#there’s something so special to me about taking something like Batman with it’s tendency towards grim dark and intensity

[asteriskemily]

Hi, I found your Monster High X DC and i was wondering if you could continue the one about DRAGON!Tim Drake? Pretty Please?

I’m working on it I swear, I’m just slow. While I work on it, have a little bit of dialogue that was the first thing I wrote for that.

“Have you been thrown into the bay anytime recently?” Dick asked, lightly running his fingers over Tim’s shoulder.

“No?” Tim looked over his shoulder and raised his eyebrow at him.

“You haven’t been drinking tap water, right?” Dick tried to make it sound like a joke, but Tim could still hear the tension in his voice.

“Of course not, I know better than to drink Gotham tap water.” Tim reassured him. “Dick, what’s going on?”

“You’re growing scales.”

“What?”

“You’re growing—“

“No, no, I heard you. It’s just… What?”

“You… it’d be easier if I just took a picture.” Dick reached around him to grab his phone from where he left it on the bench in the center of the small changing space. Tim heard the phone making a shutter sound before it was passed up to him. A picture of his shoulder. Dry, dead skin was flaking off and his skin was red and irritated. All centralized on a patch of golden scales growing out of his shoulder. Tim fell to the bench behind him as he stared at the photo.

“I’m growing scales.” He mumbled

“I’m gonna go get Alfred.” Dick quickly said before turning and running out of the room.

[the-atlas-sister]

First Kiss (Batfamily Preference)

(Y/f/h= your favorite hairstyle)

Bruce:

Bruce put on a fake smile, like he usually did at these galas. A handful of people approached him and asked him about his company or life, mostly old ladies asking when he was going to get himself a wife.

He let out a puff of air as the last group of old ladies walked away from him. He raised his glass of sparkling water to his lips, scanning the room for his special guest.

That's when he saw you. You wore a black dress that fit you perfectly and your hair was in (y/f/h). Alfred led you into the large room, saying something to you.

You looked around the room filled with people, anxiety rising in your chest. Your eyes finally landed on Bruce who stared at you with a loving expression on his face. You felt at ease as you stared at him.

Bruce approached you, taking your hand and raising it to his lips. They grazed your knuckles gently and you blushed as he kept eye contact.

"You look beautiful, my dear," Bruce said, spinning you.

"Thank you," you said, smiling gratefully.

"I want to show you something," Bruce said, giving you a boyish grin.

"Alright," you said, letting him guide you up the main stairs. He continued to lead you down the long halls until you reached a large terrace overlooking the garden and pool. "Wow," you sighed, leaning your elbows on the railing. You stared in awe at the beautiful sight before you, not noticing Bruce come up next to you.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked, making you look at him.

"Very," you said. "I can't believe this is all yours."

"It can be yours too," he stated, turning to you.

"That's very sweet," you chuckled, turning back to the garden.

Bruce smiled at you. "I mean it," he said, gripping your chin gently and making you look at him. "I love you, Y/N," he said honestly.

Your eyes widened. You stared at Bruce before leaning forward and pressing your lips against his. You pulled away seconds after. "I love you too," you said quietly, your face a deep red.

Bruce's face lit up before he wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you into a sweet hug.

(Don't mind me. Just blushing because I'm imagining Christian Bale's Bruce Wayne)

Dick:

"You'll be okay," Dick mumbled, setting you on the guest room bed at Wayne manor. You had recently been kidnapped by Slade as bait. When Dick arrived, you were already bloodied and bruised.

"I'm fine," you said, sitting up, wincing as you did. "I'm Batgirl."

"Lie your ass down," Dick demanded, taking off his domino mask. You closed your mouth and relaxed against the headboard.  You watched as Dick pulled out one of the first aid kits that was held in every room (due to the family's tendency to endanger themselves), his shoulders tense.

"Calm down, Cereal Boy," you said, trying to make a joke. Dick sent you a harsh look, making you sink into the bed.

Dick noticed this and his gaze softened. He sighed and sat in front of you. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I used to love the idea of you being Batgirl. I loved to work with you, but after this- a-and after what happened to Barbra and Jason-"

"Dick, listen to me," you said, now sitting right across from Dick. "I understand your fear, but I'm not Barbra or Jason, and your not Bruce. You won't give up everything for the city. And I can take care of myself."

"But-"

"No buts," you interrupted. "I'm a little bruised but alive."

"Y/N-"

You rolled your eyes before leaning forward and pressing your lips against Dick's. He stiffened but slowly leaned into it. He placed his larger hands on your shoulders as gently as he could.

"Thanks for worrying," you mumbled as you pulled away.

Jason:

You smirked as you ran across the rooftops, Red Hood and Nightwing behind you. You had taken up the mantle Catwoman for a while, because your mother had been injured fighting Batman.

You had just stolen a golden cat statue from the Penguin, who was at large.

"Is it just me, or has Catwoman gotten smaller?" Nightwing said, doing a flip and landing in front of you.

"Is it just me or is this Nightwing's hairline reseeding?" you smirked. You watched as Nightwing's face contorted into one of fear, his hands going to his hair. You took that opportunity to jump down from the building. As you fell, you felt someone wrap their arms around your waist, catching you before both of you tumbled onto one of the lower buildings.

You jumped up, seeing Red Hood across from you. "Now, let's make this easy," he said, pulling out one of his guns, which you assumed had rubber bullets. "I got a date tonight and I can't be late."

"So do I," you stated before pulling out your whip. You snapped it around Red Hood's ankle, pulling him to his back. You yanked on the whip, pulling Red Hood towards yourself. You placed one foot on his chest and the other on his wrist holding the gun. "Now tell me, what's under that hood?" You leaned down, your gloved hands running around the metal hood, searching for a way to take it off.

"Hey-" Red Hood exclaimed as you pulled off the hood. Your eyes widened as your boyfriend's face appeared. You decided to put on a fake smirk.

"What a pretty face," you said, leaning down and placing your knees on his wrists. You smirked as you pressed your lips to Jason's. You placed both of your hands on his face, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. "Hope your girlfriend doesn't mind," you whispered before jumping up. You grabbed your whip and rewrapped it before jumping off the building. You let out a breath as you landed in a dumpster.

You jumped out and began running. My boyfriend is Red Hood, you thought.

Tim:

Where is he? you thought, looking around the cafeteria. You were waiting for your best friend, Tim. He had been incredibly kind when you first arrived at school and the two of you instinctually clicked.

You sighed after waiting a few more minutes before standing up and walking into the halls. That's when you saw Tim surrounded by three bullies.

"Look at this loser," the first one said, pushing Tim back when he tried to sneak away. "Bet he's never even had a girlfriend." Tim met your eyes. He seemed less scared or intimidated and more annoyed.

"Can I just go to lunch?" he sighed.  

"You could eat this," the second bully smirked, pulling out a stinky sock.

You scoffed, deciding to step in. "What are you, 5?" you said, pushing the bully's face to the side. He looked at you, extremely offended. "Come on Tim," you said, grabbing Tim's hand and beginning to pull him out from the small circle of bullies.

"Guess he can get girls to save him, but never sleep with him!" one bully yelled. You stopped, glaring at him before grabbing Tim's face and kissing him softly.

Tim panicked for a second, going stiff and not knowing what to do, but eventually placed his hands on your waist like Dick told him to when he explained how to kiss a girl.

"Come on," you grinned, pulling away.

"O-okay," Tim stuttered out before letting you lead him back into the cafeteria.

Damian:

"You're getting sloppy," Damian commented as you threw a punch at him. He had suggested a while back that you two start training together. You thought it was a great idea and would be fun. You were wrong.

"I am not," you defended, ducking as Damian threw a punch. He was going easy on you, and it annoyed you. "And don't go easy on me Damian. I'm Supergirl, I can handle it."

"I'm not going easy on you Beloved," Damian insisted, ducking down and going to trip you, but you easily flew above his foot. "Although we did agree no powers," he said, crossing his arms over his chest and looking up at your flying form.

"I'll stop using my powers when you stop going easy on me," you said, mimicking Damian's actions.

"Alright," Damian smirked, making you blush slightly. He quickly pulled out a grappling hook gun from who knows where and shot it. It wrapped around your ankle before you could fly away. Damian pulling on it, slowly pulling you down from the air until your feet touched the ground. Then, before you had time to react, he rushed forward, tripping you.

"Ow," you mumbled, looking up to see Damian pinning you to the ground with a smirk. "I knew you were going easy on me." Damian smiled slightly, admiring you. "Can you let me up now?" you asked, you face flushing pink at the newfound attention.

"Try and get out," Damian stated, apparently unsatisfied. You sighed before an idea popped into your mind. You leaned up, pressing your lips to Damian's. His eyes widened, unsure of what to do. He racked his brain for what Dick had told him to do in the stupid 'what if someone kisses you' talks. You then leaned back down.

"I'm sorry," you said, worried about Damian's reaction.

Damian stared at you before leaning down and recapturing your lips. You quickly reacted, lifting your head up to get a better angle.

You felt Damian's grip loosen as you continued and tried to slip your wrists from his grip, only from Damian to grab them again and press them to the floor.

"So close," he teased, pulling away slightly.

You rolled your eyes.

"SWEET JESUS!" Dick's voice yelled from the side, making you and Damian turn your heads. All of Damian's brothers stood there, staring at the two of you. Dick seemed horrified, Jason seemed both impressed and proud and Tim just looked confused. "YOU TWO NEED HOLY WATER!" Dick screeched, rushing forward and pouring his water on the both of you.

"Grayson!"

Terry:

"Terry," you said, looking up from your book as Terry walked into the living room of Wayne Manor.

"Hey Baby," Terry said, approaching you. "Where's the old man?"

"At some charity event," you stated, returning your attention to your book. Terry sat next to you, staring at you.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"Y/f/b," you answered, turning a page.

"Well, can we do something together?" Terry questioned.

"After I'm done reading," you shrugged him off. Terry glanced at the book, raising an eyebrow at how much you still had left. He pushed the book down slightly, making you scowl at him. "Terry, I told you-"

Terry leaned forward, kissing you gently. You pushed him away. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked, staring at you with a hurt expression.

"I said after my book," you said, going back to y/f/b.

These aren’t fantastic- but thank you for reading

I take requests btw! <3

I take requests for the following fandoms:

Demon Slayer

Haikyuu

Hunter x Hunter

My Hero Academia

Studio Ghibi films

IT (the films and book)

Percy Jackson

DC

Marvel

Umbrella Academy

Harry Potter

Star Wars

Most Actors (not a fandom, I know)

Rise of the Guardians

Disney (some people like reading Disney character x reader things)

I do fluff, smut, lime and angst.

[internalsealpanic]

Monster Monster

I wholeheartedly blame this pic for the existence of this fic. I just wanna hug him and ruffle his hair. 

Summary: Parent Teacher Conferences are very scandalous. 

a/n: This is actually one of my few fics where reading some of my previous fics will help. I highly recommend reading Of Midnight Smoothies and Murder Mysteries to get a better feel on Dick and Reader’s relationship but anything on the Dick Grayson masterlist works too. Special thanks to @littleredwing89​ and @americasmarauders​ for proofreading. Thanks to @littleredwing89​ and @batarella​ for help with the ending. 

warnings: A slur is mentioned but it gets shut down. Also, swearing. 

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

“Tt, stop staring at me.”

You bite back a smile and what was probably a laugh rising in your throat. “Hmmm, no.” You hum, carding your fingers through Damian’s curls. The corners of your mouth twitch into a frown when you feel an angry bump against your fingers. It’s dry and there seems to be no break in the skin as far as you could tell. You let a little sigh of relief escape you which has the unintended consequence of upsetting the gremlin in front of you.

Damian attempts to swat your hand away, snarling as he did. You grin at him, all sharp teeth and pettiness. You, being childish,  do not take your hand away and instead ruffle his hair more. An adorably petulant pout settles on Damian’s mouth making the kid look ten-years-old for once. It takes everything in you not to squeal in  delight. 

“Unhand me. I do not require your mothering and you would do very well to leave the scolding to Richard or Pennyworth.” You can easily picture Alfred scolding Damian but Dick? You try to picture Dick, hand on his hip, trying his damndest to be mean to the kid but you just couldn’t. Sure, Nightwing can be terrifying, even Batman but Dick? Especially with a kid? Not even feasible. You snort openly, the noise echoing in the deadly silent room. The woman on the other side of the room sitting next to a boy with a faceful of bruises and probably a couple of chipped teeth glares at you. Specifically, the woman scowls at your arm, skin festooned with bangles of coiled serpent tails and glittering blades. You fight the urge to stick your tongue out at her. Instead, you tug a bit at your sleeves, baring the golden lines streaked with old gashes. A low humorless laugh escapes you causing her scowl to deepen. 

Damian follows your line of sight. His face folds in utter contempt. The boy next to her flinches. Their size difference made this all the funnier.  “[What did he do?]” you ask in what you hope are the correct words in Arabic. Damian crosses his arms not meeting your gaze. His leg kicks out, the restlessness thrumming in his bones. “[Your accent is atrocious.]”

Your mouth twitches uncontrollably, edging into a fond smile. You tamp it down with a click of your tongue lest the little demon tear your head off. “[I’m out of practice, child,]” Damian grabs at a space beside him only for his hand to close on nothing. Something inside you dies when you stop yourself from cackling. Thank goodness, Bruce has--had--the good sense to take the kid’s katana away. 

“[Anyway, what did he do?]”

“[How are you so sure he did something?]”

“[Because you’re a brat but not stupid. You are by far the most annoyingly reasonable child I have had the displeasure of conversing with.]” Damian’s eyes widened in surprise. It seems the assumed hatred was mutual. You watch as he folds his face back into a glower, not quite fast enough to evade your attention but certainly fast enough to fool  the untrained eye. Unfortunately for him, you’re used to the acrobatics of faces, the chaotic cacophony of microexpression. Most people in your life are, after all, awful at broadcasting their feelings even when it was sorely needed. This is probably why you gravitated to Dick so easily. The man believed in openness, in communication.

Distantly, you can hear the woman across from you tap her foot impatiently against the carpet. A flick of your eye tells you she was sneering at both of you likely eavesdropping (and failing) on your conversation. Why she needs to know what you and a ten-year-old with a stick up his ass were talking about you weren’t sure. Damian turns his head slightly towards you, angling his chin upward to mask the uncertainty in his posture. “[If you must know, he-]”

“Gypsies”

The syllables ring like a loud staccato of gunshots despite how quietly she’d hissed it. You freeze. You can feel Damian stiffen right beside you. Understanding flowed into you molten and bubbling. You feel your throat itch, unkind words coalescing into a lump in your throat. You turn your body to Damian who was now still but you can feel the anger wicking off him. You sling your arm over the head of the chair behind him drawing his attention back to you. 

He arches a brow at you, challenging. The expression falters when the next few words leave your mouth. 

“[You’re off the hook.]”

Principal Jameson is a nasally man. It isn’t his anything to do with his voice. Though, you would be remiss to say that his voice was pleasant. You’re actually half tempted to turn your bad ear on him, block out the words coming from him but that would negate the point of you coming here. His voice isn’t that unpleasant but his entire demeanor rubbed you the wrong way. You’ve seen jellyfish with more backbone than this man. Then again, this might just be a by-product of your presence. Dick, and several other batbrats, have helpfully informed you that you were in fact pants pissing scary to civilians. You would like to say you couldn’t see it but standing in front of this man it was clear as day.  

“Y/n L/n,” you offer congenially. His shoulders ease a fraction but did not offer you a hand. You smother a sigh before offering an additional “I believe Mr.Grayson-Wayne had informed you that I would be coming in his stead to discuss this-” Shit show, your mind supplies but thankfully, your mouth was quick enough to bite it back. “- incident.” Beside you Damian scoffed. You stop yourself from kicking the kid because that really would not do. 

“Yes, well, Ma’am your-” Jameson halts frankly unsure of your relationship to Damian because of course, Dick would leave the leg work to your socially allergic ass. You make a mental note to kick him later. “- charge.” you supply, feeling a modicum of sympathy for the drowning man.Your eyes flick to Damian. His face is impassive, ire still directed at the thirteen-year-old sniveling behind his mother. The term is too cold for your taste but as of right now that’s all you were. Maybe you’ve finally found a Robin you wouldn't get attached to.

“Well, ma’am, you see your charge, Damian, he’s punched another student and has yet to even apologize. He even started a full on brawl.”

“Mhmm, I see,” you drawl tilting your head. You feel Damian stiffen at the ease of your response. You don’t have to look at his face to know that he was glaring at you with something in his eyes withering from the betrayal. The woman across from nods agreeably as if you had said something sensible. Jameson for his part nearly sighs with relief. You click your teeth a little irritable from their responses but more fascinated than anything. ‘I see’ is barely an answer but they each filled in the gaps with their own assumptions. “And has that young man over there apologized for what he said to Damian? Or for the lump on Damian’s head? Surely, you sent Damian to the clinic as well.” you voice out looking as scandalized as possible. 

The room froze. 

