs and leans into the motion, pressing his forehead against the warm body at his side, pulling the sheet closer under his chin. There’s a breathy huff of laughter above him and Damian stills. That sounds like—

His eyes fly open and he glances up at Richard. Richard smiles down at him wearily, fingers continuing to massage his scalp, soothing away the lingering hurt.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, voice scratchy from disuse.

Damian’s eyes water against his best intentions. “Richard,” he croaks, fingers tightening around the fabric of his sleep shirt beneath his hands.

Too many emotions bubble up at once, and Damian doesn’t know how to feel. Relief that Richard is all right, rage at himself for allowing Richard to be injured in the first place, exhaustion, pain, lingering fear at the thought of losing Richard yet again—

He settles on anger. Wants to settle on anger.

He wants to be angry at this stupid imbecile, furious that he would throw himself in harms way for him when Damian isn’t— he’s not worthy of it, why —

But he’s too tired and his head still hurts and the relief of seeing Richard awake and well is too much, and before he knows it he’s crying again. How embarrassing. How pathetic. He ducks back down to hide his face against Richard’s side as he shudders, choking back sobs. Richard makes a noise of distress and tugs at him until Damian is upright so he can assess his situation.

“Damian? Dami, kiddo, what’s wrong? Talk to me,” he says urgently, gripping Damian’s upper arm tightly.

Damian sniffles miserably, and how much more pathetic can he be, sniveling in front of his brother, in front of his Batman like this? He refuses to look Richard in the face as he speaks.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stumbles, scrubbing furiously at his face. “I shouldn’t have— I should have been faster, I shouldn’t have froze—”

“Dames—”

“Freezing in the field is unacceptable,” he presses. “It results in injury and— I—” he stops, sucking in a shuddering breath. His gaze is locked on the sheets across Richard’s torso, bulging atop the bandages wrapped snugly around his abdomen. Damian reaches out and nearly touches the blankets there, but jerks back in a panic. He has already hurt Richard once tonight, how dare he try to do it again—

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, turning his head away.

“Damian,” Richard calls softly, and pauses as if he doesn’t know what to say.

Damian braces for a rebuke, for blame, for a punishment, anything that would lay the fault solely on himself for Richard’s injury. A hand reaches up and Damian freezes in place, subconscious preparing for a strike. The hand stills, and if Damian were looking, he would have seen the look of sorrow and restrained fury cross Richard’s face. No comment comes to pass; Richard places his hand on his cheek and turns Damian’s head towards his, much like Father had done earlier. Damian does not meet his gaze. Richard sighs.

“Damian, sweetheart, please look at me.”

Damian purses his lips but obliges. Richard’s eyes are also soft like Father’s, and there is no blame there that he can find. He feels anger bubble in his stomach.

“How are you not furious with me?” he hisses through teeth clenched against his tears. “If I had not frozen, you would not have been shot—”

“Damian, I’m not blaming you for this. Never.”

“You should,” he snarls, anger rearing its head as it rages hot in his belly. Anger at himself for his error, anger at Richard and Father for not seeing his failures, anger at Todd because— he doesn’t know why. All he knows in this moment is anger, and he clenches his fists around the blanket across his and Richard’s laps. “My error resulted in your injury. You nearly died because of me—”

“Damian—"

“I almost lost you again!” he shrieks.

Bats startle far above them and wings flap furiously as they fly off into the cave, his shout echoing down the cave tunnels. The clacking of the computer keyboard across the way stops abruptly, and Damian suddenly feels very, very small. Sobs rise like magma in his throat, and he buries his face in his hands in embarrassment.

“I just got you back,” he rasps, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes to stop the flow and to relieve his still pounding head. “I just got you back and because of my error, I ruined our night, and you nearly died.”

“Oh, kiddo,” Richard breathes.

He wraps his fingers around Damian’s wrist and pulls. Damian doesn’t have the energy or will to fight him, refuses to hurt him in any way again, and allows himself to be pulled down and tucked back against Richard’s side. Richard buries his face in Damian’s hair with soothing murmurs as Damian struggles to catch his breath through his tears. Eventually, he quiets, little hiccuping breaths the only indication of his breakdown. Finally, Richard speaks.

“Let me make this very clear,” he starts softly. Damian stills, throat clicking as he swallows past the lump in his throat. “My actions, jumping in front of that gun, none of that is your fault.”

“But I—”

“No,” Richard snaps. Damian bites his lip. “No,” he says softer, rubbing his hand soothingly against Damian’s back.

“I won’t let you blame yourself for this. My job is to protect you, and that is exactly what I did,” he says gently. “Even if I’m not your Batman anymore, protecting you will always be my duty as your big brother. Capiche?”

Damian breathes out slowly, giving a shallow nod in response against Richard’s ribs. “You will always be my Batman,” he concedes quietly. Richard squeezes him gently in response. “But it is also my duty to protect you.”

Richard reaches down to tilt his head up again. Damian looks this time. “You can watch my six,” Richard says, “and I appreciate it when you do.

“But you already saved my life once by putting yours on the line,” he whispers, grief etched across his face. Phantom pains echo through Damian’s rib cage in response. “I don’t want to have to bury you ever again, Dames.”

Damian’s throat constricts, and he purses his lips and swallows against a new flood of tears. His head hurts so much, and he just wants it all to stop.

“That is— that is why I froze,” he whispers, releasing his secret before it is locked away forever in his chest. “That man...h-he looked so much like— like Heretic, and I…” he trails off, voice failing him. Richard sucks in a breath, horror in his eyes.

“Oh, kiddo,” he breathes. Damian squeezes his eyes shut, and Richard pulls him close again.

“He’s long gone,” Richard reassures him, and Damian knows this already, knows that Heretic is gone for good, but the fear still sits in his chest, like a piece of the blade that struck him down got stuck on the way out, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever shake it loose. “He can’t take you away from us ever again… and you’ll never have to protect me from him again. You’re safe, sweetheart,” he whispers, squeezing Damian’s nape. A single tear escapes down Damian’s cheek. Richard wipes it away and presses a kiss to his hair.

“You’re safe, and you’re right here with me. You’re not going to be taken away from us ever again.”

“Nor you from me,” Damian whispers, pushing his head tight against Richard’s chest.

Richard squeezes back, and the two of them lie there, soaking in each other’s presence, relieved at the fact that they both are still alive and safe. They will have other nights to spend with each other, and that much is a promise. Father continues his reports across the cave, the bats flutter above, and everything is alright, for now.

With those assurances, the two of them drift back to sleep.

