#sort of??

[hamstersnamedmarinette]

Marinette's nightmare

[bornwholocker]

Reading flatland and obviously Bill’s home dimension and flatland aren’t exactly the same, but like. Since we don’t know which parts are different I’m just thinking. This is really unorganized and all over the place and probably doesn’t make any sense but

In flatland, it takes a LOT of planning for an equilateral triangle to be born. I’m talking like generations of interbreeding and methods for the fathering isosceles to get as close to equilateral as possible. It’s a huge deal. When an equilateral is created, it’s celebrated by pretty much everyone (for a miriad of different reasons but I won’t get into that). And being “irregular” in any respect is one of the worst things you can be. If you don’t “fix” your irregularity enough, you’re executed.

So imagine Bill’s family working their triangular asses off to have an equilateral kid, to give him a better life, and when they finally do it, he’s got that eye. From what we’ve seen of his parents, they seem to have taken care of him as best they could, but again, it’s been a whole ordeal just to have him, involving the whole community and family, and he came out wrong.

I imagine that’s probably why his parents took him to see the doctor and drink the “juice” that messed with his vision. They thought they were doing what was best for him. They didn’t blame him for his eye, didn’t hate him for it, but they felt the need to fix him, either to please their families or even just bring him to their own standards. The idea of irregularity being wrong is seen as natural and obvious, so they wouldn’t find an issue with trying to change him.

Another thing about flatland is that the mention of any third dimension or any idea close to that is pretty much criminal. (Spoilers i guess) The narrator of the story, a square who saw the third dimension for himself, is eventually locked away for talking about it.

So Bill was supposed to be a sort of miracle baby, I guess is the best way to put it. And when he came out just slightly but irreparably wrong, it was devastating. And then he starts spouting about 3D and the stars and he just wants people to understand, to see that it’s not dangerous, that it’s beautiful. But his parents don’t want him to get imprisoned or worse, so they try to keep him quiet. They give him his juice and his silly straws and wave away any ideas about the third dimension.

Bill was born a disappointment, one of the lowest life forms imaginable, and the only way he was gonna get anywhere in life was by losing his stars forever. He was told that the thing right in front of him wasn’t real, that he should stop talking about it, that he could get in trouble. So he had to show everyone that he was right. He would be a hero! He would be the kid who finally discovered where the light came from, something no scientist had ever gotten close to figuring out!

But in the end his parents were right. It was too dangerous. God bill tragic backstory is so ougrhhhhj grabs alex hirsch by the shoulders and shakes him

[picnokinesis]

The Amazons released new music and my hand slipped -

[pneumaticshift]

Hiiii I wonder if you take batman justice league requests? If so:

Yk those "Batman gets de aged in front of the JLA" fics? Well let me raise you one:

A meeting with the JLAs primary benefactor, Bruce Wayne, goes wrong when a magician (of some sort) attacks, and so they find themselves with a Bruce Wayne who is 20 years (or so) younger than he should be.

Anf they're all like "who is this angry emo teen and what happened to the flirty bimbo that was just here."

It would be even funnier if Bruce hears about a Batman and just goes "yes that's obviously me only i could pull that off" because he's been daydreaming about bat-themed escapades since his teen years

bonus points if he immediately recognises Green Arrow ("i told you to cut off that fugly beard ages ago, Ollie,") and starts fangirling over Hal ;)

I love your Best Laid Plans series btw! You're such a great writer. This is genuinely the only series I've been actively obsessed with in a good WHILE.

Love,

Anon who probably will return to annoy you.

First of all, thank you!! 💚 Compliments like this really mean a lot to me, I’m so glad you’re enjoying the series. 

And yes! I do take Justice League requests! I tried to get all your ideas crammed in there. It’s not as shippy as I was gonna make it (I wrote too much lol), but I sprinkled a smidge of a hint in there. Just a whisper. A gentle nudge. A wink from across the room. Hope you like it! 

———

It turned out that young Bruce Wayne was feral 

Not in the way rich kids thought they were when they slummed it for a summer. That faux-rebellion that came with backpacking through Europe with their parent’s black card, or spending a weekend at some overpriced retreat to find themselves.

This was actual feral. The kind of feral where he had dirt under his fingernails and wide eyes that looked for exits before they looked at people. The kind of feral where he knew exactly where to jam a shiv between Ollie’s ribs to make it count.  

Which, as it turned out, was currently very relevant information.

“This is fine,” Ollie choked out.

Ollie was a liar.

His face was turning an alarming shade of purple, which clashed spectacularly with the green of his costume. There was an arn locked too-tightly around his neck and there was, of all things, a homemade shiv pressed against the vulnerable stretch of his throat. 

It all started in Gotham, because that’s where most bad things happened. Some charity auction that had featured a plethora of ancient artefacts from exceedingly questionable sources. And because Gothamites had the distinct inability to leave cursed objects where they belonged, it was only a matter of time before one of the objects went wild. 

No one could quite agree on what triggered it. Hal was pretty sure it was the plump statue of an old eldritch matron, Diana swore it was the ancient scroll of indistinguishable language, and Ollie was confident the auctioneer had muttered something that sounded just enough like an incantation. Whatever it was — and they had already contacted some magic users to find out — the end result had been the same. 

