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aster-aspera · 3 years

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One place to fall

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: Can’t go home

Relationship: Jon/Martin/Tim/Sasha

Warnings: food, Jon just generally being a bit sad? Idk, if there’s something you want tagged, feel free to tell me

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Jon woke up that morning with a strangled gasp, the afterimage of his dreams still burned into the back of his eyelids, keeping him from falling back to sleep. He rolled over, expecting to find the comforting warmth of one of his partners to keep him company in the lonely hours of an early day. Instead, what greeted him was the cold grey wall of Georgie’s guest room. It didn’t take long after that for the memories to flow back.

Three days. He really should stop expecting them to be here at this point.

They’re not here, they can’t be here, and he can’t go home, not for a long while, not till the police stop suspecting him for a murder he didn’t commit.

He sighed, rolling over onto his back when aches started running up his side. He stared up at the off-white popcorn ceiling, trying not to think of how Tim was probably sprawled out over Martin and Sasha, stealing most of the blankets and driving his sharp elbows into their sides. He tried not to miss Sasha’s warmth against his side and the sound of Martin’s soft snores. He always used to complain about their sleeping arrangements, but now he would do anything to be back in that bed.

He groaned and rolled over a few more times, trying in vain to find a position that was comfortable enough to attempt sleep again, not that that would go very well, with the nightmares plaguing him as soon as he closed his eyes.

Eventually, he conceded and got out of bed, grabbing his cane from the wall and taking a moment to work the stiffness out of his limbs. He limped into the kitchen and smiled at the Admiral when he raised his head sleepily. He wondered if he could convince the others to get a cat when he got home. If he ever got home.

The smile slipped off his face and he turned to open the curtains, letting in the greyish light of an early dawn. The Admiral mewled plaintively at his feet, pushing against him. He bent down carefully to run his fingers along the cat’s back, closing his eyes for a moment and just letting the feeling ground him.

He straightened and made his way over to the cramped kitchen, intent on making himself a small breakfast to keep him company whilst he waited for the world to wake up. He reached towards the cabinet over the sink, and for a moment expected their mismatched collection of mugs with ridiculous quotes and terrible puns. He shouldn’t have felt the disappointment he did when instead it was just a shelf of plain white cups.

He shut the cabinet door a little more forcefully than strictly necessary, breathing deeply against the sudden swell of emotion in his throat.

In the scope of all that had happened to him, this should have been minor, this should have been fine. It was just Georgie, the person he had used to love, the person he still cared for. And his partners were really just a phone call away.

So why then, did it feel like he was breaking? Why did every little reminder this wasn’t his home tear something apart deep in his gut?

Home had always been his safety net, and now, he had nowhere to fall.

And now he just had to sit here, stare at the blank walls and hope the police would finally realise he hadn’t been the one to kill jurgen Leitner. Every day that hope felt a bit further away.

He opened the group chat he shared with the others. There were no new messages, of course not, none of them were awake yet. Six am was a bit early even for Tim. He scrolled back to their conversation from last night.

A picture of Tim grinning into the camera while a pot bubbles over behind him.

Sasha: Tim’s cooking tonight, send help

Martin: If the house burns down or he poisons us, I want you to know I love you

Jon: I’m sure it won’t come to that.

He scrolls back down to the bottom of the chat, a small smile on his face at the easy conversation of last night. It wasn’t the same as being there with them, but it was a small comfort.

The three dots that signalled someone was typing popped up on his screen and he noted with surprise Sasha was already online.

Sasha: Youre up early

Jon: I could say the same for you.

Sasha: Needed to pee

Jon: Yes, I suppose that makes sense.

Sasha: So what’s your excuse

Jon: My back hurts again.

Sasha: :(

Sasha: And is that the only reason?

Jon: No

Jon: I miss you.

Sasha: Darling

Jon: I’m alright, I just wish I could see you

Jon: In person that is.

Sasha: We could come over?

Jon: I don’t think that’s wise.

Sasha: Yeah, i guess

Sasha: We miss you too

A swarm of emotions bubbled up in Jon’s throat at the words, threatening to spill over in a mess of heartache and sorrow and fear. They press against the bounds of his throat, choking him, filling him with so many feelings he could not even begin to parse them out. He just wanted to go home.

He swallows it down, tucks the whole mess into a corner of his mind and puts down his phone. He doesn’t want to bother Sasha, or any of the others. He’s already put so much on them, dragged them into the fear and confusion that was the archives, he had no right to bother them with more.

And he knew he was just being dramatic, he was a grown man, he should be able to handle being away from home for a while. He just needed to get himself together, focus on the next step.

He picked up a stack of statements from the coffee table, slipping on his glasses and burying himself in the comforting rhythm of paper and pen. At least this was something he still controlled, still knew how to do.

Georgie appeared at some point, giving him a disapproving glance to find him working so early and coraling him into eating breakfast with her. She can’t stay long after that, and both Jon and the Admiral watch her leave with the same forlorn air.

Jon looked up from his work as a heavy knock resounded from the front door. His first thought was that it was Georgie, back from her errands early. But she would just have let herself in, and Jon knew for certain she had her key with her when she left.

And who did that leave? The police? Some avatar coming to settle a score? Gertrude's killer finally come to finish the job?

Every option was bad, and every option would not let a flimsy door stop them. He stood up, walked into the kitchen as calmly as he could with dread and paranoia hanging over him like a dark cloud and grabbed the largest knife he could find. The knock came again, and he could hear indistinct whispering from behind the door.

Multiple people then. That wasn’t good for his chances. He gripped the knife just a little bit tighter.

“Hey boss, open up,” came a familiar voice, one he used to hear rough and sleepy in the mornings and soft and loving in the evenings. His heart brightened in a momentary thrill at the thought of his partners, or at least, one of them, being on the other side of that door, so close to him again after all those days without them. And all he had to do was open up that door and pull them into his arms once more.

That thrill was almost immediately dampened again as he realized they should not be here. It was why he had left in the first place. They were too connected to him, too wrapped up in his messy web of conspiracy and paranoia. If the police saw them here, if Elias saw them here, they would be leading all of it right to Georgie’s doorstep.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” He told the door and tried not to think of the warm hands behind it.

“We’re not supposed to do a lot of things,” Came Sasha’s amused voice.

“Like date each other,” Tim filled in, “But here we are, so you going to let us in now?”

“No, the police could find out, and you might get Georgie in trouble and there’s just so many reasons this is a bad idea.”

“Jon please, we’re worried about you, Georgie said you weren’t doing well,” Martin said softly

Jon sat down on the couch heavily, knees protesting from standing up too long. He stared at the door.

“And standing out here is probably a lot more risky than being in the apartment, so best let us in.”

He sighed. You never could argue with Sasha’s logic. The others looked up victoriously when he finally unlocked the door.

“There he is!” Tim crowed, as Sasha and Martin offered him a warm smile while bustling into the apartment, both laden with grocery bags. Sasha pressed a light kiss to his forehead as she passed and he tried not to start crying at the feeling.

“You have to leave,” He said as he shut the door, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Martin and Sasha didn’t look up from where they were unloading piles of vegetables and snacks from their bags.

“What? No, hey guys, I missed you, happy to see you all?” Tim complained as he draped himself over Jon’s back. Jon scowled at him.

“Jon, stop being stubborn, we’ve all been through hell the past few weeks, and right now we just want to be here to keep you company,” Martin said in that firm yet gentle voice of his.

“You really shouldn’t be alone after all that,” Sasha said as she dumped out a tupperware container into a pot.

“I’m not alone,” Jon said grumpily, “I have the Admiral.” Though he had apparently decided to make himself scarce for the time being. Jon cursed him for the betrayal.

“Are you saying you prefer the company of a cat to ours?” Tim asked, pulling them both back onto the couch and settling a blanket over them.

“Maybe,” Jon pouted, burrowing into Tim’s chest despite the fact that he was still upset with them, “He doesn’t uselessly endanger everyone to come give me cuddles.”

“Well we’re here now, and we’re not leaving till you feel better.”

“And admit it, you’re happy we’re here,” Martin said, apparently finishing up with his preparations in the kitchen and curling up next to Jon on the couch.

Jon did not want to admit it, but something warm and content curled up in his stomach, the warm feeling of home returning to his bones. A warm and savoury smell drifted through the room, clearly coming from whatever Sasha was warming up on the stove.

