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diazevan · 4 years

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4. Running Out Of Time “Collapsed Building”

Tony messes with an artifact, in the Sanctum Sanctorum, and ends up, stuck inside Peter's darkest memories.

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Tony loved visiting Strange’s place.

There was a lot to see, and for once, he understood none of it.

He was a man of science, and he refused to be drawn in by magic.

However, he did have trouble, with listening to the rules, but that was nothing new.

He tried, but he couldn’t stop his mind from drifting. He’d reach out, to touch artifacts, forgetting that he shouldn’t.

That was why he brought Peter with him.

“Mr. Stark.” Peter turned, batting Tony’s hand away from a display unit, “Stop it.”

Tony pulled back his hand, “I was looking.”

Peter hissed, with a glare, “Look with your eyes.” He turned back, to continue his conversation with Strange.

It was times like these, that Tony couldn’t believe he was the parental one.

Tony stepped aside, scanning the display, on his left.

A small, black box caught his attention. It didn’t look like much, but somehow, it was worthy of its own shelf. Tony unconsciously raised his hand, reaching out to quickly poke it, while Peter was distracted.

Before he could change course, Peter screamed out, “Mr. Stark, wait-” He grabbed Tony’s low-hanging wrist, with a trembling hand.

Tony’s finger barely scraped the artifact, but when he turned, to see Strange’s wide-eyes, and a pale look, he realized he’d made the wrong choice. Strange’s cloak wrapped around him, he stepped forward, with a yelp, “Peter, let go!”

A bright white light blinded Tony, “Shit.”

He blinked, to clear his vision. He was standing, outside. Underneath his feet, was damp grass, and beside him, was cobble ground.

“Peter?” He called, flipping to the side, “Strange?” He rubbed his fingers against his temple, “I am an idiot.”

It was dark, and he seemed to be, in the middle of some sort of industrial estate, “Peter!” He spun on his heel, “Holy Shit.”

In front of him was a fallen building – a pile of rubble, to put it simply. It couldn’t have been long since it was demolished, he could tell by the accompanying dust in the air.

A figure hurried past him, barely visible, Tony waved an arm out, “Hey!”

The figure didn’t even flinch.

Tony hurried ahead, “Hey, can-” He dug his heel, into the mud below, when the person’s face became visible, under the moonlight.

It was Adrian Toomes.

Tony curled his fingers, digging them into his palm, “You—” Raged absorbed him, he clenched his fists by his side, “Toomes!” He hissed, reaching out his hand, to grab the man’s shoulder, but his hand, fell right through him, “What?”

He reached up, waving his hand in front of Toomes’ face, but he went, unnoticed.

“Fuck.”

This wasn’t real, it couldn’t be.

“Tony, can you hear me?” Strange’s voice echoed, it came from all directions, sending a chill up Tony’s spine.

“Yes.” He sprinted ahead, looking everywhere, “I can hear you, where are you?”

“Where you left us.” Strange said, his tone laced with sarcasm, “It’s going to take some time getting you back – you gotta hang on.”

“Where am I?”

“Well, technically you’re still in the Sanctum.” Strange sighed, “Alas, your soul is elsewhere.”

Tony rolled his eyes, watching Toomes put on his Wingsuit, “So, I’m unconscious?”

“Not exactly.” Strange explained, “Your soul is stuck.”

“Thanks for dumbing it down,” Tony crossed his arms, “Stuck where?”

“Haven’t you worked that out yet?”

Tony looked to the skies, as Toomes landed, on a nearby ledge, “-Peter?”

“You’re in his mind, you’re seeing his memories.” Strange cut in, “You’re only going to see—” His words drowned out like they were communicating over a bad phone line, “You’re—”

Tony tapped the back of his ear, “You’re breaking up, Doc.”

“I’m sor-ry, Ton-y.” Strange’s voice glitched, “You’re on your own.”

Silence.

“Ah.” Tony combed a hand through his hair, “Brilliant.”

It was Peter’s mind, but considering Tony’s day job, it wasn’t the weirdest thing he’d ever experienced.

This was the night that Peter defeated Toomes.

Tony knew about the fallen building, but from Happy’s report, it was likely that Toomes had demolished it to hide evidence of his wrongdoing.

Peter’s familiar voice screamed, “Hello! Hello!”

Something invisible hit Tony’s chest, paralyzing him, “Kid?” He pressed a hand to his chest, this is a memory, this is a memory, this is only a memory.

“Please.” Peter sobbed, in desperation, “Hey, hey, please. I’m down here. I’m down here—”

Tony leaped forward, “Peter!”

It dawned on him, pretty quickly.

“No.”

Peter was trapped, underneath the rubble.

It wasn’t his Peter.

Still, Peter had never told him about this.

Tony took in a deep breath and charged forward, he phased through the rubble, like it wasn’t even there, because it wasn’t.

He came to a standstill, and got down on his knees, “Peter—”

Peter was laid on his front, crushed underneath a heap of rubble, wearing his ridiculous makeshift suit.

His face was a gallery of small cuts and bruises, he was breathing, at irregular intervals, as he stared down, at the puddle in front of him.

Peter would be dead if he didn’t have his powers. This would have killed him.

Tony was unsure, how he’d managed to survive, without backup. Scenarios ran through his head. If the debris, to their left, had fallen at another angle, even Spider-Man would have died on impact.

Toomes would have gotten away with his plan.

Tony would have recovered his kid’s body, curled under the rubble, of a random building – he wouldn’t have been Tony’s kid then, they’d only just met. It was the time after this, that Tony grew to love Peter.

If Peter had met his end, in pain and distress, under tons of concrete, the world would have lost its greatest hero.

May would have lost, the only family she had left, and she’d resent Tony. So would Ned. He wouldn’t be able to blame them, it would have been his fault, it was his fault.

Tony would have lost, his last hope. That’s what Peter was. Peter, by being himself, gave Tony a new perspective of life. A hope that kept Tony’s head out of the sand, in those five years that Peter was gone.

Tears welled in Tony’s eyes, “Kid, I’m sorry…” He held a trembling hand under his chin, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here—”

Peter started ahead, with red-rimmed eyes, and a trembling lower lip, “Come on, Peter.” He spoke to himself, he moved, shifting the debris off his back, “Come on, Spider-Man.”

Tony sat back, his jaw dropped, “Holy Shit.”

“Come on, Spider-Man.” Peter managed to get up, onto his feet, “Come on, Spider-Man.” He held up his arms, using everything he had to shift the rubble, “Come on, Spider-Man!”

“Oh, kid—” Tony didn’t have long to be surprised, or amazed because suddenly, he was falling. He landed, on his feet, on an unfamiliar street corner, “What the fuck.”

Somewhere new.

Peter walked past him, with a Star Wars magazine tucked under his arm, and a can of Coke, in his hand.

The kid looked young, his curls swooped down, covering his eyes, but his jaw was clenched, and his eyes were burning holes in the sidewalk below his feet.

Tony mindlessly called out, “Peter?” It was a force of habit, like talking out loud to a movie, whenever the character was heading head-first into danger.

A gunshot ricocheted in the distance, perhaps a street or two away from them. Tony flinched, gaining air. It was New York, so it wasn’t unheard of, but it was sudden, breaking the silence.

Peter stopped, in his tracks, and turned back.

A man charged into view, sprinting across the road, with his head hung low.

Peter watched him go, with a knowing look in his eyes. The kid straightened his back, blew a slow breath, and ran back, heading towards the direction of the gunshot.

Tony followed, in a slow jog.

This was early for Peter, the origin of Spider-Man. It was clear, he’d already been bitten, at this point – he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and he was running, with ease, with no need for an asthma inhaler.

They turned a corner, and Peter came to a sudden standstill.

Tony swayed aside, to see what Peter was.

He gasped, stepping back, “Oh, God—”

It was Ben Parker, he was sprawled across the sidewalk, on his back. His hand was rested against his bullet wound, blood seeping through his fingers, as he slowly moved his head.

The can and magazine dropped from Peter’s grasp, as he leaped forward, “Ben!”

Tony brought a hand to his head, “Jesus—”

“Uncle Ben!” Peter yelped, stumbling over, “Uncle Ben!” He collapsed onto his knees, with a heavy thud, “Oh, shit—”

Ben choked out, “Peter?”

“It’s me, I’m here, it’s Peter.” With shaking hands, he pulled out his phone, “No…”

Tony cautiously stepped closer, Peter’s cell was dead.

“Eh..” Peter fumbled, through Ben’s coat pocket, “Come on—”

Ben weakly moved his hand, away from the wound, “Petey—”

Peter shushed him, “Gotta—"

“Buddy—” Ben gargled, “Look at—"

Peter swayed back, sitting on his heels, “Ben—"

Ben reached up, resting his bloodied hand against Peter’s cheek, “My Peter…”

Tony’s throat cracked, he brushed the back of his hand, over his eyes. He used to despise, the idea of not being there, for his mother, when she died. He’d even envied Peter, at times, knowing the kid was there, with Ben, in his last moments. He didn’t anymore. If he’d had to watch, his mum, die, knowing he couldn’t save her, would have been a fate worse than death.

A fate Peter survived.

“I—” Peter sobbed, “I—”

Ben’s eyes flickered shut, and his hand fell away from Peter’s face.

“Ben?” Peter’s small voice cried; he pulled on Ben’s arm, “Ben! No, please!”

Tony edged closer, “Kid.”

“Ben, please!” Peter sobbed, “I can’t do this on my own.” He held his head back, shrieking as loud as he could, “Help! Somebody, please!”

Tony stepped over, with caution, he knelt, “Peter—”

“Ben…” He choked on a sob, “Please, I wanna go home.”

Tony hated not being able to reach out and help, “Kid…”

A new voice, came from nearby, “Oh my, God!”

And another, “—I think he’s been shot!”

“Call the police!”

