#when before that I was actually pretty secure in my smalltalk abilities (which I told her! but she still insisted i need practice!)

[liebelesbe]

hrm i need a different therapist i think

[miss-choco-chips]

From the ground up.

The road to recovery is a bumpy one, but Tim’s (reluctantly) ready for the drive. He just hopes they won’t crash and burn.

-.-.-

Tim recovers after an injury. Mending his bonds with the bats its a plus. 

Or, Tim can’t exactly run away from a conversation, and they all take advantage of it.

( @animemangasoul asked for Tim actually needing his crutches. Of course my dumb ass  brain needed to take that idea and make a whole, emotional thing of it. Threw in some family bonding cause why not. 

Babe I did my best, and if it’s bad I’m blaming exams and life stress of me being unable to properly deliver what you hoped for)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It had been a stupid decision. Self sacrificing, reckless, idiotic. He doesn’t know Bruce’s disappointed eyes, Dick’s worried ones or Damian’s disdainful sneer to know it.

Still, it had been his choice, and he’s going to stand by it. Even if it means having Steph pose as Red Robin for some time. Even if he has to deal with M’gann’s guilty looks at failing to convince him to change places, to allow her to get shot while he took the criminal out, instead of what they actually did. Even if it means getting annoyed, nearly hysterical texts from basically everyone he knows, condemning him for his stupidity. 

The only ones he had explained himself to were Tam -who honestly deserves it after all the shit he was going to put her through, dealing with her recent trauma (courtesy of assassins) and the press going haywire at Tim’s broken engagement and then almost fatal injury-, Steph (who was going to be changing between Batgirl and Red Robin for some time to keep the whole charade up and Vale off their track) and M’gann herself, who had needed some serious explanation before she conceded to Tim getting shot in front of her for appearances sake.

The rest of the world? They could rot in curiosity, for all he cared. Bruce had probably extrapolated enough from his succinct explanation about Vicky to understand the whole plan. Dick was probably dying to know, but with their relationship strained as it was wouldn't dare to ask. Damian… who know how the devil’s mind works. Alfred was already used to the Bat’s collective shit, and would probably just sigh and make chicken soup for him.

What he wasn’t cool about was being forced to have his recovery period in the Manor. He had a perfectly funcional place for himself, thank you very much, and could wobble around in his crutches from bedroom to kitchen to his small, personal cave, no problem. But Bruce had been unmoving in his decision, going as far to physically carry Tim in his arms, like a toddler, from the hospital steps to the car. It had been humiliating, but he couldn't exactly wiggle free in front of all the reporters, could he? How to explain a nerve strike to his dad, and his own ability to withstand the pain of falling back to his feet?

(Because he totally could stand the pain. He had done it in the dessert with a ruptured spleen, he could deal with a slightly damaged spine)

He was going to have his revenge though. As soon as he was able to move freely without clenching his teeth from the pain.

He’s being deposited on the bed, when he notices Damian lingering around the door. He was looking at Bruce, a little unsure, more than a bit of envy at the care which his father bestowed on Tim. Before, those jealous eyes would have made him weary of an attack. Now, with Bruce and Dick having forced a promise of civility from the kid, he was still on guard but not ready to flee at any given second. Perpetually tensing would only dampen his recovery, after all.

It was still something to think of. The lack of fire in his eyes. He… looked like a kid. Not as much a demon as he had been when Tim went away.

Well. Only time would tell if he had truly changed.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Bruce had ordered bed rest. No work, detective or CEO. Nothing more straining (for the mind or body) than watching a movie. Eating and sleeping were his only allowed activities. Even reading was to be moderated, because Tim was known to lose himself in any topic that caught his fancy and forget everything else. 

Tim had listened to his reasoning, nodding along and adding his own helpful insight, smiling when his head was patted in response to his obedience. Waved cheerfully as Bruce left, made smalltalk with Dick when he visited hi room before heading out for patrol (theirs was a talk that he wasn’t really looking forward but knew he wouldn't be escaping for long), thanked Alfred for the food and ate half of it under his watchful eye. Even took the medicine with just mild complains.

The perfect picture of innocence and submission. Right until the butler went to the Cave to man the comms.

Then all bets were off.

Moving his bed out of the way to get the laptop hidden below the loose tile under it was impossible in his current condition, but thankfully he had been able to talk Bruce into letting him keep his phone, and his briefcase wasn’t too far to not be able to make the walk without crutches (painful as it was).

Before an hour had passed, he had the wall by his bed covered with post it notes, connected by red sting and pins here and there. A pretty evidence board, even with the lacking resources. Perrrfect for a little Tim-Time, a small bit of detective work.

Bruce would certainly bitch about him moving around so much, taping pieces of information or moving the string around, but, well. What Bruce didn’t knew…

-I thought Father ordered bed rest.

The voice, completely unexpected (he had either been in too deep thought, or the brat was getting better at stealth), made him jump so high and sudden he almost pulled his stitches. The medication, fading with each hour, had weaned enough he felt every bit of tissue, still torn from the shot, straining under the move.

