#reference to canon character death

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

This Time

Everyone assumes Dick ignores his injuries on purpose. And he supposes that’s fair, because it happens a lot. But it still makes him angry, because damn it, he really didn’t mean to this time.

---

This isn’t the worst thing in the world. It’s dark, his head throbs with every beat of his heart, and something warm and wet trickles up his face. (Up his face?) But Dick has certainly seen worse. He’s been through much worse.

He’s just having trouble thinking of an example with all the pressure in his head.

“-wing, do you read?”

Dick winces, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. The comm in his ear crackles like a bowl of rice krispies.

“Nightwing,” Dick responds, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them again. His vision doesn’t change. If anything, it gets darker when he opens his eyes, if that’s even possible.

“Thank god,” the comm sighs. It’s Barbara, almost certainly. “What’s your 9-2?”

Dick takes a moment to think. Or try to, anyway. What is his 9-2? It’s dark. Everything hurts. And for some reason, he’s completely incapable of sitting up or moving his legs.

“Dark,” Dick manages. “Can’t move.”

“Alright,” Barbara says, only the slightest bit of frustration hidden in her tone. “I’ll find your location. Have you heard from Hood?”

“Hood…?”

Should Dick know where Jason is?

“Yes. He was on recon with you when you stopped responding.” She hesitates, and Dick can't be sure if she's flicking switches on her end or if the comm is giving out. “Aaand there was an explosion by the docks forty-five seconds ago. Why didn't I know this?”

“Maybe it was quiet,” Dick suggested. “Less like a dad sneeze and more like a kitten sneeze.”

“You're hysterical,” Barbara replies flatly. “Considering your tracker places you at a North Refrigeration warehouse, I’m betting you got caught in the blast.”

Dick tries to slow his breathing as the world spins around him. “That-” A dry cough makes his ears ring. “That might be it.”

“Health status?”

That's an excellent question that Dick has zero answers to. He hurts, sure, and it's getting harder to breathe, and his brain is about to explode, but… He just doesn't know. It'd be so much easier if he could just see-

“Nightwing,” Barbara presses. “Answer me.”

“Shh.”

“Did you just shush me??”

“Gimme a minute,” Dick grunts, blinking against the sudden flashlight in his face.

“God, do you look like shit.” Jason is smirking, his usual helmet no longer hiding his expression. He’s also upside-down, standing on the ceiling, so there are bigger concerns than a little ribbing.

“Jay, what-?” Dick doesn't even have a second to process things before up is down and his back slams into the ground. His fall is barely controlled, with Jason trying and failing to ease Dick to the ground. His head spins, ears hosting at least three bell choirs.

“Sorry, ‘wing,” Jason hums, though he doesn't look particularly sorry. “Your suit was caught on a shelving unit.”

Dick blinks dizzily, taking in his now-visible surroundings. The ceiling above him isn't actually a ceiling at all. It's a giant shelf, angled just enough to keep a mountain of bricks from crushing the brothers. Dick must have fallen onto one of its four supports and been left dangling.

“-swear to god, Nightwing, if you don’t-!”

“‘m here, O,” Dick mumbles, wishing she could yell at him a bit quieter. “Hood’s here too.” He wrenches the comm from his ear and shoves it at Jason.

Dubiously, Jason takes the comm, wipes it off on his pants (though considering the dust covering both of them, Dick doubts that did anything to make the comm cleaner), and shoves it in his own ear. “This is Hood.” He’s quiet for a moment, and even through the ringing, Dick can hear the way Barbara scolds him.

“My helmet got busted in the explosion,” Jason explains. He pauses and then- “Yeah, it protected me. I’m fine. But Wingding here looks like he fell off a train.”

Dick wants to argue with him, because that's not really fair. He just got blown up. Or… he thinks he got blown up, anyway. He can't remember too much about today’s patrol. (Were they on patrol? He's not even certain of that.)

“No,” Jason continues. “No. We were checking the old North Refrigeration warehouse on Smithon. Penguin’s back to smuggling weapons. Maybe there was a shipment with… I dunno, like a lot of C-4.”

After another pause, Jason nudges Dick’s arm. “Hey, still with me?”

Dick hadn't realized he’d closed his eyes. He opens one, and wow, Jason looks worried. Which is weird, because the helmet usually hides all that. Dick wonders what he’s so scared of.

“Babs sent out the troops. Batman and Robin are on their w-”

Jason never finishes his sentence. Or maybe he does. Dick can't remember. All he knows is that it’s dark again, and everything still hurts. But at the very least, he’s not upside-down this time.

And he’s not alone either.

“Jay,” Dick mumbles, pushing at the arm on his chest. “Jay, get off.”

But Jason doesn't reply.

“Jason,” he says louder, fear creeping into his blood. He feels down Jason’s arm to his shoulder and then to his neck. He fumbles as he blindly searches for Jason’s jaw and presses the skin beneath it.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

It's a bit slow, but a pulse is a pulse. From there, Dick finds Jason’s nose and feels the heat of his breath.

Heartbeat, check. Breathing, check. Responsiveness… definitely not a check.

Dick tries to sit up and assess the situation, but his left side is trapped under Jason. Instead, he finds Jason’s ears. Neither ear has the comm. It must be on the ground somewhere.

Dick throws his right arm out to the side, feeling around for the missing earpiece. His left arm tingles with jealousy (and maybe lack of blood flow), still pinned to the ground.

Babs sent out the troops, Jason had said. Batman and Robin. Dick isn't sure what their plan is, but he holds out hope that rescue is imminent. All Dick has to do is keep Jason alive until that happens.

Easier said than done.

The weight on Dick’s side feels unmoveable (heavier than Jason should be, even in Red Hood’s body armor). It doesn’t matter how much Dick struggles. He’s well and truly trapped.

With his locus of control shrinking to the size of a grape, Dick tries to find something productive to do. He closes his eyes, trying to listen for outside noises. Passing cars or the airhorn from a barge or a grumpy Batman grunt. But the ringing in his ears is still too loud. All he hears is pain.

Something in Dick’s chest snaps. He can’t be sure if something really broke or if it just sounded that way. Regardless, it feels like someone is crushing his ribcage in a vise. Panic spikes as he realizes that neither of them are going to survive long like this. He tries to ignore the pain, ignore how hard it is to breathe, ignore every alarm bell in his brain. He needs to keep his mind clear if he wants to get out of this.

Dick reaches up to feel Jason’s breath again. It’s still there. Still warm. There’s still time.

Then he throws his arm out again to search for the comm. It's gross and painful, dragging his bare fingers through dirt and shards of glass, but he does find something. It's too big to be the comm though. Feels more like a-

“Please let this work,” Dick begs. With a push of a button, the screen of Jason’s phone miraculously turns on. Reception is horrible, or maybe the SIM card is busted, but the flashlight illuminates the space with little trouble. The area is even smaller than before, with bricks spilling through the gaps in the shelf. Jason is thrown over Dick, rubble crushing his right side. His face is only inches to the left of Dick’s eyes, so it’s difficult to assess his health status. But what Dick can see? Blood. Dick knows that head wounds usually look worse than they are, but he's not so sure about this one.

Dick isn’t nervous. At least not on the outside. He can’t afford to lose it right now. Once the danger is past, once this is all over, then he can freak out. So he really can’t explain the shake in his fingers as he pinches Jason’s shoulder hard.

Jason grunts in what Dick can only assume is annoyance. He bats away Dick’s hand and starts spouting off curse words in the world’s most pathetic mumble.

