whistlewritesforfun

[whistlewritesforfun]

Battle For The Cowl: The Whistle Cut

Issue #2, Shifting Shadows

For anyone seeing this for the first time, this is a rewrite of the Battle for the Cowl storyline!

Next chapter of the fic is now posted on AO3. Unfortunately, I've decided I won't be posting full chapters on here anymore, but I will be keeping the tag list and the link up. Hope that's ok!

Issue #2

Tag List Members! @yourlocaltboy @nyxserpent @eldritchdemonfox @omnipotenttoast @dumbbitchnumberone @sydney-sargent-superfan @morphofauxy @acetypeface @hollybrooke @verbenamoth

[whistlewritesforfun]

Issue #2 of BFTC is now getting Beta’d!!

[whistlewritesforfun]

“BFTC - The Whistle Cut” is now posted on Ao3!

Issue #1: Streets Awash

I’m also going to copy paste the whole thing below the cut! So if you’d prefer to read it here, be my guest! There will be 5 more parts to this as well.

Lovely Tag List Members: @yourlocaltboy @nyxserpent @eldritchdemonfox @omnipotenttoast @dumbbitchnumberone @sydney-sargent-superfan @morphofauxy @acetypeface @hollybrooke @verbenamoth

Battle For The Cowl: The Whistle Cut

Issue #1, “Streets Awash”

Tim Drake

Gotham’s been in shambles. Its people are scared, they hide behind locked doors and shuttered windows, but even that isn’t enough. The violence on the street spills through into every building, every home, and every family. Gotham was never a city of safety, yet it was also never this bad. Without its protector, its legend, and its peacekeeper, Gotham has fallen further than even I could imagine.

The streets are full of Penguin and Two-Face’s goons, all fighting each other. The chaos is blinding, and the lack of vigilance allowed for a mass breakout in Arkham. It almost seems impossible to help, to fix it in any way. Dick and I were spread paper thin the first day after the breakout, if he hadn’t called in some old friends I’m convinced Gotham would’ve been burnt down or blown up already. Firefly, Bane, Croc, Poison Ivy, they’re all loose, and then some. It's bleak in Gotham and we need a Batman now more than ever. He struck fear into criminals, he was the dam to the flood of violence. The flood of blood that now fills the streets. I don’t think anyone understood just how much Batman was doing for the city by simply being there. A human symbol that justice will find even the most darkened of alleys.

That’s what I keep telling Dick anyway. He won’t take up Bruce’s mantle, for what reason? I don’t know. I think he’s scared; scared that he can’t fill out that costume and take on the role of a human symbol. I can’t blame him for it either. Bruce wasn’t just anybody. Anyone could have put on a disguise and masqueraded as a hero, Bruce embodied one. Regardless of how big those shoes are to fill, they do still need to be filled.

I can’t keep this up forever, and neither can he. The thought zips through my mind as my fist connects with the jaw of one of the arms dealers, and the guy slackens. The pistol he’d been holding fell to the floor with an echoing clatter, reverberating through the mostly empty warehouse. My gloves hand came up to wipe my nose as I sucked in a quick breath. I’d been at this for hours, and despite it not being my turn to patrol, I was too mad to stay still. My fingers twitched as I radioed in the warehouse so, what little remains of the GCPD, could come pick up these guys. The grappling gun gave me an easy way out of the room, and I whizzed through the skylight as it shattered around me.

It's worse tonight. It’s gotta be. I’ve never directly stopped so many arms deals in one night before. It's a bleak thought that Gotham will never get better. Each of her veins is infected with the plague. I fling myself onto a nearby rooftop, pacing a little as I listen for any trouble. I don’t hear anything there specifically, so I migrate rooftops repeatedly.

“Hey! Drop the gun!” Well, that wasn’t one of my fellow vigilantes. Based on the slight wavering in tone, that wasn’t an officer either. Gotham’s remaining police weren’t the kind to get scared of stopping a mugging. The remainder were the toughest. I can’t help the heavy sigh that escapes me as I jump to action. Another poser, just what Gotham needs. Joe from down the street in a cape and cowl, ready to defend Gotham in $2 spandex tights.

I approached the mess of a crime-scene, seeing the scared civilian, the armed mugger and another civilian in what could best be described as a piss-poor attempt at a bat-branded garbage suit. I wince as I watch the phony pull out a dull and plastic-y batarang, the cheap item hitting only ground. This only agitated the mugger, and he rounded on the trash-man, grabbing him by the front of his “armor” then slamming him against the wall. I was pretty sure his armor was made from a garbage can, as it had the ribbing I’d come to associate with Gotham’s public sanitation. Not ideal. I should step in before he starts throwing more toys.

“Drop him!” I commanded, stepping out from the shadows. A familiar embrace I’d been trained to accept. The pretender whips around faster than the mugger, yet both of their faces blanch. The victim scampered off, the tapping of their shoes fading into the distance.

Convenient for me, the mugger dropped the Bat-Phony. Not conveniently, he pulled his gun on me. Sometimes I really had to wonder where these criminals got the bright ideas they did, especially when they tried to shoot at me. They do know that if I wasn’t good at dodging bullets and wasn’t always wearing kevlar, I probably wouldn’t still be Robin?

No matter. This is an easy fix. The gun is an older model revolver. He’d need more time to reload than if it were something newer.

He fires multiple times, as expected, aiming for my chest. I sidestep, the bullet whizzing past and lodging into something metal based on the clanging noise. Miss. He points again, emptying the last bullets to no avail. One pings off of a fire escape, a tiny eruption of dust from another hitting a wall. The rest of the spray hits the concrete ground. Taking advantage of the brief space between bullet and reload, I move forward and drive the heel of my hand up into his nose. It knocks him off balance enough that I sweep his leg and he falls with a satisfying thud. Blood is pouring from his nose when I bend down and pull him up. He’s bordering on limp already when I give him one last whack to knock him out.

“I was gonna take care of that-” Garbage-Bat speaks up from next to me. I turn, my face as disapproving as I can muster.

“The only thing you were taking care of, was making sure you didn’t go home tonight. Batman is, and always will be, a protector of the people. You are the people. Go back to your house and family and be protected.” This guy was far from the only imposter Batman I’d seen since people began speculating on his death. Each one got a progressively sterner talking to.

Waste-Guy looked annoyed as he turned and left, and I couldn’t do much else but sigh deeply. I can’t stop people from doing their well intentioned vigilantism, but I could prevent further harm or injuries. I don’t care if someone puts on a Batman cosplay, the problem lies in when they start thinking they can come anywhere near the level Batman was operating on. That's when injuries happen. That's when fatalities happen. I’ve had enough of those lately.

Someone needs to step in as Batman soon, someone trustworthy. Or Gotham is gonna give itself a new one after dozens of civilian deaths. If Dick would just see reason, he could be the Batman Gotham needs right now. Stepping back a bit from the mess, I start walking toward the alley exit. I catch the sight of the crap-a-rang from earlier, and my mouth briefly ticks up in amusement.

I can’t deny, however, that I didn’t find the little toy batarang this guy was toting amusing. Despite my stormy mood it did entertain me. I’m hardly thinking when I walk back to where it hit the ground. My hands reach for it, bringing it to my eyes so I can examine the knockoff. I snort out a laugh, turning it slightly to catch the light.