Brucie Wayne. Handsome, vapid, as sharp as a marshmallow, had finished in a puff of old magic. And in his place…

Well, something that very much wasn’t like the Brucie the world knew and loved. Barefoot. Wild-eyed. Unkempt hair falling into his eyes and a patchy beard that was trying itself best, but wasn’t quite past puberty enough to be full. He took three very menacing steps forward before he dropped unconscious. Hard. Because he had been standing on stage at the time and had straight up fallen off when his senses failed him. 

Clark Kent and Oliver Queen, two guests in attendance, had been the only two that had not been herded out by the League when they answered the call for aid. They helped keep the peace, assuring the good people of Gotham that yes, everything was fine, no need to panic, they’re all in good hands.

And in return, those same good people of Gotham had just sneered, ordered the League to take care of their beloved Brucie, and then spat on them for not being Batman. Because this city was the worst. 

Now, instead of waking up all confused and docile and flirtatiously grateful for the assistance — you know, like the Brucie Wayne they had all met before — they had come to realise that there had been a lot of misinformation about what Bruce Wayne got up to in his youth. 

Twenty years younger than the man they read about in the tabloids, he had immediately reverted to something neolithic. He produced a goddamn shiv from his waistband and launched himself with the kind of fight-or-flight response that suggested he had a lot of experience choosing fight.

Ollie had been the closest. Which was unfortunate for Ollie. 

He was taken by surprise, and that was fair enough. Absolutely nobody in the room could have expected this level of violence from a man who, as far as the world was concerned, spent his formative years travelling the hotspots of the world to partake in the traditional aforementioned rich kid mission to find himself. 

Hal was the first to step up. “You wanna drop Robin Hood before I drop you, kid?” he said, clearly considering that maybe this was the moment to introduce Gotham’s favorite trust fund baby to the concept of a green energy muzzle.

“Easy, easy,” Clark tried, deliberately stepping in front of Hal. “No one's gonna hurt you. We just want to help."

Young Bruce did not look convinced. And maybe that was fair. From his perspective, he’d just woken up in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by people he didn’t know. He was being threatened by a man in a glowing green onesie, and coddled by one with his underpants over the top of his outerpants. 

“Who the hell are you people?” he snapped. 

“We are the Justice League,” Diana said, smiling gently. “We mean you no harm, my young friend. You’ve been in an accident and we’re here to help you.” She raised a placating hand. Calm, but not condescending. They probably should have let her deal with it from the beginning. “You may keep your weapon, if you’d like. But I’d ask you to release our friend. On my honour, we are not your enemy.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes and he scanned Diana in the same way a soldier would, and she let him look. She stayed still, perfectly patient, while Bruce flickered over her stance, her posture, her weapons, the slight in weight that meant she was ready. Not aggressive, just prepared.

Then his eyes moved to Clark, to Hal, to Barry, and back again. Something about them, or about Diana at least,  must have registered as safe, because after a tense moment, Bruce’s grip on Ollie loosened. Which of course Oliver immediately took advantage of. 

He took a deep, careful breath and stepped away with all the forced casualness of a man who definitely did not just get overwhelmed by an eighteen-year-old, barefooted, trust fund baby. His neck absolutely wasn’t throbbing, and he definitely wasn’t resisting the urge to rub at it petulantly. Nope, everything was fine. 

So fine, in fact, that he joined the League’s line, crossed his arms and straightened his shoulders like he hadn’t just been manhandled by someone whose primary tabloid reputation was for shirtless boat parties.

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark started, stepping forward. Bruce didn’t look at him. His gaze was firmly locked onto Oliver with a stare so scrutinising that it could’ve burnt. He was really looking now, like he’d only just registered Ollie as a person rather than an obstacle. “You’ve been hit by… Well, we’re not sure what exactly. We’ve contacted a few people who can help, but from what we know already, we think you’ve—”

“I’ve been sent to the future,” Bruce said flatly. There was a crack in his voice that could have been nervousness covered up by the entirely blank way he stared at them. 

There was a long pause as the League collectively processed that particular statement. Hal looked at Barry. Barry looked at Clark. Clark looked at Diana. And Diana beamed brightly like she always suspected that Bruce Wayne had more than two brain cells to rub together and had finally been handed the means to prove it. 

“Okay, hold on now,” Hal said. “How the hell is that your first conclusion? You wake up in an unfamiliar room, surrounded by people you don’t know, and instead of assuming kidnapping or drug-induced hallucination or even just being really, really drunk, your first thought is time travel?”

Bruce’s eyes drifted over to Hal’s face, then lower to the logo on his suit and the ring on his finger. “Yeah.” He cocked his head. “Are you a Green Lantern?”

Hal blinked. “Uh, yeah?

The kid kept his eyes on Hal for a moment as he processed that while everyone else tried to make sense of his insane deductive skills. “We’re not saying you’re wrong,” Barry said, “but how did you even know? I mean, time travel isn’t exactly the default assumption.”