This apartement did not look like home in the slightest, the walls and ceiling all wrong, the furniture hard and uncomfortable and unfamiliar. But with all of them here, and that familiar smell of soup and Tim’s conditioner surrounding him, it wasn’t all that bad.

Sasha sat down on his other side, handing everyone a bowl of soup and giving Jon a gentle kiss on his knuckles. Martin pressed one to his temple and Tim just ruffled his hair fondly.

A few words were exchanged between them, but Jon didn’t bother paying too much attention. He knew he should still be angry, or at least have a firm conversation with them on what they had agreed on. But not now, not when they were here and he was home and for a moment he could forget all about Leitner and the institute and just be safe.

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greytoiletpaper · 4 years

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Out on Allen Street, it’s 7 in the Morning

Set in the same-ish street-siblings universe as First Contact by @cryptids-and-muses and @a-sketchy-character @streetsiblings (they’re still awesome). Now, the pieces start falling into place or smth lmao :))

Drizzle | Deluge | AO3

Chapter 3: Squall

Did they get rid of her?

He dreads to think of it, but there’s nothing else he seems to be able to pick out from what information he gathers. Three years after he died, Cass (who hated killing, would never do it even for the worst of the worst) had nearly murdered the Joker. She almost finished the job until Batman saved the madman and subdued her. After that,

Nothing.

Not a single report on Batgirl. Nor a photo of Cassandra Todd. Only two traces he could find. One a significantly sullen Wonder Woman (he and Cass had liked her, and she, them). The other an interview of Bruce, repeating that she’d gone to ‘travel the world’.

Jason knows a lie when he hears one.

“It’s – It’s like she just disappeared,” He’s gripping his head, rocking back and forth while Rose smooths out his hair. “He cut her out of the family and then what?”

He remembers a promise, a vow Bruce had made with him. It had meant the world to Jason.

Bruce had broken that vow. Torn it apart and stomped all over it.

Rose watches him as he breaks down with no judgement in her gaze, just holds him close as his world crumbles around him again.

There’s a child in Nandra Parbat, and Jason has to train him.

“This is my son, Damian,” Talia had said to him, showing him some new kid as if he hadn’t just killed three assassins in the space of a minute. He would have said as much if she didn’t immediately order him to be the kid’s new teacher.

Looking at him now, all Jason can see is a small girl with a crooked smile mouthing his name. He blinks, and he’s met with a scowl and sapphire eyes (eyes just like Br-).

“Mother has requested you to be my instructor,” The kid repeats and lord, his voice is nasal. Jason chooses to stare at the kid, who fidgets. If he looks close enough, he could swear Damian’s scowl looks almost precisely like-.

“Is he mute, Mother? I do not see how an invalid could assist me,” He can tell by the way Rose’s head shoots up and glares at Damian whose side she would choose if this escalates. A flare of anger rises in Jason’s chest; his eyes start to flash a sharp emerald. Still, he pushes it down and diverts it to strengthening his stare, dominating the room.

He can’t read people the same way Cass can, but Jason could swear that the kid’s composure cracks at his uncertainty.

“Wanna repeat that for me?” Jason’s voice is low and even. He can tell the kid recognises the threat in his tone. To his credit, Damian hesitates before he honest to god tts, like every single other haughty, uptight rich boy.

“Regardless, habibi, you will treat your new instructors with respect,” Talia speaks, gesturing to him and Rose. “The quality of your instructors was incredibly subpar, and you have them to blame for killing the previous masters beforehand.”

“I do not think that a lowly thug and his harlot-,” Jason’s arm shoots out in an instant, clasping his hand over Damian’s mouth and clenching. Indignant fury flares in the boy’s eyes as Damian tries to slap Jason away. It does nothing, unsurprisingly.

“So long as you are under my tutelage, you will never speak that way to any woman. That is no way to speak to anyone, regardless of what they do for a living,” Somehow, the kid actually listens, the flinty look in his eye lessening somewhat. “I bet your own mother had to pull a fuck ton of strings just to make sure this meeting even happened in the first place.”

Jason glances up to Talia, expecting a reprimand. What surprises him is how genuine the approval she emits is. It hits him that he has literally confirmed to training Damian. He coughs.

“You should know,” Talia pipes up. “His full name is Damian Wayne-Al Ghul.”

Jason stares at the ceiling and curses the rain as it tap-dances with the universe, mocking him.

“All right, then, I’ll go to hell.”

Cassandra shakes herself from the nerves and rings the doorbell. The last time she had been here, she had kissed Alfred on the cheek and let him drive her all the way to the airport. That was only two months ago. Two months away from Gotham, away from Batgirl, away from-.

Bruce. He’s standing in the foyer, his gaze cold, but his body… his body seems unsure. She doesn’t know what to make of it. She half expects him to turn her away, but he moves to the side. He opens his mouth.

“Cassandra!” Steph darts from behind Bruce’s body, all flailing limbs and mismatched socks. “You’re here!”

“Yes.”

The girl grins, periwinkle eyes dazzling (They’re from the same cloth, just not the proper stitching) as she drags Cassandra away.

“So… how’s life in Hong Kong?”

“Peachy,” Cass answers honestly.

“Think of any names for your new identity?” Steph gesticulates to nothing, but her body language is focused on questions. So, she doesn’t give the girl any. They walk a little more until Steph decides to fill in the silence again.

“Tim’s dad found out about the vigilante business,” Cass nods as Steph talks. “Wants him to quit being Robin and Bruce doesn’t seem to know what to do about it.”

“His problem.”

“Well, duh. It’s just that….” Steph rubs her arm shyly, the same way she always does when she’s afraid of what she will say next. “When I was growing up, with my villain dad and addict Mom, I always imagined that Batman and Robin would save me. I’m here now, and….”

“You want to be Robin.” Cassandra deadpans, even as Steph whirls to gape at her. Really, it’s not like she wasn’t obvious. “Why not go for it?”

Silence for a moment. “Because I’m afraid.”

Cassandra looks at the blonde sharply. Stephanie Brown? Intimidated-by-Batman-and-joined-vigilantism-anyway Stephanie Brown was afraid? She doesn’t know what to think. That is until the dots connect in her head.

“You’re afraid that you won’t be able to help as much as you want to,” Steph scuffs the carpet glumly.

“With Mr. Anal-retentiveness-to-the-9’s? Yeah, that’d probably happen,” Steph sound so defeated and desperate that Cass curses because apparently, fate chose now to be when Steph is truly like Jason.

“Then don’t wear it,” Steph’s scuffing gets a little stronger. “I, for one, think you’d be a really good Batgirl.”

Steph makes an incredible impression as a fish and stares at Cass, barely wheezing as she gawks. “But Bruce -.”

“Bruce doesn’t have autonomy over Batgirl,” Cass smiles sweetly, echoing Barbara. “It’s your uniform now, and no one can take that from you but yourself.”

Her friend squeals loudly and squeezes Cass, gushing her gratitude over and over. Cass hugs her back, pretending it’s Jay she’s holding in her arms, giving the assurance of family she failed to keep.

He’s only trained with Damian for a few months, yet he’s seen more than he really should from the boy. His younger brother (the kid’s only a child, it doesn’t matter what Jason’s previous misgivings are) has been raised in the League of Assassins since birth. He can already use a sword with deadly efficiency at eleven years old. His attitude's as ruthless and condescending as every other assassin in the compound.

However, what is an exploitable weakness for Damian is the fact he’s only just started puberty. Most easily demonstrated when Rose makes a suggestive pose before tackling the boy and pinning him in place. Jason whistles because he’s fond of her, an asshole like that. Rose flips the bird at Jason and sticks out her tongue, now lounging casually on Damian’s squirming body.

It’s cute, the scene, but Jason knows how wrong it is. As long as Damian is with the League of Assassins, he won’t live normally. To find his own love, his own family. Even as the child wrestles with Rose and yells at him to help, it won’t ever be enough.

He’s not projecting.

He’s not.

He’s going to concoct a plan.

Ravi, Damian’s caretaker, has that air about him that Jason has only ever seen come from Alfred. So, he guesses trusting Ravi with this is more than okay. The man may be blind, but with him, they manage to smuggle Damian through the channels of the League, avoiding everyone who could threaten their goal.

“If I may ask, Mister Todd,” Ravi says as they reach the last legs. Jason nods. “Why are you doing this? To what gain is rescuing this child for you?”

“I don’t do this because I want to gain something,” Jason replies immediately. “No child deserves to grow up in this place. He deserves to have as good a childhood as he can get.”

