#this also means Tim can avoid grappling | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

miss-choco-chips · 4 years ago

Text

Bird Watchers

It was something like an open secret in Gotham, that even though all it’s heroes were open to help no matter the situation, each one of them had a special affinity to certain matters.

For example, children from all districts knew to yell for Nightwing if they found themselves lost and scared. Small business owners often painted little Oracle symbols on their doorsteps, to warn away possible thieves with the knowledge that Gotham’s cryptic hacker had their eye on them. Working girls would send a quick prayer to the Red Hood before seeing their seediest clients; and as such, knew who to call for if things took a turn for the worst.

And Red Robin… well. His was a very specific bunch.

---.---

Warnings: depression, suicide attempts, overdose comic-typical violence (discussed, not explicit). Hurt-comfort all the way, baby. There’s also one scene, with the redhead, that I copied from the comics.

(it’s almost 2 am, I wrote half of this in one go, don’t @ me for mistakes. I’ll edit tomorrow. Maybe.)

---.---

The first time he stopped a suicide, he had just turned thirteen. The suit still felt wrong, too loose in all the places where Jason’s bigger presence would have been a better fit. Too small, too brainy, not brash enough, not good enough.

He would never think himself worthy, but he was all Batman had. There were no other candidates, not ones he could have thrown the job at without risking Bruce’s identity, so he’d have to make do.

But even so, he had been gaining a little confidence over the past few months. His training with Shiva, and Dick’s and Bruce’s focus on making him as ready for the streets as humanly possible, had ensured he never encountered a situation where he couldn’t handle himself, or get back up in time to avoid any casualties.

Except for right now.

“Hey! Don’t do it, please!”

Yeah, maybe yelling at the man precariously balanced on the edge of a how many feet tall building wasn’t his wisest moment. He’d berate himself later. Now was freak out time.

Said man stumbled for a second before regaining his footing and turning to look at Tim. He couldn’t be more than forty, with a bit of an overgrown beard and tired eyes. He had something clutched in one hand, tanned and calloused from work, the other over his chest, probably due to the scare of having a bat suddenly appearing behind him.

“R-Robin…”, he gasped, shook out of whatever reverie he was going through for a second. “W-what… I mean, why are you…?”

‘Okay, Tim, breath. Can’t call B, he’ll notice, get startled and jump. Can I catch him if he does? My grappling hook is made to withstand more than my weight, but if I can’t handle the strain of swinging us both to safety…’

He couldn't risk it.

“Good evening, Mr…?”

Surprise and good manners made the man automatically answer, “Ed. Ed Harrinson.”

Encouraged, Tim took a tiny teeny step forward. Ed’s entire body shock and he leaned backwards. Tim froze, fear keeping his breathing and heartbeat hostages for the time being, stopping the first and kick starting the second.

“Mr Harrinson, I’d like to ask you to step away from the edge? I’ll call an ambulance for you, and…”

“No!”, the man screamed, suddenly over his surprise, a look of determination trying to masquerade his obvious exhaustion. “If you call an’one, I’ll jump.”

Tim wisely kept the ‘you were gonna do it anyway’ to himself. He nodded slowly, hands emerging from the confines of his cape to show Mr Harrinson the lack of a communication device.

“I won’t, then, but may I come closer? Please?”

It was on the last word, high pitched and wavering, that the man cracked. With wary demeanor, he waved him over, pointing to a patch of rooftop a little far but close enough for Tim to feel comfortable- or as comfortable as he’d get, in these circumstances.

As he approached, he could feel the man analyzing him. The little gasp when he stood by his side didn’t go unnoticed.

“You are… smaller than I imag’ned. Too small for a bat. My boy’s taller than you” he mused, likely to himself, but Tim grasped onto that bit of information and clutched at it with both hands, desperately.

“I’m short compared to my peers, so maybe I’m the same age as your son. How old is he?”, he asked, in his most conversational tone. Fear still had a grasp over both his lungs and heart.

Something in the man’s face shifted.

“He… he just turned fifteen.” Older than Tim, then. Ed continued, “He’s… ”, in a second, the sadness was replaced by pride, “he’s grown up p’tty well, if I say so m’self. A fine young man, that kid. He’ll go places.”

For a beat, Tim tried to imagine his own dad here. As much as he’d hate to see Jack in Mr Harrinson’s place, he couldn't help but wonder if he’d be talking about him the same way Ed spoke about his son.

He… didn’t think so. If on the verge of death, thoughts about his son would probably be the farthest from his dad’s mind.

“You sound like you love him very much. He’s a lucky guy” he said sincerely, a tendril of hopefulness still twisted around his stomach. His hands weren’t shaking any longer, finding solace in the fact that the man in front of him didn’t look like he was about to jump right that second.

Mr Harrinson’s face fell.

“Got served an’ unlucky hand, with an old man like me”, his eyes went back to the abyss, to the empty, poor litten streets below them. “Go ‘way, kid. Leave m’ be. Notta business what I do. Gotta do this f’r my kid.”

Fear came back, full force.

“I- Sorry, but I can’t help but think about your son”, he blurted out, the only bit of information he had about the man was his only tendril of hope. “Someone who loves his child as much as you seem to must be a good father. A father that… would be missed dearly, if lost so young.”

Mr Harrinson looked even more devastated. Tim was doing this all wrong, wasn’t he?

“There’s no other way t’ keep’im safe!'' he yelled, and for a minute Tim thought he had decided to jump then and there. Instead, he dropped to his knees, hands to his head, paper still clutched in one fist. “They’ll get to him if I don’t! Once I’m dead, they’ll just leave’im alone!”

Tim crouched next to him, tentative.

“Who is ‘they’, sir? Maybe I could help…”

Ed was already shaking his head.

“Nay, they said not to go to the bats. Kill my boy, they will, if I do. Seen them offing others for less, so I believe them.”

“Ah, but I’m too short to be a bat, am I not?” he smiled, wobbly at best but sincere. “Besides, who’s gonna tell them you spoke to me? I”, he gestured to his mask, “know how to keep a secret.”

He considered for a beat, before tired shoulders fell, defeated. He offered the slip of paper towards him, unseeing eyes on the street below.

Robin read the note carefully, noting the sloppy penmanship and cheap paper as well as the message itself.

“Mr Harrinson…”

“I know”, he whispered, “I know working for the Black Mask wasn’t my best idea. But m’boy needed to eat, and the landlord was gettin’ impatient. And now, for whatever reason, boss wants me dead. And if I make ‘im dirty his own hands, he’ll dirty ‘em twice and send me with my son for company to the other side. Felix is too young, and he’s good. Can’t let ‘im pay f’ his old man m’stakes, ya hear me?”

Tim thought his words over carefully.

“Mr Harrinson… I don’t think this comes from Black Mask himself”, for one, Blackie wasn’t one to avoid blood on his gloves, nor to send such a shitty note. The man lived for the drama, like most A-listers did, and he’d never forgo the aesthetic of an expensive peachment and beautifully worded threat. Also, if he wanted this man gone, he would have put a bullet in his head the second he clocked in; and if it were revenge he was after, he wouldn't have gotten a warning note but his son’s head sent to him instead.

He folded the paper and put it into one of his multiple pockets, free hand going to the man’s shoulder.

“I know Black Mask’s M.O, mister, and this is not it”, no need to spook him further by describing what it was, though. “Probably just a colleague who wanted your position, or has a grudge for whatever reason. And that, I can help you with. If you work with me on this one, we can both make sure Felix has his Dad making breakfast for him tomorrow morning, and all the days after that. After all”, he smiled, no longer uncertain now that he had firm ground to work with, “your son is going places, and he’ll have to be well fed to reach them, right?”

Mr Harrinson’s smile must have had magical properties, Tim thought. There was no other explanation for the way it returned his breath back to his body.

---.----

The next time he saw a jumper, a few months later, he was slightly more ready for it. Bruce had congratulated him on his work with Mr Harrinson, and the subsequent raid they could make on one of Black Mask’s warehouses thanks to the man’s information, but Tim hadn’t been satisfied until he had read every single mission report on the batcomputer about attempted suicides. And succeed ones, too. Need to know what went well and what didn’t, after all.

So when he saw the fifty-something woman crying on top of a tower in City Hall District, he didn’t almost-crash in his attempt to get there in time. He landed softly, making just enough noise to let her know she wasn’t alone, but careful to not startle her.

“It’s a little cold up here, Lady. If you’d like, I can walk you home?”, he tries for cheeky, despite the cold fear nesting in his stomach like a grumpy, spiteful bird.

The woman, sitting by the edge, turned her head to look at him. The movement called attention to her long, strawberry blonde hair, neatly braided, and her pretty diamond earrings. The face under her perfect make up was gaunt and pale, tear tracks cleaning paths of skin to his trained eye.

Despite him interrupting what probably were very private thoughts, she smiled at his approach, kind and polite. It didn’t reach her eyes, but the intent to put him at ease was generous enough.

“I may be a lady, but any adult worth their salt would insist on walking the young child home, instead of the opposite. Besides”, she patted the rooftop under her,” I live here, so it’s not a long walk at all.”

Tim stepped closer, carefully.

“May I sit?”

“I could use the company for a bit”, she accepted, head turning back to the city below.

They sat there for a few minutes in silence, before Tim’s soft voice broke it again.

“Is there anything I can do to help convince you not to do it? Please?”

The lady smiled. “You are a very sweet boy.”

“That’s… not an answer. Can I at least know why?”

“Won’t it torment you, in the future, if we speak now?”, she asked a question of her own, turning to face him again. Despite her words, there was nothing but kindness in those deep green eyes. “If you don’t know me, I’m just another one who jumped. If we talk, I’m afraid I might stay with you long after I’m gone. You are too young for that kind of weight.”

Tim swallowed.

“That’s easily solved, Miss;”, Dick’s rule of thumb; if unsure, always call a lady Miss before Mrs “don’t do it.”

She spared him a long, meaningful look, and he slumped over.

“Not my best, I know, but I’m kinda freaking out now?” She wasn’t like Mr Harrinson, no motive he could see, no strand to pull and unravel her pain. “Please, just… why?”

She patted one of the hands gripping his own knee. His other hand rushed over hers, sandwiching her cold, slim fingers between his gloved palms.

“There’s nothing left for me. I have a nice job, live in a pretty side of town, have friends, and still… it feels so empty. So… Meaningless. Why even bother?”

Tim chewed on her words silently. He was way out of his depth. A tangible, physical problem? He could solve those, no biggie.

Depression, though… that was a different giant to tackle. Was he even prepared enough to?

A strong gust of wind made the lady with braided hair shiver. Without thought, Tim unclasped his cape and draped it over her slim shoulders.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked, head tilted like a curious woodland animal. Tim felt strongly protective of her, of this kind, sweet lady, who said she had it all, except the one thing that mattered to her.

“I’m used to it”, he shrugged. “This suit is very warm, but cold air often trickles down from the neckline and… well. Gigs of the job and all that.”

The lady tutted, frowning for the first time since Tim arrived.

“That won’t do, young man. You need a scarf. The nights will only get colder from now on.”

He shrugged again.

“I just… don’t have the time to buy one. And I had one, but… There’s these kids who often hang out by the park, and they were so cold, I just couldn't swing by and ignore them. So I gave them my scarf to share between them. I’m just kinda bummed that I don’t have more to make sure they all stay warm.”

The braided haired lady hummed for a second.

“Well… I knit”, she started, carefully. “I don’t have children or grandchildren to give my final products to, so they’ll go to waste after I’m gone. If you’d take them out of my hands, you’ll do me a favor.”

Tim wanted to say no, unwilling to make this any easier for her, but the chance of getting her away from the edge was enough to quell his voice.

She went and came back within minutes, a big cardboard box balanced over her shaky arms. He rose to help her, meeting the woman halfway through the roof, a good distance away from the abyss.

“This red one would look good with your suit… oh, and the green one, to keep with the theme! Or maybe the yellow one… Shame pink would be such a bad fit for your colors, because that wool is the best I worked with…”

Tim’s hand carefully took said carf out and looked it over. There were about six others in the box.

“I could take this to those kids I mentioned before… It’d still not be enough for all, but more to share between them means less cold.”

She hummed again, looking at the unfinished projects on the bottom of the box.

“If… If you give me a few days…” she muttered. “I mean, I’m in no rush”, a hand vaguely gestured towards the rooftop’s edge. “I could spare a few days finishing those, and you could take them to these kids you spoke about… and maybe, I can help make a few children less cold with this silly hobby of mine.”

Elated beyond words, Tim nodded vigorously, waxing poetry about her work and about just how excited little Ellie would be with this soft, pretty pink scarf.

His patrol route could use a few detours, after all, if that meant keeping Braided Hair Lady away from her roof.

---.----

He was just returning from a late supply run when he bumped into The Cats.

It was in an alleyway, a block off from Mrs Eloise Denvarow (formerly known as Braided Hair Lady). The older woman had caved after three months knowing each other, of Tim passing by her apartment once every other night to pick up her baked goods or knitted masterpieces, to distribute between street kids and working girls, and told him her name. It was said in passing (“Stop with that ‘Lady’ thing, honey. It’s Eloise”), as if lacking importance, when in reality it meant the world to him. Sure, he’d already known, having run a background check on her the minute he came back to the cave after stopping her from jumping, but there was that implicit vow between them, that she wouldn't tell him her name and jump, wouldn’t make him carry its weight on his shoulders forever, so it was… it was a promise, on her end, a reassurance, and Tim wasn’t even embarrassed that he cried in her arms like a baby for ten minutes.

So here he was, a month after that, still riding that high, when the desperate call from below caught his attention.

There were two teens on the dirty ground, nested among cracked bottles and old newspapers. The girl was lying in the boy’s arms, with him screaming for help.

“Robin! Thank fuck!”, he almost sobs, arms visibly tightening around the girl. Tim wants to ask how he knew to call for him, and if the proximity to Mrs Denvarow’s place was luck or not.

But it wasn’t the time to ask.

The girl was pale, which only highlighted the bruises on her face. Someone with a big fist punched her. It doesn't seem likely, considering just how distraught the other kid is, but he checks his hands just in case; fortunately, too small for that kind of damage.

She’s also breathing erratically and, when he puts a gloved hand to her neck, he realizes just how crazy her pulse is.

Fear Toxin? Except Scarecrow is still in Arkham as far as he knows, and even if he had gotten away recently, he needs time to develop his precious chemicals. Joker’s Venom and Mad’s Hatter drugs don’t have quite this results, and Ivy doesn’t usually attack street girls just for kicks; they are also too far from her usual turf for her to be a viable suspect.

So, that leaves very few choices.

“Overdose?”, he ventures a guess, hand already fumbling through the pockets on his belt.

The other boy sobs harder, nodding while looking down at the girl in his arms. Tim gently takes the girl from him to position her straighter, to help her down the vial he finally found in his belt. It was supposed to help flush out any chemical in a few minutes, tops; they usually used it when a new type of Crazy Criminal Drug made its way to the streets and they didn’t have the time to properly prepare an antidote. It was strong, and vicious in its path to devoid the body of any and all external agents, which was why it wasn’t a preferred method; who’s to say the civilian in need of a flush isn’t in some important medicine? The Big Flush, as Dick calls it, lacked any kind of finesse or discrimination.

But it was their best shot right now, so there goes nothing.

There’s silence while they watch the girl’s progress. He doesn’t bother asking if he called for an ambulance; they are obviously minors, probably homeless, and even if the Wayne Foundation takes care of children’s hospital fees, they’d avoid it to keep themselves out of the foster system.

But then, the kid kept talking.

“I… I found her near Grant Park. I… I didn’t know what to do, so I dragged her here. She/” and then he breaks again, hands grasping one of hers, as if letting go meant he was giving up on her and he couldn't bear it.

“Grant Park is only five blocks away,” Tim thinks out loud, mind already a mile away “and Moench’s Row illicit night clinic is about the same distance from there as this place. Why did you bring her here?”

“She… Alley… Oh, her name’s Allison, by the way. And I’m Thomas. Tom.” Introductions, miraculously, seem to do the trick here and calm him down. “Nice to meetcha.”

Tim’s not deterred by his toothy grin, but he has to admit he’s kinda cute. Like, stray cat cute.

Huh. Alley, Tom, cat… Yeah, that checks.

“What happened with Allison?” he presses softly, one arm still keeping Alley up and against his chest, the other hand on her pulse point, taking note of the way the heartbeat seems to be stabilizing. The puking fest was gonna start soon.

“She… It was on purpose.” Tom confesses, eyes going clouded for a while. “She tries to not be home, yknow? I met her in kindergarten, and even then she’d try to hide behind the teacher’s desk in hopes they’d forget about her and close the building with her inside. Anyway, we pretty much live on the streets these days, and Alley… she’s very depressed. I convinced her to see someone a while ago, even stol/ I mean, earned the money for it myself”, he’s quick to correct, eyes glancing up to see if he was smooth enough to cover it; which he wasn’t, but Tim was in favor of letting that small one go, “and they gave her a prescription for antidepressants. She’s been kicking it down the road, but she’s gotten a lot worse and I wouldn't lay off her case about it, so she sneaked back home to get some money from her folks to pay for it.”

By the way the kid looks at her bruised face with unmeasurable guilt, Tim knows she didn’t go unnoticed.

“And… I don’t know. We were supposed to meet up by the Commerce Street Highway, but she was late, so I walked around for a bit and… I saw her there, on a bench. She was/ she was still conscious then, and she told me… she said ‘these aren’t what the doc gave me, but they took the pain away all the same’.” Again, Tom chokes on his own emotions. If he had any free hands, he’d try to put one on his shoulder for comfort. “I don’t even know what she took, or where did she get it from!”

Tim has heard whispers of loan sharks and drug dealres camping toghter by the Fashion Distric, just north of Grant Park, so he can make an informed guess as to how that happened. Also, he now knows what he’ll do the rest of the night, once these kids are safe.

When Tom has gotten a grasp of himself, he pushes again.

“So, why did you bring her here?”

He shrugs, a bit abashed.

“Well… I mean, everyone knows about how Mrs Denvarow is the one giving clothes and food away, and that you help her distribute it. Well, not everyone, but… you know, the street kids. We flagged her building with a yellow skull and everything.”

A yellow skull grafitti, Tim’s mind translates, is the street equivalent of a ‘don’t fuck with this place’ sing. A sort of protective sigil. He wonders how he missed it.

“And… This is kind of your thing, right? So I figured you’d be better prepared to deal with it than some overworked clinic that might even not have enough free equipment to help us. Good think I did, too” he gestures at his friend, whose face is now looking flushed; a sign both of growing health, and of the upcoming puke. Tim’s quick to turn her so her back is to his chest, head tilted down just in case.

As if rehearsed, Alley chose that exact second to empty the contents of her now flushed stomach. Tim would need a sample of that, to catch the responsible dealer.

Tom held her hair away from her face while Tim kept her steady, and she blinked bearily at them after it was done, still not completely lucid but a world away from the girl she was ten minutes ago.

“She’ll still need a hospital.'' Tim informs Tom sternly. The boy had taken his friend in his arms again, softly rubbing her back to help with the uncomfortable ache leftover after puking your guts out. “The Moench’s Row clinic should be able to help with any side effect, but she’s safe for now.”

He nods, thanks Tim again and again and politely refuses his help to take her to the clinic. They part ways, both parties probably thinking this would be the last time they saw each other.

Still, their situation sticks with Tim during the rest of his patrol, and he decides to stop by the clinic, just to check on them. His knuckles still ache from the absolute beating he delivered to the ones who gave Alley the money and sold her the drugs, so he’s in better spirits and hopes to spread it to the kids.

Alley is awake when he visits, and her shy, little smile is enough for the rage inside of Tim to die down. The bad guys dealt with, the civilians safe, everything in its proper place.

He sleeps a bit better that night.

---.----

He almost doesn’t see him.

Actually, he probably wouldn't have, deeply lost into his own head, had the guy been anything other than a redhead. That exact shade of orangy-brown auburn, that he would have to pick up from his workbench at Titan’s tower after Bart had decided to ‘keep him company’ during his all-nighters.

It was ironic, how now he would give anything in the world to have those same strands of hair fucking up his experiments, if only for the impish, ‘please-don’t-kill-me-I’m-an-angel’ smile he would receive in exchange.

“Hey”, he greets, landing softly at the man’s right, sitting a few feet away from him, too tired to even stand up on common ground. “What’s happening?”

He shouldn’t be doing this. He really, really shouldn’t. His own mental health was less than stellar, and even thinking about it made him feel worse. He didn’t deserve to feel bad, not when civilians were in the hospital after his latest fuck up, Cass was missing, Cassie barely hanging in there, the family a mess with Damian’s lovely introduction, and… well. Every other person he knew…

Point being, there must be someone else, in a better inner place, that could speak to this guy. But since no one seemed to be patrolling this route, Tim could only hope to stall him long enough for a more capable vigilante to show up.

The guy looks startled, then angry. He has green eyes, he notices, under the glasses. Not sure why that sticks to him.

“What are you doing here? You’re not going to try to stop me, are you? You’re not going to swing down and catch me in mid air or something, are you?”

He seems defensive, but Tim notices a bit of hesitancy. He has worked with less.

(He wishes he had more energy to do more with what little he has)

“No. If I did, what’s to stop you from doing it again later, or tomorrow? I can’t be with you every second. If you want to do this, you are going to, no matter how much I don’t want you to. And I don’t want you to, just so we are clear.”

The guy still looks suspicious, but he hasn’t taken that last step forward, so… a win?

“I just needed to sit down for a minute. ‘been thinking about all the ways I’ve screwed up lately, and…”

Auburn-hair deflates a little, turning away from Tim to examine the night sky. “Well, that makes two of us.”

The bat signal lights up the night. His newfound companion looks at it, then him. “Do you need to get that?”

“Nah. Batman will, and if he needs help he’ll call me.” Tim shrugs. He needs a coffee-power-up. He needs to sleep. He needs for his loved ones to not be dead.

He needs to see if there’s anything he can do for this guy.

“So, do you want to tell me why you’re doing this? So someone can go to your family and friends to let them know?”

After all, if it was him who did it (and… wasn’t that food for thought?), he’d like Bruce and Dick to know why. To not… to not blame themselves.

Redhead looks annoyed again. Uh. A short fuse, this one.

“Don’t try any psychology, or try to make me feel guilty about hurting anyone… this isn't about anyone but me.”

He shouldn’t say it, but… “That’s pretty naive, but whatever. Tell me anyway.” He smirks a bit, then “Unless you’re in a hurry or something.”

He hears the guy (he really should ask his name) as he tells his story. A cold, clinical part of his mind recognizes the symptoms described almost unconsciously by the guy as depression. He would know, after all. The other part of him, the part that made him Robin, that made him human, discarded the label; there was much more to this guy than his illness, and he would treat him like it.

“So here I am,” he finishes, now sitting side by side with Tim, both their legs hanging above the bustling city. “Now’s when you tell me how stupid this is. That other people have much bigger problems, there’s hunger and war, and I’m weak because my problems are nothing next to stuff like that.”

Tim thinks of a father, desperately thinking his death would save his son’s life, when in fact it would have only made it worse. He thinks of a woman, so full of love and warmth, looking into the abyss and feeling empty inside. He thinks of a couple of kids, one hanging to life with nails and teeth, the other hanging to her just as fiercely.

He thinks about himself. About looking at a future version of himself, hating what he sees, and deciding to drown the bud before it can even flower. He thinks of sickly green water, of cloning equipment in a laboratory, of a phone falling to the ground after delivering him with more bad news.

He’s still in a bad place, still probably not the most capable person to be doing this, but a part of him is sure this is the right answer. The only answer.

“No. Your problems are worse than anyone else’s, because they are yours. I’ve... felt bad like you have, and some pretty bad things have happened to me.”

Red hair looks as tired as Tim feels, so it’s a surprise that he has enough energy to glance at him worriedly, hand stretching a bit in his direction in a half-formed attempt to comfort.

“You guys make it look so easy, swinging around, having fun… Things get bad for you, too?”

Tim looks down, and smiles. It’s a sad, bitter thing. He thinks about parents lost before ever connecting to them, about a girlfriend going away, a sister lost to the madness of their lives, about two best friends gone, one even dying in his arms.

He gives no details. Doesn’t talk about it all, just shares a little bit of himself. It’s only fair, after hearing about this guy’s demons. Misery loves company, doesn’t it?

“So what do you do? How do you deal with it?” the guy asks when he’s done, looking at Tim by the corner of his not-very-dry eyes.

Tim forces himself to remember. “One of the things I’ve learned is that it gets bad for everyone sometimes, Superman, Batman… everyone. I remember that I’m not alone, that things do get better. Sometimes on their own, most times when you work at them. And when I have trouble remembering those things, I find people to talk to.”

Most of those were dead, but Tim is hit with the epiphany that not all of them are. He still has people. He still…

“And you’ve got people like that? That you can talk to?” asks the guy, tone both worried and hopeful. Tim stands up, does his best to look calm.

“Yeah. Your folks, and old friend, even a trained counselor you’ve never met before… someone who has a totally different perspective because they’re not as close to your problems as you are. Maybe they give you advice, and that’s great… or maybe they just listen. Sometimes, that’s all you need. Anyway, that’s how I deal with it when things suck. And it works. Want to come down from there and give it a try?”

The guy gets back to his feet, as Tim watches from behind. Having been in this situation before, the fear grabbing a hold of him isn’t new, but it's different. He thinks he's too worn down. It takes the edge off of any emotion.

Except hope. Hope still hurts like a sharp knife when it’s snatched away. He prays it won’t be, right now.

Green eyes (Jason- that’s who they reminded him of) look down, deep in thought. Then he turns, smiles at Tim. There’s hope in him too.