Your eyes will probably roll into the back of your head before your meeting is done. Judging from Jameson’s posture, they didn’t. They should have at least checked if the kid had a concussion. A familiar sort of ire rose in you. Oh boy, you’re going to have a field day with these people. You sigh in exasperation before continuing. “Not only did you neglect to send him to the clinic to check on the lump on his head, but you were also planning to let the other boy off the hook?” you accuse, voice rising with some effort.  Your voice has a tendency to draw low when your temper is flaring. It’s an intimidation tactic you'd learned from a while ago. It would probably be ill advised to use it on a man who looked like he was a second away from a heart attack. 

Jameson leans forward, reaching out appeasingly.“Ma’am, we-”

“From what I recall, Gotham Academy has a strict zero tolerance policy on derogatory language, does it not?” You cut him off, voice suddenly vicious. You shift your body in front of Damian putting yourself between him and everyone else in the room. He bristles at the gesture but you and your habits aren’t exactly concerned with his pride. 

“Ma’am I-“

“I rest my case. Please, feel free to contact Mr.Grayson-Wayne if you have more to say.” You settle a hand on Damian’s shoulder. You’re surprised he didn’t fight you or swat your hand away. Taking it as permission, you pull him closer to you as you leave the red faced woman and the paling man gob smacked and silent. Damian himself doesn’t make the sound as you made your way down the hall. You squeeze his shoulder gently hoping it comes across as a reassuring gesture. His posture does not loosen but you do not let him stray from you. You close your eyes as the elevator doors shut. 

“I did not require your assistance.”

“I know.”  Of course, he doesn’t. He is a Robin and an Al Ghul but that doesn’t mean he isn’t gonna get it. You drum your fingers against the steering wheel, the dull beat only serving to irritate your nerves. You swear the traffic in Gotham was somehow infinitely worse than everywhere else in the world even with working traffic lights. Maybe that’s why there were so many crazy people here. Maybe Bruce should have invested his money on better roads. Maybe-

Your eyes slide towards Damian who is somehow shrinking and pressing into the side door. Still, his face is twisted skeptically and braced for a continuation to your statement. You looked heavenward not even hiding the weariness in your smile. The brat is truly a bat-- suspicion and all.  You turn your body towards him, opening up your posture. You fold your leg and rest your chin on your arm. Damian meets your gaze head on, looking imperious as he crosses his arms over his chest. His posture is artificial, probably uncomfortable from the weight of your attention.

You roll your shoulders and reshape your features, reconfiguring yourself from understanding to teasing. “I know. I know but you see, they needed telling off and your tiny gremlin ass isn’t scary enough. And, I promise I won’t tell Dickolas that you defended him so vehemently.” you wink, a conspiratorial grin spreading across your face. Damian straightens, his body is bowed like he was about to spring for your throat but the shape his limbs took on was more natural and seemingly relaxed. The knot in your shoulder loosens. You reach over and ruffle his hair again.  He really is still a kid. You stare each other down. Your smile is as unwavering as his glower.

Both of your stomachs grumble. The sound was loud and abrasive in the closed space of the car. You check your watch and hum, shifting back into your seat. Wordlessly, you switch on your signal light. 

You leaf through the pages of the thoroughly used book in your hands, eyes skimming through the blocks of texts not really absorbing any of it. You  never really found the appeal in fiction. The stories are too neat compared to what you experienced daily. You suppose there is simplicity in them but you find that in nonfiction, the kind of books that explained the mechanics of things. They made sense of the world and were much more useful in your opinion. You’re much more interested in the messy scribbles on the margins, the etchings of a loud mind on yellowing pages. Jason’s notes were written in the same tone of voice he used when he spoke, deceptively layman but upon further inspection was frighteningly insightful. You smile at the little comments and complaints, the snarky little remarks. Remnants of the little boy he had been before. You frowned. You should probably give this back to him once you have the chance and maybe come up with some excuse of why you still have it. Or you can just keep it. 

You look up at Damian who is drumming his fingers impatiently against the lacquered table. His posture is artificially relaxed, likely something he learned from the league or maybe all nervous gremlins do it. You look down at the book again. The sight reminds you of Jay. You tip your head, the loud thunk of your skull is felt more than heard since it was your bad ear that is pressed against the glass. The sound startles Damian who was deep in thought. You hold out the book to him. He must be bored waiting for your order. He pointedly ignores you. 

"I don't need that childish drivel." He snipes. You click your teeth feeling a little defensive of the book. 

You sound exactly like your grandfather, you think but have enough sense to keep it to yourself. No child needs to be compared to Ra's Al Ghul even if he is a brat. 

"Not a fan of-" You look at the book's spine and frown. "-Robert Stevenson?" What kind of dork reads Robert Stevenson for fun? Oh wait, it's the same dork that quotes Shakespeare while bashing heads. 

"I have no need for such things." 

Of course, he didn’t. 

"No, I suppose you don't need anything with the actual text but the margins are quite fascinating." You hold out the book to him again. His eyebrows shoot up looking at you skeptically as he reaches for it. There is no  actual written indication that it was Jay's and the kid likely hasn't spent enough time with Jay to actually tell from the way it's written. You look out the window to turn your good ear to him, listening for any reactions he might have. Every now and then you hear a huff of amusement. You smother the smile threatening to form on your lips with your hand.

"Well, the person who owned this certainly had a lot to say." Damian says carefully, handing the book back. 

"Jay really was a mouthy kid."  

Damian looks at you, little face scrunching up in confusion. You suddenly notice just how easily the booth swallows him up. Why is he so tiny? "If this is Todd's, why do you have it?" 

You clasp the book in your hands, your thumb tracing over the creases. "He leant me this book shortly before he died. He-- Well, I told him that I wasn't fond of adventure stories. I prefer books about science and culture. They're much more useful, yanno?" Damian gives a slight nod. You relax into your seat with his understanding. "Well, he thought it was just that I've never read a good one so he gave me this one. Never quite finished it though." you admit a little sheepish after realizing just how sentimental you felt. Your eyes trace over Damian's expression. It's clear that the sentimentality bled through your words and some childish part of you winces at the vulnerability of it. Damian says nothing and doesn't even sneer in derision. 

You hum, the tune musical but offkey. “Jason, actually did what you did today awhile ago.”  Just like that you begin down a rabbit hole telling the little gremlin about all the stupid shit the older bats have gotten into. And oh boy, there’s a lot. 

“So do either of you want to explain what happened and why GAs headmaster called me sounding like he was gonna piss himself?”

“Hmmm, probably not ” you say around your spoonful of mahalabia, not even looking up from your book. Hilariously enough, Damian had also elected to leave Dick’s presence unacknowledged and busy with his own mahalabia.  Dick scoot into your side of the booth, purposefully squishing you against the wall with a shiteating grin. He loops his arm around you and pulls you closer, planting a sloppy kiss on your cheek. You blanch and push half heartedly at his chest as he laughs. That laugh makes your heart warm and a relenting smile spreads across your features softening them. Your body twitches forward to kiss but you still when Dick freezes instead you plant a kiss on his cheek as well. Dick relaxes at the familiarity of it and you two settle down. 

 Damian stares at both of you befuddled. A heat creeps up your cheeks realizing that Dick is practically sitting on you. Dick, on the other hand, seems perfectly content with your current lack of personal space, so you leave it alone despite the incredulous look Damian is giving both of you. Dick snatches up your spoon taking a heap from your dessert. You make an offended noise in the back of your throat which he simply answers with another broad smile.  Your lip twitches uncontrollably and your shoulders go slack.

“So what happened?”

You and Damian exchange a look. Damian rolls his eyes at you and you shrug at him performatively. “Nothing.” you two say in a chorus of nonchalance. It only succeeds in annoying Dick, so it was partially successful.   

Dick pouts taking another bite of your desert. You stare in disbelief as the grownass man sitting next to you attempts to give you the puppy dog eyes as he eats your desert. You sign on exasperation because it's working and the bastard knows it. Richard John Grayson-Wayne is a manipulative asshole and you are a certified sucker. 

You turn to Damian pleadingly begging him to please either help you or end you. Instead, he simply looks the two as if searching for an answer to a question forming in his mind. You run your hand over your face ready to concede when something clicks. 

"Man-Bat got into GA and Damian fought him off." you say, praying Dick would catch on to the game. For a terrifying moment, he doesn’t. He blinks at you in confusion and your stomach sinks then a smile slowly spreads across his face lighting up every feature. Your heart swells at the sight.

"Bullshit. What was Man-Bat doing in GA?"

"Dunno,maybe bullying students. I don't know what bat creatures get up to." you say grinning. The picture becomes clear from every outlandish story. To your surprise, Damian joins in with a few vague details of his own giving even more details than you'd initially gathered. 

Lunch passes pleasantly with outlandish stories and good food. 

“NEWS: Dick Grayson-Wayne, New Face of Wayne Enterprises, Caught in a Torrid Love Affair with a Mystery Woman. Who Could this Exotic Beauty Be?”

“NEWS: Young Wayne Heir Being Extorted by Mystery Woman?”

“NEWS: Wayne Heir with Secret Family?”

Dick wants to evaporate somehow. He stares at the headlines mortified beyond what he ever thought possible. Maybe the floor will be merciful and it’ll finally swallow him as Jason reads another headline in a ridiculous newsreel voice. 

“No, no wait.  This one is fucking priceless!”

“Jason, please, I am begging you. STOP.” Dick whines, his face flattening against his work table. Tim shrugs, an amused smile adorns his face. Dick is going to scream. “Tim, please please please, make him stooop.” Tim ignores Dick in favor of scrolling through his own tablet looking, frankly unsympathetic. 

“Oh a tryst!”

“Jason, you are making it sound so much worse.”

“Dunno, big bird, some of these make it sound like you fucked her over a table in the restaurant.” Jason watches in absolute delight as his older brother attempts to merge with the work bench, the tanned skin of his neck and ears burning a bright shade of crimson. Tim snickers, unhelpfully. Dick loved that his younger brothers were getting along for once. He just hated that for some reason they just had to be united against him. “All I did was kiss her on the cheek and eat her food.”

Jason gasps theatrically, feigning fainting. “Premarital kissing?! Dick, how could you? What’s next? Premarital hand holding? Think of the children.” Jason exclaims, dramatically pointing to Damian who at this point had been ignoring the ruckus Jason was causing. 

“Jason, you’re awful and you’re being extremely dramatic.” 

“Dick, you don’t exactly have any room to talk in that department.”

“Yeah, Mr. Pretty Man Down, Baby Bird has a point.” Jason says smugly as he offers Tim a fist bump which Tim reciprocates by shaking Jason's fist, a joking smile on his face. Jason snorts as if getting the joke or whatever movie reference this was from. 

Tim's face folds into a barely held back smile. The laughter bubbling in the back of his throat straining his features. “I will say it is really funny that they didn’t recognize Damian.” 

“You know how they are. They probably came up with something like the whole Damian being Bruce’s kid was actually just a cover up for Dick.” Somewhere in the background Damian makes a very displeased noise but Dick can't be bothered to lift his head to check. 

“Please no. That doesn’t even-”

“Here’s one, NEWS: Dick Grayson-Wayne’s Baby Mama? Who is this mysterious woman?” Tim reads out flatly. 

“The PR team is going to kill me. No, wait. Y/n is going to kill me first.”

“She won’t. She probably finds this hilarious.”

“How would she even find this funny?”

“Well, she does enjoy your suffering- Oh shit. This one might piss her off.” Jason clears his throat, sliding back into the newsreel voice. “DICK GRAYSON, HANDSOME PLAYBOY - WITH YET ANOTHER GIRLFRIEND - WILL HE EVER SETTLE DOWN?”

Dick is half tempted to throw his own tablet at the wall. What did he do to deserve this? You certainly don’t.  

“Hey, at least, they called you handsome.” Tim laughs placatingly. It doesn’t work, of course. 

Dick looks up at his little brother ruefully. “Oh yeah because the stuff about my looks was definitely the issue.” 

“Well considering your morning routine...”

“I haven’t even been on a date so who are these other girlfriends?!”

“Well, me and Jason thought the same thing.” Tim shoots down sneering. When did his sweet baby brother turn to the dark side? Likely, Jason’s influence but deep down he knows Tim has always been capable of evil. Jason is cackling proudly. 

“I don't see why you're concerning yourself with this drivel.” Damian says, swiping the tablet right in front of Dick forcing him to look up. Dick smiles at him wearily. “Dami, it’s a little hard when a photo of me kissing y/n on the cheek is plastered everywhere with weird headlines.” Damian tilts his head considering it but he shakes his head muttering something about pointlessness. 

“Goddammit, Disco Stick!” The sound  of your voice ringing out into the bunker sends their banter crashing to a halt. Dick feels his heart jump to his throat. He-- This was how he was going to die and for once  he wasn’t sure he deserved it or not. You stand at the doorway haloed in bright light. At least, his angel of death would be the prettiest one, he thinks-- all the oxygen leaving his lungs. 

Crumpled in your fist was a newspaper. Dick can feel his brothers take a step back as you draw near. Your footfalls were as steady as a pulse which made Dick’s own heart rate ratchet up. Your face is carefully impassive the way it always is when your anger was dosed with something else. Dick is sincerely hoping Jason is right about you being amused by the headlines. 

You stop in front of him, eyes narrowed and jaw tight. You glower down at him frankly looking murderous before you snort and your face breaks into a smile. The thick tension in the air dissipates and the room releases its collective breath. The smile on your face grows even brighter. Nope, this is how Dick dies, his breath catching in his lungs as his mind fizzes out from the sight of your smile. 

“I’m sorry?” Dick lifts himself off the table just barely, still bracing for any sudden wave of anger that will, justifiably, roll over you at some point.  

You lean your body on to the spot next to him, letting the table support your weight. Straightening the newspaper in your hands, you frown. “I look terrible in this.”

“You look beautiful.” Dick blurts out. You raise your brow at him incredulously. Jason folds over trying to hold back laughter, his shoulders trembling. Tim just shrinks from second hand embarrassment. 

“No, she is correct. She looks repulsive.” Damian says flatly as he snatches the paper from you.

You let out a breathy laugh. “To be fair, anyone would look repulsive next to professional pretty boy Dickie Wayne.” There was no sharpness in your teasing. You look at the photo over Damian’s shoulder. It was a cute photo actually. Dick’s arm loops around your shoulder as he gives you a kiss on your cheek as Damian blanches at Dick’s very public display of affection. It was hilariously easy to see where they got the idea that you two were a couple. You weren’t. You haven’t been for awhile.  The thought wrenches something a dull ache inside you. You flatten your lips preventing the edges from dipping into a frown. 

A look crosses between Jason and Tim. Tim leans over, asking in a hushed whisper, “I thought they were back together.”

“Dunno they act like it.” Jason shrugs watching your movement. As if to prove his point, you and Dick lean into each other’s space as you bicker about the merits of Gothamite photographers. Jason is half tempted to shove you two together.  

“What are you two talking about?” You ask, finally leaning away from Dick. 

“Nothing-”

“They were pondering the state of your relationship. I myself have been pondering it.”

For a moment, your eyes meet. For a moment, you are back in a drab hotel in Moscow. For a moment, you are crying your heart out in his arms trying to push him away. 

You click your teeth and stare Damian in the eyes not entirely sure what kind of emotions they were betraying. “We were a thing.” Damian’s brow shoots up. You hear someone’s hand slap against their forehead. 

You flush wanting to  disappear but hold your stance. You hear Dick chuckle beside you as he stands shoulder to shoulder with you. Something in you eases with the closeness, like a gap being filled. “We used to be a couple.” Dick supplies, saving you from your flailing. You tap your finger against the back of his hand as a silent thank you. He taps yours twice in reciprocation. You look down trying to hide a smile. 

Jason and Tim look at each other again and nod. 

“We should probably go.” Jason says carrying Damian under his arm.    

“Todd, unhand me! We are not done here!”

“We’ll see you two later.” Tim waves giving Dick a knowing smile. Dick’s heart jumps up to his throat while his stomach drops to the floor. Is this really the time for his brother’s to play cupid? 

You lean in, letting your body press into Dick’s side as you listen to their footsteps fade away. Your head settling on his shoulder hand bracing you against the workbench. You let the stillness settle and make everything around you more solid. 

Dick shifts a bit, his fingers lacing in with yours. The gesture makes your heart twinge, the chasm in your chest yawning with longing. You swallow. The air is thick with unspoken words like smoke clogging up your lungs. You think that if you could just pluck the right one out of thin air, you could clear the air. 

‘I love you’ itches in the back of your throat but what right did you have to say that to him even after all this time. 

Beside you, Dick is smiling and relishing your presence. The silver glint of your earring winking at him from beneath your hair. He had gotten you that on your first date, a little souvenir you got to commemorate the occasion.  

Dick pivots in front of you making your breath catch. His free hand brushing your hair behind your ear revealing the silver robin on your ear. Silver robins. You had at the time laughed at the absurdity of it but here they were years later. Dick’s hands settle on either side of you boxing you in against the table. Even when he’s got you trapped like this, you feel at ease knowing Dick would never hurt you. Dick leans his forehead against yours, his fingers still intertwined with yours. Your pulse is loud in your ears. You lean your forehead against his, eyes sliding close soaking up the contact. 