3D printed. Poorly sanded and polished, I can still see the ridges. Looks like- I sniffed it, briefly, Yeah. That's spray paint. No wonder this thing didn’t work, it’s made of filament and dreams. I toss it away, hearing it make a little clicky noise as it no doubt inflicts zero damage to the ground. It feels… oddly representative of Gotham right now.

Damian Wayne

The engine revs loudly, angrily as I jerk the steering wheel leftwards. I can hear the back tires screeching as I subject the road to my angered driving. I know better. I should know much better than to let myself take out my anger in such… a childish manner. My father is dead. The city is in shambles. I am being actively prevented from taking on my rightful mantle. Yet worst of all, I am still being treated like a child. Can I really blame them though, when I’ve allowed myself to be reduced to this?

I’ve downgraded to thief again for the first time in months. The wheel of the Batmobile is between my hands once more, despite having done a previously better job at not driving without permission. No father left to ask permission from, anyhow. At least I’m left to muse for a while. Uninterrupted by Drake and Grayson muddling with my personal matters. Another jerk of the wheel, the car protests with a high pitched squeal of displeasure.

As currently being demonstrated, I am perfectly capable of vigilante work. I can steal the Batmobile, I can drive it, I’m trained for combat, and engineered for perfection. Yet still, I am not allowed to join patrols? Missions? Anything at all, really. My appearance and age betray me, the outer shell is weak. They see a child where my mother saw potential for greatness.

The thought peeves me. My hands fumble over some of the dials and random controls on the Batmobile. I’m searching for the button to play music. Something to take my mind off of the perceived inadequacies everyone seems to have of me.

Too young. Too small. Too weak. They say that I do not know of Gotham’s brutality now, the vast numbers of law breaking vagrants running amuck in its streets would be too much for me. I have climbed mountains and slain men, but a group of stupidity riddled gangsters is too much for me now. That makes such an exquisite amount of sense, doesn’t it?

I’m now not only frustrated at my treatment, but my pulse thrums in my ears as I angrily search for how to turn the music on. I can’t look, that would be irresponsible, but I’m almost certain I’ve already twisted this same dial several times. I glance down, looking at the controls. I press down on a button, thin and rectangular near a powered off screen. The screen blinks on, but no music.

“Tt, dammit! It can’t be this difficult to-” I glanced, and jerked the steering wheel right with a sense of urgency I haven’t felt in a while. Bane’s hulking body had been blocking most of the road in front me. Looking directly at me as well. The Batmobile goes careening through the railguard, and off the side of the bluff. I’d barely missed Bane in time, if I had hit him dead on I wasn’t sure who would take more damage. The car, me, or him. I heard the sound of brittle bark crunching, and wood creaking. I was vaguely aware of the fact that the Batmobile was flipping several times over.

It rolled again, the tail end smacking into a tree. I hear it… and me… hit the ground just before I helplessly watch through the windshield. I can see the hood of the vehicle flying at full speed towards a tree far larger than I’d be comfortable smacking into right after. Then, it's nothing.

Dick Grayson

The commissioner had called me in for some “important” crime scene he’d found. With no Bat, I’d left my number at the front desk. Nightwing was here to step in now, because someone had to. Even if it was reluctantly. Stepping through the door of the GCPD his face looked flushed, his eyes darting.

“Nightwing,” he greeted, jerking his head for me to follow him. Whatever it was he needed me for, didn’t sit well with him. His eyes were bloodshot, and his hair didn’t look like it’d been brushed in a while. At least two thirds of the GCPD had left, the streets had gotten so bad they couldn’t take it anymore. The amount of threats they were receiving, the danger they faced for even leaving the GCPD building, and the increasing workload every time another officer left, didn’t exactly entice anyone to stick around.

He ushered to the evidence room, and my eyes immediately narrowed at the objects in front of me. A booted up computer and a lot of evidence bags.

“These photos were taken an hour ago,” He gestured at the computer screen. He tugged on his fingers when he put his hand back down. Playing with what a ring. I turned my attention away from Gordon’s nervous tic’s, instead focusing on the graphic images of a few dead criminals staring back at me on the screen. Glassy eyes, their skin still had a bit of color. No dried blood. They were freshly dead when the GCPD found them.

“Could you zoom in on the second one's face, please?” I asked, noticing a bit of scarring under the victim's eye. Gordon clicks on the image, enlarging it for me. He hunches over the computer for a moment, looking ragged. He steps back with a heavy sigh. As suspected, it was one of the more prolific members of Penguin’s game. A lower level member, but I’d seen his face and heard his name within that inner circle. There was a fresh laceration on his jaw, deep and dark red.

“That's Dale Walcott.” I mumbled, “Did you I'D any of the others?” I turned around, Gordon looked nervous still.

“We have two names, the others are still being investigated.” I nodded, stepping away from the computer and moving to the evidence bags next to it. Narcotics, a gun, a couple knives. Only one of which had any blood on it. I tapped the bag.

“Did you test this one already?”

“It came back as one of the other victims, Trenton Cobb. The knife was identified as having been sold to him about a week prior.” I hummed, doubting he’d used it on himself. Someone would've had to have been skilled enough to disarm a well practiced gangster, and then turn his own weapon on him. We were dealing with someone who had at least a little training. The rest of the evidence wasn’t useful. I asked questions, but I didn't get many answers. Gordon remained antsy the whole time. I spotted him occasionally running his hand through his hair, or wiping some sweat away from his forehead. Gotham was killing him as much as everyone else, slowly sapping the life out of the entire GCPD.

My eye twitched a bit as I went over the pictures one last time. I managed to get an ID on two other victims. All of them were notable members of Penguin’s gang. Based on the narcotics in the room where they were all killed, they likely were having a bit of recreational time. Then our killer broke in, slaughtered 7 people, all armed to the teeth, and then got out. They didn’t leave so much as a drop of their own blood behind either. Gordon checked his phone, tapping the side of it. A steady rhythm for a few seconds before he stuffed it away in his pocket like he was worried someone might steal it.

“There's… One last piece of evidence. Forensics had it, it's coming up now.” I perked up at that. Maybe some answers this time, a clue to who did this. A minute or so later, a cop walked in with another evidence bag. He handed it off to Gordon. I caught a few glints of metal as the light caught on its surface. I had a bad feeling now. Gordon kept it gripped tightly for a couple moments, out of my view. The few seconds dragged on as he finally flexed his fingers one last time and held the clear evidence bag up.

A batarang. Solid metal. Perfectly clean.

[whistlewritesforfun]

Issue #1 of the rewrite is done! I’m just waiting on some beta readers, then I’ll do some final edits and it should be posted soon 🥳

[whistlewritesforfun]

BFTC Rewrite is 50% of the way to getting Beta-read. I finally am mostly in the clear academically, and should have it getting edited soon! I also have my Ao3 account up and will be linking it there, as well as posting the full fic on here. It’s going to be organized into 6 issues like a comic would be, and I MIGHT be persuaded to do cover art.

Anyway! Issue one should be posted within a week!!

[whistlewritesforfun]

This is canon now, most assuredly. I am DC (real).