A lady, no older than forty, rushed over, kneeling beside Peter, “Honey…”

A man stood behind Tony, a cell phone pressed to his ear.

Peter kept a hand on Ben’s shoulder, he turned, “Can you—"

She locked an arm around Peter’s back, “We can help.”

“I couldn’t—”

She gently shushed him, and took his hand, “Come with me, sweetheart.”

Peter shook his head, “I can’t leave him.”

“My husband, George –“ She pointed up, at the man, “He’s gonna keep your dad safe, I promise.” She spoke gently, “And I’m gonna take care of you.”

Peter inhaled sharply, “Okay—”

She locked her fingers his arm and helping him onto his feet, “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

She guided him aside, coaxing him away, making sure his back was turned.

Tony made a mental image of her because he needed to thank her, for saving his kid, on the worst day of his life.

He closed his eyes, as he started falling again – this time, he landed on the muddy ground. He stood straight, looking around, “Fuck.”

This time, it was a familiar sight.

It was the battleground, the place he almost died, laying his life down for the universe.

He knew what he was destined to see, but he wasn’t ready.

He turned, on his heel, to see Rhodey, knelt by his side.

Tony saw himself, collapsed against a pile of debris, his entire right side charred beyond recognition.

He jerked, hearing swoop overheard, “No—”

Peter landed, with a haunted look across his face.

Tony jumped ahead, reaching out, “Kid, don’t—”

Peter cried out, acting strong, “Mr. Stark?”

Rhodey hung his head, moving aside, to give Peter space.

Peter sprinted ahead, kneeling, “Hey– Mr. Stark?” He grabbed Tony’s uninjured hand, “Can you hear me?” His voice broke, “It's Peter.”

Tony glared, at himself, “Say something.”

“Hey.” Peter breathed, slowly, “We won, Mr. Stark– We won, Mr. Stark. We won.” He cracked, “You did it, sir, you did it.”

Tony swayed back, turning away. Sometimes, he doubted his place in Peter’s life, who he was and what he stood for, but he realised, hearing the same terror in Peter’s voice, from the night that Ben died, that Peter saw him as a father-figure, that was who he was destined to be.

Tony jolted, as a hand wrapped around his wrist, and Peter shouted out, “Tony!”

Tony sprung upright, his eyes flew open, “Woah.” He waited until his head, stopped spinning, before taking in his surroundings, he was back in Strange’s place, sat on the floor, “Peter?”

Peter was knelt, in front of him, hand on his arm, “Ugh.” He sighed heavily, and then slapped Tony’s arm, “Idiot.”

“Huh?”

Peter whined, sitting down, “We couldn’t get you back.”

Tony looked up to Strange, “That was—” He swallowed, “A lot.”

“You were merely in Peter’s darkest memories.”

Tony barked a laugh, “Merely?”

Peter snapped his head up, his cheeks devoid of color, “What did you see?”

Tony nudged his chin up, “We’ll talk about it later.”

Peter nodded.

Tony turned his attention back to Strange, “What was that thing?”

“It’s called the Truce.” He said, “An artifact that was created to end wars.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, “How?”

“The leader, from each side, would see the other’s darkest memories, to help them better understand one another’s sides.”

Tony frowned, seeing the obvious flaw with that, “Oh, really?”

“Despite it being invented for that reason, most of the time, it achieved the opposite.”

“There it is.” He flinched, spinning to Peter, “Wait, so Peter, did you—"

“I was able to stop Peter, from seeing into your mind, but it took some time, extracting you—"

Tony leaned forward, grabbing Peter’s hand, “Thank God, for that.” He got up, planting a kiss against Peter’s cheek.

Peter turned, “Will he be okay now, Strange?”

“Yes, he’ll be fine.” Strange crossed his arms, “And Stark?”

Tony kept his eyes on Peter, “Yes, dear?”

“Keep your hands to yourself, next time.”

“Gotcha.”

#whumptober2020 #no.4 #running out of time #collapsed building #marvel #irondad #irondad fanfiction #tony stark #peter parker #stephen strange #ben parker #marvel fanfiction

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preciousthingsareprecious · 4 years

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With a Heart of Scars Chapter 9

The biggest thanks to @dreamer-247re for creating incredible art for this chapter. It’s stunning and gorgeous and still takes my breath away every time I look at it!

This one’s Damian’s POV again, and I hope you guys enjoy it <3

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The moment Grayson dropped into the building the connection to his comm went silent, and nothing Damian tried could get it to turn back on. He suspected some kind of interference, if people had been trapped in that building for hours, something was blocking their phone signals, and that same something was probably interrupting their comm line as well. Not that either of them had thought of that before Grayson entered.

A stupid miscalculation on Damian's part. One he would not repeat again.

Damian found an external camera he could hack, and caught sight of a hooded figure whose shape was roughly the same as that of one of the people who had set up the strange twister game. The person was fiddling with something blocky that Damian couldn’t quite make out, before pressing it to the side of the building.

Could it be a bomb? A listening device of some sort? He wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t hail Grayson. But, perhaps he could send backup Batman’s way.

“Oracle, I need your assistance.”

“Hey Lil’ D, what’s up?” Gordon asked, sounding far too bright for this hour, and curious.

He ignored the outrageous nickname usage, “Are the Birds close to the downtown shopping district?”

“Batgirl and Black Bat are currently stowed away on a ship, getting ready to turn it around. Why?”

“Tt, Batman is in need of backup. There are unknown hostiles approaching him and a possible bomb threat, but I cannot contact him.”

“I’ll give it a shot on my end. Is Tim home yet? Can he head out?”

Damian ground his teeth. No his brother, and Grayson’s supposed partner, had not returned yet. If he had, he had not made it known to any of them. There was no one to back Batman up. No one but Damian himself.

He shoved aside all thoughts of possible punishment for going out without permission, and pushed his chair away from the desk.

“No. He is not.” Damian stood, “It seems it is up to me to handle the situation. Oracle, stay on this line so that when Pennyworth comes down you can inform him of the situation.”

He looked down at himself and frowned. He was wearing a brightly colored shirt Pennyworth had purchased him, featuring a cartoon dog on the front. There was no way he could rescue Batman in that.

He hurried to the lockers and grabbed the first dark thing he could find, a black hoodie. It turned out to not be solid, but had a Nightwing emblem splashed across the front. The sleeves were also too long, but Damian easily rolled those up, before tugging the hood over his hair. Then he grabbed an extra domino mask and affixed it to his face. Lastly, he grabbed one of Drake’s Robin belts. Grayson had made Damian take inventory of the belt a number of times to get familiar with its contents, and he was confident it was small enough to fit him. It also would have medical supplies and weapons to defend himself if the situation called for it. He didn’t bother changing out of his black jeans or tennis shoes, both would do fine for the rescue mission.

Through his quick change, he ignored Oracle’s requests for more information, and demands that he stay right there and send Alfred instead. Damian respected Pennyworth, but he didn’t want to waste time.

Besides, this was partially his fault, and he was the only one who really knew how to fly the Batmobile. It would be the fastest way to reach Grayson.

Damian was quite proud of his achievement. After growing bored of exploring the cave systems, and discovered some of Father’s schematics and future plans to make his car fly and had taken to making those plans a reality. He had even gotten permission to work on it. Grayson had happily supplied not only permission, but any supplies he needed when Damian had asked. He was further encouraged by the fact that the man had come downstairs to sit with him a few times. However, it was Damian's project and he was most familiar with the systems. He had not even had time to tell anyone that he’d actually managed to get it to fly.

Gordon must have called Pennyworth, because Damian spotted the man hurrying down the stairs as he climbed into the car.

“Master Damian, wait!” he called.

Damian ignored the request, closing the door, and starting the engine. He felt a little bad for ignoring Pennyworth, but time was of the essence and he needed to get to Grayson. He hoped Pennyworth would not be too upset with him as he raced past the man and out the exit, but he would have to understand just how important this was. There was no time left to dally if he were to stop something bad from happening to the man he was beginning to consider family.

A few meters out of the cave, Damian hit the button to begin the car’s flying sequence. After a brief moment of panic that it would not work, slowly but surely it lifted off, and Damian's shoulders relaxed minutely. Soon he was zooming over trees and streets, and obstacles that would have cut into the time it took to get to Grayson’s location.

He fretted as he flew, his mind coming up with every terrible thing that could happen, his stomach growing sicker at each thought. Most of all, he couldn't stop thinking about why he was betraying every house rule to rush out and save Grayson.

When had he really started to care about him? When had it become more than his just using the man to learn more about his Father? He’d come to respect Grayson quickly, that was certain. But this sick feeling of worry was one Damian had only held for his mother on the rare occasion she was late returning from a dangerous mission.

Damian tolerated Brown and Todd and Cain, but Grayson? He looked forward to seeing the man. Had come to enjoy his smiles, and even put up with his nicknames. They were warm, like a blanket wrapped around his shoulders when he was tired, or a coat on a cold day.

It was stupid. And weak. And foolish. Feelings like this were compromising, they would get him killed. Make him run headlong into danger without a thought for himself, much like he was doing now. But Damian found he didn’t care about being weak in that sense. It hurt to imagine not caring about Grayson. And so he fretted. He fretted and worried and ignored the pinging of a message from Oracle.

That sick feeling in Damian’s chest exploded into awful panic as Main Street finally came into view and he caught sight of what used to be Wonderland, now a smoking wreck, collapsed in on itself.

He held his emotions in check long enough to take the car down, right onto the street and bolt out of it.

“Batman!” he yelled, bolting for the wreckage “Where are you?”

Damian should not be panicking. Panic made one miss things, it made them sloppy. But Batman had been in the building. It had blown up. He could be--Grayson might be--

No. Grayson would be fine. Damian would find him, and get him home, and he would be fine.