It resulted in the longest, filthiest string of curses his sharp mind could come up with, partnered with gasps and a lot of hair pulling in a instinctual attempt to redirect the pain from his torso to somewhere less dire.

-No one taught you to knock and not to startle convalescent people, brat? -he spats between clenched teeth, squinting through barely-opened eyes to glare at him- And why aren’t you patrolling? 

The kid was on pijamas. Tim can’t remember the last time he saw him unarmed. Though he probably still had at least a dagger on himself that he couldn't see.

Bruce and Dick’s promise echoed in his mind, but just in case, he let one of his arms go around his middle, acting as if trying to soothe his hurt (okay, maybe it wasn’t all an act) while he palmed the three Red Robin pallets he had secured between his bandages earlier.

Damian scoffed and approached him, careful to keep a healthy distance but enough so he could properly appreciate Tim’s wall.

-Apparently, Father knows better than to trust you to behave, and he came up with a schedule to keep an eye on you. For what reason, it escapes me. Your death could only serve as a stress relief for everyone, specially if it was caused by your own stupidity. And you didn’t answer my question.

A large part of him wanted to tell him to fuck off. An even larger reminded him he was barely armed, heavily incapacitated, and that Damian had actually answered him first, so, technically, it was fair to do the same.

He sighs and leans back into the pillows, shoulder on the wall crumpling the photo of his number three suspect.

-Whatever. Bruce clearly bought when I said I’d act the part, otherwise he would have cleaned my room of anything useful. You’re probably here because paranoia is too deeply ingrained in the man, or he thinks you could use a rest too. Or both. 

Probably both, Tim thinks. He’s ready for Damian’s sneer and a declaration that he ‘didn’t need a rest’, most likely paired with an insult. 

Instead, Damian surprises him by tilting his head and looking at him with something akin to curiosity.

-You lied to Father? And he… believed you?

Feeling his petty bitch inside stirring, he smirked- What, like it’s hard?

It actually was, it required a hell of a mental preparation and careful planning. But once you learned how to pull it off and took care to polish it, it was a often used weapon.

Damian wouldn't let any positive emotion towards Tim willingly show on his face, so the amaze was most likely honest. It was… a little humbling, truth be told. 

-Tell you what -he decides, pulling his best negotiator voice, to cut the kid some slack-, you keep this little naughtiness -a nod towards the wall- between us and help me hide all proof before B comes back, and I give you some  pointers in how to lie to Batman. 

Damian seems truly torn. On one hand, Tim can guess, it's the mission his father entrusted him, and his deeply ingrained disdain to anything Tim proposed. On the other, the temptation of such a useful tactic, and the fact that he didn’t really care for Tim’s wellbeing enough to stop him from doing his thing.

-What are you working on?- he asked, likely gaining time while he mulled his options.

-Cold cases -a shrug-. It’s just a pastime of mine. I dig into Bruce’s old files, search for anything he couldn't solve, and work on it until I do. It’s really good for self esteem, and it helps a lot of people who never got closure for whatever it happened to them. 

-Father will know you disobeyed if you solve it.

-I’ll wait until he gives me permission for some light work, and then dump all my worked out cases on him at the same time.

There’s something akin to wonder fighting to make itself known above Damian’s facade of indifference.

-Can you actually solve something Father himself couldn't?

-Done it before, will do it again. What will it be, Damian? Cause if you decide to snitch on me after all, then kindly leave me to this until then. I’m about to crack this, and if its going to be the last one I’m able to work on, I’d hate to leave it halfway.

A few seconds go by, before Damian takes the last step and carefully perches at the end of the bed, eyes solely on the wall.

-I’d prefer to aid in solving this. If it’s true this is something not even the Batman could do… it’d be highly rewarding to work on it. You can teach me the arts of lying another day.

Shocked it actually worked, Tim did his best to swiftly recover. Not one to look at a gift horse in the mouth, he kept his doubts in check to dwell on them later and went back to his wall. 

Having Damian around was surprisingly useful. He could just lay there, in his pillows, and direct the brat through moving the string and adding post it notes here and there, until the whole thing mapped out in front of them, the answer staring at them as clear as the quickly approaching day. 

Satisfaction strong enough to smile despite the ever growing pain in his side, he gave into the urge to give a small pat to Damian’s shoulder before telling him to help take it all down, least Bruce came from patrol and found them on the act. High on the success and more than a little stunned about it, the younger vigilante actually complied, even going as far as to put all their mess back in Tim’s briefcase and bringing him a glass of water to wash down his meds with.

When Batman came to check on his middle son after patro, Nightwing on his shadow, they were regaled with the shocking, unbelievable sight of Damian sleeping, sitting on the ground with the back of his head resting on Tim’s bed, while the bedridden boy himself snored, a hand on top of the smaller kid’s head.

The picture Dick took of them was gonna be his most treasured possession forever.