Dick has never been so happy to be cussed out in his life.

“Hey, Jay,” he greets, hand moving from the shoulder to Jason’s wrist, not-so-subtly checking his heart rate. “Y’okay?”

Jason doesn’t reply right away, trying and failing to shift off of Dick. Every movement sends shockwaves of pain through Dick’s chest. 

“Augh, okay, okay, okay,” Dick wheezes, vision white as he just tries to get Jason to stop. “Relax. It’s okay.”

It’s definitely not okay, but Jason doesn’t seem to know the difference. When he speaks again, his voice is different. Not confused or in pain.

Relieved.

“Bruce?” he rasps.

“I mean, I know we look similar,” Dick replies, instantly defaulting to jokes, “but how long will it take you to tell us apart?”

But Jason isn’t listening, doesn’t understand, or simply doesn’t care. “Bruce, I thought you’d… I didn’t think you’d…” He’s lost for words.

“It’s okay, Little Wing,” Dick soothes, feeling Jason’s neck for a pulse again. (It’s slow. Why is it so slow?) It isn’t worth the hassle of trying to explain who he really is when Jason is so clearly out of it.

(When Jason is so obviously dying. He’s dying-)

“N-no,” Jason fumbles. “No, it’s okay… ‘cuz y’made it. Y’made it this… this time…”

Dread pools in Dick’s stomach, filling his blood with ice. He sweeps the ground for the comm, desperately flicking the flashlight’s beam in every crack and crevice of the rubble surrounding them. “C’mon,” he mutters under his breath. “C’mon, please.”

“Bruce?” Jason’s voice is desolate. Tearful. Even in his frantic search to get help, Dick can hear the terror in his words. “I… I was so scared, Bruce. The… The Joker was… He was…”

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” Dick can’t hide his panic anymore. He checks and double checks the phone for reception, holding it as high as he can. The movement makes his ribs shriek in pain, but Dick can’t let that stop him. “Come on.” Why hasn’t help arrived? What’s taking them so long??

And then the rubble above them cracks and moans. The sound is so sudden that - had Dick been able to move - he would have jumped out of his skin. Rocks rain from above, and Dick covers his face to avoid getting dirt in his eyes. And then there’s light so blinding that Dick has to keep his face covered, eyes watering from the sudden appearance of the sky.

“Nightwing?” It’s Bruce’s voice, but Bruce can’t help him right now.

“He needs help,” Dick says instantly, speaking up and out of the rubble at the man who just lifted a whole warehouse with his bare hands. “Head injury. Slow pulse, altered mental status. Get him out of here now.”

Superman doesn’t waste a second. In less than the blink of an eye, Jason and Superman are gone. A ruined warehouse and a small puddle of blood are all that remain of the nightmare. To fill the sudden, aching silence, Bruce reaches down and helps Dick up. Without Jason or the mountain of debris on top of him, it’s laughably easy.

“Nightwing, report.”

Dick sighs heavily. It seems you’re never too old to be ordered around by Bruce. It also seems you’re never too old to obey an order from Bruce. He responds almost immediately, like the knee-jerk reaction that it is.

“Hood and I were investigating a sudden increase in illegal weapons in Gotham. Breadcrumbs led us to Penguin’s old smuggling racket. An explosion went off tonight in a North Refrigeration warehouse while we were inside. A secondary device followed. Lapsed time unknown. Hood was injured in the second blast and was unresponsive for an unknown period, at least ninety seconds. Bradycardic, GCS of… nine or ten. I don’t know.”

Bruce “hn”s. The cowl stares at Dick, though Dick can’t be sure what Bruce is actually looking at. Maybe his eyes are closed. Who’s really to say?

“And you?” Bruce asks carefully.

“Fine. Minor bruising,” Dick replies, barely even processing the question. His mind is almost solely focused on Jason and his delirium. On what exactly Jason was seeing. What he was thinking.

Another “hn.” Bruce uses one gloved hand to carefully turn Dick’s head, checking for unspoken injuries. But, seeing nothing, he nods once. “Check in with Alfred before you turn in tonight.”

“Sir, yessir.”

The cowl stares at him for another long moment.

“What, B?” Dick’s voice is harsher than he intends. Like the frustration and anxiety and fear from the day have possessed his vocal cords.

Bruce’s lips remain in a firm line, but his posture stiffens. “It's bad.” It’s not a question. He knows too, even from that brief glimpse of Jason. It only makes the whole situation worse.

Dick nods. “He’s… It doesn't look good.” But Dick really doesn't want to discuss it, so instead, he walks towards the nearby lot, hoping his bike didn't get caught in the blast.

“Where are you going?” It's Damian, disdain and all. “The Batmobile is the other way.”

But Dick just waves him off. “I’ll take my bike. I need the air.”

Dick can feel the judgment even with his back turned. Can feel their unspoken questions. But neither Batman nor Robin try to stop him, so he keeps going. He doesn't stop or turn around until he's on his motorcycle and speeding off.

Batman had ordered Dick to get checked out in the Cave’s med bay. But Dick didn't become Nightwing by following orders. And besides, there’s too much swimming in his head. He needs some space. So instead of going to the Batcave, Dick finds the nearest safehouse. It isn't untraceable (Barbara just has to check the safehouse access logs to realize where he’s gone), but that's okay. Dick doesn't want to hide. He just wants to be alone.

And a shower. He really needs a shower.

Dick parks his bike in the lot behind the safehouse and climbs the fire escape. This particular safehouse is situated above a crowded, notably grimy dive bar. While someone dressed as a vigilante would probably not be the most surprising event of the night for the bar patrons, Dick still worries. He'd rather climb the building than risk his identity on the first floor.

The safehouse (safe-apartment, maybe, but that doesn't have the same ring to it) is dark and quiet. The ringing of Dick’s ears has ebbed quite a bit, and he welcomes the silence. It's also stocked at all times, though the food is usually canned or packaged and the clothing is almost always ill-fitting. But Dick would like nothing more than to cinch a pair of sweatpants right now.

He isn't lucky enough to find sweatpants, of course. After raiding the bedroom’s dresser, Dick is rewarded with a worn pair of jeans and an unfortunate studded leather jacket from Bruce’s biker phase. (Dick really can't judge; he once tried to pair corduroy and velvet.)

Upon entering the bathroom, Dick is greeted with a horrific sight: his own face in the mirror. Blood has dried and crusted along the side of his head, matting his hair. Dirt coats every inch of him, grime broken by trails of sweat. And he looks, in general, horrible. He knows he hasn't been sleeping enough, but the pallor under the dirt seems extreme.

Bruce, I was so scared. The Joker was-

The ghost of a voice hits him suddenly and without warning. Dick has to swallow back acid. Jason had thought he was Bruce. He’d thought he was still Robin, still dying- 

And only part of his deduction was wrong.

Dick shakes his head, as if physically ridding himself of the thoughts. He can't think about it right now. He can't.

His suit takes effort to peel off. Sweat and grime have practically fused the body armor to his skin. And once it's finally off, Dick kind of wishes he’d never taken it off at all. His whole body - arms, legs, torso - is peppered with dark purple. No wonder he aches. The bruising is the worst across his abdomen, no doubt what he’d landed on during the first explosion, and up his left side, where the rubble (and Jason) fell on him during the second explosion.

No, it's okay. You made it this time, Bruce. You’re here.

Dick steps in the shower. He needs to get this done quickly. The adrenaline is still carrying him through most of the pain, but Dick can feel it fading. He doesn't have much time before it’ll hurt too much to move.