#damian wayne #bruce wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #dc comics #batfam #fanfics #hey I'm back!! 8 months late #lmao #whumptober 2020 #lyss writes #bat fic #bat fics

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miracle-sham · 5 years ago

Text

Vent Your Spleen Until You Keen.

| {Maribat 2k20 – Day 3: Out Sick} |

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] |

| Triggers/Warnings: Major Character Injury, Major Illness, Pneumonia, Concussions, Blood and Injury, Drowning, Explicit Language/some swearing. |

| Bloodied Robins aren't built to swim with clipped wings. Good thing the bats, birds, and bug are there to patch him up before it's too late. |

| Word count: 1968. |

==–==

| A/N: So as I mentioned in the authors note of the previous Ficlet, I got mugged in the dark dank alleyway by the Maribat2k20 MariTim prompt calendar and stabbed by the knife of inspiration. Except this time it was the angsty knife of inspo. So enjoy a nice but of hurt with comfort. |

| If you want to be tagged in future oneshots/fics, or a specific Au, then send me a DM or an ask! |

| Also side note, Don't Like? Don't Read. Also please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

==–==

Crashing into the Miller Harbour waters after being thrown from the roof of a warehouse is not how Tim thought his evening would go. Then again, earlier, he hadn't realised this drug trade would be a trap, meaning now he just so happens to be the unlucky bat to get caught. Or in this case, dumped in the harbour. Which is great. Lovely. Abso-fucking-lutely spectacular.

The crack of the armoured suit and gear slamming into the dubiously murky waves is accentuated by the thrumming pain from where his back and neck take the brunt of the impact. Tim arches in pain as the air is knocked out of him, leaving him gasping for breath. It's not helped by the chilly water breaching his suit and stinging his open wounds. I'm going to get so sick from this, urgh. He grumbles internally. Even if he wasn't lacking a spleen, the harbour's waters are polluted enough to make probably even Superman sick.

Tim kicks upwards and is struck with the realisation of oh no, oh fuck. As the water weighs his suit down even more and he starts to sink. The cold saps his energy and makes him clumsy. Fingers slipping at the straps and zips and security measures on his suit. Grimacing, he struggles, strength waning too quickly. Sploosh-Thwip-thwip-thunk-clink, chunks of his armour detach and sink below, significantly slowing his descent but he's still sinking.

He fumbles around his belt for his rebreather and manages to get it over his mouth just as his vision loses colour and goes fuzzy around the edges. Breathing heavily, he listens to the creepy sound of the rebreather working and flurry of air bubbles surrounding it.

Shit, I'm running out of time. Tim curses in his head. He keeps kicking and the water is looking lighter, meaning he's close. So close. But not close enough.

There's a thunderous splash as Tim breaches the surface. He doesn't stop—can't stop, not if he wants to live. His swimming is the only thing keeping his blood pumping and head above water.

His vision blurts violently and the darkness at the edges of his sight flares. Not enough time, not enough. The bank is closer though, I might make it?

Tim blacks out.

One second he was swimming for his life, now he's lying face down on the cement bank, gasping for breath like a dying fish. He pushes himself up, muscles protesting and shaking from cold and pain. There's a shallow pool of watery blood surrounding him—not good but could be worse. Just need to get back to my Nest and I'll be fine.

Tim fiddles around his remaining armour and gear, tapping the self destruct buttons for the discarded gear, and grasping at the grapple hook in relief—it would be a pain getting back home without it. He limps forward and shoots the grapple, swinging himself home.

He barely makes it through deactivating his security measures and stumbles through his window. Limping over to his sofa, Tim immediately collapses and passes out—still in gear.

==–==

The next day, Marinette's halfway through patrol and already fairly banged up—with a particularly nasty headache among other things—when she spots that the window to Tim's Nest is open. She swings by to inspect and sees his handiwork on the deactivation of his security measures. She hums and glanced through the window to look inside, thinking, Probably nothing to worry abo—

Tim's lying half on the sofa, covered in blood and muck. He's pale—paler than usual—and his hair is plastered to his forehead. Breathing laboured and nasally, and shaking like a leaf. He looks sick and injured and he's not even managed to switch into civvies before passing out—not good, really not good.

Okay maybe definitely something to worry about. Marinette mentally amends, a spike of worry slamming itself into her chest. Especially since no one's talked to or heard from him since early patrol yesterday... She climbs through the open window, closing it behind her and then resecures the security measures.

With a whispered “Tikki, spots off,” she drops her transformation and wobbly bolts to Tim's side. Checking his pulse and status. Too-quick heartbeat, infected lacerations to the arms, legs, and torso, bruised or maybe broken ribs—Marinette flinches and takes a second to calm herself down so she doesn't retch—bruising to the side of the head, and a ton of minor bumps, scratches, and grazes from the looks of things. She then checks his other symptoms: rapid and shallow breathing with occasional wheezing, high temperature, sweating and shivering—clammy.

Marinette chews her lip, eyes watering. “Oh, Tim…” She shakes her head, heart-pounding, and whips out her phone, scrolling down to the contact with shaky hands. It rings twice then picks up. “Leslie?” She cuts in as soon as the call connects, shoving the phone between her ear and shoulder to free her hands. “I'm at Red Robin's place and he's hurt, really bad, I—” She breathes in before recounting all his injuries and symptoms. “He's unconscious, and I think he's either in septic shock or got pneumonia, maybe both…” As she's talking, Marinette grabs the nearest first aid kit she can find and goes about cleaning out and patching up the injuries she can with the equipment she has.

“I'll be able to treat him at the cave. How quickly can you get there?” Leslie answers in a clipped but calm tone.

“Uhh…” Marinette pauses both in speech and in movement, “We'll need someone to drive him there because I can't drive. I don't know who's close enough and can drive. I'll call B, O, or Agent A after this.” She continues to apply first aid.

“I'll be at the cave in twenty-five minutes,” Leslie responds, cutting the call off not a second later.

She grabs her phone from her precarious ear-to-shoulder position and scrolls to Agent A's number and it only takes him one ring to answer. “A.” Marinette pulls the same thing she did with Leslie's call, cutting in before the other can speak whilst putting it back between her ear and shoulder so she can continue applying minor treatment. She repeats the same thing she told Leslie. “I've also called Leslie, she's heading to the cave now, she said she'll be about twenty-five minutes.”

She doesn't quite catch all of Alfred's response because Tim wakes with a groan and coughs, his pupils are blown and his gaze is worryingly blank—glazed over. Marinette thinks she hears something about the batmobile and three minutes but she's more worried that it looks like he's concussed as well. “Concussion. He's also got a concussion.” Marinette relays on autopilot, and maybe she hears Alfred inhale sharply but she can't tell. She's not sure when or if the call ends but she's too stressed to care.

She's fumbling with the first aid and it takes every speck of focus she's got to make sure she isn't making him worse—next thing she knows Nightwing and Red Hood and jumping through the window (security deactivated and opened first, so no broken windows here).