Ravi stares patiently, hearing what’s unsaid.

“Sound reasoning,” Talia’s voice echoes around them. Everyone tenses. The woman steps out from behind the pillar ahead of them, alone. “And where, may a mother ask, are you taking my son?”

The woman’s voice lacks her usual veneer, sounding so genuinely earnest that he can’t help but blurt out: “Gotham.”

“Gotham,” Talia repeats, her forehead pinched. “With him?” With Batman? Jason bristles. “Might I remind you; he left your death unavenged and replaced you in mere months.”

“Fuck that,” Jason snarls. Ever since he came out of the Pit, madness clings to the edges of his mind whenever he thinks of how Bruce replaced him. This time, it only flickers. “What I want doesn’t matter when Damian needs his father figure. I’m – I’m not stopping him from having that.”

“So, you no longer wish to kill him,” Talia states. He sighs.

“I guess not,” Jason frowns, considering her presence. “Want to take him to Bruce?”

If Talia is surprised, she doesn’t show it, only beckoning for Damian to follow her. As the kid moves, Jason realises this might be the last time he’ll see Damian on the same side of the fence. He grabs the kid’s shoulder, who oddly doesn’t resist.

“Look, Damian,” Jason starts as his younger brother stares up at him. “Doing right is right, and wrong is wrong. A body ain’t got no business doing wrong when he ain’t ignorant and knows better.

“Living with your father, it’s rules like that he follows like gospel. He’ll love you; I know he will, but with him it’s always on the condition that you adhere to his principles. Can you promise something for me?”

Damian nods, soaking every word in.

“I need you to keep an open mind with what he says, but I don’t want you to follow them like gospel the way he does. You’re more than his soldier, you’re my brother, you’re his son.”

The kid nods again, shifting on his feet.

“And – And look after yourself, okay? And -,” The words that come out of his mouth feel like hot coals, but he has to say them. “And if somehow Cass is there, can you look after her too? For me?”

“Of course,” Damian answers softly before throwing his arms around Jason’s waist. “I will find your ukht, ahki, and make sure she is well cared for.”

Jason smiles. It's a broken, weary-looking thing.

“And Todd?” Jason raises his eyebrows. “You should confess to Wilson about your ridiculous affection. It is sickening to watch you two dancing around one another every lesson.”

Jason can’t help it; he laughs and lets his little brother go, his tears like raindrops.

Cass leaves the fresh hydrangeas on the headstone. It stares back at her, its date (four years) seeming to mock her from beyond the grave. Literally, Jay says in her head, which has her biting back the laugh that builds in her throat.

Bruce’s son had come in a few days ago, obviously an assassin child, yet he’s still… subdued, somehow. She knows the boy is there, at her brother’s grave, and that he follows her all the way to the manor. Even then, Cassandra lets it go. He probably took all his cues from Bruce anyway.

It’s when she’s sitting at the new memorial for Jason, a small statue of an apple with a plaque underneath, that Damian approaches her.

“Cain.”

“It’s Todd.”

Something crosses the boy’s face. She can’t tell what it is.

“Todd,” Damian says, his eyebrows pinching like a mini Bruce. “What is this?”

“It’s Jason’s memorial,” Cassandra traces the words on the plaque, a quote, one whose meaning she had struggled with a lifetime ago. She gestures to the book in her hands. “I read to it, every time I’m here.”

Damian looks like he’s about to say something about that, but he withholds it. Instead, he sits down with her, his head upturned, not unlike a bird.

“What was he like?” The boy asks, the words seeming to grit out his teeth.

“He was amazing, and we loved him so much,” Dick speaks up, out of nowhere, cutting Cass off before she can even begin. “I had a few issues with him, but I promise that I’ll be as good a brother to you as he was to us.”

Cassandra snorts, and Dick’s smile falls off his face.

“Cassandra, come on, I was just-.”

“You weren’t even a good brother to me or – or him.” She says quietly, because why is he even speaking now? “Why are you trying now? Why not before?”

“Like I said, I had a lot of issues with -.”

“I don’t care, Dickface.” Does it hurt to say Jason’s old nickname for the boy? Yes. Does she draw satisfaction at how much he flinches? Also, yes.

Barbara chooses then to speak up.

“I don’t think that’s fair for you to say, Cass.”

She freezes. The fact that even Damian, who hardly knows her, does the same with the others means they know how huge an error they’ve made.

“Don’t call me that,” Cassandra snaps, voice desolate and lethal, thoughts squalling and refusing to calm down even as she buries her head in the book in her hands.

Barbara sighs and calls Dick away to discuss the mysterious hacker that’s been pulling information from them. Damian, seeming to recognise her desire to be alone, follows him. Good. Cassandra’s mind falls in and out of a lull as her eyes try to refocus. So, she caresses the edge of the apple reverently. In its reflection, tears run down her cheeks. She can’t feel them.

“The information breaches just keep searching for Batgirl,” Barbara says, snapping Cassandra from her stupor. She pulls up a list; every entry confirms Barbara’s statements. Every entry, that is, except for one that catches her eye. The text flashes brightly, making her head spin, and she can’t look away because printed in the bright neon text is-.

There’s a memory, one she’s locked in the far recesses of her mind, where things like the Joker and David and all her other demons live. She remembers Faizul asking who her mother is.

David smirks, a savage thing he does whenever he’s about to order her to do something (murder, as it turned out, then) and says:

Sandra Wu-San | Lady Shiva

The words blare in her mind, bouncing round and round and blocking out all sounds in the cave. It certainly explains a lot; only Shiva can read the body like a novel. Plus, Cassandra isn’t sure that assassin skills are genetic but having two master assassins as biological parents should factor somewhere. It also opens a new avenue of thought. Why? Why did she give her up and never look back? Why did she leave her with her monster of a father? Cassandra craves needs answers, and she needs them now.

Staring up at the name printed on the screen, Jason once asked himself the same questions.

While the others discuss what to do, Cassandra has already listed Shiva’s last known locations and activities. They don’t notice she’s going to leave until she revs the engine of her bike. She sees them open their mouths, but over the sound of the motor, their voices fail to reach her.

All except, somehow, for Alfred and if there is anyone in this family Cass will listen to; it’s the one Jay loved the most.

“If you do pursue her, Miss Cassandra,” The butler has never been unkind to her, yet she can’t help but feel like he’s trying to keep her in place. “I am not sure if you will find what you are looking for.”

She leaves anyway, soaring underneath the tresses of Gotham as they settle around her, the mist obscuring everything but her path forward.

“Damian probably landed in Gotham last week,” Rose says casually. Too casually, she realises. Jace side-eyes her and snorts in response. Damn him and his ability to pick apart what she’s asking. Four years constantly in one another’s presence would do that to people with his life experience. Yet, as much as Jason can read her, she can’t say she can do the same for him.

Something about him seems fragile, like plaster covering a beautiful and distracting collage. Rose wants to dig past that plaster, through the collage and see the mind that is Jason Todd.

She has seen him at his highest and lowest points and always makes sure to stay by his side, as she does now. He’s her best friend; he might not know it, but he’s kept her sane (reassurances her father will not find her come to mind) just as much as she’s done for him.

“What do you think of the new Batgirl?” This time, she means to be conversational. When they stumbled across the profile of Cass’ successor, Jace had shaken his head and laid out half-heartedly into a punching bag.

“I don’t hate her, if that’s what you’re thinking,” That response was… not unexpected. But, when she raises her hickory eyes, Jason has his head raised to the sky. “I looked into her, and – and she’s like us.”

Oh.

“Girl’s from the Narrows. Didn’t live on the streets, but from her background, her home life definitely wasn’t that great growing up either.”

His hand is trembling, so Rose grabs it and tries to keep him steady with all the power in her.

“She’s going to do Batgirl proud,” Jason says shakily. “I think you’d agree.”

They stand there, leaning on each other, tranquillity settling around them as Jace lets his tears flow. It occurs to Rose that she never let his hand go. She doesn’t plan to. The feeling makes her feel warm inside, and as much as she wants to go further, she also doesn’t want to push her best friend away.

In the distance, the outline of a jet approaches the runway they’re on. It is time.

“You ready?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I said yes.”

“Fair enough.”

“Hey,” Rose looks up at him, waiting for him to continue. “If anything goes wrong, I want you to stay out of sight of the others and get away from Gotham.”