Headcannon that Jason is so touch-starved from isolating himself and convincing himself he hates his family, so when he starts reconnecting with them, he’s caught off guard by how weird he gets with human contact

Getting back to the cave after a patrol

Dick: “Great work today guys!” *pats Jason on the shoulder*

Jason, brain malfunctioning: “Uh-I-uh- fuck you!” *runs away*

Dick, with tears in his eyes: “.. I was just- I’m sorry?”

And like it gets to a point where Jason is so weirded out by how much it affects him so he starts going to a hair salon. He figures that they touch your scalp so much, he’d be cured within 2 visits, but he ends up liking it there and is now a regular customer.

So he knows all the gossip with his hairstylist, Janice, and her next door neighbors who keep stealing her garbage can. And he knows about Mary, another regular, and how she can’t get married to her new boyfriend because her ex-husband refuses to sign the divorce papers.

The bats have started to notice the increasing quality in his hair, but refuse to outright ask him about it. They’re also very confused at the random names he throws out there occasionally during moments together

Tim, working on a school project and throwing out lots of plastic

Jason, walking by and remembering a salon girl majoring in environmental studies: “Ooh, Gracey would NOT like that.”

Tim: ???

Eventually, they see Jason through the window of the salon while they’re passing by, and see him talking to the older ladies and waving around a hairbrush like he owns the place.

[whistlewritesforfun]

batfam karaoke night

bruce: refuses to sing at first, eventually gets badgered into singing but insists it’s something emo as hell

dick: sweet caroline. no explanation needed.

jason: gets REALLY into singing “the winner takes it all” by abba. like, REALLY into it. everyone else is a little concerned

tim: good luck, babe! (kon just got ANOTHER girlfriend. he needs this.)

steph: my heart will go on. badly.

duke: inexplicably sounds amazing??? like, he must have been practicing for this??? dude straight up sounds like michael bubble or whatever his name is

cass: has been trying to learn to rap. is very excited to show off this new skill. no one has the heart to tell her it’s terrible.

damian: thinks karaoke is beneath him. sits on the floor with a bowl of popcorn trying to hide the fact that he’s giggling at everyone else.

babs: still into you by paramore

[whistlewritesforfun]

Tony Stark Vs. Bruce Wayne

The PTA Chronicles

Don’t ask me how they ended up on the PTA together. I don’t know either. They just DID. Play pretend with me, mmkay???

Anyway! This is because of silliness that happened in a discord server. Basically, Peter was in the middle of a custody battle with one billionaire playboy he’s familiar with, and another who he definitely isn’t. Tony did not take kindly to this, and now strives to one-up Bruce in all aspects possible. This bleeds into poor Peter’s school life. PTA meetings are miserable.

Tony: “So… I hear your kid is excelling.”

Bruce: “I’m glad mine is making waves. I hear yours is doing well?”

Tony: “Peter’s good. He’s a great kid.”

Bruce: “Did you take him anywhere for spring break?”

Tony: “oh yeah, yeah of course. We went and skied in the alps.”

Bruce: “Oh really? I didn’t see you there. We must’ve been at a higher altitude.”

Tony, laughing with barely any humor as his grip tightens on his cup: “Ha. Well. We also went hiking up Mount Everest.”

Bruce, speaking through gritted teeth: “That’s nice. Me and Dick toppled a corrupt dictatorship.”

Tony, tutting: “Involving yourself in international affairs? I thought you were better than that, Bruce.”

Bruce, eyes narrowed and voice WAY too tense: “Well clearly you aren’t above it either. I seem to recall those Sokovia accords being an international matter.”

Peter and Tim, who’re hanging out one room over from the PTA event, and definitely not listening in on this conversation: *Snickering*

——————————————————————

After various donations were made to the school, Bruce and Tony meet again at the dedication for the new library. They’re not pleased that it’s dubbed the “Wayne-Stark Library.” They’re arguing in hushed tones near the back of the room.

Bruce: “They put my name first.”

Tony: “Yeah, well I put more money into it.”

Bruce: “No way you did, I invested well over 50 grand!”

Tony: “Jokes on you, I put in 60!”

Bruce: “You-“

An ill timed reporter: “Mr. Stark! Mr. Wayne!”

Tony and Bruce, immediately entering press mode: “Yes?”

Reporter: “Can I get a quote??

Tony, talking over Bruce: “Yes of course! I am honored and overjoyed to have been able to impact our children’s educations positively. I’m also so excited to-“

Bruce: “You know I was just about to say the same thing! I think today’s youth need more access to the classics.”

Tony: “Well I’m partial to some of the more modern work in there.”

Bruce: “I’d expect nothing less of someone such as yourself.”

Tony, bristling: “What is THAT supposed to mean-?!”

The reporter, slowly backing away: “Thank… you…?”

——————————————————————

At a school dance, both Bruce and Tony signed up to be chaperones.

Tony: “Peter’s date is prettier.”

Bruce: “Tony, this is childish.”

Tony: “You’re just upset ‘Timmy Newtron’ didn’t bring one.”

Bruce: “He happens to have someone-“

A kid walks up to the snack table, holding a suspicious flask. They immediately back up and skitter away when both Bruce and Tony glare at them.

Tony: “No idiotic kid is gonna get mine drunk.”

Bruce: “I think I agree with you for once.”

Tony, gesturing broadly in Bruce’s general vicinity: “Let’s not do that again, k? Broody McBroodster is the last guy I wanna be cozying up to.”

Bruce: “My offer for Peter to have a Wayne Enterprises internship still stands.”

Tony’s eye starts twitching: “No. No thank you. He’s very happy being MY intern.”

Bruce: “Did you even ask him?”

Tony: “Don’t need to. He’s my kid. I decide.”

Bruce: “Did you legally adopt him? I don’t think I saw that you did.”

Tony: “Did that ever stop YOU? I don’t think I saw that it did.”

[whistlewritesforfun]

Slight delay for the Battle for The Cowl rewrite, I got slammed with a massive assignment and it’s due this Wednesday

(Send me psychic encouragement pretty please 🙏)

[whistlewritesforfun]

One Last Whispered Goodnight

Tw: Gore and major character death

I am sorry in advance. This thing is angsty as hell and does not have a happy ending. This is more about Jason than Bruce, and Dick shows up towards the end for like… a few sentences. That being said, on with the show!

_________________________________________

Jason clutched his gun in his hands tightly, his aim still deadly accurate as he fired one shot. Two. Three. Four. They all firmly lodged themselves into Joker, still laughing in that crazed way that sent chills up and down Jason’s spine. It sounded like death. Like broken bones and singed nerves. He hated that sound. Finally, he fired a fifth time. The final bullet sent Joker’s head flying backward, a spray of gore on the ground and wall behind him. He fell over with a heavy thud. A thud way heavier than Joker’s skinny body should've been able to make. He heard the hurried footsteps behind him as Batman rushed into the room.

“Too slow, old man.” Jason gritted out, a strange mix of relief and anger mixing in the back of his throat. Joker’s dead. Joker’s dead, but I had to be the one to do it. Jason didn’t look away from the body. He half expected the Joker just to get up and start swinging at him again, or to start laughing maniacally from some other corner of the room, but it never happened. He stayed still. He stayed dead.