Red Hood pulls Marinette away from Tim, and Nightwing carefully scoops his little brother up. The world blurs around her and then her vision wavers, going completely colour blind as it goes fuzzy and dark at the edges, getting worse and worse. She thinks Red Hood's talking to her, he's gripping her arm rather tightly, almost painfully but it's giving her something to anchor on to… But it's not enough, her vision spins, going completely black, and distantly she hears panicked yelling and feels the world tipping to one side—

==–==

The world slowly comes to and Marinette's feeling absolutely wretched. She's lying on a medical cot from what she can tell, but her mind's so fuzzy. She doesn't want to open her eyes. People are talking in hushed tones the distance. She thinks this isn't the first time she's woken up here since—

She has vague memories of opening her eyes and people bustling in and out of view, asking questions and doing things. She doesn't remember much.

Then she hears a voice closer to her, she can't remember whose voice it is but it's warm and rumbly but not too gruff—familiar. “Hey kid, you awake again?”

Marinette groans in protest—she would rather not be awake right now.

“Yeah, yeah, you're in pain, life sucks. I know.” The voice sounds amused.

She huffs in indignation which only causes the voice to bark with laughter.

The voice quietens down after a second. “You an' Timbo gave us quite the scare y'know. Don't think I've ever seen B that worried before, when we dragged the both of you to the Batmobile.”

Marinette hums, unsure how else to respond.

“You've got a concussion if you're wondering, you were lucky I was already holding you up when you fainted. Could've made your concussion worse if you had hit the ground instead.”

She groans again, the mention of the concussion brings the full throbbing pain in the back of her skull back to her attention. She huffs again to express her displeasure at the voice reminding her.

The voice snorts—probably at her pain like a sadist. “Timbo's fine, by the way, surgery went off without a hitch. Even woke up a few times, so if you're up and about the next time he wakes up you can help the others smother him with love and affection.”

Marinette smiles lopsidedly. “Coo'.”

==–==

Of course, the first thing she does once she's no longer bed-bound, and Tim's awake and somewhat healed, is take Jason's (it took her a while to recognise it was him who had been speaking to her) advice. In the form of her relentlessly hugging Tim like a clingy koala—much to his joy and begrudging dismay.

“Mari… please.” Tim begs, staring at the ceiling as if it would somehow save him.

If anything his words prompt her to hug him even tighter, “Nope! I will hug you for as long as I physically can.”

In exasperation, he exclaims, “Mari, no!”

“Mari, yes!” She shoots him a smug grin.

“Mari please.”

“Tim, I will keep hugging you.” Marinette threatens

“Mari, let go.” He says with no real intent behind his words.

“No letting go! Only hugs or death!” She declares with an even smugger grin.

He grins back then dramatically proclaims, “Guess I'll die then.”

“No!” She half screeches, struggling to contain her giggles.

“Oh no! I'm dying! Blargh!” He lays back down on the medical bed, pretending to die dramatically. “Marinette, as my dying words I must tell you that—that I—I—” He fake coughs and lets himself go limp.

“Tim! Nooo! Clearly, the only way to save you from dying is to give you the magical fairytale kiss of life!” As soon as she says that, not giving him any time to react, she pecks him on the lips.

“Wow, I'm alive again, what a miracle!”

==–==

Around the corner, unbeknownst to the two, Jason eyes Dick with amusement. “You taking blackmail photos there, Dickiebird?”

Dick makes an undignified squawking sound and nearly drops his phone. If not for his bat training, he definitely would have dropped it. Trying to pull off an air of nonchalance, he leans against. “Pfft! What are you talking about? Of course I'm not, I'm just collecting evidence that Timmy's okay. For uh Bruce and Alfred's sake. And the Teen Titans too, they've all been worried once they heard how bad he got.”

Jason snorts. “"For evidence he's okay", sure you are.”

Dick narrows his eyes. “If you tell anyone, I'll release all the cute photos I have of you when you were still wearing the Robin suit.”

Jason gasps. “You wouldn't dare!”

Dick grins. “Try me, Little Wing.”

Raising his hands up, Jason backs away. “Fine! You win!”

==–==

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little oneshot! Comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated! |

@maribat-2k20

#Miraculous Ladybug #ML x DC #DC x MLB #Maribat #Timinette #MariTim #Timari #Tim x Marinette #Marinette x Tim #Maribat2k20 #Maribat2k20 Tim x Marinette #Maribat2k20 Day 3 #Maribat2k20 Out Sick #Vent Your Spleen Until You Keen #VYSUYK #Sham's Posts #Sham's Writing #Sham's Fics

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goldkirk · 5 years ago

Text

Blackbird, a Tim Drake/batfam fic

Chapter 21: i want a long life, all kidding aside

[ Read on ao3 ]

Alfred and Bruce make short work of checking Tim over, well-practiced after years of handling medical situations both at home and abroad. Tim mostly just lets them do what they want, barely listening as they check his vitals through gloved hands and face shields and call Leslie with quiet voices.

He’s almost falling back to sleep when Bruce shakes him gently, leaned over the bed and peering down at him with worry lines set firmly on his forehead.

“Hey,” Bruce says quietly. “We’re going to get you settled in quarantine, sweetheart. It might be a flu, but since you were exposed, and you haven’t been out of the house for a while…” He shakes his head. “Leslie’s coming in a few hours, once she finishes a few things up at the clinic.”

“Okay,” Tim mumbles, a little annoyed at having to wake up again, but mostly just too tired and worried to think about anything except the chant of Ebola, Ebola, Ebola that won’t stop running through his head.

“We brought a suit for you,” Bruce tells him, as Alfred comes to stand next to them, holding the object in question. “You don’t have to wear it long, okay? Just till we get you in the room.”

Tim nods, and slides off the mattress onto his feet while Bruce keeps one hand on his arm just in case. They help him slip his legs in, pull it up his torso, his arms, start securing it up the back. Tim stares out through the clear faceplate, hears his breath echoing in the enclosed suit, and thinks, this might be the last time I’m in my room. Thinks, I might never see any of this again.

Then Bruce is back in front of him, steady and calm.

He picks up one of Tim’s hands, a Hazmat suit and protective garments and triple-layered gloves fall between them, but still--

“Tell us what you want to bring,” Bruce tells him. “Nothing one-of-a-kind, because it can’t come back out of quarantine unless it can be completely sterilized. But anything else you want. I’ll replace your phone and laptop after this is over, don’t worry about them.”

Tim spends the next couple of minutes quietly listing the things he wants while Bruce and Alfred slip them into an old duffel bag they brought in. One of his thick blankets. A couple fidget toys. His laptop and phone, obviously, but the old 3DS as well. A haphazard pile of notes and papers from his desk that he’s been scribbling on while working on the epidemic model. The batarang on his shelf that he had found as a kid—the one he used to distract the Scarecrow. Gordon had picked it up that night from the shipping container. He and Batman gave it back to Tim, engraved with that date, on the first night Tim went out as Robin.

“Is anyone else up?” Tim asks, as a faint glow just begins its slow creep around the edges of his curtains.

“Not so far,” Alfred answers.