-.-.-.-.-

-And this will make me a better detective? -questioned Damian, frown  scrunching his nose in a way that Tim couldn't help but think of as adorable. Or as adorable as it could be, in a hell spawn. Fuck, Dick was rubbing off on him.

-It helped me -he shrugs, eyes on his own screen as he makes the proper adjustments-. Long live the queen is a good place to start. You need to consider both the character’s mood when selecting the week’s classes, and the goal you aspire towards. All the while dodging assassinations attempts, commoners uprisings or noble plots depending on the choices you make, and… other stuff. And ruling a country. And getting engaged. It’s a lot of juggling, keeping in mind which skills you need for which event, and it forces you to consider how the character is doing emotionally, something you could seriously use to learn. Want me to give you a run through?

-No need -he scoffed, clicking in the start game option, dubiously reading the introduction-. It seems easy enough.

Tim just smiled, eerie, from his place behind him. 

Damian was sitting in the floor by his bed, back resting against it. The position, if slightly uncomfortable (Drake wasn’t an enemy any longer, if Grayson was to be believed, and after the other night’s joint work he agreed to help train Damian in mind schemes, but he wasn’t a complete ally either… and having such a grey person with such a clear shot at his neck made the assassin in him nervous), was the best way for Drake to watch his progress in this… game, while keeping his wound unbothered. It also kept Damian from ‘sneaking a peek’ at his own screen and ‘cheating at the game’, as he had said. Not that he planned on it, but-- well, all resources, no matter how dirty, were still fair game in the arts of war, as far as he was concerned.

Not that Damian needed the help. This was a silly game. He would probably beat this first try, high score even. Really, the main screen image had a teenager dressed in a frilly, pink, magical girl outfit. How hard could this be?

---

-My cousin just got bitten by a snake. Will she die?

-Wouldn’t you like to know, demon child. You’ll figure it out later in the game. Just keep going.

---

-Why do I keep failing this skill-checks? What am I missing? Is it even relevant? I just passed one that was completely useless about world history, but somehow missed the one that would have helped me keep this stupid girl from getting betrothed. 

-If it was relevant, you’ll know it when, not if, when it kills you.

-...I should save my game here.

-With these shitty skills you’ve built? Sure, if you want to, but at this point you’ll die no matter what.

---

-Is this woman trustworthy? Our father said it was her fault mother died, but she said…

-Hmm. I’m not giving you spoilers. Tell me when you figure it out, one way or the other.

-Well, at least we have our aunt, uncle and cousins. Surely they are on our side, as our family.

-...

-Drake, why are you laughing? 

-...

-Stop it! You are not scaring me!

---

-Look, I said I was not going to help you… but you can’t keep pissing everyone off, baby bat. You’ll never survive until coronation if you do.

-Those people deserved to get executed.

-...some of them, maybe, but you failed a lot of skill checks there, so you don’t have all the facts. Also, if you are gonna fuck with people, at least choose if you are doing it with nobles or peasants. Both of them is taking it a bit too far.

-I am the Queen. Neither would dare oppose me. I will have their heads if they do!

-..okay then. Let the record say I tried.

---

-Is this birthday party important?

-Uhm… Kinda. Your friend just turned of age, which means she gets to inherit control of her lands. There’s also a whole new route if you do go to the party, if you have the necessary abilities for it.

Tim saw the back of Damian’s head bob as he nodded. He gave it a few minutes. Then-

-YOU DIDN’T TELL ME I WOULD DIE ON MY WAY THERE!

-I did say you needed specific skills. Both for the party itself, and to get there.

He was ready for the unholy sound that escaped from Damian’s mouth, finger quickly taping at his phone to record it. That treasure was going to be his new ringtone. It would help with the pain, too. Happiness therapy or something like that, to distract the mind from the hurt. 

---

-Hey, Dami? I’m gonna go get ready for patrol. Are you com/?

-NO -he snapped, neck almost breaking from how quickly he raised his head to look at Dick at the door. Eyes red from staring at the screen for so long, hair a mess after messing it up in incalculable desperation- I’m about to win!  This time, my strategy won’t fail!

Tim, game already finished and now watching a movie (at least until Bruce and Dick left and he could go back to coding a new security system that even Babs wouldn't be able to crack)  tilted his head, examining his brother’s open game.  Week 30, no medicine knowledge, no intrigue, little to no dog training, no composure and not enough divination...yeah, Damian was gonna die again. It was the first time he had lived long enough to reach the tournament, and subsequently, the poisoned chocolates. 

Should he tell Damian? On one hand, the frustration, clear in his face, would tear him apart after yet another failure. But… this was the most fun he had in a long time, and the longest they had gone without either insulting the other. 

-Okay then -mumbled Dick under his breath, smartly retreating out of the room.

Tim waited a few beats- Let me know if you need help. 

-Leave me alone Drake! As if I’d lower myself to such tricks! The victory won’t be truly mine unless I win by my own merits!