“Yeah, why not?”

They get down together. He gives him a few numbers and they have breakfast together. The guy promises to call his English teacher, at least. Tim promises himself to call his brother.

At least, he still has Dick.

---.----

He’s been putting off doing his rounds since he came back, he knows. But…

It changed him, a bit. Going around the world, dealing with his grief while staying on his toes, ready to break down one second and having to field off attacks from all sides the next, with the Demon’s honeyed whispers echoing in his ear and mind.

He’ll never tell anyone, just how tempting it had been. How much he had wanted to reach for that offered hand. To lay his head on someone’s shoulder and let the responsibility bleed from his.

Tim will never tell anyone, but he’ll always know. And it’ll always make him hate himself a little bit more.

So, he’s different now. And he’s scared- that the people he gave hope to, that he talked with, that he could never stop thinking about, even halfway across the world- that they won’t like this new, worn down him.

That Mr Harrinson the Good Father, Braided Hair Lady and her sweaters, the inseparable Stray Cats, the girl with the bright yellow cardigan, the kid with the scarred wrists, the woman with beautiful star-like freckles that she’ll hopefully pass on to her baby, the gentle giant man with calloused hands, the petite but fierce young teen with defiant eyes and dead name, the soft spoken girl with the loudest laugh, auburn-haired boy and his hopeful and sympathetic green eyes… and so, so many more. They all knew him, maybe not at his best, but certainly better than now. The boy that kept them from jumping had been a bright, magical Robin. The teen that came back to their city was dark, weary Red Robin. It felt kinda like he had cheated them, returning this broken version of himself to their doorsteps.

But he had to go check on all of them. Even if Cass (and it was such a relief, that even after he lost everything else, the return of his sister could at least be a speck of light in the mist of misery surrounding him) had promised to do so, there were so many of them… and she couldn't possibly remember everyone, all the time. And if anyone had fallen through the gaps… if anyone had stood on a rooftop, waiting for their Robin to save them, only to think ‘nobody cares’ as he didn’t show up…

Tim gets sick only thinking about it. If it did happen, then he needs to know. He has to carry their names with him, that’s the least he can do for failing them.

So he’ll go check on them… anytime now. Soon. The moment he gathers enough energy to climb back to his feet and get his grapple hook out.

...The city looks full of life, beneath him. Like it feels the return of its Knight. The end of the internal quarrel among it’s vigilantes, that almost tore it all apart. The relief in Nightwing, the hesitant peace in Red Hood, the mellowing of Robin.

(He was feeling poetic tonight, in the worst ways)

Maybe it also feels Red Robin’s emptiness. Maybe that’s why it's so lively down there, like the ground is calling to him, just as it did when Ra’s broke the window with his body.

He thinks... he won’t have to check on anyone, if he jumps. And that way, there will be no name to carry with him to his grave.

“Robin!”

“Stop!”

“Don’t do it, please!”

He startles. Hadn’t even noticed when he got to his feet, nor that one of them was hanging over the abyss. The fact that he wasn’t alone on that rooftop any longer hadn’t even breached his usually perfect spatial awareness.

They didn’t call for him, but the voices sounded distraught, they were close, and he was a former Robin, so he turned around, tired, but with obedience and service too ingrained in him to consider denying help to whoever it was.

It turned out, he wouldn't need to go make his rounds any longer. His rounds had come to him.

There were… too many people on this roof. It was way too crowded.

“Robin!”

It was one voice now, not a mixture of them, so he could identify the one yelling his former alias. Allison broke from the mob of people (and there were more still, filling in from the open rooftop door, like a never-ending stream…) to run to him, looking like she might have just jumped into his arms, if not for Tom clutching her hoodie to stop her a few feet from him. Good move, considering he was still balancing precariously on the edge.

“Alleycat?” he whispered, a little blown. She looked so different (magenta looked amazing on the tips of her hair, and she totally pulled off that lip piercing), but he’d recognize those eyes anywhere. He’d been so relieved, when she first opened them after that dangerous overdose.

“We were so fucking worried, dude”, came from Tomcat just behind her, still gripping her hoodie (still keeping her safe; some things never change).

“I…”

“Where were you?” Maddie, not longer yellow but still wearing a cute cardigan, stepped up too.

“I’m… I’m not Robin”, he blurts out. They… knew it was him? It… like, obviously there was a new Robin, Damian was (still, but probably not for much longer) smaller than him, but to immediately know that he was…

“Yeah, no shit. I’d know that long hair and noodle limbs of yours anywhere, kid. Known you too long to be fooled. And the new kid’s really trigger happy with that lon’nife of his... You’re still the Robin I prefer, and fuck if I understand the name passing you heroes do” Mr Harrinson spoke from the back of the crowd, one hand clutching his kid’s shoulder, the other arm around…

“Braided Hair Lady?”

Eloise smiles at him, soft and warm as ever, a little shy when his eyes go to the arm hugging her close and back to her. He recognizes some of her handmade scarfs around the necks of plenty of people on the roof.

“I… wasn’t aware you all knew each other.”

A petite young teen steps forward, walking until they were shoulder-to-shoulder with the Strays.

“Most of us met through the app, and then introduced the others. There’s more, of course, but not everyone could meet here. Samantha’s baby was born just two months ago, so she chose to stay home, but we promised her pictures, so you’ll have to say cheese soon birdboy. Also, I found my name. I’m Cal.”

Allison’s smile broadened and she sneaked an arm around Cal’s waist.

“They are the new Straycat. Calico cat’s are the cutest shit ever, aren’t they?”

Well… Having someone as badass as Cal watching Tom and Alley’s back would sure make Tim feel a lot better about both kids being out in the streets.

Were they still on the streets? He’d need to find out and fix that, soon.

Then it hit him. “What app?”

Auburn-hair smiled from his place, at the front of the crowd just behind the Cats.

“Felix over there,” he pointed over his shoulder at Mr Harrinson’s son, who smiled shyly at Tim, eyes shining in gratitude and admiration like they always did when Tim did his rounds and checked on his dad, “defended you in a GothamHeroes forum once. Some bratty douchebag was complaining about you landing over his car or something and this kid went for his fucking troath.”

“I was in that chat too,” spoke Tom, smiling a little too savagely for a kid that sweet. “He tore the idiot to shreds, speaking about how you saved his dad’s life and took it upon yourself to make sure he was still okay even weeks after you met. I mentioned how you saved Alley and Mrs Denvarow, we exchanged numbers… then we met Cal during one of our rounds handing out Mrs D’s scarfs and food. They were weary of everyone else, but trusted us because they heard you talk about the clothes and baked goods... And Cal’s friend Gina worked with Samantha on the streets and told them about her story...”

“Soon, it seemed like people personally saved by you were just… popping out of the snow like daisies” Blair laughed, and it was still the loudest, brightest noise. The night seemed a little clearer, the air a little fresher for it. “Felix made his own private chat and added us, and we added everyone else we knew… The word went around about it, and more and more people joined in…”

“It’s really a wonder how you had any time to fight crime, seeing how often you were apparently comforting jumpers on the roofs” Ailbert, still as gigantic and gentle as always, raised a hand from the middle of the group. He had a little girl on his shoulders, probably the baby niece he had taken in after his sister’s death.

“Then the new kid appeared and Gotham went to hell on a basket, and no one saw you around any longer”, Elijah, wrists no more scarred than the last time he saw him, his arm tangled with Maddie’s, went on. “We were… well, we were a bit confused.”

“Speak for yourself, Cal jumped Red Hood one night, held him at knife point and demanded to know what the fuck happened to our Robin. We were like, zero chill.”

“Sorry, they did what?” Tim was definitely in the twilight zone now.

“No thoughts, head empty, only murder”

...Tim needed to give Jason a quick call. Also sign Cal up for anger management. And probably, judging by the way both Alley and Tom were looking at them, get one of the adults to give them the talk.

Mrs Eloise smiled at him, and like always it served to calm his nerves. That woman was a different kind of magic than Alfred, but magic indeed. “Anyway, dear, what matters is that we were worried about you. And then this incredible young man, Aaron,” she waved at him, and he winked one of his green eyes in response, “suggested we kept in closer contact with one another, so anyone who spotted you could inform the others.”

Aaron shrugged, his auburn mane of hair bobbing with the movement. “It just seemed like it’d be easier to have an alarm set up, since messaging everyone would take so long… and then someone suggested making a map of Gotham so we could have clearer routes for the kids handing out Mrs Denvarow’s stuff… and someone wanted a shared blackboard to write theories on where the fuck you were with others… and a few demanded a space to share photos, possible sightings or old selfies with you… It kinda spiralled and I thought it’d be less of a chaotic mess if I made an app that could do all of that, instead of all of us using multiple apps for the different fixtures everyone asked for… Since this is Gotham, we also added some Rouge Alarm for whenever a criminal was set loose. It helped keep us safe, and if we knew when crime was happening, we could pay attention to which heroes answered the call…”

“And then, you fought that firefly guy the other day”, Felix said, still by his dad’s side, still looking as awed as ever when looking at tim. “I was in the crowd, and I recognized you within a minute.”

“I don’t really understand technology that well, and the group chat was such a mess that day” Ailbert lamented, but he was still smiling. They all were.

That hit Tim then, hard.

They all looked so happy to see him. To have him back. They had been waiting for him to be back, banded together to make sure they’d all know when he did.

“You looked so sad the last time we saw you” Blair added softly, sadly. “And… when you saved Aaron, you told him about such sad things…”

Elijah winced “And I heard the Midnighter fell from Wayne Tower a few weeks ago, but then he was never seen around again, and your suit looks kinda similar, so that was probably really you… and, that fall…”

“We were very worried” repeated Eloise, but her eyes didn’t lose their warmth. “But you’re back now, and we can keep track of you and each other now, so it’s all good. It’s wonderful to have you back, love.”

This was an out of body experience.

Something must have shown on his face, because Cal snorted.

“We adore you, you dumbass. You are our hero.”

Alley smiled. “You are our Robin.”

Tim fell into her arms, and away from the roof’s edge. The rest of the crowd was upon them in seconds, all eager to pat his back or joke about the cowl hiding his hair from their hands.

He met eyes with Aaron, over Alley’s shoulder. He looked like the hope Tim had helped plant in his heart all those months ago had flowered, and the petals filled his heart.

(He was feeling poetic tonight, in the best ways)

“You should download the app too, so you always have someone to talk to. Look it up. It’s called BirdWatchers, because we’ll always look up and out for you. Because when we wanted to jump, you lended us your wings to fly instead.”

It was like this fucker wanted Tim to cry.

“Welcome home, Red Robin.”

#My writing #Tim drake #batman fanfic #red robin #trigger warning:#depression #suicide attempts #discussion of suicide #overdose #mental illness #hurt comfort #Tim doing the comfort and being the hurt #until he gets the comfort #happy ending #wholesome #I swear the tags are scary but it IS wholesome #Tim drake centric #my writting

190 notes · View notes

mischiefandspirits · 3 years ago

Text

Are You Sure About That?

((Warning for blood and blood drinking))

The seedy streets of Gotham were filled with whispers about the demons and monsters that roamed the city, and outsiders and Gotham’s lawful scoffed at how superstitious the criminals could be.

Gordon had worked alongside Batman enough to be quite sure there were no demons in Gotham. Sure, the vigilante was a little standoffish, but it was Gotham. Likewise, the Robins and Batgirls were all good kids. Maybe the first Robin’s smiles were a little eerie, but that was likely just the contrast with his mentor. Maybe the second and third liked morbid humor, but that was just how kids were these days. Maybe the fourth Robin was a bit temperamental and harsh, but he was young. Maybe the Batgirls’ movements were a little uncanny, but that was probably just the training. Maybe Nightwing seemed a little too cheerful about the stuff they dealt with, but the kid had been doing this since he was young. He could have a worse coping mechanism. Red Hood was the only one he’d really consider monstrous, but the guy was a former crime lord turned anti-hero and he had been getting better since the Bat had taken him under his wing.

The members of the Justice League rolled their eyes whenever someone brought up the rumors. Batman was grim, overly serious, and secretive, but he was a good man who only wanted the best and always had plan after plan to help the league succeed.

The Titans thought the rumors were hilarious. Sunshine Boy Nightwing? A demon? Who could believe the guy who was always flipping around and laughing at his own bad puns was some dark monster?

The Outlaws didn’t believe it, but they understood why someone might make the mistake of thinking Red Hood was a monster. The guy was vicious and maybe a little messed up in the head, but then again so were they.

Young Justice scoffed at the rumors. Corvid was incredibly intelligent and an incredible fighter, but he was also an absolute mess who couldn’t remember to sleep, eat, or drink on his own.

The Teen Titans stared dumbly when they heard the rumors. Sure, Robin was rude, brutal, and a bit entitled, but calling him a demon was a little much, especially considering the team had a cambion member.

The Birds of Prey ignored the rumors. Oracle was a godsend, even when she had to give up the cowl because of an unknown accident. And Batgirl was a brash spitfire, but she was always willing to lend a hand. Likewise, Huntress mostly stuck to herself, but she could be kind and personable when the time came.

The public, well, as time went on they saw more and more of Batman and his companions working with their teams on the news. It was quite clear to everyone that the group was nothing more than baseline humans with incredible training who were out to make the world a better place.

Yet the rumors persisted.

Because in the shadows of Gotham, where only the darkest of souls and their victims could see you, there was no reason to hide.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nightwing licked the blood off his talons as he listened to Batgirl’s story, idly kicking the unconscious gangster at his feet every so often.

“Why didn’t you just kill him, Fatgirl?” Robin huffed from Nightwing’s side and the imp ruffled the tiefling’s hair, carefully avoiding his horns.

“Killing shouldn’t be your go-to option, hdiiga,” he chirped.

“Don’t do that! You’re getting saliva and common blood in my hair!” Robin snarled, slapping away his hand.

Nightwing smirked and leaned down to lick a speck of blood off his youngest brother’s cheek, pulling back quickly when Robin screeched and tried to punch him.

“I’d say it’s an improvement,” Red Hood teased as he finished tying up the gangster he’d had taken down.

“Mind your place or I will put you back in your grave!”

Wiping some blood off his mouth, Hood smiled at Robin. “Go right ahead. I could use the nap.”

“If you’re counting on me to resurrect you, I’ll remind you that the last time I did that, you tried to banish me,” Red Robin said, not looking up from the laptop he was hacking into as his shadows soaked up the blood on him.

Nightwing and Batgirl groaned as the zombie and demon settled into a familiar argument.

“Well maybe if you’d brought me back properly as you did for your blonds, then I wouldn’t have tried to banish you.”

“That was different! I was less experienced when I brought you back!”

“I should have been easier to bring back! I was already a zombie!”

“EXACTLY! You came with a bunch of extra complications!”

“Are you two ever going to let this go?” Batgirl asked, eyes on the gangster she had knocked out. His face was twitching with distress as she twirled her fingers across his forehead, occasionally pulling them away to see the small moment of peace he got before she began brushing them across his forehead again. The revenant looked up at Robin and winked. “And killing’s boring, Human-Bird. Everything ends way too fast.”

Robin clicked his tongue. “I will never understand why we should waste our time torturing someone who has nothing worth telling? If we’re not going to kill them then why bother attacking them at all?”

“Because it’s fun?” Nightwing and Batgirl said together.

“There’s always something you can get out of someone, even if it’s just sustenance?” Red Robin offered.

Hood shrugged when the tiefling turned to him. “Don’t look at me. I’m the white sheep, remember. The only reason I could give you is that listening to B lecture about maintaining appearances by limiting deaths and going after insignificant criminals gets really annoying after a while, and that’s never stopped me.”

“Are you five done?” Oracle’s hissing voice echoed through the alley as the green mist that had been hovering across the ground began to rise in serpentine forms.

“Just finished downloading the data you wanted,” Red Robin said, closing the laptop and passing a thumb drive to the snake coiling up him.

“Alright, the police are three minutes out so either clean yourselves up or get out of there.”

“I will head in. I need to wash off the common blood and,” Robin glared at Nightwing, “saliva.”

The imp smiled back unrepentantly. “I’ll go with you, hdiiga.”

“I should probably take off as well,” Hood said as the two left. “I still need to check on a few things in my territory. Maybe grab another bite to eat.”

“Please clean up after yourself this time. I don’t exist just to disappear all your bodies.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll behave. Not really in the mood for a lecture from His Majesty anyways,” Hood said with an eye roll and swatted the serpent on him off so he could grapple away.

“Guess it’s just you and me on babysitting duty, Red,” Batgirl said. She stood up and stretched before walking over to Red Robin. “Mind helping a lady freshen up?”

The demon snorted, but his shadows rose to clean the blood off her. As they waited, Red Robin raised his guise to make him appear human and Batgirl pulled up her scarf to hide the part of her pure-white face that wasn’t covered by the cowl.

Once they’d gone through the motions with the humans, Red Robin took off on his bike and Batgirl headed up to the roofs.

“Alright, O. Take me home!”

The green mist that had nearly disappeared in the presence of the humans flared to life and condensed into a large serpent that coiled around the revenant until she couldn’t see anything but green. The mist dispersed after a moment, leaving her standing within a summoning circle at the center of the Clocktower.

Oracle was sitting in front of her at a desk surrounded by computer screens and candles with green flames. A scrying bowl sat in front of her and a laptop was across her lap. As Batgirl stepped out of the circle, the scrying bowl stopped glowing and the candles went out all at once. The otherworlder set her keyboard on her desk and spun her chair around to face Batgirl, the white light fading from her eyes and the light from the screen catching eerily on the cracks across her skin that kept her from glamoring.

As she pulled down her cowl, Stephanie tossed Barbara a pendant glowing with psychic energy. “Brought home dinner!”

“Thanks. Your dinner is in the oven. Tiết canh.”

“You’re the best!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hdiiga is an Impish term. It directly translates to mean an infant imp, but it more generally is used as a term of endearment used by parents for their children or older siblings for their younger siblings.

For the record since they didn't appear:

Bruce is a demon king from the same demonic realm as Tim

Selina is a demigoddess who was granted powers by a cat goddess and, as a result, can reincarnate up to nine times

Helena is a cambion that came about as a result of a shared night between Bruce and one of Selina's past lives

Talia is completely human as was Damian's father (Damian's tiefling traits are a result of Talia and Ra's infusing Damian with Bruce's power during his time in the incubator in hopes of earning Demon!Bruce's favor. They are not aware that Demon!Bruce and Batman!Bruce are the same person)

Bernard is also a revenant (he and Steph were the blonds Jason mentioned)

#dick grayson #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #stephanie brown #damian wayne #batfam #fanfiction

22 notes · View notes

fredweesleyismyslut · 4 years ago

Text

No More Secrets - Tim Drake x reader

A/N: One of my many interests is reading comic books sometimes and in middle school I got really into the robins and batman, so this is me living out my fantasy of dating my favorite by writing Tim Drake fanfic haha. Anyways, twas also written at 12am like most of my writings nowadays because apparently I like writing when I’m running on 3 hours of sleep and 2 cups of coffee at night. So, before I ramble more I’m gonna stop here, so I hope you enjoy this and have a good whatever it is where you live/whenever you’re reading this and if it’s not good it’ll get better! Byeeeee!

Staring at the clock, it felt as if it was mocking you, ticking the seconds away as you waited for your boyfriend to show. Muttering under your breath you said to yourself, “Of course he’s a no show.” You had prepared dinner for him at home, it was your two year anniversary and you had a surprise for him. Sighing you ran your hand through your hair, looking at your phone the last time that Tim had texted you back, you texted one last time, Hey, babe. I’m gonna head to bed it’s getting late. Before he could text back or call you turned your phone off, done for the night, not wanting to be bothered. Tim Drake, your boyfriend, was somehow always busy and missed all your dates, and now he’s missed your anniversary. It wouldn’t have been a big deal if it wasn’t for the fact that, yet again, he’s missed more than half the dates you’ve ever been on. I mean you probably hang out with his brothers more than he hangs out with you. You can count more than once that Dick, his older brother, had come out and eaten dinner with you instead because you had made reservations and Tim couldn’t make it. Groaning you stretched, allowing the air to be released from your joints as you stood up and ignored the dishing, promising yourself you would wash them the next morning.

The next morning, you heard the doorbell ringing, someone was nonstop ringing the bell as you finally jolted from the bed, “I’m coming, I’m coming!” Opening the door, you questioned, “Why are you ringing the doorbell like a madman at 6am?!” Wiping the grogginess from your eyes, you focused, “Oh, Tim. Hey, what’s up?” You stood at the door, as you continued, “I thought it was the kids next door, they usually come over for breakfast since their mom leaves early.” He nodded as he shuffled his hands together, as he smiled softly, “Can I come in?” You nodded, moving aside, as he walked past you, “I’m sorry.” was the first thing that came out of his mouth as soon as he made it in, “I didn’t mean to ditch you last night, I was-” You cut him off quickly, eyes shooting holes into him, you swear if looks could kill...he’d already be dead. “Oh, let me guess, you were busy, just like every other time.” You scoffed softly, as you went over to get water, “Let me guess again, you bailed because last-minute your neighbor’s house burned down and you had to go save everyone?” Tim frowned softly, “Y/n, baby, I promise it’ll never happen again.” You rolled your eyes softly, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep Timmy.” His hand reached for yours as you quickly pulled away, as if his hand was made from fire, “Be honest with me Tim, are you just not interested anymore?” you moved to the far corner and crossed your arms over your chest as if protecting your heart from hurt, “In the two years we’ve been together I can count maybe three times that we’ve had a date where you didn’t bail last minute. I mean what is going on, did you just have fun playing with me?” Tim’s face turned into one of appalling, “I would never y/n, you know that.” “Do I? Honestly, at this point I don’t know whether I’m dating you or your brothers. I’ve been on more dates with them where they haven’t bailed than dates with you.” Tim opened his mouth to reply but quickly closed it, instead walking closer, “Darling, please, just listen.” You flinched at his touch, as you pulled away, trying to keep your voice in control you took a deep breath. “Did you ever even love me, Tim?” He flinched at those words as his voice took on a pleading tone, “Babe, you mean the world to me you know that. Please don’t do this.” You shook your head, “I can’t do this anymore. This whole wondering if you love me, wondering if you’re not showing up because I’m not enough.” You choked back a sob as you pointed to the door, “Get out.” Tim tried to step closer before you shouted, “Get the hell out, Drake!” His face clouded with hurt at your words and the use of his last name, as he slowly walked out, but before he did he left a small box on the counter. You walked up to it slowly, opening it to find a necklace with a ring attached to it. You felt tears sting your eyes as you quickly went to calm your thoughts before work.

After work, you were walking back home when you heard a child crying in one of the alleys. You thought to yourself, Maybe someone else will help…, but as you thought that guilt crept into your head and you quickly turned around heading in the direction of the sound. Was it an incredibly stupid idea to go into an alley in Gotham, especially by yourself, yes but if there really was a child in need you had to help. Quickly rounding the corner, you looked around not seeing a child anywhere, “What the hell….” you muttered to yourself as you walked in deeper. Breath quickening as you stepped further in, you felt a sharp sting in the back of your head as your knees buckled. Your head stung and you felt something trickling down the back of your head, ears ringing and vision going fuzzy. You looked up, seeing a large man standing over you with a bat in his hand, “Told ya it’d lure her in…” he said, looking at someone in the corner, as a voice responded, “Couldn’t help yourself huh? You just had to be a hero.” Wincing at the pain in your head, you tried to say something but all that left your mouth was a pained groan, as the man atop you was about to grab your shoulder something whizzed past your vision as the man whirled around shouting in pain. Whatever it was, it had grazed his arm and he was bleeding slightly, as he glanced around, holding his bat tightly. From somewhere behind you there was a loud thud as the man in front of you yelled, “Hey, who are you?!” A figure dressed in red ran past you as the two started fighting. The one in the red suit was gliding around as if he was a butterfly, gracefully avoiding the man’s blows, and throwing his own blows that hit the man each time.

Soon, the fight was over as the one in the red suit hit the man with a final blow, kicking his bat out of his hand and knocking him out. “You okay?” he asked, voice quite familiar to your ears, as he walked up, “You really shouldn’t be walking around in alleys by yourself, especially not in Gotham.” You groaned, trying to sit up, “I- There- I know. It was stupid.” He held his hand out as you accepted, pulling you up with ease, he looked at you. Finally, uncomfortable from the gaze you broke first, “Ummmm...thank you for that. I’m sure you get that a lot since, y’know, I’m assuming you do this every day, but seriously...thanks” He nodded mouth sliding into a tight line as he seemed to be considering something, “Do you want me to take you home, miss?” You were about to decline but felt your knees wobble slightly, “I’ll take that as a yes? I don’t think you’ll make it home without falling on your pretty face.” You smiled softly, “Are you flirting with me?” “I’m trying. Is it working?” Chuckling softly you smiled, as a slight frown replaced it quickly, “I have a boyfriend...sorry.” The man nodded, “I figured….pretty girl like you.” Laughing you smiled, “We’re actually having kind of a fight right now…” you glanced up at him, frown deepening, “I said some harsh stuff to him that I didn’t mean...I’m only saying this to you because we’ll probably never see each other again or at least hopefully not I would prefer to not have my life needing saving every day.” He smiled, “That would definitely be preferable. If I had to save you more than three times I would call it fate at that point.” He was holding you tightly as he swept from rooftops using his grappling hooks or whatever it was called, “Do you believe in fate?” you asked, keeping your eyes on his face, too afraid to glace down. “I’m not sure...Do you?” “Avoiding the question huh? Well...I thought I did. I think I thought fate brought me and boyfriend together...y’know that whole true love and soulmate mumbo jumbo the whole deal.” Laughing at yourself you continued, “I just...I really loved him and I don’t think he felt the same. I was always second most important to whatever it was he did in his free time. All the secrets just became too much...does that make me selfish?” The vigilante shook his head, “I think it makes you honest. You deserve someone who puts you first...someone who doesn’t keep his life a secret from you.”