“Good,” says Tim, firmly. There’s no way he wants to face anyone else right now. At least not until he can get a grip on everything himself and put on the face he wants to show. If Jason or Dick or anyone else was around at the moment, giving him looks with all those meanings he struggles to parse through on a good day, and possibly crying and definitely trying to say Comforting Words that will just make Tim want to slam hands over his ears until the world stops for two seconds, just for a moment, so he can get his bearings—

“Are we ready, then?” asks Alfred, pulling Tim back into focus.

Alfred and Bruce both wait patiently for Tim to respond. He looks around the room one more time, kneels down to pet Nova for a minute, and then leads her over to curl up in her dog bed near the window. She’ll have to be thoroughly cleaned and disinfected before they let her out around anyone else again, and they’ll need to decontaminate Tim’s room as well, so for now, she’ll stay here. Tim pushes himself back up to his feet with a lot more effort than it would have taken the day before, and doesn’t groan even when his joints and muscles complain at the movement.

“Yeah,” Tim says, finally. “No point in wasting any more time.”

The shuffle as quietly as possible out of Tim’s room, but just a few seconds after Alfred shuts the door quietly behind them, Dick’s door cracks open and Dick himself sticks his head out, hair a mess and eyes a still little bleary from sleep.

It takes all of two seconds for the situation to register, and then Dick’s face crumples, and he opens his mouth to say something, steps one foot out the door.

Bruce immediately shakes his head, and mimes holding a finger to his lips as best he can with the faceplate in the way. Wait, he signs sharply at Dick, who looks torn. But then Dick nods, and steps all the way out to the hallway, but doesn’t come any closer. He looks at Tim.

Love you, he signs. Love you .

Tim swallows and flashes the sign back, as best he can through the suit.

Dick understands.

“I’ll be back,” Bruce says as quietly as he can. “If the others wake up, keep them distracted.”

Dick nods.

“Come on, Tim,” Bruce whispers, one hand gently turning Tim back in the other direction and pressing him forward. “Quicker we get there, the quicker you can get out of that.”

Halfway to the quarantine room, Tim’s moving slowly enough that Bruce picks him up like a child and carries him the rest of the way there, one hand under Tim’s legs and one pressing firmly against his back, and Tim’s head dropped to rest on Bruce’s shoulder with all the protective layers in between.

Tim’s been dozing in the bed for a while by the time Leslie gets there. Alfred and Bruce wasted little time getting him set up with a blood pressure cuff, pulse ox, and IV, but held off on anything further until she gives her input.

Bruce knocks on the glass wall when they walk up to his door in the little hallway of the unit, and Tim blinks awake a little confused, feeling like he’s lagging. It takes him a few seconds to figure out where he is and what’s going on, long enough for Bruce to look concerned, and that’s just--Tim can’t worry Bruce any more than he already is. Bruce has to be focused, people need Batman. Tim fights to pull himself together, and shoves upright quickly till he’s perched on the edge of the bed. He ignores the fatigue begging him to just curl right back up like a cat.

“Hi,” Tim says, as they let themselves in and a wave of air rushes into the room behind them before the door closes.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dr. Thompkins says, coming over to check his IV and glance over the numbers on the monitor next to his bed. “Gotta say, I was hoping to not have to come back here till all this was over.”

“Sorry,” says Tim. “I know you’re really busy.”

“Tim,” Dr. Thompkins says, stopping what she’s doing to turn and look directly at him. “That’s not what I meant. I was hoping none of you would get sick--but since you are, I’m just glad I can help. I have to close the clinic in a day or two anyway, we’re almost out of supplies. Even Bruce’s money can’t buy things that don’t exist outside of government stockpiles reserved for the hospitals and scientists.”

“Oh.”

“We have some here at the manor,” Bruce says. “But even if we didn’t need them, there’s not nearly enough for you and your few nurses to safely treat any more than a couple of patients.”

“And the clinic isn’t sealed well enough to contain anyone with Ebola,” Dr. Thompkins sighs. “I already heard through the grapevine that I’m about to be shut down and reassigned within two days, if I don’t close down myself first. Most people are too afraid to travel even a couple streets over to a medical facility right now anyway. Because, really, we can’t promise someone symptomatic hasn’t been in the waiting room since the last time we cleaned it.”

“How bad is it?” Tim asks.

“Nope,” Bruce says, immediately. “You’re officially not part of the information chain anymore. Minimum stress. You need to trust that everyone--government, Justice League, medical professionals--is doing the best they can, and focus on yourself.”

“Bruce!” Tim starts, angrily. “I can still help! Just because I’m--I can’t just stop --I can’t get the model to work right without the most accurate information.”

“We’ll keep giving you the numbers,” Bruce says, exactly as calm as Tim is frustrated. “But you don’t need graphic details that you can sit and ruminate on for hours. This is not negotiable, sweetheart.”

Leslie prods Tim to sit up straight as she presses a wireless stethoscope firmly against his chest. “Breathe in,” she orders. “Out. And again, nice and deep.” He obeys. “Honey,” she says, a little more gently than he’s heard her sound almost...ever. “You’re not going to be able to keep working for very long. It’s okay if you don’t get your model finished. We know how hard you’ve worked, and you’ve given everyone a better shot at predicting the spread than we had before. But you’re not a grown-up, Tim. This isn’t your job.”

“But I can do it,” Tim protests. Leslie moves on to his back.

“Deep breath,” she says. “I believe you can, Tim. Again, nice and deep. But when you’re healthy. When you have time. If you do have Ebola, fighting it is now your one and only job. Do you understand?”

“I know,” Tim says. “But until I can’t really do anything anymore, I should--”

“You should listen to your father,” Dr. Thompkins says, sternly. “You should listen to your doctor, your family, everyone who loves and cares about you.”

“Tim,” Bruce says, sitting carefully on the bed as Dr. Thompkins turns to go get some supplies from one of the drawers. “The thing you need to do most right now is rest. And the second most important thing is to relax. The more you stress over feeling like you’re not doing enough, the more your body is going to suppress your immune system, and you need every cell of it in peak form. I’m taking the whiteboards and Expo markers, sweetheart.”

“No!” Tim says, desperate, staring at Bruce with wide eyes. “No, I have to, B, you can’t. Please. I’m so close. I have to finish it, please don’t take them, I promise I’ll only work on it for like, what if I agree to only do two hours a day? Or, or I’ll only do it while one of you watches, or something, please?”

“Remember when we were on that roof?” Bruce asks, quietly.

Tim swallows.

“I know you don’t want to die right now,” Bruce goes on. “I know that’s not the issue here. But this is a situation where I’m putting my foot down and telling you that this is me, stepping in to keep you safe when you’re not up to doing it yourself. You said you’d trust me to catch you.”

Tim can’t meet Bruce’s eyes, and he looks over at Dr. Thompkins--then realizes he doesn’t want to see what she’s grabbing, probably, not till it’s necessary. He stares firmly at the sheets, twisted up under him. Bruce’s double-gloved hand reaches out slowly and lifts Tim’s chin till he can’t help but meet Bruce’s eyes.