Bruce looked away from Hal and instead swept his gaze over the room. His eyes landed on a sleek, modern console with a WayneTech insignia embossed on the side. He jerked his chin towards it like someone who had just found undeniable proof that the world was, in fact, very stupid and he was the only one paying attention.

“That model doesn’t exist yet,” he said. “The closest working prototype was three years away from launch when I left Gotham. All the WayneTech in this room uses materials that aren’t aren’t widely available yet. It’s all too streamlined. Things like this only exist in concept journals.” 

“But that could mean anything,” Clark said, but he was eyeing the WayneTech like he was trying to remember what it looked like twenty years ago. 

“And you,” Bruce continued, snapping back to Oliver.

Ollie straightened up instinctively. “Me? What about me?”

“You have a goatee.”

“Uh. Yeah?”

The kid’s expression darkened with such absolute disappointment that it was almost tangible. Like he was cataloguing every single one of Ollie’s life choices and finding them completely lacking. Bruce shook his head slowly. “You had so much potential.”

Ollie made a noise of offense. "Listen, you little punk, I—” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his perfectly respectable facial hair. “You don’t know me.”

“Of course I do, I’m not blind,” Bruce muttered. He seemed to be accepting of the situation enough to have dropped his defensive hand without letting go of the shiv. “Judging by your age, I’d say I’ve gone forward between twenty and twenty-five years. Judging by your facial hair, you’ve clearly not experience any mental development beyond—”

“You wanna go, kid?”

Bruce, with the unkempt wildman hair of someone who had been travelling rough for over a year, flicked his bangs out of his face like a little teenage bitch. “As if you could kick my ass, Queen.”

Oliver didn’t choke on air, but it was a very near thing. He kept his composure, sucked in a sharp inhale, and said, "What did you just call me?"

“Your name?”

"That is not public information!"

Bruce blinked. "Okay?"

"Okay!?" Ollie’s voice went slightly high-pitched. "How do you know that!? Does the adult version of you know?”

“Probably.”

"You’d have to ask him when he’s back to normal,” Clark said, but he was looking at Bruce with the very specific grimace of a man who didn't want to say too much just in case the kid would somehow be able to divine his identity too. Clark dealt with Bruce Wayne a lot as a reporter, he couldn’t risk it.

"Oh my God." Ollie scrubbed a hand down his face. "He’s known all this time, hasn’t he?”

Apparently, young Bruce had decided that Ollie was no longer worth his time. His assessment had been made, his conclusion reached (disappointment) and so had moved on. He barely even looked at Clark. His inner Gotham survival instincts had automatically detected Metropolis all over him and deemed him irrelevant. Diana and Barry got a slightly longer look. A tilt of his head as he clocked Diana’s armour and the lasso, and a thoughtful hum at Barry’s full-body suit clearly designed for speed. 

But it was Hal, somehow, that got his full attention. Bruce stared at him, at the glowing logo on his chest, and made no moves to make it subtle. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Hal bit out. “You keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start thinking you got a crush."

Because young Bruce Wayne had the mental fortitude of a brick wall, apparently (which was insane, because this man was supposed to be peak himbo), he didn’t rise to the bait. He just stayed quiet, almost like he had something to say but was uncertain on how to bring it up. 

Hal had the ego the size of one of his jets and he’d seen this kind of look before. Usually on the kids who looked up to heroes and didn’t see any of the bad things that came with being someone who wielded extraordinary power. Usually on the fans. The kind of fans who had posters and encyclopaedic knowledge and way too much enthusiasm for whatever it was they were into. 

But the difference was, little Bruce wasn’t some starstruck kid who wanted an autograph. This was the intense, calculating scrutiny of someone who had just been confronted with a living, breathing legend they weren’t prepared to meet. For the first time since he’d de-aged, Bruce actually looked like a teenager.

“The suit is different,” Bruce noted, almost awkwardly. 

Hal grinned. He might have been the greatest Green Lantern, but he wasn’t the first. It had been a while since someone actually knew about Alan Scott. “Yeah,” he said, glancing down at the glowing emblem on his chest. “Different Lantern, different look. You a fan?”

Bruce hesitated, which was honestly adorable, because for all his I’ve been in a fight and I know exactly where to stab a man energy, he was still just a teenager. And, apparently, the idea of being caught liking something was so deeply offensive to him that he had to physically restrain himself from reacting. He recovered fast. Way too fast for a kid his age. The brief flicker of something genuine was gone in an instant, replaced with careful neutrality that was vaguely familiar. 

“I respect it,” he said stiffly, like he was dictating a press release rather than responding like a normal human being. “Green Lantern was the first hero I ever read about.”

 “So, you are a fan.”

Bruce blushed. Not completely, he didn’t flush completely red and start steaming at the ears, but his ears peppered a pale pink. He briefly looked away before snapping his gaze right back to stave off weakness. 

“I’m—” He stopped, exhaled through his nose, then squared his shoulders like he was preparing for war. “He protected Gotham when no one else would. When no one could.” His fingers flexed slightly, like he was gripping at something that wasn’t there. “That matters.”