Still at the door, feeling both a little ignored and elated at his brothers getting along so nicely, Dick decided to slowly exit the place, least Damian truly snapped and threw a dagger or something at his head.

---

The downside of the pain meds was how drowsy they made him. He didn’t know quite what to do with himself, now that the bags under his eyes were so close to disappearing. He had come so used to them… maybe he’d need to start investing in eyeliner and fake them.

Blinking himself awake, he moved a bit to look at the clock on his bedside table and immediately flinched. He kept forgetting the wound, and then moved and was painfully reminded.

A hand appeared out of nowhere, holding a familiar pill. He took it without prompting, accepting then the glass of water.

-Don’t think too much of this, Drake. I’m merely assisting Pennyworth. Since I’m already here working on my progress, I offered to make sure you don’t forgo your medicine. Again.

The disdainful voice, probably masking the smallest shadow of care, had come familiar enough in the last couple of days that he knew even without opening his eyes who it was. The question of what the hell was he still doing here, after spending the entire day at Tim’s side, remained.

-Damian? Are you still playing?

The kid seemed uncomfortable.

-The idiotic Queen wouldn't stop dying. It’s against my every principle to give up before achieving my goal, so I had to stay here until I passed this… training of yours.

Tim had to bit his check to keep from smiling. Damian was kinda decent at it, but the boy who lied to Batman wasn’t so easily fooled by a half assed attempt. The brat had actually stayed so he could make sure Tim didn’t forget his pain meds and woke the whole manor up with his groans later. 

-Well, as your teacher for this particular test, I’m telling you to call it a day. Go to sleep and come back tomorrow with fresh mind and eyes.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rehab… sucked. There was no way around it. Sure, he could go the nice, easy way, give himself enough time to heal before starting on the recovery path. But vigilantes didn’t have the luxury of nice, and he needed to be functional again asap. Steph was running herself ragged, working on keeping Tim’s identity on the streets alive and her own territory safe, and there was a limit on how much Tam could take over in WE before collapsing.

Bruce hadn’t been happy about his decision of starting physical therapy while his stitches were still there, but when was he, ever? And the doctors had said he could do it as long as he was careful about it, now that the swelling in his back had disappeared, so he couldn't use them as counterpoints. There was also the nice plus of being emancipated, which made his medical decisions his own, and not even Bruce could just breeze by and ignore them.

Sweet, sweet independence.

Too bad he forgot a tiny detail: how fucking painful it was.

He could move around now, using the crutches, and he had a series of exercises his doc gave him to help regain movement, which he followed like religious doctrine. Two reps before lunch, one before bed. Okay, the physical therapist had said only do one per day, but he couldn't take into account Tim’s vigilante resistance and strength, so he felt safe in his small expansion of the activities.

That was, until the sharp pain on his side made him lose balance during his last rep and trip over his crutches.

A strong arm around his upper chest stopped his fall to the ground, and took the air off his lungs. It didn’t touch his wound, though, which… nice.

-If you're falling jus’ from walking, maybe you're not as ‘recovered’ as I heard.

-Ja...son -he coughs, hand (with the crutch secured to him by nice straps, courtesy of WE’s medical division) raising up to hold Jason’s arm for support. The other man shifted, coming closer, shouldering his weight without a word, his other hand going around his waist, under the wound, to help him along- This… but a scratch.

-Quoting “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” at me won’t keep you out of trouble, little shit. C’mon, I’ll take you back to your room. Which way?

Pointing him in the right direction, Tim took advantage of their closeness to examine the other man.

They weren’t on ‘kill on sight’ terms any longer, but Tim wouldn’t exactly call the man when in a pinch. What was he even doing here? He was fairly sure he and Brucer were still at that ‘mindless anger/deeply rooted guilt’ stage of their relationship, and his book club meetings with Alfred were wednesday afternoons, not friday evenings…

-Stop thinking so much, you’ll strain som’ing.

-I’m not Dick -he fires back almost in instinct, earning a deep chuckle in turn. He shifts a little, looking for a position where his trembling arms wouldn't make the crutches shake quiet so much. If Jason saw his struggle, he respected him enough to say shit about it.

-Speaking of, how’s it going with him?

-I have no idea what you’re talking about. We are fine.

-Yeah, right. And he’s sitting out of helping you with rehab because he suddenly lost one of his hundred hearts and it’s just your luck it was the one he had for you?

-Fuck… -a misstep, and his arms automatically shift to compensate, keeping him standing but paying it in pain when the movement tugs at his side. Jason tightens his grip, an unvoiced promise to keep it from happening again- you.

-Really threatening, with all the gasping and whining. 

-Shut up. Why would we be at odds?

There’s a minute of silence as one of Jason’s hands leave him long enough to open the door to his bedroom.

-I’m jus’ saying -he shrugs as he helps Tim inside and towards his bed-, I know a discarded Robin when I see one.

He’s not sure if the pained sound comes from the jostling as he’s carefully lowered into his pillows, or the strike to his most exposed nerve.