Bruce, I was so scared. I was so scared. I was so scared.

Dick feels lightheaded. Jason had been alone when he died. And now, he’s okay with dying so long as there's someone around to talk to him. It's… Dick hates that he didn't find out until later. Much, much later.

He stays in the shower until his knees start to shake. Then he drags himself out, clinging to the towel rack with a white-knucked grip. It's painful how slowly he towels off and pulls on the salvaged clothing. With no real shirts in sight, Dick has no option but to zip the embarrassing leather jacket up and endure the chafing. It's barely noticeable under the ache in his muscles.

Sufficiently clean and too tired to stand anymore, Dick heads to the couch. It's only after he collapses that he notices the shadowy figure by the window. He jumps up, muscles shrieking, but the figure waves him off, stepping into the light and perching on the edge of the couch cushions.

“Oh,” Dick mumbles, dropping back against the dusty pillows. “Hey, Cass.” It bothers him that he didn't hear her come in. Of anyone to sneak past him, it would be Cass, but even so, it's disconcerting. Maybe he hit his head harder than he realized.

Cass hums in greeting, watching Dick carefully. She's incredible at reading body language - it's her whole MO - but Dick still foolishly hopes that she can't tell what he’s thinking, how he's feeling.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

“You weren't in the Cave,” Cass explains. She continues to watch him, expression unreadable. It's a good way to pressure someone into talking. Dick isn't immune.

“Yeah. I wanted a shower.”

But Cass doesn't nod or hum her assent. Her response is obvious: The Cave has showers.

Much nicer showers, at that. But the Cave also has something the safehouse doesn't:

People.

Or so Dick thought, anyway.

“Look, I’m… I just needed a second alone.”

“It's been a second.”

Dick offers a flat look. Cass doesn't smile, but her face incrementally softens. “Okay, so I needed an hour or whatever. I’ll call him once his patrol’s over.”

“It’s morning. His patrol is over.”

…

What.

“No, Cass, I just… It hasn't been that long,” he insists, because that can't be right. He only got a shower. It couldn't have taken him all night. And yet, the sunrise is clearly visible from the window. Dick can feel the beams of light warm his skin. It's quite obviously daytime.

“It has. Bruce is worried.”

“He’s always worried,” Dick replies absently. He just can't understand how it can possibly be morning. He wracks his brain for explanations. Did he fall asleep? Or maybe he really had hit his head that hard. What has he been doing all night?

“You’re okay?” Cass tips her head, her short locks brushing her shoulders.

“I’m… Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, I must’ve… fallen asleep. Or something.”

“You look tired.” Cass stands up and rocks on her heels.

“I’m fine,” Dick repeats, standing up after her. Every inch of him burns in pain, but he ignores it. “Is Jason okay? What happened to him?”

“Critical condition.” Her response is blunt and succinct. Cass has never been one to dance around the truth.

Dick feels dizzy. He takes a deep breath. (Ow. Actually, maybe he’ll breathe a little shallower for now.) “He’s still at the Cave, right?” A tiny part of him worries that it’s much worse than that. That Alfred and Leslie have deemed Jason too unstable to keep in the Cave. That a Bat finally requires a real hospital.

Cass nods. “The car is outside.”

That makes Dick raise an eyebrow. “I didn't even know you could drive.”

But Cass ignores him, already heading out the window and down the fire escape, movements graceful and silent. By comparison, Dick’s stiff, aching muscles make his every step just shy of a sonic boom. But Dick can’t bring himself to care. Already, he’s undoing the work of the shower, sweat trickling down his neck and back. (He shouldn’t be sweating this much. Why is he sweating so much?) By the time Dick sees the van, he's just happy to get in. He slams the passenger door behind him and jumps. He hadn't realized there was someone already at the steering wheel.

“They were out of cinnamon, so I had them put ginger in instead,” Stephanie explains, reaching back to hand Cass a coffee cup. Then she looks at Dick, expression frozen somewhere between pity and amusement. “And you get chamomile tea.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “Not that I’m not grateful-”

“Uh-uh,” Steph interjects, shoving the cup into his hands. “You need to relax. I can see your blood pressure from here, and it's killing the Spoilermobile’s vibe.”

“You can't see a blood pressure, Steph.”

“My van, my rules. You're stressing me out, so drink your tea and be quiet.”

“What’s going on? Did Bruce put you up to this too?” Dick mumbles into the cup. It smells great, but he knows that the second he starts drinking it, he's going to pass out. What he needs is really strong coffee.

“No,” Steph insists. “Bruce put Cass up to this. I just wanted coffee. Now buckle up.”

“Did something happen?” Dick has a belated rush of adrenaline. He’d assumed that Jason was in a similar state to when Dick had last seen him, but what if things had gotten worse? What if Cass and Steph were trying to gently break the bad news to Dick? The news that Jason is dead again-

“What did I just say?” Steph shakes her head, takes a long sip of her coffee, and then continues. “You're stressing me out. Just chill, okay? Jason doesn’t look good, but it’s nothing we haven’t seen before.”

There’s a sad irony to that statement, but Dick doesn’t have the energy to notice it. “Oh.” The brief flood of wired energy disappears from his blood just as quickly as it came. He falls back against the seat (ow) and fumbles for the seatbelt with numb fingers. “Okay.”

Stephanie snorts humorlessly, guiding the bulky van down the narrowing alley. She keeps glancing at Dick from the corner of her eye, but she doesn't say anything. And with Dick too tired to talk and Cass rarely speaking to begin with, it makes for a quiet car ride, even with the blaring horns as Steph speeds down the road.

Despite his clear desire not to and despite the hairpin turns and abrupt, gut-churning brakework, Dick falls asleep after ten minutes. He wakes up with two warm fingers against his throat.

“M’good.” Dick squints blearily, and Cass sits back, a clear frown tugging on her lips.

“You're obviously not,” Steph grumbles. “The hell was that?”

“Fell asleep,” he says, mopping his face with a hand. “You know, it's that thing you do when you close your eyes and stop talking.”

“Yeah, no. That wasn’t sleeping. Normal people usually stop sleeping when they spill hot water on themselves. You didn’t even flinch.”

Dick glances down. His jeans (or… whoever’s jeans these are) are drenched, and Dick can feel a delayed burning sensation, practically imperceptible under the pounding of his head and the aching of his muscles. The coffee cup is on its side on the floor. Absently, Dick realizes that his socks are soaked. He must have dropped the cup when he fell asleep.

And then didn’t wake up. For some reason.

“Look, you can be a pain in the ass about it, and we’ll figure out what the problem is, or you can admit now that something’s up. Your call.”

“I’m fine,” Dick hisses.

“Yeah, guess I should have seen that coming,” Steph muses.

Dick drops his forehead onto his palm, closing his eyes and trying to will away his headache. “Hey, um… sorry. Do you-?” He feels a tap on his shoulder, and he opens his eyes to find Cass holding something out to him.

“Oh. Thanks, Cass.” Dick takes the pills from her, noting the telltale brown of generic painkillers. He doesn't ask how she knew. He just dry swallows the pills (because his tea is on the floor) and leans against the window.

Stephanie chews her lip. Dick can see the war in her mind, fighting to keep from pushing the issue. “What happened back there?” she asks instead. “At the docks?”

Hell if Dick knows. But he forces his eyes open (he’d shut them without noticing again; he needs to stop doing that) and sighs. “Penguin was dealing weapons out of his fridge front again. Jason and I were due to bust a deal tonight - last night, I mean - but someone must have known we were coming. First blast shook us up. Second blast knocked Jason out.”