A couple more minutes and you had arrived at your balcony, “Thanks, for everything tonight and the free therapy session.” you smiled, as he set you down. “No problem, y/n.” You turned around quickly at the mention of your name, “How do you know my name?” you questioned, maybe I let it slip? You thought but you were pretty sure you hadn’t even said your name once, then the idea that his voice sounded familiar set in. “I-uh…” he muttered as you slowly walked up, placing your hand on his cheek, “Tim? Is it you?” you asked gently, as your hand crept up to the edge of his mask, “Can I?” He nodded softly, as you pulled it away, “It is you. I would recognize your voice anywhere.” Tim shuffled awkwardly as he glanced at his feet, charisma from two minutes ago gone now that the mask was off. Then another thought set in, “Were you following me?” you questioned eyes slanting slightly. Tim’s eyes widened as he replied, “You’re missing the big picture here...I kinda saved you...” You laughed slightly as you punched his chest, “I’m messing with you...although I am kind of embarrassed that I complained about you to y’know...you.” Tim smiled softly, “Nothing you said was wrong though... This-” he said as he gestured to himself, “Is a big part of who I am, and I kept it from you it was unfair, especially after two years of you being patient every time I bailed.” He stepped closer, closing the gap as he held your chin, “You deserve to know about this part of me. You mean everything to me y/n y/l/n, I love you.” You leaned into his touch as you smiled softly, as he continued, “I promise I’ll never keep a big secret like this from you again...I just didn’t want to put you in danger and didn’t realize I was hurting you more by keeping you away. If you will, I’d like to make it up to you, maybe dinner tomorrow?” You nodded softly, as you placed a kiss to his cheek, “I’m glad you came to your senses and just so we’re clear you keep things this big from me again then Gotham’s safety will be the least of your worries, Timothy.” He gulped slightly, as he muttered, “Okay, I promise, no secrets especially not big ones.” Then you grabbed his shoulders pulling him down to your height, “How bout you start making it up to tonight? I think Gotham can wait for one night…” Tim grinned cheekily as he pressed his lips to yours, “I’m sure Bruce won’t mind.” You pulled away quickly, “Wait, Bruce, as in Wayne, as in your father? He’s Batman?!” You realized then that your world was about to get a lot more interesting and your homework was going to be the least of your worries when your boyfriend and his family were vigilantes by night.

245 notes · View notes

reddrobins · 5 years ago

Text

robins spirit [d.wayne]

Older! Damian Wayne x Super! Reader

Request: I love your recent damian fanfic! 🥺 could you pls do another one with “I’d hurt anyone who ever left a scar on you.” with a reader who’s a vigilante that often spars/fights with him. They show up at the wayne manor with a bruise on their face after fighting with Robin over a stupid argument and Damian’s concerned. But then they figure out what happened and he feels rly bad. Thank you :) + *knocks on your door* so I just thought of something... What if a Kent/Super! Reader x Damian? Oki bye *closes door*

Authors note: This is so terrible I’m so sorry, I was really stressed today and I apologize for the shit writing

Summary: A new vigilante emerges in Gotham, one that's super. Batman and Robin find out and Bruce sends his son to confront this new suspected metahuman. After a rough night, Damian leaves ‘Spirit’ badly wounded, so when (Y/N) Kent comes over the next day with the same scratches, Damian gets suspicious.

You were tired of living under your father and brothers' spotlights. Hell, you were even under your mother's spotlight in civilian life. So, at the ripe age of seventeen, you decided to take matters into your own hand and became the vigilante known as Spirit.

The first few nights on the streets of Metropolis went horribly. Not only did you run into your father, who at the time didn’t know it was you, a multitude of times, but everyone seemed to think the ‘S’ on your uniform stood for supergirl.

You were enraged, could you just, for one night, not be a Kent or a Super? You needed a change of scenery, so you did your research.

As you searched away on your laptop, looking up distances between cities, you came to realise that the only far enough place for you to make a name for yourself was in Gotham.

So here you were, perched atop the Gotham National Bank building, on the prowl for any villain that deemed tonight a good night for trouble.

“Come here often?” You spoke out as you felt a certain presence behind you. You had to admit sometimes super hearing comes in handy.

The figure, that seemed to be walking towards you, stopped its movements.

“Listen pal, I know you’re there, why don't you make this easier for you and just turn yourself in.”

“Tt.” The figure gave.

You stood up from your crouching position and began to walk towards whoever this mystery person was. “If you want to do it the hard way…”

You swung your arm at the masked figure only for it to be caught. Damn, you thought. This isn't just any robber. The person caught a supers punch. I mean hey you were only half Kryptonian, but still.

“Impressive.” You quip as you go in for another hit. This time the assailant moves forward and you catch a glimpse of them in the light, “Robin?” You pause, what the hell was Damian doing here?, leading Robin's hit to go unblocked.

It hits your cheek and you scrunched up your face, fuck, he has a good punch. Once again, only half-super, so the sting was still there.

Robin grunts, going back on the attack when you put your hands up in a surrender, “Hey! D-Robin, we’re on the same team, calm it down!”

The masked teen doesn't listen and dives for another hit, “How do I know you are not lying.” He asks, landing another punch to your side.

You groan, not in pain but frustration, why did Damian have to be this stubborn, “I’m a vigilante, just like you. I’m trying to help out the town.”

Robin rolls his eyes, though you can’t see it from behind the domino mask. “Prove it.”

You blankly stare at him, “How?”

He finally resists from landing another hit on you, “Why are you at the bank, unless you plan to rob it?”

It's now your turn to roll your eyes, “I could ask the same of you short stack.” You hated to admit it, but Damian was in fact taller.

If there’s one thing you got from your mother, it's your attitude.

This seems to catch the young hero off guard as he sputters, looking for an answer. “I’ll have you know I am the same height as you, If not taller.” Then he grits, pointing his now unsheathed weapon at you, “Answer the question.”

You gently tap the katana away with your fingertips. “Fine. I’m not from Gotham, but I know about your high crime rate and I just wanted to help out, okay?” You lie. Metropolis’ crime rates weren’t peachy either but at least in Gotham you had a name for yourself.

“Batman and I have it covered.” He said lowly.

“Listen if you don't want me here, I’ll back off, but I just wanted to help those in need.”

Robin squinted at you, unable to figure out your m.o., were you really who you claimed to be?

“Gotham isn’t looking for more amateur heros, so go back to wherever you came from.” With that, he grappled off of the roof and off into the night.

“Father. We have an issue.”

Bruce didn’t bother to look away from the batcomputer, this wasn’t the first time Damian had barged in with that sentiment. “What is it Damian?”

The teen took his cape off, as well as his kevlar chest plate, “There’s a new vigilante. I’m not sure what she calls herself but she has immense strength, I believe she may be a super or maybe a metahuman as her punch was difficult to block.”

The older man nodded at his son, of course he already knew this, Bruce was aware of every person that came into Gotham, even those unannounced.

“I’m aware. She calls herself ‘Spirit’. I’ve deduced she’s no older than you, Damian. I’d like you to get to know her. Or at least what she stands for.”

“Should I take her down?” Damian asked.

Bruce spun the chair around, a stoic look on this face, “No. just purely find out who she really is. No violence.”

The next day soon became night and here you were, back in Gotham. Damian really thinks he can just ban me from a city? You thought to yourself, hah, good luck with that bird brain.

You looked around your area, scoping out to see if the coast was clear. After a thorough check, you did a super jump and landed atop a building.

“Nice jump there, Spirit. I thought I told you not to come back.”

You spun around, Robin? Was Damian seriously following you now?

“Going to have to try a lot harder if you want me to stop fighting the good fight.” You crossed your arms, “Listen, I don’t know your problem with me. I’m just trying to help out, just like you. Just like Batman.”

Damian clenched his fists and stomped toward you, “you are nothing like me, I’m welcomed in this city. You are not.”

You frowned. Oh if only Damian knew who he was actually speaking to - “Seriously, why do you hate me? Afraid I’ll steal your thunder or something?” You pushed his chest trying to get him to back up.

Apparently, you also forgot you were half-kryptonian as when you pushed him, he stumbled back, hard.

“Tt, watch it you freak. I don’t want to fight you, but I will if I have to.”

Your heart hurt at the name but you brushed it off, Damian didn’t know who you were.

You rolled your eyes once more and sat down into the ledge - just like the night of the bank. “I’m sure you would. Listen Robin, I’m just trying to help those in need. Can you really hate a girl for trying?”

The teen vigilante paused, she did seem sincere, he thought, maybe he could trust her.

“Fine. But if I find out you’re only in my town to cause trouble, I will end you.” He glared at her and she smirked back.

“I'd like to see you try. But fair enough. Consider this a partnership.”

Sticking out your hand, you eyed him to shake it.

Damian refused and simply took out his grappling gun, once again disappearing into the night.

You poked your cheek in the mirror. It was times like these you wish you had all of your dads powers as this bruise was very ugly to look at.

He fights very well. You thought as you pinched the sore skin. Even though it had been a day since the incident, the bruise forming was still as purple as ever. You didn't know how you were going to make it through today. Tim and Conner had a planned hangout and after your mom said you needed a little more ‘Conner time’, you had to tag along. What would Damian think of the bruise?

“(Y/N)! It’s time to go, we’re going to be late!” Your brother yelled from the living room.

“I’m coming, Conner, just hold on!”

You tried to put some concealer on the bruise but it just wouldn’t mask the ugly discolored skin.

“(Y/N)!” Conner yelled again.

“Alright, alright, hold your fucking horses.” You whispered to yourself.

Bursting into the living room, you kept your head down so as to not alert any of the Kent household of your new shiner.

“Holy shit! (Y/N) what happened to your face!?” Exclaimed Jon as he flew past you.

You looked up, annoyed at your twin brother's antics.

“Jonathan Kent, No flying in the house.” Your mother yelled from the kitchen. She then turned to you, “(Y/N), where in the world did that come from?” Reaching out to brush your cheek, you swiftly pulled away, avoiding her eyes at all costs. If there was one thing you didn’t need your family to find out about, it was your late night trips to Gotham City.

“Nothing mom. I just fell in my room is all. Promise, it’s not a big deal.” Looking up to your older brother you signaled to the door, “Time to leave?”

He gave you a toothy grin and nodded, “Yeah c’mon. Tim’s waiting for me.”

Conner ran up the steps to the Manor and pounded on the door, far too excited to see his best friend. Meanwhile, you slowly made your way up, really not wanting to have to hang out with the two.

You still didn’t get why you had to come. She claimed that you and Jon hung out too much and that you needed to get closer to Conner. You rolled your eyes at the memory, you were 17 not 7. Plus, now you had to face Damian.

The two large doors swung open revealing an ecstatic Tim Drake, “Conner! My man! So glad you could come.” He then leaned in, “Did you have to bring your little sister though?”

Thanks to super hearing, you knew exactly what Tim had said and you grumbled in response. Of course Conner didn’t tell him I was coming.

Conner laughed and gave Tim a hug, “Don’t worry dude. Just make her hang out with Damian or something.” He whispered.

You blushed at those words, mentally cursing Conner. That fucker knew you had a crush on the youngest Wayne. Why would he do this to you? Especially when you looked like this.

“Alright alright, come on in guys. Bedrooms upstairs to the right but you already knew that.” Tim winked. You followed Conner when he stopped you, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“Um not you though. Sorry (N/N) today’s bros only day. I’m sure you can stay down here and find a book to read.” He smirked at you knowing full well what Tim would say next.

“Actually,” Tim said, “Damians in the library painting if you’d like to join him. I’m sure the devil child wouldn’t mind a buddy.”

You glared at the two of them but then sighed, walking towards the large house library.

Knocking on the door, you called out to see if anyone was in there.

Unluckily enough, Damian came to open it. You kept your head down as to avoid attention from your killer battle wound. You did not want Damian to find out about your nightly activities, he would never stop nagging you then.

“Kent.” He greeted, “To what do I owe the pleasure.” Damian said mockingly.

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him, finding a seat on the sofa.

“My lovely brother decided to ditch me for yours so here I am.”

Damian chuckled, walking back to his paints. “How poetic.” He remarked. Then asked, “How’s Jon?”

You shrugged still looking at the floor, “He’s good. You know just being the same goofy asshole he’s been since he was 10.” The young Wayne teen laughed at that in agreement.

“And you? How have you been Damian?” You asked.

“Annoyed. There’s a new vigilante in town. Claims to be the ‘Spirit’. She’s been challenging me while on patrol. I’ve been having small spats with her here and there, but they’re driving me insane. She's almost as bad as Todd.”

You couldn’t help but look up, smirking, after all, it's not everyday you got the oneup of Damian.“Awe does little ol’ Damian have a crush?” You teased. Hope glimmered in your eyes.

Damian was about to roll his eyes when he caught sight of your face. His focus latched on to the large black and blue mark on your cheek. His heart stopped, he knew where that came from.

Because he was the one that did it. Then the dots clicked.

“You! You’re Spirit? What the hell Kent? Do you know how dangerous Gotham is?”

Damian marches over to you in annoyance, “Do you know how difficult you have made my life? Not only do I think about you daily as (Y/N) Kent, but now nightly as Spirit!?” He blurted out.

You froze. Damian thought about you? Does that mean…

“Damian, does that mean you like me?”

His cheeks flared a pretty red color as he looked at his shoes, “If I were to say yes, would you be in agreeance or make a fool of me?”

You chuckled as you stood up from the couch and placed your hand in his. “Damian I’ve liked you for such a long time it’s unbelievable, I just can’t believe you like me-“

He interrupted you, “Beloved, you are the sun in my life, and I pray that I can make you mine.”

You blushed furiously, “Of course.”

Smiling, Damian leaned in and captured your lips. He kissed you desperately, like he’d been needing this for years.

He went to further the kiss and put his hand on your cheek, causing a hiss of pain to erupt out of you.

You pulled back, holding your bruised cheek. You laugh, “You pack quite the punch.”

Damian scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I truly apologize beloved, if I had known it was you, I would’ve gone lighter, I’d hurt anyone who ever left a scar on you or a bruise for that matter.”

You rolled your eyes, though flattered by Damians words, you could handle yourself. I mean you were half-kryptonian after all.

“I appreciate the sentiment Dami, but I can handle myself. Really, you saw how good I fought firsthand.” You squeezed his hand lightly.

“I know. I would never question your strength. I love that about you.”

You pecked his lips “Good. Just remember who kicked your ass last night.”

Damian wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close, “I don’t think I could ever forget that. It was quite humbling.”

You scrunched your nose at his sarcastic tone, “You’re a jerk.”

He smirked and then leaned close, forehead pressed into yours. “But I’m your jerk. And that’s all that matters right now.”

#older!damian wayne #older! damian wayne x reader #older!damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne imagine #jon kent #conner kent #tim drake #batman x reader #batman imagine

232 notes · View notes

awhitehead17 · 4 years ago

Text

A Regular Occurrence

Tim Drake & Everyone, Fluff, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleep Deprivation, Tim is a tired boi, Friendship, Sibling relationship.

Summary: 5 times Tim fell asleep on someone and 1 time they fell asleep on him.

A/N: So this was taken from one of the prompts from rvdhood’s ‘timmy requests’. I read it, instantly got some ideas and wanted to write it.

Also on AO3

Enjoy! :D

“Man, I am beat.” Jason states as he locks his hands together and stretches his arms over his head. “Either that was a tough patrol or I’m just getting old.” He sighs when his back pops and drops his arms down his side.

It had been a long night. It wasn’t one that contained any Arkham breakouts or major gang wars they had to try and stop, all it was just petty crime, the usual drug busts and gun point stand offs they had to deal with but it had left him feeling exhausted.

“I’m more than ready to bury myself in a ton of blankets and not wake up to the next full moon, how ‘bout you kid? How you are feeling?”

When his question was met with silence, Jason frowns and turns around. He finds his brother slumped against the wall of the alley way they’re in. His mouth was open slightly and if Jason listened closely enough he could hear a light snoring sound.

“Hmm,” Jason mutters to himself, “Well that answers my question.”

He walks over to Tim and kicks him lightly in the shin, “Yo Red, wake up!” Jason quickly steps back to avoid the swinging bo staff coming towards his head and stares at Tim with a bored expression.

Tim startles awake and takes a swing at him before realising where he was, “I’m awake! I’m awake.”

Jason hums thoughtfully, “Sure. Now come on, it’s the end of the night.” He starts walking away before Tim could say anything.

He only gets a few feet down the alley when he hears swearing. Jason turns around just in time to see Tim trip over his own feet and stumble forward several steps before he miraculously stops himself from face planting. It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad.

The kid can barely walk on a flat surface, how the hell would he survive swinging from a grapple line? The answer is: he won’t. Jason takes a deep breath and lets it out before walking back over to Tim, he turns around to offer his back.

“Come on Timbit, get on.” He’s tired and just wants to get home, but he has enough energy left that he can carry Tim on his back, it’s also not like the kid was heavy or anything.

“What? No. I’m fine I can make it back on my own.” Tim protests.

“I’m not asking. You either get on my back willingly or I carry in any way I see fits and trust me, you will not like what I decide.” Jason threatens his brother. He wasn’t in the mood to be dealing with an argumentative Tim.

There’s a couple beats of silence, like the kid was actually debating about his options before he eventually gets on Jason’s back. Jason makes sure he’s comfortable before starting to make his way back home.

It was when Jason gets halfway home that he realises something. There was a faint rumble by his right ear, right where Tim’s head was perched on his shoulder. He stops moving to work out what it was. After a moment he snorts in amusement, that sound was of Tim snoring. The kid had fallen asleep on him.

Jason would be annoyed if he hadn’t been expecting it, that’s why he’s carrying him after all. He tightens his hold on Tim and starts moving again.

Tim owes him big time for this. For now Jason won’t tell anybody about this, however if his brother happens to piss him off in the future then Jason certainly isn’t above using this as blackmail material.

Dick:

Walking to the door, Dick taps his knuckles lightly against the wood to announce his presence before entering the room. As he goes in he’s greeted by mostly darkness except for the little bit of light that was coming from the TV.

Dick observes the unmoving lump on the bed for a moment and then walks towards it, he hovers above the figure on the bed to try and get a look at them. Tired blue eyes eventually find his own and Dick grins, “Hey Timmy, I brought you something courtesy of Alfred.”

The teenager on the bed blinks at him before frowning. He shifts on the bed and wraps his blankets around him tighter, “What’d you bring?”

Dick perches on the edge of the bed facing Tim’s curled up form. He holds up the plate he had been carrying, “Just some crackers and a little bit of spread.”

Tim’s been sick over the last couple days and hasn’t been able to keep everything he eats down. While he’s been a lot better that day, Alfred’s making sure to keep him on some dry stuff and build up to heavier meals again.

Tim’s eyes dart to him before flickering back to the TV again, “I’m not hungry. Thanks though.”

Letting out a sigh, Dick leans forward and brushes some hair off of Tim’s flushed face. He doesn’t push the matter however, arguing with an ill Tim was just as productive as arguing with a brick wall was.

“Okay, Timmy. I’ll leave it on your bedside table just in case you do get hungry.” He places the plate onto the table and starts to make his leave from the teens room when suddenly his wrist is captured in a weak hold.

He looks down at Tim to find his brother pushed up onto his elbows staring at him, “Dick… are you, uh, are you busy right now?” He asks quietly, almost shyly.

“No, I was just going to help Alfred move some stuff but nothing major. What’s wrong?”

Tim’s eyes flick away, “Can you stay? Just for a bit?”

A soft smile takes over his face. “Of course Timmy.”

With some manoeuvring, Dick manages to get himself under the mountain of blankets Tim has on his bed. He lies on his back, perched against the headboard as his brother cuddles up next to him with his head on Dick’s chest and arm slung around his waist.

Dick lets Tim settle down and watches the TV in front of them, his brother’s been re-watching the X-Files while he was bedridden apparently.

Time goes by, while they don’t spending it talk they do stay cuddled together on Tim’s bed. It’s only when the credits music starts playing that Dick notices something. Tim hadn’t moved from his position in a while, his brother was breathing heavily into his chest and his body was completely limp on top of Dick’s.

Dick lets out a small chuckle when he realises Tim’s asleep on him. His ill little brother had fallen asleep on him while watching the X-files. He wishes he had his phone in that moment because this was a golden moment and he wanted physical proof that this happened because once Tim is better he’ll deny that it ever happened. He doesn’t mind it however, he simply runs a soothing hand up and down Tim’s back as the teenager sleeps on.

After a while a soft knock comes from the door and Dick looks over to find Alfred standing there wearing a smile, “That’s where you got to Master Dick, I was wondering why you never returned downstairs.”

“Sorry Alf,” Dick apologises sheepishly, “I may be here for a while. Once he’s awake and had the food I’ll come down and help.”

“No problem Master Dick, please do take care.” With that the English butler leaves. Dick turns back to his brother and presses a light kiss to his head. Well, at least he was getting some sleep.

Bruce:

For once it was a quiet, calm day in the Manor. Bruce sought this to be the perfect opportunity to get some work done in his home office without being distracted by any screaming kids trying to kill one another. He loved them all, but by god where they hard work.

Unfortunately his peace lasted for no more than two hours. He barely manages to hold in the sigh that wants to escape past his lips when the door to the office bursts open. He looks up to find Tim storming in with a determined look on his face.

Bruce was about to ask his third son a question when Tim was slamming a pile of papers onto his desk in front of him. “You need to sign every one of these files Bruce. Right now.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at Tim. Tim simply glares back. “I mean it.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Bruce comments, he could see the way Tim was riled up from something just by the way he was standing. “I just need to finish reading this proposal then I’ll look into them okay.”

Tim slams his hand down on the papers, “You’ll sign them right now Bruce! I need these papers by the end of the day.”

“I understand Tim and I will. I just need to read this.”

There's a moment of silence between them. A beat goes by until Tim was moving. He moves around the desk and stands by Bruce’s chair, he starts tugging at it until Bruce wordlessly pushes himself away from the desk. Without any explanation Tim sits in his lap. His son throws his legs over the arm of the chair and leans against the opposite one as he makes himself comfy in Bruce’s lap.

Bruce frowns disapprovingly, “Tim…”

“I’m not moving until those papers are signed Bruce, so if you want me gone then better get to it.”

He hates, yet loves, how manipulative Tim could be sometimes. Sighing in defeat Bruce puts down the proposal and picks up the first of Tim’s papers. He adjusts the chair and makes himself as comfy as he can considering there’s a teenager on his lap, though it’s not like Tim weighs a lot, and settles down to get started on going through those papers.

It was as he was signing the last paper that he realised Tim had been very still and quiet for a long time. He looks down at his son to find Tim’s head leaning against his shoulder, his breathing coming out in even breaths, his body limp and relaxed against him and most of all that he was asleep.

Tim had fallen asleep on him while he had been working. He blinks to take in the moment of Tim relaxed and resting against him, something that hasn’t happened in a very long time. Bruce reaches up and gently strokes his hand through Tim’s hair. He wonders how many all-nighters Tim has pulled recently for him to get to this stage. He really ought to track his son’s sleeping schedules better to prevent this from happening.

He doesn’t move or wake Tim up however, his son wasn’t causing any harm and it’ll probably do him some good to be resting so Bruce decides to leave him. He can read the proposal he had been planning to when Tim first burst through the door and then wake him up afterwards.

Kon:

Flying to the Manor was quickly becoming second nature at this point. He’s done it so many times by now and continues to do so as he goes to pick up his best friend from his house so they could get started on their weekend with the Titans.

Tim used to just take a jet to the Tower but they found having Kon pick him up was a lot quicker, especially if he was coming from Metropolis. He didn’t mind of course, he loved spending time with his friend.

As Kon was entering the Wayne property, he could spot Tim standing on the roof of the Manor waiting for him. Kon grins as he continues to fly closer, this weekend was going to be brilliant and he’s been itching to get off the farm for days now.

His grins soon drops however when he sees Tim’s form become unbalanced from where he was standing. Kon uses a burst of super speed to get to the building quicker and he reaches it just in time to catch Tim as he tumbles off the roof.

Tim lands safely in his arms and Kon takes them back onto the roof. Once there he puts Tim on his feet and stares at his best friend, “Dude what the fuck?”

Tim blinks at him and frowns, “Shit, sorry man. Thanks for the save though.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I feel exhausted. I’ve had next to no sleep this week and I guess it all just caught up to me.”

Kon continues to stare at him before looking down to where Tim would have fallen if Kon hadn’t caught him. He may have been alright, there were bushes on the ground to break his fall… Kon shakes his head. No. He would have not been alright. Thank god he had been there to catch him.

“Well come on, you can sleep on the flight on the way there if you want. I’ll even fly slower.” Kon offers.

Tim simply blinks at him as if trying to process what he had just said, Kon rolls his eyes and just picks his best friend up. He carries Tim in a bridal style rather than the usual wrist grab or piggyback carry they normally do. He figures this might be the easiest way for Tim to fall asleep.

As he said he would, Kon does fly slower than usual and he keeps Tim pressed up against him. His best friend doesn’t complain so he doesn’t do anything to change it. It was when they were halfway across the country that he realises why Tim hadn’t complained. It was because he was asleep.

Tim’s head was tucked up between his shoulder and neck, his body was limp and relaxed in Kon’s hold. His heartbeat and breathing were both slow, steady and even.