“It’s always been you.” Dick says breathlessly. The words do not register, too dreamlike in their conception. You always hoped and wished that you could take it back, that you had never left, that he would love you the same way he did before but you were never foolish enough to hold on to things like that with both hands. Yet here Dick was whispering things that you only let yourself dream of. 

“It’s always been you.” He repeats as if the repetition could make it more real. You swallow the lump in your throat trying to find your voice but you’re afraid that once you speak, the room would  catch fire and the dream would dissolve into harsh reality. 

Dick gently cups your face and for a moment you let yourself be lost in the sea of blue. The stinging in your eyes makes you blink even if you don’t want to. You lick your lips as if somewhere on them were the right words. 

You can’t even fathom the combination of words that could encapsulate the cocktail of longing and love you felt for him. 

Your tongue darts out, wetting your bottom lip as your eyes focus on his lips. You swallow again your throat feeling thick even as you lean into his space, pushing off the work bench. Your nose rubbing against his, his long lashes fluttering against your cheek and tickling your skin. Dick leans in, his lips on yours, the pressure barely enough to make contact. You twitch forward, lips melting against his.  The world around you stills and disintegrates leaving only him in its wake. 

The kiss is all tender softness, a promise of love and loyalty quietly exchanged between you. A delicate push and pull. Undemanding yet uncompromising in its gentle intensity. 

You both pull back, only barely. Your skins still thrum with hunger for contact. Dick leans in again, his lips brushing against yours making them tingle at the sensation. Murmured breaths exchanged between you. This time you both find the right words. 

Dick turning to reader seeing the familiar glint of her earing

“I still love you.” 

--------------------

I was thinking it was just them in the cave standing next to each others fingers twining with each other leaning into each other's space

he brushes the strands of her hair away

After brushing her hair away he presses his forehead against hers and he just kind of comes out with it

like he'd been holding back on saying it but couldn't anymore

 Why not have the reader do something like this?

What if she nudges her nose against his? Or rubs her nose against his, like an Eskimo kiss? And it’s silent, her eyelashes flutter against his cheek. They say in Inuit, when you feel eyelashes stroke on your skin like that, it’s a way of saying “I love you” without actually saying it.

And maybe Dick knows that? Without her actually saying the words and he just smiled and captures her lips in a delicate kiss. And when they pull back, they both say it at the same time against each other’s lip, all hushed and murmured?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading!

Taglist:  @batarella , @anothertimdrakestan , @lucy-roo , @multifandomgirl-us , @idkmanicantenglish ,@birdy-bat-writes ,  @boosyboo9206 , @americasmarauders , @l-inkage , @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay , @wunderstell @hyp-oh-critical

[laufire]

You know I have to ask: Considering your own sorting system for fave characters (Lana, Caroline, Vimes, Jason), how would you sort Castiel? And any other faves from SPN, actually? XDD

The thing is, I think Castiel is... apart from this classification, in some ways LOL.

I can see some parts of these characters in him, for sure -I like what I like, and I'm good at drawing parallels, so. With Caroline, there's the Steroline/Destiel aspect of "I've accepted my fave has lousy taste in men but they're my fave and part of me just wants them to get what they want. Ugh." xD. Then there's how defensive I get of them As They Are, including their powers. I'm as rabidly against the idea of a human!Castiel endgame as I was of a human!Caroline one; it's NOT what they want, we KNOW it's not what they want because there's proof in the test, and we know losing their powers would make them not only vulnerable, but miserable, given that they take genuine joy and pride in them. Not to mention, the idea of their ~humanity as a "happy ending" for them is exclusively to appease another character's sensibilities and to further the resulting ship (Stefan and Dean, who are also mortal and would grow old and die. Like igaf). Also both of them are in my list of "why are so many of my ultimate favourite characters on the receiving end of sexual trauma, why must I put up with this, please someone explain" asñldfkaf. And they both show capacity for generosity as well as for some serious ruthless mofo shit xDD

I can also see parallels between him and Vimes, easily. They are part of an unfair system and chaffing against it, but had been put down so many times before that they're swallowing their doubts until something so big they can't do it anymore happens (the dragon, the Apocalypse). Castiel also showed a posible tendency to take refuge in addictive substances (when he finds out God refuses to help he gets nearly black out drunk -a serious feat for an angel-, and endverse!Castiel seems to have been on a constant cycle of uppers and downers to deal with the loss of his powers and the shitty state of the world). They both try to take care of those in their charge. And they both are THE SWEETEST FATHERS, finding a new understanding of themselves in the simple act of taking care of another human being just for the sake of it (many, many feelings about these two as dads, let me tell you xDD).

If his parallels with Vimes show Castiel's facet as a father, then with Jason I could make comparisons of Castiel as a son, where Chuck would be a mix of Jason's adoptive and biological parents. Up until the end there are some instances of Castiel showing his faith and looking for God, then feeling betrayed by him, then regaining some faith to be disappointed again, trying to emulate them and going ~dark in the process... (Castiel has his Godstiel arc, Jason tried to take Batman's position for a while).

It's been far longer since I watched Smallville, and if I did I could probably draw a lot more comparisons. But one that comes to mind right now is how both Castiel and Lana are often trying to escape or reinvent themselves, for example. They both also have that je ne se quoi that makes others gravitate towards them, despite the fact that they're both fundamentally self-contained and hard to get to know people.

The point of all of this... he has aspects of all of them, as well as huge differences that would make them incompatible. He's all and more. He's beyond this classification. He's special xD. This is why I'm so unfortunately attached, I guess LOL.

Regarding other favourites... Ruby could work as a twisted mirror of Vimes, in some ways. Bela... well, she and Jason are tragic in some similar ways, IMO. Meg... she and Caroline have similar temperaments xD, and I can see some commonalities with Vimes (her whole speech about how people evolve, that mix of cynicism and optimism). I think it's likely that Rowena shares a fear of vulnerability with Caroline and Lana, although they each deal with it in many different ways. And Jack is as sweet but with a temper, usually when he gets protective, as Jason was as Robin :D. Also: Caroline giving blood to Liz to try to cure her/Jack aiding Castiel's resurrection a couple of times (with Jack being more obviously successful lol).

[soyouareandrewdobson]

Charles Schulz vs Andrew Dobson: What a Blockhead!

There are certain things about Dobson’s behavior and particularly his approach at being a nerd and presenting himself as someone who enjoys the art of storytelling that I have issues with. Issues I want to tackle on in more detail within later entries quite a bit.

One such tendency is, that he mocks directly or indirectly the work and accomplishments of others.

See, if Dobson doesn’t like you as a content creator because he does not like something you work on, he will try to show it. He will make stupid assumptions of you (like how he accused Kojima of being a sexist creep because of Quiet and how he deals with “male gaze” in MGS compared to Death Stranding), half heartedly mock you (look at anything he makes about Ethan Van Sciver) or he will call a piece of work boring and dull based on a minor element instead of overarching problems (calling Batman the character a white supremacist based on the dumb work of only one author).

By doing that he also tries indirectly to insinuate that he is better in some manner, though most of the time it really just shows his own ego and that his pet peeves are rather petty compared to the overall quality of the work he criticizes as well as its flaws.

One such sight of ego boosting while mocking the work of his better is in my opinion to be found in this comic he uploaded sometimes around 2016/17 randomly online.

This comic in my opinion is both laughable and insulting. Why? I will explain soon.

First however I want to clarify that I get that this comic is supposed to be a joke mostly. The old “What others expect, what I expect” thing, where the punchline is supposed to be the discrepancy between the two fractions and what they expect, mostly by making one of the expectations come off as worse than the other. However, I find the punchline to be Charlie Brown (and as such what Dobson seems to see as something he does not want to be favorable compared too) quite insulting. Why, as I said, will be elaborated on sooner.

First, let me just get on the part I find laughable: The fact that Dobson in his own head seems to believe he can be even remotely compared to people like Paul Dinni, Bruce Timm, Greg Weismann, Justin Roiland, Miyazaki, Shigeru Miyamoto and all the other character creators and animators whose creations we see in the first panel.

 Dobson, don’t make me laugh. Putting aside the fact that those people are animators more than cartoonists, what makes you even believe in your wildest dreams you are on the same level as them? The fact you too are an animator, seeing how you graduated from an art school with a degree in that field? I have seen your contributions to the field and honestly, I would expect a bit more. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0tdWNCrIxo

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ps6PfiUCxHQ

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4PyonOqClf8

 I give you credit, you can animate. Which is more than I can say for myself when it comes to the arts. But when you look what other freelance animators can do online, some of them younger than you and NOT with a degree in animation…

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=64&v=FmkAcGz1BJk&feature=emb_title

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=97IfPfjSaDg

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eEUoxQ4qSfs

 Viviepop’s demo reels alone are just gorgeous to look at and more fluid than what I have seen of you. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFlha-KOKCc

 And it is not just the technical quality, Dobson. It is also just the overall “originality” of your work. Cause this is the thing with those animators hinted on in the first pic and even many, many freelancers/fanartists as well as webcomic creators online: They have a spark of originality in presentation and storytelling that you lack. I will one day go more into detail for that, but here is the most brutal thing I can say at the moment: I know shitty porn fanfictions, that have more plot development and character growth than all of Alex ze Pirate.

Your characters and stories tend to be derivative and you barely take any risks in telling a story. Neither in your fanbased work (like the Miraculous comics) nor your original content (mostly because you take comfort in four panel strips anyway)  and when you have an idea for something on which the basis idea actually sounds good, you screw it up by a lackluster execution. One example I want to give for that, would be this fanart of yours in regard to Steven Universe.  

(I apologize for not getting one in better quality) This pic was something Dobson created around 2015 for Steven Universe. The picture is supposed to show Lapis, trapped under the ocean following the events of the season 1 finale of the show. A very emotional situation if you are aware of why Lapis sacrificed herself and was “banned” to the ocean floor. Short explanation: Fused with Jasper and then took primarily control of the fused being they became (Malachite) by using her water powers to bond it with heavy water chains on the ocean floor, so that Jasper would not hurt Steven anymore.

 How much of that was even an emotional strain on her and her psyche was in one episode of season 2 even a theme, as seen here.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SK3l8mGNhMg

 I am not even a fan of the show and I get the emotional weight and impact of Lapis actions.

So… why is that not conveyed in the artwork? If you are so talented Dobson, why is none of the strain and despair on the character? The idea of a pic showing Lapis under water, longingly looking up, even in despair is a good basis for a fanart. But the execution lacks any emotional detail. You want to know how I would execute the thing if I had the artistic talent? Make the picture a huge horizontal pic, where we slowly decent from water surface down the ocean. The light getting dimmer. Blue turning into dark. The silhouette of a hand and an arm similar to Malachite’s in the background, trying to travel up, the fingertips barely touching the surface. Heavy chains around the flesh. Symbolic of the fusion trying to break free and cause havoc. And down on the dark bottom, beaten and exhausted Lapis with tears in her eyes and chains all over her body like she is Jacob Marley, desperately trying to keep Malachite at bay for the sake of the only being on earth who ever showed just a little bit of kindness towards her.

 Why can’t we have something like this here, Dobson? If you were even remotely as original as the creators you want to be compared with, I think you could come up with something like that and perhaps even draw it.

But you know, his delusions of being as good as them is one thing. It is even funny.

Pissing over the Peanuts is another. Dobson, what are you trying to hint at?

That people comparing you to Charles Schulz and his creation is in your eyes automatically a sort of insult? That it is something that should at best only be a mockable punchline in a comparison?

Just to clarify a few things: I am NOT much of a fan of Charlie Brown and the Peanuts as a property. As a child, I was just not very entertained by them. Yes, I saw animated movies, episodes and specials of them here and there and my grandparents gave me volumes of them to read, but as a whole I never thought them quite as entertaining than other comics or cartoons I watched. Some parts of Peanuts animation felt to me often times like just dead air (especially parts of Snooby dancing with Woodstuck, as they had no function to move the plots forward) and I really could not stand how some characters treat Charles on a regular basis. I mean, we all agree that Lucy is one of the worst female characters in fiction and that even while we hate Family Guy, this clip likely gave some of us some sort of satisfaction, right?

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mZkJAx8FycI

 But before the Peanuts fan out there go and want my head on a silver platter, let me make one thing clear: I may not like the Peanuts franchise… but I respect it and the man behind it.

 Charles Schulz drew the comic strip from October 1950 till late 1999 (the final strip being finished months before it would be published on February 13 of 2000, one day after he died of colon cancer) , creating a total amount of 17,897 Peanuts’ strips. His work marks a major impact in the nature of newspaper comic strips and inspired many people out there, including Bill Watterson, to create comics or be in the field of animation. His achievements include among other things, that he created what many people consider the first animated Christmas special ever. The names of his creations became nicknames for the Apollo 10 command module and its’ lunar modul. Four of the five Peanuts movies in existence (animated made for tv specials not withstanding now) were written by him. And the fifth was only not by him, because that one came out in 2015, a decade and a half after he died.

And speaking of things Schulz wrote for the Peanuts, let me mention two things. Two things that though I am not a fan of the Peanuts, I have mad respect for existing in the realm of animation. Two animated specials that stuck with me ever since I was eight.

 “What have we learnt, Charlie Brown?” from 1983 and “Why, Charlie Brown, Why?” from 1990.

 In the first special, which functions as a semi sequel to the fourth Peanuts’ movie “Bon Voyage, Charlie Brown”, the characters actually travel across France and after ending up on Omaha Beach and Ypres the special turns into a tribute to the soldiers who fought in World War 1 and 2, elaborating on the sacrifices made during the war by showing actual footage of fights, recordings of Eisenhower and reciting the poem “In Flanders Fields” among other things. Do you know how impactful it is to learn about the world wars as a small kid, by being reminded of the actual sacrifices others made in order for your own grandparents to survive?

 And speaking of grandparents, I lost my grandmother as a child by cancer. So when I saw the second special I mentioned, you can bet it stuck with me. After all, of all the things in the world, the Peanuts addressing the seriousness of cancer by having a story where a friend of Linus is diagnosed with leukemia and we follow the emotional impact it has on Linus and the girl? Again, I may not like the franchise, but I am not ashamed to admit I think the special treats the subject with a lot of respect and dignity while telling a good story. You bet your ass I get a bit teary eyed when the little girl survives her leukemia treatment and finally gets on that swing again. Those two specials alone are more mature than ¾ of the shit Dobson likes to gosh about, including his oh so precious gay space rocks. And just for those things existing I have respect for Schulz, his creation and the impact it had on so many people. As such, Dobson “belittling” the Peanuts, at least for me, is a freaking insult. The only way Dobson could have been even more insulting is if he called Schulz something derogative.  Dobson should be glad if his life’s work in total could even amount to 10% of what Schulz has done and achieved.

 Cause Dobson, you are NOT a Charles Schulz. Schulz served during the second world war on the front, fighting actual Nazis instead of calling idiots on the internet fascists for not liking Star Wars. He had integrity and work ethics that drove him to draw and write over 17.000 strips, while you can not even finish one FREAKING story. He knew how to tackle a mature subject, while you make shitty shipping jokes involving Ladybug and Cat Noir and claim Steven Universe knows how to be about psychological trauma, when it just romanticizes abuse. He may have drawn simplistically, but at least he could tell a joke instead of constantly berating others for not sharing his opinion. He did all of that and more without having graduated from college.

 And what have you done, Andrew Dobson?

If Dobson reads this, there is one thing in my opinion he should take away from more than anything else: That if people compare him to Charles Schulz’s work, that it means a) he should not be ashamed of it and b) they overestimate him.

[lexosaurus]

EctoberWeek19: Stalker

Read on [AO3] / [FFN]

---

It was disgusting. Vile. Abhorrent.

Operative Z checked his watch. Nearly nine-thirty p.m. His wife had probably already put the kids to bed. His two little girls would have to fall asleep tonight without a goodnight kiss from Daddy, without any of his bedtime stories about princesses and fairies.

But that was alright. He would make up for it tomorrow. Tonight, his job took priority.

He adjusted his position from behind the bush and turned his attention back to the ghost he had been following.

Disgusting.

The creature sat on the ground, leaning against a tree tucked away in the corner of the park. It held a book—a human item—and…

Well, saying the ghost was reading the book would be giving it too much credit. It was just a mindless sentient conglomerate of ectoplasm and consciousness imprinted on it from a past life. It had no new thoughts of its own, no organic opinions, it couldn’t learn anything new. It was nothing but an incomplete, semi-functional remnant of its human life.

It was like a machine, only programmed to run the codes inputted into it. Nothing more, nothing less.

The ghost turned the page and giggled, its aura flashing brighter. It ran its gloved hand through its white hair before returning its attention back to the book.

Operative Z grimaced. 

Ghosts were prisoners to their obsession. Anything that fit their obsession, they had to do.

And this specific creature’s obsession—to play the hero—was becoming stronger and stronger by the day.

The ghost was reading. Or, at least, it was pretending to. Being an active hero to humans was no longer fulfilling enough for this ghost’s obsession. It needed to now emulate other human behaviors as well.

Maybe the ghost had seen human movies like Superman or Batman and noticed reading as a human activity. Maybe it had stalked a local police officer home and saw him reading after work. Maybe it had a fragmented memory of holding a book from its past life.