“Could you wake him up?” The question is hesitant. Steph knows it's a tricky subject, but her curiosity has her in a death grip.

“Yeah,” Dick replies, but he doesn't elaborate. “Superman got there pretty quickly.”

Not quickly enough - Dick can still feel the glass in his fingers, the knot in his stomach as he desperately searched for the comm - but still quick by most standards.

It’s okay, Bruce. You made it in time. You made it this time.

“You coming?”

Dick can’t help but jump. Steph is watching him through the passenger door window, lips pouted and arms crossed. Cass taps the window. How long had they been standing there? And when had they entered the Cave?

“Yeah. Sorry.” Dick fumbles with the seatbelt and pops the door. He slides out with all the grace of a stick figure, body furious that he’s standing again.

Stephanie doesn’t say anything, though Dick can see the question in her eyes:

What is wrong with you?

Cass doesn’t deviate from a neutral gaze, but her hand does dart out to pat him once on the head. She told him once that his hair was soft and felt nice. But Dick is pretty sure she’s doing it more for his benefit than her own.

Rather than explain himself, Dick ducks his head and pushes forward, trying to ignore Steph’s eyes on his back, burning holes through the leather jacket.

“You look ridiculous.”

“Thanks, Dami,” Dick replies, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Where's Jason?” He already knows the answer. He knows that he knows the answer. So why is he asking?

“In the med bay.” Damian shoves his hands in his own pockets. “Pennyworth requested no visitors for the moment.”

Dick isn't sure whether that's a good sign or a bad one. But it doesn't really matter because his ears are ringing again.

It's okay, Bruce. You made it this time.

“Got it,” Dick mumbles. He feels nauseous, but rather than run to the bathroom, Dick goes to the showers. He has a change of clothes in his locker, and he needs to get out of this jacket. He can feel sweat trickle down his neck and back, and paradoxically, he shivers.

Changing is its own challenge. It was difficult to change when Dick had the adrenaline to carry himself through. But now? Hours (apparently) since the explosion?

Moving at all feels like he’s tearing himself apart. It takes him ages to change, and though he's glad he's not wearing the biker look anymore, he's not sure it was worth the pain. He collapses on a bench and rests forwards on his arms, staring at the floor.

Dick isn't sure how long he stays there when a voice breaks him from semi-consciousness.

“Hey, you okay?” Tim is watching him with curious eyes, one hand on Dick’s shoulder.

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, I’m…” Dick sits up immediately, and his vision darkens, sparking with pinpricks of light. He tries not to let it show. “I’m okay.”

Tim looks unconvinced. “Yeah. Okay. Sure. Why don't we go to the med bay?”

“I said, I’m fine,” Dick grits out, but he doesn't move to stand up.

“To see Jason,” Tim clarifies.

“Oh. We can do that?”

“Alfred cleared him for visitors an hour ago.”

Dick is getting a headache from all the random time changes. He isn't sure how long he's been in the shower room, but certainly it hasn't been an hour.

… has it?

“Okay,” is all Dick says. He doesn't have the energy to argue. Unfortunately, he doesn't have the energy to stand up either.

Tim waits ten seconds. Then he gets impatient and moves to pull Dick up. But the pulling on his ribs makes Dick cry out and wrench his arm back, curling it across his chest.

“Knew it,” Tim mutters. But he doesn’t revel in his genius for long. He’s suddenly sitting next to Dick, trying to pry Dick’s arms away from his body.

“C’mon,” Tim groans. “Let me see. What’s wrong?”

Pain ebbing from agony to a dull, dangerous ache, Dick straightens, shaking his head. “Just… Just my ribs.”

Tim doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to. His doubt is palpable.

“Swear,” Dick promises. “Got crushed in the second blast.”

“And you know you don’t have a concussion or internal bleeding because…?”

“Not puking blood. Didn’t pass out.”

Tim folds his arms, nose scrunching in disdain. “That’s it? Those are your only gauges?”

“I’m fine, Tim.”

“You already admitted to broken ribs. I wouldn’t consider that ‘fine.’”

Dick is running out of strength to argue back. The last thing he wants is to worry Tim, especially with Jason the way he is, but everything is starting to blur. Sweat trails down his back. His stomach is killing him.

“It’s okay,” Dick replies weakly. “I’m-”

Bruce, I was so scared. The Joker was-

“-let Alfred look you over?” Tim is talking over the haunted voice, like it isn’t even there. Like he doesn’t realize the gravity of the words. And of course he wouldn’t realize. He wasn’t there.

You weren’t there either, Dick. You didn’t even try to save me. You were off with the Titans, too busy to save your family.

“-please?”

The Joker tortured me. He beat me until I had more broken bones than not. And you know why?

“Dick, talk to me. You’re scaring me-”

Because I’m.

“-Dick, I swear to god-”

Not.

“-open your eyes-”

You.

“ALFRED!”

He wouldn’t have killed me if I was you. He was just mad that B was expanding the nest. He missed his old game. His old playmates. Me not included.

“-bleeding. Has he been in-”

If you’d stayed, I wouldn’t be dead.

“-should have taken him straight to the Cave-”

Dick is sorry. He’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s sorry. If he could go back, he would. If it would save Jason’s life, he would. If he even could have known that Jason was in trouble, he would have dropped everything to save him. If only he’d known-

“-can’t believe it… Well, I can believe it, but-”

If you’d stayed, I wouldn’t be dead.

“-in and out all day-”

If you’d stayed, I wouldn’t be dead.

“-lucky he stayed, or I’d be dead.” A dry laugh. “Again.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“It is not.”

The voices that rouse Dick are familiar in their own ways but sound completely foreign together. One is Bruce, Dick is absolutely certain, but the other is trickier to place. It isn’t Alfred or Tim or Damian. Is it Jason?

Bruce, I was so scared. The Joker was-

Definitely, definitely not his little brother, waiting for a fate written by Dick’s own selfishness. The voice is too gruff. Too knowledgeable.

Silently, Dick listens on, but the pair has stopped speaking. So Dick cracks one eye open, trying to interpret his hazy surroundings.

High ceilings. Harsh artificial light. Starch-white sheets tucked up to his chin. Bruce, pacing, agitated. And a young man, dark hair with a white streak, looking pale, alive, and inexplicably bored.

It takes Dick many seconds more to remember that this is Jason now. Not the broken little bird in red and yellow. Not simply the Boy Wonder. Jason is a man, haunted and bold and tough as hell.

“Jay…?” His voice is shakier than he expected.

“So he does speak,” Jason muses. “You're a dick, you know that?”

Dick raises an eyebrow, half-lidded gaze rife with judgment. “It's… in the name.”

Jason looks like he might punch Dick, but he stays in his chair. He doesn't look great. His eyes are tired, face slightly green. He’s clearly making an effort not to move his head.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks, suddenly appearing at Dick’s side.

“I’m…” Dick runs his tongue over his teeth. His mouth feels sandy. “I’m not great, but…” Something is nagging him. He's forgetting something. What is it? What is he forgetting?

It’s okay, Bruce. You made it in time. You made it this time.

Jason is hurt. Jason won't open his eyes. Jason is trapped and thinks he's in that warehouse in Ethiopia-

“Dick?” Bruce's eyebrows lower in concern. “What is it?”

Dick looks over at Jason, who looks pretty concerned himself.

“Are you okay?” Dick asks him.

Jason rolls his eyes but humors him. “Fine. Pretty good concussion, but I’m getting better.”

“What… What happened?”