-It was… a tough situation. Dick didn’t have much choice. I -it hurts to say- I get it. 

It had also been right, by Damian. Tim can see it, in the remarkably diminished killer intent he could feel from the kid, and his actual willingness at keeping Tim company and even helping him around when needed.

Even if it was the worst for him, at least one of the two fucked up kids under Dick’s watch had benefited from it. It was… it was good enough. It had to be. Tim was fine, after all.

Jason looks at him for a moment, waiting until the pain yields a bit and he can breath again. Then, taking a seat by his feet, he lets his eyes stray to the photographs mounted on the walls, avoiding Tim’s scrutinizing gaze.

-Even if it makes logical sense, it still hurts. I know how it is.

There’s… not really something he can counter. He moves a bit to find position easier on his side, hiding the nervous twitch with the action.

-I never blamed you for it -he feels compelled to add. Jason winces, as if struck. He’s still not looking at him.

-And the brat’ll probably be the same with you, someday. Means shit now, but… small comforts.

-I guess so… I mean, we’re kinda getting along, now that he can’t try to kill me since I’m convalescente and I’m bored enough to contribute to his training.

Jason seems pained again. Tim is annoyed by how confusing this entire situation is.

-Y’er a good predecessor. He’ll/

-What is this all about? -he cuts, unable to stop himself. This attempt at deep conversation is well and good, but it’s coming out of nowhere and Tim never pictured Jason as one to go around randomly offering wisdom- Why are you here, and with me of all people?

There was a shadow of something passing through his face, before it transformed into the physical intonation of the ‘Fair enough’ feeling. 

-I heard what happened from blondie while she was takin’ care of soom goons on y’er part of town. And… well, I have some experience on getting back on your feet after a bad injury, just in the wake of loosing Robin. Figured you’d be over doing it and getting yourself hurt worse.

It… was a fair assessment of what he was doing, actually. And if there was anyone he could speak about this… it’d be Jason.

-There’s so much I have to do -he sighs, sagging into his bed, relaxing for the first time when in a room with his childhood idol-, and Steph can’t keep running all my cases for me. I keep solving them, but I need groundwork done and she has already so much on her plate by patrolling my side of town, I just… I can’t let people die because I couldn't spy on an arms deal and tore it apart before the guns made their way to the streets. 

Jason looked at him again, his emotions in check, and he seemed to think about it for a minute, before humming.

-What about this? You take it slow and easy with the physical therapy, and I help with that stuff. My territory is somewhat in order, or as much as you can have it in this hellhole of a city, so I have plenty of free time, and… I could use the atonement. After, you know, trying to kill you so many times.

It…was unexpected. Jason, helping him? In exchange of Tim’s wellbeing? It seemed absurd beyond belief, but there was no mistaking the earnestness on his face.

And, well, fuck it. Tim was somehow on speaking terms with one of his formers almost-assassins, what was one more?

...it would also be so worth it, once Dick knew. Tim could already picture his jealousy, seeing the two brothers he was at odds or uncomfortable with, speaking at each other and working together.

And having Jason at his side would keep Bruce from checking on him so often. Two birds, one crowbar. 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

This was shaping up to be the strangest week of his life. Had he entered the twilight zone?

He had gotten kinda used to Damian popping into his room before patrol, or during the nights B forced him to stay at home. He’d work Damian through one of the easiest cold cases, or aid him in his never ending game of Long Live the Queen (he was getting really close to a happy ending, though). In exchange, the kid would keep his work a secret, and help him move around if the pain was too strong, or if he wanted a glass of water and didn’t feel like getting his crutches out for the small trip to the bathroom.

Also, it was somewhat normal to have Jason swing by (morning or mid afternoon, while the vigilantes of the manor slept off their patrol), some case files in hand, informing him about a new development in whatever Tim had asked him to research. Alfred, highly approving of their newfound camaraderie, would insist Jason stayed for tea, and the three of them would dwell into a very satisfying bitch fest, with Bruce as their source material.

What he wasn’t ready for, was having both of them around at the same time.

-Drake, you need to stop lazing around and do your exercises! Father and the doctors said…!

-Chill out, Demon, he did ‘em already. Shouldn't be doin more reps than the doc said, y’know?

Acting like his nurses.

-And how do I know you’re not lying to me, Todd? Hurting Timothy could only benefit you!

-...In literally which way? He’s the ONE brother I like! And like you are any better, Mr slashed zip line.

-Who told you about/? No matter. That was before we became allies. You, on the other hand!

Had he stumbled into a different universe? It wouldn't be the first time. Just in case, he sent Bart, his time/multiverse travel expert, a quick text.

-Hey guys, what’s all this noise abou/ Damian! Drop the knife!

Oh yeah. Just what Tim needed; the awkwardness that seemed to appear whenever he and Dick were in a room together. Maybe it was time to book it back to his room.

-Grayson! Give it back, I need to/!

-Disembowel Jay? I don’t think so.

-Fuck off Dickiebird, I don’t need your protection. 