He scanned the rubble of the building, and yelled for Batman again, his voice raspy in the smoke billowing around. Belatedly he remembered the domino was equipped with some basic alternate vision options, Damian poked at it until it showed heat signatures.

It didn’t look like the building had caught fire, thank goodness, but there was a large area of warmth towards where the back would have been that radiated out into other areas.

“Batman!” he called again, vision slowly creeping across rubble.

He had no idea how deep the lenses would penetrate. Some parts of the rubble were raised higher than others, like they’d all fallen in that direction, while others were spars, bits and pieces here and there still showing the floor that had once been inside.

“Here.” the word was faint, and trailing at the end, but it gave Damian hope.

He jerked his attention towards the sound, and there! A figure, the heat registering as cooler than Damian wanted it to be, but that could have been the weather or injury or just rubble blocking it. Whatever it was, he bolted in it’s direction, only turning off the filter when he was close enough to clearly see Batman.

He was on his back, partially trapped under fallen drywall. Damian had missed him on his first glance due to the drywall’s angle, tilted up and slightly against Grayson to block him from proper view.

“Batman!” He called again, and started climbing over the rubble as carefully as he could without risking dislodging something and shifting the whole pile, “I am on my way.”

His heart was racing. He was terrified, he realized. Afraid of what he’d find. Afraid of what had happened. Afraid to be too late, even now.

When he reached Batman, he dropped to his knees to examine him. The most obvious injury was the blood that seeped out from under his cowl. Everything else was hidden under the fallen drywall.

“Batman, I am going to have to lift this, brace yourself.” he said.

“Nightwing?” Grayson asked, the word slurring, “What?”

Damian looked down at his hoodie and the Nightwing emblem emblazoned on it, “Oh. No, you idiot. It is me. Now hold still while I lift this.”

He leaned forward, and gripped the drywall to lift it. It was lighter than Damian imagined it to be, but still quite heavy. When he got it up high enough, he shifted to shove his shoulder under it to help him leverage it even higher and then away, angled just far enough that his brother’s body was revealed.

“Scoot back.” Damian grunted.

Thankfully, Grayson seemed to have enough sense to listen. He dragged himself back from Damian and the drywall, moving just far enough that after a moment, Damian let the whole thing drop again with a crash.

His shoulder ached, but he had more important things to worry about than it. He quickly examined Batman, the suit on Grayson’s right thigh had been torn open by something, and his leg was slowly oozing blood. The wound did not seem to be serious enough for Damian to stop and take care of it now, so instead he focused on getting the man home for a full check up and proper medical attention.

He leaned over to take Grayson by the arm, “Come, we are leaving.”

He hauled his brother up onto unsteady legs. Grayson stood for a few seconds before slumping. He would have fallen if Damian hadn’t caught him, still the man was much taller than him, and carrying him was going to be difficult.

“This is not going to be comfortable, Batman.” Damian said, “But we will make it work.”

He tugged one of Grayson’s arms over his shoulder, and gripped the back of Batman's utility belt as tightly as he could under the cape to help hoist him up, and then started forward. He was basically dragging Grayson as they moved, and because of that he could not be as careful moving across the rubble. Thankfully, he was not worried about further crushing his brother, so the only real obstacle was tripping or dislodging something so that he fell into a hole.

Grayson seemed to come a bit back to himself, at least enough to speak, “But I’m Nightwing?”

Damian shook his head, “No, as I explained, you are Batman, I am--” he dreaded having to use the nickname, “Lil’ D.”

His brother shook his head, “No, no, I’m Nightwing. Batman is--Bruce is--”

“Grayson, Father is-- he is gone.” Damian said, “You are Batman now.”

That was the wrong thing to say because it made Grayson try to pull away from his grip. He was confused, and hurting, which added some strength to his attempts and threatened to topple them both.

“No!” Grayson cried, “I don’t want to be Batman. I never-- I don’t have to because Bruce is.”

His attempts to get away from Damian finally succeeded in making Damian slip, a stone dislodged from under his foot, and then the ground disappeared and Damian fell down, then to the side. He lost his grip on Grayson, and landed hard on his already aching shoulder.

Behind him, he heard rumbling as the structure shifted. He felt the vibrations under his palms as he pushed himself up, to spin and search for his brother.

Grayson had landed on his knees, and was staring down at the bat on his chest, one hand brushing over it.

“Father is dead, Grayson.” Damian snapped, as he stepped over to lift Grayson again.

“That is why you are Batman, now act like it and pull yourself together for a moment.”

Normally, he would not have cared about being so brusque, but even with the cowl covering most of his face the effect of Damian’s words on Grayson was obvious. He looked like a kicked puppy. It twisted Damian’s heart, but he couldn’t waste time on feelings. He needed to get Grayson home, first and foremost. Then worry about the hurt his words caused.

He managed to drag Grayson off the rubble and back to the car. It took some work to get him settled in the passenger’s seat, but Grayson had stopped fighting him, and was mostly responsive to directions.

It did not take long for Grayson to pass out once they were moving. Damian tried to wake him, but there was no autopilot function build into the flying portion of the car yet --he had that on his list of activities for next week-- so he had to focus on getting them home, and hoping that Grayson would be fine.

He did phone the Batcave to update Pennyworth on their status. The butler’s anger was quickly set aside for worry, and a flood of questions about Grayson’s condition. Damian did his best to describe it, and estimate an arrival time.

Pennyworth took over when Damian finally parked. He went from being in command of the situation to following whatever directions were aimed at him, and he did so happily. Grayson had woken again when they moved him from the car, and was now babbling about Father. He was alternating between asking where he was and crying over losing him.

The guilt Damian had been able to ignore earlier came back at those words, and he felt terrible for snapping at his brother. He felt even worse that he could not seem to muster any grief over his father. Not in the same way Grayson was feeling it now. He was too concerned about his brother. His not quite partner who he’d almost lost tonight. Who had been out because of a Father who was not there. Who was alone because of a father Drake was still searching for. Who was now crying out for that same father.

He did his best to ignore the strange twist of emotions in his chest and help Pennyworth instead. He collected blankets, lifted Grayson’s head, and handed over bandages as they were requested.

Damian finally stopped moving when Grayson was at last sleeping and settled into a medical cot. He could not leave Grayson, no matter how conflicted looking at the man made him. So Damian settled in a chair and declared he’d keep an eye on him while Pennyworth got some rest.

He tugged his legs up, onto the chair, so he could wrap his arms around them, and rested his chin on his knees. Somewhere in all the chaos, the sleeves of his borrowed hoodie had slipped down, and fallen over his hands to flop. Damian didn’t bother re-rolling them, but instead enjoyed the way they gave him a feeling of being further wrapped up, snuggled in something tight and comforting.

Sitting there, his odd feelings from earlier returned. He called them odd because he had not had time to pick at the strange ball of emotion in his chest and sort out what it all meant.

There was irritation with himself over this attachment. He could hear mother’s voice in his head, chiding him and reminding him that love was a weakness. That caring about others only held one back. She was right of course, Damian had thrown all caution to the wind, disobeyed Pennyworth, and Oracle and run headlong after Grayson over a hunch. It had been correct, but even that was neither here nor there in consideration of the danger it had posed.

The caring itself was another factor Damian turned over in his head, like he had turned the batarangs Grayson had shown him how to sharpen in his hands. Love, or at the very least, like, was dangerous. It was sharp, like the ends of the batarang, and would cut him if he was not careful, but it was also warm, like Grayson’s words had been. Gentle like his hands had felt in adjusting Damian’s grip. Something soft and happy like Damian’s heart had felt at Grayson’s praise.

Damian looked back down at his brother. Grayson’s arms were laid out on top of the light blanket covering him. One hand was already showing bruising, ugly black and blue splotches where he must have raised them in defense. The bruises flowed down his forearm, and ended in a bullseye on his elbow. It made Damian wince just imagining it.

He released his hold on his legs and brushed a hand across the back of Grayson's palm, considering taking it in his own. Then the man groaned, and shifted, his hand slipping away from Damian's feather light grasp. He swallowed, and wrapped his arm back around his legs to grab his other hand, before resting his chin on his knees to continue his vigil.

#Damian Wayne #Dick Grayson #fanfiction #with a heart of scars #chapter 9 #precious posts

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gooddadstan · 5 years

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The first story in my Batman Bingo 2020 writing! For the card above, Red is completed, and blue is requested. Another huge thanks to @batmanbingo2020 for making it! Feel free to ask for a prompt!

1.Sleep Deprivation

Arkham breakouts were bad. Rogue level breakouts were really bad. Gotham knew it, the bats knew it, even the Justice League knew it, if just from the strict instructions to not call on any bat within three days of returning all escapees to their cells. With a necessary exception of world ending circumstances, no matter how much everyone hated it.

Unfortunately, these were world ending circumstances.

According to the clock on the Batcomputer, it hadn’t even been an hour since they started the Do Not Call countdown in the Watchtower’s systems. Far too early for the emergency transmission to send alarms blaring through every bat-associated device the house.

Clicking the button for the video call to patch through, they’re met with a disheveled looking Flash with a grim expression on his face, no other leaguers in sight.

“What.” The growl had been forming during the small loading period, but the Flash didn’t waver in his stance.

When he speaks just a second later, it’s sped up as much as he trusts the bats to understand. “Batman, the League needs your help. Send all available backup, you’ll meet Justice League Dark at the site..” He rattles off a set of coordinates and is gone again, the trail of his image heading off in the direction of the Zetas.

Batman scans over his children, the wounds both new and days old being nursed in the medbay and the bodies flopped onto any surface they deemed comfortable enough to sleep on. More than half of them were just lying down on the floor, which, okay, but they’re children of a billionaire, they’re supposed to have standards. Apparently these standards don’t involve not sleeping on the floor in full vigilante gear.