“You collapsed two days ago,” Bruce replies factually. “Internal bleeding. Broken ribs. Mild concussion.”

“Oh.” Dick feels his face heat up, but he isn't sure why. “Two days ago?”

“Yeah,” Jason cuts in bitterly. “Cuz your dumbass didn't let Alfred look you over. What was it this time? Some martyr act in my honor?”

It wasn't. Or… Dick is pretty sure it wasn't. He felt guilty about Jason, but he'd only wanted to be alone. He wanted to be alone because…

“B, could you step out for a sec?”

Bruce tips his head, lips drawn. But then he nods. “Sure.” He pats Dick’s ankle and leaves the med bay without further complaint.

Now Jason just looks suspicious. “What’s this about?”

“In the explosion, you said some stuff.”

“I don’t remember much. Not after the second blast.”

“You thought I was Bruce,” Dick explains hesitantly. “You thought you were…”

But Jason has little patience for this. “Were what? Dying? I probably was.”

“Yeah, but, I mean, you thought you were… y’know dying. The first time, I mean.” He’s rambling, and he isn’t sure how much sense he’s making.

But Jason’s expression shifts from irritation to stony understanding. “Ethiopia.”

Dick nods, twisting his fingers in the sheets. “You were relieved that Bruce made it. You… you told me that it was okay.”

Jason's lip curls up, the lines around his eyes turning to stone. “I… I don’t remember that.”

“I’m… sorry he wasn’t there the first time. But he… he did show up at the end this time.”

For a long moment, Jason is quiet. He stares at the wall, then considers the ceiling. He presses his knuckles to his lips. Frowns thoughtfully.

But Dick doesn’t like silence. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I was… I was selfish. I chose my pride over you and Bruce.”

And that gets a reaction from Jason. He scowls harder, looking Dick in the eyes. “The hell are you on about? You didn’t even know I was there.”

“I should’ve been paying attention.”

“You seriously blame yourself for what happened? Seriously?”

Dick squirms, unsure if the nausea is from the conversation or the pain meds. Maybe both.

“It happened,” Jason says plainly. “End of story. You had nothing to do with it.”

Dick doesn’t believe that, and Jason must know this too. He carefully stands up and approaches the bedside. “I didn’t have anyone in Ethiopia. But I did have someone on Friday. You were there for me. Let’s call it even, huh?”

Broken ribs be damned, Dick does his best to hug his brother. “You’re not alone anymore,” Dick assures him.

Jason sighs, a hot puff of air against Dick’s neck. “I know.”

[ghostlynimbus]

Billy Hargrove's Wikipedia Page

[shyjusticewarrior]

Broke: Jason has an autopsy scar

Woke: Jason has a scar on his throat from Bruce's batarang

Bespoke: Jason has a scar on his head from when he gave Bruce a DNA sample to prove he was really Jason Todd

[starsandtulips]

welt with "the kids" headcanons. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

characters⟡ welt yang, stelle, march 7th, dan heng, (slight) himeko, (slight) pom pom, (mentioned) seele, (mentioned) luka

relationships⟡ none

cw⟡ reference to canonical character death in hi3

~ all three of them look up to welt in different ways

~ stelle appreciates his knowledge of the universe, especially when she woke up she understood almost nothing and it's nice to have someone to rely on to know things

~ dan heng admires his resilience and passion for adventure

~ march loves his stories and often takes little bits of her favorites to turn into backstories for herself

~ welt can be pretty quiet when not answering (mostly stelle's) questions, often staring into space

~ the only time the trailblaze trio see his eyes light up when talking is when he's discussing the shows he's worked on in his time as an animator

~ he has shown them all of the episodes of arahato that he can remember off of the top of his head (using his mimicry)

~ they are all big fans of arahato (even if dan heng doesn't show it)

~ welt has somehow been roped into promising to get/make them arahato merchandise to wear

~ stelle attempted to bring back a small piece of the engine of creation as a gift for welt but was told it had to stay on jarilo-vi

~ the trio has several running betting pools (that dan heng had to be coaxed into participating in) about welt

~ the betting pools that are currently ongoing include:

is arahato real? (stelle and march believe arahato is a real robot while dan heng thinks the show is fully fictional)

who can eat more spicy puffy mushrooms: mr. yang or stelle? (they're waiting to head back to belobog for this one to convince welt to do it and because members of wildfire, seele and luka, are also involved in the betting pool)

does mr. yang actually need his glasses? ("because he loses them so much on the Express!" march says, stelle and dan heng are confused on why someone would wear glasses without needing them)

~~some angst below!!!!~~

~ the only thing that is off limits to bet on is why he sometimes looks at himeko like he's looking at a ghost

~ i already wrote something on this but: when welt begins to drift off and become lost in his memories, the trailblaze trio + pom pom team up to cheer him up!!!

~ they've made a pact to not let himeko know or welt catch on to what they're doing on those days

~ so far they have been mostly successful in cheering him up

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

looking very closely at the website neighborhood and here's some little things i noticed (plus some overthinking & flower symbolism):

~ the only butterflies on the "map" are the ones outside of Frank's house, and the single one outside of Eddie's.

~~ i think the flowers outside of Eddie's are either hyacinths or lavender. given that the flowers are different colors, they're probably hyacinths. which is a Fascinating choice to me, because hyacinths can symbolize regret, devotion (especially beyond death), love, forgiveness, and jealousy - depending on the flower color. Eddie has light blue, dark blue, and purple. The butterfly is landing on the purple one (sorrow, mourning, forgiveness, regret, devoted love).

~~ its also Fascinating because the myth behinds hyacinths is about the greek god Apollo and his (male) human lover, Hyacinthus. they were playing discus (metal frisbee). Apollo threw the discus too hard, and it bounced back and hit Hyacinthus, killing him. devastated, Apollo grew the hyacinth flower from Hyacinthus' spilled blood. SO THE FACT THAT EDDIE, GAY PUPPET EDDIE, HAS HYACINTH FLOWERS OUTSIDE THE POST OFFICE IS UM. INCH RESTING!

~~ (also also in the myth, Apollo wanted to rescind his immortality to join Hyacinthus in his death. and in an alternate version of the myth, Hyacinthus was technically murdered, because Zephyrus was jealous that Apollo preferred a mortal over him & purposefully blew the discus off course to strike Hyacinthus. things to think about. yes, in this whole myth metaphor im viewing Eddie as Hyacinthus and Frank as Apollo. do with this what you will)

~ All of the trees in the neighborhood are in the same general style, except for the tree outside of Sally's home, which is a pine tree. i wonder why!

~ the only buildings with second floors are Barnaby's, Frank's, Sally's, and Poppy's homes. rip the "wally falls down the stairs" memes

~ there's a teeny tiny Home in the post office display window

~ Julie's house has quite a lot of heart symbolism. like, a weird amount. an amount to the point where i now have an entire theory around what her role and arc might be. i Will talk about it with minimal prompting.

~ one of the swingset balloons has a happy face balloon with its eyes closed, which stands out to me (and fuels my julie theory)

~ the only neighbors who don't have flowers outside of their buildings are Sally, Julie (disregarding decoration), and Howdy.

~ Poppy has daffodils, which symbolize rebirth, new beginnings, resilience, and hope. however, they have a negative side of selfishness.

~ Barnaby has red, yellow, and blue tulips. red means undying love, admiration, and truth. yellow means "there's sunshine in your smile", joy, happiness, friendship - But it can also mean unrequited love or jealousy. Blue means individuality, trust, and good luck

~~ note that there's a dead/trampled white tulip. white tulips symbolize sorrow, "my condolences", apology, honor, purity, faith.