“Jason, what have you done?!” Batman shouted, a hoarse quality to the almost anguished sound. Jason couldn’t help the fleeting thought that crossed his mind: Did he shout and scream like that for me? Did this rage accompany my death?

“I did what you’ve always been too scared to do, I ended it.”

“You’ve only ruined yourself further, I didn’t train you to give in to your weakness like this.”

“You didn’t train me how to defuse a bomb either!” Jason shouted, whipping his head around. He didn’t miss the flinch of hurt in Bruce’s eyes. He ripped the helmet off his head, letting it clatter to the floor. He still had the smaller mask under it, but he wanted to let Bruce see his face now. See his failure looking back at him. All he got in return was glaring white eye lenses peering coldly at him from out of the cowl.

It was silent in the room for a few moments, the quiet allowing Bruce to pick up a faint ticking sound. He shoved past Jason instantly, going to the Joker's body and flipping it over.

“You can’t save him now, I made sure of that-” Jason barked, bristling at the display.

“Shut up-” Bruce tore away the purple suit jacket and the grimy yellow undershirt. A bomb. Joker had a bomb-timer strapped to his chest. The timer had a paltry 10 minutes on it. They were within the Ace Chemicals plant; when this thing blew, it would take out a large chunk of Gotham if Joke had placed his explosives strategically.

“Well, you’re gonna learn now,” Bruce stated hurriedly, waving Jason over.

“What? Have you lost it-?” Jason asked, squinting in exasperation.

“You said I never taught you how to defuse a bomb. You’re gonna learn now.” Jason’s stomach dropped, a queasy feeling starting to swirl around his gut. Tenseness spread through his shoulders as his fingers numbed and his mouth went dry. He wasted no time striding over to Joker's body, forcing his legs to carry him to the last place he wanted to be in the world right now.

“This one isn’t as simple as your average bomb. It has three-” Bruce tapped at the screen of the timer, then traced three small protruding wires that seemed to go across Joker like thick red, green, and black veins. “-separate explosive sites. The timer acts as the remote detonator, sending a signal to the actual explosives.” Jason crouched beside him. Ignoring the proximity to his former killer, and the casualness with Bruce’s explanation of the bomb.

“Only you could make this situation sound boring.” It was a futile attempt at humor to lighten a dangerously dark mood.

“After we deal with this, I will be dealing with you.” Jason could hear the promise in that statement. It wasn’t exactly a secret Bruce was pissed at him on a regular day; Today, Jason had just killed the Joker and set off the countdown to a bomb. His jaw tightened minutely, glancing away for a split second before looking back at the timer. Bruce manipulated a few wires, carefully selecting one to cut.

“When his heart rate dropped to 0, the countdown started. We have 8 minutes to-” Bruce was interrupted by a loud beep as he cut the wire. The timer flashed red for a moment, the screen dropping to 5 minutes.

“He put it in a failsafe. Every wire you cut just drops the time lower, you can’t cut all the ones you need to without setting the bomb off.” The explanation sounds pained, and Jason begins to pace anxiously. You’ve fucked up now, dumbass. You only ever think about your damn self, don’t you?

The thought was bitter, and he was drinking the taste of it like it was an expensive wine. Pouring mental glass, after mental glass.

“Focus, Jason!” Batman barked, using that tone that immediately commanded obedience. It was an ingrained instinct for him to listen when he heard Bruce speak like that. Bruce tapped at his gauntlets, pulling up a screen. Jason didn’t pay much attention to whatever Bruce was doing, however, and instead elected to tug on the strap of his gun holster. He doesn’t like this feeling at all.

He barely registered something being thrown at him until it was already halfway en route to his hands.

“That’s programmed to take you to the first explosive site. I’ll handle 2 and 3. To disable these you just have to cut off the receiver, separate it from the explosives.” He made it sound simple… easy. So Jason had to believe that it was going to be simple and easy. He didn’t know what the receiver was supposed to look like, but he’d defuse that bomb when he got there. He held the device in his hand tightly, it seemed to be tracing the explosives to a storage room. When Jason kicked the door down, he found the decidedly worst-case scenario of multiple hydrogen tanks. A pack of garish green dynamite was haphazardly taped to it, the edges of the tape peeling upwards.

Jason started examining the dynamite, poised to make a smaller-scale hydrogen bomb if he messed this up. Finally, he found a small wire connected to the explosives that led him to a tiny antenna poking out of the side of the dynamite. Carefully, he pulled it out from beneath the dynamite, then retrieved one of his knives to cut the wire. He could feel the sweat dripping down his face as he sawed the wire off, praying and crossing his fingers he wouldn't die in the same way twice.

The wire finally went loose, and the dynamite was rendered useless.

“Ha- woo. Ok. Who even uses dynamite anymore? Thermals would have done a better job.” Jason spoke to himself, breathing a bit heavily as his relief coursed through him. He decided that the best course of action at that moment was to go back to the room he was in with Bruce before splitting off to take the sites down.

Halfway through the walk back, the floor of the chemical plant shook beneath him. The thundering roar of a distant lion erupts through the hallways. He could hear support beams groaning as he began to run, his combat boots thrumming along the metallic floor just a bit slower than his heart rate.

He skidded to a halt when he rounded a corner, the back quarter of Ace Chemicals was ablaze, torn apart by the explosion.

“No no no no no no-” Jason began to plead, vaulting over rubble and ducking beneath fallen beams. Barely remembering he should put his respirator on as multicolored fog swirled around him.

“BATMAN!” He shouted, not knowing if any press helicopters might be flying above the site of the explosion already. Scavenging for every scrap of a story, picking factoids and quotes off of the suffering. Jason could feel his head swiveling as he searched, already trapped in his mind.

You killed him. You killed Batman. You’ve killed Dad.

“Hood.” A hoarse voice shouted, distorted lightly through what sounded like a respirator. He was sprinting in seconds, dodging broken concrete and rebar like it was his occupation in a desperate bid to reach the sound. The quiet affirmative that Bruce was ok.

He slid slightly, scrabbling for purchase when he tried to stop on a dime. Bruce had a beam sticking through his abdomen. Broken metal reaching up half a foot through Bruce, the silvery material twisted and warped. Jagged rips in the suit traced the edge of the wound, carving a rectangular hole into his middle. The world was swaying. Not gently like a drifting boat, but like a drunken fool about to fall face-first into the pavement.

“I- I-” Jason’s words all died on his tongue, his eyes wide. Blood was seeping everywhere, a puddle forming beneath Bruce’s back. He crouched down shakily, his entire body quivering. There was no stopping this. There was no way to fix this. There was a cubed foot worth of Bruce’s body just gone. He couldn’t hold himself up, falling onto his rear and bringing a violently trembling hand to his mouth.

“Jason.” Bruce rasped, “Take my cowl off.”

Shaking fingers pulled the cowl up and off of Bruce's face. He was bruised, battered, and bleeding from too many places on his face alone.

“Are- are you still angry with me?” The question fell from his lips before he could even decide whether it was a good idea. The voice of a grown man didn’t reach Bruce’s ears, instead, he heard a scared child.

Bruce coughed briefly, “No. No Jason I’m not-” the words were wheezy. Pained. The kind of anguish that seemed to be a special brand for the bats. Bruce chose to immediately forgive at that moment.