Tim, looking up from his designated spot on the next chair over, makes very pointed eye contact with Bruce. A simple nod is all that meets him. Already mourning the loss of a relaxing afternoon filled with cartoons, sleep, and lots of food, he pulls up the League’s initial reports on the issue. The burning behind his eyes was a later Tim problem. There’s not much there, but he sets to work as Bruce rises to call the others to action.

~^~^~

Maybe Dick going on this world-saving escapade was a bad idea. Yeah, he kicked some ass, and yeah, he was the one to actually get his hands on the device that let the world-enders of the week wreak their havoc, but he kinda feels like his legs are going to drop out from under him and it may or may not have been four days since he last slept. Sue him, it was a rogue-level Arkham breakout. Measures had to be taken. Caffeine pill measures.

And if those measures ended up with him more spaced out than present during the after-victory conversation with the Titans, well, it’s not like he hasn’t done worse to himself in the past.

And no, bad Dick, that’s neither a healthy nor productive way of thinking. He forces himself to focus back in on what Wally was saying, only to see that the entire circle he was in was looking at him with various concerned expressions. Wally had placed a hand on his shoulder. Huh. Dick didn’t remember that happening.

“Dude, are you okay? We’ve been calling your name for at least a minute and a half.” He doesn’t even bother hiding the concern in his voice, which, fine, it is Wally, but Dick’s torn between wanting to yell at him for putting himself in unnecessary danger during the fight, and just wanting to go eat enough carbs to kill an elephant. “How long have you even been awake?” Oh, he must have given up on reality for another second there, because Wally decided it was time to talk again. This time, Dick was pretty sure he was collected within himself enough to answer. Maybe.

Pulling one hand up to rub at his face and almost, almost hitting his own nose in the process, Dick finally opens his mouth. “Since the breakout started. So… a hundred n’ twenty-six hours? Somethin’ like that.”

Wally closes his eyes extremely pointedly, and opens them to make direct eye contact with both hands on Dick’s shoulders. “Dick. You are going to go home, and you are going to sleep. Do you need someone to be there for you?” The caring is familiar, but it still sends warmth through his chest after all these years.

“Yeah. To the manor?”

“To the manor.” In less than a second, Wally’s arms are around him in a familiar hold, and he’s being hoisted up into the air. By the time Wally sets him down on his bed in the manor, he’s asleep.

~^~^~

“Tim.” Kon takes one look at Tim after they finish the battle, and immediately goes from grinning manically as he punches villains into the ground to hovering in front of Tim and calling Cassie and Bart.

“Yes, Kon?” He ignores the fact that he can feel the concern and disappointment in Kon’s gaze, and focuses on the wrist computer projection of the rapidly lowering energy readings in the area.

“Tim.” And oh, this was going to be an Actual Conversation now. Tim looks up from his projection, unsurprised that Cassie and Bart are both already there. When Kon’s satisfied by the level of eye contact, he speaks again. “Tim, did you sleep at all during that breakout?”

Tim spends less than a second debating with himself before shrugging. “I got knocked out at one point. Killer Croc doesn’t exactly pull his punches.” Watching the looks going his way grow slightly darker wasn’t foreign, at this point, but the curl of uncomfortability in his gut could probably be blamed on exhaustion at this point.

“Tim. Buddy. That started four days ago. Were you checked for a concussion?” It’s Bart that speaks this time, having appeared behind Tim’s back to place one hand down and try to guide him towards some rubble that looks vaguely chair-height. Tim doesn’t move.

A small sigh escaping his lips, Tim shakes his head and stands his ground. “Yes, it did start four days ago, and no, I’m not concussed. World ending circumstances override our protocol. I’m fine.”

Tim’s pretty sure if any of Young Justice had a say in it, he’d be at home asleep already, because even he could admit (to himself) that maybe he’s not entirely fine. Unfortunately for them, and fortunately for Tim, he thinks, Tim is technically their leader so they can’t kick him out. Probably. He notes to check if they can kick him out for lack of self care and moves on.

The next thing he knows, he’s yelping and scrambling for handholds as the ground disappears beneath him. “What the shit, Kon?” From his awkward half-dangling place, he can see Cassie fly up to meet them, Bart in her arms.

He’s shifted to a slightly more secure hold, but it’s painfully clear that if he makes a move to leave Kon’s arms or if Kon drops him, he would be in for a decidedly Not Fun Time. So they’re trying to coerce him. Threaten him? Maybe both.

“Dude, you’re even glitching. Take a nap or something.” Bart shouts at him from maybe five feet away, which is unnecessary, but Tim appreciates the effort to account for possible wind. If only there was any more than none.

“Seriously, you’re spacey and clearly exhausted. You didn’t note anything from those readings until the third rotation, you’re not exactly keeping up with the field work. I could even take you over to the farm or your apartment or something if you don’t want to go back to the cave. But find somewhere to go pass out.” And okay, fine, Kon might be right about the readings. But he can’t just leave-

“Nobody’ll fault you for leaving dude.” Tim immediately curses Bart and his uncanny ability to understand Tim’s anxieties.

“And if anyone does, then we’ll make sure to have a little chat.” He can almost hear the sound of Cassie’s fist hitting her palm, and as much as he wants to accept…

“Thanks guys, really, but I need to keep up on my own responsibilities.” His tone his regretful, and he really can’t leave the rest of his family without warning.

“Tim, you’re our responsibility, so go home and take a nap.” And Kon is not allowed to make sense when Tim’s this tired anymore. But, ever the adamant one, Tim opens his mouth to speak again. “I-“

“Tim, go home.” It’s simultaneous, and manages to effectively shut Tim up.

Heaving one last exasperated sigh, Tim accepts. “Fine, just drop me off at the nearest Zeta.”

Kon gets that manic grin on his face again, and Tim’s internal monologue consists entirely of ‘oh no’. “I can do you one better.” Tim is going to get murdered. “Gotham, here we come!”

~^~^~

Bruce was still fighting as his GPS reported family leaving the area. He felt like his limbs were moving like slugs, his eyes were burning with every blink, and every little noise sent waves of rage through his very soul, but he was still fighting. The last of today’s havoc wreakers were still raring to go, and where evil stands, the Justice League rises to meet them.

As one final punch sends his last opponent to the containment area, Bruce lets his shoulders slump. The past few days have been unbearably long, and he just wants to sleep for a week wherever he can find a horizontal surface. His kids might have the right idea about the floor, at this point. His wounds are throbbing, he can feel his mind succumbing to exhaustion, and he just wants to rest. For once. He should extend the protocol before the next breakout.

Clark touches down next to him, and he immediately braces for a complaint about something, even though this is Clark, and he’s pretty sure Clark hasn’t complained about a thing in his life. Or maybe he just really needs to sleep. Despite all his training, it’s hard to tell.

“Batman. I think it’s time you took a rest. You’ve had some long days.” There’s a kind pressing in his voice.

Bruce suppresses a growl, though he’s sure Clark can hear what escapes from his throat. “I can continue.”

“But you don’t need to. Batman, the kids you brought are already gone, you’re the only one here. Hood and Robin are home with broken bones, you’re needed there more than here.” He smiles, and lowers his voice. “Go home, Bruce, rest up. We’ll see you for the meeting next week.” He takes off, nothing but a gust of wind that aggravates the burning sensation in his eyes.

An hour later, Bruce is pulling himself out of the Batmobile and shedding his suit. As he turns the corner to the main area of the cave, he’s met with his children, huddled together asleep and surrounded by blankets and pillows. A small smile creeps onto his face, the warmth of seeing each of his children here, safe, and soon to be better rested. He moves to go past them, move up to the master bedroom and get some rest himself.

A hand catches at his wrist, pulling down. He glances to the source, and can’t help but worry when he’s met with Jason, eyes still closed and broken leg elevated on a stack of floor pillows. “Br’ce.”

“Yeah, Jaylad?” The nickname wouldn’t fly most times, but his own exhaustion made it slip by.

“Stay, w’ll you?” He tugs again, harder this time, and Bruce lets himself be pulled down to sit on his heels. Dick almost immediately shimmies over to throw himself over Bruce’s legs, and he supposes that’s that. He lightly lifts Dick to lay his legs down flat. Cass’ arm to pull his shoulders down onto the blanket nest isn’t unexpected, and it’s not a surprise when the rest of his children stir enough to drape themselves over one body part of his or another.

As Alfred stands on the foot of the stairs, a dish towel drying his hands, he can’t help but smile. Maybe this way his wards would actually rest for once.

#batman #batfam #tim drake #dick grayson #bruce wayne #batman bingo 2020 #sleep deprivation #blanket nests #this is fluff #basically just fluff

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thethespacecoyote · 6 years

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“Under the Wire”

Jack felt something in his stomach the entire meal, divorced entirely from the steak of exotic meat and heavy wine the chieftain plied the grand table with. Something that had him hoping Rhys’ lips might get a little looser as the night went on. For most of dinner he continued in a state of interest and amusement, barely paying their host and his staff much mind aside from the occasional nod and noncommittal response.

And yet—even bogged down with food and alcohol and distracting omega scent—Jack was a hard man to take unawares.

He noticed a shifting in the chieftain’s guard, weapons that had stayed stiff and to attention all night lowering. Then, a shadow flittering in the balcony of the second floor overlooking the dining room. Then, the chieftain raising his glass in a silent, mock toast, sullen eyes glimmering with something cruel.

Jack spotted the red dot on Rhys’ chest a moment too late.

Assassination attempt style hurt/comfort fic in the vein of the Rival CEOs AU! Had fun with this. Will be cross-posted to Ao3 in a moment.

It’s not the first fancy dinner turned firefight Jack has been through—and knowing his dangerous lifestyle and coveted position, it won’t be the last—but he’s having a lot less fun at this one than the others.