Whatever the case, its ectoplasmic-impulses were telling it that reading was something a human hero should do. So if other heroes read, that must be a requirement for a hero. The creature—the ghost—must do it as well.

While this was a seemingly innocent act, it was still sickening to watch because it marked the beginning of this ghost’s descent into madness. Obsessions were like a drug. Ghosts must do activities to feed into them, and the more obsessive activities they do, the stronger their obsession becomes. 

So even if reading wasn’t technically hurting any humans, how much longer would it be until reading was no longer enough for this ghost’s obsession? How long would it be until the ghost needed to be an active hero all day long?

How long until the ghost started putting humans in harm’s way, if only to “save” them?

There was also another matter entirely, one that shook Operative Z to his core.

This ghost had nothing to fight here. Yet, it was still in Amity Park. It didn’t go into the Ghost Zone like many of its kind did once they fulfilled their obsessions on Earth.

It was still here. 

Which meant that it likely didn’t have a lair in the Ghost Zone anymore. This city, Amity Park, was its new lair.

Operative Z had never heard of a ghost moving locations of its lair, and truthfully, he didn’t think it was possible. It shouldn’t have been possible.

And yet…

This ghost—this gruesome thing—had done it.

It had always had a pattern in the past: fight a ghost, win, receive the praises of the town, and then disappear. Sometimes the ghost would disappear for a day. Sometimes it would disappear for a week. But one thing was certain: it was no longer in Amity Park.

Until recently.

Over the past few months, the ghost had started lingering in Amity Park even when there was nothing to fight. Sometimes it would fly aimlessly throughout the sky, sometimes it would hang out on rooftops with the traitorous Red Huntress, sometimes it would be conducting patrols of the town.

If this ghost was spending all of its time fulfilling its obsession in Amity Park, without ever returning to the Ghost Zone to recharge, that could only mean that its lair now was Amity park.

It was the exact disgusting kind of behavior that Operative Z had come to expect of ghosts.

And so, the Guys in White began stalking the ghost. They gathered data, tracked his daily habits, and recorded changes in his obsessive tendencies. Now, they knew more about what made this ghost tick than they ever had before.

Which is why they understood exactly how dangerous this ghost was. It was engaging in too many human behaviors, partaking in too many human rituals. 

It was beginning to think that it was human.

When the ghost would reference others of its kind to the Red Huntress, it would compare itself to them as if it weren’t like them. It called itself a “halfa” and said words like “full ghost” and “half ghost.” 

And the worst part? The other ghosts seemed to respond in kind.

After all, the only thing ghosts knew how to do was feed into their obsessions. So if one ghost no longer viewed themselves as a full ghost? Then the rest of the pack didn’t either.

So the question remained: how long would it take until this ghost no longer viewed itself as a ghost at all? 

That might be an interesting experiment to conduct, but it was too risky. Far too risky. The ghost was already far too dangerous, too deluded. Waiting any longer would only result in certain death to the people of Amity Park.

No, this ghost could not be allowed to exist among the populace any longer. Its freedom ended now.

Operative Z leaned over, brushing his hand against the metal ecto-gun aimed towards the creature. He closed one eye and clicked the safety off.

The ghost’s head shot up.

It was now or never.

He squeezed the trigger.

The ghost didn’t stand a chance. The moment recognition flashed across the ghost’s face, the ecto-bullet was already upon it. It lodged into the ghost’s torso and immediately activated, sending electricity coursing through the ghost’s body.

The ghost fell to the ground screaming. It writhed on the grass, twitching and producing guttural noises that Operative Z knew could only come from its core.

With practiced motions, Operative Z flipped open his watch and pressed the button the rightmost button in the group. He held his arm up and a transparent blue dome sprang from his watch, arcing like a fountain above his head and falling around his feet.

Just in time, too, because the ghost’s screams were getting louder, more inhuman. Branches tore from their trees and rocks flew through the air. Its aura pushed and pulled, pulsing through the air in erratic patterns.

Even under the fortified ghost shield, Operative Z could still feel the pressure from this ghost. It was powerful, dominating, and showcased every ounce of the danger this creature was comprised of.

Yes, a thing like this surely couldn’t exist on this plane any longer.

The ghost’s aura flared out one more time before disappearing into itself. And then it was all over. The electricity stopped, the ghost’s screams died down into quiet wimpers, and the ghost itself stopped moving.

And, like a stalker in the night, Operative Z could finally make himself known.

He stood, flicking off the ecto-shield, and stored his gun back into his belt.

There was no need for it now. The device rendered the ghost helpless, a paralyzed mess. Now it was just a matter of transporting the ghost to the facility.

Operative Z stepped into the clearing, disarmed, and whistling a tune he’d heard one of his daughters singing this morning. He approached the immoral being and grinned.

He had never seen this ghost look so weak. Ectoplasm leaked from its torso in a steady stream and dripped from its ears and nose. Its eyes were a dull green, and with the tears that slid off his cheeks, it looked more human than ever.

Human. This ghost was far too dangerous, if it had Operative Z comparing it to humans now.

The ghost made eye contact with him and groaned. 

“Happy to see me?” Operative Z asked.

The ghost didn’t respond.

“Hmm, pity.” Operative Z bent down and reached into his belt, producing a pair of custom-made ecto-cuffs. He ripped the ghost’s arms from the ground and clasped the cuffs to his wrists.

“No…” the ghost muttered weakly. “You can’t...you…”

Operative Z grabbed the ghost by the cuffs and began dragging him through the clearing. He checked his watch. Ten o’clock on the dot.

“It seems that your time terrorizing the town is done, ghost.”

“I didn’t…”

He yanked the ghost forward, not flinching when its head hit a rock. “Right, I guess in your mind you didn’t do anything wrong. After all, you’re only hardwired to follow your obsession. You have no logical thought, and no ability to empathize with anything other than yourself. And even if you think you’re different or special—which, we know you do think so. We know you think of yourself as not a full ghost. Partially human—but, you’re not special. You’re just a ghost. A vile, disgusting ghost. You’re no better than the ‘bad’ ghosts you claim to be fighting off. You’re exactly like them.”

The ghost stared at him in horror.

“You’re done playing human, ghost.” Operative Z pushed some branches out of his way, revealing a hidden white government van. He unlocked the back and swung open the doors,  revealing a dark, barren interior coated with metal and a ghost shield.

He hauled the ghost up into the vehicle and threw him against the metal. Ectoplasm sprayed against the floor, and the ghost’s head banged against the floor. The sound echoed throughout the chamber. 

The ghost blinked lazily before his eyes snapped back onto Operative Z. “What did...you...do...to me?”

“Ecto-bullet, complete with a power nullification and paralysis poison. You won’t be able to move for a while.”

“Heh.” Its eyes rolled up. “That’s what...you think.”

Operative Z spat at the creature. “Try me, ghost.”

The ghost closed its eyes. “Yeah…”

“We’ve been following you for weeks now. Tailing you after fights. Tracking your nightly patrols. You thought you had outsmarted us? The United States Government? We have more money and resources than you will ever know.”

“Clearly.”

Operative Z stepped back and gripped the van doors. “You may have the rest of the town fooled, but we know better. And we have the data to back it up. You’re through. Look up at the night sky because this is the last time you’ll ever see it.”

The ghost didn’t move. Didn’t open its eyes. 

Didn’t follow orders.

“Alright, if that’s how you want it.” Operative Z slammed the doors shut.

It was over. It was all over now. After months of planning and tracking, they finally had Priority Ghost Alpha: Phantom. He was government property now. Finally.

This monster would never be free to cause violence again.

Operative Z hoisted himself into the driver’s seat and shut the door. 

It was all over.

He turned on the engine and began driving into the night, humming that catchy tune once again. He just had to dispose of the ghost at the hidden location, and then he could go home to his lovely wife and children. They would all be asleep by then, but that was alright. He would see them in the morning.

Maybe he would treat them to pancakes. They always did love their dad’s blueberry pancakes. After all, tomorrow was a special day. It marked the first day of safety, free of that miserable creature’s obsessive dictatorship.

Yes, that sounded like a good plan. 

Pancakes it was.

---

(read more of my fics here!)

[daringyounggrayson]

watching the world go dark

Last night I was in a mood and wanted to write some serious Angst, so I stayed up until four in the morning writing this. It’s not exactly what I wanted, but it’s close enough

Warning: This fic deals with suicide and suicidal thoughts. No one in the fic dies of suicide, but please be aware that suicide and depression are major themes throughout the fic. 

(AO3)

Before anyone is allowed out in the field, they need to learn how to use a grapple gun properly. Bruce taught all of them how to aim quickly and efficiently, how to prepare for the tug, and what to do if it gets stuck or jammed. It becomes instinctive to reach for the device, pull it out, and aim it toward the best location. They can do it so quickly because as soon as they walk into a room, they know where those spots are. It’s ingrained into each of them.

The point is, Dick knows what he’s supposed to do when his feet no longer have anything to stand on. His hand is on the grapple gun, but Dick doesn’t pull it out. He hesitates.

The thug that knocked him out of the building is being taken care of. Batman is probably securing him right now, getting the remote for the bombs and saving the city. So, really, there’s nothing more for Dick to do. Gotham is saved; there’s no need for Dick to go back up there.

Wind rushes past his ears, and his mouth is filling with blood from where he bit his tongue when the thug punched him. His fingers twitch over the device training is telling him to grab, but—

Let go. His thoughts say. What’s the point? Isn’t this what you want?

His fingers relax and he closes his eyes. It’s over. He gets to let go.

He falls down down down, but when he lands, darkness doesn’t greet him. Consciousness remains and a mix of disappointment and shame bubbles in his chest when he realizes that the fall didn’t kill him.

Looking up, he notes that the building he fell from is only two stories high. Mixed with the half-full dumpster that cushioned his landing, he’s probably looking at some serious bruising and a concussion. Possibly a few broken ribs.

It only takes a few seconds for Bruce to join him in the alley. When he finds Dick alive and not at immediate risk of dying, his worry shifts to anger. Dick, however, can’t bring himself to care about such things.

Dick is ordered to stay still, but he has no plans on moving. He just stares into the streetlights, not saying a word.

“You better hope your grapple gun malfunctioned,” Bruce growls as he secures Dick on a backboard.

He doesn’t know why Bruce says it; they both know it didn’t. Dick would’ve yelled for help if the grapple failed, or the thing would’ve at least been out of its holster.

The drive back to the Cave is tense, and Dick continues his silence. He can’t help but think that none of this feels real.

Alfred is waiting for them when they pull in, and he helps Bruce get Dick out of the car and over to their makeshift hospital. He looks Dick over and confirms that he’ll live.

They leave him alone after that, with instructions to stay put and rest. Bruce also tells him that they’ll talk later—threatens that they’ll talk later.

If everything didn’t hurt so much, Dick would run off without a second thought. But everything does hurt that much so he settles for sleep.

oOo

Dick is fine. He’s always fine. Everything is fine, so why do people keep looking at him like that?

“Can I help you with something, Tim?” Dick asks. He tries to go for a light, joking tone. It comes out snappy and impatient.

“Sorry,” Tim mumbles and looks back down at his plate.

Dick goes back to picking at his breakfast in the same fashion as Tim. God, why does he have to make everyone so miserable? Why is he even still here? Why wasn’t that building just a bit taller and that dumpster just a few feet to the right? Why couldn’t he have just—

Dick hears footsteps running down the hall, followed shortly by a tight but loud call. “Dick?”

He turns his head, popping a bite of pancake into his mouth. He chews it slowly as he watches Bruce appear in the doorway. His face shifts from somewhat panicked to anger before going neutral.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“I feel fine. Alfred said I was fine.” His back is bruised, his spine will stick around for a while longer. Painkillers and ice. Rest. No more jumping out of buildings.

“Hnn.” Bruce walks over to where Dick is still seated. He places a hand on Dick’s shoulder and leans forward, mouth close to Dick’s ear. Tells him in a quick, hushed tone, “Let’s talk.”

“I’m eating,” Dick protests loudly, shoveling some eggs into his mouth to prove his point.

Bruce grabs the back of his chair, pulling it back so roughly that it causes Dick to coughs on his eggs. “Now.”

“Fine.” Dick throws his fork down on the table and storms out of the kitchen. He can feel eyes on him, but they just make him walk faster. Bruce is following him rather than herding him, so Dick leads them to the gym. It smells like a mix of sweat and chalk and something that can only be described as childhood nostalgia. He knows other people might classify the smell as something more along the lines of unpleasant, but it makes him calm.

He hops up on a tall stack of mats, pulling his legs into a full lotus and leaning back on his outstretched arms. He looks at Bruce, tilts his head, and waits for what he already knows is coming.

Bruce opens his mouth, closes it, takes a breath, and tries again. Dick brings one hand in front of himself, gesturing for Bruce to continue. Bruce pulls a hand down over his face, fixes Dick with a firm look, and finally asks in that special, serious tone reserved only for conversations like this, “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry. Someone rudely interrupted my breakfast,” Dick quips. “Next question.”

“Dick.”

He smiles, almost laughs as he continues, “Come on, old man, I’m going for the lightning round here. Hit me.”

Bruce tightens his eyes and crosses his arms. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe that last night was an accident.”

Except here’s the thing: it was. At least when “accident” refers to Dick’s survival rather than the fall, which, for Bruce, it, of course, does not. “Of course I don’t. You never believe anything; you just hunt down leads until you know.”

“Then let’s start with the facts.” And there it is, the confirmation that this is an interrogation. An attempt at evidence collection. “You didn’t remove your grapple gun after you fell out the window—explain.”

Dick shrugs. “Can’t. One second I was in the room, the next I was hit and in a dumpster.” It’s not a total lie.

“Are you implying that you blacked out?” How far are you willing to take this? is what Bruce is really asking.

“I guess.” In a sense, Dick’s common sense, his preservation to live, blacked out. “What else would explain it? Plus, I have the concussion for your probable cause. Can I go now?”

“That’s not—” Bruce stops himself, massages his eyebrows. “And you weren’t able to come up with this cover story last night because?”

“One, not a cover story, it’s the truth; two, concussion; and three, you wouldn’t let me talk,” Dick lists off, bringing his hands back in front of him again so that he can count his reasons off on his fingers. “Does that check out, officer?”

“Dick.” Please.

There’s genuine concern in Bruce’s voice now. He knows it should—used to—have a calming effect on him, or at least make him realize that he’s not alone, that someone’s looking out for him. But now? In this mindset? He just wants to run off and maybe break his own fist in the process.

He slides off the mats. “Look, I can’t deal with this today. Go play parent with Tim for a minute.”

“Damn it, Dick, stop.” He grabs Dick’s arm, holds him steady. “Let’s discuss this. Something is wrong. If you’re not comfortable talking with me, I understand, but you need to talk to someone. Hiding the fact that you’re struggling won’t help in the long run. Trust me.”

He tugs his arm away, fixes Bruce with his own glare. “Oh, and this is coming from you? ‘Cause you’re so great at confronting your problems, right?”

It’s quiet. Dick’s face eventually softens and he shifts his weight.

“Look. Last night was—it was dumb. It won’t happen again.”

“You can’t be sure of that. That’s not how these things work, you know that.”

(He does, he does know that.)

“I was exhausted and it’s been a rough week. It just took me a second too long to realize what I was doing.”

“Rough weeks don’t push healthy brains into suicidal tendencies.”

“I’m not suicidal,” Dick quickly defends. “I’ve never—” Not for a long time.

His mind quickly reminds him of his go-to plan from his teenage years, quickly reminds him of how easily he could still access that plan. But he won’t, because he’s not suicidal. He’s fine. He’s always fine.

Bruce puts his hands—those heavy, rough, warm hands that Dick has known for more years than not—on Dick’s shoulders. Dick takes a deep breath, focuses on the smell of the chalk.

“I need you to be safe.” You scare me. I’m worried about you.

“Or do you just need someone to save?” Dick shoots back. He needs to get out of here, he feels like he can’t breathe. The chalk in the air is getting too thick to breathe, and it’s hot. Why is it so hot? Isn’t the AC always on in here? He needs to go. His bike is in the garage.

Bruce doesn’t say anything, doesn’t reach out again. It’s what Dick wants, but it makes anger flare up anyway.

“That’s what I thought.” He pushes the gym doors open, storms out without another look.

Bruce doesn’t follow.

“Master Dick, are you alright?”

Why does everyone have to ask him that?

“Sure, Alfred. I’m going to take off, see you later.”

His ears are ringing, his head is spinning. Is his vision going out? He still can’t breathe, that could explain the black spots dancing across his visual field. But he can’t smell the chalk anymore, so why is the air still choking him?

His fingers fiddle with the bike, and he debates on the helmet for too long. He decides not to be an idiot two days in a row and slips it on. He pulls out of the garage and the sharp air tells him he forgot his jacket.

He also didn’t grab his duffel. Or his Nightwing suit. Idiot.

He rides for a long time. He focuses only on propelling his bike forward, letting the road hypnotize him until what he now recognizes as the symptoms of a panic attack have all ebbed away. He’s not quite sure where he’s going, but away is good enough. He doesn’t know what time it is either, but he guesses it’s now sometime between four and five because the traffic is moving kind of slow. His thoughts have slowed down, too. He takes it as a good sign.