Maybe it was the fading darkness casting a pale orange light on Jason’s face, bathing his adoptive son despite the darkness of this moment. Maybe it was the sound of Jason’s voice, scared, desperate, clinging onto him for hope and safety again like all those years ago. Or, maybe, it was simply because he knew it was the right thing to do. No matter the reason, Bruce forgave. The anger he’d felt earlier, the pain, the betrayal twisting in his gut, all faded out slowly.

“C’mon- c’mon B, you aren’t gonna let a silly thing like this take you out?” Each word was laborious to get out, a crack jutting through the center of the sentence.

“Jason,” Bruce quietly spoke, “it’s not your fa-” the words came to a shuddering halt as a cough wracked his body. The fit only served to aggravate the pain worse as his muscles contracted around the beam.

Jason shook his head fervently. This was his fault, he knew that very well.

“Bruce?” He asked, a couple of stray tears running down his jaw. Liquid regret. Jason pulled his mask off, letting it rest beside the cowl. His eyes were brimming with tears still, and it was messing with his vision. The back of his hand came up to wipe his eyes, and he moved into a kneeling position, one of his hands outstretched to Bruce.

“Can we pretend…? Just… just for a little?”

“What-... do you want to pretend?” The words are starting to run together when he speaks. He groans quietly, his jaw clenching a bit tighter.

“That's- it's just another Tuesday night after patrol. Like back when I used to have to follow you to bed… Pretend that I was always a good son… pretend for just a little?” He lets a small choked sound through his defenses. No use keeping the walls up now. All that resentment for Bruce had evaporated now. No snarky responses left to give, Jason let his anguish out freely.

“Ok...” The word was grunted out through a hardly open mouth, Bruce’s eyes already drifting closed.

“Don't do that. Stop! Not yet- Just… stay with me… stay with me a little longer? You have that much in you, right?” Jason begged, gently grabbing Bruce’s face and watching his eyes flutter open again. It was selfish, he knew that. There wasn’t any saving him, he was just keeping him conscious through immeasurable pain at this point, but Jason wanted his dad. For the first time in a few years, he wanted his dad.

“Do- do you want a bedtime story?” Bruce nodded. Weakly. His skin was pale, his eyes red, and his body bruised. Broken and far beyond repair.

Jason took a shuddering, gasping breath in. His hands were still shaking so badly, clammy as he pulled the back from Bruce’s face, instead, he gripped one of his gloved hands. Somehow, despite getting a little taller than him, Bruce still had larger hands.

“A- a long while back, there was an ugly duckling. He- he would cry every night because he couldn’t find his mom. She’d left him.” Jason’s voice broke again, failing before he cleared it and kept going. Bruce was crying now too, tears making tracks through the ashy residue of the explosion and mingling with blood.

“Until one day… A duck found the little baby. The duck took the baby under its wing- raising him… teaching him.” Jason’s grip on Bruce's hand tightened, seeing Bruce slip away again. The slight pressure brought him back just a bit.

Jason sniffled, using his other hand to wipe his tears again. His hand ended up coming to rest just beneath his nose, covering his mouth just a little.

“I- I can tell you’re tired… I’ll let you get some sleep, ok? See you in the morning. Good- goodnight Dad. I-... I love you.” He whispered out, repeatedly interrupted by his sobs. Bruce was barely even there at this point, slipping away. Slipping too far to get futilely dragged back again. Jason couldn’t take the sight of it, the sight of what he’d done. So he chose to hide in the place he always thought was safest as a child.

Jason dropped his head down against Bruce’s chest, wrapping his arms tightly around his upper torso. He curled up slightly, his knees brushing against the spot just below Bruce’s armpits as he lay on his side. Sprawled over him. He looked 12 again at that moment. Years of growing up, years of building up resentment and anger.

Bruce took in one last rattling gasp of air, then breathed out an even quieter and more pathetically slurred sentence.

“I love-...” the words stilled on his lips. His eyes darkened as his chest stopped rising and falling. Jason felt the vibrations of Bruce’s last words bouncing around his diaphragm, stilling. It was so maddeningly still. He could feel the warmth from his skin through the suit still, and Jason sobbed. He balled into Bruce’s chest for as long as he could.

Dick arrived, too late. God no, he was too late.

It took more effort than it was worth to pry Jason off of Bruce’s corpse, rigor mortis already setting in by the time Dick was able to pull him away. He just kept repeating under his breath: “He never goes to sleep first- he never- he never-” Each repetition broke out into more sobs. Cracks spread through every syllable.

“Jason? Jason c’mon, look at me!” He begged, and Jason latched onto him instead. Dick nearly fell over with the force of it. He’d suppressed his tears thus far, but he couldn’t do it anymore. Jason needed his older brother right now, and Dick would not say no. Not now. Not with what was in front of him as he slowly guided Jason down into his lap. They stayed that way for hours until Jason physically couldn’t take it anymore and passed out.

_________________________________________

Jason eagerly followed after Bruce, tired from patrol. Alfred had made sure Jason was in his pajamas before sending him off to bother Bruce. He bounded up the steps of the master staircase and flopped into Bruce's bed unceremoniously.

“Someone seems a bit too rowdy right now based on how sleepy they were in the batmobile,” Bruce remarked, sitting up slightly as he tilted his head, looking down at the kid.

“I wanted to say goodnight!”

“Goodnight Jason,” Bruce responded, leaning back against the headboard and folding his arms with a small smirk.

“Goodnight!” Jason didn’t leave the bed. Instead, he laid on his stomach, looking up at Bruce expectantly.

“You want me to read to you?” Bruce sighed, knowing that look on Jason’s face. Jason nodded, sitting up and shimmying closer to Bruce as he retrieved a book from the nightstand. He opened it up and started reading from it, the words a soothing drone that Jason found to be the most comforting sound in the world at that moment. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep, his head resting against Bruce’s shoulder by the time he closed the book and carefully picked up the limp kid. Leaving him tucked tightly into his bed.

Bruce made a rule that night. Never go to sleep first.

[whistlewritesforfun]

If you want to be sadder, I present to you!!!

A SCREEN SHOT!!!!

TA DAAAAAAAAA!!!!

*Jazz hands*

I wrote some angsty shit last night, and now I’m physically ill about the Ugly Duckling comparison I came up with on the spot.

Like, he was a “ugly duckling” when he showed up as a kid. He was stealing, he was on the streets, and he was a little turd. But when he grows up, he still doesn’t fit with the people who he was raised by. He’s different enough that it places a wall, and he can’t change it and neither can they.

IM GONNA VOMIT!