Tim had fallen asleep on him on the way to the Tower. Kon was just as surprised as he wasn’t at that. He hadn’t expected Tim to fall asleep until they got to the Tower but after the roof incident it’s not surprising that Tim’s drifted off.

Kon sighs, it wasn’t a problem because at least his best friend was finally getting some sleep. Once they get to the Tower Kon will make sure Tim goes to bed, even if he has to take him there himself. Their weekend can start the next morning once Tim was well rested and wasn’t on the brink of collapsing.

Steph:

“Why am I here? I don’t want to be here.”

“Because dummy, you’re here with us so we can stop you over working yourself when you should be resting.”

Steph walks over to the bed and plonks down next to Tim who was scowling at her with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks like a child who didn’t get his own way and now was sulking. On his other side Cass smiles happily and takes another spoon full of ice cream.

She reaches up and flicks Tim in the head, “You need some time off and everyone else is busy to keep you from running off and making things worse for yourself. Cass and I are the only ones around and now you’re joining us for our girl’s movie night. Consider yourself lucky!”

The look he gives her tells Steph he feels anything else other than lucky in that moment. It makes her snicker and throw an arm around his shoulders to bring him in for a side hug. “Come on Tim, it can’t be that bad to spend a night with your sister, her best friend which happens to be your ex.”

Tim doesn’t give a response, instead choosing to ignore her.

On his other side, Cass leans over and bops his nose with her spoon. “You rest. Enjoy time off. Now relax.”

Tim sighs and bats her hand away. “You guys are bullies. This is bullying. I hate you both.”

Steph rolls her eyes and gets up off the bed and goes to her TV opposite them. She puts the DVD of the first movie of the night into the TV and goes back to the bed to join the others. The three of them settle down and get comfy to watch the movie, they were surrounded by a few tubs of ice cream, chocolate bars, and half empty boxes of pizza. It was a night off they were all going to enjoy.

“I didn’t agree to this.” Tim continues to protest. He was sat in between the two girls and was watching the TV with disinterest.

After hearing that everyone was busy and how Tim was still benched from any form of vigilante work, her and Cass made it their mission to force Tim to join them for their monthly girl’s night. It was for his own good. So after dragging Tim away from the Manor and back to Steph’s apartment, they all quickly got settled in her bedroom and ready for the night but not without Tim’s constant protesting.

Steph pokes him in the ribs. “Quit your complaining and enjoy it. Now hush, the films starting.”

Tim grumbles under his breath and continues to scowl at the TV but doesn’t move otherwise. Steph shares a winning smile with Cass before turning her attention to the TV where The Hunger Games was just starting to play.

Steph’s attention only turns away from the screen when she feels something hit her shoulder. She jumps slightly and looks down only to find Tim’s head now resting against her shoulder, his body was limp against the bed and against her side, his breathing was even and his eyes were closed.

She glances over at Cass who instantly meets her eyes. She smiles, “Asleep.”

A light laugh makes it way out of her, that was something she had not expected from that night, Tim had fallen asleep on her while watching a movie. How cute. She’s so going to tease him about this later on, or even possibly use this as blackmail material.

Leaning back she reaches up and starts to gently stroke his hair in soothing motions. She isn’t going to push him off, not knowing how much he needs to sleep. It’s great that he’s finally getting some rest.

Damian:

There wasn’t a lot going on at that moment. He was casually scrolling through social media trying to kill some spare time he for once has. Kon and Bart were messaging him a variety of memes which were both amusing and annoying, of course he was sending his own back when he stumbles upon them.

His attention was drawn away from his phone when he hears a knock on his bedroom door. He looks over just in time to see it open up to reveal Damian. Tim frowns at seeing the younger teen, out of everyone to visit him Damian was at the bottom of the list he would have thought would come willingly to see him.

The teenager scowls at him from the door, “Drake.” He greets, though his voice was somewhat muffled by the kid’s blocked nose.

Damian had gotten injured while out on patrol, however while recovering he had gotten the flu which has only set his recovery period back further. Though that doesn’t explain why Damian was now at his bedroom door scowling at him.

“Demon spawn. What do you want?”

At the door Damian hesitates as if he wasn’t sure on something. Tim raises an eyebrow and sits up right on his bed and eyes Damian. “Damian what are you doing? You should be in bed, resting.”

His words must have had an impact on the teenager because he was finally stepping into his room. “I cannot rest easy in my room,” Damian tells him looking uneasy, “Father and Grayson are….”

He trails off but Tim’s able to understand what he means, is able to pick up on what he’s not saying. “Bruce and Dick are currently being overbearing mother hens and you feel like you’re suffocating.” He sums up.

Of course that makes sense, he totally understands how suffocating their care can be, while they mean well it’s not always easy to be on the receiving end of it. It still doesn’t explain why Damian’s at his door.

When Damian doesn’t offer up anything else Tim sighs and settles back down on his bed and starts playing with his phone again. There’s a moment of tense silence between them but Tim doesn’t do anything about it, the younger teen will get bored and leave in a minute anyway and he’s not picking a fight just for the sake of it.

“I know I must rest to get better but I cannot in my own room. I was hoping - or rather it’ll be a logical tactic if I could stay here for a few hours.”

At those words Tim shoots Damian a raised eyebrow in question, because what? The teen wasn’t looking at him however as he continues to speak.

“Father and Grayson would least of all expect to find me here with you, therefore meaning I can get some undisturbed rest if you’ll allow me.”

Tim blinks, he hadn’t been expecting Damian to ask if he could stay with Tim to get some sleep at all. He considers this for a moment because while it was stupid Damian wasn’t wrong, the two older men wouldn’t expect him to be with Tim and of course Tim knows what they can be like when worried.

Making a decision Tim scoots to one side of the bed and pats the empty space. “Sure thing, just don’t cough on me or whatever. I don’t want to be ill.”

Damian makes his ‘tt’ sound but comes to the space allocated for him. He lies stiffly on Tim’s bed and curls up in a blanket he had brought with him. Tim stays quiet as the teen settles down beside him and goes back to his phone, at least he wasn’t trying to kill Tim this time.

Tim had gotten so absorbed into his phone that he didn’t even realise Damian had fallen asleep until something was landing on his leg. He jumps slightly at the contact and looks down to find Damian curled up next to his leg with his head now resting on Tim’s thigh. The teen was completely wiped out and oblivious to what he was doing.

Tim smiles and lets out a snort, at least he was resting even if it was on him and not on the pillow he had taken or the mattress underneath them. Tim raises a hand and gently strokes it through Damian’s hair, the younger sighs and shifts slightly but does not wake up. Tim continues with the motion and goes back to his phone, if Bruce or Dick make an appearance he’ll be sure to keep them away.

#Tim Drake #Jason Todd #dick grayson #bruce wayne #Kon-El #Stephanie Brown #Damian Wayne #batfamily #fanfiction #5+1 Things #prompt inspired #fluff #cuddles #sleepy cuddles #sleep deprivation #friendship #sibling relationship

103 notes · View notes

keepswingin · 4 years ago

Text

i want your heart to beat for me

She’s twenty-four and sings for Caleb Covington during the week, microphone clutched tightly in between her sweaty palms as she stands before an audience that’s paid to hear a beautiful voice she doesn’t want to provide.

They all wear leers, and some flash yellow teeth and tattered bills in disgusting taunts, but she does her best to ignore it all and just sing like she’s always wanted to.

(She never imagined it would be like this.)

Her voice is shaky tonight, strained in all the wrong places from singing three songs a night five times a week, and her heart is beating fast, torn between anger at the men who look at her like she’s a piece of meat on display and anxiety at disappointing Caleb for not bringing in the money he needs. Her voice is the biggest seller at his club, she knows it is, and she doesn’t want to know what happens to those who don’t sell well at all.

(She had been a hit from the moment she had walked on stage, dressed in a pretty purple dress she had pulled from her mom’s old chest, her hair curled to one side, a small butterfly pin - her good luck charm - clipped to the corner of her sleeve. Caleb had been watching from the front row, a buffet of every food you could imagine spread out on the table before him but his eyes were instead locked steadily on her, watching and waiting.

The crowd had cheered wildly as soon as they had seen her, and she had been embrassed by the attention back then, blushling under the spotlights. Then she had met Caleb’s eyes, and he had nodded her on with a crooked smile, and she had opened her mouth and sang the best she ever had in her life.)

Tonight was different.

She was exhuasted, and her voice was cracking on the high notes, and she barely had the energy to hold a microphone and sing, let alone jump around the stage and try and hype up the audience like she was supposed to.

She can’t find Caleb in the crowd, and her heart jumps with joy at the thought of him not being here. Maybe she could throw tonight’s set and get away with it. Maybe she could request the rest of the week off through Willie and avoid having to talk to him at all.

(When she had first arrived at the club, she wondered why someone as kind as Willie was working there among men and women who were so opposite to him.

As the weeks dragged into months, she had grown closer to Willie, and realized that he was trapped there in the same way she was.)

She finishes Finally Free - irony not lost on her considering she hasn’t been free since the day she had put her life on the line for her brother - and her heart aches at the thought of him, and a faraway part of her wonders how he’s doing. She hasn’t seen him since--

“Brava, brava!”

Caleb walks on stage, clapping his hands loudly, even though the men tonight had ceased their clapping early so that they could reach for their drinks, and Julie’s entire body tenses as the older man moves to stand next to her, his arm brushing against hers as his hand slides down to grab hers.

Red hot fear catches in her throat as she waits for his gaze to turn to her, but instead he avoids looking at her and keeps his eyes on the audience, gauging their reaction. Some are still looking toward the stage while others have moved onto their entrees, forks dipping into fettuccine and lagansa - tonight’s special. His grip on her hand tightens, and she holds back a cry.

He’s not happy.

She knows he isn’t happy, which means this could be the end of her tonight, because if Caleb wasn’t happy then the club wasn’t happy and if the club wasn’t happy then how would money continue to flow and if there was no money then she couldn’t pay back her brother’s debt and--

“I’m glad you all enjoyed tonight’s show,” he calls, catching the audience's attention once again. “Enjoy your meals, and if any of you would like to spare the cash for a one of a kind encore, please feel free to form a line at the stairs. Thank you!”

He lifts the hand that holds her own high in some sort of praise, and there’s a roar of applause, and men who tumble out of their seats at the thought of Caleb’s type of ‘encore’ and Julie feels sick.

Encores were for the acts that failed, last minute attempts for Caleb to earn some money out of a moneyless night, and if he was offering her up then that means she failed and if she failed then - then--

She doesn’t fight Caleb as he pulls her backstage, the velvet curtains closing behind them with a sense of finality. The thought of it makes her insides churn and her head pound, and another wave of nausea floods her as Caleb corners her against the wall a second later, slamming her back into solid brick.

“For someone so keen to pay off her brother’s debt, you aren’t taking your job as seriously as you should, Julie.”

His words are as threatening as the hand he uses to keep her arms pinned above her head, his other hand pressed into a white-knucked fist at his side. His face is twisted into an angry sneer, and though threatening, his words are as calm as they always are, and that alone is enough to send chills racing up her spine.

Pain radiates from the center of her back, and panic closes around her throat, making it hard for her to breathe. She struggles for words. “I-I am, Caleb, I swear, my voice - I’m just starting to lose my voice from singing so much, and I didn’t want you to - to be disappointed if I asked for some time off and, and I-I tried my best tonight, I--”

He silences her with a look, her mouth snapping shut. And God, she hates this, hates him more than she’s ever hated anybody in her life, because she hates how much power he has over her, and contuines to hold over her, because she’s in this deep and there doesn’t seem to be any way back out.

“You really think,” he starts, slow and deliberate, “that I’m going to belive that?”

Before she can speak he’s squeezing her wrists hard enough that it hurts, and she bites her lip as he moves closer to her face, his eyes dark with an anger she only sees when he’s talking about his failed acts.

“You will sing until you lose your voice, and every performance until then will be up to par, or you will never see your brother ever again. Is that understood?”

She hates this. She hates this, she hates this, she hates this, she--

“Yes.” She says, as firmly as she can.

Caleb doesn’t smile or nod or play his violence off like it’s nothing. Instead he realeases her and takes a step back, straightening his collar. His eyes are still dark as he stares at her, and it makes her fingers shake.

“You failed me tonight, Julie, and I’m sorry to do this to you, especially considering you are my best act in this entire place, but you will be doing as many encores as they pay for tonight and that’s--”

“I’ll take ‘em.”

Julie startles at the familiar voice, looking over and seeing no other than Luke Patterson standing by the exit door, guitar strap slung over one shoulder.

Caleb audibly scoffs in disbelief. “You’re going to take all her clients tonight?”

Luke’s eyes flick from Julie’s to Caleb’s before he nods and makes his way over to them, his hand tight around the neck of his guitar. “Yeah. You’re cool with it, aren’t you?”

Caleb sighs, obivously torn.

Julie stares, shocked, at Luke. She doesn’t know much about him, and hasn’t interacted with him at all nearly the entire time she’s been at the club, besides a head nod if they passed each other on stage. All she knows about him is infromation from Willie and that’s that Luke has been at the club longer than he has, longer than anyone else at the club, and no one knows why. He’s also the only one who Caleb has - if you could call them at - civil conversations with.

He doesn’t bring in as much money as he used to, but he was a good buffer to newer acts like Julie, and whatever Caleb had to keep him there with everyone else...it had to be big, for him to be stuck there for so long.

“Of course I’m cool with it.” Caleb finally says, slapping Luke on the shoulder with a broad grin. He leans in to whisper in his ear, but Julie overhears what he says anyway. “They’ll pay more for you anyway.”

He pulls back with a laugh, followed by an easy smile from Luke, but if Julie looks close enough, she can tell it’s fake, can see the strained edges and jagged peices.

Caleb turns back to her, his eyes no longer as carefree as they were a second before. “You’re free to go tonight. Rest up that voice now, Julie. I expect an amazing performance two days from now.” He smiles, wide and grand, before disappearing through the curtains with the announcement of Luke Patterson’s encore offer for later tonight.

Julie stands there, rubbing her wrists, unsure what to say to Luke. Should she thank him from saving her from something she knew she’d never be able to come back from? Apologize for allowing him to give himself up instead?

“You don’t have to say anything,” he supplies, as if he’s reading her mind. She looks up and catches his honest eyes, a different smile covering his lips now. It looks...almost happy.

Happy to be talking to her?

No, no. She shakes that thought from her mind.

“I’m, I’m sorry,” she grapples for other words, “you didn’t have to do that. For me.”

He readjusts, allowing his guitar to lean against his hip. His hair is short and half-hidden under a grey beaine, he’s wearing a white tank-top that’s obviously seen better days, and weathered jeans. The strap his guitar clings to is decorated with names written in black sharpie. She’s able to read a few - Reggie, Alex, Bobby, Emily, Mitch, TJ, Tim - and he catches her staring, chuckling quietly.

“I uh, before this, I’d have people sign my guitar at my first shows. Got filled up pretty fast. Guess you could say I was a sort of teen sensation?” She can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of her, and he laughs softly with her, watching the way her fingers fumble over one another. His heart falls, just a little bit. “I’m sorry. About Caleb.”

“It’s not your fault.” She dismisses, her hands falling to her sides.

She swears she can still see the man’s eyes in the shadows behind the speakers and old lights. Silence surrounds them for a moment, but then the crowd roars, and Caleb announces Luke’s name again, and he sighs, gesturing with his head toward the curtains.

“Guess it’s time for my gig.” He says wryly, and she nods and moves out of the way so he can walk past her. Her eyes catch on red marks across his skin as he passes, hidden poorly behind his tank-top, and her stomach rolls.

“Wait!” she calls just before his hands touch the curtain. She turns around and walks over to him, grabbing his hand in hers. “Thank you. For saving me from...from that.”

She can feel the callouses on his fingers from picking at a guitar, and the scars that decorate his palm from his time spent in the club. He’s far too young to have scars, she thinks, but then Luke is smiling wide, and the corner of his eyes are crinkling, and Julie’s heart is soaring for some reason at the way he looks at her then.

“Anytime Molina,” he whipers, and then he’s disappearing through the curtain, and for some reason, she misses the feel of his hand in hers as soon as he’s gone.

#jatp fanfic #jatp fanfiction #keepswingin writes #mine #this a human au by the way #luke is the same age as her #and that's all the information you're getting lol

17 notes · View notes

zombiesbecrazy · 5 years ago

Text

unusual and uncommon allies

Summary: Something crashed on Damian’s end of the line, and based on the grunt he heard, Damian had stumbled into something. "Grayson," he gasped out and Tim instantly was paying closer attention. "He's been compromised. He…" The line shot out again and Tim could hear a scream in the background. A familiar one. One that he had heard in the times that Dick had lost his temper and exploded in rage. "He keeps attacking me. I don't know how long I can fend him off. He’s feral."

AO3

It wasn't the first time that the three of them had found themselves in some sort of confrontational standoff. That wasn't new in the slightest - one calm and rational voice trying to calm the other two down from threatening to attack, maim, kill each other. It was embarrassing, really. He was definitely old enough not to get pulled into the situation, and he had to admit that it was getting better, but something about each other just rubbed the other the wrong way and most things just ended in a fight - verbal at best, physically aggressive at worse.

Now they did their best just to avoid each other unless necessary. That was working out just fine.

Until tonight when everything just got turned upside down.

This was the first time that Tim had found himself trying to block Dick from attacking Damian instead of Dick being the one between the younger two.

It had been a standard patrol night up until now with Tim in the south end of the city, looking into a few leads about a drug ring that had begun to pop up when he got interrupted by a breathless voice in his ear. "Drake." Tim could hear footsteps in the background, feet running hard, and the fire of a grappling gun into the air, the familiar sound of the line uncoiling at top speed. "Drake, I need assistance immediately." The coil was retracting again, signaling that it had been a short gap, and he was running again.

"And you’re calling me?" Tim couldn’t remember the last time that Damian had called him, and it was even rarer that it would be in an emergency scenario; Tim would be at the bottom of Damian’s list just as Damian would be at the bottom of his, unless the situation required a snarky short kid with a sword. "Well, that's an interesting change of pace."

Something crashed on Damian’s end of the line, and based on the grunt he heard, Damian had stumbled into something. "Grayson," he gasped out and Tim instantly was paying closer attention. "He's been compromised. He…" The line shot out again and Tim could hear a scream in the background. A familiar one. One that he had heard in the times that Dick had lost his temper and exploded in rage. "He keeps attacking me. I don't know how long I can fend him off. He’s feral."

“Where are you?” Tim jumped off the landing he was on and rushed to where he had parked his bike on the street, kicking it into gear and tearing off at top speed out of the shipyard lot, weaving between maze of crates.

"I'm headed to the old fairgrounds to lure him away from bystanders."

“I’m close. I’ll be there in five.” Tim hung a right and pushed the bike to it’s limits. “Be ready for maneuver B13.”

Tim’s mind was racing as he raced down the street because he wanted to know what was happening to Dick and why. There was a passing thought that maybe Dick was running a training scenario on Damian, but if there was a chance that it would escalate to something that Damian would feel out of his league and call Tim for assistance, Dick would have gave him the heads up. The more likely option was that he was hit with some sort of hallucinogenic and was confused about who Damian was, but the chase factor was throwing that idea off a bit; most of the time when something like that happened, the victim tended to be distracted easily and wouldn’t follow a particular subject for very long before moving on to something else.

Tim pulled under the entrance arch and shifted forward on his bike. He didn’t know where exactly Damian was, but all he had to do was drive around the structures for Damian to follow B13 and drop onto the bike behind hi…

“That was six minutes Drake,” said Damian the second that he landed on the bike seat, wrapping his arms tight around Tim’s waist. Damain’s tone was normal, sharp with a side of condescension but Tim could feel him breathing hard against his back, muscles shaking with adrenaline and exertion. Tim hazarded a glaze in his review mirror and thought he caught a glimpse of Nightwing’s shadow on a rooftop, not far from where Damian at dropped down from, but they were able to outpace him on the bike. The kid must be exhausted because Dick was fast and almost impossible to outrace on foot.

Pulling into an alleyway, Tim cut the engine and turned to look at Damian. His uniform was torn and he had a cut across his cheek. "What happened?" They needed a plan and in order to do that, Tim needed a better idea to what was going on.

Damian’s mouth twitched, before he shrugged and gestured helplessly. His eyes were shifting quickly from rooftop to rooftop, anxiously trying to track where Dick would come from next, but Tim knew that there was at least a couple of minutes of distance between them. They’d have to move again soon, but they were momentarily safe. "We were patrolling and he got shot with a dart in the neck from an unknown assailant and then he attacked me. Quite possibly a neurological agent."

"Is he just going after you or is he attacking anyone who gets close?"

"I believe it's just me,” sighed Damian and he fiddled with his gloves, as he did when he was nervous and pretended that no one knew that's why he did it. "It’s my birthday next week and I suspect it is a test from Mother. To see if I'm good enough to defeat my mentor yet."

“That is a terrible present.” Damian said nothing, which Tim took as a non verbal agreement. He flipped through their options. “If Dick is after you, let's give him what he wants and then flip the switch." He started up the bike again, surely to attract Dick’s attention to where they were, and headed to the dead end area that the carnival games used to run; where the lights used to be bright and the noise was loud, but now it was just as dark and gloomy as you would expect an abandoned amusement park to be. "Damian, you've just been upgraded to bait."

"I despise being bait."

"And yet you are."

Just as Bruce has contingencies against the League, Tim had them for his own allies. Young Justice. Teen Titans.

And his family.

The secret to fighting Nightwing was to watch his feet and to remember that he tended to go high. Stay low. Stay on the balls of your feet. Get ready to dive. Aim for where he's going, not where he is. But the problem was that Dick knew all of that too which meant they had to do what he wouldn't expect them to do.

Damian and Tim climbed off the bike, eyes to the rooftops, watching until Tim caught sight of the black and blue shadow. He extended his staff and shifted slightly forward into a ready position.

"He’s here,” whispered Tim, keeping as still as possible, eyes studying the spot he had saw Dick lurking from. “Nightwing. You don’t want to do this," he called out, hoping that it was something simple to break the control. It had happened once, something that Ivy had concocted had been cancelled out if someone had the decency to ask them to stop. It wasn't the craziest thing that had happened.

Dick gave no indication that he heard Tim, only got closer to the edge of the building, eyes following Damian’s every molecule with hyper focused interested. Politeness was apparently not the solution to this problem.

He had an idea. Damian was going to hate it.

“Robin, run away." Tim gritted out, hoping that the use of his codename was trigger something in Damian to follow the order, even if it was coming from Tim and not Dick or Bruce.

"What?" hissed Damian.

"Run. He wouldn't expect you to run and hide, not when you can stand and fight, either to stop him or protect him. You'd never do that, especially with me here. Run. Find somewhere to hide up high. He'd expect you to go low to avoid him, so go high. I’ll distract him. Call B.” Damian hesitated, and Tim was just waiting for him to argue with him, refusing to take the orders, when Dick dropped down until the alley, and started stalking towards them, twirling his sparking escrima sticks, electricity already flowing through them.

Dick lunged around Tim, seemingly not even noticing that he was there, grabbing for Damian’s cape, and Damian finally took off, shooting his grapple up onto the roof. At the same second, Tim tackled Dick around the waist, momentum throwing them to the ground, hopefully giving Damian an opportunity to escape, or at least a head start if Tim didn’t manage to subdue him.

Dick scrambled to his feet again and tried to start to chase Damian again. Tim had no idea what he was going to do. He had never had to go all out against Dick, had never really considered what would happen if they had to face head to head, but it didn’t mean that he didn’t have theories. He tried to sweep his leg, try to knock Dick off his feet, when he realized that Dick really didn’t care in the slightest that Tim was fighting him. He was allowing himself to be hit, completely ignoring Tim’s actions; all he did was try to keep following Damian. Whatever they had hit him with was absolutely objective based. He needed to attack Damian and nothing else mattered to him. That was both good and bad; it made him sloppy and but it also made him even more unpredictable and it was hard to distract him from his target.

Tim kept jumping in front of him, blocking his path in the direction that Damian had taken off in, matching him blow for blow as Dick fought to get past, treating Tim as an inanimate object, the same way that he would a wall, trying to climb over, run up, smash through without any sort of focused reasoning. Tim managed to knock one of the sticks free from Dick’s grasp, clattering to the pavement below, and Dick didn’t really notice that it wasn’t in his hand anymore, still swinging as if it was.

It was sort of like fighting a drunk person. A drunk person with a deadly set of skills who was black out drunk.

Dick spun around, trying to find a way around Tim another way, trying to find a better way to follow Damian, when Tim saw it; a red glow flashing in Dick’s neck, under the skin. It wasn’t a poison. It was a transmitter. He was being hijacked. Maybe they didn’t need to fight. Maybe all they needed to do was cut off the signal of whatever was under his skin.

It gave him an idea.

It was a risk, but it was the only thing that Tim could think of. He turned his back on Dick and dove at the fallen stick to grab it. Dick took the chance to run, and was already climbing up the building, but Tim was ready for that. He pulled out his grapple gun and shot at Dick’s ankle, cord flying at top speed and wrapping around the leg. Dick yelped at the contact and Tim retracted hard, pulling Dick off the building at high velocity. He hit the ground flat on his back with a loud smack that sounded like it hurt, and Tim pounced on the struggling Nightwing.

“Sorry, Dick,” Tim mumbled, and jabbed Dick in the neck with the electrified end of the stick, Dick’s body flinching hard but the red light on his neck blinked and went out.

Tim was breathing hard, watching Dick’s chest rise and fall as he waited to see what would happen next. He couldn’t believe that he had done that. He had electrocuted Dick. He could have killed him. He could have...