Only cowards utilize the element of surprise, and Jack should’ve pegged the bloated, self-proclaimed chieftain of the for one the moment he realized the useless bastard was barely competent enough to rule over a woefully underpopulated planet from his sprawling mansion. But he’d taken up the invitation to dinner anyway as a sign of goodwill after the recent, three-way treat established between the Cornelian, Hyperion, and Atlas.

All right. The attendance of his rival might’ve been the real motivation that had driven Jack to attend the dinner in the first place. And Rhys ended up looking beautiful when he showed up, cutting a sharp and elegant figure against the gaudy golden decor of the mansion, dressed in all black with hints of silver, gold, and red peppered from boot to collar.

Jack hated that he didn’t wind up seated next to Rhys, with a couple of nobody locals gussied up and taking up space between them, but that didn’t stop the alpha from shooting flirty winks and mouthing dirty things in Rhys’ direction. The omega batted him back with a sour grin, though Jack thought he caught a smile when Rhys ducked his lips into his wine glass.

And yet—even bogged down with food and alcohol and distracting omega scent—Jack was a hard man to take unawares.

Jack spotted the red dot on Rhys’ chest a moment too late.

When the first shot fired the entire party exploded—screams, crashing plates, scattering glasses—it all went off like a grenade that blew Jack up and out of his chair just as bullets shredded its velvety cushions. The alpha sobered in an instant, grasping at his belt as he darted for cover, brain frantically grasping hold of the situation, the depths of betrayal.

And that’s how Jack ended up here, hunched behind a collapsed statue with his teeth gritted and pistol clenched in his hand.

Jack can’t see Rhys from his position any longer, but he remembers how the omega had collapsed, body limp and lifeless as stone. Hair thrown out of its perfect style and covering his face. Blood seeping into his dark clothes.

Jack’s fingers shake in their tight grip around his pistol. If he can’t do anything more for Rhys, then he can at least scrub the bastards that killed him off the planet.

He has already shot and killed the chieftain, taking care of the slimy bastard as he caught him fleeing the scene of the massacre he himself set into motion. Jack had plugged him right between the shoulder blades, regretting he couldn’t see the bastard’s face as life left his eyes. But the bullets continued flying, forcing Jack behind the table he currently crouches behind, periodically firing around the edge to take out the remaining assassins.

Anger makes his shots wild, his own instinct of self-preservation waning as he thinks of Rhys, of how quickly his life was stolen away by cretins not worthy enough to lick the blood from his boots. He manages still to strike the last of the chieftain’s guard—dressed for ceremony, not defense—but at least two black-clad assassins remain. He’s already called for the backup and medical team stationed in reserve within his shuttle, but they’ll have to comb through the guards in the rest of the mansion first, and there’s no telling how quickly they’ll arrive.

Sweat-soaked hair fans wildly about his face as he bolts from his position behind the statue and races towards a sturdy couch flipped onto its side. He leaps in the air as the carpet beneath him explodes from the assassin’s rifle, throwing his firing arm out and shooting not towards either of the men but instead to the pendulous metal chandelier hovering above, laden heavily with artificial candles. The chain tethering it to the ceiling bursts, and just as the fixture starts to hurtle towards the ground Jack tucks his head down and rolls over his shoulder, clearing the last couple of feet behind the couch.

A deafening crash fills the room, punctuating by a couple definitive screams of pain. Jack counts his heartbeats, waiting to hear any sounds in the aftermath, before poking his head around the side of the couch.

He inches forward on his knees, tentative, when he sees no assailants left standing. The chandelier has crushed part of the main table, buckling the other half up at an angle. Cheap iron lies broken over the floor, strewn with the wire innards of fake lighting. Jack pushes himself up to half his full height, still keeping a small target as he creeps forward, scanning the debris. He sniffs, trying to pick out a familiar scent amidst the smell of blood and shattered furnishings.

Something prickles at Jack’s nose out of the carnage, and his heart yearns with recognition—a faint drift of cologne, more expensive than anything these wannabes could afford, smothering up the smell of something sweet and delicate and achingly familiar.

He lowers his gun as he tries to zero in on the scent, to figure out whether it still belongs to someone living and needing of rescue.

A pile of debris in Jack’s periphery suddenly shifts, and before he can whip his gun back around and aim something hard and burning slams into his stomach and knocks him off his feet. Jack’s vision pops as his back and skull crack against the ground, stunning him and pain sizzles from the fresh wound in his side. The grip of the pistol knocks from his hand and as he scrabbles for it his suddenly clumsy fingers only knock it further away. He swears, throat thick and voice hoarse.

His other hand presses into his stomach to asses the wound, and through bleary eyes he can see his palm come away red and glistening and damn it, that’s bad. And what’s even worse is the sight of the surviving assassin pushing up from the ground where he previously lied unseen. He brushes dust and clinging rubble off his sleeves, before turning towards the downed CEO.

Jack hisses and spits a little blood over his lips as he tries to pull himself up into a sitting position despite the screaming wound in his side. He coughs against the pain, eyes flicking from where his gun lies just out of reach to the assassin now walking towards him.

Jack wheezes with effort as he tries willing his legs to move but they lock stiff out in front of him, like dead weight he wishes he could hack off. The assassin soon looms over him, face covered in marble dust but settled in grim triumphant. Blood stains his hair but he’s in far better shape than Jack, and his gun sits in his hand rather than knocked an impossible distance away. Jack glares up at him, trying to look intimidating even as he rests back on his elbows, blood seeping out from his wound onto the ruined floor.

“Almost feel like I should thank you for taking out the old bastard…” The assassin tips the barrel of his rifle around in a circle. “Guess this place’ll be mine now, huh? Soon as I get rid of you and anyone coming to get you.”

A disloyal hired gun, huh? Shocker, Jack thought grimly, trying to keep his strength from faltering.

There’s still a chance he can make a break for it, surely. He’s Handsome-frikkin’-Jack after all, but suddenly as he stares down the barrel of the assassin’s gun in a destroyed room quiet with death, a thought blooms to just let it all go.

Even through endless violence and betrayal Jack had always pressed forward—in a way some around him might consider single-minded, but it’d brought him to dizzying heights of success so what did they know—but now he thinks of how his life will be if he does manage to escape through some kind of miracle. He’ll be alive, sure. But without Rhys there to tease him and tempt him and light a fire under his ass, he wonders if it’ll at all be worthwhile.

For the first time, the future feels hollow.

The rifle fires. Jack doesn’t even hear it go off. He lets his eyes slip half-shut with the flash of the muzzle—ready to accept nothingness—when something brilliant and gold suddenly flashes across his vision.

“Jack!”

The voice cuts across the CEO’s waning consciousness and snaps him back to attention. He jerks his head to the right just in time to see another figure sway up out of the carnage of the dinner, glinting chrome arm extended out from under a tattered sleeve. Jack’s heart leaps in his chest.

“K…Kiddo?”

Rhys’ palm and ECHOeye burns with the same golden energy that wavers out in a barrier in front of Jack, allowing the alpha to quickly put the pieces together

It’s an Atlas shield, cast remotely in a wide swathe separating Jack’s injured body from his assailant. The bullet, intended for Jack’s skull, hovers harmless in midair, stopped dead in its tracks by the energy emanating from Rhys’ palm. Jack has never heard, never imagined such a thing, but the omega wields it effortlessly—or as effortlessly as he can with wounds punched into his thigh and stomach.

The assassin shouts in surprise at the sudden neutralizing of his killing blow, but before he can do anything Rhys shifts his outstretched hand towards him.

The omega screams from the effort as he flings his arm out to the side, glowing energy of the shield briefly sucking back over the suspended bullet like water funneled down a small drain. Jack swears the bullet glows, threaded with shield’s energy and burning hot like a star a split second before it fires back where it came, splitting the bullet of the assassin’s gun before piercing him in the chest. He falls, dying cry cut off as his spine snaps back over the edge of the upturned table fragment

Even from a few feet away, with his vision swimming, Jack can see Rhys trembling, even the usually steady silver fingers of his cybernetic arm shaking. It falls to his side after a moment of heavy breathing, the silence of the room settling in now that every assassin had been dispatched. There may be survivors among the bodies but no ones moves and Jack’s attention shrinks only to Rhys as the omega hobbles on over to him.

“Kiddo…” Jack scrapes up his voice, watching Rhys struggle with a limp, boot dragging a trail of blood over the floor.

Rhys doesn’t make it all the way, falling to his hands and knees with a tight gasp. His arms tremble, and Jack worries he’ll collapse right there, just out of Jack’s grasp. But Rhys’ fingers curl, digging into the floor beneath him, and with a series of labored exhales manages to pull himself the rest of the way to Jack’s side.

“This…this hurts like hell…” Rhys moans, pressing his flesh hand to his side as he lies down besides Jack, face now only a couple inches away. He looks too pale, skin ashen and plastered to his cheekbones. The little purplish crescents under his eyes that Jack mocked him for earlier look darker now, no longer lifted by the intelligent twinkle in his eyes.

“Shoud’ve known, dinner with you...always ends in disaster...” Rhys tries to joke, but it’s growing noticeably harder for him to get the words out.

“Hey, shh…hang in there…” Jack whispers, his own throat tightening with pain. The wound in his side twitches, staining more blood into his sweater. Damn thing would have to be cleaned. Probably even patched up again.

Rhys, though, Rhys would probably wind up buying an entirely new outfit before he even considered patching it up. Maybe Jack should get him something nice. A “congrats on surviving your first assassination attempt” gift.

Not that they were out of the woods yet. Jack could hear a commotion outside of the sealed room—hopefully medics responding to his distress call.

“Jack…” Rhys gasps suddenly, the faintness of his voice twisting Jack’s stomach. “I…”

“Shh.” The alpha has a bit of strength left, using it to cradle the side of Rhys’ face. Unusual intimacy between them. Jack figured Rhys didn’t mind, not when they were both bleeding out. “I’m here with you, pumpkin.”