*hands you a bucket and scoots away* yeah it's fuckin' depressing, i'll be honest. i think i went on a tirade about this in the tags of a timkon fanart reblog once but like . . . everyone else in the batfam had somewhere where they BELONGED. people to tell them that htey belonged. specifically dick and tim are the ones i'm talking about. they had teams to tell them that even when their colors were given to another, that person wasn't their replacement. dick's team wasn't there for him like they should have been, but they made sure to tell him that---that he would always be their robin. tim's team did the same.

but who did jason have?

no one. he was ostracized from childhood into adulthood. his support system consisted of alfred. literally just alfred. dick and bruce were shit familial presences, dick with his jealousy and anger at bruce, and bruce with his paranoia and accusations of murder.

when jason woke up and saw tim, flying through the air in his colors, he didn't have that support system that the others did---he didn't have anyone to tell him that he was still important to them, still loved, never replaced---so he drew connections. he was enver told that his worth didn't lie in his identity as robin, that he was more than those colors---and then he saw them given to tim, and he came to the conclusion that bruce had handed over not only his identity but his worth. the thing that had raised him up out of poverty, out of his shack of a house and away from stealing on the streets. away from the lowlives of gotham and the ddark future he'd seen for himself.

[whistlewritesforfun]

YOU GET IT!! THAT WAS EXACTLY WHAT I WAS TRYING TO CONVEY IN MY FIC!!!

Bruce was dying, and I wanted Jason to have a way of saying he forgave him for you know… being a shitty father for a while, so I made him tell the first half of the ugly duckling as a bedtime story. AND ALSO A WAY OF SAYING LIKE: “At least you got me further than I would’ve without you.”

Ngl, my own eyes started burning writing that one 😭

I wrote some angsty shit last night, and now I’m physically ill about the Ugly Duckling comparison I came up with on the spot.

Like, he was a “ugly duckling” when he showed up as a kid. He was stealing, he was on the streets, and he was a little turd. But when he grows up, he still doesn’t fit with the people who he was raised by. He’s different enough that it places a wall, and he can’t change it and neither can they.

IM GONNA VOMIT!

*hands you a bucket and scoots away* yeah it's fuckin' depressing, i'll be honest. i think i went on a tirade about this in the tags of a timkon fanart reblog once but like . . . everyone else in the batfam had somewhere where they BELONGED. people to tell them that htey belonged. specifically dick and tim are the ones i'm talking about. they had teams to tell them that even when their colors were given to another, that person wasn't their replacement. dick's team wasn't there for him like they should have been, but they made sure to tell him that---that he would always be their robin. tim's team did the same.

but who did jason have?

no one. he was ostracized from childhood into adulthood. his support system consisted of alfred. literally just alfred. dick and bruce were shit familial presences, dick with his jealousy and anger at bruce, and bruce with his paranoia and accusations of murder.

when jason woke up and saw tim, flying through the air in his colors, he didn't have that support system that the others did---he didn't have anyone to tell him that he was still important to them, still loved, never replaced---so he drew connections. he was enver told that his worth didn't lie in his identity as robin, that he was more than those colors---and then he saw them given to tim, and he came to the conclusion that bruce had handed over not only his identity but his worth. the thing that had raised him up out of poverty, out of his shack of a house and away from stealing on the streets. away from the lowlives of gotham and the ddark future he'd seen for himself.

[whistlewritesforfun]

One Last Whispered Goodnight

Tw: Gore and major character death

I am sorry in advance. This thing is angsty as hell and does not have a happy ending. This is more about Jason than Bruce, and Dick shows up towards the end for like… a few sentences. That being said, on with the show!

_________________________________________

Jason clutched his gun in his hands tightly, his aim still deadly accurate as he fired one shot. Two. Three. Four. They all firmly lodged themselves into Joker, still laughing in that crazed way that sent chills up and down Jason’s spine. It sounded like death. Like broken bones and singed nerves. He hated that sound. Finally, he fired a fifth time. The final bullet sent Joker’s head flying backward, a spray of gore on the ground and wall behind him. He fell over with a heavy thud. A thud way heavier than Joker’s skinny body should've been able to make. He heard the hurried footsteps behind him as Batman rushed into the room.

“Too slow, old man.” Jason gritted out, a strange mix of relief and anger mixing in the back of his throat. Joker’s dead. Joker’s dead, but I had to be the one to do it. Jason didn’t look away from the body. He half expected the Joker just to get up and start swinging at him again, or to start laughing maniacally from some other corner of the room, but it never happened. He stayed still. He stayed dead.

“Jason, what have you done?!” Batman shouted, a hoarse quality to the almost anguished sound. Jason couldn’t help the fleeting thought that crossed his mind: Did he shout and scream like that for me? Did this rage accompany my death?

“I did what you’ve always been too scared to do, I ended it.”

“You’ve only ruined yourself further, I didn’t train you to give in to your weakness like this.”

“You didn’t train me how to defuse a bomb either!” Jason shouted, whipping his head around. He didn’t miss the flinch of hurt in Bruce’s eyes. He ripped the helmet off his head, letting it clatter to the floor. He still had the smaller mask under it, but he wanted to let Bruce see his face now. See his failure looking back at him. All he got in return was glaring white eye lenses peering coldly at him from out of the cowl.

It was silent in the room for a few moments, the quiet allowing Bruce to pick up a faint ticking sound. He shoved past Jason instantly, going to the Joker's body and flipping it over.

“You can’t save him now, I made sure of that-” Jason barked, bristling at the display.

“Shut up-” Bruce tore away the purple suit jacket and the grimy yellow undershirt. A bomb. Joker had a bomb-timer strapped to his chest. The timer had a paltry 10 minutes on it. They were within the Ace Chemicals plant; when this thing blew, it would take out a large chunk of Gotham if Joker had placed his explosives strategically.

“Well, you’re gonna learn now,” Bruce stated hurriedly, waving Jason over.

“What? Have you lost it-?” Jason asked, squinting in exasperation.

“You said I never taught you how to defuse a bomb. You’re gonna learn now.” Jason’s stomach dropped, a queasy feeling starting to swirl around his gut. Tenseness spread through his shoulders as his fingers numbed and his mouth went dry. He wasted no time striding over to Joker's body, forcing his legs to carry him to the last place he wanted to be in the world right now.

“This one isn’t as simple as your average bomb. It has three-” Bruce tapped at the screen of the timer, then traced three small protruding wires that seemed to go across Joker like thick red, green, and black veins. “-separate explosive sites. The timer acts as the remote detonator, sending a signal to the actual explosives.” Jason crouched beside him. Ignoring the proximity to his former killer, and the casualness with Bruce’s explanation of the bomb.

“Only you could make this situation sound boring.” It was a futile attempt at humor to lighten a dangerously dark mood.

“After we deal with this, I will be dealing with you.” Jason could hear the promise in that statement. It wasn’t exactly a secret Bruce was pissed at him on a regular day; Today, Jason had just killed the Joker and set off the countdown to a bomb. His jaw tightened minutely, glancing away for a split second before looking back at the timer. Bruce manipulated a few wires, carefully selecting one to cut.

“When his heart rate dropped to 0, the countdown started. We have 8 minutes to-” Bruce was interrupted by a loud beep as he cut the wire. The timer flashed red for a moment, the screen dropping to 5 minutes.

“He put it in a failsafe. Every wire you cut just drops the time lower, you can’t cut all the ones you need to without setting the bomb off.” The explanation sounds pained, and Jason begins to pace anxiously. You’ve fucked up now, dumbass. You only ever think about your damn self, don’t you?

The thought was bitter, and he was drinking the taste of it like it was an expensive wine. Pouring mental glass, after mental glass.