“You need to do things yourself,” Bruce says. “I understand that. And I understand that you hate being powerless, and that working on the model makes you feel like there’s something you can control. But I’m your parent, right now, for better or worse. I understand that you feel like you have to help. But I need you to trust me, and trust all the rest of us, to keep working while you can’t. We aren’t abandoning anyone. Not you, and not any of the citizens of Gotham, and not anyone else who might end up getting sick. You’re falling through a lot of fear and uncertainty right now. I know it’s terrifying. But you said you’d trust me to catch you, when it’s necessary.” He gives Tim a small smile. “Can you trust me again now? That I’m making the best decision for you, because we all want you to get well, and that I’m trying to give you the best chance at achieving that?”

Tim’s body hurts, and his head is hazy, sluggish and hot and throbbing, and he’s pretty sure that the struggle is playing out over his face like a movie while Bruce watches, as he stays silent. He doesn’t want to die. He really doesn’t want to die. He’s more afraid of Ebola than probably any other virus in the world. He knows how it infects, how it replicates, the timeline of symptoms as it devastates a body, he knows what’s probably coming, and he’s terrified. But he can’t allow himself to feel it, because if he does than he won’t be able to focus on solving the problem, and if he’s not focused on solving the problem then he has to think about himself, and he has to let go and trust that someone else will deal with it, except that’s hard, because in his experience--

In his experience, most of the time, if you need something taken care of, you have to do it yourself. Adults aren’t always up to the task.

But...it’s Bruce, asking. Bruce, his...dad...not Batman. But Bruce is Batman, even when he’s not. And Tim trusts Batman. Always. 100%. He’s trusted Batman more than anyone else in the world, even Superman, because Batman has always been real and in Gotham and a constant for most of Tim’s life, and he’s never let Tim down once, even before he knew Tim existed, knew Tim needed help. And Tim maybe can’t trust Bruce as much as he wishes he could right now, because this is big. But Tim can always, always trust Batman.

Bruce has never let him down so far, he knows, Bruce is so good and Tim doesn’t think he ever will, but Bruce is. Bruce is a man, he’s just a person, just an adult, and as much as he’s been different from Tim’s parents, he’s--he’s still--

Batman isn’t a man. Batman is sorta...infallible. He might make mistakes, or not be fast enough, or have trouble not getting too angry at criminals sometimes, but he’s never once given up on anything, or walked away, or not followed through on a promise to even the weakest person in all of Gotham. He’s…

Tim will trust Bruce as much possible. Even if it’s unsettling seeing this side of Bruce, this worried, uncertain side, this Bruce whose face screams a whole lot of things Tim doesn’t know where to begin to parse. Tim will do his best to trust Bruce as a grown up, as a parent, as a dad.

But Tim can trust Batman, right now. That’s what he needs. Tim can’t be strong enough for Bruce.

“Batman,” Tim says, not looking away from Bruce’s eyes.

Confusion flashes across Bruce’s face for just a moment before he seems to understand, and in just a second, Bruce’s demeanor shifts. He’s still Bruce, but he’s--sharper. He sits straighter, holds coiled energy in every muscle, watches with brighter eyes.

“Robin,” he says, and something in Tim’s brain finally relaxes.

“Tell me again,” Tim says, trying to ignore the crinkle of sterile plastic packaging from where Leslie stands at the counter.

Both of Bruce’s hands hold Tim’s shoulders now, and he speaks in a voice that’s all Batman, all nights in the cave and driving through Baskin Robbins for 2 AM ice cream, all reassuring victims and threatening corrupt police. The voice that Tim follows without hesitation, would follow into hell, obeys without question because he knows it will keep everyone as safe and alive as possible.

“You will not work on the model or anything else while you’re sick,” Batman orders. “You’re going to rest as much as your body asks you to, and you’re going to do things that help you relax while you’re awake. You have to let us take care of you, and trust your body, and trust us to fight for you and for everyone else who needs it. Do you understand, Robin?”

Tim straightens under Bruce’s hands, nodding. “Yes.”

“Your mission is to fight this off,” Batman says. “This is the biggest enemy you’ve faced. But I’m still with you, all right? You’ve got backup, Robin. You don’t have to fight alone.”

“I know,” says Tim, and he’s surprised to find that this time, he does. He means it. “I’ve got this. I’ll do my best. I promise.”

Then Batman is pulling him into a crushing hug.

“I love you,” Bruce says. “I’ll be whatever you need me to be to get through this. I’ve got you no matter what. I’m not letting you go. You’re Robin, Tim, you’re my kid, you’re stronger than this virus, and we’re going to kick it’s ass.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says as the room’s door hisses shut behind him, sounding more exasperated than he has a right to be this early in the day. “Fifty cents into the swear jar, the moment we’re back in the kitchen. Good Lord. I know these are trying times, but I expect you to set a better example for impressionable ears, regardless of circumstances.”

Dr. Thompkins tries to disguise her laugh as a cough, but no one is fooled.

Bruce and Tim break apart, more relaxed now with matching grins. Bruce’s eyes nearly twinkle as he grins over at Alfred. “Sorry, Alfred. Didn’t realize you were coming in.”

“Hm,” Alfred says, but he doesn’t truly look upset.

“So,” says Bruce, looking over at Dr. Thompkins. “What’s the plan? We know that the antibody drugs aren’t working on this strain, so that treatment is out. And of course we have to check Tim’s blood first, to confirm Ebola. But what are we going to do today?”

“I’m going to draw a few vials of Tim’s blood, and get them sent in to the testing lab under a false name,” Leslie says, pushing a little rolling cart with various supplies over next to the bed. Alfred follows right behind.

“Alvin Draper,” Tim says.

“What?”

“The name. Alvin Draper. That’s one of the aliases I’ve been building,” Tim explains. “Use that, Bruce already has flags for it set up in like, a million government systems, I’m pretty sure.”

Bruce doesn’t even bother to look remorseful.

“Okay,” says Leslie. “Well. Alvin Draper, then. They should get back to us within one to two days and confirm your blood is positive, although I really hope we’re all taking these precautions and it turns out to be a flu still. As unlikely as that is.”

“Stranger things do happen, in this household,” Alfred says. “Yeah,” sighs Tim. “But I don’t tend to have that good of luck.” “Hey, chin up and fingers crossed, and and all that,” Bruce says, nudging Tim with his shoulder. “You’re not dying yet.”

“Right,” says Tim. He glances at the supplies, then up at Leslie. “Um,” he says, slowly. “I don’t think I’m going to like the answer to this, but. What are these for? What are you going to do?” Leslie drags the spinning stool over with one foot and plops down onto it, reaching for Tim’s arm and tying a little rubber strip around his bicep.