Dick pulls over and figures out where he is, then makes his way back to his place in New York. He debates over staying somewhere else—maybe with friends—but decides against it. If Bruce looks for him and doesn’t find him, it will only make things worse in the long run. (And apparently, it’s all about the long run. Who cares how he’s doing now as long as he’s prepared for the future, right?)

When he gets to his place, he immediately makes his way to the upper cabinet in the bathroom, opening it up and pulling out a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol. His back is sore, and his head is killing him. He takes two pills and swallows them dry before heading to the kitchen to find food. Nothing looks particularly appetizing, but he doesn’t feel like leaving the house or even going to answer the door for delivery.

He shoves a couple of handfuls of dry cereal into his mouth and walks back to the fridge. He pulls out a slice of cheese, ripping off pieces and chewing them methodically as he stares into the cold shelves of food. There’s not much in there—he really needs to get his act together and go to the grocery store like a real, functional adult would. He closes the door, making the almost empty bottle of milk rattle as it shuts. He shuffles back over to the cupboard, grabs a handful of crackers, and then goes to bed as chews them.

He plugs his phone into the charger and swipes away his unread messages, deciding to deal with them later. He should go on patrol, he’d probably enjoy going on patrol, but he really can’t see himself following through on coming back if he heads out. Not like this. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, but he pushes off the mystery to be solved another day and closes his eyes.

oOo

Two weeks later . . .

He hasn’t moved from his bed all day.

Actually, that’s wrong. He got up to pee a few times, and at some point, he made his way into the kitchen. He ate what technically counted as food and he’d brought a box of cereal back into his room with him. Now all that’s left is emptiness and crumbs in his sheets.

He keeps refreshing social media accounts. He opens one up, scrolls for a few minutes, realizes he’s bored, and then opens a new app. He cycles through the same three apps over and over and over again out of something close to habit. It makes him feel restless.

To say the least, it’s been an unproductive, meaningless day. It exhausts him all the same.

He’s yet to turn any of the lights on today, but he never closed his curtains last night, so he hasn’t been in complete darkness. The sunlight had been bothersome during the day, but after a good ten minutes of staring at the window and telling himself to just stand up and pull the curtains shut, he rolled over to face his wall. The room’s lighting slowly shifted and got brighter throughout the day, but now he’s just lying on his bed, watching the world go dark.

He thinks he’s going dark too.

Is that what this is? Yeah, depression. He’s depressed.

Though, when he thinks about it, Dick isn’t—can’t be—depressed. Part of the clinical definition of depression is when the feeling is an abnormal, persistent response. That’s why grieving isn’t classified as depression, except in cases where it has gone on too long (but who gets to decide when someone should be done grieving?). And this thing that Dick is feeling? It’s a normal response to all the shit he’s been through. This is a normal response to realizing that Dick is a shitty person who’s shit at everything.

So, yeah, maybe he’s a bit depressed. But it’s a normal response and it will last within the normal timeframe. He doesn’t have clinical depression; he has a case of the human condition. He felt too much, failed too often, and now all he has is numbness. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism, his brain rebelling in order to get a vacation.

He closes his eyes and doesn’t open them for what must be hours. He thinks he hopes that they won’t ever open again.

The next day, the motivation to leave his bed still hasn’t arrived. The sunlight creeps through the window again, irritating him when it shines over his face. Pulling a pillow over his face, he thinks that maybe Bruce is right, maybe he should talk to someone.

oOo

This has happened before. Dick has been very depressed—clinically depressed, Major Depressive Disorder depressed—before. He has been passively suicidal with all of the suicidal thoughts and lack of self-preservation a person could take and then some. He’s had the lack of motivation and the feelings of worthlessness and the complete and utter physical and mental exhaustion.

It’s not ideal, but it’s familiar, and he knows from experience that it will be hell to work through and beat. Worth it, of course, but hell all the same.

It’s been almost eight years since the first time it got really bad. A combination of trauma, teen brain, and perhaps some genetic factors made him an ideal candidate. It had started slowly and then somehow turned into a hurricane. Bruce had seen it coming more so than Dick had, because, apparently, people never really know how bad they are or what they’re capable of doing until it’s too late.

The passive suicidal thing had gotten him benched. Back then when it first started, Bruce said he was being careless and reckless; Dick knows now that he just freaked Bruce out more than anything.

Dick remembers feeling isolated, and a part of that, a big part, was kind of his own doing. Depression thrives in isolation. Depression survives when the affected person doesn’t want to get rid of it. An illness’s job is to thrive and survive, and depression is really good at it because it attacks the part of the body that controls behavior and motivation.

One night, Dick found himself benched and alone. He had a plan. He’d thought about it a lot, stepped up to do it a couple of times, but had never actually followed through. That night he decided he was officially done and committed to ending it. He wrote out his goodbyes and carried out his plan.

Around the same time, Bruce had called for backup. Dick didn’t answer his comm so Alfred went to go get him, thinking that Dick was simply in too deep of a sleep to hear it or that he had dropped the comm somewhere in the manor. Instead, he walked in on a half-dead teenager in need of an ambulance and Bruce had to run home.

Dick woke up the next day confused and still hurting with Alfred and Bruce next to him, tears in their eyes.

The conversation that followed felt mortifying at the time, but things got better after that. Dick got help.

After physically recovering in the hospital, Dick stayed in a psychiatric unit for another week to make sure he was stable enough to start an outpatient program. It was a lot of work, but Brue helped him through it, every step and setback along the way. He saw a psychiatrist and got meds and saw a psychologist Bruce knew they could trust with their other life. And it helped.

Three years of that and he wanted to see if the depression was gone, so they agreed to wean him off antidepressants. He was fine. Had been fine.

After nearly five years of relatively good mental health, he’s been beaten back to ground zero with a bat. At least he knows the Bat will help him get back into fighting shape again, just like last time. He’s not looking forward to trudging through all of the hard stuff and setbacks that come with recovery, but on the bright side, maybe it will be good to head back home for a few months. He’s been lonely, isolating himself again.

He’s ready to take the first step, this time before things get out of control and someone else has to take it for him. He pulls out his phone and calls Bruce.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

“Hi, you’ve reached Bruce Wayne. I can’t—”

Dick hangs up and redials, panic suddenly seizing his throat. The phone rings until he gets voicemail again. He calls one last time—no luck.

He decides to leave a voicemail, just in case he chickens out later. “Hey, Bruce, it’s Dick. Call me back when you get this. I’m ready to talk.”

He hangs up, bouncing his knee and biting his lip as he thinks about what to do. Before he can decide, his computer lights up with an incoming video call from the Watchtower. He grabs his Nightwing mask and slaps it on before he answers.

When he does, Batman is on the screen with a grim expression. “Darkseid has invaded Earth.”

All of Dick’s problems fade away as he zeroes in on the current crisis. “How can I help?”

oOo

In the end, they’re able to stop Darkseid. But not everyone makes it home. Bruce doesn’t make it home.

oOo

Things get worse after that. Everything feels like it’s spiraling out of control, and as much as Dick wants to give in and fall apart, he doesn’t have the luxury.

So he does what he has to do. He moves back home and takes on the Batman mantle. He gives Damian Robin. He tries to help Tim.

But the manor doesn’t feel like home and the Cowl is suffocating. Damian is difficult, for a lot of reasons. And Tim—Tim leaves.

Dick is not fine. He’s never fine. He just wishes someone would notice.

[violetsmoak]

Appetence [10/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn’t expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: N/A

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

Tim swerves into the Cave, skidding into the parking area with a little less finesse than usual. He’s got a shivering Batgirl bracketed between his arms on the bike, not having wanted to risk her falling off the back of it while they drove. He’s got a nasty case of frostbite on his shoulder himself, courtesy of a cold grenade in the wrong place and the wrong time.

He was helping Batgirl and Signal with the clean-up after Freeze’s latest temper tantrum and accidentally triggered the blast. Steph shoved him out of the way, taking the full brunt, and it was only due a quick reaction time and a few well-placed portable heating disks that she hadn’t been flash frozen.

She might not have any major lingering damage—she was well enough to request going to the Cave because of Alfred’s tendency to make homemade soup whenever any of them have a less than stellar encounter with Freeze—but Tim’s anxious to get her warmed up as soon as possible.

Also, he needs to treat his own injury.

“If-f I get a cold I’m k-killing Freeze,” Steph mumbles as Tim helps her off the bike and walks her toward the medical bay. “There’s nothing w-worse than a summer cold.”

“Says the woman who survived being used as a human pincushion.”

“It’s a d-different kind of misery.”

There are several heating blankets already plugged in and ready, and Steph is already peeling herself out of her uniform with shaking hands. Tim does the same, tossing aside tunic and body armor to rummage in a drawer for the special heating plasters; they warm an affected area gradually, making them perfect for frostbite.

“Geez, Tim, you been sk-skipping meals again?” Steph reproaches, frowning at him in his shirtless state. “Seeing a lot more rib than usual.”

“You’d do well to take a page out of his book, Brown,” Damian’s voice snarks from the doorway, loitering in all his scowling twelve-year-old glory. “I’m surprised your suit doesn’t split down the back when you move.”

“Shut up, Damian.”

“No, Tim, I got th-this,” Steph pipes up and then shoots the youngest Robin a steely smile. “I’ve g-got Martha Kent’s email. Wonder what she’ll have to s-s-say when she hears about Dami fat-shaming people.”

“You! You are not in contact with her!”

Damian isn’t exactly prone to flushing considering his complexion, but whenever he gets upset or embarrassed, red creeps across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. That, and the minute raising us his eyebrows suggests he’s more rattled by the threat than he pretends.

“I might be,” Steph allows. “You really wanna t-take that chance?”

Damian scowls at that, fists clenched, and then seems to decide not to risk it. It’s like watching the air be let out of a balloon.

Tim whistles.

“How is it a Kansas housewife has managed something not even two versions of Batman and the League of Assassins could?” he asks, somewhat awed.

“Pie and mom-guilt, I think,” Steph suggests.

“Clearly.”

“Hilarious,” Damian deadpans, facing Tim and doing his best to ignore Steph. “If you’re finished casting aspersions on my upbringing, perhaps you can make yourself useful.”

Tim raises an eyebrow at him.

“Father was distracted tonight,” the kid continues. “He won’t explain and Richard’s not here to do…whatever it is he does that makes him somewhat normal again.”

Tim blinks, having not expected that. “What exactly do you think I can do about that?”

“It’s no secret you and Father are experiencing “issues”,” Damian says and uses honest-to-goodness air quotes. “Perhaps seeing you will irritate him into letting something slip.”

“I highly d-doubt Bruce is that upset that he’ll unclench long enough to tell T-Tim anything,” Steph sniggers.

“Perhaps not, but once Drake strikes out I can ask Father after a requisite amount of time has passed and under less fraught circumstances than directly after a fight. He’ll be more likely to confide in me.”

“Right,” Tim drawls. “Because that has a snowball’s chance in hell of working. Pass. How do you even come up with these ideas, anyway?”

“It’s a simple enough ruse, Drake. Jon says it is called “tag-teaming”.”

Again, with the air quotes; clearly Damian’s latest visit to the Kent farm came with another dose of ‘how-to-be-a-real-boy’ lessons.

“And if you think Bruce is gonna fall for that and magically open up about something he doesn’t want to talk about, you haven’t been paying attention the past few years.”

“That’s not what this is,” Steph says, squinting at Damian like she’s trying to read his mind or something. “You’re worried.”

“I am no such thing!”

“You’ve gotta be since you’re asking Tim for a team-up.”

“I am not!”

“Good, because I’m not interested,” Tim says. “Whatever Bruce is brooding about will come out. It always does. Try prying it out of him beforehand and he’ll get cagey and mean about it.”

I know what that feels like, and I wouldn’t even wish it on you, demon-brat.

“Fine, don’t do anything,” Damian growls. “I should have known you would be too pig-headed and cowardly to approach Father while you’re in this pointless...detente.” He turns on his heel. “You’re as useless as I’ve always thought. Good to know it’s been confirmed.”

He stalks away.

Tim sighs and stares at the ceiling. “I guess on a scale of one to stabbed-in-the-chest, that went okay?”

“You two seriously need to deal with your drama,” Steph sighs, shifting beneath her blanket. “And you should go figure out what prompted all that. He really is worried. And hurt, now that you shot him down.”

“His entire existence has been dedicated to shooting me down,” Tim points out. “Literally sometimes.”

“Don’t exaggerate. Not his entire existence.”

“You know what I mean.”

“He’s a kid, Tim. One with a shitty childhood, a massive inferiority complex and who’s about to enter the super-fun world of puberty. And he came to you. Not me, or Dick—”

“Dick’s in New York.”

“Dick’s a phone call away and if Damian really wanted to go get him, he’d have stolen a car and gone to him. But he came to you. Probably because he knows as well as any of us that you’re the most Bruce-like and can talk to Mr. McBroody when he’s at his most pod-person level of weird.”

“Funny, I didn’t hear any of that beyond the constant insults.”

“He’s just jealous.”

“And that gives him a free pass?”

But his question sounds whiny even to him, and he sighs as Steph crosses her arms at him.

“When did you start becoming so wise and all-knowing?” Tim grumbles.

“Search me. I guess I just woke up one day and bam! All the secrets of the universe were just waiting for me to share them with the unwashed masses. Like you. You reek, by the way.”

“Right, because you smell like a rose.”

“Thanks!” Steph chirps unrepentantly.

“I think you are getting a cold,” Tim grumbles and starts out of the med bay. “The snot’s clearly going to your head and cutting off brain flow along with your sense of smell. I should go see if Alfred’s got anything to fix that.”

“Hot chocolate please!” she calls after him. “And don’t skimp on the mini marshmallows!”

“You know the way to the kitchen.”

But he’s already climbing the stairs and heading for the main computer dock. Tim was responsible for a different sector of the city, but it took longer than normal to get the all-clear. Maybe Bruce is distracted—if so, it would have to be something pretty serious.

Maybe Selina’s back in town…

“My god…!” he hears Alfred say as Tim reaches the top of the stone staircase. 

Bruce is seated, Alfred behind him and holding on to the back of the chair so tight the knuckles on his hands have turned white.

“Are you…are you quite sure, Master Bruce?” he asks, the question faint.

“I’m sure,” Bruce replies. “I was sure at the cemetery.” Tim’s ears perk up at that. “And these results…they just confirm it. He’s alive. Somehow…somehow, Jason’s alive.”

Tim freezes in mid-step.

Well…so much for me having to tell them…

He’s relieved.

He thinks.

The situation with Jason has been on his mind the whole week, and he’s never had a harder time keeping a secret than he did trying to stick to his promise to Jason. It’s been a constant struggle between his loyalty to Bruce—remembering how shattered he was in the weeks and months following Jason’s death—and his respect for Jason, a potential ally, friend and maybe one day family.

(He’s been doing his best to shut down the ‘inappropriate childhood crush’ angle during his mental justifications.)

Usually, Tim is good at separating his emotions from making hard decisions, but this time it’s…well. He blames it on still being in a state of shock that Jason is alive and that he has been alive all this time.

And he didn’t come back for some reason, and even now doesn’t want to have anything to do with the Family.

So why come back to Gotham at all, then?

“…looked him in the eyes,” Bruce is saying, in the same tone he uses to profile criminals. That’s troubling. “He’s as determined as ever. I’m not sure if there’s a broader reason for his return—for his…his avoidance. But I have a good idea. It will need confirmation; someone will have to keep an eye on him—”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred interrupts, tone breathless and almost indignant. “This is not some criminal mastermind or domestic terrorist. This is your—”

“I’m aware,” Bruce interrupts. “But there’s too much unaccounted for. He had a lot to say and still didn’t give anything away.” He rubs at his chin in thought. “He knew things, Alfred. Information on events he wasn’t present for—that were not shared in the media.”

Tim goes still, suddenly beset with a sense of foreboding.

“He’s communicating with someone,” Bruce goes on in manic calculation. “Someone knew he was alive. He said…'replacement’.”

Well, frack.

Tim begins to take a step back and nearly knocks into Damian, who’s crept up behind him with his usual maddening silence.

“Watch it, Drake!”

Damian’s voice echoes and Tim winces, head whipping around to glare at the boy.

Double frack.

There are moments—few and far between the actual assassination attempts and sabotage—where Damian displays all the bad timing that only younger siblings seem to possess. This is definitely one of those moments.

When he looks back, Bruce is already on his feet and stalking over, cape whipping behind him and expression like a thundercloud.

Damian, for his part, doesn’t seem to realize what he just did as he watches his father in surprise. This is echoed by Steph, who has followed him over, no longer wrapped in the blanket but wearing one of the generic sweatshirts that they keep stored in the recovery area.

Conveniently, they’re both blocking Tim’s nearest means of escape.

And now Bruce is towering over the three of them, eyes flicking briefly across each face, before zeroing in on Tim, who tenses.

“You,” he determines. “You knew.”

Annoyance pricks at Tim. There are two other people beside him, why does Bruce automatically think it’s him.

“Knew what?” Damian demands.

“Not now, Damian.”