Hal, still gleefully processing the fact that this angry version of Bruce Wayne had absolutely been a Green Lantern fanboy at some point in his life, let himself enjoy it for a second longer before Clark cleared his throat.

“Speaking of Gotham,” he said carefully, glancing at the others, “we should probably contact Batman. He’ll want to know what’s going on here, since Bruce is technically his problem.”

Having controlled his expression enough to stop blushing, Bruce had deliberately turned himself away from everyone and was now examining Hal’s ring. (Like a fanboy.) “What can Spooky do?” Hal asked. “He’s just gonna be pissed that we took the kid out of the city. Let's just get it fixed and let him know later.”

“He’ll need to know if there are cursed artefacts being circulated,” Diana said. “And I imagine that time displacement is not the only thing he will need to worry about.”

Ollie nodded. “Yeah, this has gotta be more than just temporal problems,” he said, frowning in Bruce’s general direction. “He’s nothing like Bruce Wayne. I’m thinking there’s been a universe switcheroo.”

“Multiversal doppelganger,” Barry agreed.

Bruce didn’t respond to those allegations, but he did say, “This Batman person operates Gotham?”

“Yeah,” Hal replied. “After your Green Lantern left, someone had to pick up the slack. Spooky gets real pissy if anyone else steps in on his turf. You’ve probably met him. Well, you will. In about twenty years or so.”

“Mm. No. He won’t be available right now,” Bruce said decidedly. He looked up. “I have a friend who can do magic. She’ll be able to help, assuming my future self is still in contact with her.”

Diana cocked her head at Bruce. “Why would you assume he would be unavailable?” she asked. 

“I’d think that would be obvious,” he replied. He looked at the blank expressions around him and rolled his eyes. “Think about it. If this person is as territorial as you say, then he would have already been aware of whatever was happening in Gotham. And if not, then news would have already spread and he would have contacted you all to confirm it. This is assuming you’re all a part of the same team, of course. With the amount of WayneTech around, Gotham definitely has a lot of input in your work, so I imagine you’ve got to be working with her vigilante.”

“That’s very astute.”

“If Batman is not here, then he’s either ignoring the issue, or he’s indisposed. I’m inclined to believe the latter.” Bruce looked at Oliver. “Did you ever wonder why I dropped out of school to go travelling?”

“I figured you were still grieving and needed time to yourself.”

Bruce bristled a little, almost like he didn’t expect to be called out on that. “I left because Gotham needed me to,” he said. 

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The pieces were all there. Scattered, sure, but if they were smart enough to put on their capes the right way around, then they were smart enough to figure it out. Hell, he had managed to figure it out, and he’d only been in this future for about twenty minutes. 

Diana watched him with knowing eyes like she had figured it out the moment he turned up as this angry ball of vengeance instead of the delicate heir with a silver spoon up his butt. The others took a little longer to catch up, but they’d get there eventually. Clark’s expression was already beginning to change to one of wild disbelief, while Ollie had gone completely blank like he was struggling to compute. 

Before anyone could say anything, before the trampling elephant in the room could be addressed with the appropriate amount of what the actual hell, before someone (most likely Hal) said something incredibly obnoxious, the air rippled and the deus ex machina descended. 

Magic, thick and tangible, swept through the room like the universe itself let out a sigh of relief, and Zatanna Zatara stepped into existence with the kind of exasperation of someone who had been called far too often to deal with the League’s magical problems. She scanned the room without saying anything before her gaze landed on Bruce. Barefoot, feral, still holding a shiv like it was an extension of his hand. She sighed. 

“Of course it would be you,” she said, but she was smiling as she said it. 

“Can you fix this?” Clark asked without taking his eyes off Bruce. 

“Yeah,” Zatanna nodded. 

“And it’s actually gonna be the Bruce from this universe, right?” Ollie put in, unnerved. “We’re not gonna get a whole different Wayne? Because he’s implied something really big and I don’t think I can mentally take it if it’s true.”

“Oh, he’ll be the same Bruce Wayne, alright.” She turned back to the kid, lowering her voice slightly. “Maybe you’ll just know him a little better now.

Bruce didn’t react, but the air shifted around him, like he knew exactly what she meant and didn’t particularly appreciate it. Then, with a flick of her fingers and a gentle incantation, the world twisted with a shimmer of glowing energy, reality bending in on itself— And just like that, they were gone.

An incredibly weighted, knowing silence settled over the Watchtower. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Hal clapped his hands together and turned to the others with the slow, self-satisfied grin of someone who just found out something hilarious. 

“So.” He raised an eyebrow. “That was Batman, right?”

[sleighhethereal]

"Oh, sweet, sweet innocent [Y/N]~"

"What."

"I think you're forgetting something~"

"..."

"Come on, at least play along."

"... Oh, Monkey King, what ever did I forget?"

"You're not going anywhere until you've repaid your debt to me~"

"Debt— what? When? What the hell did I do—?"

"Oh, peaches, you're so naive. You stole something very precious from me, something I can never get back."

"It's your heart. (aawww...) I've heard this a million times. You ruin the vibe, babe. Always."

"Hehe, I ruined that pretty pu—"

"HAHA. HAAAAA."