“T-tim?” rasped Dick. “You’re ok-kay? D’mian? Did I h’rt ‘im?”

“You remember?” Tim rushed to check him over. His pulse was fast and thready, eyes dilated and confused, but he seemed to be himself again which was better than nothing.

“Yeah.” Dick coughed. “C-couldn’t do anything. Thank you. St-topped me.” Tim held his hand tight, but Dick suddenly yelped in pain, eyes wide and brought his hand up to his neck, where the tracker had been. Where the same tracker was starting to blink again. Tim had stopped it with the shock, but it was starting up again, apparently only shorted out momentarily, but the signal was back. Dick couldn’t take another shock, not so soon without risking permanent damage. Tim was struggling to think of a next move when Dick tightened his grip and stared at him hard, clearly struggling to hold on to control, to fight the tracker’s control over his mind.

"Tim." He squeezed his eyes tight and sucked in a sharp breath. "I can't fight it. It's…" Dick groaned in pain, clutching his head, pulling at his hair. Trying to distract himself anyway that he could to stop him from hunting Damian again. "Knock me out,” he spit out, and Tim tried to not react when he saw blood start to leak out of his ear and from his eyes under the mask. Whatever the effort of fighting the control of the tracker was doing to him wasn’t good. It was going to kill him if he kept fighting it. "Tie me up. N...now."

Tim didn’t need to be told twice. He hit Dick in the temple with the end of his bo staff, right in the perfect spot, the one he knew would incapacitate someone if hit just right, and Dick went out like a light, just as the light in his neck changed to a solid red. He quickly pulled out all of his restraints and tied Dick to a lamp post.

He did it. He sort of hated that he did, but he did it.

“Timothy?” Damian dropped down beside him, landing quietly on his feet. He couldn’t have gone too far, and Tim couldn’t be sure if he had actually gone to hide at all, but it didn’t matter now. He looked at Dick, at the tracker in his neck, shoulders tight and rigid, trying to cover his fear and worry with a faux confidence that didn’t fool Tim for a second. “Is he alright?”

“No, but he will be.” Tim sat on the ground across from where he had tied Dick up, and motioned for Damian to join him. He expected a fight, but to his surprise, Damian sat down, leaning against his shoulder, eyes trained on Dick, knowing that if he woke up, he’d have to be ready regardless of the restraints.. “Let’s wait for B.”

They both waited in silence, leaning against each other for support, neither of them mentioning the tears streaking down the others cheeks as they kept watch on their big brother.

#whumptober2019 #no.14 #tim drake #damian wayne #dick grayson

126 notes · View notes

iphoenixrising · 5 years ago

Text

For 900 Followers! Sub!Tim III

So many babes asked me to go on with this little idea. I don’t know why I wanted to write it so much or even continue with a trope I’m very unfamiliar with, .but welp, I did the AOB too, so why not? The first two are on my AO3 so some of those comments were really just as nice.

As a side note, this is a LONG POST. And I may have added notes at the end so there’s no spoilers.

Bleary eyes open–

And things like “I’m going to take care of you,” resonate in his brain pan.

The last twenty-four hours slamming into his immediate consciousness is not conducive to good morning, Red.

Rather, his eyes move frantically around Dick Grayson’s bedroom in a poor attempt at a hopeful bout of crime fighting with some kind of hallucinogenic thrown in.

Fat chance.

A full bottle of water is sitting on the nightstand. His clothes are in a chair by the door.

The Dom supplements and chemical blockers are out of his system.

He’d gone down into Subspace safely for the first time in his life, knowing that by the ache in his body and bleary, half-memories of things like safe.

And now that the crisis is over, he’s back to being somewhat balanced, he’s going to get his ass chewed out and who knows what Dick might insist on after the big secret is out.

A spike of panic hits him in the chest, cold and sharp, and he needs to get moving to try getting a headstart on some damage control.

On silent feet, he throws his clothes on over the bruises and rope burns, noting he doesn’t have a phone, a comm, keys, or anything else that would be, you know, helpful.

Since he’s in Gotham, his only chance is to get to the Perch and get some tech under his belt, prepare before Dick tries do something he thinks is probably in Tim’s best fucking interest since now–

They know.

Random things going through his head while he dresses, mentally struggles to push himself up and away from the call of Subspace.

(If...if he was still here when Dick finally came back, maybe he would be nice and gentle, happy that he woke up still close to slipping over.)

(Or he might want to talk about things like we should find a Dom to take care of you. It’s for your own good, Timmy.)

(“You’ll learn to love it.”)

Dick might think he needs to go to hormone therapy, might make him register so an interested Dom could...could–

(It’s all about ownership, isn’t it, Tim?)

There’s too much “I won’t punish you like this,” that he doesn’t have enough evidence to know what Dick’s next move would be now that he wasn’t going to go catatonic and shit.

(You won’t be able to hide forever.)

What he does know, is that he needs some time to get himself together–

–and make a plan.

The window is up and he’s halfway out, heart in his throat when he picks up the sound of footsteps and a door opening. A strange bout of sudden panic climbs up out of his chest at the noise, and it’s enough to spook him into not to bother closing the window when he throws himself on the fire escape and starts to climb.

Panicky impulse is not necessarily a good motivator. Give it to someone with years of vigilantism and extensive martial arts training under his belt, and the decision-making process is fraught with more options and factors than the average person.

Which is why Tim Drake is taking a short-cut through the Red Hood’s usual stomping grounds in hopes to cut the route he’d need to take to his Gotham Perch by half. It’s a stupid move on his part, attracting too much attention by going via the rooftop express than making it down to the street to get lost in the shadows between lamp posts.

But before Hood had claimed this as one of his territories, back when Tim was the one wearing the tunic, the shuriken R on his shoulder gleaming in the night, back when things were simpler if not still bat-shit crazy (heh) because of things like psychopaths with delusions of grandeur and megalomaniac kinks, back when he was that Robin, he’d combed every inch of these rooftops, crouched down to eat power bars and drink grape Zestis in-between busting drug deals and kicking the shit out of purse snatchers.

Gotham was his first stomping grounds in the cape, so he knows all the good places to hide.

It’s why his battered blue and white DCs feel like boots when he lands it on Gold’s Pawn, takes the whole thing in five big strides, pushing up into gravity, flying for just a second, and landing it on the run-down laundry mat next door.

He crouch-walks to keep himself low as possible, moving in the shadows when he can, breathing in the night around him with senses painfully alert after the first easy drop into Subspace he’s ever had.

(Which he is absolutely not thinking about. Nope.)

The drop-off into an alley and corresponding sprint to the next dumpster are so he can hot-foot it up to the side of a bail bondsman, avoid a loose plank, and scale up with a few handholds in the brick that are all about forearm strength.

He’s running on adrenaline, paying attention to the path ahead, panting and too full of his own thoughts–

–that he doesn’t expect the whistle of a bolo sailing through the air, or the abrupt stop of it wrapping around his knees. Embarrassingly, he makes an eep before he hits the roof, fumbling enough to scrape his damn hands.

He flips over, already working the heavy weights of the bolo from around his knees, eyes darting to the shadows, wondering if Hood might have found him after all.

(How the fuck was he going to talk his way out of this one?)

But it’s Nightwing that steps out of the shadows, brows drawn above the domino, his mouth such a sharp downward slash that Tim cringes, automatically tries to make himself smaller.

“D-Don’t!” He tries hoarsely, fingers working faster, more frantic.

(If he was back up, he’d be out of this already – his panicky brain is telling him, and that just makes it even harder, and he can’t stop to think through what he could be facing next–)

“Stop. Now.”

And the bitter bile rises up in his chest when he responds to that voice, when he stops, has to wait.

He’s still too fresh coming off of Subspace, too long of not going down, that it’s ten times harder to resist.

“I’m not happy,” is low and dark from the Dominant in front of him, hands deceptively loose at his sides. “You aren’t ready to be out yet. I’m sure you’re fully aware of that, Tim.”

His hands are starting to shake because he still tries to fight, eyes fixed on booted feet coming toward him. His fingers curl into fists, but that’s as far as he can go.

“What if you dropped a few minutes ago? No grapple? No way to catch yourself? You obviously aren’t thinking rationally, which means you need to be taken down at least once more before you’re stable. Maybe even twice if I can get you there.”

A sob works it’s way up, and he has to clench his teeth against it, arms straining with the effort to just get his fucking hands to work.

“You were so good for me, and this? Running away? Such a big no-no.”

(“Don’t fight it. Don’t ever fight it.”)

He bites down hard, harder, needs the pain to break free. He has to get free.

(“I’m not going to punish you like this.” So, you’ll wait until I’m not dropping, right?)

“I understand why you didn’t come to me when you needed help,” and Nightwing is only two steps away, pauses when he notices blood on Tim’s chin, on how the chest under the oversized hoodie is rapidly rising and falling.

The choked sound could have been a laugh or a sob, telling the vigilante some of what he needs to know.

“You presented after Bruce was lost in time, didn’t you?” It’s deceptively soft, but the undertone is all Dom.

“Y-Yes,” he grits out grudgingly, unable to stop himself. “After I lost my spleen.”

There’s something there that makes Nightwing pause, the booted feet hesitating.

“I’m sorry.” Is softer than he wants to hear, than he wants to deal with while he’s fighting against his true nature. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I wasn’t there for so long, and it’s going to be hard to trust me now.”

It’s all a jumble of whatever, so he’s only got half an ear on the voice, trying to make it subtle when he lowers his clenched hands enough to wiggle one finger in the bolo’s rope around his knees from the back. He needs to get them loose enough to get away–

(from that voice, from that promise, from everything Dick represents to him right that second).

“But you need to at least try,” the older vigilante continues, takes one step forward, pausing again when Tim flinches violently back, is breathing too fast, too harshly, might work himself over into hyperventilation.

“Ssstop,” from between clenched teeth, “stop it.”

“My inner Dom would never let me leave a Sub in need, and I wouldn’t anyway because you, one of my partners, needs this. You need to submit. You can feel what your body is telling you, Tim.”

To run the fuck away and never look back.

And Nightwing slowly takes a knees, those whiteouts focusing on the Sub’s face hidden by the hood.

Luckily, Dick Grayson is a good Dom.

He’s the one that figured out B’s secret not long after getting the inner Dom senses when he presented. It all happened during the crazy span of time Clark had to vanish deep in the universe, and left B to keep things on Earth in line with the JLA while also doing the usual vigilante justice in Gotham.

Still in pixie boots, Dick had done everything to help shoulder the burden, but it wasn’t long when he started seeing the signs. When his Dark Knight was getting closer and closer to the edge. He’d overwork himself to the point of exhaustion, trying to keep from getting too violent with criminals and megalomaniacs. The struggle to keep himself at the top of his game, one step ahead of the baddies, the more intense brooding.

It killed Dick to watch B spiral, so he’d done his homework on Submissives, trying to put his first scene together that would be easy for both of them without ever acting as a Dom before.

Even back then, he was good at anticipating, and it was as simple as ordering his other Dad to shower and change into pajamas, to eat everything Alfred made him, and sleep for eight hours.

That was enough to balance them both out, to bring them closer as partners.

That might have been the first time he used the Dom Voice on Bruce, but it wasn’t the last. It was the high point of their partnership when Bruce finally gave in and let his Robin take him down when his Dom was busy and the world was closing in.

It had gone far in making him into a good Dom, able to talk down terrified Subs, to volunteer as a Service Dom, to separate out Dick Grayson’s Dom with all his personal preferences and the Dom that wants to give the Sub what he or she needs.

(It’s still a sore point with him, how he thought being Bruce’s stand-in Dom is what drove him to take away the tunic, because B couldn’t look at him the same, couldn’t see his sidekick after a while…)

He hoped he and Tim could at least come to an understanding. To be equals, partners again. And this revelation could be such a big step to making that happen. If he could make Tim believe in him, if he could give the third Robin a safe place to be able to let go.

He could make up for at least some of those old pains, maybe even earn Tim’s trust back again.

It was a solid plan, but not as easily executable as he’d thought, proven when he had caught the sound of the window opening, half-way into making something breakfast-y, his heart slammed hard when he’d taken off down to the hall to find his bed and bathroom empty.

A moment of panic hit Dick in the chest because Tim was still too vulnerable to the Dom Voice after the drop into Subspace while riding the dregs of withdraw–

He hadn’t had time to explain the plan to keep Tim from running. Hadn’t had the time to admit he’d had taken a blood sample to analyze once he’d finally un-tied the dazed Sub and let Tim sleep off however many days of insomnia he’d been riding. A call to Bruce while Tim was passed out cold in his bed to share the results, and they made a tentative plan.

He’d talked to Bart, Kon, and Cassie, asked them to come by tomorrow night, hopefully to see for themselves that Tim was getting better, more lucid and on-his-game. He thought making a point to bring some of the Titans to Gotham could have meant avoiding this very thing.

Tim’s usual deflection methods.

And as much as he doesn’t really want to, he’s going to have to put his foot down, and listen to his instincts on this one.

Blinking away the wetness in his eyes, Tim’s hands pause, and the sinking feeling in his chest that might N have a valid point weighs him down on the rooftop in Gotham, just as much as the bolo around his legs.

The Dom is doing that Bat-loom thing because he’s fucking concerned. Just looking up to see hands poised over his arms, waiting for permission, and everything in Tim sways closer when the Dom voice comes out–

(like when he’s told how good he is, how beautiful in ropes and restraints, how perfect he is when he just gives the fuck in)

–so, of course, when he insanely thinks he can’t have this means he has to push it and see if it’ll break.

“Trust? You want me to trust you, Dick? You think I don’t know you all want the same thing?” He grits his teeth to shut the Submissive in the depths of his brain pan the hell up, “fucking Doms. Want to punish me, Dick? Want to beat me until I bleed for you? Want to hit me until I’m a good little bitch?”

Some kind of tension bleeds out of Nightwing’s rigid spine. His hands flex and loosen, the deep frown gone when the vigilante sighs.

He finally moves then, pushes Tim’s hands away to work the bolo loose himself.

“Not all of us are assholes like that. I know you know I’m not like that.” And even when he gets the ropes loose, drops it beside them, the weights making a light thump, fingerstripes flash through the night act like impromptu manacles.

“Look at me.”

Even without the Dom voice this time, he can’t disobey. More because it’s Dick rather than the man that wrapped him in ropes and gave him what he needed to be able to go down without pain or force or fear.

“This is terrifying for you. No, I don’t really know, but there’s no other reason for you to run away from me than if you thought things were going to change, or if you thought I would give a crap about you being a Sub.” He taps his domino to raise the whiteouts, blue, blue eyes zeroing right in. “I would never, never punish you for protecting yourself, Tim, and that is exactly what you were doing. I hope, after you were able to go down for me, you’ll realize you don’t have to anymore.”

And since it’s Dick, the words his deep enough to make him suck in a breath, to ease down some of the blatant fears that came along with this little reveal.

Tim can’t look Nightwing in the face as blood rushes back in his lower legs when the bolo comes off, but blue and black kevlar is presses in tight against him so he can’t get up to run again.

“Hey, c’mon Detective. Use the evidence you’ve already got.” Is more gentle than he expected, making some of the steel in his spine soften.

“I...he-he told me,” and the words get caught up somewhere, stuck somewhere in the center of his chest because he’d never spoken about what happened when he was desperate, before synthetic supplements, before heavy mediation and self-dropping techniques.

(But he couldn’t only ever get himself down so far, only to skim the top of Subspace, still achy and half-manic after every attempt.)

“Well, well, well, lookit what we got here.”

Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

Nightwing is on his feet in a breath of movement, escrima sticks out automatically, knees bent and ready to lunge.

But the Red Hood just holds up both .45s, barrels pointed to the sky, and cocks out a hip. “Nice ta see ya, Baby Boy. Thought ya couldn’t be out t’night ‘causea some business.”

Tim already knows it’s too late to run, but the opportunity is one he really can’t pass up.

“Case, we were...we were working on a case. Hood. Hey man. How’s kicks? Any new baddies lately?”

“Slow night in Gotham, Timmers,” as he hops down off the high ledge and makes the walk over look good. “Good t’ see ya made it outta that last throw-down. I hate those DaDa fucks like ya wouldn’t believe.”

“Tell me about it,” he ignores Nightwing’s hand and clambers to his own feet, hoodie keeping his face on the down-low in case nosy reporters are snooping about the rooftops.

“Nah. Ain’t one a’ my best stories anyhow.” Hood puts a big hand to Tim’s shoulder, ducks down a little so the whiteouts can catch his eye, “‘sides, ya look like ya could fall the fuck over any minute now. Been balls deep in yer case means ya ain’t been sleepin’, right Timmy?”

“Yeah,” he makes his eyes meet the whiteouts, tries to play it off because he desperately doesn’t want to react to Jason Todd’s inner Dom (if anyone would know how to cause pain, it would be the vigilante that almost killed him more than once. They might be better now, might even work together sometimes, but he’s got no way of knowing how Jay would react to the truth). “Yeah, it’s been a rough couple of days.”

He internally cringes when the helmet perks.

“Seems that way since yer workin’ a case right after those fucks had yer team runnin’ ragged.” And the Red Hood takes a small step closer, a hand goes for Tim’s wrist, leather fingers overlapping. The tight hold makes his knees wobble, black eating at the edges of his vision (he’s between two Doms and the Submissive in him can’t help but want to drop to his knees for them, to be Good, to beg for their orders, to give himself over–).

Hood is saying something, but he can’t really hear the words, can only stare up at the whiteouts with his wrist held tight between them.

Your restraints would feel safe comes completely out of left fucking field and that panicky feeling is back, creeping up his throat, coppery in his mouth.

(I’m so screwed.)

Subtly, Nightwing slides a hand up to the back of Tim’s neck, thumb pressing at the right pressure point, helps flood his brain pan with the right endorphins, shaking him out of the daze.

“Yeah, lookit ya,” and the helmet shakes from side-to-side while the synths register the tisking. “Better get yer ass somewhere and sleep it off, Timmy. Ain’t ya still godda Perch in Gotham?”

“I’m taking him to my place,” N interjects, “so I can make sure he takes care of himself.”

Tim is with it enough to look at the Dom behind him, the threat of the hand on the back of his neck enough to keep him from protesting in front of Hood, but he can’t stop his body from tensing up when Nightwing takes just a tiny step closer to his back, the heat of him, the power and strength, the command an enticing pull and terrifying prospect in the same breath.

(“You’ll learn to love it.”

“I’ll never punish you for protecting yourself.”)

The synths are quiet for a long second, the Red Hood pulling off a little bit of that Bat-stillness.

“Hey Dickie, what case didja say ya were workin’ again?” Is off-handed, but if Tim knows anything about Jason Todd, it’s that very few things about him are accidental.

He opens his mouth to blurt out something that could be somewhat believable, but Nightwing beats him to it, “we’re looking into some shady dealings happening in a few care centers around town. Abusive Doms that like to ignore contracts if you know what I mean.”

It must have been the thing Hood needed to hear because the vigilante’s attention shifts, and he throws up a pointer finger in their direction, “s’at so, Big Wing? Ya need anyone else on ‘at, just lemme know. Motherfucking hate shitty Doms, you feel me here?”

Through the haze settling over him, fighting the urge to sink to his knees, Tim sucks in a surprised breath, not sure if he wants more information or to get the hell off this rooftop before he gives himself away.

“I mean, ya know what I’m sayin’. Some asshole ain’t gonna be what his Sub needs, ain’t gotta place workin’ a clinic. ‘At’s fer damn sure.”

“Agreed,” Nightwing replies quickly, “so we’re going through a lot of personnel files, you know? If we need another pair of eyes or hands in on it, we’re going to call you first.”

“Sounds righteous, boys. If ya need it, ya know how ta find me,” a two fingered salute before the gauntlet grapple fires into the night, “an’ fer fuck’s sake, Timmers. Get some damn sleep. Look like a fucking pile a’ shit warmed over.” With that parting shot, the Red Hood leaps off the roof, going back to patrol.

The second he swings off around the 7-11 on the corner, Tim lets out the breath he’d been holding in a woosh, and with it, the strength left in his knees.

“Stubborn ass,” Dick gripes, catching him easily enough, slides one of his arms over Kevlar and Nomac. “But you’re my stubborn ass, aren’t you?”

He might make a noise, something slurry and low, something that could have been bite me or bet me.

But he turns enough to catch those fingerstripes stark against the pale skin of his wrist, and something in him, something long buried and denied makes a knot warm in his belly, makes his mouth water, makes the random flash in the forefront of his brain pan–

Those fingerstripes in his mouth, opening him up, playing with the rope around his chest and shoulders, tapping on the gag in his mouth, feeding him bits of food, his tongue curling around them, following the motions of his Dom…

– “Timmy? Oh baby, you’re going down deep aren’t you?”

“N-No, no, I’m–” but somehow he’s sitting on Dick’s overstuffed couch, his shoes and hoodie removed, and Dick crouched at his side, holding a grape Zesti with a little straw sticking out. The top of the Nightwing suit is open to the waist, the top half pulled off to flop around Dick’s legs.

Fuck, how much time did he lose?

When he would have jerked up, tried to run his mouth for a little deflection tech, he’s pathetically at a loss for words when Dick’s free hand comes up to cup over his mouth, not letting the deflections come out–

And Dick keeping a hand over his mouth, muffling his moans, his screams, his sobs…

– and a thumb pressing gently into the pressure point in his wrist makes his eyes flutter enough to focus.

“That’s it. Open again for me. Such a good boy,” and his mouth drop open automatically, another piece of bagel with cream cheese for him to chew. He’s on Dick’s lap this time, not on the couch by himself, or kneeling at Dick’s feet, but just laying against the Dom’s chest with some sense of satisfaction when he chews, swallows, and opens up for the next bite.

“I know it’s hard to think right now, but you’re so perfect like this. Doing exactly what I wanted. My perfect Sub, doing so beautifully for me.”

He moans a little around the bite, warming at the praise, hands lose in his lap, gets to lick the extra cream cheese off Dick’s finger for the next bite.

“Mmhm. I’m going to let you stay down for a little while longer. You’re feeling really nice right now, and you need it, don’t you, baby? You haven’t let yourself have this nearly enough.”

He makes a soft noise in his chest, using words too much of a bother at the moment.

“I know, I know. But it’s okay. You’re safe here with me. You can let go when I’m here, Timmy, I promise. I’ll keep you safe.”

A few more bites and he gets a few drinks of some tart juice, the taste sharp and tart enough to make the haze around him lighten up, gives him enough awareness to turn his head and make sure he knows where they are this time.

The color of the walls and pulley system on the ceiling tells him they’re in Dick’s bedroom this time, and the suit hanging on the back of the door has absolutely nothing to do with their usual nightlife.

He gets a few minutes to take in the shine off the latex, the embedded rings stark silver against the black, the heavy hood with extra straps to go over the eyes and mouth, holes in the nose so the person inside could breathe.

“Another drink, Timmy. That’s it. My pretty Sub is almost ready, aren’t you?” Dick leans down just a little to talk lower into his ear. “You’re going to go down for me again, all the way, aren’t you? You’re going to let me see you like that again, how gorgeous you are when you’re in Subspace. And you’re going to be good and let me help you get there.”

But Tim shudders a little in the Dom’s hold, trying to think through the haze that just wants him to be pliant, that wants him to give in and make Dick happy, wants to do whatever he has to for Dick to keep saying he’s...he’s good.

But...But there was a reason he left in the first place, isn’t there?

“D-Dick, I…” but that felt wrong in his mouth, the words so hard to form when he feels almost woozy, wants to slide to his knees and kneel at Dick’s feet, wants to call him Sir and feel that attention fixed on him again.

The hand on his jaw is warm and the touch sends a thrill through his nerve endings, automatically lets him lean into the touch, eyes fluttering open–

(when did he close his eyes?)

–to the dark blue of Dick looking down at him critically, assessing, seeing more than Tim had let anyone but the occasional Titan in on.

“Oh,” the Dom breathes out very, very quietly, looking at the soft flush to Tim’s pale face, the way he’d immediately softened at skin-to-skin touch.

A new plans starts forming, his eyes darting to the latex suit he’d pulled out when it seemed like Tim needed another scene with sensory deprivation (not that the idea of putting his Sub in the suit wasn’t very appealing to his helpless kink – his mind going places featuring Tim in the suit writhing below him), but the automatic reaction makes him change his mind immediately.

He tests his theory, hand slowly moving so his palm spans the side of Tim’s throat, thumb back-and-forth over his jugular.

The vulnerable position doesn’t bring any self-preservation to the fore, just makes Tim’s mouth open for a soft sigh.

Touch-starved.

“Mmhm,” he draws out, low and deep, “you’re ready to get started now. I want you to stand up and strip down to your boxers. Fold your clothes neatly and put them on the bureau. Then, I want you to kneel and wait for me. Do you understand, Tim?”

He sees the sluggish movement of violet-blue eyes go to the suit on the back of the door, start to get fixed.

“I asked once, Tim. I don’t want to ask again.”

The hazey quality makes his movements more sloppy and sluggish, something he can’t focus on while he’s trying to do what his Dom wanted, half-terrified of punishment, half-excited at what his Dom might do to him this time, what could make the quality of his tone, the glaring warning (“I don’t want to ask again.”) change into something...else.

His hands are shaky by the time he’s done, laying his folded clothes neatly on the bureau. There a moment of panic, of fear, spearing his chest when he realizes he doesn’t know where to kneel. Sir didn’t tell him where.

(Close to the suit, by the bed, in the middle of the floor? If he gets it wrong, what will Sir do to him? If he asks, will he get punished anyway? He didn’t listen close enough the first time, must have missed it, because he’s bad at this, a bad Sub...)