He breathed his scent out through his nose, as heavily as he could muster, hoping it might drift through the stench of blood and sizzled flesh and comfort Rhys. Jack pushes fingers back through the injured omega’s hair, streaking the auburn locks even darker.

“…Don’t let me go…” Rhys whispers, fresh blood seeping in a clean line from the edge of his lips, spilling towards the floor in a small puddle. Jack’s thumb strokes at the omega’s temple, watching his eyelids flutter as the banging sounds of the medics forcing their way into the dining room grow fainter. His faltering perception shrinks to Rhys and he keeps stroking his face, long after the omega’s eyelids fall closed, bloody lips parted around words Jack wishes he could hear.

Jack furrows his brow when the first thing he smells upon waking is disinfectant.

Eyesight comes back to him slowly, slower than his sense of touch and scent. He tips his head blindly to the side, latching onto the hint of something sweet underneath the smell of sterility and old blood. His hand lifts like the air is too heavy around it, fingers brushing up against something warm and solid lying in the stiff sheets next to him. He presses in, feeling skin and slack muscle.

When Jack finally manages to open his eyes it still takes a couple more seconds for his vision to restore, but when colors and shapes manage to cling together he can make out a pale, gentle face mere inches from his own, lips pink and parted around even breaths.

Jack starts with recognition, his hand gripping Rhys’ flesh arm even tighter. Breath wheezes against his sore throat, and when he tries to sit up his side pinches with pain. He hisses, momentarily pulling his eyes away from Rhys to look down his body. From beneath the hem of papery, pale blue pajamas, he can see a swath of white bandages peaking out.

Right.

Jack lays his head back against the pillow beneath him, turning his eyes back to Rhys. It’s a strange mirror of how they’d lied, bleeding out against the shattered floor of some nobody’s mansion.

There’s only inches of space between them. Jack thinks it’s weird and kind of presumptuous that the medics put them in the same bed, but then he realizes he’s lying atop the sheets and the tube of the IV in his arm is tugging tautly against where it’s fixed against his skin. He puts it together with a small chuckle.

“Just can’t…keep me ‘way from you kiddo…” Jack murmured, inching a little closer to Rhys and resting their foreheads together. The omega’s scent is muted but present, steady as the pulse thrumming under his skin as Jack lifts his hand and rests it against the side of Rhys’ throat.

He feels exhaustion pulling back on him, but now that he can see that Rhys is safe and healing, Jack figures there’s not much harm in letting go and enjoying a rare, intimate moment with his rival.

#spacetext #long post #rhack #fanfic #tftbl #omegaverse

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shinywhim · 6 years

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L4D2 Nellis Drabble

It was dark. The faint scent of blood mixed in with dust filled the air. A building had collapsed. It had been on its last leg, dilapidated from months and months of fire and the lack of upkeep. That would have been fine, a few more undead killed from the collapse would have only helped in the long run, had Nick and Ellis not been inside when it happened. The crackle of a walkie-talkie, used so that the separated team could talk to each other, desperately tried to get a signal, but all words that did get through were muffled by a fallen piece of concrete covering it.

Nick hadn't wanted to go in. He could tell the building wasn't stable anymore but his suggestions and concerns never got across thanks to Coach's booming voice. Ellis hadn't wanted to go in either, and he knew that, so he guessed at least one person had listened to him and shared his concern. Oh god, where was Ellis? Nick slowly started reaching consciousness when he realized that it was his responsibility to take care of Ellis. He had to find him and in the very least make sure he was okay. Nick brought his hand up to his face to wipe the blood out of his eyes, a strong pain reaching up from his arm right into his neck. He groaned when he reached back down to push a headboard off of him. More pain. There was really no stopping the pain at this point, was there? Well, no point in resting now. "Kid," he called out into the darkness. He could manage seeing that the building still had supports up, and that the floors above him hadn't completely caved in, he just managed to get the shit end of the stick and fall through to the bottom. He coughed when the dust got into his lungs, but the sharp inhale he took after each set only made it worse. His voice hoarse, he called out to Ellis again, shielding his broken ribs from further damage.

Hearing no response, he silently cursed and began looking at himself. Nothing he couldn't handle right now. Other than his ribs, it was mostly just cuts and that gash on his head. He'd live. He had to find Ellis. He had to be quiet. The sound of the building collapsing probably attracted more zombies. He moved around the bottom floor, sure that Ellis had fallen through with him. Whether or not he had made it to the very bottom with him was questionable. He sifted through the debris until he found Ellis' hat. Alright, he was down there with him. Nick just had to ellicit a response. Well, that's what he thought until he heard a yell. Not quite one that made him think pain, but one of annoyance. He moved towards the fallen wall of the building and saw Ellis, anger spread across his face, trying to push everything off of him. "Jesus, kid, thought you were dead," Nick gasped as he helped throw off the debris and finally just pulled Ellis out from under it.

"Yeah well I thought I was, too," he replied as he brushed of the grime and pulled broken glass out of his arms. "You look like shit."

"Hey watch your mouth, asshole. Don't know if you noticed but a fucking building collapsed on us of course we're going to look like shit."

"How come you're allowed to cuss but I aint?"

"Because I'm older."

Nick dug out the walkie-talkie from the rubble, brushing the chips of concrete off to examine if it still worked. He tried contacting Coach and Rochelle but there was no static, and of course no reply from the other end. "Its busted," he spit, throwing it back to the ground.

"No fixing it?"

"Don't know about you, Ellis, but I'm not good with electronics. I'd probably make it worse less than it already is." He turned to see Ellis in deep thought. He could practically see the gears turning, and could hear how long they hadn't been used. "Don't think too hard, kid, you'll pass out."

"Ah shut up Nick. What are we gunna do now?"

"Lets fix ourselves up and figure that out tomorrow. Did any of those supplies fall down with us?"

When Ellis didn't start moving immediately Nick stamped down on his foot. Ellis began searching for the supplies immediately. He pulled his medkit off his back and opened it, pulling out some pain pills. Ellis returned with half of what they gathered, a bunch of food and water, and some dirty bedsheets. "This good?"

"Yeah, take a couple of these," Nick said, handing the pill bottle over and setting to work tearing the bedsheets into strips so that they could have backup bandages and leaving the other half to make a makeshift bag so they could carry everything.

"Lost my bat," Ellis whined.

"You still have your shotgun?"

"Yeah, that's always on my back."

"Then don't start whining. We can always find you another bat."

"Yeah yeah," he moaned. Nick rolled his eyes as he sat back against a suprisingly stable wall. He was debating whether or not they should stick around here for the zombies or move somewhere else and risk getting caught in the open. "Well I think we should go in case, ya know, the building falls again."

#l4d2 #nellis #nick #ellis #fanfic #drabble

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ursapharoh05 · 6 years

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Morning (Duke Thomas/Signal fic)

Morning

It was morning. Despite everything her husband, her body, and the snoring little lump cuddled between them both felt, the world said it was morning; and morning meant it was time to get to work. Elaine forces her eyes open to confront the streak of light that laid across her face, the faster to face the day the faster to change it for the better. She needed to get up, play the game of normality and take her place as pillar and guide to her son. Her son, Duke, who was a whole six years old now and already knew way too much for his age but not nearly enough to survive as a black face in a place like Gotham.

Sliding from the bed, she's careful of her husbands heavy arm around her waist and the small fists clinging to her sleep shirt and tucks them both back in once she’s standing. She's up, moving, getting, the blood flowing and ready to set today in motion. Get busy living or get busy dying, for all intents and purposes. Because in this city, if you didn’t get busy living, Gotham will be on your tail working to help you get busy dying. Or at the very least making your attempts at living inconvenient. Like now, in the middle of an apocalypse at the hands the Riddler and a well timed hurricane, one of the hardest parts of her day was deciding how to do her hair now that salons were a thing of the looted past.

She decided that braiding her hair down was the best solution, and let the boys choose their favorite colored scarfs for her to wear. Yellow was the choice of the morning, wrapped tight, and loose ends tucked away, nice and bright to start the day. Everytime she scrubbed him down, kept him up and finish greasing his scalp, she'd tell Duke "you look good, you feel good, you do good." Important words to live by.

After getting herself ready, it was time to wake her Sunshine. Sitting on the edge of the bed she started the loving routine.

She shakes his small shoulder and coos lowly, “Sunshine, it’s time to get up, baby.” The responding whimper is a good sign as the little ball curls tighter against his daddy’s side, “Come on, the sun is shining bright just for you, Duke”

She scoots closer following the way he tries to melt into the relaxed muscles of his dad and escape the gentle patting on his back forcing him out of sleep “Duke, let's get up, we gotta make breakfast.” She waits, one broken sleep filled breath as her baby slowly roused himself, then a second one before digging her hands under his armpits and getting him up into a sitting position.

The boy leans dangerously to one side, eyes half lidded and lazily blinking back at her “Mmm?” He sighs from too lax lips.

She catches his head before it can land back among the body warmed blankets and the trickling light “No, no, no, sunshine. Sit up, now. Let me see those pretty eyes.” She cups both his baby soft cheeks and waits for him to force his eyes open. It takes a long sigh, the rise and shake of his little shoulders as he scrunches up his nose and let his nostrils flare in annoyance. Finally before he seems to slip back into sleep, his shoulders fall, his face relaxes a little tongue darts out over full lips, and his eyes open.

The light filters passed their curtains and across both their faces lighting up Duke's Umber eyes and revealing the almost golden sepia underneath with the light. They blink slowly up at her before moving to look around the room, another deep breath and he’s reaching out with grabby hands. “Mmmom”

She wraps him up in her arms nice and tight and slides off the bed to her feet. She waltzes them into the kitchen “Hello sweet boy, it’s time to face the day. Let’s face it with a smile.”