“If Drake has committed some monumental blunder, I should—”

“Oh my god,” Steph gasps, her eyes roving past everyone to stare at the computer screen. The DNA comparison is still bright and clear, and in the background the picture of a young Jason Todd is unmistakable. “Is that…?”

“Jason Todd,” Damian reads stiffly, clearly recognizing the name. He scans the relevant information, including the date of the most recent DNA sample. “Todd is alive?”

“So it would seem,” Alfred confirms faintly.

“You’ve been feeding him information,” Bruce accuses Tim, and it’s almost a hiss. “You’re the replacement he mentioned.”

“Technically he had three,” Tim points out if only to try to stall.

“Aside from the fact you’re the only one here who doesn’t look surprised, he referred to a male.” Something passes over his expression, almost a grimace as if he’d rather not think of something, before he continues. “And if it were Damian, he would have informed me immediately.” He takes a step forward, the stony and emotionless countenance of Batman firmly in place. Tim half expects those thick gauntleted arms to grab him and hoist him in the air like so many an unlucky criminal. “You knew Jason was alive. And you didn’t say anything.”

“No,” Tim says, at last, deciding he might as well own it. “I didn’t.”

“Why?”

The sound is primal and broken, somewhere between a hiss and a growl. Tim is aware of the gazes upon him—Bruce’s anger, Alfred’s hurt, Steph’s confusion and Damian looking torn between satisfaction at Tim’s discomfort and agitation at his father’s obvious agitation.

“There were a few factors,” Tim admits. “First of all—”

“Factors?” Bruce barks. “This isn’t an experiment, Tim! This is my—this is Jason—!”

“And he asked me not to say anything!” Tim shoots back. “I figured after everything he’s been through, the least he deserved is someone listening to him.”

Trapped in an asylum and forgotten about? He deserves more than that…

“You never met him! There’s no way you could have been sure it was him, and even so—”

“I didn’t know him?!” Tim challenges. “There are a couple hundred pictures I took that say different! Or have you forgotten how I even got involved in all this?” He sweeps his hand around the cave. “I saw him enough at events when my parents were alive to recognize him, and even if I hadn’t, how many times did you make me go over his file when I started? Foster care records and psychological profile and autopsy reports! Since you needed me to be extra aware of what could happen to me if I screwed up as a Robin? And you might never talk about him around me, but Dick always did. Alfred too, sometimes.”

“That still doesn’t excuse your lack of discretion! You were foolish to interact with him—to make that decision without consulting with me, not least of all compromising the mission by sharing information that could expose everyone—”

“What exactly would I be compromising?” Tim shoots back. “Anyone who could impersonate Jason that well, who could talk about the things we did would already know where all the skeletons are buried. I doubt there’s much I could say that he didn’t already know, and you…you didn’t see him, okay?”

Tim’s defensiveness falters a little here, remembering how tense Jason had been throughout their whole encounter. He was thrown-off, uncomfortable, angry…and he was also trying his best not to let on how curious he was about how the family was doing.

But Bruce only bristles. “You still should have told me the minute you suspected—”

“Told you what?! ‘Hey, so, guess what, I ran into Jason last night. Yeah, that Jason, your son that got killed by the J—”

The name gets stuck in his throat, like his esophagus is closing, causing a crack he knows no one misses. Bruce winces and Steph’s confusion becomes worried. He needs to take an extra breath before he can force himself to keep talking.

“Killed by an explosion’,” he finishes. “We both know you wouldn’t have believed me if I told you he was alive and in Gotham.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Bruce. We both know exactly how it would have played out. I’d tell you what happened, you would tell me how impossible it is. You’d say stuff like you’d know if anyone had disturbed his gravesite, or that I’m stressed out or paranoid or under the influence of Ivy or Crane. Or you’d accuse me of making an inappropriate joke, and then we wouldn’t be talking again for a while.”

For a moment, Bruce looks hurt and a little guilty—probably because he knows it’s true.

“You would never lie about something like that,” he says at last. “If you believed Jason had returned, I would have trusted you enough to look into it.”

“And how was I supposed to know that? It’s not like you and I have exactly been all about great communication and understand since Captain Boomerang and Mr. Freeze.”

“I’ve been…giving you time.”

“Funny how giving me time looks a lot like avoiding me.”

“Master Timothy, that is quite enough,” Alfred interrupts at last.

All of his defensiveness toward Bruce vanishes in the guilt he feels for contributing to that look on Alfred’s face.

“I didn’t stay quiet to hurt anyone,” he tries to assure the old man. “And I was going to tell you all. But Jason asked for a week. For breathing room, I guess. I was going to tell you today—yesterday, really, if Freeze hadn’t shown up.”

“So you say,” Damian needles.

Tim ignores him. “I’d say it’s a coincidence that you found out tonight some other way, but considering what Jason’s into these days, maybe not.”

Bruce blinks in realization. “You know he’s a medium.”

“Yes, I know he’s a—wait.” Tim stops abruptly. “He’s what?” He knew Jason was working with the occult, sure, but this? “That part I missed.”

“He sees dead people?” Steph asks. “That kind of medium? Because I loved that show.”

Suddenly the reasons for Jason being sent to Arkham make so much more sense. Waking from his coma and suddenly be surrounded by ghosts? If he spoke to or acknowledged them, no wonder the staff thought he was hearing voices.

“Wait, how did you find out?” Tim asks, frowning. “You were talking about a cemetery before—that’s not exactly your jurisdiction.”

“Gordon put me on a case involving grave desecrations,” Bruce grunts. “That’s where I ran into Jason.”

“Literally or figuratively?”

Bruce is silent.

Tim groans. “Please tell me you didn’t attack him.”

More silence and Tim massages the bridge of his nose tiredly.

As if he wasn’t gun-shy about reconnecting with the Family before, now he’s probably going to leave for another five years…

“You’re taking this surprisingly well,” Steph says to Damian in a conversational tone.

“In case you’re forgetting, Brown, I’ve been dead and resurrected, so it’s not exactly a novelty.”

“Master Damian,” Alfred reprimands quietly.

No one likes to talk about that year.

“I just meant you’re not great at sharing, and now you’ve got another brother showing up—”

“Tt. We are not brothers. Any relation on paper ceased when he died.”

“Damian.” Bruce’s voice is sharp as a whip, and his eyes flash in warning. “I don’t ever want to hear that again.”

It’s not the most chastising he’s ever been, but Damian’s jaw snaps shut, and he swallows heavily.

Tim shouldn’t be bothered by the interchange, but he’s still hit by a pang of hurt and irritation. A dark, twisting little voice whispers at him, letting a longtime anxiety flicker back to the surface.

Of course, Bruce steps in and calls out Damian’s behavior when it’s Jason. Is it because Jason was his son longer? Or because Bruce chose Jason? Like he chose Dick and Cassandra. He’s even started choosing Duke now.

He never chose Tim. Not really. Tim just showed up and inserted himself into things.

Damian just showed up too, but he’s got that whole blood connection that he’s so proud of. Tim’s not—

Tim is like Steph. An outsider.

Maybe it’s why they connected to well back then—because they were the two that Bruce tried to stop from joining the life. Grudging allies, never quite family.

“I’m going to go,” Tim murmurs, turning and heading for his bike. “Wouldn’t want to get in the middle of a family meeting.”

“Tim—”

“You should probably call Dick,” he goes on. “He should find out about Jason from you this time.”

“Tim, stop—”

“I have therapy in three hours,” Tim cuts him off, “so I need at least some sleep.”

There’s no response then, not that Tim expected anything. His therapy sessions are sacrosanct; even Batman won’t interrupt Tim’s continued attendance. Tim’s always hated that, feeling as if he’s being overprotected, but right now, all he feels is a sense of relief.

To Be Continued 

________________________________________________________________

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[kurly-quill]

Robin’s Nest Cafe (part 1)

So, here goes nothing! This will probably have more than one part, but will likely be non-chronological. 

Pairings: JayTim, maybe future JayDickTim 

Rating: Mature for Language [for now] 

Coffee Shop AU (sort of), Civilian!Tim (mostly?)

         Part 1 - Part 2

(1) Hot Chocolate

The first thing to know about Gothamites, is that they are objectively, irrevocably rude as fuck.

It’s not like New York City, where people bustle past without so much as a nod of acknowledgement because they have somewhere to be and don’t have time for pleasantries, or the aggressive shoving on the metro in Tokyo, or God forbid, like Metropolis, where people born past 1930 still tip their hats at passerby.

No, the average Gothamite would see you, without an umbrella, soaking wet, and shake their umbrella off on you on the way inside. If you gave up your seat to an elderly Gothamite on the train, they would sooner say fuck you than thank you. If you tried to mug a Gothamite, they would probably punch you in the face and steal your wallet, because, hell, you’d be the fifth person to try it this week.

And Tim, for all of his “good breeding” and “respectable upbringing” is, at his very core, a Gothamite.

His smile is so wide that he’s baring teeth, and while it doesn’t match the snarl on the face across from him, it’s no less able to convey the sheer amounts of fuck you very much, have a fucktastic day!!

“I ain’t sayin’ it again -” the man bellows, spit hitting Tim’s face and, ew, probably his lips too, “- give me the money inna register ‘afore things get ugly!”

His eyes glimmer with the sharpness of the icicles hanging outside along the shop window, barely sparing the knife shaking under his chin a second glance.

It’s 11 pm on Friday night, and the cafe is still open because Gotham never really sleeps and Tim lives above the shop, anyway. Behind Knife Guy, there’s a few people in line, displaying varying degrees of concern.

(1- was born in a Gotham alleyway, please if you’re going to stab the cashier just do it I’ll pour the coffee myself, 5 - been in Gotham for awhile, kinda worried but Killer Croc smashed my car last week and I just really need a coffee, 10 - visiting Gotham for the first time this weekend-- and the last time.)

Tim looks skyward, praying for strength. There are cobwebs up there he’s never noticed.

“Sorry, the money in the register is a seasonal flavor. But hey, bright side, we’ve just got peppermint mocha back in, so I can ring you up for that instead?”

Knife Guy gapes for a second, squinting at Tim like he expects him to start tap dancing any second now. Tim raises a brow, patient. With a frustrated snarl, the knife jolts forward enough that it clicks against Tim’s nametag, chipping at the edge of the black and yellow batman sticker beside his name, which is his favorite sticker so excuse you.

“Look, I’ll make you a deal. Either you put away the knife and order a peppermint mocha with christmas tree sprinkles, and we pretend this never happened, or we do it the less fun way, with the GCPD. Who are a total buzzkill, by the way, believe me. Your choice.”

There’s an eye-twitch, and a change in the man’s expression that makes Tim’s finely-honed Gotham instincts go “oh damn, here we go”, when someone opens up the front door with far too much strength, the glass rattling with the force of its inward swing. The freezing night wind billows in, the scent of oil and snow filtering through the warmer scents of the cafe. There’s an unceremonious tinkle of the bell dangling on the doorframe, and beneath it stands another man.

Tim stares. Knife Guy stares. One of the customers looks up from her phone, groans long and loud, grabs her triple-espresso hazelnut latte with caramel drizzle, and walks out into the late-November chill.

The Red Hood holds the door open for her, because he’s a fucking gentleman.

The door swinging shut with another tinkle, and there’s a pause filled only with catchy holiday jingles that have been playing over the radio since September. Hood surveys the scene before strolling toward the counter.

“Damn, lemme tell ya, it’s cold as fuckin’ balls out there,” Hood laments, with absolutely zero prompting, rubbing his hands together as though he’d gain any friction through the gauntlets. He stops just short of where Tim and Knife Guy are facing off, the blade hovering threateningly in the air just under Tim’s chin. Hood cocks his head.

“Am I interrupting somethin’?”

Tim takes a quick second to make sure that, if he opens his mouth, his jaw won’t hit the floor, before he replies, “Just regular customer service in Gotham. Hope you’re not here for the money in the register too - We’re fresh out of stock. Moving onto the Winter Menu, you know?”

Hood nods, making what sounds like an understanding hum through the voice synthesizers, “Some people just never check the website. Read you’ve got a mean gingerbread latte on special.”

Tim would respond, except now the knife is shaking to a worrying degree– Knife Guy is scared shitless, because the Red Hood is nearly shoulder-to-shoulder– or, well, shoulder-to-bicep with him, because the man is huge and smells very distinctly of cigarette smoke and blood. Tim would sympathize if he wasn’t having an internal fangasm to end all fangasms at this moment.

In a display of panic-borne, truly ballsy stupidity (unfortunately, also a common trait amongst Gothamites, particularly the ones that rob cafes at knife-point at just the hour the Bats tend to come out), Knife Guy whips the knife to the side to turn on the vigilante.

Hood’s got the knife out of the guy’s hand in an instant– Tim has just enough reflexes to grab the steaming cup of caffeine goodness that’s sitting innocently in harm’s way– and in the next second he’s grabbing the guy by the hair and slamming his head backwards onto the counter, spine bent at an angle that makes the onlookers flinch. A few more scurry out the door. There are other places to get a caffeine fix.

“Look here,” Hood growls, No-Knife Guy going cross-eyed as the knife points straight at his nose, “I ain’t lookin for a side of stitches with my candy cane hot chocolate with heavy cream, ya feel me?”

Mr. No Knife squeals.

“P-Please– I’m sorry, I’ll go! Promise! Just– fuck, l-lemme go!”

Hood’s head makes a minute motion, somehow conveying sheer exasperation despite the helmet (Though Tim can just feel the eye-roll going on). He drags the wannabe-robber up to his feet, though it’s pretty useless seeing as the guy’s knees give out they’re shaking so hard– and, oh dude, gross, that’s definitely a wet spot in the front of his jeans there. Tim’s nose wrinkles. He better not have to mop that up.

Hood pays the fact that he’s basically holding up all the man’s weight one-armed no mind, dragging him to the front of the shop. The bell chimes merrily as he gives the guy a literal kick in the ass out the door. The guy lands face-first in dirty, oily, Gothamy snow. An eight year old kicks him as she walks past, hand-in-hand with her father to the nearest bus stop. That Uptown Gotham charm, amiright?

“You’re just lucky I’m feeling the holiday fucking spirit right now– Plus, no offense,” a quick appraisal, “you’re kinda pathetic.”

And then Hood closes the door.

But he’s still here.

Tim looks around the shop. Apparently, at some point in the last 2 minutes, the rest of the customers have decided that they really don’t have time for the typical Bat-dramatics today and fucked off to another cafe. Tim should be more upset about the loss in business than he is, but that’s the furthest thing from his mind.

Because the Red Hood (It’s him, it’s really him) is still standing there. In the cafe.

 With Tim.

He glances down at his chest to make sure the knife isn’t actually buried there, because the possibility that he’s died makes more sense than the Red Hood standing in his cafe, surrounded by a horrific mash-up of dollar-store Hannukah and Christmas (because his family is technically Jewish even if they didn’t celebrate jack shit, and Steph took the shitty plastic menorah on top of the espresso machine as a challenge).

“Um,” Tim remarks, scrambling for the words he wants to say to one of his childhood heros, “So, can I get you something? I feel like I should get you something. Cause I mean. This is an establishment that supports vigilantism, okay? Robin’s Nest cafe, at your service. At least a 10% discount, just like military. Just putting it out there.”

Right. So where is that knife again? Can’t speak if he doesn’t have vocal chords.

The vigilante makes a sound through the synths in his helmet that must be a chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. He moves back up to the counter with movements far too fluid for someone of his size, and Tim swallows a bit as he’s forced to look up (and up) at close proximity. Wow, the helmet is something else– he’s itching to get his hands on it, take it apart and see all its functions and how it was made.

“Gotta first aid kit?” is almost lost to Tim, he’s so mesmerized – he thinks distantly that he’s probably looking a little manic, cause he’s running on caffeine and spite, and people have always told him that his tendency to hyperfocus is unnerving on a good day – but then the words click. He frowns.

“Yes, we do? He didn’t get you with the knife, did he?” he questions, eyes raking up and down Hood’s leather jacket for any telling rips or tears.

Hood tuts, reaching up to tap at his neck, “Nah, not me, but you’re ‘bout to need a new white shirt.”

Tim mimics the movement on autopilot, clapping his hand to the side of his neck and feeling the stickiness there. His heart jumps for a second as he pulls back his hand and sees enough blood there to wonder how he’d missed it.

“Oh. Damn.”

And that’s how, five minutes later, Tim’s got the doors to the cafe locked and finds himself sitting in the break room with the Red Hood dabbing at his neck with a cotton swab.

If he finally manages to overdose on caffeine tonight, he thinks he could go happily.

Hood’s so close that Tim’s 100% sure the vigilante can feel his heart trying to burst all his arteries by its sheer pumping force. He’s getting light-headed because he’s trying not to be creepy and do something like smell the the tall, buff guy with gentle hands (Cause, God, somehow the scent of cigarettes, leather, and gunmetal just work for him) and has thus forgone taking any deep breaths.

“Lucky you, s’not deep,” are the only words either of them has said since he plopped down on the table. Tim hesitates for a second, watching Hood close the first aid kit and step away, before he clears his throat.

Courage, Tim. Come on, you’re from Gotham.