Rose growls. “No way, there is no fucking way I’d leave you alone with them.” She steps closer, jabbing her finger on his chest. “I didn’t train with you for the past four years for it all to be thrown away just because Batman is an asshole. My dad’s just as bad, remember?

“You’re stuck with me no matter what Jace. Deal with it.”

He gives her a wry smirk that has her heart fluttering as much as her returning grin is sharp. Even as the plane touches down, she realises that he hasn't let her hand go, and neither has she.

In the next week, Red Hood and Ravager will carve their way through the deeper bowels of Gotham’s stomach, a bag of heads linking their iron fists.

For now, Rose breathes in the moist air as a drizzle begins.

Mad Dog, Cassandra muses, is a morbid reminder of what she might have become if she stayed with David. He doesn’t have her abilities, but he has more physical strength in spades; his movements are so strange, so unpredictable, that it’s not like it matters.

A deft swipe narrowly misses her throat, and Cassandra cuffs the man in the jaw with her knee, knocking him back.

She had definitely found Shiva. Tracked her all the way to some subset of the League of Assassins. The woman had only gazed coolly at her and set Mad Dog on her.

True to his name, the assassin growls and leaps at her, fury behind each of his strikes. Cassandra dodges one of these, the fist cratering the cement wall, and gets socked in the chest for her trouble. The force of the impact sends her flying metres away.

Getting up from the blow is a chore, and she can feel the agony her body is in, feels the blood run down her mouth as she rises. Her fist is shaking; her stance is uneven. Mad Dog notices, and he grins like David, drawing a jagged sword from his sheath and charges.

Cassandra darts past the assassin. She knows she can win this. Even though his movements are swift and deadly, she manages to outpace him. His sword strikes aim to draw blood as he swipes at her, but she’s still managed to weave her way around them, causing sparks to fly into the air. When he tries to hit her, she still uses his momentum against him and knocks him down.

Yet, Cassandra can feel herself getting slower now; her arms are still shaking. She dodges another strike, but it’s a feint, and Mad Dog grabs her by the hair and slams her onto the ground. Hazily, she watches his wicked grin widen as the assassin raises his arms and prepares his blade.

As Mad Dog is about to drive it into Cass’ chest, she thinks (This is it. It’s all over. It is time.) of a boy in an alleyway, an apple in his hand and a smile on his lips.

She closes her eyes and listens to the sprinkling outside.

“Do you think we were unfair to them?” Dick seems to ask to open air, but Bruce knows when his sons want a genuine response. “Like, that we didn’t give them enough credit for what they could do. And because of that, they’ve never had anyone but each other?”

Dick slumps. It looks so wrong on him that Bruce wraps his arms around him, especially careful (As a real father would. An insidious voice in his brain sneers). “Do you think, that if maybe we treated them so much better...” His boy is crying now, usually joyous lapis eyes cold and red-rimmed. “That they’d still be here?”

Bruce only grunts because not one of his answers is what Dick wants to hear.

On a slab of stone, the petals on the hydrangeas wilt, droplets dappling their edges.

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meaninglessblah-writes · 4 years

Text

Writing Prompt Wednesday

It hasn’t even been a full hour before Tim hears the clack of the handheld clicker again. It’s been plaguing his every waking moment for the last week, with increasing frequency, and whilst it hasn’t yet emerged into the realm of unbearably annoying, the mystery behind its use is starting to grate on Tim’s nerves.

He turns to face Damian where he’s sat at the conference table, gloves shucked and a blueberry muffin in his hand. There’s a sprinkling of crumbs dotting his cheek that Tim is compelled to point out to his compulsively hygienic tendencies, except that his attention is drawn - once again - to the small black device resting in Damian’s other palm.

“Damian,” he hedges, and braces for the staccato clack-clack.

“Yes, Timothy?” Damian responds once the sound has settled firmly in Tim’s eardrums, turning to face him. Jason’s chin lifts a notch to watch their interaction where he’s sprawled back on the chair adjacent, tilting back precariously on two legs as he rocks his heels against the lip of the table.

Tim shoves down the uneasy turn of his stomach and asks, “What on earth is that?”

Damian inspects the device like he’s only just noticing it. “It’s a behavioural stimulant. Primarily used on dogs. I’ve been training Titus, and found it quite effective in bridging the gap between positive reinforcement and reward distribution.”

Tim feels his brow pull into a tight crease. “So why do you have it down here?”

“I’m experimenting,” he replies cryptically and shortly, and doesn’t seem to feel the need to elaborate. Tim frowns but returns to his post-patrol procedure, stripping back his cowl and setting the cape aside.

Clack-clack.

This time he turns entirely to glare at the pair of men at the table, meeting twin blank, innocent expressions. “Okay, what is going on here? What’s with the clicking?”

“He told you,” Jason interjects. “We’re experimenting.”

“Experimenting on what?” Tim snaps, though he suspects he knows the answer.

“Whether subjects’ inadequate habits can be curbed and replaced with satisfactory behaviours,” Damian says primly. “Specifically with regard to cleanliness and environmental tidiness.”

Tim blinks, and tries to digest that. “That doesn’t explain why you clicked at me, just now.”

Damian pauses a moment, like he’s considering whether to explain or not, and says, “You folded your cape.”

Tim glances down at the material in his hands, which is sure enough folded with neat precision into a compact stack worthy of display case. It’s a little surprising to see, given how haphazard he usually is with tossing the cape over any available surface in his post-patrol haze. He doesn’t even remember folding it.

It makes him a little uneasy, as he drops into his chair and brings up his digital report. The sooner he can make his notes, the sooner he can duck out from under Damian and Jason’s lingering presences. He can’t help but feel how he’s being watched, the sensation dragging up his spine as he begins to type.

He does his best to shove the thought from his mind. The less attention he gives them, the more likely they are to grow tired of whatever game they’re playing and leave him be.

Tim almost manages to forget their presence after a few minutes, swept up in the tide of pattering keys and scrolling text, when he reaches for his mug of cold coffee. Lifts it to his lips without pausing, takes a sip, and sets it down.

Clack-clack.

It ratchets Tim’s shoulders up, snaps him right out of whatever focused reverie he’d managed to achieve, as he spins to stare pointedly at Damian’s palm. The man doesn’t break beneath the glower, except to shift his thumb off the button and chew silently.

Tim lifts an eyebrow, and Damian eventually swallows.

“Coaster,” he says, with a slight tilt towards Tim’s desk, and sure enough, when he glances down to where his fingers are still wrapped around the handle of his mug, it’s resting on the cork coaster to the left of his keyboard.

He doesn’t even remember putting it there. Has only the vague recollection of Alfred huffing and shifting his mug time and time again, of it gradually becoming buried beneath the clutter of his desk, the coaster swamped with more mugs than it could possibly ever hold.

Glancing down the width of his desk now, Tim is stunned to realise how… tidy it is. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Damn,” Jason murmurs, almost too low for Tim to hear. When he glances back the man is nodding above the weave of his arms over his chest, an impressed smile tugging at his lips. “I still haven’t managed to train that one into Dickie yet. That’s impressive.”

Damian looks a little too proud at the praise, and several dots connect in Tim’s head.

“Are you testing me?” Tim asks, too shocked to be as incredulous as he intends.

“Training,” Damian corrects, and Tim pulls to his feet. Shoves his chair back loudly into the desk on habit, hard enough to rattle the mug on its coaster and the handful of pens arranged neatly beneath the monitor.

Not loud enough to drown out the resulting clack-clack.

“Stop that,” Tim demands, frustration rising, and yanks his hand back from the tucked-in seat. Since when did he ever treat his furniture so well? Since when was he organised enough to do anything other than leave a careless trail of clothing and belongings behind him on his half-comatose trudge up to his bedroom?

It’s downright spooky, and he doesn’t like the implications.

“How long have you been training me with that thing?” Tim snaps in a sudden spiral of fear. Surely it can’t have been that long, or he would have noticed sooner. Wouldn’t he?

Unless it’s been so pervasive that everything but his subconscious has tuned out the noise of the clicker, releasing a helpful little dose of dopamine into his sleep-addled brain every time Tim completes a designated task.

Tim doesn’t think it’s been that long. It can’t have been. Otherwise the compulsion would be harder to shake. Right?

Damian and Jason share a look that does nothing to ease Tim’s concerns.

“How long?” he demands.

“Three weeks,” Jason admits, folding his hands behind his head as he tilts. “Same time I started training Dick. We didn’t think it would work so quickly, but our apartment is the tidiest I’ve seen it in literal months. He even cleared the dining table without so much as a look from me the other night.”