Decision made, Tim slowly moved his crutches, walking backwards without taking his eyes from the three vigilantes. If he was really, really quiet...

-I know, just/ Wait. Is that a gun?

-Well, it’s not like I’m happy to see yar ugly face.

-Excuse you?!... Here, Dami. You can have it back.

-FUCK!

-DIE!

-TIM!

The last scream came from Dick, who looked in his direction just in time to catch the moment Tim’s crutch slipped in the carpet. As it was, he was the only one who could react fast enough to prevent a painful, possibly very bad for his injury fall.

It also meant Tim was being cradled like a baby. Which- no.

The other two fell silent for  long minute, while their minds caught up to Tim’s almost accident. Then, apparently seeing him safe in Dick’s arms, they turned to fight again. Apparently, blaming the other for Tim’s misfortune. Which… okay maybe he’d been distracted watching them go at it when he tripped, but still!

-I’ll just… take him upstairs -informed them Dick, though it sounded almost like a question. Probably wondering their ability to keep the discussion verbal.

Used to the nagging, both of them raised their hands, showing them empty (which, truly, meant little in the face of two of the most weapon-inclined people he knew), without pausing their rapidly escalating exchange. 

Halfway up the stairs, he stopped wallowing in self pity about his still recovering body to remember that, for the first time in a helluva long time, he’d be alone with Dick. Which translated in Talk Time. Fuck.

By the time they reached his door, he had ready no less than six deflections and twenty conversation topics which avoided mention of all their baggage and could potentially satisfy Dick’s need for socializing with a brother.

-Wipe that look off your face, Baby Bird. You won’t be orchestrating this chat -the older hero informed him, casually as one can be, kicking the door closed behind him and softly lowering Tim on his bed. He was having serious Deja Vu’s from his first encounter with Jason-. We are going to sit in your room. We are going to hear each other out. I’m going to apologize for hurting you and give you insight on the why I acted the way I did. You’ll decide whether or not you’re ready for forgiving me. We’ll bond. Maybe cry. There’ll definetly be hugs involved -that shouldn’t sound like a threat, why did it sound like a threat, Tim felt threatened-, that’s non negotiable, don’t even try to put the ‘tender wounds’ card on me ‘cause I won’t buy it. And…

Dick’s stern voice wavered, arms still around Tim shoulders even when it was clear he didn’t need his support to sit in the bed.

-And we’ll be brothers again.

The tiny, broken sound mid-sentence was what got Tim. 

Hand a little shaky, scared for his own heart but unwilling to let the older boy (his hero and family for so long) keep hurting, he touched Dick’s cheek and smiled. Tentatively, because they were on unstable ground here, but hopeful, because god did he miss his brother.

-We never stopped being that, idiot.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was after dinner, when Bruce approached him in silence. Tim had been making his slow  but steady way to the den, where Dick had roped them all into watching a movie together. He could hear the sounds of Jason and Damian roughosing (okay, Jason was; the brat probably believed the whole affair to be a fight to the death for honor or something like that) and Dick’s chirpy voice as he ranted about The Greatest Showman from the hall.

Bruce had been making the trip by his side, hand hovering close to Tim’s elbow, in case the crutches failed him or he tripped. Tim wanted to tell him it wouldn't happen, but… he’d missed his dad’s attention a little too much to complain about independency now.

-How’s the recovery going, son?

He stopped in the door leading to where his brothers waited, turning to face  Bruce with an arched eyebrow.

-You know that better than me, Mr I’ve broken every bone in my body at some point. Also I’m dead sure you hacked my medical files and know every little detail my physical therapist wrote by heart. You can probably recite them to me verbatim.

-I didn’t mean the physical recovery. The shot in your side is not the only wound you’re carrying right now

Silence, the only noise coming from inside the room and Tim’s heavy breathing. Unable to refrain himself, he risks a glance at the tangle of limbs rolling around in the carpet (Dick’s tactic to stop the fight was to hug them into submission) and lets the tentative, frail smile tug at his lips.

-Honestly, B… That one is healing nicely. There’ll be scars but… That’ proof of what we overcame. Right?

Bruce’s smile looked kinda uncomfortable in that stony face of his, but warm all the same. His hand left Tim’s arm to tussle his hair a bit, careful to not unbalance him.

-When did you became the wisest of my children?

A crash came from inside the room, startling them both.

-TODD YOU…!

-DAMIAN NO! JASON PUT DOWN THE CHAIR! DON’T MAKE ME CALL ALFRED!

-C’ME AT ME, MIDGET!

-ALFIEEEE!!!

-Bruce…

-Yes?

-I’m the only wise child you have.