~ Frank has sunflowers, daisies, and some others, but those i think are more generic, unspecific flowers for added decoration. i couldn't find a "red flower on vine" that fits the general look of the ones on his house. now, sunflowers symbolize adoration, loyalty, longevity, happiness (also, might i add that these flowers are from another greek myth about apollo, this one where Apollo turns a jealous nymph into a sunflower for snitching on his mortal lover, which got her (the lover) killed. inch resting indeed.)

~~ also blue daisies, which i am assuming are the blue flowers outside his house, symbolize freedom, trust, loyalty, confidence, and honesty. lots of positivity surrounding Frank's house!

~ Wally has daisies. these symbolize innocence, purity, new beginnings, hope, and affection. it can also symbolize the ability to keep a secret. a fun fact i found interesting is the word daisy comes from an old english word meaning "day's eye."

~~ do i believe these flower choices were purposeful? maybe. probably. it does seem strange that there are specific, distinct flowers drawn in equally specific parts of the "map", while a couple of generic "cartoon" style flowers are sprinkled throughout

~ three green apples are growing on the tree next to Howdy's Place

~ it stands out to me that the bodega window above the fruit stands is completely blacked out. no window shine or nothing

~ Sally's "yard" is weirdly barren. everyone else's buildings (excluding Home) has several things decorating the surrounding area. all she has is a spotlight and a tree.

~ Barnaby's house having paint all over it (and a paintbrush & can next to it) is just cute to me. it makes me think that he wanted to paint like his lil' buddy Wally and just went ham with it. or it was a team effort between them<3

~ it took me a while to notice the tiny "Eddie's" painted above Post Office. it gives the vibe (to me) of him tacking on the "Eddie's" to make the office feel more like his. maybe he saw the sign "Howdy's Place" and decided to paint his name on his building to make himself feel more established and at home

~ there's something on / part of Frank's roof. i don't know what it is. if anyone has an idea please tell me its driving me insane. at first i thought it was a chimney but theres two? making an additional symmetrical structure? idk!!

~ there are only three buildings with straight up rainbows. Eddie's post office (hanging from the roof and in the window), Sally's house (the entire front), and Frank's house (butterfly on the door wreath. i almost didn't catch it, it's a sneaky one!)

[justamesswasnotavailable]

The 911 fandom trying to make sense of the quotes Oliver keeps uploading on his insta story:

[samanddean76]

Chapters: 7/7 Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel & Gabriel (Supernatural) Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester, Gabriel (Supernatural), Sam Winchester, Alastair (Supernatural), Lilith (Supernatural), God | Chuck Shurley, John Winchester, Mary Winchester Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, season four au, Hurt Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Love, Rescue, Research, Hurt Sam Winchester, Protective Gabriel (Supernatural), Mental Anguish, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Castiel and Dean Winchester Falling in Love, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Constantine References, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester is Tortured in Hell, Dean Winchester's Soul, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Borrowed grace, Hell Is Never Going To Be The Same, First Time, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Eventual Happy Ending, Dean/Cas Pinefest 2024, Art by xfancyfranart Summary:

Dean Winchester is living a plain, ordinary, and boring life. Until one day a new student shows up in the little town of Spain, SD. It’s love at first sight, but then an unimaginable tragedy happens, and Dean is left alone in his misery. Or is he a student attending Oxford University on a full athletic scholarship who finds a familiar face in his coxswain? Or is he hiking in the desert and attempting to save a known stranger? Or is he a traveler who stops for the night at a cheap motel and finds the pizza man of his dreams? Or is he none of those things? Just an unwitting victim of fate and destiny?

Castiel had led the assault on hell, in order to save the righteous man and prevent the first seal of the apocalypse from being broken, lest hell should be allowed to reign on earth. In the aftermath of his disastrous mission, he is being held captive by Alastair, and his image is being used in a final, determined attempt to break Dean.

But the profound bond that Castiel feels towards the pure soul won’t allow him to go down without a fight, and he makes a desperate prayer to his very old friend to set in motion a chain of events that might save him and his beloved mortal, or possibly, doom them for all eternity.

@xfancyfranart​ @deancaspinefest​

[livelaughlobotomyxx]

just watched the ahsoka finale. oh my god. OH MY GOD.

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

The Owl's Test: Dick's Version

Nightwing is trapped in the Court of Owls' not-so-fun house.

A Gotham Knights choose-your-own-adventure. Pick your favorite character to get whumped, or watch them all suffer :)

Jason's Version

Barbara's Version

Tim's Version

---

Dick wakes up coughing. He can still feel it - the knockout gas - closing off his throat. Choking his lungs. He coughs until his throat is raw and his lungs are aching. Then he takes a moment to collect himself, trying to make the room stop spinning. His mask shades the harsh, artificial light, but it still stings, each sense - sight, sound, touch, smell - like a hot dagger in his brain.

Mustering his strength, Dick pushes himself up, pausing for a moment as the world spins faster. He braces himself, then hops off the bench and takes in the room.

The first thing he notices, of course, is that he had not been lying on a bench. No, he’d been comfortably situated on a solid stone altar. It feels ancient and just a bit cultish, and Dick’s skin crawls at just the knowledge that someone had put him there.

The rest of the room is sparsely decorated. The stone walls and floor are grimy and vaguely green in color. Like the room itself feels the mystery gas hangover too.

Two owls guard the archway to a corridor. They’re worn with spiderwebs clinging to their wings. It must have been years since anyone used this room. Or at least since someone cleaned it.

“Ugh,” he mutters, stumbling forward. As an acrobat, the lack of balance is making him incredibly nervous. If someone were to attack him right now, he’d be a sitting duck. “What happened? And how did I get… wherever this is?”

The room spins just a bit more, no doubt a friendly warning for Dick to quit walking before he collapses. So Dick stops for a moment, tapping his comm.

“Belfry, you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Aaand I’m cut off.” He sighs.

Feeling a bit less wobbly, Dick jogs forward, making his way down the hall and around the corner. With the mystery drugs still pumping through his system, things are a bit blurrier than they should be, but that’s okay, because it’s just a tunnel. Dick doesn’t need to see the details of a hallw-

Spikes shoot out from the walls, crushing Dick’s bones and ripping through his muscles. He feels the excruciating sensation of being torn to shreds. And then nothing. He feels nothing. He feels…

Dizzy.

Wait, what?

Dick opens his eyes. He’s lying on the altar again, and he sits up in a panic. He feels his body for gaping wounds - for a missing heart and a shattered ribcage - but he finds no evidence of being impaled. His skin is fine. His suit is intact. Even though just moments before, Dick had died, he’s now very uncertain of the fact.

Confused beyond comprehension, Dick stands up and laughs away the horror of what he thought was instant death. “And I’m back!” he calls out with a cheerful “ta-da” intonation. He moves past the owl statues, noticing a new picture decorating the blank walls.

“Wait… but I thought…” He stands in front of the picture - the picture of his bleeding, broken body, impaled on the spike trap - in disbelief. “That’s impossible. How am I still…?”

No time for questions. Now is the time for movement. Now is the time to get out of here.

Dick hurries ahead, taking care to drop down and crawl when he sees the (now very obvious) holes in the wall. The spikes shoot out as he steps on their pressure plates, but they go over his head.

“Inside of Gotham’s walls…” a sinister, echoing voice croons. Clear of the spikes, Dick jumps to his feet, but the speaker is nowhere to be found.