Breakfast is a slim affair. Slim pickings but her plan to fix that was a simple one; cross town, grab the relief bags, and run home like their lives depended on it. It should’ve been easy, it would've been easy, had Doug not gotten sick. The kind of sick that didn't help people so big, eating portions so small and the infection ratcheted up a fever that refused to break. The slimy prodding of powder eggs to her lips is enough to bring her out of her mind. “You forgot,” Duke presses the spoon insistently against her lips “You and dad always forget.”

She did not forget, but his little life meant far more. It’s a quick and appeasing bite and an even quicker kiss to his forehead on the edge of baby curls.

The both of them scrub down the single plate with a little dribble of water from a water bottle before they go to put their shoes on. They both write separate notes and leave them by the breakfast left for Doug, still fitfully sleeping in the dark room, before they slip out into the world full of chaos.

The trick was convincing her baby that everything was alright, that the sun shone on just another normal Wednesday. Fake it till you can make it. They started walking with only the scarce dawn light to guide them. If you dared to leave your house, morning was the best time. Walk out with your head held high as if life is still normal and you were untouchable, nothing’s more terrifying to chaos than normality. With her vibrant yellow headwrap, a little red wagon, and her baby reciting the planets, Elaine was normality incarnate.

The walk to the supply drop was about six miles outside of the narrows, passed several other peoples territories. The walk was made longer if you decided to go around Poison Ivy’s base of operations which was the Wayne botanical gardens, it was best to just go the long way. By the time they had arrived and Duke had helped her load the two backpacks worth of food and medication into the wagon the day was very nearly gone and night was on its way. Her realm of normality was quickly coming to a close.

The choice to stop on the outskirts of the thick foliage and flowers from Ivy’s domain was a thinly veiled chance for her to take a breath while teaching Duke about some of the flowers, “We don’t touch, not these flowers, but that one is a...” She waits for Duke to lean far enough out to see the bright yellow sunflower she’s pointing to.

“A--uhm, a sunflower?” he hedges, though his smile grows to match the smile she offers him.

“That’s right! A common sunflower also known as Helianthus annuus , say it with me baby” She goes through every flower as far as they can spot on the edge of the green. Laughing and teaching and resting her throbbing feet.

As they recline on the dirt road alongside Ivy's realm the wind twists around them both, from a distance they spot gravel and dirt being kicked up, and the blaring of police sirens accompanied it. There hasn’t been any proper form of policing since the hurricane hit the city, least of all this close to the Narrows. This feels wrong.

Over the hill they came, they must have siphoned off gas or had a backup stash, too far away to see if they were legit. Elaine kisses her teeth, no real place to hide and being in too tight of corridors could encourage a worse ending than a public arena might.

Without a second thought she was on her feet and standing firm, Duke danced from foot to foot. Small fingers gripped her pants and hand “Mom? Mama, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t know, guess we’ll have to see,” she soothes as she grips the back of Dukes shirt and nonchalantly put the other on her hip, feeling the weight of the gun she’d hidden.

“Let’s not, lets just—“ a pink tongue swipes at his lips nervously “Let's just run, we can go super fast” He tenses his body as if to dart right this instant, ready to drag Elaine behind him.

Her grip is firmer “No. We don’t run, not from them, we stand our ground. Don’t you ever run, from a cop. You make them look you in the eyes,” The sirens grow louder and the sound of gravel crunching as she adjusts her stance. Feet set firmed, a flicker in her eyes and ready to stand her ground. “Ready? Eyes up, baby.”

———————————————

It’s morning. Far too bright for bats to be about, far too early for them to be in the middle of a smouldering and half destroyed warehouse, and far too early for Duke to be bleeding and pinned under what felt like the remains of a crate. He was supposed to be starting his shift, not continuing from a tag team from earlier that night, not that it mattered. He was issued the call and he’d still had a case to finish up. The call now felt something akin to pounding thunder's in his head as his hearing slowly returned from a chemical explosion. Although it was a cool band name, it was not a cool experience and the sharp realization that he probably should be dead hangs heavy in his chest.

He needed to get up, get back to doing the bat's good work. That could mean any number of things though, he needed to focus it down to bare essentials. What does he absolutely have to address? Dragging himself up to all fours and letting charred planks settle with a clutter around him, he blearily looked around for any survivors. His mind soaks in any bit of information his torn and lightly smoking environment will yield him.

Firstly, everything hurt, his shoulder especially. A glance shows a weeping deep red against his yellow armor.

"That explains the pain then"

A quick shaking hand up to his head reveals a split helmet and blood running into his eye.

"and that explains the one eyed perception and the splitting headache too."

A soft and broken whistle echos somewhere and in a panic he wonders if it may be the effects of tinnitus, or worse another venom hyped chemist. Even still, his blood covered hand goes to touch his exposed ear when the whistle comes more deliberate, almost a tune but too distressed to be placed to any particular song. He’d played this game, marco polo, he’d been playing it most recently with Cass *...Shit, Cass!*

Duke’s answering whistle is shrill and makes no attempt at a song. his first stumbling steps are in the wrong direction drifting too far to the left before sharply correcting and finding the pile of rubble that she seemed pinned under.

Falling to his knees he bends to see her face but he’s met with different brown eyes, one of the kids running the drugs a few years younger than himself, tucked under the limp body of Black bat. “She just tackled me out of nowhere man! Word to the bat! She won’t move-- can--can you get us out?” *Can I?* He felt like shit and must've look it too, to get a look of panic like that from a kid with an untrained eye. His tongue feels thick so he just nods carefully and backs up to move the debris.

Dragging them both out takes longer than Duke would like, pulling and twisting his bleeding shoulder, but once they’ve carefully laid Cass on her back that’s one more concrete step for him to stand on, “She gon’ be okay?” The kid leans his head closer to Duke’s own bowed head as he takes in the direness of this situation and looks over the prone bat.

He hums noncommittally, “You’ve seen her, she’ll be fine.” He’s gentle anyway, there wasn’t any obvious injury but in the harsh light and the harsh life they’d taken to, it was hard not to ache for gentleness. He starts with a soft hand cupping her cheek and a thumb swiping the blood and dirt away. She doesn’t move but he persists “Black bat, you with me?”

She starts out slow, a twitch of the nose and a frown, Duke’s voice trembles with the relief “That’s it, you're with me. Come on,” one brown eye blinks slowly up at him, the white out lenses of the remaining part of her mask stares blankly back at him. His smile pulls at his split lip but he doesn’t lessen it in the slightest “You have a good nap?”

It’s a quick blink and she was trying to sit up, Duke jumps to calm her as she makes a grab for him and fails to get a grip on his kevlar “Hey! Hey, hey, easy there.That blast hit you hard,” The shaking of her head and the resulting groan speaks to the suspected concussion “Lets maybe not move so much right now, let’s focus. Black bat?” The wandering stare speaks to other plans as her hand clamps onto the shirt of the kid and uses it to pull herself into a upright position, “No, no, ey, quit it!! Black—don’t—”

He and the kid are trying to loosen the death grip she has on the kid’s filthy and torn Gotham Guardsmen shirt. It’s useless, her fist impossibly tightens as she sways to one side and then the other. Calming her down shouldn’t have been so hard, it wouldn’t have been so hard if it were any of the other bats trying with her. Cass seemed fond of him but he was pretty sure that was from some form of both of them being the newest recruits to the Wayne gig than any actual care. As it was, no one was likely to be coming for them for a very long time. Duke's comm was blown to hell and the way Cass tapped her ear made it seem all the more likely hers had cut out as well.

With her hand still on the boy's collar, her head lolls to the side as if trying to catch something off the wind as it swirls the dirt and the smoke around them. Then they all hear it; sirens.

Both young men freeze, glancing at each other. The silent understanding passing between them, an instinct that runs as deep as their melanin. The kid twists violently out of Cass’ grip, tearing his shirt to break free, and takes off running without another word or a glance back. Duke feels his heart speed up with the panic as the sirens' wail closer still. They were coming and they were coming for them.

He needed a simple plan, something to execute, complete, and succeed in, “Cass, Cassandra babe, let me see those pretty eyes”, He tries to keep his voice soft but it comes out in a harsh hiss as he starts to move. Those wise brown eyes slowly roll to meet his own with the call of her name, unsteady and mildly annoyed that their other companion had left so quickly, "...Not...babe...Black Bat....field names"

“That's right. Right. Listen, I’ve gotta pick you up so we can get you home.” Keep it simple, grab cass, haul ass, make it home.

She frowns “No..." she tries to force herself up to right "fight through..get...home...” she doesn't make it to her feet.

“Yeeeah...see now, that’s a bad plan. We need to get to your house, the mansion. Can I touch you? Just for a bit?” She reconsiders the situation and studies him oddly before nodding “Perfect, just gonna get you into a piggy back—easy, nice and slow—perfect, hold tight” she nearly strangles him as she leans her head against the missing chunk of his helmet, blood tacky skin meeting blood tacky skin.

The sirens are blaring now as they grow into a terrible shriek, if he was going to get them out, this was Duke's chance. Stumblingly he takes off as fast as he can, picking over concrete and splintered wood. It hurts, the blinding pain in his shoulder and the weight of Cass on his back, distantly around the thudding in his ears, he thinks of all the times his parents told him not to run.

He runs now. Followed closely by shouting and the sounds of footsteps behind him. Down one alleyway and banking a hard right into another, his heart matches the throbbing of pain and the gasps of his breath, and he keeps running. He races the light, Cass’ legs tucked snuggly under his armpits and her arms wrapped firmly around his neck spurs him on.

Don’t get caught, don’t get caught, don’t get caught, is Duke's mantra in this moment. Distantly a part of him insists he stop and make it to the rooftops, the bat in him insists he take flight. The narrows in him insists he simply get distance.