Tim’s burning gaze swings to Damian. “And you’re training me why?”

“Because you’re filthy, Timothy,” Damian replies airily, and reaches for another blueberry muffin. Since he filled out his third upgrade of the pixie boots and came into as many inches, the current Robin’s appetite has been unquenchable. He’s rivalling Jason at the breakfast table most days, shovelling down eggs and pancakes with gusto only for Tim to find him hunting through the pantry an hour later.

“Your mess was becoming unbearable,” Damian continues, with a corroborating nod from Jason, “and you respond poorly to advice from either of us. So we took matters into our own hands.”

“By training me,” Tim accuses, “like a dog.”

Jason shrugs, and Damian echoes the sentiment. “The results justify the means.”

“You’re conditioning me,” Tim stresses, crossing over to the table to stand over the squirt. It’s not nearly as impressive as it used to be, now that Damian’s actually packing on and holding muscle weight. “Without my consent, without my knowledge. For your own selfish benefit.”

“Have you not benefited?” Damian retorts with a pointed sweep of Tim’s very tidy workspace. He can’t bring himself to turn around to look, to be betrayed by his own unwitting compliance.

“That’s irrelevant.”

“I think it’s very relevant. Both Richard and you have made incredible progress in such a short time. Both your lives have become more manageable since we implemented your training. Your organisation has improved, and as a result, your demeanour. It can only improve further from here.”

“So what comes next? You buy me a collar and start teaching me tricks?”

Jason snorts, loud and obnoxious, as colour rises on Damian’s cheeks. Tim doesn’t give him a chance to draw in a full breath before he fixes the other man with a cold stare.

“I’m sure Dick’s going to be just thrilled when he finds out you’ve been training him like a circus seal. I expect that’s going to do wonders for your sex life, Hood.”

Jason’s laughter snaps off, his expression bleeding into sudden hesitant concern. “Now, wait a second-”

Tim smirks. “You haven’t seen how bad his cold shoulder gets yet, have you? Dickie’s got a temper, Hood, and you’re about to find out exactly how bad blueballs can get when you set it off.”

“That’s uncalled for,” Jason tries to defend, tucking his legs back under the table as he sets his chair down. Tim cuts him off with a sharp cluck-cluck of his tongue, stunning both men into sudden silence as he grins.

“You know, that’s actually pretty useful,” Tim murmurs, malicious satisfaction filling his chest when both their expressions fall into wary horror. “Don’t even necessarily need a clicker to achieve the results either. But you’re both missing an important element of the training process.”

“Which is?” Damian entreats with the hesitance of a man feeling blindly for a bomb.

Tim makes sure he leans down close enough to see the individual crumbs on the teen’s face, to feel the sharp intake of his breath when Tim grins sharply and purrs, “You have to follow up the immediate approval with a reward.”

Damian swallows hard, the blueberry muffin making an odd protrusion as it travels down his throat.

“Good boy,” Tim murmurs, low and coaxing, and feels an immense wash of gratification when Damian’s cheeks flush red beneath his complexion.

Damian’s mouth opens and closes, producing no sound as Tim straightens and glances over at Jason, who’s just as cowed.

“I’m going to bed now. If I so much as hear the sound of that clicker in my dreams, I’ll flood your public social media profiles,” he threatens, pointing his index finger at Jason to watch him pale before it swivels to fix on Damian, “with his very inventive furry art.”

Jason spins to fix Damian with an accusatory stare that he flounders to rebut, the muffin slipping from his fingers in his defensive panic. Tim smirks and turns up the stairs to the sounds of an argument erupting behind him, letting his shoulders slide out of their tense curl with the assurance that he doesn’t need to worry about any pesky clickers anytime soon.

“Goodnight, boys,” he calls back, drowned by the shrieking below, “and be good.”

You can send me a prompt here!

#writing prompt wednesday #Tim Drake #Damian Wayne #Jason Todd #dick grayson/jason todd #meaninglessblah

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black-streak · 5 years

Text

Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting (but Sundays are meant for rest) - Routine

Part 3

Hey! I came up with a name for this finally! Might've been listening to Elton John at the time.... Completely self induglent fluff for part 3. Also changed the part title for timinette thing to 'the beginning'. Very original, I know. So I've decided to not have anyone aware of identities here. And Mari also does not use the ladybug in this.

Lastly, from what I gather, Tim canonically seems to swing between sharp, calculating and carefully selective with words aaand a complete disaster child with severe anxiety, weird obsessions, and no filter. So if anyone has any notes on my characterization of him, I'd be happy to hear it.

...Please don't get use to this rapid update schedule, I have no control on the speed in which I write these.

~---~

Marinette meant to make good on her request for a movie with Tim. She really did. She was not some shy little teenager anymore and if she wanted to have a date with the guy she liked, no one could stop her from trying!

Except maybe a spike in her commissions, an Arkham breakout, and three narrowly avoided confrontations with multiple of the bat… people. So maybe she was exhausted and overworked and it had been over two weeks since the morning she woke up on Tim. Maybe at this point she couldn't even concentrate on the date portion and just wanted to skip right into the napping together bit. But who could really blame her? Life is cruel to the sleepless. So perhaps the way they actually ended up dating could be forgiven.

It started on a gloomy Sunday afternoon that Mari found him at a desk in the manor library, pouring over what looked like a criminal case? In a manilla folder? What? Who even uses manilla outside of a filing cabinet anymore? And for what purpose did he need to read it so intently?

Shaking the confusion off, she refocused on her current mission. Tricking him into taking a nap.

Pushing down a blush, she tapped him on the shoulder.

Startling, he turned partially to look up to her while closing the file, not expecting the interruption.

"Oh, hey! Did um… did you need something?"

Taking in the dark bags building under his eyes, two empty cups on the desk, and overly comfy clothes, she realized this might be easier than she originally planned for. He looked perfectly nap ready and as over worked as she was.

Nodding, Marinette took hold of his hoodie sleeve and gave a small tug.

Tim turned further to face her fully, watching for only a moment before seemingly coming to some conclusion.

"Whatever it is will have to wait. You need sleep."

Only she didn't argue, simply nodding again and tugging at his sleeve again, pleading eyes latching onto his.

"Nap?"

Understanding dawned on Tim and lit a small smile across his face as he moved his attention back to the desk, closing up all his work and compiling it to transport.

"Let me gather this up."

A happy sound of approval sounded behind him before lean arms wrapped around his shoulders, a face ducking close to his neck, quietly resting in wait.

Not entirely surprised with the contact, Tim took it in stride, though his mind was whirling with possible causes, attempting to determine whether this was a show of further affection or simply the way she interacted with those she deemed close to her. He'd seen the way Mari leaned into Jason when he ruffled her hair or tossed an arm about her shoulders. The happy cheek kiss she graced Dick in thanks for helping with one thing or another. The way Damian allowed her to pull him around by the hand all the time. Maybe she decided on sleepy cuddles for him? But then, it had sounded like flirting and an offer for more last time. Had he read too much into it or was this the offer come to fruition at last?

Speaking of which, as he grabbed the last file, she slid one hand over and down his arm to grab at a hoodie sleeve to tug once more, simultaneously shifting away so he could get up.

In a fashion similar to two weeks ago, he paid little mind to her dragging him about until he noticed her aiming for the door, quickly twisting a hand to grab her wrist and redirect them towards the couch in the room. 'Whatever this is, there's no need to advertise it for my brother's to see.'

Meanwhile, Marinette was trying to figure out the best way to get Tim to put his work aside and just cuddle her. Obviously he seemed to be following along now, but if the way he brought over the case file was any indication, he planned to continue working while she slept beside him.

'Hmm… he followed suit last time, maybe it'll work again this time,' she thought, smile regaining momentum on her face when she saw the library couch went much deeper than the living room one.

He must have read her mind, because he immediately sat sideways, upper back pressed into the arm of the couch, still holding onto her wrist to guide her towards him.

Climbing over, she sandwiched herself between his body and the couch, leaning into his shoulder. He hesitated slightly, then adjusted his left arm behind her and reopened the case in his lap.

"What's with that anyways? Not your usual work there," she murmured.

"Old cold case. Hobby of mine to try and solve them. Or at least find details that were missed in the initial investigation," he intoned smoothly, use to the line of questioning.