“So. Thanks. For all that, I mean.”

Hood shrugs.

“Eh, there are worse ways to start the night. Plus, it’s way warmer in here than out there. Wasn’t kidding when I walked in– was gettin fucking blue balls out there, and not even from anything fun this time.”

Tim lets out a surprised laugh.

“Oh? Well, I think I have a way to warm you up.”

There’s amusement in every line of Hood’s shoulders as he tilts his head, becoming increasingly intrigued by this particularly bold civilian. When he speaks, there’s a definite purr there, mechanized though it is. Something prickly hot shoots down Tim’s spine, and he has to fight down a flush.

“Yeah? You got something in mind?”

Tim can’t help but grin. “Oh, I’ve got just the thing.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“Let me guess. Hot chocolate with heavy cream?”

“Shut your shittin’ mouth, Dick.”

.

.

.

.

“…. It’s got candy cane flavor in it”

[lfthinkerwrites]

The Commission-Results

Title: From the Case Files of Edward Nigma, PI

Fandom: Batman

Rating: T

Summary: The Commission releases their recommendations, which causes shockwaves throughout Gotham.

Author’s Note: Thus ends this arc in the fic! Things are starting to get serious in Gotham, and soon, the last person Edward ever wanted to get involved with this mess will find herself entangled in it...

Saturday, February 24th, 9:30 am

"So when do we get to see the kid again?"

Edward looked up from where he was cleaning out his coffee mug and shot Deirdre an indulgent smile. "I told you, Sunday. We'll all go out for dinner at that Italian Restaurant on 4th street."

Deirdre nodded and went back to reading her newspaper where she was lying sprawled on the sofa, her head in Nina's lap. Nina carded her fingers through Deirdre's hair and smiled at Edward. "Just the four of us?"

Edward shook his head and dried out the mug with a washcloth before setting it in his dishwasher. "No, Selina will be there too." He tried not to laugh when he saw Nina's face curdle in displeasure. "Now now, don't be like that. Ellen's quite fond of her, you know. I won't have you sit next to her or anything like that."

Nina huffed. "Better not. What about your lady doctor friend? Will she be there?"

Edward hadn't even thought to ask Penelope if she'd want to join them. She probably wouldn't, workaholic that she was, not to mention the fact that given her testimony yesterday, the last thing she should risk was being seen with him in public. "Well, no,-"

"You didn't ask, did you boss?" Deirdre sassed.

Edward rolled his eyes. Any quip he was about to make was cut off by the sound of his cell phone ringing from the dining room table. "Bet that's her now," Nina added.

Edward crossed from the kitchen sink to the ringing phone. "Edward Nigma, Private Investigator."

"Edward it's me."

Penelope. Any annoyance he might have shown at Nina for being right was overtaken by how shaken his partner sounded over the phone. "What is it?"

"Victor Goodman's dead."

There was a name Edward had hoped he'd never have to hear again. "No offense, but is that really much of a surprise? The man did have terminal cancer."

"He committed suicide."

Well. He hadn't expected that. "Hold on just one second, Penelope." He looked at the couch where a curious Nina and Deirdre were watching him. "I need to take this. I'll just step in my room for a bit. I'll be right out." He quickly walked down the hall into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. "There, I'm back. Now, tell me everything."

"Strange called Commissioner Gordon an hour ago and told him that Goodman hanged himself in the Arkham Infirmary. Gordon called me half an hour ago to tell me."

Edward scoffed. "Nice to see that Arkham's supervision hasn't improved. You're not going to lose any sleep over Goodman's death, are you?"

Edward could almost see the irritated expression on Penelope's face when she spoke. "Of course not, but Edward, this is serious. Gordon asked for Goodman's body so GCPD could do an official autopsy, but Strange told him that Arkham had already conducted one and cremated Goodman's body."

This was a bit concerning. Edward furrowed his brow. "I take it that's not standard Arkham practice?"

"When I worked there, we did have our coroner conduct autopsies, but we always kept the body available for GCPD or the families if they requested an additional one. I'm suspicious about the timing of this too. Goodman's been incarcerated in Arkham for two months, and he chooses to commit suicide the night of my testimony before the commission? Perhaps I'm seeing things, but this isn't adding up."

Edward rubbed his chin. A suspicious death in Arkham...this seemed...almost familiar. "You think that Strange murdered Goodman."

"That was where my mind went first, but even that doesn't make much sense. Why would Strange kill him after I testify? As far as we both know, Strange wasn't involved in Goodman's rampage, so he doesn't have any reason to silence him. Strange has sadistic tendencies for certain, but in that case, he'd let cancer kill him." Penelope let out a sigh. "I'm just thinking out loud. What do you think?"

Edward considered this. "You're right," he said. "It is suspicious. But I don't think Strange killed him. If Goodman's death was a homicide, I think Strange is covering for someone else."

"Who? Bolton?"

"Not likely. Bolton's a minor thug. He's replaceable. It would have to be someone of much greater importance to Strange. Someone who he's been working with from the beginning." There was only one person Strange would lift a finger to help.

"Edward...you don't mean...Sharp?"

He grinned a bit. He knew there was a reason he liked this woman. "Who else? Sharp would still have access to the asylum as the former warden and the current mayor. And you said yourself, Sharp did begin to implement stricter policies at the Asylum when he was the warden."

"Yes, but Edward, it's a bit of a leap from that to murder-"

"You were all but accusing Strange of murder just a few moments ago," Edward chided. "You're the psychiatrist, Penelope. Sharp chose to become as entangled with Strange as he is for a reason."

"Sharp's many things, Edward. But a murderer? Believe me, it's not that I think Sharp is a good man deep down. He's pompous, demeaning, and he takes credit for things he hasn't done. He's a coward though. It's obvious in the way that he carries himself that he uses his position of power to overcompensate for a lack of character. I just don't see him as being capable of murder."

Edward hummed. His memories of Sharp from when he was incarcerated at Arkham were still faint at best, and from his own past interactions with the fool, he'd agree with Penelope's assessment. There was something nagging at him though at the back of his mind. "When did you first become acquainted with Sharp?"

"When he moved from Blackgate to Arkham, of course. I'd never met him before that."

Edward nodded. "And before? He was the warden of Blackgate?"

"Where are you going with this?"

"I'm just saying, there's a lot we don't know about Sharp's background. If we want to understand Strange's plan, we need to understand Sharp and how and why the two became acquainted with each other."

There was a pause on the line before Penelope spoke again. "So then we should look into Sharp's background too."

"Exactly. I can begin some research on him this week."

"One thing still doesn't make sense to me. Sharp's the mayor. Why would he risk losing everything he's spent the last five years working for to murder Victor Goodman?"

Edward had an idea what Sharp's motive might have been. He just needed to put it in a way that wouldn't alarm her. He swallowed a bit before he began to speak. "Well, it's all in the timing. Goodman was killed the night of your testimony where you detailed exactly what he did to you. And you've said in the past that Sharp is paternalistic towards you, yes?"

"Oh my God," Penelope breathed. "He killed Goodman for me?"

Edward flinched a bit at the quavering in her voice. "It's a possibility." He bit his lower lip. "Do you want me to come over?"

Penelope's voice resumed its clinical tone. "That's not necessary, Edward. Joan said she'd be coming over today. I know you still have your friends over, I don't want to take up any more of your time."

"Alright, as long as you're sure," Edward said. "I don't want to be over-dramatic, but if my hunch is correct, then Sharp may have an unhealthy interest in you. Be careful around him."

"You don't need to tell me twice," Penelope said. "I'll see you Friday."

"Right-by the way, what are you doing Sunday?"

"I'm going to be over at Aaron's home visiting. Why?"

Edward sighed. It was just as well. "Never mind. I'll see you Friday." He hung up the phone and looked at it with a feeling he couldn't quite identify. If he was right, then Sharp was more dangerous than he'd anticipated. If he was right, what might he do to Penelope if he got his hands on her-he wouldn't. Edward wouldn't let that happen. He would not lose her. Not like he lost Jonathan.

Monday, February 26th, 9:00 am

"This is Vicki Vale, reporting live from Gotham City Hall with a breaking news development. After a dramatic week of testimony, the Sharp Commission will officially be releasing their report by the end of this week. The Sharp Commission was convened to review the actions of GCPD and Arkham officials during the crime spree of Victor Goodman last December. During the hearings, the conduct of senior GCPD Detectives Harvey Bullock and Renee Montoya was specially called into question. During his closing statement this last Friday, lead Commission member Phillip Ward, warden of Blackgate Prison, stated that what happened last year during Goodman's rampage represents the inadequacy of Gotham's criminal justice institutions to deal with serious crime and that the complacency of GCPD under Commissioner Jim Gordon, in particular, has led to criminals becoming emboldened. He then stated that the commission will release recommendations to get at the heart of the problem of costumed crime in Gotham. We'll keep you informed as to the latest updates here on GCNN."

Gordon looked at the badge and gun on his desk, then at the detective who deposited them with a heavy heart. "Harvey," he said gently. "You don't have to do this."

Bullock wiped his face with the back of his hand and sighed. "Yeah, I do, Jim. They got my number. I let Nigma piss me off too much and I screwed up on the Goodman case."

"Harv, there was plenty of blame to go around. I should have kept a closer eye on Nigma-"

"I'm the one who detained him. If he hadn't broken out, Doc Young would have gotten killed. I own that. I'm not gonna let you or Renee get dragged down by this too."

Gordon shook his head. Bullock was stubborn as he was loyal. There was nothing he could to dissuade him from this course of action. "What are you going to do?"

Bullock shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I'll be a PI too, give the green asshat a run for his money."

Gordon let out a sad chuckle. "You would, too." He got out of his seat and stepped around to the front of his desk. He grabbed one of Bullock's hands and gave it a firm shake. "If there's anything you need, anything at all, you know where to find me."

Bullock nodded. "Yeah. I know." He slowly let go of Gordon's hand and walked towards the office door. "See you around, Jim. Don't let the creeps in City Hall get to you." Bullock opened the door and walked out into the bullpen for the last time. Gordon followed him to the open door and watched as Montoya gave him a hug and some younger cops shook his hand. Gordon's fist clenched. Sharp and his damn commission had cost him one of the best officers and men he'd ever known. Why? What was his goal?

Thursday, February 29th, 9:00 pm

Sharp sat in the plush chair behind his desk, reading over the document Ward had handed to him two minutes ago. The longer he read, the redder his face got and the more nervous Ward became. He furtively glanced at Dr. Strange, who was sitting behind Sharp, an impassive expression on his face. This did little to settle Ward's nerves. Finally, Ward spoke. "You'll see that Greene and Roberts went along with our recommended changes to the parole process for Arkham inmates-"

"Yes, and not much else!" Sharp shouted, crumpling the paper and throwing it towards the wastebasket in the left corner. "This isn't even half of what I asked for! What about the TYGER program?"

"Given the City's budget, it isn't feasible right now-"

"There's nothing in here about Gordon either! You both said you were going to use this commission to force him out!"

Ward took a sharp breath to avoid saying something he'd regret to the mayor. "I told you, Quincy. We can't quite get rid of Gordon yet. Your little friend from Arkham made it quite clear to me what would happen if we did."

Sharp shook his head furiously. "You must have misunderstood her. She wouldn't-"

"For God's sake Quincy! She all but said what her intentions were!" Ward shouted, pounding his fist on the desk. "She's not the woman we knew from Arkham anymore! She's a threat! You need to acknowledge that!"

Sharp shook his head again. "She's being misled by Gordon and his lackeys at GCPD. She'll come around. You'll see. I am her benefactor. She would not betray me." Ward sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Was this genuine affection for Young, or was this another one of Sharp's delusions? Or was he just being stubborn?

Before either Ward or Sharp could anything else, Strange stepped forward and placed his hand on Sharp's shoulder. "Patience, mayor. Patience," he soothed, his Teutonic voice low and slow. "I told you at the beginning that it would not be a quick process. I have it on good authority that Bullock has resigned. That will leave an opening for us to take advantage of. Why don't you go lie down?"

Almost robotically, Sharp stood up. "Yes," he repeated. "I think I should go lie down."

Strange smiled. "Good night, Mayor."

"Yes...Good night..." Sharp slowly walked out of the office and towards, Ward presumed, his bedroom.

As soon as the mayor was out of earshot, Ward looked at Strange. "What have you done with him?"

"Nothing drastic," Strange replied. "I've merely taken the liberty to up the dosage on his medication. After the incident with Goodman, I thought it was necessary."

Ward didn't fully believe the man but decided it was prudent not to press further. Instead, he sighed. "Quincy's right though. It's not exactly what we hoped for."

"It is a setback, yes, but it's not a total loss. We still have important provisions put in place."

Ward nodded. "Is it true about Bullock resigning?"

"Yes. It's not being reported on, but I have a source in GCPD who confirmed it. I have a man in position to take Bullock's place. If nothing else, we will have eyes and ears in GCPD to monitor Gordon's activities."

Ward let a small smile come to his face. It might not be exactly what they wanted, but it was a start.

Friday, March 1st, 9:30 am

"This is Summer Gleeson with a breaking news bulletin. The Sharp Commission has officially released its recommendations! We now to live to City Hall, where chief commission member and warden of Blackgate Prison, Phillip Ward, is addressing members of Gotham City's press corps, including our own Vicki Vale."

"...The Sharp Commission makes the following recommendations: 1. The Parole Process at Arkham Asylum must be overhauled. Patients should receive a minimum of five years of treatment before any consideration of parole. All parole decisions must receive approval from the Warden of Arkham Asylum. 2. Any released inmates of Arkham must make themselves available for further treatment at any time requested by the warden of Arkham Asylum, or be in violation of their parole. 3. Any deviation from a treatment plan will be considered a violation of parole. 4. Any association with any of the super criminals in Gotham City will be an automatic violation of parole. 5. All current and future Arkham inmates will be required to remain on a specially created registry for ten years after their parole and must report their status to any employer or law enforcement official without being asked. Furthermore, the Commission makes the following recommendations for inmates of Blackgate Penitentiary, Stonegate Penitentiary, Gotham City jail and Gotham County jail: 1. As with Arkham Inmates, all paroled inmates from these institutions must make themselves available to their parole officers and to correctional officers when requested. Any association with any of the super criminals in Gotham City will be an automatic parole violation. Any crimes carried out in service to the super criminals must come with an automatic sentence enhancement. Finally, any individual apprehended committing a crime while in any kind of mask or costume will face an automatic five-year sentence enhancement in addition to any other fines and penalties. The Sharp Commission will send these recommendations to Mayor Sharp for his approval before going through the proper channels to ensure their passage. Thank you."

Penelope switched off her radio, let out a long sigh and brought her fingers up to massage her temple. Across the desk from her, Edward was sitting back in his favored chair, watching her intently. "Well," he said in a breezy tone. "I suppose I should consider myself fortunate that the Arkham recommendations won't become retroactive, otherwise I'd be in a fix. What do you think?"

Penelope dropped her fingers and gave him an incredulous look. "What do I think?" she asked. "It's a complete overreach, that's what I think! Arkham Asylum is a mental asylum, not a prison! I could understand stricter protocols for the super criminals, but the majority of the inmates in Arkham aren't there because they're criminals! They're meant to be treated and reintegrated into society, not-" she let out an irritated huff. Edward's face had kept its curious expression and she bit her tongue to avoid from snapping at him.

"Notice who and what wasn't mentioned, however. GCPD. Gordon. Your testimony and your threat to Ward did something."

Penelope clasped her hands in front of her and looked down. "Not enough. Aaron told called me on Monday and told me that Bullock resigned."

"Good riddance. That's not on you. Bullock's resignation was a natural consequence of his own stupidity."

"He's Gordon's right-hand man, Edward."

"If I hadn't managed to get word to Selina about being detained, you would be dead. Because of Bullock. You don't owe him a thing-"

"It's not about Bullock, Edward! It's about Gordon, about GCPD as a whole! I don't like Bullock anymore than you do, but you have to-" Penelope paused. Edward had only begun his investigation after being directly attacked by Strange. The GCPD, Gotham City itself, Edward could care less about. He wasn't the heartless, irredeemable criminal she'd thought he was two years ago, and he had proven he did care about individual people, but it was a far cry from that to caring about the greater good. She worried her lip and continued in a cooler tone. "Bullock's resignation, no matter how much you think he deserves it, is a loss. And it's something Sharp and Strange are going to take advantage of."

Edward rolled his eyes. "I realize that. Which brings me to what I originally going to share with you." He reached down to the briefcase at the foot of his chair and placed it on Penelope's desk. He opened it and pulled out paperwork, which he neatly piled next to the case. "I managed to uncover some juicy details about our illustrious mayor." He looked up at her and his face grew uncharacteristically serious. "I think both of us have been underestimating Sharp."

Penelope felt her stomach sink. "What do you mean?"

Edward tapped his fingers on one stack in particular. "This is Sharp's biographical information. He comes from a military family and applied to West Point himself."

Penelope took the stack from Edward and began to thumb through the paperwork herself. "Applied...he didn't get accepted? He would have been the first of a long line of men in his family not too. That could be at the root of his overcompensation."

"He did not. You should see why."