[emptystreetsandcitylights]

bison: that's my boyfriend-to-be, put some respect on his name!

fadel: fuck if i care

[boiledprawn99]

he’s just houngry

[cryptdidnt]

how do yall take your steak

[pmpknsoup]

ive another tmagp thought. the line "who keeps taking georgies face?" has been broiling in my head for a while now, and i dont. think its actually foreshadowing? i mean obviously i could be proven wrong further down the road, but to me, it almost sounds like something is mocking celia? if that makes sense. each of the versions of archives characters we've seen have been Different, almost fundamentally so. basira is not a cop, gerry is alive, and georgie is Afraid. shes paranoid about something, and this line "who keeps taking georgies face" sounds almost like a jab, to me. it sounds as if its meant to remind celia that this is not the georgie she knew and trusted. this is just someone with her face.

i sort of felt the same way about her asking basira "what about the police?" . that felt more of a last ditch effort to figure out if this is the same basira she once knew, or if she was wearing her face the way georgie was

[starrycrim]

day 8- wiggly wobbly tinky wimey stuff

[wisedumplol]

Moeney work I’ve done recently with the dog man art style (and a paint brush I actually liked using)

[pneumaticshift]

so first of all i REALLY love your batlantern fics. i love both bruce and hal's voices so much and think that their interactions are INCREDIBLY funny

second of all i have a request for you! hal gets injured protecting dickbin. (maybe dick snuck into an invasion when he was told to stay behind. maybe he and bruce got separated.) however it happens hal saves his life but gets very injured in the process. dickbin feels guilty about this and hasn't left his bedside since. meanwhile hal going to such lengths for his ward has awoken Feelings ™ in bruce

Heyyy, sorry this took so long. I've been unhealthly playing DC Dark Legion and it's ruining my creativity. I am aware of the problem and have done nothing to fix it. This was surprisingly hard to write. I had so much I wanted to add, but I didn't want to make too long for a Tumblr oneshot. Thank you for the prompt 💚💚 Hope you like it! ———

Dick disobeyed, so now Bruce ran. 

The Watchtower had never felt all that big to him. He designed it specifically to be easily traversable. Function over grandeur, strategy over spectacle. There had been a few choice comments from the others in the Spartan decor, but every hallway had its purpose and every chamber was an answer to a problem that needed to be solved. 

The path from the transport hub to the infirmary was especially built to be the shortest path on the station. It was direct and unbroken, just a simple corridor without indulgence or opportunity for confusion. Bruce had walked it enough times to know exactly how many steps it took to get there. Eighty-three at full stride, seventy-four if he was running. Right now, he was running.

By now, in the aftermath of days on the field, he should have been back at the manor. He should have been in the cave, reviewing all the footage and data extrapolated from the mission so he could cross-reference data, log the variables, and review the structural damage to the cities they’d saved. Every detail, no matter how insignificant, meant that more lives could be saved next time. Because there had been — casualties, that is. Names he didn’t know. Faces he hadn’t seen. Deaths that didn’t belong to him.

And after all that, he should have been dealing with Dick the day he always did. Quiet conversations that never really said what he meant, despite how hard he tried. He would’ve justified himself in a way that left no room for argument, like a guardian was supposed to do when they were protecting their ward. It wasn’t your fight, I needed you in Gotham, it was too dangerous. 

Leaving him behind had been the right thing to do. The mission had outstripped caution in the first ten minutes. An Omega-level threat, with casualties stacking up before the League had even breached the city. Dick may have been forced to grow up far too soon, but he was still just a child. Reckless, brilliant, irreplaceable. Bruce wasn’t about to risk the best thing in his life. 

But now there was blood on the Zeta-pad.

Just a smear. Half-wiped, like someone had tried to clean it up with the toe of their shoe before giving up. It trailed into the corridor, then into nothing. Usually, Bruce wasn’t one to make assumptions. He was far too clever a man to let postulation guide him in any matter, but logic always had its limits, and fear didn’t care about them. Not when his ward — when his son was on the line. 

He hadn’t known that Dick was on the field. He had, perhaps naïvely, thought that Dick would have actually adhered to Bruce’s warnings this time. It was so, so dangerous, and no amount of late nights fighting street-level crime in Gotham could change the fact that he wasn’t ready. 

Word had come over the comms. J’onn and Kal were relaying relevant data from air support while Bruce had been leading the debrief with Diana for the ground team. He had been half-listening, consolidating data absently as background noise. 

It was J’onn who said it. “We intercepted an unidentified minor trying to help. Young, caped. His mind is unusually strong…” he said. “Injuries unknown. I was compelled to transfer him to the infirmary. He was quite distressed—”

That was lal Bruce needed to hear. He cut himself off mid-sentence and immediately turned to literally run to the nearest Zeta-Tube. Diana had called out to him in confusion, but he barely heard her. Though, her confusion probably made sense. He’d been with the League for two years now, and the only thing anyone actually knew about him was his dedication to the cause. To see him leave the aftermath to sort out itself probably would raise questions he’d definitely avoid later. 