[logh-icebergs]

Episode 25: The Day Before Destiny

September 797/488. Kircheis and Reinhard reunite, and promptly get into a terrible argument over the finer points of the Westerland massacre. Later, Oberstein again pressures Reinhard to take away Kircheis’s special privileges and Reinhard, again, refuses—but by the time the admiralty convenes a day later, Kircheis, usually the only one allowed a firearm during meetings, gets his taken away at the door by security. During the meeting, Reinhard takes mercy on the previously nobles-aligned Fahrenheit and gives him a job. Ansbach then arrives rolling in a casket containing Braunschweig’s corpse, ostensibly a gift symbolizing his submission to Reinhard; in actuality a way of smuggling a firearm into the room—a firearm that Ansbach removes (ew ew ew) from Braunschweig’s body and aims directly at Reinhard. To be continued...

Yet another note about redraws

Before I get into the meat of this post, I want to address the fact that episodes 25 and 26, much to their detriment, are almost entirely redrawn. And, as I warned would happen occasionally, the redrawn scenes are so dramatically different from their corresponding original LD versions that I’ll be focusing my analysis exclusively on the latter. That means some of my interpretations of body language and facial expressions might be at odds with the version you watched, unless you’re fortunate and/or tenacious enough to have found your own copies of the LD. But worry not! I’ll be providing you with so many visual aids you’ll FEEL like you watched the LD version yourself. The best parts anyway. Okay *takes a deep breath* let’s do this.

Reinhard and Kircheis

In a dramatic departure from their reunion in episode 16, here we see Reinhard putting out his hand and actually having to wait for Kircheis to take it. The magnetic force that has always compelled Kircheis to be as close to Reinhard as physically possible seems, in their months apart, to have dulled.

In the latter half of episode 25, well after most of what I’m about to talk about has happened, Kircheis has yet another flashback about his relationship with Reinhard, only this time it’s made up entirely of footage (five whole minutes of it!) that we’ve already seen. Season one has, on the Empire side, been in many ways the story of Reinhard and Kircheis as a couple, and in episode 25, the tension that has been mounting between them ever since Reinhard hired Oberstein back in episode 8 finally comes to a head. As Kircheis’s recap-flashback reminds us, though, there’s a lot more to Reinhard and Kircheis than the stresses of the past year-and-change—and that’s what Kircheis thinks about as he considers whether or not their relationship has finally suffered irreparable damage.

But first things first: As soon as Kircheis arrives at Geiersburg, Reinhard, who hasn’t seen him since episode 19 (about five in-universe months ago), whisks him away to his quarters to, er, catch up.

This falsely cheery attempt at smalltalk by Reinhard is excruciating to watch, and it’s made even worse by Kircheis’s sudden deployment of that favorite phrase of relationship-enders the world over: “We have to talk.”

Honestly I’m not sure what Reinhard expected; maybe he thought if he just steered conversation away from the Westerland-sized elephant in the room, he could actually avoid having to talk about it. In any case, Kircheis wastes no time bringing it up, foiling that plan immediately. And hey, remember when I said Westerland would be on the exam? Well, it’s exam time!

Reinhard’s nonchalant facade shatters the moment Kircheis asks him directly about the Westerland massacre: Above, he keeps his back turned to Kircheis for as long as is feasible, then studiously averts his eyes from Kircheis’s face as he sits down across from him. But why is Reinhard acting like someone who has committed a crime, despite having done no such thing? Well, just because Reinhard isn’t guilty of what Kircheis is questioning him about doesn’t mean he isn’t experiencing feelings of guilt: First of all, it was his disastrous hiring decision that did, in fact, result in the Westerland massacre being carried out. And also, maybe more importantly in this moment, he’s about to lie right to Kircheis’s face.

As I discussed at length in my episode 23 post, Reinhard has, somewhat under duress, arranged it so that he and Oberstein are the only people who know that the decision to allow and record the Westerland attack was made without Reinhard’s consent or knowledge. This was partly to protect himself from (potential) accusations of complicity and incompetence, but mostly to protect his pride from the fact that he was wrong about his ability to keep Oberstein in check.

I wish I could write about Reinhard changing his mind and admitting to Kircheis that he fucked up, and asking him for help, but of course that isn’t what happens: Kircheis asks Reinhard point blank if he allowed the Westerland attack to take place and be recorded for the sake of propaganda, and Reinhard, lying through his teeth, says he did.

This visual representation of, well, Kircheis’s heart breaking is one of my favorite pieces of animation in this episode: His eyes visibly fill with tears, then he looks down as far as possible without actually closing his eyes, and shakes his head with such weight that the rest of his body moves with it. The redrawn version (above) makes Kircheis look like he’s chastising Reinhard rather than experiencing soul-crushing disappointment, and is therefore vastly inferior.

That Reinhard is lying complicates this scene a great deal, because his frustration with the lecture that follows can at least partially be attributed to his own awareness of everything Kircheis is pointing out—and the fact that he can’t very well explain that yes, he knows all this and yes, that’s why he didn’t actually do the thing that he just told Kircheis he did.