“Rule you one and all…” another voice calls.

Dick doesn’t wonder where the voices are coming from. Unless he can see the threat, it isn’t worth worrying about. Not under these circumstances. So he moves down the hall, not stopping until the threat does, in fact, make itself seen.

There’s a feral growl, like a bear gargling hex bolts. A dark, almost-human figure jumps out from the shadows and darts up the wall.

“What is that?” Feeling more than a little paranoid, Dick cautiously keeps going. He ducks under another spike trap, hoping to god that there isn’t a demon creature watching him from behind. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“You are the Court now. And the Court… is you.” The voice is getting more than a little personal about the whole thing, and Dick has no interest in continuing the conversation.

A light flickers up ahead, shockingly warm compared to the harsh chill of the hall’s glow. Is it an exit? Or just a candle?

But the correct answer is neither. Dick isn’t lucky enough to find an exit so quickly, and the world isn’t random enough to provide him with a single candle in the middle of an underground cavern.

No, Dick is blessed with an antechamber filled with flamethrower traps. Which is just… just great. Really. He’s thrilled.

Dick scans the floor carefully. Certain stones are burned black from the trap’s flames, but other stones remain untouched. Hesitantly, Dick crosses the unburned stones and safely makes it to the other side of the room. He finds another hall and starts running. When will this hallway end?

“Give up. It would be so much easier,” the voice promises. But Dick stopped listening to it ages ago.

And then Dick runs headlong into a wall.

“Agh!” He rubs his (no-doubt bruised) forehead, squinting up at the dead end that should not have been there. He climbs to his feet (and man, it’s getting harder and harder to do that, almost like the energy is being sucked from his body) and turns around. He must have missed a turn.

Dick runs back through the halls, but rather than find the Flamethrower Room, he finds the Spinning Blades of Death Room. Which is just marginally better than the flame traps. At least Dick has practiced with spinning blades. Bruce set up that obstacle course often, and Dick would run through it constantly, always shooting to beat his high score. (But Barbara was always faster. Dick hated her for it back then. He still kind of resents her for it, but in a respectfully begrudging type of way.)

So in no time at all, Dick slips past the blades and into the next corridor. The lights are getting brighter, his head growing fuzzier. He stumbles, slowing down and pressing a fist against his headache.

“Robin was a mistake.”

Wait. That’s not the same voice as before. That’s…

God, that’s Bruce. That’s Bruce’s fuming baritone after a long, disastrous patrol. That’s Bruce’s fury after Dick messed up and someone got hurt. That’s-

That’s Bruce’s study.

Sure enough, there are two armchairs up ahead, flanking a decorative table with a gramophone on top. But it’s not just any gramophone. It’s Bruce’s.

… well, it’s Bruce’s dad’s, anyway. Bruce never let Dick forget that. Almost like he felt guilty for just using the gramophone.

Dick’s fingers brush the dust from the gramophone’s horn. A record spins on the turntable, but it’s coming out all wrong. Dick can remember the song, even if he doesn’t quite recall the words. He remembers sneaking down to Bruce’s study when his nightmares kept him awake. And Bruce would watch him carefully, motion him in, and sit him down in an armchair by the fire. Then he would put a record on - this record on - and sit with him until he was lulled to sleep, warm, soothed, and safe.

The juxtaposition of the same chairs, the same gramophone, the same song in this dank, unfamiliar environment makes Dick’s chest ache.

He can’t stand the sound, so he turns right and walks down the hall, the garbled lyrics haunting him as he goes. But the music cuts to a sharp halt by the loud, but distinct, thwump of flesh against stone. Dick can see someone… himself?... being dragged across the floor, limp as a corpse. But as Dick approaches, the person - him - disappears in a black cloud of smoke.

Just another hallucination.

Dick crawls under the next spike trap. When he stands up again, someone new is yelling from the ceiling.

“We’re losing too many lives!”

Commissioner Gordon?

Dick hurries ahead. He can see a spotlight in the next antechamber, the damning image of a bat - the Bat - slapped in the center of it. It sparks and hisses, and Dick’s vision begins to blur again. (What was in that gas??)

“The city is burning to the ground!” another voice screams, gunshots and sirens in the background.

When Dick comes close enough to touch the Bat Signal, it pops. The light cuts out abruptly.

“Where the hell is Batman??” a new voice asks frantically.

Dick swallows hard. He knows the answer. But the voice can’t hear him, so he doesn’t even try. He just keeps moving, running down the hall yet again.

“You said you’d be helpful. You said you wouldn’t slow me down.”

It’s Bruce again. But this time, he’s speaking directly into Dick’s ear. Except when Dick turns, it’s not Bruce. It’s himself, wearing a smooth white mask, predator eyes peering out through the slits.

“But you were wrong,” Bruce’s voice continues. “You’re a disappointment, Dick Grayson.”

Something is crackling in the distance. Interference of some kind. A different voice overlaps Bruce’s, and as Dick’s headache intensifies, he realizes just how much trouble he’s in.

“Presenting,” a loud voice shouts over the cheers of an audience, “the gruesome death of the Flying Graysons!”

Dick staggers forward. He has to keep moving. He can’t stay here. But if he keeps going, he’ll have to walk past… past…

Two motionless bodies are splayed across the floor. Their arms are stretching out towards each other, but they fall short, fingers just inches from touching. Dark red pools on the ground, soaking into their leotards and sinking into the sawdust.

“Mom?”

Her face is frozen in a scream, eyes desperate and cloying. Her hands aren’t warm. Not like they used to be. Her smile is gone. She’s forever memorialized in this state:

Pure and abject fear.

“Dad?”

His lip is curled up, jaw open. Like he was shouting something. His last words. His eyes bulge from his head, panic carved into the lines of his forehead.

“No,” Dick murmurs, heart beating so quickly that he can barely breathe. Heat pricks at his eyes. His every muscle is tensed, drawn tight with a childhood nightmare coming true.

(Again. It’s coming true again.)

“I don’t want to go through this again,” he breathes, but all he can hear are their screams. The collective gasp of the crowd. The tear-soaked, blood-stained, neverending seconds as he watches his parents fall to the ground, knowing that there is nothing he can do. Knowing that these are their last seconds alive, and they will spend them in terror.

The circus band plays its jaunty tune, almost in victory, and Dick breaks away from his parents on the floor. He stumbles backwards, and they disappear in a puff of white smoke, leaving behind two white owl masks and the bloodstain that they could never wash away. The crowd laughs, growing manic and frenzied and amused.

Dick sprints down the hall (whether it’s the left or the right, he neither knows nor cares), sliding under the next spike trap. He needs to get away, to get away, to get away, to get away, to-

A door.

Dick can’t even laugh in relief. He feels none of it. He just runs all the faster, even as the door moves further and further out of reach, like he’s running on the world’s cruelest hamster wheel.

“No escape…” a distorted voice calls. “No escape…”

Dick catches up with the door and yanks on it, but it zips out of his hands, disappearing even further down the corridor. He moves faster. Possibly faster than he’s ever run before.

“Accept your fate!”

He gets to the door again, but this time, he doesn’t waste precious seconds pulling on the handle. Instead, he rams the door with his shoulder. Once. Twice. Th-

The door gives in, and Dick spills out on the floor. There’s a deafening SLAM as the door shuts behind him.

Dick takes a second. Pants. Squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. The lights are warmer. The walls don’t twist and decay like the others did. He must be out of that nightmare zone.

Dick takes one last breath before climbing to his feet and trying to move on. What happened in the labyrinth can stay in the labyrinth.