He can hear the cop chasing him gaining, huffing and puffing, he takes another turn to throw them further off. He thought keeping his robin squads noses clean was hard with the GCPD breathing down his neck. He could only imagine the picture he and Cass would make, a black kid running around with an asian girl slung on his back. Oh, yeah, real easy to just talk his way out of that, cracked helmet and ruined masks aside.

The squealing of a police car sliding in front of the exit of the alley is soul crushing. The spitting of gravel and the slamming of car doors is just the beginning of his end,“Stop! GCPD! I said freeze!” Duke slows, he can’t make it out of this straight way to somewhere public, somewhere he could blend into the crowd, somewhere where, as his mother would put it, the domain of normality reigned supreme.

His run fades to a jog, which stutters to a shuffle before stopping. The click that once was familiar from a lesson with Jason echoes off the brick walls. He tightens his grip on Cass before slowly letting her slide to the ground. He broadens his chest as much as he can, don’t let them hit Cass, she needs to make it out.

He faces the two cops head on, body firmly in front of Cass even as he hears the one cop behind him slow to a stop. A Silence like the one that he’d grown used to in the cave screams in the air twisting and slicing up his thudding heart. The cops take aim, eyeing him warily even as he presents his hands, fingers reaching for the sun. His heart wails, move! Get out of the way!

He’s shaking he notices, the trembles in his hands though whether from the fear, the adrenaline, or the pain of the movement he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. He lifts his chin, forces his blood sealed eye open so that he can see each officer properly and they can see the human in this armor. He waits for what's next, feet set firm, ready to stand his ground, like his mother taught him, but in his eyes there's not a flicker; there was a dim glow.

The whispers among the cops are barely coherent over his heart beat but he hears them

“It’s a bat”

“Two bats, must be new—“

“Bat saved my sisters life—“

“Where’s the big guy—“

“Robins? Not gonna take in a rob—“

“Don’t shoot”

Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, the guns are slowly lowered eyes never leaving Dukes chest. He hears footsteps and the third cop walks passed them “We give the bat one pass. Go on your way.”

The car pulls away with the cops all inside. Duke collapses to the ground. He grabs for Cass’ hand, and bites back his broken whimpers as he grips her hand tight. He met their eyes and they looked to the bat on his chest for reassurance. One day, this city would not be the domain of the bat or siren, he’ll make sure a domain of normality would reign supreme. The domain his mother always envisions for him, for all of Gotham.

#duke thomas #batfamily #cassandra cain #the signal #blackbat #batman #DC comics #black characters

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superbat111 · 7 years

Text

To Kiss a God (Chapter Two)

Chapter Two: The Injustice Despite the infamous bat-suit, getting thrown against a concrete wall hurt like a bitch. Cursing internally, Bruce barely had time to leap behind a stray car to avoid pulverization by hunk of concrete. Deciding that a direct assault on the rapidly growing massive green plant was proving impractical, he shot a cable upward toward a city building, letting his momentum carry him to the brick roof. Standing on the slated tiles, smoke ascending from the wreckage of downtown Metropolis, he took in the complete scene below.The creature continued to toss anything within it's grasp, the massive tendrils wrapping around a car and catapulting it at a building. As far as he could tell, the titanous plant, courtesy of Poison Ivy, was still growing. And even more disconcerting, the plant's growth rate was increasing. From what he could discern, the Injustice League's strategy seemed to be more about preoccupying the available members versus causing any real damage. Which led Bruce to believe that it was the growth of the plant that was intended to cause the most harm. As he surveyed the scene below, neither Clark or Diana could be found. Immensely disconcerting considering they were perhaps the two most powerful members of the Justice League. Without at least one of them, he hesitated to say battle could be won. He spotted Cyborg battling against the creature known as the Atomic Skull and Wotan from his perch. It was evident that despite Cyborg's capable equipment he was at a clear disadvantage. A fact he intended to change. Swinging that down from the roof, he kicked the Atomic Skull unconscious with a sharp roundhouse kick. Years of meditation and training executed perfectly. "He was mine," yelled Cyborg, preceding to blast Wotan away from some scrambling away from the battle. He ignored them entirely, there were bigger problems. If the whole fight was intended to disorient the Justice League members, it was succeeding - chaos reigned supreme. It was hard to distinguish how many villains were present because of a nefarious green mist that was swirling around the blocks. The mist combined with the plant specimen made a coordinated attack on the Injustice League difficult and just impractical without Clark or Diana. "Any word from either Superman or Wonder Women?" he inquired to Hal through his Communication device. There was static noise, followed by a cracking response, "Diana's with me down on 5th Street but no sign of Clark." Bruce felt something in his chest tighten. Where was Clark? But at least one of the titans was present, they had a chance of winning now... "Does she have idea where Clark is?" He heard a explosion through the earpiece. Smoke billowed up over a building on another street, the air becoming grey and hazy. "No." Where are you, Clark? Slipping under a fallen beam, he shot a detonator on the plant and calculated that he would need to place at least three more to destroy the creature. His thoughts swayed from his task at hand. Clark may have been god-like in power and prowess but he was still fallible. He stealthily worked his way around the mammoth creation, planting two more detonators. He was seconds from placing the last fuse when he was blown backward. Count Vertigo appearing before him followed by the Black Atom. Flinging one of his batarangs toward the Black Atom and aiming a smoke bomb at the ground, he dived behind some rubble. Only to hear the click of a gun being loaded as a sickly cackle sounded behind him. It was a noise that haunted his nightmares just as persistently as his reality. The Joker put the steel nozzle to his head, having moved around to face him. A perverse grin split over his scared lips, reminiscent of skull cracking. "Don't feel too bad, Batsy. It took us some serious planning to get you here." He collapsed to the ground as Vertigo overtook him. Wheezing laughter was somewhere above him, the world spun. "Get it! Serious!" Fighting against the dizziness and nausea, he reached for an explosion in his belt. The Joker continued his mad rambling. "Taking them out one by one like domino's. I wonder if Supes will be alive when we get back." Batman's hand hesitated on the activation device as ice cold fear ran through him. Clark was captured. He drew in a deep breath, focus. Activating the explosion and simultaneously jerking his head to the side was a calculated gamble and one he was reassured paid off with the deafening boom of a gun fired directly next to his head. The vertigo was gone, just as he had predicted with the Count blown backwards. With all three of the villains disoriented he commed Hal saying he needed backup and shot a wire to a neighboring building. From the building he shot a quantum smoke bomb close enough to the villains that he was confident the Joker and Vertigo would be unconscious for the next hour at a minimum. Black Atom, on the other hand, would be infinitely more problematic; as far as Bruce knew, he did not need to breathe. Batman shot another cord to an adjacent roof, one more detonator planted and they could turn the tides. And find Clark. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Green Lantern, followed closely by Wonder Women. He commed them his location and quickly described the situation and plan he had formulated. "That does appear to be our best course of action," conceded Diana, he could practically see the gears turning in her battle orientated mind. "To victory!" She fearlessly shouted and bounded off the roof to initiate an epic fight with the Black Atom. He and Hal exchanged amused glances, "Remember Hal, stick to the plan." Hal flew upwards to shoot electric green blasts at the Black Atom while Wonder Women engaged him on the ground level. Bruce could see her heroically driving him backwards with her sword and battle prowess. Quite the women. Between the two of them, they'll manage, he told himself as he dove to the spot where the Joker and Count Vertigo lay unconscious. He dug through the Joker's pockets, nothing but knives and a couple of cyanide pills. He moved to the Count next, opening up the flap of his coat. Just as he had predicted, a phone. He connected it to his software and activated a tracer that would tell him where it had last called. Bingo, it was the address of an abandoned Gotham warehouse. He looked contemplatively at the Joker and Count Vertigo, he could leave them there. To be crushed by the rubble when the plant was extricated. If you've hurt Clark... but forced himself to move them to a safe location. After tying them up he planted the last denotation device on the plant, according to plan and headed to the Batmobile. He could hear the sounds of detonation and in the rear view mirror the sky was illuminated as fire reached for the heavens. The battle was far from over but he continued drive away from Metropolis, he was confident they could handle themselves. And Clark needed him. Clark. Bruce had dabbled with both men and women over the years, his sex life had been somewhat superfluous to say the least. Part of it was to keep his facade of billionaire playboy up but part of it was for personal enjoyment. Clark was practically a Boy Scout compared to him. Sweet, devastatingly selfless, and someone who hadn't seen their parents brutally murdered at nine. He had calculated that Clark hadn't had more than three sexual partners in his life and in addition to this, he wasn't fucked up like Bruce. He didn't lay awake at night plagued with nightmares or imagine what pulverizing someone to death would be like, he was pure. At least, too pure for someone like Bruce. Why in God's name Clark would have been fantasizing about himself was beyond Bruce comprehension. As far as Bruce was concerned, he was damaged goods - probably incapable of loving someone or deserving love. The closest to love he could come was through sex. Clark had done nothing to deserve being with him. If his personality and martyr complex weren't enough, Clark was a God in every sense of the word. Steel abs, memorizing biceps, chiseled shoulders, coupled with enticing lips. Every girl's and pubescent boys wet fantasy. He couldn't even pretend to himself that Clark was unattractive or that he didn't appeal to Bruce on some animalistic level. But in addition to Bruce being messed up, the Justice League and safely of people everywhere came before his personal libeto. Engaging in any sexual relationship with anyone in the Justice League was off limits. Especially the living God. Once upon a time, Bruce had believed that Superman had needed to be stopped - and he had come so very close to ending him. Now here he was desperately trying to save him, the irony was not lost on him. Besides, half the time, Bruce found Clark's optimism and hopeful nature infuriating. But he couldn't even imagine his life without the alien there.

#superbat #my fic #chapter two #the injustice league #superman #batman #superman x batman #clark kent x bruce wayne #Clark kent #Bruce wayne #Clark x Bruce #superbat fic #superbat fanfiction #superheroes #gay #to kiss a god #fanfiction #gay fanfiction

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