His mouth goes dry and coppery, the air cool on his bare skin, goosebumps rising on his arms.

“S-Sir, where…?” Is trembly and tentative, so unlike the dangerous vigilante lurking under his skin, under the haze, under the need to do this, to be this.

To give in.

“Right by the bed, Timmy. That’s where I want you. Good boy for asking.” Sir calls absently while he’s in the bathroom, light on and door open, where he’d apparently gone while Tim was stripping down.

But the relief is a palpable thing, makes him stumble on the first step. But he focuses on sitting back on his heels, hands loose on his bare thighs, breathing through his nose.

He keeps his chin tilted down when Sir comes back with a white bottle in his hands, and opens the nightstand drawer, pulling out a set of leather cuffs.

“You’re doing perfectly. Stay right there while I get some things ready for you.”

But his eyes slide to the suit waiting, something about it just–

Dick pauses in rifling through the drawer, turning to look at him, really look even though he hadn’t heard a sound. Something here set off his inner sense.

“Tim,” is careful, curious. “Check in.”

But his eyes can’t leave the hood, the shiny zipper up the back, the straps over his mouth both soothing and stifling and his brain doesn’t know if he can take it right now, if he can calm down enough not to fight it. If it won’t choke him.

(That could be your punishment after all. No movement, can’t scream, can’t breathe, just a body tied down to be fucked or bled, just like he promised…)

Dick’s hand is warm on his jaw again, the touch turning him abruptly, breaking him out of a mental loop.

“What are your safewords?” The Dom Voice, the one thing that could really bring him back, make him focus.

“Red...Yellow...G-Green, Sir.”

“Good Boy,” low and slow, “now check in.”

He swallows softly, trembling with the possibility he’s getting himself in trouble by admitting, “...y-yellow.”

And as deep as he is, as the heavy haze settled over him pulls this part of him out, the one with the need to please, that wanted praise, terrified of fucking up, of being bad, being thrown away and abandoned and–

He cringes back, wincing like an animal waiting for the blow.

But the Dom doesn’t let him pull away, the grip on his jaw gets tight, giving him another spike of fear right in the center of his chest.

But Sir is unfailingly gentle when he says, “that’s right, baby. My. Good. Boy. I’m so proud of you for telling me the truth.”

The breath he’d been holding rushes out, leaving him trembling slightly, trying to concentrate on just staying still where Sir’s hand is holding his jaw.

“What do you need to calm down? Maybe a collar?”

“I…” his eyes go to the suit again, “th-that. The suit. I...I don’t know if I can– if I can do it this time? I...I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Sir, I–”

“That’s okay. I changed my mind about the suit, too. Maybe another time. I think you don’t need that to go down. I have something different planned.”

His shoulders and back relax with the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying, but he keeps his jaw right in the palm of his Dom’s hand. “Th-thank-you, Sir.”

“You’re welcome,” is gentle, but still with an edge. “And now you know I expect you to use your safeword, Tim. You will use it when you need to, just like you needed to a few minutes ago and didn’t.”

“I,” and he blinks wetly, eyes suddenly hot, “I...Sir–”

“Mmhm. I already told you last time that you will safeword out, and you didn’t, did you, Tim?”

His breath is more of a gasp, a hiccup, and he has to blink again, try to keep his eyes from spilling over, “No. No Sir.”

“Tell me why.”

“I-I,” and he has to swallow, can’t close his eyes, or stop the tremble up his spine, “I was a-afraid you would punish me if I...if I said no.”

“Mmhm, and what did I tell you on the roof?” Is soft with a dangerous, low edge.

“That...that you wouldn’t punish me for protecting myself.” And it’s too late because one lone drop spills out, rolls down until Sir’s thumb rubs it away.

“That’s right. You will safeword out when something might hurt you. That is absolutely non-negotiable.” Dick’s tone is firm, an edge of anger that makes the Submissive in him shrink down because he’d made the Dom angry with him. “Rule number one, Tim. If you let me hurt you when you could have stopped me–”

Tim’s eyes widen, a shudder runs down his spine, because the cool, calm facade doesn’t touch those eyes, a promise of something dark lurking just under the surface.

(And it’s not too far out of the realm of possibilities that Sir’s been playing the Good Dom with him up until now. Being nice and attentive, caring and touching … but there’s something, something there that pulls at his instincts, makes it easier to submit each time...would it sting so good if Dick was the one using a crop on him this time?)

“–I will punish you. Do you understand?”

“Yes–yes, Sir,” and punish makes his spine snap ramrod straight, makes him tremble in the palm of Dick’s hand, makes him lower his eyes.

“Now, you are going to wear my cuffs again. I’m going to restrain you, and you are going to lay down on my bed on your belly.” Sir’s thumb swipes under his eye again before the hand is gone off his face, letting Tim drop his chin to his chest.

Dick watches the struggle for a few moments, the movement of eyes under the lids, the pink staining his nose and under his eyes, the rapid blinks to keep his eyes from spilling over. And even if he wants to do nothing more than drop to his knees and take Tim in his arms, to keep him held securely, to surround him in strength and support, to talk against the top of his head, to call him little brother and I’ll never let another Dom hurt you. Even if his arms ache, his chest tight with it, he knows that isn’t at all what the Submissive hiding inside Tim Drake, Red Robin, really needs.

He needs to understand where the boundaries are, not the ones imposed on him from the abusive Dom, but the real boundaries Submissive and Dominants set for any Scene (normally by way of contracts, which they will be having that conversation, Timmy, you can bet on it).

“Give me your wrist, sweetheart. I’m going to take care of you,” no room for questions or internal struggle. It’s the Dom in him taking care of his Sub in need.

The hand trembles but rises up without Tim lifting his face, and Dick very gently leans down to press his mouth against the throbbing pulse before fitting the thick leather cuff around and buckling it securely in place.

Without being told, Tim holds up the other one, the trembling moving down his wrists to his shoulders, and Dick can see how it’s starting to be too much, too overwhelming, knows where they need to go, how they need to stop all those riotous thoughts from controlling him.

“Good boy, Timmy. You look so good in my cuffs, just perfect.”

“Thank-you, Sir.”

“Now, up on my bed, sweetheart. I want to get your ankles.”

Even though he doesn’t want to, Dick steps back instead of helping his shaky Submissive, watches Tim crack his eyes open and turn to crawl on the bed, laying down on his belly with every muscle strung tight.

It’s fine. By the time he’s done, he’s going to make sure Tim falls into Subspace, soft and relaxed, eyes dazed and mouth pink, smiling up at him when he’s so sweet, so trusting, so perfect putting himself in Dick’s hands and giving the hell in.

He doesn’t give further instructions, just picks up the two remaining cuffs, runs his fingers gently down Tim’s calf until he gets to the ankle, wraps his long fingers around one and tightens down. The tense muscles relax just a little, just enough that he can tell, can take the sign for what it is, and fit the cuff, buckle it in place with the D-ring facing the right way. Dick repeats the process with the other ankle, working his Sub into it with his touch first before fitting the cuff and tightening it down.

The bottle he’d prepared and chain lengths he’d attached to the braces at the bottom of the bed are ready for step two.

It’s easy to keep one hand moving up and down his Sub’s lower leg while the other clips the chain on the D-ring at each ankle, moving up so he can make light circles on Tim’s back. He doesn’t need to tell Tim to stretch out his arms, the tentative movement puts the cuffs close enough to secure.

“That’s right. You know I’m going to take care of you, aren’t I, Tim?”

The body under his hand shudders, “yes, Sir.”

But, no, Dick isn’t convinced, but right now, he and Tim have all the time in the world.

He picks up the last thing he’d prepared. “Yes, I am. Now, open.”

His jaw trembles, but Tim closes his eyes and tries, tries, to believe. He opens up and the taste of silicone is like another checkpoint. This one has holes, is more breathable, and he holds still as the buckle is fastened and then, the silk comes over his eyes.

He just breathes out and lets it happen.

And it’s so beautiful when Tim stops fighting him again, starts to give in, is gingerly putting his submission in Dick’s hands.

It gets to him down deep where the Dominant wants his Sub to always be this loose, this giving, whether it’s after a few rounds with the riding crop or overstimulated with more orgasms than they thought possible.

Or, what plans to spend the next two hours doing.

“Shake your cuff, Tim,” is soft and dark when both hands start making easy strokes up and down his back. One disappears and comes back smelling like soft musk, is slick and warm and strong. It’s a crazy thing how he unconsciously arches into it, the touch light but still firm, his skin sensitive against it.

It takes a second for his brain to hear the gentle jingle-jingle-jingle.

Bell. Attached to the restraints.

“Shake it once for Red. Twice for Yellow.”

Tim might have made a noise, might have raised up when those fingers lightly brush over old scars. He might let out a soft noise through the because it’s starting to feel like too much, just being...touched.

While Tim tenses and relaxes, Dick tries to be easy about throwing a leg over Tim’s hips, using both hands to start working out all the tension, all the knots, all the tight tendons. Back when, he’d worked at the gym in the Haven, he’d had plenty experience rubbing out old injuries, not to mention his many, many superhero and vigilante besties that get hurt doing something stupid in the name of justice. He literally spent an hour on Wally’s calves and thighs once, and the guy passed right the hell out before Dick was even halfway done.

But this? Feeling how hard Tim falls for this, moaning out at being touched and tended, those noises helpless through his gag when the hard muscle finally gives under his hands, the way he sinks further into the bed between Dick’s thighs just gives him all the evidence he needs.

(Octopus Hold Protocol is a GO.)

So he settles back on his heels, sitting gingerly on the back of Tim’s thighs, gets himself in the mindset for the long haul, occasionally picking up the bottle to slick his hands with warming massage oil so he could move slow and firm, touching and rubbing and working his tense Submissive all the way down to the waistband of his boxers, then takes his time to work back up again.

It takes a few minutes of constant touch, of Dick’s hands on him, before the tension really starts melting away under the massage. The Dom finally moves down, starts on thighs and calves, rhythmic and soothing, taking satisfaction from each boneless flop when he’d worked out the entire leg, listening to the soft sounds, muffled but oh so enticing.

By the second or third time he’s reached the back of Tim’s neck, uses thumbs to work the vertebrae and around to the hinges of his jaw, Tim was making soft, satisfied noises.

Dick’s pretty sure if he removes the blindfold, those eyes would be dazed and soft and trusting, that Tim is down far enough to be in Subspace, completely lax in his restraints, hands open, flopped on the soft bedspread.

“That’s perfect, Pretty Bird,” when he just slows down to rubbing his thumbs down his Sub’s neck again, humming from his own high off the successful scene. “I want you to stay just like this.”

And since Dick’s an amazing detective, he’s completely right when Tim’s eyes are softly unfocused, don’t immediately seek out the boltholes and easy-getaways, but lazily blink up at him, relaxed and open and trusting.

He unconsciously brushes fingers over Tim’s cheeks, is enamoured when his palm is nuzzled and a big sigh lifts Tim’s chest a little, making the Dom roll with the rush of endorphins from a job well done.

“Beautiful,” Dick praises softly. “But it’s time to eat, sweetheart, and I want you to kneel for me, just like this. So soft and sweet while you’re down.”

He unclips ankles and then wrists, leaves Tim’s ankles free, but arms pulled behind him, the D-rings fastening his wrists together.

The gag comes out, but Tim’s too far down to fight and put on a mask, just leans into it when Dick wipes the saliva from his chin with a soft cloth.

“One more thing,” is the (his) collar buckled and snug, marking him. A leash clips to the ring right under the Good Boy, makes it easier somehow for Tim to find his balance when he stands with his arms fastened behind him, hazy and focused on Sir’s every move now that he can see.

Eat. Sir said it was time to eat, time to kneel. He can do that. He can be good and do that.

He follows a step behind, his body achy and loose, legs wobbly like Jello-O, but he’s never felt lighter.

It’s easy now when the real world is far, far away, and he can be here, in Sir’s apartment, following the rules, making Sir happy with him.

It’s easy to keep one foot in front of another, hoping for hands on his neck, his shoulders, his back. Wants to feel hands in his hair, wants to suck on the fingers feeding him, wants to lay against Sir’s leg again and just be.

He kneels without being told, going down too hard, too fast, hitting the wood floor hard with a sharp crack, still not jarring enough to pull him back up from this fuzzy contentment.

“Easy next time, Pretty Bird. I don’t like my Subs damaged unless it’s at my hand when they’re begging for it.” Sir uses the leash wrapped around his hand to pull Tim up to his feet, free hand tilting his face up, and Sir’s eyes are light blue, are pleased with him. “First, you’re going to get the snack I made for us. Then we’re going to eat and relax a little.”

“Yes, Sir,” is soft and happy, making the Dom hum as he unclips the leash and sits back on the couch to watch what his Sub is going to do.

He’s too far down to realize picking anything up with his hands isn’t going to work, but the basket on the counter has food inside and a handle, with a clean cloth laying over it. So he doesn’t think of anything else but opening his jaw and using his mouth to carry their snack over and kneel on the pillow by Sir’s feet just like he was told.

He doesn’t even wobble, just tilts his head back and offers the basket to Dick with his cheeks pink and hair an adorable mess, waiting for the next set of instructions.

“So smart, aren’t you?” Dick coos, taking the basket from his Sub’s mouth and gently running his fingers through the snarls. “You knew what I wanted you to do, didn’t you, Timmy? My clever little Sub.”

The fresh fruit and lunch meat is cool and easy to take from Dick’s fingers, makes his Dom happy, makes his Dom focus on him, give him attention he desperately craves. The satisfaction wells up in his chest, gives him the boldness to lick at Sir’s fingers, scrape his teeth gently against the tips, suck more than he needs to.

Some water for him and Dick flips on the television, The Trouble With Tribbles coming on.

“I’m going to catch up on paperwork, and I want you to stay right here with me. Got that, sweetheart?”

Tim is already moving when the hand on the back of his neck makes him list against the Dom’s leg, eyes half-mast watching the program.

“Yes, Sir. Going to stay with you.” He sighs in contentment, falls a little further under where everything is soft and nothing hurts. He doesn’t have to offer to help, doesn’t have to focus on his own cases, doesn’t have to be Tim or Red Robin. He doesn’t have to be the vigilante or the leader of the Titans, he can just fuzzily tune into the show while soft scritches punctuate when Sir writes.

After a little while, he gets questions and doesn’t even have to think about his answers really. It’s okay to tell his Dom whatever he wants to know, to tell the truth because that’s what Good Boys do.

And it feels so good like this when Sir calls him good, runs fingers through his hair absently even when his attention is fixed on the spiral notebook. Getting the attention even when Sir is busy makes warmth bloom in his chest, makes it easier to sink back down.

“Hm. If another Dom put restraints on you, would you like that?”

“Mmhm. Feels good, Sir. Like being held.”

“That’s good, baby. I’m so glad you’re telling me the truth.”

“I...I’m being good for you, Sir?”

“You absolutely are. My good boy, my Pretty Bird.”

He vaguely hears tisking and rubs his cheeks against his Dom’s thigh, hears, “hm. Still a lot of questions I don’t want to ask while you’re nice and relaxed. Maybe I’ll come visit you in the Tower one day when you can’t run from me.”

The Submissive in him reacts when Sir’s tone changes, hides his face in Dick’s leg, shoulders tensing.

The hand in his hair starts moving again, subtly sliding down to palm the back of his neck, and the grip gets just a little more firm. “Mmhm. Seems like you’re back enough to know I haven’t forgotten. Does that mean you’re to tell me why you ran out this morning?”

And maybe because he isn’t the vigilante, because he’s down far enough that lying to his Dom makes him cold and sick, makes his eyes burn, and he has to blink wetly to keep from getting Sir’s pants wet.

“You… you were going to punish me.”

“What? Tim,” and the hand on his neck isn’t gentle or coaxing, but firm enough that his head moves bonelessly on his neck, dazed, watery eyes looking up. “I already told you I wasn’t going to punish you.”

“ ‘Like this,’ you said.” And his chest stutters with a hard breath, “but I lied. For years. It...it’s going to eventually be time, and I...I–”

Would rather get it over with.

“Tim,” and Sir’s eyes are so blue, “one of these days, I am going to punish you. That’s going to happen. But, I will always, always tell you first. I will tell you when and why you’re being punished, and when you can finally talk to me about what that other Dom did to you, I will make sure I don’t make those same mistakes. Do you understand?”

He opens his mouth, eyes getting hot, the haze of Subspace fading because he doesn’t know if he can really believe it, believe in Dick, believe in something different than what the other Dom made him believe.

“Tim. Check in. Right now.”

“R-Red,” is hoarse, his eyes finally spilling over.

The hold is gone from his neck, and he can pull away, can pull back, the softness of Subspace, the safety in it abruptly fading away until he can at least start to think again.

Well, he can come back up enough to pull away from Dick’s leg, off the pillow where he’d been kneeling, scramble back in his boxers to the far wall while Dick watches him try to hide, try to stop the vulnerability in every twitch of muscle.

“That’s really not how I was hoping to bring you back up this time,” Dick admits softly, and tries to be easy when he stands, keeps his hands loose by his sides, footsteps light when he kneels by the trembling Submissive, one that didn’t have time to come back in his own time, one that probably feels nauseous and disoriented and afraid with the abrupt mental shift.

Eyes intent, Dick Grayson has had enough experiences with Submissives to know the effect of being forced back out of Subspace and leans over slowly, snags a soft throw off his chair to wrap around Tim’s back, ignoring the obvious flinch.

“But, it’s definitely time we talked.”

This time when Dick’s fingers tunnel through his hair, it’s easy and gentle, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, just like back when they were train surfing and vigilante-ing it up all over Gotham and the Haven and most of the world, it’s a comforting thing he’d almost totally forgotten about in the years he’d been on his own.

“N-no, I...no.”

“Yeah, sorry kiddo, but I’m not taking that for an answer. Not anymore.”

And as crazy as it is, he tries to fight it with weak, bound arms and his brain half-trapped in that warm place where nothing hurts, tries to remember Dick is a Dom and anything he says could very well be used against him, but it’s all for nothing when the older vigilante wrangles him off the floor and back in the niche of a lap (safe), wraps both arms around him to keep him from running.

The ending credits are playing in the background, forgotten while Dick gently rocks Tim in his arms, waiting for the shivers to stop.

“Before Jay showed up, you were about to tell me what that other Dom said to you,” is breathed out against his too-long hair. “Maybe we should get back to that, so I can tell you exactly what is bullshit and what is the truth. We can set some boundaries to make this easier for you.”

Clenching his fists against the comfort Dick is making him take, keeping his eyes closed so maybe he doesn’t lose his pride, Tim grits out, “I know the truth, Dick. I’ve helped pull Subs out of underground clubs and shit too.”

Like I really have to remind you. Robin, remember?

“No,” is drawn out a little, Dick’s nose close to his, “you’ve only see the absolute worst of us, Timmy. Unfortunately, vigilantes only get to see the douche bag Doms that hurt their Subs rather than the good ones that understand what a gift it is to have someone compatible trust them enough to submit.”

“The only thing Doms want from their Subs is to fuck them or punish them. You think I don’t know that?”

And oh. Oh, Timmy. Just wait until he finds the Dom that did this to you. “Did I do either of those things to you?”

“T-That doesn’t mean it still isn’t true–”

“It absolutely isn’t true. At all. Don’t get me wrong, there are some Doms that might only want that from their Subs, and it’s their job to find a Sub into that same scene, not to force their preferences on someone else. But as for all of us? Hell, no. Jay isn’t like that and neither is Roy or Donna or Gar or any other Dom I’ve ever met outside of ones I’ve arrested.”

Those eyes flutter open, look sharper, less hazy and compliant, “You hang around with heroes, Dick–”

“Hey! I have a social life outside of vigilantes and metas, Tim. I scene, and often. I was even a therapy Dom for a while, so no. It’s not just because of the people we meet in our nightlife.”

In his lap, Tim shivers, the ring at the bottom of his collar shiny in the light through the windows.

Carefully, Dick reaches behind him and thumbs the D-ring on the right cuff open, lets the other ring slip out so Tim can bring his arms around and hold himself under the blanket.

It’s another way he can help ease the transition out of Subspace.

“This is hard, sweetheart,” he continues softer, reaches under to wrap his fingers around a wrist above the cuff, “I know it is. You haven’t felt safe enough or had the space you need to explore what you like as a Submissive. Part of my job is to help you find out so you can say no when you need to. And I want to help. I want to help you so much. I don’t want you to be afraid to go down or to let go when you need to.”

It makes his heart ache when Tim turns his face away, hunches deeper into himself.

“I’m sorry. I know this isn’t...ideal for you. If there had been time, B and I would have tried to find a Dom you could trust, but you were too close to dropping too hard to wait.”

And he may or may not have lost his mind, both hands fisting in the throw around his bare upper body, when he abruptly blurts out, “I know self-dropping techniques. It’s how...how I’ve dealt with it until now. It’s why I’ve never needed one.”

“It’s not enough anymore, Timmy,” Dick counters gently, appealing to the detective in him, “if you were so far gone that you went down in the middle of a fight, and again on the rooftop, then that’s your proof self-dropping mediation isn’t working anymore. You need to go all the way down, just like you were able to do for me. Twice.”

“I...I can’t. Dick, I can’t–” because the prospect of someone else putting a collar on him, trying to take him down, could possibly learn all his secrets while he’s in Subspace (if someone other than Dick apparently, could even get him there), is someone he would have no choice but to trust, is enough to make him want to run all over again.

“For the time being,” Dick cuts him off, easily listing him to the side, manages to lift his legs on the coffee table and settle deeper in the couch with Tim laying heavily against his chest, head nudged under Dick’s chin, “you’re going to agree to come back here next weekend and let me take you down again. And you’re going to do it for your own health. Because no one would be happy if a Dom like Ra’s al Ghul catches on when you get triggered to drop in the middle of another fight.”

“Are you–?” And even though he feels like his brain is fried from coming up too fast, even though his heart is beating harder, his thoughts faster–

“I’m not saying that!” Dick’s eyes are wide when he looks down, “I’m not saying you should think I’m trying to get a Bond out of you when you haven’t had the chance to know what you really want. But, I am saying I’m going to be your Service Dom until you are comfortable and stable enough to find someone with the same wants in a scene as you. For the time being, I’m here to help you figure out what exactly you like.”

Tim lays his head in his hand and resists groaning because honestly, this is not how he saw tonight going. Like, at all, at all.

“I…” and he’s so close to blurting out how terrified he is of giving up control, of losing himself while he’s down in Subspace.

“It’s okay, Timmy. It’s just me, just Dick. Nothing changes this between us, not the fact you’re a Sub and I’m a Dom. Nothing changes the fact we’re friends and partners and kick-ass vigilantes. So, it’s okay, you can trust me.”

He’s so close to telling Dick exactly what he wants to know that it’s the first thing he can think of to keep Dick from finding out the worst secret–

(I would go down for you every time just to hear you tell me I’m yours.)

“I...I presented after I took over Wayne Enterprises,” is more hoarse than he expected, makes his chest tighter just to start saying the words out loud. “I’d given up on...it was a shock.”

Dick makes soft humming noises, gently slides his hand up in Tim’s hair and scratches his nails against the scalp.

“I was hoping I’d be a Null or a Switch, but a full-blown Sub was...” terrifying “...not what I expected.” He swallows, lets his eyes slide closed to be surrounded by darkness where he knew how to hide. “I knew I needed to get a handle on it, I needed help outside the team and the community, someone that could be discreet.”

With a sinking heart, Dick can make a few guesses as to why Tim had been adamant about keeping the secret to himself when Dick was in the cowl and Dami the new Robin. Those raw wounds still stood between them to this day, and for over a year, Dick had to wonder if they could ever come close to the partnership, the friendship, the comradery they’d once had.

(Dami was my Robin, but so were you Tim. Don’t you get that?)

“The clinic out by the Midtown Bypass,” is soft with memory, “not a lot of crime, pretty quiet when you compare it to the rest of the city. I used a pseud, got a list of Doms to choose from, and went in disguise.”

Thumb moves to the tender spot right at the base of his skull, moves in gentle, mesmerising circles, makes it easier for Tim to fall into his narrative without stopping, without hesitating.

“He wasn’t that much older than me, but his profile said he’d been a Service Dom for over a year, and the ratings were good. No comments, but positive stars. He looked...kind I guess, so I was stupid and didn’t make a contract, thought verbal agreement would be enough.”

(He looked like you. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, nice smile. It’s stupid how I judged him based on what I started to want but couldn’t have from you.)

He sucks in a deep breath, eyes fluttering to keep the images at bay.

“He sat me down at the table in the room and started talking about the scene he’d planned for newly presented Subs. Said since I was older, he could go a little harder on me to make sure I was absolutely satisfied by the time I left. He said I’d need to go harder since I presented later than most people.”

“A-and he started out pretty easy. I got to keep my pants and an undershirt on, he let me pick music for the scene, told me his hard limits. It seemed to be...fine. No evidence to the contrary. I mean, even if he was a creep or something, I’m a vigilante, I could fight my way out if I had to.”

It’s shaky, the rawness of saying it out loud puts some strength back in Tim’s spine, shocked it comes out so easy when he’d never talked about it, never admitted any of it before today.

He comes closer to the surface, takes a deep, deep breath, and tests the octopus hold, pulling away just enough to be serious.

Dick lets him, and Tim pulls the throw closer around him and finds a perch on the other end of the couch, taking a second to close him eyes, focus on the floor under the coffee table.

He must have been quiet for long enough that just a blink and Dick is kneeling at his feet, bringing soft sweatpants up to his knees. He’s already got a shirt on, and makes it easier for the Dom to pull him standing long enough to bring the pants over his boxers, give him comfort and protection with just clothing.