“That sucked.”

And that’s all he’ll say on the matter.

Jason's Version

Barbara's Version

Tim's Version

[musical-chick-13]

Always funny to me when people say, "Why was the Doctor ever interested in River in any way when she's Not A Good Person," as if a) their oldest and closest friend in the universe isn't The Master, someone very much not known for being a particularly good person, and b) there wasn't literally a line that went, "And unlike me, [River] really doesn't mind shooting people. I shouldn't like that; kind of do a bit."

[rafent]

◜  ₊  —  𝓡  ˚  ₊   𝐍𝐈𝐋

When he wasn’t scared, when he wasn't crying, Nil was the dreamer. 

‘You and me and Nel. One day we could run away together—somewhere we can never be found; wouldn't that be nice?'

That’s stupid, Rafal would say only. So very stupid, he thought and longed to say further. No pair of twins ever survived to adulthood together, much less two twins and an extra who Nel- fullest and fittest of their brood- never knew even existed. But he allowed those stories and hopes and wishes to weave before his eyes. Not that he liked the sound of them but that he liked Nil’s voice. Because when Nil was dreaming there was no room left for crying.

‘Well, what about you then?’

Rafal made sure to tell him that he dreamed too. Just not in the same way. 'I don’t want to run. I want to kill our brothers and sisters. To be Father’s true heir.'

He saw it in his eyes, like it spooked Nil how much Rafal was willing. How normal he was. They were both failures, stains on the midnight honor of Father’s true form who couldn’t reflect him, stuck in chrysalis bodies that never metamorphosed further, but Nil was the abnormal one. He never aspired to become stronger or to become more than what he was. He never wanted to play the truest game of their blood or even that game in miniature; sparring or wrestling with his siblings to hone their strengths, flicking dark magic at each other in the emulation of some deeper, deadlier breath. 

Instead Nil was Nil. He plucked flowers to press and age so their beauty would last longer. He covered his ears whenever the Corrupted wolves howled. When he spoke of his sister he called her the prettiest and the kindest, not the strongest. Nil was Nil, so after he said his truth Rafal smiled. Not you, he assured when he smelled the fear on his brother. Never you. Even though words were weaker than paper.

'I trust you, Rafal. You would never hurt me.' That shy trust was an acceptance that hung steady on the faintest, thinnest line of Rafal’s promise. Surrounded by a sea of Fell Children who would swallow one another in one gulp given the chance and forget their promises on a turned back, on a closed eye. So easily shattered by each and every indomitable will to survive, burning stronger than the last.

Abnormal? Anomaly? Nil wasn’t the only one. Words mysteriously meant more to Rafal. He kept his promises no matter what they were. From the moment they’d found each other alone, they should have seen to it that only one had left alive, yet they forged a bond instead; linking fingers and hearts, trading secrets not blows, and not death. Strange was something they did, together.

…and that was that. Or what it could have been. Should have been. 

His feet squelched into Nil's footprints as he tracked them, tracing and tracing, then finding. A scene of mudsoaked blood and bloodsoaked mud all around with something small, something dirtied to grey- nearly black- in the middle like it had once been white and pink. He looked down at it with a strange twist of his arms around each other even though he wasn’t cold. Heart a knotted mass like his hair when he slept on the wrong side.

Looking into his half-brother’s face, even then he saw himself before Nil willed it to be. Like a piece of him that would never return, left right here. With him.

“Nil, I’m here,” Rafal crouched onto his knees beside him, but the darkest hour of Nil's thoughts wasn't for Rafal to own, his fizzling breath wasn't for his name. That person was. That person was—

“Nel,” the dying boy said, his wilting voice wedged in the space between a whisper and his silence forever. “She’s waiting for her dragonstone to come back, but she’s waiting for her twin more. I don't want to hurt her. Please, Rafal—”

Rafal understood. Rafal loved him so he understood. Nil loved him back so he trusted. Like this they were whole. He made his promise to him on a juddering breath. Later his fingertips brushed against his ribs as he disrobed him, wearing his skin though it were only a shirt, swapping their identities though it were only a name. By the time they were changed, transformed, his brother wasn't there anymore. His eyes no longer red, no longer shining, but two haunts of pink glass fogged to the color of bloody finger smears or rotting peachskin.

With a gentle hand Rafal closed them—no, "Nil" did.

When he wasn’t scared, when he wasn't crying, the true Nil was a dreamer.

And now he was forever dreaming.

[very-gay-poet]

when ur looking at fandom content and then there's something cannon compliment there and you remember that they arent all these happy gay wizards who love each other like family and had a lovely life together but in fact a horror show and all died before 40 and alone; >:(

[justamesswasnotavailable]

The 911 fandom trying to make sense of the quotes Oliver keeps uploading on his insta story:

[burning-thistles-bt]

ALSO WTF ARREST LOLLING HOW DARE U BE FIRESAND HATER /J its ok because i like other fireguy ships aswell like dusty boy and fireman ….(not so much longfire though IM SO SORRY TO U GUYS🙏🙏) BUT I KINDA AGREE W FIREHEART GENERALLY BEING EH. sandstorm though shes a girlboss and she deserved more attention

shhh dont let Alder see this she will literally kill us XDDDDD

i've been a closeted Firehater for a while so its perfect she's going on the senior trip rn >;)

(i say as though she wont look at Tumblr in the morning or before bed lmao)

[heart-democracy]

TDI Advice wanted!

Hi TD fans! I'm planning a rewrite of TDI, the cast will be 18 for in-universe reasons (think legal contracts, I'm not gonna be weird about them). I'm aiming to make it more realistic and in line with the 2007 aesthetic, i.e era appropriate lingo & references, mobile phones are rare, homophobia is a bigger concern etc, but I'm wondering how far I should take it?

In the end I'll write what I enjoy, but should I lean more heavily into the gritty side of reality TV both on and behind the screen, include more notable sexism, potential slurs and creepy behaviours etc? The point is for there to be believable drama in-universe and the topics planned all have some merit to be present. I have some hard lines I'll never cross (see last tags on the post for those curious) and I want people familiar with the themes to feel seen rather than exploited reading it.

At the end of the day the cast are just youngsters getting to know each other and themselves. I want to humanize them and write believable conflicts without demonizing anyone, it is intended as a character driven story after all. But I also want to know what others think would make for an enjoyable read/take on the show.

The cast will inevitably diverge from their canon counterparts, but I am unsure how to handle certain characters, an example being LeShawna. She's clearly based on a racist stereotype, but her personality, background and lingo are a huge part of her appeal and I'd rather portray her in a better light than change her from the ground up. If you have any pointers I can keep in mind for her or anyone else you think is often portrayed poorly in canon or fanon then please let me hear your takes! This goes for non-TDI castmates as well, even if they don't show up in the story I wanna know what people think does and doesn't work for them and their tropes/traits cause it might still be relevant!

[magentagalaxies]

was thinking about another observation i want to put into my hypothetical mouth congress video essay whenever i get around to actually making it and i had to take a step back like "jess you already have so much you want to cover how long is this video essay going to be"

and then i remembered that interview where paul bellini said the original cut of the mouth congress documentary was over three hours and "nobody wants to watch that, even those of us in the band couldn't watch it!" (side note i would watch that. release the bellini cut lmao)

anyway idk exactly how long this imaginary video essay is going to be but if it's even one minute over the length of the mouth congress documentary (which i believe is an hour and sixteen minutes?) i'm putting that interview clip as the opening bc of the irony