"Hmm," she adjusted her legs to lay across his lap, reaching to prop the folder on them as a makeshift desk, "tell me about it?"

"The details are pretty grim, you sure?"

"Mhm, I don't mind. It's like rubber duck coding, right? Maybe if you explain it out loud to someone the missing pieces will pop into place."

And that's how Tim found himself explaining the intricate pattern of a series of connected murders to Marinette, who took the horrific descriptions in stride, sometimes throwing in theories for him to pick apart as he went. Even if it didn't look it with her closed eyes and relaxed disposition, she was obviously actively listening and paying attention to his rapid fire rambling which in turn encouraged him to continue despite his initial hesitance.

Stopping mid sentence, he yanked the file closer with his free hand, the other wrapped around her waist, studying it intently for a moment.

Letting out a frustrated breath, he murmured in a way indicating her almost forgotten presence, "Really? That's it?" And proceeded to move both arms to hold the pages steady, incidentally shifting Mari fully up onto his chest to accommodate the movement as he wrote across the page, connecting the dots to give a final full picture. Closing the folder up and moving it to the side table, Tim rewrapped his arms around her waist, taking smug satisfaction at successfully transferring her fully into his lap without it seeming to be on purpose.

"You make a good duck."

"Told you it would work, Drake."

"You sound like my brother."

"Hmm, don't call me a duck and I won't call you a drake."

"You're the one who brought up being my metaphorical rubber duck. You only have yourself to blame."

"And your the one who's last name literally means 'male duck', Drake," she deadpanned back to him.

Narrowing his eyes, Tim stared her down. However, Marinette was not one to back down to a challenge and only quipped, "So, still going to call me a duck?"

"I'll concede this round, but you're not cuddling back up to me until you find something else to call me. I'm not trying to hold my brother's clone here."

"Oh? But you are trying to hold your little brother's best friend?" She teased, turning a little pink and marveled at his own flushing face.

"If I remember correctly, you're the one who came in seeking My attention."

Giggling, she squirmed so that one leg was curled over his, torso shifted to in between his side and the couch once more, and tucked into his neck for the second time that day, smile pressing into his skin.

"Not denying it, Mon Cher."

Not expecting agreement nor the endearment, Tim gave a hum in response, not wanting to let on how flustered he felt. Lifting a hand, he hovered it over her head, not sure it'd be welcome, but holding a sigh of relief when she pressed up towards it, as though sensing its proximity and craving the affection it seemed to promise. Which is how he found himself nuzzling the side of her head, hand running down her hair in a soothing pet, listening to the almost purr that reverberated from her into his skin.

"You cut off earlier. How did the case end?" She spoke, lifting only enough to speak, but close enough that her lips still brushed his neck with every word before lowering back in.

And so Tim told her, giving her the answer before going back and explaining the connection and then finally the less notable details as he sensed her slowly falling into a light slumber listening to the low timber of his voice warm in her ear.

With a small smile, soft and unsure, he settled further against her, pulling her tighter just a moment before allowing himself to drift as well.

…..

Every few days, Mari would seek him out. The same tired, pleading look. The same gentle tugs and soft embraces. Helping him finish whatever he was working on before falling asleep curled up to him, humming with his hands in her hair and warm breath fanning across her skin. Sometimes the side of her head, other times murmuring random details into her ear, and on one notable occasion, down the side of her neck.

Sometimes they wouldn't sleep, just pass jokes and obscure references or talk about her latest project, finding rest and solace in one another without the need for immediate sleep.

And then finally, finally, one of them took a step forward.

… maybe not the way either of them planned. They'd been running this routine for three weeks straight but now.. It'd been 4 days and Mari had yet to come find him. This did not sit well with Tim, who counted on her to enforce something along the lines of regular sleep for him. Even if it was only in the form of long afternoon naps every couple days. Needless to say, he was grumpy, over caffeinated, and not entirely in his right mind when he sought her out.

Tim found her eventually, probably in Damian's room based on the bed and katana above the headboard. He hadn't paid attention enough on his mindless search to be 100% sure. Either way, she was there and that's what mattered. Taking a page out of her book, Tim walked over, took ahold of her wrist and tugged her up and towards the door, grip loose enough to slip out if she so desired, only to be stopped by large hand gripping his own wrist.

That's when Tim decided to actually take in the room fully, surprised to see Damian standing there, scowling with a raised eyebrow, not appreciating the abrupt interruption or kidnapping attempt.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"It's naptime," Tim stated, blinking back with a blank, unfazed expression.

Taken off guard, Damian stared at him, speechless, hand falling back to his side. Tim decided to take advantage of this and made way for the door once more, only to be blocked off once more, tired anxiety and frustration building by the moment.

"That doesn't explain you bursting in here and kidnapping my Angel." Damian stated, arms crossing in defiance, more annoyed at the lack of permission to enter his room than the way Tim sought her out.

"Mine."

"What?" The two younger occupants voiced.

"It's not naptime without Mari. You've been monopolizing her time. Mine now."

Neither of the younger could make heads nor tails of that. One use to Tim cutting off emotions and speaking so directly without consideration, but not the possessiveness being displayed. The other use to the clinginess and sleepless, unthinking words, but not the deadpanned delivery. It was weird to see the two sides mix together into this.

Mari was yanked from her stupor as Tim wrapped his arms around her, chin resting on her head, uncaring of their audience for the moment.

Eyes wide, she turned towards him and tilted to look up and meet his own dead ones.

"Yours?"

Reigning her in again, he rested his cheek in her hair, murmuring, "Mine."

Her and Dami met eyes and a smirk stretched across his face as he realized what this finally met.

"It's on."

"I suppose it is. If you'll excuse us, I think my attention is being demanded elsewhere."

"Oh, you think?"

"Mhm."

With that she allowed Tim to tug her away from the room, surprisingly not questioning the exchange, only to hear more invasive voices from down the hall. Not wanting to deal with the inevitable teasing and questions, he twirled on his heel, bringing her back past Damian and over into his own room. Surprised, but willing, Mari allowed him to lead her into his bed, hands holding her to him as he curled around her petite form, blanket coming up around them.

Finally finding her words, bright red painting her face, she turned in his arms, "Where'd that come from?"

"It's been 4 days. You never take that long."

"Miss me?" She teased, but the effect was ruined by the hope her voice betrayed.

"Terribly," he admitted unflinchingly. Surely, he was going to have an absolute anxiety attack when he woke up, but for now, his thoughts weren't coherent enough to be monitored or analyzed before falling out.

"What took you so long?" He wondered, pressing his forehead to hers.

"Kept getting too busy. You're not the only one who gets sucked into too much to think of sleep." She whispered, settling closer and running her hands over his shoulders in a soothing manner, "I'm sorry to keep you waiting."

" You should be apologizing to yourself. You need our naps as much as I do."

Humming, she guided her fingers up into his hair, glancing at his lips without thinking, "Do you think we could watch that movie you promised me next time?"

Waking up a little more at the seriousness of the question, even under the pretense of playfulness, he sent her a calculating look.

"I'd like that, ma lutine. Sunday night? We can watch it in my apartment..." He asks, purposefully looking down to her own parted lips before meeting her eyes again.

Silvery blues lit up at the endearment slipping out, moving further up into his space, lining up without touching.

"Yes please," whispers out.

Taking the plea for what it is, Tim slowly cups the back of her head in one hand, the other moving to tilt her chin. It's only for a moment, but he kisses her with such sweet affection, she feels dizzy with it.

He pulls away to her soft, happy humming, sleep creeping into the edges of his mind. Tucking her back under his chin, he falls into slumber with a quiet murmur.

"It's a date then."

#timari #maribat #timinette #sleeping is going to be a Thing here

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theritaminute · 4 years

Note

TEDDY HEWWO WILL YOU WRITE ME A JONMARTIN...... with Jon hiding an injury cuz that trope makes me Weak.... ily so much....

Martin stands watch in the corner, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches the three dumbasses of the Archives sit through another of Basira’s lectures.

Each of them is sporting their own new wounds, and have varying looks of petulance on their faces. Daisy at least looks ashamed, though she’s hiding it behind a scowl, but Jon and Melanie both have a fire in their eyes that says they can’t possibly understand why they are being scolded for going off on another impulsive mission.

“We stopped them,” Melanie mumbles as Basira winds down. She’s favoring the side of her mouth away from the bandage that covers part of her jaw. When Basira gives her a withering look, she sinks in on herself. Helen, perched on the arm and back of the couch in a way that reminds Martin of Tim, runs her fingers through Melanie’s hair comfortingly and gives a wide smile.