Dick was almost thirteen now. He’d been by Bruce’s side for almost four years, had been Robin for three, and even though he was the cleverest, most wonderful tween Bruce had ever known, he was still an entirely unknown entity to the League. Bruce had no intention of changing that. 

Which brought him to the here and now, coming up to the infirmary with his heart in his throat and his pulse rocketing a little too quickly for his tastes. 

The doors hissed open and he didn’t wait. He pushed through before they’d finished parting completely, shoulder-checking the frame on his way in. He barely registered it, fully expecting to see his little boy all laid up. And, incidentally, fully preparing to never forgive himself for letting it happen.

But it didn’t happen. 

Dick was there, certainly, but he wasn’t the invalid Bruce had been half-ready for. Instead, he was slumped forward in a plastiform chair with his elbows resting on his knees and his little head bowed like the weight of the world was keeping him down. He was still in his suit, even though Bruce had locked it up when he left him behind in Gotham. It was torn at the shoulder and streaked with soot.

“Robin,” Bruce called. His voice was lower and far more curt than he intended. He was never good at expressing himself, so the relief fell somewhere behind the tight press of his lips and the furrow of his brow. 

It was hard to catch Dick off guard, but he startled at the noise. His shoulders jumped and he snapped his head up fast enough to make the chair creak. He turned abruptly towards Bruce, half-standing at attention without pulling himself out of his chair, and he looked at him with eyes wide beneath his askew mask. 

His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out at first. He looked…wrong. Upset, like those first few months in the manor, or the time around the anniversary of the Flying Graysons’ final performance. His cheeks were flushed and blotchy and his nose was half-running like he’d been crying. 

“B,” he said in a broken voice. 

Instead of rushing towards his child with his arms outstretched like he was supposed to, Bruce stood frozen at the door to automatically take in the scene. Relief had flooded him enough to reboot him back to his factory settings, and he was suddenly thinking about how hasty he’d been to get here. 

But even though he should head on back and finish the debrief like he was supposed to, he stayed exactly where he was in a weird purgatory of emotion. 

Dick was curled in on himself like he didn’t know how to proceed. Ash was still smudged across his jaw and there was a thin line of blood beneath his ear. His mouth was trembling slightly, like he was still trying to be brave. He was good at that. Being brave. Better than Bruce had ever been.

That was when Bruce noticed Hal. He probably should’ve noticed him far sooner, given his condition. 

The Lantern lay unconscious on the medical berth. His chest was bandaged up and his face pale under the sicky cast of the overhead lights, but his ring was pulsing faintly. Whatever the medical staff had done to keep him stabilised had nothing on the energy channeling into the weave of healing fields wrapped around him. 

Bruce let himself be concerned for half a second. The monitors were stable and Hal was alive. Not in the best condition Bruce had ever seen him in, but not the worst either. Right now, he had more pressing matters to attend to. 

Dick was as close to the bedside as the chair allowed, which was strange. He’d never been formally introduced to the League. In fact, the only person who actually knew about his existence was Kal, and that was just because the man had pushed his nose into Gotham’s business and Dick was a fan. (A few threats and promises later, and Kal had assured Bruce that he wouldn’t tell anyone — he had, however, tried to convince Bruce to at least tell Diana. Bruce was considering it.)

For as much as he was slowly beginning to trust the League, Hal was the person Bruce had the least rapport with. It was a matter of simple incompatibility and Bruce wasn’t exactly inclined to do anything to remedy it. Some people just didn’t get along, and he couldn’t foresee himself ever doing so with Hal Jordan. 

It didn’t mean he wanted to see the Lantern hurt, but it was undeniably weird that Dick, after all the rants he’d heard when Bruce was particularly pissed off with Hal’s general existence, would set up camp by his bedside. His knees were bumping the frame and one hand hung loosely over the edge, like it had started to reach for Hal at some point and just stopped midway.

Yes, it was weird, but Bruce was always good at connecting the dots. He could see it now in the way Dick wouldn’t look at Hal directly. He just kept glancing over at him, furtive and quiet and just a hint of shame. He could see it in the way his lips pressed together to keep them from trembling and the way his feet hadn’t moved but his leg was bouncing nervously. 

Whatever had happened that made Dick like this, it probably meant that Bruce had to thank Hal. 

Now that he knew Dick was safe, Bruce’s instinctive reaction was to order a report. It would be easier to depersonalise the situation if he framed it like another mission, and Bruce was usually very, very good at separating his complicated personal feelings from the here and now. But, every now and again, very rarely so, Bruce actually knew when not to put The Mission first. 

He let out a slow, grounding breath, and came up beside Dick. “Talk to me,” he said as softly as he could. Which wasn’t very soft at all, but Dick had been with him long enough now to be able to tell the difference. 

“I didn’t—” Dick swallowed hard and curled his fingers into the edge of Hal’s bed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Are you hurt?”

Dick shook his head. “No. I mean— I’m scuffed, I guess. Elbow. Nothing bad.” His voice was tight. His gaze flicked sideways toward Bruce, then back to Hal, then down at his own boots like he was ashamed of all three. “I shouldn’t have come,” he added, even softer now. “You told me not to, and he— Green Lantern, he—”

“We’ll talk about that,” Bruce said. “Later.” Not a dismissal, not forgiveness. Just…later. He looked back at Hal. “Tell me what happened, chum.”