“Right now,” she says, focused on her hands, “I’m going to draw your blood. But before I leave to go get the clinic ready to close, and pack my things to join you all here at the manor for a while, and before all your extremely restless siblings get let into the outer area to harass you for having the audacity to get sick, we’re going to place a PICC line in your arm.”

Tim pales.

“Why?” he asks, a little shocked and very unhappy. “That’s for--I’m not, like, a CF or cancer patient, why do I need a central line? Isn’t that overkill?”

Leslie carefully seals his vials of blood in biohazard bags, and then a little locking case, and passes it to Alfred for him to label. She clears off the used supplies while she answers.

“If this is Ebola, you know as well as I do that it attacks almost all tissues in your body, but especially the cells that make up blood vessels. We don’t have much data to work off of when it comes to treating Ebola in a high-level, ICU-style setting, with all the supplies you could need, but I’m extrapolating here. An IV is working fine at the moment. But this kind of illness is a long haul, and with us not knowing how much your blood vessels will be affected or how quickly, I’m not willing to risk losing IV access unless there’s truly nothing we can do. A PICC line won’t completely take away that risk, but if we place one as soon as possible, it has a better chance of lasting you all the way through this ride, and we won’t have to worry so much about not being able to give you fluids or drugs that you need.”

“I mean…” Tim frowns. “I get it, like, I see your point, but do we--do we have to do it today?”

“I know you don’t want this,” Dr. Thompkins says sympathetically. “But we really need to do this as soon as possible. The more your body can heal the incision before Ebola makes you prone to hemorrhaging, the safer it will be for you. And putting it off a day or two will only give you more time to dread it, too.”

Bruce wraps Tim in a side hug.

“We’ll make it as quick as we can,” he promises.

Tim can’t help the rising dread building in his chest, but he nods anyway, trying to keep up a brave face. “If we gotta,” he says. “You’re right. Might as well get it over with. But if I do just have the flu? And we do this? And it wasn’t necessary? I’m going to be so mad.”

“If you end up just having the flu,” Leslie says, cheerfully, as she double-checks the supplies and directs Alfred to roll over the table they’re going to lay Tim’s arm out on, “you can have a whole year of scolding-free patch-ups from me after patrols. That’s a promise.”

“Oh, deal,” says Tim.

“I’m going to stick with you while Alfred and Leslie do it,” Bruce promises, as he helps Tim lower the bed until it’s flat.

Tim makes an agreeing noise as he lies down and tries not to fidget, uncomfortable with so many eyes focused on him while he’s vulnerable and flat.

“You have a choice, hon,” Leslie says, scooting her stool till she’s next to Tim’s head, meeting his eyes. “Normally, at a regular hospital, since you’re a teenager we’d probably still sedate you to insert the line. But I know you’re not a random teenager, and I know all you Bats have specific feelings sometimes about sedation, so it’s up to you this time whether you want us to briefly put you under or just numb your arm.”

“Um,” says Tim, eyes flicking over to Bruce.

“It’s okay,” says Bruce. “You have a few minutes. We’re not quite ready yet. We’re happy to do whatever makes you more comfortable with this, all right?”

Tim nods, but can’t keep from frowning anxiously.

“If it helps,” Bruce offers, maybe half a minute later, while Alfred is gently wiping Tim’s arm down with disinfectant, “I had a PICC line once. For a little while.”

“Yeah?” Tim asks.

“Yeah. I was awake for it. It wasn’t bad.”

“Okay.” Tim takes a few breaths. “I want to stay awake.”

“You sure?” Dr. Thompkins double-checks, while her eyes stay locked on the ultrasound she’s using to find the right spot in Tim’s arm and mark it on his skin.

“Yeah,” says Tim.

“Alrighty,” she says. “I’m not a radiologist, but I’ve done a few PICC line placements over the years, and I know what I’m doing, I promise. It’s amazing what you get used to doing at a clinic in Gotham.”

Tim laughs a little.

“Okay, I need you to keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times, mister, and don’t touch the sterile field.” Dr. Thompkins waits for Alfred to arrange the sterile drape over Tim’s body, lining up the hole with his left bicep, and then add the second smaller drape on top of that, after wiping Tim’s arm down one more time.

“Numbing your arm now,” Dr. Thompkins informs him, while Bruce lets Tim squeeze his hand under the drape. “You’ll feel the prick, and maybe a little pain, but it’s going to go numb pretty quickly.”

“Hey,” Bruce says, almost immediately, and Tim looks over. “Did I ever tell you about the time that Jason had to get his wisdom teeth out?”

“No,” Tim breathes. “Was this--”

“Before we met you, yes,” Bruce confirms. “Just the summer before, actually. Jason’s teeth started to come in, and the dentist laid down the law and told him that there was no more putting it off.”

“Bet he loved hearing that,” Tim snorts, and wow, yeah, Leslie’s right. His arm is starting to feel numb over there.

“Definitely,” Bruce snorts, with a wry grin. “He fought Alfred and me for the whole two weeks leading up to the surgery, even though Dick was swearing up and down the whole time that getting his wisdom teeth out had gone just fine and Jason didn’t have anything to worry about.”

“To be fair?” Tim says. “I’m pretty sure I’d raise hell too. I don’t want anyone near my teeth. Mom made me so afraid of failing at dental stuff that most of my recurring stress dreams are about my teeth falling out.”

“That,” says Bruce, “is a topic we will be coming back to at a more appropriate time. But anyway, yes, Jason wasn’t pleased, he almost threw himself out of the car on the way to the oral surgeon.”

“No!”

“Okay, about to insert it,” Dr. Thompkins murmurs. Alfred’s steady hands grip Tim’s arm and hold it steady. At Leslie’s command, Bruce reaches one hand out to turn Tim’s head to face Alfred and Leslie, and nudges Tim’s chin down to his chest to allow for a smoother insertion. Tim almost closes his eyes when Bruce starts gently rubbing his gloved fingers through Tim’s hair.

“Oh Yes,” Bruce says, and he can’t help laughing this time. “Dick, thank god, thought ahead about potential issues and had actually turned all the child locks on for the backseat. So that was lucky. Once we got to the actual place, Jason kind of just...deflated and acted like he was being led to the gallows like a kicked puppy. It was kind of sad.”

Tim imagines a dejected fifteen or sixteen-year-old Jason dramatically throwing Bruce and Dick despondent looks on the way into the office and laughs, and only barely notices that there’s pressure on his arm.

“How did he handle the anesthesia afterwards?” Tim asks.

“Like a champ,” Bruce says, sounding fond. “Dick was absolutely loopy with his, but Jason tried so hard to keep a solid grip on reality that he managed to not seem drugged for maybe half a minute at a time. He couldn’t walk straight in the slightest, though. I gave him a piggy-back ride to the car.”

“You’re serious? You didn’t get any funny video at all?”

“Just stitching the wings down so it stays in place,” Leslie informs him.