In light of Reinhard and Kircheis’s episode 16 argument, which ended harmoniously and with the world’s softest Reinhard eyes of all time, it’s worth emphasizing that Reinhard doesn’t actually have a problem with Kircheis calling him on his shit. The difference between episode 16 and 25’s arguments—besides the obvious, uh, gap in harm between punishing Bittenfeld and murdering two million people—is that in episode 16, Reinhard actually did need to be convinced of Kircheis’s point of view. In episode 25, Reinhard is basically being forced to listen to Kircheis unwittingly give a lecture to a version of him from a different timeline, in which he chose to go along with Oberstein’s plan.

Reinhard finds this understandably infuriating, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that he brought it on himself, which brings me to another difference between this fight and the one in episode 16:

Back in episode 16, Kircheis was filled in on all the details of Reinhard’s predicament, and could therefore advise him appropriately, up to and including this key moment when he pinpoints the true object of Reinhard’s anger: himself. In episode 25, Kircheis’s ability to help Reinhard come to the identical conclusion has been hobbled by Reinhard’s unwillingness to be truthful with him.

Because of course the person Reinhard is angriest at, post-Westerland, is himself: He’s the one who hired Oberstein; he’s the one who let Oberstein walk all over him; he’s the one who has made it so Kircheis, the closest person in the world to him, thinks he allowed two million innocent people to be killed for political expedience. And just like in episode 16 when Reinhard would have taken out his self-directed anger on Bittenfeld if Kircheis hadn’t talked him through his emotions, episode 25 finds Reinhard instinctively aiming his self-loathing outwards—but this time not only does Kircheis not know enough to try and help, he’s also the target.

Hmmm, that reflection on Reinhard’s hand almost looks like something... What could it be representing... I’ll have to think about it.

Unable to argue against Kircheis’s logic (because he agrees with it), and unwilling to back down, Reinhard has given himself no choice but to order Kircheis to stop talking, which he does harshly enough that they’re both taken aback and Reinhard immediately, and visibly, regrets it. But I think we’ve established that without Kircheis’s calming influence, there’s no way Reinhard could ever overcome his stubbornness long enough to apologize; instead, he doubles down, and when Kircheis won’t stop expressing his opinion despite Reinhard’s repeated attempts to devalue it, Reinhard finally snaps:

This is both one of the most explicit allusions to the romantic nature of Reinhard and Kircheis’s relationship we’ve seen so far, and one of the saddest. Ow.

Above, Reinhard seeks to put Kircheis in his place by reminding him that he doesn’t actually have any power in an official advisory capacity; Kircheis, in response, ups the ante by distancing himself from their personal relationship instead of their political/military one—the opposite of what Reinhard intended. And that’s it: The camera moves back, emphasizing the chasm of silence between the two men, and Kircheis eventually exits, leaving Reinhard alone with his thoughts and his wine.

Did we just watch Reinhard and Kircheis break up? Well, the conversation did start with Kircheis saying “we have to talk” and end with him emphasizing the least personal aspect of their relationship. That’s pretty breakup-y. But in the scenes following, both Reinhard (drinking wine out of Kircheis’s glass) and Kircheis express hope that they’ll be able to reach an understanding:

So no, I don’t think Reinhard or Kircheis intend to end their relationship at this juncture. They may have fought, and it may have been their worst fight by far (that we’ve seen), but they both harbor hope for reconciliation. Which brings us back to Kircheis, standing in his usual spot at the head of Reinhard’s admiralty, reminiscing about everything he’s been through with Reinhard over the years:

Of course Reinhard’s extremely soft eyes are the last frame of Kircheis’s recap-flashback—even when he’s mad, Kircheis’s thoughts about Reinhard are colored by how much he loves him, and he remembers him at his best.

And that’s where we leave them, before Ansbach walks in with a coffin containing Braunschweig, out of whose dead body he pulls a gun.

Stray Tidbits

Meanwhile, on the Tristan (Reuental’s flagship), Reuental and Mittermeyer have been playing poker to decide... who buys tomorrow’s wine? Apparently they drink together every night—not that that's at all surprising.

Incidentally, this is the second time we’ve seen Reuental and Mittermeyer 1. gamble while 2. gossiping about Reinhard and with 3. Reuental narrowly edging out Mittermeyer for a victory:

Remember this romantically charged game of nine-ball from way back in My Conquest?

One of the subtler extremely painful aspects of the Reinhard/Kircheis “What am I to you?” conversation is how quickly Kircheis believes Reinhard’s lie about his role in the Westerland massacre. And later in the episode, we see Reinhard’s only other source of emotional support in the world display a similar lack of faith in his moral compass:

It must be really sad and discouraging for Reinhard that those closest to him don’t believe in his ability to tell right from wrong. Obviously that’s no reason for him to act out by doing evil things or anything, but it’s still depressing as hell. Poor Reinhard.

Did Mittermeyer just... giggle? Well, in the novels, everyone in attendance barely suppresses their laughter during this scene, so yes, that seems to be what Mittermeyer is doing. Icebergs canon, then, is that Mittermeyer has the darkest sense of humor in Reinhard’s admiralty. Interesting!

Mind your business, Ferner.