Penelope looked through the stack and found a psychological evaluation. She gave Edward a sharp look. "Edward, this is strictly confidential. How did you-"

He gave her an impish shrug. "It's me, remember? Read on."

Penelope looked back at the file and read out loud. "'During evaluations, Sharp displayed symptoms of a schizophrenic personality disorder. He denied it when asked and has refused any further diagnosis or treatment.'" Penelope reached up to brush at her bangs. "Well, this is illuminating, but I'm not comfortable using Sharp's mental illness against him."

"Go on."

Penelope shook her head and continued to read. "'Beneath a pompous, self-important demeanor, Sharp is a cipher. He is psychologically susceptible to-'"Penelope's breath caught in her throat. "'to molding especially at the hands of an authority figure. He is not fit any sort of military duty.'" Penelope let out a shaky breath. "Oh God. Strange isn't just working with Sharp, he's working through Sharp. He's a puppet master."

"That's not the worst of it, Penelope."

Penelope scoffed and looked up at Edward. "What? What else did you find out?"

Edward bit his lip, then gestured to the other stacks on her desk. "I took the liberty of going through the lists of patient deaths from before Sharp arrived at Arkham and after."

Of course. If Sharp felt secure enough to kill Goodman, he must have done it before. "And?"

"In the twenty years Jeremiah Arkham served as the head of Arkham Asylum, there were three patient suicides, all of which were independently confirmed as such by the GCPD Medical Examiner. There were three patient suicides the first six months alone of Sharp's tenure. So, either Sharp was indirectly killing people through his reactionary policies, or-"

"He was killing them himself," Penelope finished dully. How had no one caught this? How did no one see this? Where had she been? "This is my fault. All of it. I was so focused on that damn experiment, my own career, I didn't-"

Penelope nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a pressure on her hands. She looked down to see Edward's gloved hand covering them, awkwardly petting them. "Enough of that," he scolded. "That won't get us anywhere. Put everything that happened out of your mind and treat him like he's any other patient or suspects you have to profile. What does all of this tell you?"

"I don't-"

Edward's hand gave her own a light squeeze. "I'm certainly the smartest person I know, but I can't look into the human psyche the way you can. You're an intelligent psychiatrist. Act like it."

That may have been the most touching thing Edward had ever said to her, awkward as it was. Penelope nodded, took a breath, then withdrew her hands to look over Sharp's psychiatric profile again. "Contrary to popular media perception, schizophrenics aren't any more likely to be violent than the rest of the population. However, Sharp's denial of his condition and his refusal to seek treatment suggests that he is ashamed of it. The overcompensation in his behavior likely stems from deep self-loathing. He projected this self-loathing onto the patients at Arkham Asylum hence the harsher policies and his behavior towards them. He always seemed disinterested at best and disgusted at worst. By killing patients, he's actually trying to kill the sickness he sees in himself. At some point, he crossed paths with Hugo Strange-"

"And Strange found a willing puppet," Edward finished with a smirk. "See? I knew you could do it."

Penelope scoffed. This man really was impossible. "We still can't prove anything. And now two dangerous men are controlling policies in this city."

"True," Edward shrugged. "But now that we have a better sense of who they are and what they're capable of, we can prepare for it." He smiled at her. "Right, partner?"

Despite herself, Penelope felt a small smile come to her own face. "Right." She looked down at the stack of papers again and tapped her finger on her desk. "There's still something I don't quite understand. The provision about criminals in costume."

Edward furrowed his brow. "I'll admit, that is something that stuck out to me too. I mean, the kind of person who puts on a costume to commit a crime isn't the sort of person this kind of deterrent works on. The only person who might care about this is-" Edward's eyes lit up and his mouth dropped open. "Of course," he muttered. "Of course! How did I miss this? How did I miss this?"

Penelope leaned forward in her chair. "Miss what?" Edward got up and began to pace up and down her office, almost as if he hadn't heard her. "Edward?" she asked louder. "Miss what? What are you talking about?"

Edward suddenly looked at her. "Sharp and Strange are targeting Gordon. Why? What do they gain by that?"

"What do they-well, they get rid of the one city official who would stand up to them-"

"No, there's more to it than that! Don't you see? Who has Gordon sanctioned for over ten years? Who has he protected? Who would find himself without an ally in Gotham City if Gordon resigned tomorrow?"

Penelope brought her hand up to her mouth. "Batman? Sharp and Strange are targeting Batman?"

Edward clapped his hands. "Exactly! One thing I've never forgotten Penelope. Eventually, everything in this city leads back to Batman."

Penelope sank back against her seat. "Why?"

Edward rubbed his chin and Penelope tried to ignore the excited gleam in his green eyes, the same gleam she'd seen when he was her patient in the not too distant past. "What are Strange and Sharp up to that they think me, Gordon and Batman are a threat to? That is a riddle, isn't it?"

Friday, March 1st, 9:30 pm

Bruce sat in his chair at the head of the dining room table in Wayne Manor. Around him sat Dick, Tim, Damian, Stephanie, and Cassandra. Alfred stood by his side. "Barbara?" Bruce spoke into the cell phone in front of him. "Are you there?"

"I'm here," she said over speakerphone. "What's going on Bruce?"

Bruce cleared his throat. "The Sharp Commission released its recommendations today. Mayor Sharp and the City Council will have them implemented by the end of the month at the earliest. The provision about the criminals in costume is troubling."

Tim sat straight up in his seat. "That's really about us, isn't it?"

Bruce nodded. "That's what I believe, yes."

To Bruce's left, Damian scoffed. "What do we have to fear from City Hall?"

"Damian, my father will have to enforce this law," Barbara's voice crackled through. "Whether he wants to or not."

Dick sighed. "What's the plan then?"

"Be vigilant on patrol. Try not to go alone if at all possible. Stay in communication with me and each other at all times. And if you see law enforcement, back off. Don't get into a situation where you end up in a confrontation with them. Understand?"

Dick, Tim, Stephanie, and Cassandra nodded. Damian huffed. Barbara then asked the question that Bruce hoped he wouldn't have to answer. "What about Jason?"

Bruce sighed. "I'll try to talk with Jason. In the meantime, don't approach him or the Narrows."

"No problem there, Boss," Stephanie saluted. The rest of the team voiced their agreement as well.

Alfred looked mournful but said nothing. Bruce gave his partners a nod. "Good." They all had work to do.

[littlemissonewhoisall]

Justice League Elite: Rebirth: Chapter Two

Second Chances Part Two

Gotham City. The name was something Cassandra was still trying to understand. She’d gotten used to the idea of names, but this was different. A name told a person who they were. It helped give meaning to things. But a city… a city was something strange. It was a place, but more than a place. It was people, it was buildings, it was a set of laws. But most importantly, she’d learned, a city was a story, and Gotham was a sad story.

Alfred had told her the story one lonely night, as they’d shared a drink of hot chocolate. She hadn’t understood everything, but she’d realized that it was a story Batman wouldn’t tell. Gotham had been around for a long time, though less time than she’d expected, and in that time, people had died, again and again. And, she saw, they were the lucky ones. Gotham, Alfred had explained, had a tendency to drive men mad.

Madness, that confused her further. It wasn’t anger, even though sometimes it was. It was a sickness of the mind, something that ate away at a person until they broke on the inside. Cassandra had asked Alfred if she was mad, and that had made him very upset. He’d told her no, and there was anger in that response. Not anger at her, but at someone else, someone who wasn’t there. She wasn’t sure why it made him angry, but she didn't ask any more questions. She hated seeing people upset.

Cassandra thought about that night as she watched the city from her perch, far above the city streets. The city didn’t seem frightening from up here. The city didn’t seem like anything, really. That was the funny thing about it all. When you were within the city, surrounded by it, then it stopped being a thing. It became people, and places, and lights, and cars, and buildings. It was only a single thing from far away. Up close, she could see the cars driving down the dimly-lit streets, the buildings rising up above them, so high she wondered how they didn’t scrape the sky. She wondered if a person was like a city. If deep down, someone wasn’t a single thing, but a million smaller things. She decided that she would ask Batman about that.

Her thoughts were interrupted by movement a few blocks away, on a rooftop lower than the one she was standing on. She was almost certain that running on rooftops was not normal, even though everyone she knew did it. She took off running, leaping from building to building with instinctive precision and grace.

By the time she reached the rooftop, whoever had been there had vanished. There was no heat signature, no footprints, not even a patch of disturbed cobwebs. The roof contained nothing but shadows.

“Cassandra,” Batman’s voice said through her earpiece, “I need you in the Belfry.”

“Yes,” she responded. She took another look around the rooftop, but saw nothing. Had she imagined it? I must not have slept enough, she decided, and began to make her way towards the Belfry.

-----

Claude Masters hated Gotham. The entire place smelled like rot and dust, and the damn sky was always overcast. It was just his luck that Waller’s pick for the new team would live in a dump like that. The damn woman loved to make people miserable, that was something he was sure about. But she was the chief of A.R.G.U.S., so unless Secretary Callendar decided to overrule her, he was stuck following her orders.

He wasn’t sure why Waller was obsessed with putting criminals to work, but apparently she couldn’t keep that tendency in Task Force X anymore. He looked at his briefing again and sighed. Where did they keep finding these assholes?

The parole officer met him outside of the hotel. She was a pretty blonde, but one look told him she was tougher than she looked. The glare she gave him could make a charging elephant stop in its tracks. “Agent Masters,” she said with venom in her voice, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” he noted.

She rolled her eyes, and escorted him to the elevator. “Do you idiots have any idea what you’re doing?” She said, once it was moving. “Arkham and the GCPD have been working for months on him, and then you waltz in here and undo everything!”

“Sorry? I don’t-”

“Of course you don’t,” she spat, “you A.R.G.U.S. types never think before you act! Do you even read your fancy little folders? Mr. Turner suffers from delusions of being a secret agent! How do you think A.R.G.U.S. coming in here to recruit him for some special team would affect him? We’d almost gotten through to him, and now we’re right back where we started, maybe even worse!”

“Look,” Masters began, “Officer, uh,” he glanced at her badge, “Fox, the mental health of the recruits has been taken into account. We’re bringing in a specialist from the FBI to oversee the team. Agent Zolomon is one of the top psychologists in the nation-”

“Oh, I know,” she said, “trust me, I’m very aware of that!” She stopped and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s not your fault. Just… take care of him, will you? Don’t let him do something reckless that gets him killed.”

“Mr. Turner is in the best possible hands, Officer.” The elevator stopped and they walked out, down a rickety old hallway that had no business being fourteen stories up.

She sighed. “I wasn’t talking about him. I was talking about Agent Zolomon.”

“What?”

“Hunter Zolomon is my fiancé.”

Oh. He winced. “Ah. A.R.G.U.S. screwed you twice in one day, huh?”

“That pretty much sums it up.” She knocked on the door. “Mr. Turner,” she shouted, “you have a visitor!”

The door opened, to reveal a big black man with striped tattoos over his face. He had a short black beard and intense amber eyes that lit up when they saw Masters. “Sir,” he said, “you’re here with my next assignment?”

Masters faked a smile. “That I am, Mr. Turner. It’s time for the Bronze Tiger to get back in the fight.”

-----

The Belfry was empty when Cassandra arrived, save for Batman himself, and to her surprise, he wasn’t wearing his suit. He turned to her as she approached, and she saw that he had been crying.

“Batman,” she said, reaching out to him, “hurt?”

“No,” he said, and she saw that he was telling the truth. But there was feeling in his voice, in his face, in the way he stood. “Not hurt. I’m just… This is a big step.”

She looked around, curious as to what he was talking about. “I don’t…” she waved her hand in frustration as she tried to find the right word, “...understand.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while. Ever since… Shiva, I’ve been thinking long and hard about this, and I think it’s the right course of action to take. Honestly, I should've done it sooner, but after…” He didn’t finish his sentence, buthe didn’t need to. It was in the sadness in his voice, the way the muscles in his face tightened, and the pattern of his breath. Tim. “Anyway, I want to ask you… To ask…” He took a deep breath, and the pain started to fade. “I want, if you’ll accept it, to adopt you as my daughter.”

She felt her heart stop for a brief moment, as it sank in. Batman, her father? She remembered Tim telling her about how he’d done the same for him, and for Nightwing and Red Hood. She felt her eyes start to fill with tears, and she tried to speak, but the words weren’t there. Instead she simply embraced him, and he returned it, the gesture full of warmth and support. The only family she’d ever known was Cain, and she’d never truly considered the idea that she could have another. But here he was, giving her another chance. After a long time, a minute, maybe two, she released him, and wiped the tears from her face. She grimaced, trying to find the words. “Y-yes. Thank… you.”

He smiled, a warm expression she rarely saw from him. “There’s something else. I’ve never liked the name ‘Orphan’. You have a family, and I don’t want you to forget that. I’d been trying to come up with a replacement for a while, but my last mission with the Justice League gave me an idea. We have six Green Lanterns. There are two Flashes, maybe even a third. So I talked to Barbara, and she and I agreed.” He reached over and pushed a button. A panel on the wall, which she hadn’t noticed until that moment, slid open to reveal a costume, much like Batman’s own. “There’s no reason there can’t be two Batgirls.”

[bookmarks-reviews]

Superman: Before Truth, Return to Glory, and Savage Dawn

As previously mentioned, the pile of books that I have been reading over the past couple weeks has been a daunting one. Nevertheless, I’ve endeavored to read as many of them as possible. One of the more intriguing stories I’ve read in a while was this Superman arc, penned originally by the skills of Pak, Yang, Tomasi, and others not listed where I could find them.

Now, many consider Superman to be a character who is difficult to relate to at best. After all, the man is virtually a god, what with the invincibility, flight, EYE LASERS, as well as the copious amounts of other powers he has gained over the years. In what seems like an attempt to bring Superman’s power level down a bit, Before Truth has the Man of Steel testing the limits of one of his newest abilities: the solar flare.

With this power, Clark is able to overload his heat vision, and release all of the solar energy he has stored up in one massive blast. It annihilates almost anything in its path, but leaves Superman in a vulnerable, depowered state afterwards. Furthermore, an EVIL PLOT is afoot. (GASP!)

Someone, HORDE_root or some similarly named villain, has learned of Superman’s ability to blow out his own powers. As such, he places our hero is some very unforgiving circumstances, during which he is able to deduce Superman’s civilian identity. HORDE_root then uses this information as blackmail, forcing Superman to bend to his whims or have his secret revealed. Additionally, he has developed specialized robots capable of absorbing Superman’s solar flare energies. By the end of this first arc, a large part of Superman’s power has been permanently drained, and he is still sitting under the threat of blackmail. In order to free him from this Sword of Damocles, Lois Lane takes action, with the best intentions. But we all know where that road leads. The reporter publishes Clark’s identity online, leaving him free to wreak all kinds of havoc on HORDE_root’s headquarters. But the villain escapes, and chuckles darkly to himself as Clark’s world crumbles around his ears.

So, at this point, you might be asking a question. “I thought Superman was supposed to have fun adventures, ones where the status quo goes back at the end of the story?” Well, sorry to break it to you, but this doesn’t quite go that way. The situation devolves further as a weakened Superman flees Metropolis, trying to escape the hordes of villains who now want a piece of him. He ends up on the West Coast for a while, and befriends some deities. Along the way, he manages to corner HORDE_root once again, and discover that the big boss is actually only an underling. The true power behind all these machinations is none other than Vandal Savage, and he’s been setting things into play for a long time.

This bit requires some backstory, but I’ll keep it brief. Vandal Savage was originally a caveman who gained superpowers (immortality, relative indestructibility, superstrength) from an odd comet. Over the years, he’s noticed that it’s come back near Earth, and decides to rope it in to gain access to even loftier realms of power. He ends up piloting a giant warship into the JLA’s Watchtower, and also steals Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. By their powers combined, he’s somehow able to rope his comet back towards Earth. Also, everyone who shares his blood (which is like, a lot of people, given his immortality) gains superpowers too? Anyways, he sets them all after Superman, who is still mostly depowered…until he stumbles upon an idea.

Given that it’s all of his older cells that are depleted and “blocked”  from gaining more sunlight, he just needs to kill off that layer! So he goes and finds a bunker with a giant kryptonite pile and jumps in. Soon after, much like how Deadpool regenerates, but keeps his cancerous cells, Superman is powered up on kryptonite. He flies out to have a final fight with Savage, who is in the process of reaching his precious comet. But due to the rejuvenating effects of flying through his Fortress of Solitude, and doing something else that wasn’t included in the compilations I read, Superman is able to return to his normal powered-up self. He then flies up and has a good old-fashioned smackdown with Savage, eventually destroying his precious comet in the process.

Overall, I enjoyed this Superman series a lot, despite my tendency to stay more with the Batman and Constantine stories of DC. There are real things at stake for Clark, problems that are not easily resolved, even for the Man of Steel. Still, he tackles each new challenge in the steadfast way that only he can, ensuring that while he still draws breath, he will strive for truth, justice, and all that good stuff.

The only thing that really threw me about this comic was that Batman made jokes. Sure, they were at Superman’s expense, and the Dark Knight is no stranger to snark, but to hear him making jokes, and amusing ones at that, seemed contrary to most versions of his character that I had seen previously.