“I didn’t say that,” Bruce grins, as he lets Tim lift his head back up again. “On the ride back, Dick made the mistake of bringing up Animal Planet, and Jason spent twenty minutes straight crying over Steve Irwin on and off and talking about how cool his daughter Bindi is and how proud he is of their whole family, and also how much people misunderstand reptiles and sharks. He begged me for a pet snake, and I’ll be honest, I almost caved.”

“Luckily,” Alfred interjects, “I was able to put a stop to that as they were walking into the house, and Master Jason didn’t remember any of it a few hours later.”

“Aw,” Tim says. “Snakes and lizards are cool. You should have let Jason get one.”

“He wanted a boa constrictor,” Bruce says, deadpan, “because they just want to hug people, and he didn’t want them to be lonely and unloved.”

“Oh my god,” Tim laughs hard enough is voice squeaks. “Oh my god.”

“I know,” says Bruce, with a bright smile. “That’s Jason, for you. He also threatened me with his plastic sherbet cup and said he’d turn it into a shank and wasn’t afraid to stab me if I tried taking him to some secondary location and was thinking about getting handsy with him or any other kids. So really, the whole day was a pretty good summary of Jason’s character on...so many levels.”

“Does Jason even know he did all this?” Tim asks.

“Not all of it. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t tell him I spilled any of the beans to you. I’d prefer to live to forty-five at least, if you don’t mind.”

“No worries,” Tim says.

“There you go,” Dr. Thompkins interjects brightly, as she pulls the drapes away and wads them up, letting Alfred roll the tray over to the counter to clean up. “Two-lumen line safely in, dressing on, you’re good to go, mister.”

“Thanks,” says Tim, glancing down to look, while Bruce hands him the remote to raise the head of the bed back to where he wants it. “That wasn’t actually bad at all.”

“I do try,” Dr. Thompkins grins.

“Think you’re up to seeing the siblings?” Bruce asks, as he stands from the crouch he’d been in next to Tim this whole time, and pops his back loudly.

Tim grimaces. “I guess I have to be,” he says.

“I can hold them off a while longer. You’re the one in quarrantine, they can be patient till you’re ready.”

“No,” says Tim, shuffling around till he’s sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the mattress, holding his arm out patiently while Dr. Thompkins shifts the line for saline from his earlier IV to one of the lines of the PICC and removes the IV catheter from his hand, replacing it with one of their usual Batman band-aids. “I want to see them. I just don’t want…”

“You don’t want all the sad faces and big feelings,” Bruce supplies. “I’ll try to talk to them before they all stampede into the outer area.”

“Thanks.”

So Alfred and Leslie check Tim’s vitals and get his temperature one more time, promising he’ll get a few more hours of (relative) peace before someone checks him next, and roll out behind Bruce, who heads off to gather all the various children and send them Tim’s way.

Tim does some breathing exercises and meditates for a few minutes, like he imagines Bruce would do, and braces himself for a long, long morning and what’ll probably be hours of scheming to figure out how they can all still continue marathoning movies with Tim suddenly stuck behind glass.

He wonders, absently, if he’ll still be allowed to have some of the popcorn. And then the door to the outer area absolutely slams into the wall, letting in a tumble of Very Agitated Siblings, and there’s scolding and a little crying and a lot of Dick’s terrible puns about every forty seconds like clockwork, since he’s nervous, and Tim can’t help but laugh and feel like things aren’t really all that bad yet, after all.

That afternoon, after everyone’s eaten Alfred’s wonderful cooking and quoted Pride and Prejudice so constantly throughout the whole movie that they drowned out the actual audio, Bruce finally kicks everyone out so Tim can get some down time.

He appreciates it. He loves his family, and it’s really nice to not be left alone and stuck in this one room without anyone else to talk to, but Tim is tired. He’s sick, and he hurts, and he didn’t really let on, but a couple hours ago his headache moved from “a little annoying” to “please stop talking, you’re making my head throb to the rhythm of your voice, I’m begging you”. He’s pretty sure Bruce and Alfred noticed anyway. Tim can’t even really nap because it’s just over the threshold of too-strong-to-relax-fully.

So Alfred comes in and gives him more acetaminophen, for his fever and headache, and agrees Tim can stop getting IV saline for now so long as he keeps drinking more than enough water and Gatorade on his own. Then after a quick pat to Tim’s head and an encouraging British quip, Alfred heads out again and Tim is left to curl up on his bed and play some Animal Crossing till Bruce allows Tim’s devices back onto the internet in a few hours.

After maybe an hour or so, Tim is just in the middle of planting a new grove of perfect pear trees when there’s movement in his peripheral vision, and he looks up to see--

Jason is standing there, right outside the room, and he smacks an enormous piece of white poster board against the glass with a thunk . His other hand drops a Ziploc bag of sharpie markers on the floor so he can flick the intercom switch on, and Jason stares Tim down with as intense a look as Tim’s ever seen.

“You,” Jason nearly growls, “are not allowed to die, you little asshole. I don’t care if you’ve got Plague X from Planet Zarkon, or whatever, you’re my little brother and I don’t give you permission to leave. Got it?”

“Got it,” Tim parrots, dumbly. “Uh--”

“If you die, I will bring you back to life myself so that I can shout at you for three days straight about it and then not let you out of this house until you’re thirty years old.”

Tim stares. “Jason,” he says, a little alarmed at how red his brother’s eyes are getting.

“I am not crying,” Jason snaps. He immediately scrubs at one eye with his free hand. “It’s just dusty. ‘S’not like Alfie has much reason to clean in here often.”

“Right.”

“Right. I’m not crying.”

“Are you okay?” Tim asks, tentatively.

Jason scowls at him and points sharply at the posterboard. “We are making you a bucket list,” Jason says firmly. Tim’s never heard him sound more like Bruce.

“A bucket list?”

“A bucket list. And then you can’t die, because we’re going to do everything on it. And it’s gonna stay right here on the glass where you can see it, and think about what you want to do first, and if you think of more things, then we’ll just add more poster board. This is all the stuff you’ve wanted to do but haven’t gotten to yet, okay, all the big stuff and really stupid little stuff, because god knows your parents made you think most of that wasn’t proper enough for a good kid to do.”

“Okay,” says Tim. “A...a bucket list.”

“Or a ‘fuck you, Ebola, I got things to do and places to be’ list, if you like,” Jason offers. “Come on. There’s gotta be something you want to do. Any parks you want to see? Anyone you want to kiss? Some country you want to visit? Get a promise from Superman to give you a ride through the sky?” Jason plops down onto his knees, digging out a thick black marker to write some kind of title across the top of the board, and then uncapping a neon blue Sharpie while he glances up to pin Tim with his fierce gaze.

Tim bites his lip.

“Come on,” Jason says again, a little more gently this time. “Doesn’t matter what it is. This is what you want to do. Anything.”

“I...always wanted to go swim in a lake,” Tim says.

“You’ve never been to a lake?”

“Nope.” Tim shakes his head while Jason hunches over to scribble it down. “Mom and Dad never took me. And Mom is terrified of all water she can’t see through, anyway.”