“Focus, Jason!” Batman barked, using that tone that immediately commanded obedience. It was an ingrained instinct for him to listen when he heard Bruce speak like that. Bruce tapped at his gauntlets, pulling up a screen. Jason didn’t pay much attention to whatever Bruce was doing, however, and instead elected to tug on the strap of his gun holster. He doesn’t like this feeling at all.

He barely registered something being thrown at him until it was already halfway en route to his hands.

“That’s programmed to take you to the first explosive site. I’ll handle 2 and 3. To disable these you just have to cut off the receiver, separate it from the explosives.” He made it sound simple… easy. So Jason had to believe that it was going to be simple and easy. He didn’t know what the receiver was supposed to look like, but he’d defuse that bomb when he got there. He held the device in his hand tightly, it seemed to be tracing the explosives to a storage room. When Jason kicked the door down, he found the decidedly worst-case scenario of multiple hydrogen tanks. A pack of garish green dynamite was haphazardly taped to it, the edges of the tape peeling upwards.

Jason started examining the dynamite, poised to make a smaller-scale hydrogen bomb if he messed this up. Finally, he found a small wire connected to the explosives that led him to a tiny antenna poking out of the side of the dynamite. Carefully, he pulled it out from beneath the dynamite, then retrieved one of his knives to cut the wire. He could feel the sweat dripping down his face as he sawed the wire off, praying and crossing his fingers he wouldn't die in the same way twice.

The wire finally went loose, and the dynamite was rendered useless.

“Ha- woo. Ok. Who even uses dynamite anymore? Thermals would have done a better job.” Jason spoke to himself, breathing a bit heavily as his relief coursed through him. He decided that the best course of action at that moment was to go back to the room he was in with Bruce before splitting off to take the sites down.

Halfway through the walk back, the floor of the chemical plant shook beneath him. The thundering roar of a distant lion erupts through the hallways. He could hear support beams groaning as he began to run, his combat boots thrumming along the metallic floor just a bit slower than his heart rate.

He skidded to a halt when he rounded a corner, the back quarter of Ace Chemicals was ablaze, torn apart by the explosion.

“No no no no no no-” Jason began to plead, vaulting over rubble and ducking beneath fallen beams. Barely remembering he should put his respirator on as multicolored fog swirled around him.

“BATMAN!” He shouted, not knowing if any press helicopters might be flying above the site of the explosion already. Scavenging for every scrap of a story, picking factoids and quotes off of the suffering. Jason could feel his head swiveling as he searched, already trapped in his mind.

You killed him. You killed Batman. You’ve killed Dad.

“Hood.” A hoarse voice shouted, distorted lightly through what sounded like a respirator. He was sprinting in seconds, dodging broken concrete and rebar like it was his occupation in a desperate bid to reach the sound. The quiet affirmative that Bruce was ok.

He slid slightly, scrabbling for purchase when he tried to stop on a dime. Bruce had a beam sticking through his abdomen. Broken metal reaching up half a foot through Bruce, the silvery material twisted and warped. Jagged rips in the suit traced the edge of the wound, carving a rectangular hole into his middle. The world was swaying. Not gently like a drifting boat, but like a drunken fool about to fall face-first into the pavement.

“I- I-” Jason’s words all died on his tongue, his eyes wide. Blood was seeping everywhere, a puddle forming beneath Bruce’s back. He crouched down shakily, his entire body quivering. There was no stopping this. There was no way to fix this. There was a cubed foot worth of Bruce’s body just gone. He couldn’t hold himself up, falling onto his rear and bringing a violently trembling hand to his mouth.

“Jason.” Bruce rasped, “Take my cowl off.”

Shaking fingers pulled the cowl up and off of Bruce's face. He was bruised, battered, and bleeding from too many places on his face alone.

“Are- are you still angry with me?” The question fell from his lips before he could even decide whether it was a good idea. The voice of a grown man didn’t reach Bruce’s ears, instead, he heard a scared child.

Bruce coughed briefly, “No. No Jason I’m not-” the words were wheezy. Pained. The kind of anguish that seemed to be a special brand for the bats. Bruce chose to immediately forgive at that moment.

Maybe it was the fading darkness casting a pale orange light on Jason’s face, bathing his adoptive son despite the darkness of this moment. Maybe it was the sound of Jason’s voice, scared, desperate, clinging onto him for hope and safety again like all those years ago. Or, maybe, it was simply because he knew it was the right thing to do. No matter the reason, Bruce forgave. The anger he’d felt earlier, the pain, the betrayal twisting in his gut, all faded out slowly.

“C’mon- c’mon B, you aren’t gonna let a silly thing like this take you out?” Each word was laborious to get out, a crack jutting through the center of the sentence.

“Jason,” Bruce quietly spoke, “it’s not your fa-” the words came to a shuddering halt as a cough wracked his body. The fit only served to aggravate the pain worse as his muscles contracted around the beam.

Jason shook his head fervently. This was his fault, he knew that very well.

“Bruce?” He asked, a couple of stray tears running down his jaw. Liquid regret. Jason pulled his mask off, letting it rest beside the cowl. His eyes were brimming with tears still, and it was messing with his vision. The back of his hand came up to wipe his eyes, and he moved into a kneeling position, one of his hands outstretched to Bruce.

“Can we pretend…? Just… just for a little?”

“What-... do you want to pretend?” The words are starting to run together when he speaks. He groans quietly, his jaw clenching a bit tighter.

“That's- it's just another Tuesday night after patrol. Like back when I used to have to follow you to bed… Pretend that I was always a good son… pretend for just a little?” He lets a small choked sound through his defenses. No use keeping the walls up now. All that resentment for Bruce had evaporated now. No snarky responses left to give, Jason let his anguish out freely.

“Ok...” The word was grunted out through a hardly open mouth, Bruce’s eyes already drifting closed.

“Don't do that. Stop! Not yet- Just… stay with me… stay with me a little longer? You have that much in you, right?” Jason begged, gently grabbing Bruce’s face and watching his eyes flutter open again. It was selfish, he knew that. There wasn’t any saving him, he was just keeping him conscious through immeasurable pain at this point, but Jason wanted his dad. For the first time in a few years, he wanted his dad.

“Do- do you want a bedtime story?” Bruce nodded. Weakly. His skin was pale, his eyes red, and his body bruised. Broken and far beyond repair.

Jason took a shuddering, gasping breath in. His hands were still shaking so badly, clammy as he pulled the back from Bruce’s face, instead, he gripped one of his gloved hands. Somehow, despite getting a little taller than him, Bruce still had larger hands.

“A- a long while back, there was an ugly duckling. He- he would cry every night because he couldn’t find his mom. She’d left him.” Jason’s voice broke again, failing before he cleared it and kept going. Bruce was crying now too, tears making tracks through the ashy residue of the explosion and mingling with blood.

“Until one day… A duck found the little baby. The duck took the baby under its wing- raising him… teaching him.” Jason’s grip on Bruce's hand tightened, seeing Bruce slip away again. The slight pressure brought him back just a bit.

Jason sniffled, using his other hand to wipe his tears again. His hand ended up coming to rest just beneath his nose, covering his mouth just a little.