“I thought it was a lot of fun, honestly.”

Basira sighs and presses two fingers to each temple, either willing away a headache or seeing if the Beholding has given her some kind of laser vision. “Have you all been attended to?”

The three stooges mumble back affirmative answers, and Basira waves her hand dismissively, “Then get back to work.”

They all exit, Melanie storms off first, Daisy sticking close to Basira, seeming to try to placate her. Martin hears her soft apologies, hears the tonal shift in Basira’s voice as she says, “You’re hurt worse than Jon. How did you manage?”

He catches her eye as they pass by him to exit and recognizes the emotion in it. It’s one he himself feels all of the time when their coworkers go off to pull stunts like fighting a group of slaughtery avatars by themselves. The feeling of anger, of worry and bone-deep longing to keep these two idiots they are hopelessly pining after safe.

Martin’s own idiot makes a soft noise of discomfort as he shifts on the couch, leaning heavily on one side as he makes his way off of the sofa and towards his desk.

“You really ought to be more careful,” he intones, finding it hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Jon had clearly thought he had left with the women, if the way he jumps out of his skin is any indication. Martin derives a small, petty bit of satisfaction at the thought of scaring him half as badly as he was a few hours ago.

“We’re fine,” Jon sticks his nose up petulantly, shoving his glasses up with a clumsy motion, “We’re always fine. I don’t know why you two are always so overbearing, because we a-”

“Overbearing?” Martin practically squeaks back, “You think we’re being overbearing because the three of you seem to think yourselves invincible? You’re not, Jon, and just because you haven’t died yet doesn’t mean you never will. Do not roll your eyes at me you stuck up little man, I’m-”

During his rant Jon has turned his back on Martin and started to hobble away again, but cuts off the speech with a sharp little yelp of pain when Martin grabs his shoulder to turn him back around. He pulls his hands back immediately, feeling the noise deep in his stomach, twisting into guilt. It’s then he notices the way Jon is holding onto his side with both hands, the patch of his brown sweater that is just slightly darker than the rest.

“Jon, are you still hurt? What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” he insists, sinking into his armchair and lifting his shirt up to look at it. He quickly pulls it back down when it’s clear that the jagged cut is not nothing. “I was lightly stabbed in the attack. I can take care of it.”

“You were stabbed?” Martin repeats, grabbing the bandages off the side table once again and rushing to kneel in front of him.

“Lightly,” Jon insists, but the hiss in his breath when Martin pulls his shirts out of the way to get a better look tells a different story.

Working in the archives for so long had made Martin quite a bit paranoid, so corkscrew-worm-removers and hidden cans of CO2 were not the only things he has armed himself with. Jon is lucky he’s learned how to stitch someone closed, lucky he went so far as to take a real course to get certified in first aid, and lucky the instructor found him handsome enough to go a bit above and beyond in showing him how to take care of bastard Archivists with a penchant for getting themselves nearly killed.

Jon gripes the entire time, covering up his pain and discomfort with bitter little snipes about how it’s not even really that bad. As Martin is moving on to bandaging the cut, he asks, “Why didn’t you bring this up when we were taking care of you all. This needed more attention than the cut on your cheek.”

Without thinking, Martin reaches a hand up to run his thumb along the butterfly bandage over the minor cut, and is surprised to see Jon’s eyes widen ever so slightly, to see him suppress a shiver. He pulls his hand back and refocuses his efforts on the man’s stomach, trying to ignore the shake in Jon’s voice as he answers, “The other two had more serious things that needed tending to. By the time they were finished, it was… well, it felt awkward, to bring it up after such a long time.”

Martin pauses in his work to meet Jon’s eyes, incredulous. “You didn’t say anything about a serious injury because you would have felt weird about it?”

Jon crosses his arms over his chest and petulantly begins to stammer through an explanation, but at that point Martin is laughing too hard to listen to anything he is saying. He buries his laughter in one hand and looks up to apologize, only to find Jon looking back at him with eyes so soft and fond that the words die on his lips.

“Next time,” Martin clears his throat, grin still shining in his eyes and pulling at one corner of his mouth, “Tell me when you’re hurt. I’ll try not to make it awkward. Okay?”

Jon rolls his eyes, but there is a little smile on his face, and he nods once, so Martin tapes the bandage up and pats it once, lightly.

If you ask him later, he won’t be able to tell you what’s come over him when he leans forward and kisses over the bandage. There aren’t any untoward intentions about it, he is just overwhelmed with the urge to do it, and doesn’t see until afterward why there might be anything wrong with it. Then he leans back, the gears in his mind click together, and he shoots up, nearly knocking his head into Jon’s in his rush to stand up and back away.

“Sorry, that wasn’t- I mean, it’s to help it heal faster? That’s what mothers do, right? Not that I’m your mother, or that either of us would know, I just-”

There’s a steadying hand on his arm and a red-faced Jon in front of him in a moment, cutting him off with soft, unsure eyes and a quiet, “It’s okay, Martin.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles once more, for good measure, avoiding Jon’s warm brown eyes. It’s nearly impossible to do with the other man holding him in place by both arms, but if he stares forward he can see over the top of Jon’s head, to the board of avatar sightings and evidence on the wall behind him.

“I’m...” Jon takes a shaking breath, is quiet for a moment, and soldiers on, “It’s to help it feel better, right? It’s alright, Martin.” There’s a beat of silence that must last a hundred years. Maybe there is another, secret fear that they have yet to uncover, and Martin has just become the first avatar of mortification. “If I’m being honest, my cheek still kind of stings.”

Martin’s eyes snap back to Jon’s face, but this time, he’s the one doing the avoiding. They won’t get anywhere like this, though, so Martin gently cups the other cheek and guides his face up. “Yeah?” He searches Jon’s eyes for answers, or permission, or something he isn’t sure what. He finds it when Jon sniffles once and nods again. With that, Martin leans down and gently kisses the apple of Jon’s cheek, leaning back slightly to search his eyes once more. He finds them closed, but before he can do anything else, Jon is hauling himself onto his tiptoes, hands clutching the flannel at Martin’s hips, and he doesn’t have time to think before Jon presses their lips together.

It’s gentle, and chaste, and connects a thousand dots that Martin didn’t know he needed to connect. He’s giddy and breathless and at once filled with a sense of calm understanding. He pulls back after a long moment, brushes his thumb over Jon’s cheek and watches him lean into the touch. “This doesn’t mean you’re allowed to go off gallivanting and getting yourself hurt all of the time.”

Jon groans in irritation - the bitter little man he knows is back in full force - and yanks Martin back down to meet him again.

(i take requests!)

#babyneedsnack #ellie i love u so much wld u like my life #jonmartin #tma #fics #DID IT GET OOC AT THE END. YOU DECIDE..

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the-fahc-golden-boy · 5 years

Text

“You’re Shorter Than I Imagined”

First chapter of a new fic I’m working on! That’s right folks, I’m rising from my grave to start writing again!