“Dude, that’s just sad,” Jason says. “I can’t believe you’ve been living with us this long and we haven’t been out to the cabin B’s parents owned by the lake. We gotta fix that. Good one. Okay, what else?”

“I, uh, want to play every single Pokemon game, in order,” Tim says. “I only started playing them with Alpha Sapphire.”

“Yes,” Jason hisses. “Dick is gonna go bananas. Next?”

“See a real kangaroo,” Tim says.

They go on like this for a while till they reach the end of the poster board, filling in everything from prank Bruce (something with Batmobile?) to visit Watchtower with the Justice League, and Jason cracks his neck to each side before looking up at Tim.

“We’ve got room for one more, Timbo. What do you think?”

Tim flops backwards onto the bed and stares up at the florescent lights, thinking about something a teacher told them about years ago on one slow afternoon that’s never quite left Tim’s mind.

“I…” he starts. “There’s this park,” he says, “out in--I think it’s Utah? I’m not sure. But it’s like. One of the out-West ones. It’s a dark sky site, and it’s also t’s got this place in it called Dead Horse Point and it’s supposed to be, like, so stunning when you get to the peak finally that it takes your breath away. I want to go photograph that at sunrise--my teacher said that if you hike out there just before the sun rises, you can catch it in the blue hour and everything is just these amazing colors of sediment layers and glowing sky, and then when the sun finally peeks over the horizon--” Tim’s breath hitches, to his surprise, but he’s not about to cry. He’s not sure what he’s feeling. “I want to go there,” he finishes. “I want to see the sunrise, and I want to see the stars.”

Jason is quiet while he writes down go see Dead Horse Point, sun & stars, in vibrant green on the last remaining space on the poster board, and then he shoves upright so he can duct tape it to the glass facing Tim. He stands next to it and stares at his little brother for a moment, while Tim sits up.

“There,” says Jason. “Now you can’t die, for real, okay?”

Tim slides out of bed onto his bare feet, wiggling his toes for a second at the cold of the tiles, and watches Jason carefully while he pads over to the glass to read the list they came up with.

At the top of the board, in Jason’s careful printing, it says Tim’s Reasons To Live .

“It’s just part one,” Jason says, and to his credit, his voice doesn’t crack. “We’ll--we’ll add to it more, whenever you want. Okay?”

Tim feels--Tim can’t even put words to how many things he’s feeling at once, just knows that they’re big, and beautiful, and kind of terrifying, and if he wasn’t locked in right now he isn’t entirely sure that he’d be able to stop himself from running out the door. Just to hug his big brother one more time for--for just everything. Everything, all of it, all this time, every day since their school got turned into an ice cube, every day since Jason noticed Tim in the hallways before Tim ever realized he was on Jason’s radar, every day since Jason bullied Tim into coming home with him and started to slowly give him a family, Tim--Tim doesn’t know what to say.

He places one hand on the glass in front of Jason, next to the list, and thinks, this is my biggest reason to live. Jason. Bruce. Dick, Alfred, my whole family. I can’t leave them. This, he thinks. This, this, this, if I can’t convince myself I’m gonna live just for myself, I’m gonna do it for them.

“I love you,” Tim whispers. “Jason. Jay, I love you so much, I love you, okay, you’re so--I’ve never deserved this, but you’ve always been coming after me anyway, all the time, and you’re the reason I have a real family, and I love you so much, and I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know, baby bird,” Jason says, placing his own hand on the glass to line up with Tim’s. “I love you too. I’m--fuck. I’m so proud of you. I don’t even know how to begin telling you how proud I am of you, but I am, and I’m so glad you’re in our family now, and I love you so much. We’re not going to let you die, okay? We’re not. We won’t let you.”

“Okay,” says Tim.

“Okay.”

“No dying,” Tim promises. “You either.”

“No dying,” Jason agrees. “Who knows, maybe I’ll get sick too, and we’ll get to have a sleepover in there and threaten each other into getting well 24/7. Who needs cheerleader dick when you have a brother to scare your cells into fighting invaders?”

“Not funny,” Tim says, but he can’t help smiling a little.

“It’s a little funny,” Jason says.

“No.”

“Come on. Just a little.”

“It’s not!” Tim scolds, “you can’t get sick too. You’re not allowed!” But he does give Jason a real grin anyway.

Jason glances back over his shoulder suddenly, eyes wide.

“Ah, shit,” he mumbles. “I hear B yelling for me. I kinda-maybe-sorta snuck out from where he left me to come see you, and he told us not to bother you, but fuck that, man. I’ll be back soon. Don’t rat me out to him or Alfred?” And then Jason is vanishing through the outer door, presumably to scramble into a nearby room before Bruce makes it into the main area.

“But--your markers and stuff are still right here,” Tim laughs, to an empty room. “You--whatever.”

He walks back over to his bed and hops up on it, flicking Animal Crossing back on and trying to figure out if he’d watered the most recently-planted sapling yet or not.

Bruce came and knocked on the glass, glancing over at the still-on intercom and the .

“Hey Tim,” he drawls. “Seen Jason anywhere, lately?”

Tim looks up and stares Bruce right in the eye.

“Nope,” he says, fighting to keep a straight face.

“Really.”

“Mm hm.”

“Interesting,” says Bruce. “Guess a ghost came in and left these markers and this poster here, then.”

“Guess so,” Tim agrees, one side of his mouth betraying him and twitching up for a moment.

“Hmmmm,” Bruce says, narrowing his eyes, but he gives Tim a little smile. “Well. If you do see any wayward siblings, do you mind letting them know Alfred has requested help cleaning the Summer armor on display in the East wing hallway, every inch of it, and he’s looking for any excuse to rope someone into it?”

Tim snorts. “I’ll--uh. I’ll make sure and let them know,” he says.

“Great,” Bruce says, brightly. “Well. Hope you’re feeling all right. I’ll be in a couple hours from now with dinner, and maybe we can play a little chess?”

“Sounds good,” says Tim, as Bruce turns to head out. “Love you, B.”

Bruce smiles back over one shoulder as he nudges the door open and starts to head out. “Love you too, sweetheart. Drink some water. And take a nap, will you? Just because you’re official sick, that doesn’t give you permission to stop napping once a day. Your immune system needs it more than ever.”

“Yes, B,” Tim says, with a lazy salute. “Got it.”

Then Bruce is out the door, leaving Tim to Animal Crossing and a list of hopefully-maybe-definitely-somedays and a lot of warmth both inside and out, and a lot more hope than he had when he woke up that morning.

He’s got the best medical care he can ask for. He’s as comfortable as possible right now, and he’s got warm blankets, and things to do, and all in all, not a bad quarantine setup. But most importantly, he’s got more than just family that will fight for him. More than just people who won’t let him go.

Tim’s got a family and a future to fight for .

#tim drake #batfam #dc #shutterbug series

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