“I- I can tell you’re tired… I’ll let you get some sleep, ok? See you in the morning. Good- goodnight Dad. I-... I love you.” He whispered out, repeatedly interrupted by his sobs. Bruce was barely even there at this point, slipping away. Slipping too far to get futilely dragged back again. Jason couldn’t take the sight of it, the sight of what he’d done. So he chose to hide in the place he always thought was safest as a child.

Jason dropped his head down against Bruce’s chest, wrapping his arms tightly around his upper torso. He curled up slightly, his knees brushing against the spot just below Bruce’s armpits as he lay on his side. Sprawled over him. He looked 12 again at that moment. Years of growing up, years of building up resentment and anger.

Bruce took in one last rattling gasp of air, then breathed out an even quieter and more pathetically slurred sentence.

“I love-...” the words stilled on his lips. His eyes darkened as his chest stopped rising and falling. Jason felt the vibrations of Bruce’s last words bouncing around his diaphragm, stilling. It was so maddeningly still. He could feel the warmth from his skin through the suit still, and Jason sobbed. He balled into Bruce’s chest for as long as he could.

Dick arrived, too late. God no, he was too late.

It took more effort than it was worth to pry Jason off of Bruce’s corpse, rigor mortis already setting in by the time Dick was able to pull him away. He just kept repeating under his breath: “He never goes to sleep first- he never- he never-” Each repetition broke out into more sobs. Cracks spread through every syllable.

“Jason? Jason c’mon, look at me!” He begged, and Jason latched onto him instead. Dick nearly fell over with the force of it. He’d suppressed his tears thus far, but he couldn’t do it anymore. Jason needed his older brother right now, and Dick would not say no. Not now. Not with what was in front of him as he slowly guided Jason down into his lap. They stayed that way for hours until Jason physically couldn’t take it anymore and passed out.

_________________________________________

Jason eagerly followed after Bruce, tired from patrol. Alfred had made sure Jason was in his pajamas before sending him off to bother Bruce. He bounded up the steps of the master staircase and flopped into Bruce's bed unceremoniously.

“Someone seems a bit too rowdy right now based on how sleepy they were in the batmobile,” Bruce remarked, sitting up slightly as he tilted his head, looking down at the kid.

“I wanted to say goodnight!”

“Goodnight Jason,” Bruce responded, leaning back against the headboard and folding his arms with a small smirk.

“Goodnight!” Jason didn’t leave the bed. Instead, he laid on his stomach, looking up at Bruce expectantly.

“You want me to read to you?” Bruce sighed, knowing that look on Jason’s face. Jason nodded, sitting up and shimmying closer to Bruce as he retrieved a book from the nightstand. He opened it up and started reading from it, the words a soothing drone that Jason found to be the most comforting sound in the world at that moment. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep, his head resting against Bruce’s shoulder by the time he closed the book and carefully picked up the limp kid. Leaving him tucked tightly into his bed.

Bruce made a rule that night. Never go to sleep first.

[whistlewritesforfun]

an incomplete list of times a bat has yelled for superman’s help

- six years after they met, batman called for superman’s help for the first time, when he realized he couldn’t save a child from a fire

- dick grayson, age 8, called for superman to save batman from a death trap

- dick grayson, age 9, called superman to open a jam jar (strawberry)

- alfred, age lots, called superman to save batman from a death trap

- dick grayson, age 11, called superman to open a jam jar (grape)

- bruce wayne called superman to comfort dick grayson, who had just been fired as robin

- ace the bathound barked for superman to save batman from a death trap

- bruce wayne called superman to ask why, precisely, dick grayson was now superhero-ing under a kryptonian name

- jason todd called superman to save batman from a death trap

- batman called superman to save jason todd from a death trap. superman was in a different solar system.  he didn’t hear his name.

- barbara gordon called superman to help subdue supergirl, who was mind-controlled at the time

- dick grayson, age 19, called superman to open a jam jar (raspberry)

- tim drake called superman to save batman from a death trap

- stephanie brown called superman to see if she could

- tim drake called superman to tell superboy to take his earbuds out

- batman called superman because the batplane had just exploded at 17,000 feet, and he can’t fly, at all

- jason todd called superman to save batman from a death trap that he had himself set up

- dick grayson, age 24, called superman to open a jam jar (fig)

- dick grayson called superman to ask him why he hadn’t saved his father

- damian wayne called superman to save batman (dick grayson) from a death trap

- cassandra cain called superman so he could interpret her signs for a particularly skeevy alleyway ruffian.  he refused to interpret some of the signs.

- batman called superman to tell him to get lois some damn flowers already so she would stop texting him

- a failsafe device made by barbara gordon and tim drake automatically called superman to save batman from a death trap

- duke thomas called superman because he was dared to and he didn’t think it would work (it did)

- dick grayson, age 26, called superman to open a jam jar (apricot)

- damian wayne called superman to tell superboy (jon kent) to take his earbuds out

- selina kyle called superman to save a kitten from a tree

- dick grayson, age 28, called superman to save batman from a jam jar (giant, acid-filled)

[whistlewritesforfun]

WOOO!!!! MOVING UP!! 🥳

[whistlewritesforfun]

“But… you love torturing people?”

“It gets old after a couple thousand years.”

“Are you feeling ok??”

You are an angel sent down to Hell every half-century for a routine checkup. One day, you find it completely remade. It is now a luxury resort without a single scream to be heard. When you confront the Big Man, he simply says "Meh, got bored."

[whistlewritesforfun]

Blanket Monster

I feel like Jason is the type to become a “blanket monster.” He’s reading a book, but he’s so swamped in a blanket you don’t know he’s there unless you’re looking for him, or you spot his hair poking out the top.

Especially when he first gets to the manor, that kid would be within a blanket, within a blanket, within a blanket. Alfred knows it’s probably because when he was on the streets, something like a large, soft blanket wasn’t a luxury he could afford. Cold nights without heating in an apartment or a back-alley still haunt his mind, but the blanket chases it away.

I also like to imagine that Bruce would accidentally sit down on a small pile of blankets in the library, only to hear an anguished squeal as Jason is smothered and his book is (oh the horror!!) possibly taking damage.

Eventually Bruce gets aware enough to know that every stray pile of blankets might be Jason, and he starts deliberately avoiding sitting on them. This continues even after Jason dies.

Bruce half expects every pile of blankets to have Jason’s head pop out of them, messy and smiling. At one point, he got so paranoid he just started ripping the blankets off of whatever they were on. Pieces of his sons presence still lingering. Still persisting.

He yanks a blanket up one day and nearly gets a book to the face. The heavy volume thumps to the floor, and Bruce picks it up gingerly. It’s a copy of Pride and Prejudice, well worn and well read. The bookmark still left in the middle.

Bruce frowns. He does that a lot. There was a slight bitterness from knowing that Jason’s story ended before it was done, now he has the physical manifestation of that sentiment in his hands.

When Jason comes back as Red Hood, in his apartment he is still a blanket-monster. The coldness of an escaped grave driving an even more vicious need for warmth. But now his head always pokes out the top on a vigilant swivel. Second-hand copies of books on his lap as he has to brush the fuzzy fabric away so he can turn the page. Sure it’d be easier to just… not envelop himself in the blanket. Yet somehow dealing with the sudden cold that always came after losing a blanket sounded immeasurably awful.