The cup of coffee warms his palms and he drinks deeply, the confusing mass of wants and needs, fears and traumas starting to ease when he can put his brain in front of it.

With his own coffee, Dick is sitting sideways with less than a foot between them, the illusion of space.

“I’m guessing,” his old mentor and friend draws out, eyes strangely still intense, “you probably waited it out as long as you could, Timmy.”

He looks sideways, startled because he’s still floaty and flighty apparently, and blinks a few times, makes himself focus.

“The worst part,” comes out of somewhere deep in him, “is that he made perfect sense with what I was feeling at the time. I...I couldn’t move against him when it came down to it. I couldn’t pick his restraints and get myself free. He told me that this is what I was meant for, what Subs were supposed to be, and not to try fighting it. I wouldn’t win.” He blinks, his eyes feeling hot and heavy. “I mean, yeah, yeah. His first lesson was not to fight whatever my Dom wanted to do to me, never to say no. Second lesson was my Dom would punish me. No matter what, every Sub gets punished, and most Doms choose pain. Most of them enjoy it, and it’s the Sub’s job to give them what they enjoy.”

And he can feel the emotions emanating from Dick, even though the Dom is utterly still. He can feel how badly his vigilante partner wants to put on the black and blue suit, make some people that deserve it feel pain.

The Submissive in him wants to huddle into that strength, wants to trust Dick won’t hurt him, won’t use him, won’t be one of those Doms.

(But he hasn’t done anything awful, hasn’t been what that other Dom was, so he can trust Dick… can’t he?)

“He started with a ruler, then used his hand, rectangle paddle, oval paddle, belt, crop, and cane. I could barely walk out the next day, had to...” but those memories of having nowhere to go after leaving that clinic, a time when the Cave and the Manor weren’t home, weren’t safe makes him suck in a breath through his nose.

And it’s a hand gentle on his wrist, fingers circling without seeming like it’s suffocating–

(because he really believes if he pulls away, he knows Dick will probably let him go)

–that brings him out again. “So...it was the first time I kind of went under, and I hated every second of it. That’s why the chemical balancers and Dom supplements. Self-dropping meditation. It’s safer than trying again.”

Dick is oddly quiet and intense, the muscles of his biceps and thighs tense, but the hand on him is still loose, thumb moving over his pulse.

“So, you don’t have to...do this. It’s kind of you to offer, Dick, but I’ll figure it out again. My system is going to be clear in a few days and I can come up with another solution. But I appreciate–”

“Timmy, it’s not safe for you to go back on balancers and supplements, at least not for a while,” is gentle but still firm in a way that’s still shocking coming from Dick Grayson, a way that’s so different from the vigilante big brother he thought he’d lost for good, but still recently bullied his way in the Tower to start making Tim come back to Gotham again. (He’d totally claimed a couch in the communal room with unapologetic stubbornness. Pure exasperation from the Titans made him finally give in and literally take one for the team. He hadn’t imagined this is how that little sitch was going to end up...or the fact he’s got a room in the Manor again. Talk about a throwback.)

“When you’re balanced again, you’re going to go back to the Tower and rest for at least forty-eight hours. You can do analysis and work the back end on some of your cases, but no out and about until after that. The team can handle the field work for a few days.”

He blinks again, starts to open his mouth to argue, muscles tensing because he’s close enough to the surface, closer to himself to be able to fight.

“Hear me out,” and Dick somehow creeps just that much closer, “self-dropping and supplements will only take you so far, Timmy. Doms are the same way. We get the endorphins we need from having a scene. Sometimes it’s just about being touched, like we did today. Sometimes it’s about needing another person to make you stop, like we did first. For me, it’s being that person that can anticipate those needs, to be allowed to give my Sub these things.”

To keep from being admitting out loud how much he needed to be touched, how right Dick called it,, Tim sips his coffee again, glad to see his hands have stopped shaking.

“I just want you to completely understand what that Dom did to you was wrong. I didn’t make you tell me much while you were down because most of us respect Submissives, just like I respect you.”

And based on the evidence, he can’t call bullshit here. “All right. I see your point about not suiting up, I mean, I do feel less scattered than before.” Because he has to admit it to himself, how much better he feels after he’s gone down, how much calmer in that hidden part of his brain he tries to suppress. That if Dick really calls for that part of him again, how he’ll probably slide down to his knees, craving to be a good boy again. “I didn’t know it could…”

“You didn’t know it could work without pain or sex,” Dick fills in gently. “I hope you know it can be different, just like we’ve done so far.”

“I’d really like if you would listen to a few audio files while you’re working, just some lectures from an expert on Dom/Sub relationships. I really think–”

He pauses when Tim turns, eyes narrowed, clearer than he’d been since going down the first time, and the patient look is so very familiar. “By the time the Dominant and Submissive electives were available at my high school, I had already pretty much dropped out. Robin shit was going down in those years.”

And idea sparks in the back of Dick’s mind where the Dom is still hovering, is still intense, noting everything with his Sub, still angry he didn’t have enough time for more aftercare. If anything, an abused Sub deserved more cuddling and spoiling from a good Dominant, and watching Tim draw away, start putting the mask back on before he was ready, before he was able to come back up on his own terms, sweet and soft and balanced, ready to tackle the world.

It grates on him, makes him want one more chance to take the third Robin down so he doesn’t feel like he has to hide.

But the idea turns into a plan, on all the ways he should be showing his Submissive how their dynamic should be, how a healthy relationship between the orientations should work. How he could work punishments without pain while creating scenes to give Tim the freedom to explore his preferences.

Dick props his elbow on the back of the couch, and refuses to back off even an inch.

“Then give me a chance to show you, Tim. A blood test will prove you need to go down at least once a week for a while, then maybe stretch it out to once a month to get your system back to normal. Give me some of that time as your Service Dom to help you. Together, I can help you figure out what you need as a Submissive.”

And it’s so absolutely fucking unfair for Dick to look that intense, and Tim is sitting there never even thought he’d be facing a Dom actually pleading with him.

His brain still warming up, picking up on the possibilities of hitting a hard few nights and dropping in the middle of another fight, of Kon or Bart or Cassie getting hurt because he couldn’t keep himself together, because he was terrified of going down and being vulnerable.

“...okay. Okay. Until my system is back to normal, and I can either find another Dom or another option.” He swallows hard, wonders how much he’s going to end up regretting this.

But it’s almost comical to watch Dick’s tense shoulders relax, and the blinding smile come back to his face, already making Tim feel like he’s accomplished something just by giving in.

“Thank-you, sweetheart, that’s exactly what I was hoping to hear.” And just like that, the dynamic shifts between them, and the hand tightens down on his wrist again, “so why don’t we have one more try before bed? You could absolutely use it, and I have...another idea.”

It’s not until much later when the rope burns around his chest are just lightly stinging in a way that’s so right. It’s later when he’s buzzing off the easy fall into Subspace that seemed impossible even a day or so ago. It’s later when he’s lazily flopped in Dick’s bed, sipping juice from a straw, blinking up at the soft expression on his Dom’s face, something heavy-lidded and sated that the thought comes out of nowhere–

I really am going to regret this...once it’s over.

Spoiler AN: I’ve talked to some people about keeping the main story as a non-sexual submission on their part, but that is not to say I don’t have a doc with some beginnings of serious D/S play. So, that will probably be like one shots or something ;) But if you made it this far, thanks for reading babes <3

#900 followers #winter writes #long post #sub!tim #tim drake #dick grayson #tw: Sub abuse #tim finally talks about it #jason todd #dom!dick #my fic #my writing #dc comics

121 notes · View notes

winterwolf0916 · 5 years ago

Text

Gregarious

Tim Drake x Extrovert!Reader

Requested by anon: Heyo! Could I please get headcannons for tim with a super loud, outgoing and extroverted girlfriend? Like how they met, how they got together etc. I love your work, thank you so much 😊

A/n: Really hope you all like this.

Also, Requests are now open.

Word Count:2207

It first started out in a chat room. YEP! A chat room.

Since your friends were struggling to study for their upcoming exams, they decided to create a study group.

They added a couple of classmates onto the group chat (mostly smart ones) including you since you do give great first impression in person.

Tim was out patrolling until he felt vibration from his phone. He checks it out to find him being placed in a group chat.

He gazed at the text message that spoke, ‘...so our first study group would be held tomorrow at 1 sharp. If you can’t arrive just let us know’

Tim was about to message them that he wouldn't arrive because...well he didn't want to. He already knows what is taught in the class and has a perfect A+ in the class.

But at the same time he didn’t want to be an ass and not lend them a hand.

The next day...he overslept. He had less than 10 minutes to arrive at the library. And the manor far from the city.

Boy was he rushing. And even sped up to the library. With books in his hands and messed up hair.

As he was near to the area where they would study in the library, he stumbled upon someone.

How? As cliché as it sounds, when he notices you were there, he was bewildered. He was so caught off guard that he tripped on his own shoes and the items in his arms flew everywhere.

Oh! And let’s not forget...He wanted to apologize to everyone about his tardiness by buying cups of coffee for each of them...So...

“I. AM. SO. SO. SO. SO SORRY!!” He yelled. Followed by some people shushing him since he was in a library.

The Pro’s about this situation, is that he saved half of the drinks.

The cons is, the other half spilled on your outfit, the floor, and parts of the table.

If Jason and/or Damian witnessed what happened, they would’ve been laughing their asses off.

The group members helped pick up his books, some of your friends left to fetch some napkins, while Tim is left there panicking in front of you.

“What the hell is wrong with me! I am so sorry again, I didn’t know what came over me-”

“Hey!” Tim immediately looked up at your eyes after your first word to him. “It's alright. I’m not hurt, well the drinks were hot, but nothing too serious. It's ok.”

Your voice, your tone, your volume, the way how you spoke, how you smiled at him, reassuring him that it wasn’t his fault when it completely was.

His heart skipped several beats. You weren’t angry at him. After he basically spilled many cups of coffee on you by accident.

This was not how he imagined to introduce himself to you. I mean, he seen you in class from time to time and he thought you were brave, how you talk confidently to the teacher declaring no homework for the day or how it's unfair to have a test the next day after a lecture that has been so confusing.

He wanted to know you better. You have that charm on people, making them wanting to know you better. But it seemed like an impossibility since you were surrounded by people most of the time and he was incredibly shy.

“Alright let's start over. I’m Y/n L/n.”

He was confused. How can you be so nice to him after he had just committed an accident. A horrible accident. Therefore, making a horrible first impression onto some people.

“I know.” He shook your hand. And the first thing that came up to his head, was that it was soft. You gave him a confused look causing him to panic.

“Oh! Not like that. I’m not a creep. I-Its just I see you in class and everyone knows you, not that I don’t know you. You’re outstanding in class, standing up to Mr. Clay and-Ok I’ll stop.” He was blabbering on again.

He was waiting for an awkward ‘oook then’ from you. But instead you giggled.

“Aww!!They weren’t wrong about you being adorable. Timothy right?” You teased. Tim could feel the tip of his ears growing red. You called him adorable...

“Only Tim. Tim Drake.�� You hummed in response before turning to the table with a smile on your face.

“Shall we Timmy?” He nodded several times. And low-key loving how your giving him a nickname.

“What about your clothes?” You shrugged.

“At least I smell nice. Don’t worry too much, Timmy.” So this is what it meant to be head over heels for someone. Literally and figuratively

Click

Prom night. On a luxury Yacht at Gotham Harbor.

You were laughing with your group of friends. It was a perfect moment. The weather was calming, your dress hugging the curves on your body, your hair in a beautiful style, you looked fascinating, and Tim just had to take a picture with his camera.

You looked breathtaking in the moment. As he looked down to see the screen of how it appeared, a smile formed on his lips that the lighting on your face looked perfect.

“Tim! You’re here!” You yelled pushing through your group of friends giving him a bear hug. He could see your friends smirking at your actions but he ignored it.

“Look at you! Wow! Looking like a million bucks I see.” You teased, letting go, taking a look of his outfit. And he looked stunning as well.

It has been many months for the both of you being close friends. He loved your company. And you loved his. Hanging out in coffee shops, at school, late night calls or facetime, and the manor...

Whenever you leave after spending time with Tim, his brothers would tease him and urge him to make a move. But Tim being Tim, he felt scared (terrified) to confess.

I mean poor boy with his insecurities, you were a popular and well known girl for your outgoing personality and amazing socializing skills. While Tim is the opposite.

And he has a fear that you would reject him, shattering the friendship he has with you, or you won’t like him back and things would be very awkward between you both.

But his brothers believe-wait. No. They know you return the feelings for Tim.Or as Dick would say,

“Opposites attract.”

Adding onto the list of why Tim believes he doesn’t deserve you.

You being in danger because of him.

Tim never wants to see you suffering under the hands of a villain in Gotham. Never wants you as a target for his enemies. He would keep his distance with you but it would only end up with you running to him. To stay close to him.

“How rude, its Prom night and I wasn’t invited~” The boat stopped in place unexpectedly, and vines grew out of the water and tied onto the edges.

Oh no...

Screams were heard. Tim grabbed onto your hand pulling you away from the scene. He placed you inside along with others, but as he was about to enter inside, he slammed the door shut and ran off outside where the danger lingered.

“Tim!” You yelled trying to pry the door open but instead it was locked.

The sound of a shattering window and screams were heard. The crowd back away from the green villain. Poison Ivy.

“So pathetic. You all partying not realizing you’re killing the environment. As punishment, I’m going to tear this ship apart.”

You had the guts to confront her and give her one hell of a speech for her to leave. Because you being the loud, extroverted, outgoing person you are, you’re also the voice of your classmates.

Oh! And you roasted her. Very well that the crowd letting out oohs.

She was so embarrassed and furious that she launched a vine to your throat and raising you up. More screams. Your friends call out for you and some holding each other back. Poison Ivy then grabbed a hold of more students by their necks.

She enjoys the panicked looks on the young adults’ expressions. Her vines start to move towards the engine room while you and a few others here hanging from vines around your neck. Choking you. You began to feel dizzy and your eyelids growing heavy.

Suddenly small blades with the shape of bats, sliced through the vines holding up the hostages but Poison Ivy was fast enough to deflect the last one. Before it could cut you free.

“Let. Her. Go.” A hard voice demands. The redhead whipped her head to the shadows. She squinted her eyes to have a better look but instead her face met with a bo-staff. Enough strength to make her see stars and be distracted for a couple of minutes for the least.

“LET.” He was fast, launching batarangs at her large deadly flytrap.

“HER.” He rose his bo-staff once more.

“GO!” With enough strength, he whipped his bo-staff once more at the vine holding you, freeing you, then catching your body in his arms.

“Run!”He kicked the exit open and everyone fled out. Since you were up close to the hero known as Red Robin, you were washed with Deja Vu’s. How he yelled, his jawline, his muscular figure was so familiar to you.

He wrapped his cape over you and pressed a small device activating the minutature bombs as everyone was out of the room.

Poison Ivy was down, boats came to aid the students back to land, you kept asking the vigilante if Tim was alright, he assured you that Tim is safe and sound.

But as you were about to leave home in one of the limos, Tim didn’t feel secure about it, he was worried (Paranoid) that you would cross danger again.

So he dropped you back to your apartment himself, swinging around in Gotham, you screaming at first at how high you both were, and worried if the grapple hook might snap.

Tim was laughing at your reaction while feeling relieved you were right next to him, making him realize you wouldn’t be safe without him around.

As the both of you landed on your balcony, you gave a sincere thanks and slightly fangirling that one of your favorite vigilantes helped you home. When Tim was chattering excessively trying to say goodbye to you, a switch was flipped inside of you. Knowing Red Robin’s identity.

“Tim?”

Oh shit. Bruce is gonna kill him. He denies its him. It was a failure.

“I know it’s you. Is this why you’ve been avoiding me? Because of this?” You pointed at his suit. He sighed taking off his mask. Then he tells his side of the story. Sure you being the loudest one in the friendship, you actually stayed silent and listen. It was a big switch of role.

“...You protect me in school and I want to protect you from the villains of Gotham because I love yo-shiiit” He turned very red. You were shocked of course. You always thought he never return your feelings. But he did. And it felt like a dream when he said those three words.

He felt sad. Why? You were silent, but you’re always loud, stuck in your thoughts while Tim is breaking inside thinking you don’t feel the same way. As he took a shaky breath and put on his mask to leave (and hide the tears) but you stopped him.

“Timothy Jackson Drake, stop right there.” What were you going to do? Break his heart even more? You grabbed the straps that crossed his chest and pulled him close to you.

“Y/n-”

“I love you too, you dork.” His eyes widen and gleamed. His heart started to beat faster. So was yours. He smiled and you yelp as he pulled you closer by the waist. Inching closer and closer-

Right on cue his com started ringing interrupting the moment. Tim let out a nervous chuckle before answering it. Bruce needs his assistance at Iceberg’s lounge and it’s urgent. He mentally cursed that he has to leave you after you both just confessed to each other. He wanted to stay by you. But he has to go. He got on the railing, slightly sulking to leave you.

“I’ll...see you later I guess-And you’re welcome to visit the manor tomo-”

“Com’ere.” You pulled his collar and your lips smashed onto his. A spark of electricity ran through him causing him to melt into the kiss. It was warm...soothing...and addicting. His hand traveling behind your neck to pull you closer. He was so distracted that he didn’t realize his foot was sliding from the railing.

After a couple of seconds of Heaven, he pulled away abruptly because he was falling back. You leaned over to see if he was alright, but soon he grapple hooked onto a building yelling, “WHOOOOO!!”

You smiled goofily while watching him running on the rooftops hollering in triumph, soon receiving a buzz from your pocket in your dress.

Pulling out your phone, finding a text from Tim, ‘See you at dinner tomorrow! <3’

#tim drake x reader #tim drake x y/n #tim drake x you #dc x reader #dc x you #dc x y/n #red robin x reader #red robin x you #red robin x y/n #batfamily x reader #batfamily x you #tim drake headcanon #tim drake imagine #tim drake x extroverted! reader #batboys x reader #horrible writing #x reader #imagines

366 notes · View notes

badacts · 5 years ago

Text

eyes on me (pt.3)

This fic is about Gotham’s revenant problem.

(part one) (part two)

Tim actually lets Jason fly them back, despite the creeping urge to tranq him and shove him into one of the storage lockers.

The problem with Jason is that he never lets anything go. A little bit of sedation between pseudo-brothers would be a sore spot for years, and the two of them don’t really need any more of those to poke at in the wrong moments.

However, the flight would definitely be smoother if Jason wasn’t at the helm. Tim grits his teeth in the co-pilot seat and bears it.

The outcome is the important part, he tells himself. He’s taking Jason back to Gotham, where there’s at least a twenty percent he’ll actually help instead of just causing a massive hindrance. This low level of expectation means that Tim isn’t surprised when Jason lands them on top of a building in the Bowery - still shielded, at least - and rolls straight out of the jet with a casual, “See you later, Timmy.”

The tracker Tim stuck onto his jacket heads down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk at normal human pace, before rapidly accelerating down the street. The secondary tracker that Tim was much more careful about planting continues walking in the opposite direction.

Tim grins to himself and takes off, heading back to the Cave.

He can pretty much already predict where Jason is going, anyway, once night falls. The graveyard, and then the hospital.

That means, when Red Hood lands on the roof adjacent to the hospital later that night, Tim gets the unique thrill of startling him when he says, “Don’t bother. He’s in an induced coma.”

“...Little Red,” Jason says.

“Does that make you ‘Big Red’ or ‘Riding Hood’?” Tim wonders, and then, before Jason can answer, “What did you think of the graveyard?”

Half of wearing a mask is learning your own particular method of intimidation. Tim’s is his ruthless intelligence and his peerlessly clever strategies. Red Hood’s is his disdain for adhering to the Bat’s Shalt Not Kill rules even now, and a taste of a smirk that carries through his voice if not through his expressionless mask.

Jason Todd is and always has been a street brawler, all pure physicality. Born to fight. That’s all Tim can think when he growls, “You stalkin’ me?”

“Don’t need to,” Tim replies. Because Robins are all reckless, he adds, “You’re just kind of predictable.”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s fifty-fifty whether that’ll make Jason hit him. He doesn’t bother to feel relieved when it earns him a laugh instead.

“Alright, batbrat,” Jason replies. It seems as though he loses a couple of inches of height when he relaxes from his loom over Tim. “What do you know about Rand?”

“C’mon,” Tim says, and fires his grapple across to the hospital roof. He’s done the same thing hundreds of times on this building, from all angles - he’s jumping before the grapple even hooks on, falling for a weightless moment before the cord pulls tight and throws him in a swooping arc to the window he’s aiming for.

He lands lightly on the window ledge, balancing on the balls of his feet. Jason follows him a moment later, surprisingly graceful for someone of his size balancing on two inches of formed concrete.

“That’s him,” Tim murmurs, gaze fixed through the window.

Marc Rand hardly looks peaceful in unconsciousness, with the number of tubes and wires tethering him to this plane. It’s fitting - it’s not like he was exactly resting in peace like his headstone wished.

“Huh,” Jason says under his breath, “Looks like a kid.”

“He’s fifteen,” Tim replies absently. Even he’s not sure whether he’s agreeing or disagreeing. He’s distracted by the strange tone in Jason’s voice, hard to identify through his helmet.

“Yeah, exactly,” Jason mutters. “So?”

“So what?”

“Rand. Fill me in.”

“Oh, it’s all on the computer back at the Cave,” Tim says without looking away from Rand’s form in the hospital bed.

Stillness. Then Jason snarls, “What are you playing at?”

“Relax,” Tim replies easily. “Just because I didn’t take your drama into account doesn’t mean I’m ‘playing at’ anything.”

“I won’t go there.”

“Then you’ll have to wait until I can transfer the information to you,” Tim chirps. “Do you use Mac or PC? I’ll copy you a pendrive.”

“Are you fucking-”

“Kidding? No.” Tim fires his grapple back across to the roof they came from, but before he can, a hand catches in the fabric of his cape. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t you?” There’s a taste of teasing in Jason’s voice. Tim hates it.

Maybe he underestimated the degree to which the two of them are oil and water. Oil and matches. Maybe they’re going to end up having a round two of their first meeting. Tim doesn’t want that, but he also doesn’t let it stop him from driving his elbow back into Jason’s sternum.

Jason dodges. He says, amused, “I’m wearing armour, do you not like your funny bone?” And while he’s distracted, Tim uses the shift of Jason’s own weight to drop the both of them off of the window ledge.

His grapple is strong enough to hold both of their weights even geared up, but Tim’s cape isn’t. Jason, showing a previously-unseen degree of good sense, lets go of Tim in favour of firing his own grapple.

Tim rockets upwards, unhooking and rolling over the lip of the building in one motion. He considers looking back to check whether Jason is a paste on the sidewalk below - and boy, he can’t wait to have that conversation with Bruce - but thinks better of it. Red Hood would never submit to dying in such a pedestrian way, and also if Tim’s right, which he always is, Hood will be right behind him.

He’s halfway across the roof when something hits him in the back of his shoulder.

He has a split second to wonder what was that before he’s dragged backwards off of his feet. There’s a shrieking rip of kevlar-reinforced fabric, and then the back of Tim’s skull hits the rooftop. Hard.

Then he’s on his belly, with Jason’s knee in the small of his back. Tim gasps, “Did you just shoot me with a grapple gun?”

“Yeah,” Jason says, self-satisfaction dripping from his voice.

“You-” Tim says, and then gags, heaving.

“Whoops,” Jason says, removing his knee in favour of flipping Tim onto his side. He puts Tim in the recovery position.

Tim hooks his leg around Jason’s neck and rolls them. He ends up on top, Jason’s throat pressed between his thigh and calf while he debates the pros and cons of just choking the life of them.

Jason slaps Tim’s thigh and whispers, “Uncle!”

“You could have impaled me,” Tim replies. Honestly, it’s a miracle Jason didn’t. Their grapples are designed to lock into masonry, complete with barbed hooks with fingerprint releases. The aim it would have taken to hook just Tim’s cape - well, clearly running around with guns has some benefits.

“No,” Jason squeaks, somehow managing to sound offended as well as like he’s inhaled helium.

Tim, who absolutely was faking the gagging before, turns his head just enough to avoid puking on Jason’s stupid mask.

Jason, released from Tim’s hold by his sudden slump sideways, says, “...whoops.”

#my fic #batman #rhato #red hood #red robin #dc #batfam #eyes on me #now don't lose faith (just keep your eyes on me)

39 notes · View notes

camsthisky · 6 years ago

Note

Ok ok I know that the post was angsty romance cliches but I’m having a WHOLE EMOTION RN so I would like to submit a prompt in which Dick is mind controlled/something to that effect and forced to fight Damian and Damian refuses to fight him and is seriously injured as a result, and then Dick comes to and ohmygosh the hurt/comfort potential here is incredible

ao3 | ff.net

They don’t really know how Nightwing was caught, only that he must havebeen put under some kind of mind control before they released him back intoGotham. Nightwing had headed straight for Red Hood, and Jason hates everythingat the moment, because right now he’s blow for blow with his brother, andneither of them are really holding back.

“Shit,” Jason grits out, barely dodging a flying kick aimed at histemple. He gives as good as he’s got, but Dick’s been at this for almost aslong as Bruce has, and when he’s going at Jason with murderous intent—Jason’skind of floundering here. “Where the fuck are you guys?At this rate I’m gonna end up killing him.”

Which isn’t his goal, but Jason’s also not sure how to deal with Dicklike this. There’s no way to get close enough by himself so he can restrainhim. All he can do is fight.