He never wanted Dick to be nervous around him, but something visibly unfurled around the boy when the term of endearment slipped out. Dick sniffed and went to wipe his eyes. He was still wearing his domino and the mask displaced even more when he tried to rub away the moisture beginning to brim. Bruce couldn’t see the tears, not behind the mask. He knew they were there, though. 

“I thought I could help,” Dick muttered. “I tracked the signal. I saw you were on the ground team, and when the alerts came in, the ones from the orbital relay—” He broke off, shaking his head like the words were too heavy to push out. “I knew it was big. But I thought if I just— if I was careful, then I’d—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. His hand stayed near Hal’s arm, fingers hovering just above the blanket like he didn’t know if he was allowed to hold on.

“I didn’t know he was gonna—” Another pause. Another broken thread of sound. “I didn’t think it’d go that wrong.”

This was a learning experience for him, Bruce thought. He hated that it was one of the first things that came to mind, especially when his kid was looking so vulnerable and when one of his coworkers was unconscious. 

“He saved you,” he said rather than asked. 

Dick nodded and Bruce looked at him a little longer before turning to look at Hal. Really looked at him, for perhaps the first time since they met. He made himself stop calculating vitals and injury ratio, and he stopped parsing the rhythm of the machines for signs of decline of recovery. He hadn’t even realised he had been doing all of that until he forced himself to stop.

Even though he never thought much of Hal, he also knew — had always known — that he would’ve done anything to save a kid. And clearly he had. No ring could fake that level of duty. No construct could fabricate what Bruce saw now in the aftermath: a Lantern lying half-broken, unconscious and quiet for once, because he had chosen to step in when Bruce couldn’t. And the fact that it was his kid, his Dickie…

Oh, that was a problem. Bruce felt something brand new twist hard in his chest. Something with sharp edges and raw heat, something that crawled under his ribs and tried to claw its way out through bone. Gratitude didn’t come easy to him. Guilt did. Both were now crashing into him in silent tandem, buried deep where no one could see. 

There was something a little more too, just the sparks of something even harder to name. Not affection, not exactly, but something annoyingly near it. It felt complicated and raw, tangled up in this image of Hal, broken and still, and Dick sitting beside him like he was the most important person here. 

Bruce acknowledged it, then ignored it. He set it down in the place in his mind where he buried everything else that threatened to make him feel too much, too fast. Later, when Hal woke up, he would thank him properly. Dick would want to, too. Probably as Dick, and not as Robin. That was something to think about later, though. 

“What did the medical staff say?” he asked.

Dick sniffed once and rubbed the heel of his palm against his nose like he used to when he first came to the manor. “They said he stabilised fast,” he replied. “The ring did most of the work before we even got here. They— uh…I had to give them your access code so they’d let me stay. They tried to kick me out ‘cause I don’t have clearance. Um. Sorry…”

Another thing to worry about later, but not Bruce’s immediate concern. He gave Dick his access codes for a reason. Something like this was always going to happen. “They think he’ll wake up soon?”

“Yeah…’cause the ring, and all.” Dick shifted in the chair, arms pulled in tight to his chest, like he was trying to make himself smaller. “Can I stay, B? Just for a little while?”

It was against protocol, Bruce thought, but…well…

“Move over,” Bruce said. Dick blinked for a moment, then scrambled out of the chair like he was responding to an order on the field. He hovered for a second, uncertain, until Bruce sat down in his place. The kid didn’t need another invitation. 

He climbed into Bruce's lap like he had a hundred times before — back when he was smaller, younger, and it was less embarrassing for a kid to seek comfort. Back when his limbs didn’t dangle awkwardly over the sides, when he could curl up tight and disappear into the fold of the cape like it was a hidey-hole.

Lately, he'd been pulling away from those kinds of childish interactions as best he could. He was coming up on his teen years. Trying to be taller than he was. Braver. Older. He didn’t lean on Bruce the way he used to. Not in public, at least. Not even at home unless he was half-asleep or had forgotten he wasn’t supposed to need it anymore.

Now, he pulled the cape around himself, tucked his head beneath Bruce’s chin, and sighed out one long, shaky breath. 

Bruce didn’t know how long they sat there, but it was long enough for the ring to finish its preliminaries. He had sent a message to Alfred at some point, brief but clear: We’re safe. I’ll explain soon. He knew the old man would read between the lines, hear everything that wasn’t written.

He had also dropped a locked ping on the League comms, redirecting anyone trying to enter the infirmary. No visitors. Not right now. Which was probably a dick move.

Oliver and Barry would’ve come by. Maybe even some of the other Lanterns, if they managed to get wind of what happened. Hal had friends. People who gave a damn. People better than Bruce who would want to see him and make sure he was still breathing.

But Bruce didn’t want anyone else in this room, not while Dick was still sleeping and not while Bruce was still figuring out what he was supposed to do when Hal woke up. 

And he did eventually wake up. The combination of the ring’s healing propities, coupled with the medical staff’s expertise meant that injuries of this nature didn’t keep a man down for long. Bruce was also half-certain that the ring was starting to affect Hal’s actual nervous system, so he always healed a little quicker than most. 

The infirmary lights had dimmed into their night cycle at some point, so Bruce didn’t catch the exact moment Hal woke up. One second, the room was still. The next, he caught movement — barely a twitch from the bed, then a sharp intake of breath.

“Goddamn,” Hal muttered from the bed. “Either I died and you're here to collect, or this is some kind of fever dream.”

“Lantern,” Bruce greeted. “Stay down.”

“Screw that, I’m fine.” 

Hal immediately tried to sit up, because he was one of the most stubborn bastards Bruce had ever met. The attempt lasted all of two seconds before he winced hard and flopped back down like the bed had sucker punched him .Bruce didn’t move to stop him.

Partly because he knew Hal was too stubborn to listen anyway, but mostly because Dick was still bundled under the cape, tucked close to Bruce’s chest, dead asleep. The kid didn’t even stir at the commotion. He just mumbled something unintelligible and curled in tighter, frowning slightly in his sleep.

Hal caught the movement and froze.

“Batman…what are you doing under your cape right now?”

Bruce gave him the flattest look. Without a word, he lifted the edge of the cape.

“Oh my god,” Hal breathed. Dick was out cold, his cheek pressed against Bruce’s chest, one hand still clinging loosely to the edge of the cape like he thought someone might try to take it from him. “Nobody’s ever gonna believe me.”

Huffing out something that may have resembled a laugh if Hal looked too deep into it, Bruce let the cape drop and readjusted his grip around his son. 

“Robin,” Bruce said simply. 

“...I’m gonna assume that’s his name and not just you being all cryptic and weird.” Hal flopped his head back on the pillow and glared at Bruce. “That your kid?”

“Hm.”

“The hell was he doing in the field, Batman?” 

Bruce didn’t respond to that. He didn’t owe Hal anything. Or, maybe he did. After what happened, after what Hal had done without even knowing who he was protecting, maybe Bruce did owe him a few answers. Maybe more than a few. But Bruce was still Bruce, and words, real ones, always failed him when they didn’t involve strategy, contingencies, or command.

Hal let out a soft breath that turned into a wince. “My bad. Should’ve known you were too much of a douche to actually willingly give out information,” he said. It was an out Bruce was going to take. “He alright?”

“He will be.”

And Hal, flat on his back with half his ribs taped together and a ring flickering dimly at his side, managed a crooked smile. “Good,” he said. “’Cause I don’t think I’ve got another one of those in me.”

“He—” Bruce paused and Hal glanced at him again. “He wanted to wait for you to wake up.”

Hal blinked. Then he looked down, toward the edge of the cape still drawn over Bruce’s front, where the faint rise and fall of breath gave away the shape of a small form nestled beneath. He couldn’t see Dick from his angle, just the dark ripple of fabric and the way Bruce’s arm curled almost imperceptibly around something fragile.

So instead, Hal watched Bruce. And that, Bruce realized, was strange. People didn’t watch him like that. Not when he was still. Not when he wasn’t speaking. They watched for his movements, for orders, for the turn of his head that meant something was about to happen, But Hal looked at him now like he was trying to figure him out.

Bruce didn’t shift under it. Didn’t avert his gaze or curl the cape tighter around him like he wanted to. He simply let the moment stretch between them, unspoken and unguarded, which was even stranger. It was almost disarming.

Then, Hal snorted. “Of course he did. I’m the Green Lantern,” he said. “Kid’s got taste.”

The expected thing to do now would be to engage in conversation. He was supposed to thank Hal, promise to treat him better in the future, and acknowledge that his opinion on him had recently gone up more than Bruce was strictly comfortable with. 

It would’ve been easy to stay. Just another hour. Just until Hal drifted off again. But Dick needed real rest in a real bed. He wouldn’t get that in the Watchtower, no matter how long he clung to Bruce’s side.

So Bruce figured he’d overstayed his welcome. Slowly, he gathered the boy closer and stood, the cape keeping Dick cocooned in shadow and warmth. Dick barely stirred, just buried his face instinctively against Bruce’s chest with a small sound of protest before settling again.

He could feel Hal watching him. “Bring him by again sometime,” he said, voice softer now. “Maybe when I’m not half-dead.”

Bruce paused at the door, glanced back. No real promises and no answer. Just a quiet nod. And then he was gone, with a whole new problem brewing in his chest. 

[trader-scars]

52 minutes into bdubs video joel refers to etho as 'little baby boy'

WHY IS THERE NOT A SINGLE PERSON IN THIS SERIES WHO ACTS NORMAL AROUND ETHO

[tgtbata]

i hope it's not too weird but it'd be so cute if you could draw sam w (dog) tail and ears i think </3

they're researching how to get rid of the curse (well, sam is, at least.)

[havockingboo]

wait…since episode 3 is out……I can finally show my AU I shared on the patreon discord :3 (evil)

corrupted!beebs au teehee