“Forty seconds out,” Tim’s voice says in his helmet. “Batmanhas been delayed, so it’s just the three of us until Orphan can get here.”

“Two, three, I don’tcare,” Jason snarls, catching Dick’s fist and twisting. “Better than justme.”

Forty seconds ticks by too slowly, and Jason takes a solid punch to hisshoulder just as Tim falls from the rooftops and surprises Dick with a hardenough kick to send him sliding backwards with a cough.

“You okay?” Tim asks Jason, even though he’s not facing him. He’s gothis bo staff out in front of him, ready to attack again, even though Dick’sstill picking himself up.

Damian touches down silently next to them, oddly quiet.

“Fine,” Jason grunts. “Shoulder’ll be sore tomorrow, though. He’snot holding back.”

“Do we know what happened yet?” Tim asks.

Jason shrugs. “Hell if I know. Came at me like a bat out of hellbarely a minute after B warned us all Nightwing’d been whammied.”

“So what do we do now?” Damian speaks for the first time sincearriving.

He looks off kilter. Uncertain. Like the thirteen year old boy he is. Itmakes Jason’s stomach churn, because Damian is the biggestbrat, but Dick can always manage to do the impossible, like turn the loudest,proudest, angriest assassin into a boy worried about his brother.

Dick seems to do that to all of them. It pisses Jason off.

“Restrain him,” Jason says. “Or knock him out. Anything to stophim. He’s not gonna go down easy, but it should relieve the pressure to havemore—shit.”

Jason ducks just in time to duck under Dick’s swing. He pushes forwardand throws an elbow into his older brother’s stomach, but Dick’s alreadystepping back, away from the blow. Even mind-controlled, he’s an amazingfighter.

Tim steps in from behind, and Damian just a second after him, but Dickperforms some crazy maneuver using the wall, and he’s flipping over all threeof their heads. Jason’s on him the moment he lands.

It goes like that for a while. Jason, Tim, and Damian’s goal is to stopDick, but keep him alive. Dick’s coming at them with full strength, aiming tokill. It makes it just this side of harder to keep him down.Finally, Jason’s had enough. He whips out his gun, doesn’t give Tim time to domore than scream, “No!” before he shoots at Dick’s legs.

Dick, of course, avoids it.

“The hell are you doing?” Timhisses.

“If we don’t go at him with everything we’ve got, he’s going to winthis, baby bird,” Jason snaps. “If he wins, we’re all dead. I’m not justgonna stand here and let him kick my ass.”

“You’ll hurt him!” Damian yells.

“Better hurt than a mind-controlled zombie trying to kill us,” Jasonsays, and he shoots again.

Dick dodges, though, and invades Jason’s personal space. Too close touse the gun, so Jason goes for a pistol whip, but Dick’s ahead of him there,too. They wrestle over the gun for a moment, and while Jason’s bigger andstronger than Dick, the acrobat uses the wall to flip over and twist the gunfrom Jason’s hands.

Then it’s Jason getting pistol whipped. It hurts like abitch.

“Red Hood!” Jasonhears Tim yell, but it’s hard to hear him. It sounds more like Jason’sunderwater than in an alley in the middle of Gotham.

He loses a chunk of time. Maybe a minute, he thinks. But when he looksup, Tim and Damian aren’t fighting anymore. Jason’s still on his feet, but he’dended up staggering into a wall. Tim is frozen, staff still at the ready, butmoving no closer than the five feet away from Dick he still is.

It’s a second later that Jason realizes why.

Dick has the gun aimed at Damian’s head.

Shit.

But Dick hasn’t pulled the trigger yet. Something’s wrong. Or maybesomething’s a little bit right. Dick, who’d been perfectly fine while Jason hadbeen fighting him besides the whole mind-control thing, is staring at Damianwith a scrunched up expression. There’s sweat collecting at Dick’s temple,obviously not from the fight, and Dick’s just standing there.

“Hey there, Dickie,” Jason calls softly, and the hand holding the guntrembles once. Jason’s right. Dick’s shaking it off. “Hey, Dickiebird.Look at me a second.”

Dick doesn’t move, but his eyes flit to meet Jason’s. Just a splitsecond before they’re back on Damian. Damian’s frozen, too. He looks—scared.Jason doesn’t focus on him.

“Whatever’s wrong with you, we can help,” Jason continues. “I knowyou don’t want to do any of this.”

“I—” Dick cuts off with a choked breath. He doesn’t speak again, butthere’s some awareness coming back to his eyes. They don’t look as glassy. He’scoming around.

“All you have to do is let go of the gun,” Jason says. “It’sprobably gonna be hard, but you’re Dick fucking Grayson. The golden boyhimself. Besides, if you don’t let go of the gun, you’re probably going to hurtsomeone, and I don’t think you want that.”

Dick swallows, but the trembling in his hand grows stronger, and Jasonrealizes that Dick is trying to force his fingers to relax. He’s trying to dropthe gun. But then his grip tightens, and Jason stiffens. Damian swallows.

But, of course, Dick’s not done. Instead of dropping the gun, Dick yellsout—maybe in frustration, maybe in anger. Jason’s not going to pretend to know—and throws thegun. At Jason.

Jason barely catches it. He doesn’t move beyond that, too entranced inwatching Tim finally move forward, pulling Damian back at the same time. Timflips over Dick’s head, and escrima sticks clash against bo staff. Dick’smoment of clarity is over.

But. But. It’s enough. Dick’sstill fucking fighting in his own head.

“Orphan,” Jason growls. “How close are you?”

“Five more minutes,” Cass saysquietly. “No more. No less.”

Damn. Jason’s not sure they havefive minutes.

“Stay here,” Jason orders Damian, who still looks sort of shell-shocked,and he charges in as Tim’s getting thrown back, bruise blooming on his face andpotential concussion be damned. After a few seconds of grappling, he manages tograb both of Dick’s hands in his, and he slams his head forward. The helmet resoundsagainst Dick’s forehead, and just as Jason lets go of his hands, Dick’sstumbling back.

He’s blinking, though. The glazed look in his eyes fading a bit again.

“Wha—?” Dick says. He’s trembling again, this time with his whole body. “Where—?”

Jason doesn’t waste any time. Instead, he grabs Dick while he’s confusedand starts to disarm him. Tim’s by his side soon, and the escrima sticks arebeing thrust away from Dick’s hands, and the suit’s defense mechanisms arebeing disabled.

Dick doesn’t really fight them anymore. He’s panting, eyes unfocused ashe tries to fight whatever is messing his head up.

“Fuck,” Dick is murmuring, and Jason’s sure if Dick had his hands freefrom Jason’s grip, that he’d be cradling his head. He looks like hell. “Fuck, fuck.I’m gonna be sick. I’m—”

Dick cuts himself off, breathing stuttering to a stop. Then his eyesroll up into his head, and he straight up drops.

Jason barely catches him.

“Call Batman!” Jason yells, just as Dick goes rigid, his whole bodyarching out of Jason’s arms. Jason struggles to keep his brother’s body immobile,and it’s only then he realizes how beat up Dick really is. There are bruises onhis neck and face, tears in the light Kevlar, and Dick’s arm—the one that hadheld the gun—is being held at the wrong angle.

Meaning, Dick had put up a hell of a fight before whoever had caught himwhammied him. Plus, all the injuries Tim, Damian, and Jason had given him.

“He’s on his way,” Tim says.

Jason grunts in acknowledgement. “Help me hold him down. Both of you.”

Dick’s clearly fighting some internal battle, and it takes all three of themto keep him from injuring himself further. Tim has to stop Dick from clawing athis face and eyes, and Damian has to hold down Dick’s legs, while Jason justkeeps Dick in his lap and prays that Batman gets here sooner rather than later,because this is one of the scariest things Jason’s experienced in his life.

And he’s died before.

But while this doesn’t exactly take the cake, Jason’s just at a loss asto what to do. All they can do is to wait until Bruce gets here with a car, sothey can take Dick back to the Cave and get him treated. Some major JusticeLeague treatment, if it’s too much for Leslie and Alfred.

The scariest part is when Dick goes limp.

“He’s breathing,” Tim whispers, mask lenses wide and hand on Dick’schest. “He’s still alive.”

Orphan drops down just as the Batmobile screeches to a halt in front ofthem.

Jason has only wanted Bruce more once in his life.

“Status,” Bruce barks the moment he’s out of the car, and he takes Dickfrom Jason’s tight grip as Tim explains. Jason sits on the ground and just letsBruce take away his older brother. Lets him whisk Nightwing into the car, andit’s only when Cass nudges him lightly that Jason finally makes himself move.

It’s going to be a long night, and Jason’s already ready to drop.

“Coming?” Cass wonders.

Jason swallows, stares at the car, and says, “Yeah. I’m coming.”

Dick somehow turns out okay.

Jason and his siblings spend the night in the Watchtower while Batgirlwatches over Gotham. Jason knows that Bruce will be back in the city the momenthe hears about trouble, but for now, Dick is the priority. Specifically,getting whatever is in Dick’s head controlling him, out.

It’s not easy. It takes the efforts of several Leaguers, but theyeventually give Dick the all clear.

He doesn’t wake up, though. Apparently, he’s exhausted from trying tofight the mind control. He sleeps through Tim’s crying, through Jason and Bruce’sfight, through his arm getting splinted, through Wally and Roy’s brief visit,through the transport home.

Jason’s about up to his earsin frustration, but he diligently sits by Dick’s bedside with Damian as Brucetypes away on the computer about some case. The case he’d been working on whileDick had been fighting his brothers.

“When is he going to wake up?” Damian asks quietly, catching Jason’sattention.

“Dunno,” Jason says, staring at Dick’s sleeping face. “Could probably beanother couple hours, if J’onn and Bruce are right.”

“What if—” Damian falters, and starts again, softer, more nervous, “Whatif Richard does not wake up?”

The typing behind them stops. Jason doesn’t let himself think about it.

“Well, since the Justice League gave him the all clear, he’s probablyfine,” Jason says, stamping down his own rising fear. “Dick’s probably justbeing overdramatic again.”

“Fuck you,” Dick croaks, his eyes blinking open. They’re still a littlefoggy, but he looks more coherent than he has all night.

Damian and Jason both jump to their feet, and there’s footsteps frombeyond the infirmary, signaling that Bruce is coming over, too. Tim would behere, too, if he hadn’t fallen asleep at the table again. Alfred had put hisfoot down, and Tim had gone to bed.

“Welcome to land of the living, Dickie,” Jason greets with a lazy grin. “Also,why the hell are you cursing me out?”

“I am the perfect amount of dramatic,” Dick whines, because he’s literallyfive years old. “Also, I feel like I’ve been run over with the Batmobile abouttwelve times, so you are obligated as my little brother to be nice to me.”

“Fat chance,” Jason snorts.

Damian ignores Jason, but what else is new. “You’re alright, Richard?”the kid asks, and again, he looks too young.

Dick gives Damian a reassuring smile, along with a weak laugh. “I’mokay, Dami. Little scrambled, but a good night’s sleep should fix me right up.”

Jason refrains from telling Dick that he’d already gotten a night’s sleep. Maybe it wasn’t good, but it was still longerthan Jason thinks any of them have ever slept while not sick.

“Good to see you awake, chum,” comes Bruce’s warm voice from behindJason. Dick’s gaze meets Bruce’s as he steps up next to Jason, and Jason canliterally see the way Dick relaxes. “Alfred will be down with food soon.”

Dick’s eyelids flutter as he sighs. “Wake me up when he gets here. I’mgonna take a nap.”

Jason blows out a large breath. “Geez, Dick. You literally just woke up.”

But Dick’s already out, breathing even. He looks a lot more peaceful thanbefore, though, so Jason doesn’t push the issue. Instead, he just plops backdown into his abandoned chair. Bruce stays, too, sitting on the side oppositeof Damian and Jason.

“He will be okay?” Damian asks again.

Jason stares at Dick’s face and realizes that he can’t answer. He couldlie, but he doesn’t know the answer. Doesn’t know the effects this wholeincident will bring short and long term. Doesn’t know how Dick’s mental statewill end up. Whether he’ll be able to work through it on his own if it turnsout he’s super messed up over it.

But Bruce saves him.

“He’ll be okay,” Bruce reassures them. There’s no smile on his face, butthe way he’s looking at both of them is probably the closest thing to a lovingsmile that they’re going to get. “If he needs help, we’ll help him. But,eventually, he’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” Jason says without really thinking. “What he said.”

Damian finally relents and sits back down in his chair. The three ofthem sit at Dick’s bedside for a long time, waiting for Dick to wake up again.

Because Bruce is right. Whether Dick’s okay at first or not, they’re allgoing to be here to help him if he needs it.

Surprisingly, even Jason.

#dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #dc #prompt #camryn writes #anonymous

253 notes · View notes

violetsmoak · 6 years ago

Text

maybe this is how it starts [1/?]

Cover & Disclaimer

Warning: In case it hasn’t been made clear, Dick Grayson is currently “dead” (since this takes place during some of the Spyral arc)

AN: I had way too much fun writing this. Dialogue is my happy place.

Maybe this is how it starts: with Jason lugging a bleeding and unconscious Red Robin up a rickety fire-escape, swearing every time the kid’s stupid fucking cape gets stuck on a metal edge.

Ivy’s latest creations—some kind of Venus Flytrap-vampire hybrids—have done a number on the guy. When Jason found him, his erstwhile replacement was suspended by a network of razor toothed vines doing their best to burrow through his suit’s Kevlar. Judging by the puddle of blood below him, they were pretty damn well succeeding.

As luck would have it, plants and vampires have the same aversion to fire. A brief stint of arson later (and a few gashes of his own to show for it), and Jason had Tim hoisted over his shoulder and Ivy knocked out. After a moment debating it, he’d grappled toward his nearest bolthole, the police sirens wailing in his wake.

It’s pure coincidence he found him. Jason’s only just gotten back to the city, taking a short break from intergalactic outlawing. As far as he knows, Tim’s been zipping around the world playing chicken with a bunch of ninjas and an irritating reporter. Not that they interact much beyond the occasional text or major crisis in Gotham under normal circumstances, of course. But Bruce’s demon spawn’s been back from the dead for two weeks now, and everyone’s been sticking closer to the home front since then.

Not too close though.

Jason’s still twitchy about spending long stretches of time at the manor. Since the demon brat’s resurrection gave him a bunch of friggen superpowers, Jason’s erred on the side of self-preservation. It’s not as fun teasing a ten-year-old when said ankle-biter can lift a car and crush the life out of you with it.

He’s pretty sure Tim has been steering clear of the manor for that same reason. And avoiding any parts of Gotham where Batman and Robin might be patrolling. Because of course Bruce is crazy enough to take a twerp with a hair-trigger temper on patrol.

Like it doesn’t matter he has the means of caving someone’s head in with a flick of his finger.

It’s why Jason took a detour near Robinson Park tonight (he avoids thinking about the fact it was part of Dick’s usual patrol route). It’s also why he happened to stumble upon Ivy about to turn Tim into plant food.

And really, Ivy? Vampire plants? How bored were you?

This safehouse is one of his smaller ones, the top floor of a three-story walk-up listed as unsafe and condemned for demolition. Jason’s been paying city officials off to ignore it for as long as he needs it; it’s not the fanciest or most upgraded spot, but it’s got running water and it came with the furniture. That’s about all he cares about when he’s tired and when someone unsavory comes looking for him in his usual digs.

This neighborhood is also in the anti-social and distrustful part of the Upper East Side where no questions someone in a scarlet helmet carrying what looks like a dead body up a fire-escape. Especially someone stumbling around and making as much noise as Jason is.

Vines must have been poisonous, too. No wonder the kid’s out cold, I feel like I was hit by a truck. And my arms going numb where they got me.

The door’s easy enough to get open, even one-handed, but he must stoop and contort to get himself and Tim inside considering all their armor. Blood smears across the handle and he makes a mental note to scrub everything down with bleach tomorrow.

Tim makes a discontent sound when his head knocks against the archway,

“Oh, yeah, like you felt that,” Jason mutters, kicking the door closed behind him and heading through the kitchen and down the narrow hall toward the living room and bedroom.

He bypasses the couch because stains are a bitch to get out of that upholstery and he doesn’t want the whole place smelling like stale blood forever after this. Bedsheets are easier to toss. There’s already a rubber sheet on the mattress here, legacy of several incidents where he’s shredded his stitches or didn’t bother changing after a particularly brutal fight.

“You’d better not have this thing fucking armed,” Jason tells Tim after he tugs off the cape and cowl and reaches for the tricked-out bandolier. “I mean it. If I get electrocuted, I’m letting you bleed out.”

“Awesome…bedside manner,” Tim mumbles. “Ten out of ten…would recommend.”

“Dick.”

“No…Dick’s dead…I’m Tim.”

Jason groans. “That was pitiful. Like, me levels of bad. How much blood have you lost?”

Nothing but a pained wheeze in response, and Jason rolls his eyes, continuing to strip the kid down to his underwear with rough efficiency.

Though Tim’s arms and legs are peppered with bruises and a few tiny gouges leaking blood, those injuries are superficial for the most part. It’s only the one gaping hole in his right side where one of the vines pierced through the armor; it hit nothing vital, but it’s bleeding like a son of a bitch.

Jason heads to the bathroom to grab the med kit (which is stocked better than most hospital supply closets) and injects them both with something to counteract the poison. It’s a broad-spectrum antitoxin, geared specifically toward Poison-Ivy related emergencies (and he really hopes she hasn’t gotten more creative than the whole vampire-plant hybrid thing) and sets to work stitching the rent flesh and muscle in Tim’s side back together. He takes longer than normal because his vision is blurring, and his fingers trembling.

Side-effect of the antitoxin.

Tim’s already passed out again, his chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm that assures Jason the kid’s not about to seize up and die. Still, he maneuvers him roughly into a recovery position and sticks a bucket beside the bed. It’s not unheard of for Ivy’s poisons to cause projectile vomiting.

“Don’t say I never do anything nice for you,” he grumbles, and takes the time to check for injuries of his own. The room sways, his eyes drooping, and he decides if he hasn’t bled out now, there can’t be anything too pressing.

Jason barely shrugs out of the bulkiest bits of his armor before plummeting face-first onto the bed beside Tim.

Horizontal is good; he likes being horizontal.

He doesn’t intend to stay there. Not being the same bloody mess as Tim, he’s okay with crashing on his couch because it’s an amazing couch. He might actually sleep better on it than the bed.

Except, sleep is a goddamn glorious temptress and sounds so much better than willing himself to trudge back across the apartment.

“You’d better not snore,” he tells Tim’s back, before pressing his face into the pillow and letting beautiful unconsciousness swim up around him.

There’s no transition from being asleep to being awake. One minute, Tim is swimming in the dreamless black of total oblivion, and the next he is staring up at an unfamiliar cracked ceiling.

His mouth has the rancid metallic taste it always gets when he’s been dosed with something—sedative or antitoxin, maybe—and there’s a body beside him. It’s a fact that should concern him—he’s woken next to unconscious or dead bodies more than he’d like to admit—but the unhurried, easy breathing suggests it is voluntary unconsciousness. Scent returns next, the air damp and cool, with a hint of mold mixing with odors of cordite, gun polish, drying blood and cigarette smoke.

Familiar cigarette smoke.

Jason, he decides, not even having to glance to his side to confirm his deduction.

Memories of the night before return, along with the itchy sting of new stitches in his skin and what appears to be a hundred paper cuts across the rest of his body. He can feel that especially well, since he has no clothing other than his underwear and the air is aggravating the broken skin.

This had better not be another Paris situation.

He’s not sure why that’s his first thought, because obviously he had to lose his uniform to be treated, but he doesn’t like the idea of being manhandled while mostly-naked. Not that there’s anything to worry about from Jason. Even if he wasn’t an ally-maybe-friend-not-quite-brother most of the time, the Red Hood has a very well-known attitude towards untoward behavior and minors.

Still going to check his phone for any blackmail material, though.

It’s what Dick would do in this situation.

Would have done.

Tim swallows the painful lump in his throat.

He continues to stare up at the ceiling for another few seconds, choosing to collect his thoughts rather than dwell on unpleasant realities. It’s easy to put together the chain of events from when he passed out in Ivy’s clutches to waking up in what is clearly a safehouse. It’s happened to all of them at some point, so there’s no associated panic. He is, however, curious about one thing that’s different from usual.

“Jason.”

The flatness of his tone marred by sleep, makes him sound groggier and less aware than he would like.

There is no response. He knows the older man is awake now though; it’s a universal talent of the Bat-trained, being able to rouse from a deep sleep to peak awareness at the drop of a hat.

“Jason,” he repeats, a little louder, still studying the cracks in the plaster that spread and merge with a spot of water-damage.

“Mmf…ckff…”

The words are muffled by a pillow, but understandable. He’s awake enough to formulate a response. Good, on to the next bit.

“Why am I in bed with you?”

And is there any way to make that question not sound disturbing?

“…No blood on the couch…” is the grumbled, surprisingly coherent response. “S’my favorite couch…”

Which makes a Jason-like amount of sense, even if it doesn’t outright answer what Tim is asking. He decides the conversation isn’t worth the trouble of dragging it out of the other man, mostly because he’s pretty sure a half-asleep Red Hood is just as hard to interrogate as an awake and alert Red Hood. Maybe harder, given the propensity for slurring his words.

And so, Tim eases himself gingerly upward into a sitting position, hissing when the movement tugs on the skin around the wound in his side. He examines it with a frown, noting that it’s far too close to his right kidney for his liking; he’ll have to take a break from patrol for the next few days to let it heal, and to make sure it doesn’t get infected.

Though, it won’t be due to subpar first aid, he allows, considering the neat row of stitches holding the still angry red wound closed. “At least your sewing has improved.”

“Screw you, my sewing’s awesome.” This time Jason definitely sounds more awake, and there’s a shift of the bed. “Martha Stewart’s got nothing on me. You snore, by the way.”

“I do not.”

Tim glances over at the other man, taking in his somewhat bloody appearance. He’s in a sweat-stained t-shirt, and there are a few slashes in his arms that are scabbing over; probably from the vines. He hasn’t shaved in a long while, and he’s got a bad case of helmet head—the red roots are coming out again. Coupled with the bloodshot eyes, he looks like someone who just got off a bender.

“You look like crap,” Tim tells him bluntly.

Jason rolls his eyes.

“Aw, thanks Timbers. And you’re welcome, by the way. You know, for the whole saving your life thing.”

Tim grits his teeth, knowing the slightly mocking tone is meant to get a rise out of him. Jason is nothing if not excellent at pushing people’s buttons.

“Thank you,” he says. Annoyance about this whole situation aside, he is grateful. He thinks a year ago Jason might have left him to him die. “I appreciate it. Really.”

“You’d better. I almost left you to strangle on the fire escape in that ridiculous cape of yours. You know one day that’s going to get stuck in a jet-engine or something right?”

“Bruce is the one that tackles runaway jets, not me.”

Jason makes a dismissive gesture.

“So, how many times is that now?” he asks then, reaching for the shabby night table beside him and finagling open a drawer. He pulls out a rumpled pack of cigarettes and a zippo. “I’m starting to wonder if I should be waiving the family discount for my services. I mean, it’s not like you can’t afford it.”

“What’s the point? You’ll have died of lung cancer before I have to make a payment.”

Jason makes a point of holding his gaze as he lights the cigarette between his lips, just to be contrary. Tim makes a face at the acrid waft of smoke that follows.

“And that’s my cue,” he sighs, swinging himself over the bed and promptly putting his foot down in a bright red garbage pail.

“Watch the bucket,” Jason tells him after the fact, mocking lilt in his voice.

Tim closes his eyes and silently counts to ten.

It could be worse. It could be Damian.

“Can you, for one second, not be a total jerk?” he asks conversationally, carefully stepping out of the bucket ad getting to his feet. “Where’s my suit?” Jason motions vaguely in the direction of the floor, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Thanks. That’s really helpful.”

“I aim to please.”

“Right.” Tim is the one to roll his eyes now. “At least tell me you have a coffeemaker in this place.”

He’s getting one of those headaches, and at least forty percent of it is not caused by Jason.

“That would be lying though and lying is wrong.” This is said with a shit-eating grin. “Your choices are Earl Grey or mineral water.”

Tim curls his lip. “You’re destroying the whole tough-guy image I have of you. What kind of vigilante doesn’t drink coffee?”

“The kind that likes having a sparkling white smile?”

“I don’t know if I can take you seriously anymore.”

“Yeah, well, I never took you seriously,” Jason retorts, flicking his cigarette into the nearby ashtray. “I’m taking you even less seriously since you’re standing there near-naked with rat’s nest hair and a hard-on.”

Which causes color to flood Tim’s cheeks and an unfortunate automatic flick of his eyes downward to see that, damn it, he’s right.

“Shut up!” he snaps, grabbing the nearest pillow to cover himself, and Jason guffaws. “It’s a normal biological reaction.”

“Still funny, though.”

Tim’s already stumbling from the bed in embarrassment, looking for the bathroom.

“Door on the right,” Jason calls after him, disgustingly amused. “Don’t get your stitches wet.” Just as Tim reaches it, he pitches his voice louder: “And if you need to rub one out in there, have the decency to rinse down the wall!”

Mortification hits Tim even harder than before.

“Fuck off Jason!”

He hears a roar of laughter from the bedroom.

I take back what I said about Damian.

TBC

Next Chapter

#jaytim #tim drake #jason todd #red hood #red robin #jaytim fanfic #jaytim fic #fanfiction #batman fanfiction #pre-slash #eventual slash #hurt/comfort #friends to lovers #bromance to romance #witty repartee #snark #jason is a little shit #i live for sarcastic tim

15 notes · View notes