Pairing(s): Jeremy/Gavin Michael/Ryan Geoff/Jack

Read it on AO3 if you’d like: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20008159

~~~~~

“You’re shorter than I imagined”

Jeremy knew at age 9 what exactly a soulmate was.

At age 12 he was already planning his wedding proposal with the help of some of his friends.

At age 15, when he was much shorter than his classmates and deemed a “late bloomer” he knew he was going to punch his soulmate the first time he saw them.

At age 18 he had given up hope of growing past 5’4” and had come to terms with the fact that his soulmate was either going to get punched, or get a very sarcastic response (he was really hoping to punch them).

At age 24 he found himself in a different city, a different state; across the entire country. He somehow managed this by joining an underground boxing ring, stealing a monster truck, and faking his ID in order to get a plane ticket as fast as possible.

Los Santos was gritty, bloody, dark, and everything Jeremy needed to hide out for a while. What he wasn’t expecting was to end up planting roots permanently in the city.

The first root was Axial.

He met Axial while working as his “bodyguard” for a crew that was newly pieced together and still struggling with power balances. Jeremy was hired on to be extra muscle, and was immediately used to guard the hired hacker. Jeremy never said a word to Axial, and Axial never said a word to him.

Jeremy’s job was to keep watch over Axial to make sure nothing happened to him; so Jeremy just stood nearby idly on his phone. Axial just typed away on his laptop, occasionally talking in code over the radio.

“Hey eye-sore, c’mere for a moment,” Jeremy was startled slight by the slightly gruff voice coming from behind him. He quickly whipped around to see Axial rubbing at his eyes, the bags under them much more noticeable when he was looking away from his computer screen.

Jeremy pointed at himself questioningly, unsure if he was indeed the “eye-sore” Axial meant. Axial just nodded yes and sighed as he looked back at his laptop screen.

“Please tell me you know how to code. Even basics would be fine.”

“I uh, know some basic coding, yes. Enough to get by on my own.” Jeremy stood in front of the desk, unsure what Axial wanted him to do.

“I need you to look over this and see if you can find any coding bugs. If you can’t then go get me a rubber duck.”

A quick five minute glance soon turned into an hour long search through the mess of letters and numbers, which ended up in Jeremy making a run to the nearest corner store for a rubber duck. Jeremy picked up the first one he saw; a little yellow duck wearing a green frog hat. Axial laughed when it was presented to him, but graciously took the gift.

Two hours later saw him tiredly fixing the small bugs he found as he relayed the whole code to the little duck, which had been named “Duckington” by the two of them.

That little duck was the first piece of a long friendship.

The second root he planted was when he permanently joined the crew that had originally hired him to keep watch over Axial (or Matt seeing as how they were on a first name basis).

The crew was more of a rag-tag team of people, no one that really fit in anywhere else but with other misfits. It was actually rather nice.

Everyone felt more like a family, all on even ground with each other. No inner-crew hierarchies to climb, no chain of command to follow, it was very much a team effort which you never really saw with crews in Los Santos.

The crew was his family, better than the one he grew up with in Boston.

The third root was hard to appreciate at first.

The “B-Team” as they called themselves had decided to merge with one of the other similar crews. The “Fake AH Crew” as they called themselves, or really just the Fakes if you wanted to avoid the mouthful.

Jeremy had been skeptical at first, but everyone else seemed to enjoy (or at least entertain) the idea of coming together with the other crew.

The Fakes were smaller than them, but yet held more influence over the city by having picked up a couple heavy names over the years.

Jeremy got along with Kingpin, aka Geoff, the “leader” of the crew. He quickly learned that Geoff wasn’t the greatest at leading them, just good at keeping appearances up and helping direct people into the best jobs. Geoff was actually rather lazy and spent his free time reading and just overall being a dad to the crew. (Yeah Jeremy had accidentally called him dad a couple times, but so had everyone else at some point)

Then there was the Pilot. Fierce and stiff and just about as scary as the jets she flew. Only in reality, she was the closest thing to a human teddy bear. Jack was Geoff’s soulmate, she had shown the phrase on her arm to everyone in the crew as a warming-up story, the phrase “Dear GOD please don’t hit me” was written across her forearm, everyone laughing at the idea of Geoff “Touch my books and I’ll gut you” Ramsey had thought Jack was going to jump him the first chance she got, when in reality she was keeping him away from a drunk driver.

The story was warm and kind of sickenly sweet for a pair of crime bosses, but it didn’t make Jeremy feel any better about the five words scrawled across his own right arm. “You’re shorter than I imagined” Yeah whoever his soulmate was, was going to get a swift beating, supernatural connection or not.

The next person Jeremy got acquainted with was the Vagabond. Before meeting him, he was Jeremy’s idol and worst nightmare at the same time. The Vagabond was like everyone in Los Santos’ boogeyman; slinking in the shadows and taking lives like it was what he was born to do. But Jeremy quickly learned that the Vagabond was just a kind of a title, passed along to Ryan Haywood. A quiet former model turned mechanic that was roped into the life by a former friend and ended up with the black skull mask (the only constant) by sheer dumb luck.

Ryan and Jeremy worked well together, and hell even the Vagabond and Rimmy Tim did too.

Rimmy Tim was Jeremy’s new “alter-ego”. The purple and orange eye sore that had befriended Matt, that same art student’s nightmare that introduced himself to the Fakes on the first combined heist. Rimmy Tim was what Jeremy used to be; crazy, rambunctious, and just dumb enough to try to make a get away in a monster truck. Rimmy Tim was Jeremy minus the fear of his past.

Mogar at first was the last person Jeremy wanted to meet. Word on the street said that Mogar was a savage, some kid Kingpin picked up in the middle of the woods and handed a gun to, telling him one thing and one thing only, “Shoot first and ask questions never”. Some even said Mogar was the Jersey Devil himself. Jeremy knew all this to be a lie as soon as he saw Mogar for one night. Mogar was just Michael, a kid from his high school that had an obsession with lighting bags of dog shit on fire and throwing them into rich people’s yards while laughing his ass off about it for the next week.

Michael wasn’t scary.

But if he wanted scary? The one who locked himself up in the computer room with Matt all day was scary.

That was Geoff’s “Golden Boy” and from what Matt spoke of him? The dude was like anyone’s true worst nightmare. Fast fingers and an even faster mind. Sharp as hell and cold as ice.

The Golden Boy had access to just about any document that had ever touched the internet, and from there it didn’t take him much to connect the dots.

But from what Ryan spoke about him? He was just as young as Jeremy, and with enough ego to fill up two whole other people. Ryan said that he’d never stop asking dumb quesitons, and only ever left his “nest” when Jack forced him to eat with everyone else on occasion.

Jeremy was conflicted.

Matt spoke like he was a brilliant mastermind. (Annoying as hell to deal with, but an incredibly smart hacker). Ryan spoke like he was Geoff’s kid that Geoff was just trying to put to use somewhere he wouldn’t break anything.

In all fairness though, Jeremy didn’t believe either of them. Not until he had met this “Golden Boy” for himself at least.

So when he wasn’t busy he’d wait outside the computer room. Matt would slip out first and assume Jeremy was waiting for him. And well, Jeremy was just too polite to admit to his friend that he was actually waiting to try and meet the other guy. Never once did Matt leave after Golden Boy, never once did Jeremy get to meet him.

It went on for a month.

One whole month of Jeremy mulling over if it was really worth it to spend this much time trying to meet this “mysterious” crew member.

Eventually he was nearing the end of his patience, so he did what any sensible person would. He brought it up to Jack.

“I just don’t understand! I’ve met everyone except him, and no matter what I can’t seem to be in the same place as him at the same time!” Jeremy was gesturing wildly, his cowboy hat threatening to fall off as his hands flapped above his head.

“This is just how he is Jeremy, there’s no need to take it so,” She snickered slightly as attempted to mirror his flailing arms, “so to heart I guess.”

Jeremy just groaned, sliding down the kitchen counter. Jack just smiled and started to hum as she went back to cooking her lunch.

“I’d watch where you sit if I were you, this pot of boiling water seems dangerously close to your head.”

Jeremy didn’t need to be told twice. Vaguely hidden threats were how Jack worked at getting you out of her way. Vague threats that she’s actually followed through on more than one occasion. (He’d witnessed Michael trying to bug her for the keys to her car and she threatened to lock him in the walk in freezer. Michael didn’t believe her and about an hour later Jeremy and Ryan were breaking him out of said freezer like a human popsicle heist.)

A week later and he still hadn’t even caught a glimpse of the Golden Boy. In fact, it was to the point Jeremy was starting to think everyone was collectively pretending that he was real when instead this “Golden Boy” never existed in the first place.

Jeremy was sitting outside one of their warehouses with Ryan, keeping guard because according to Geoff, “Golden Boy” had picked up little tid-bits here and there that a rival crew might be making an attempt to break into their warehouse on the coast.

Jeremy let out a bored sigh and fell against Ryan. (It was a thing he did, leaning on Ryan like a child. Ryan didn’t mind, in fact he rather enjoyed it.)

“You’re thinking too hard again, I can hear the wheels groaning.” Ryan kept his gaze forward, eyes watching the bushes in the distance.

“It’s nothing” At this Ryan moved his shoulder, effectively moving Jeremy back into a standing position.

“I’ve spent enough time with you to know that isn’t how your brain works.”

“Ughhh, fine” Jeremy focussed on the same bushes as Ryan, noticing an odd shake to them. “It’s just, does the Golden Boy actually exist?”

Ryan laughed at this, his hand reaching for the gun at his hip. “Yeah unfortunately he does.” He drew the gun slowly out of its holster. “Why, still haven’t seen him yet?”

“No, I feel like you’re all just pulling some elaborate prank on me.” Jeremy pulled out his own gun as well, bringing it up slowly with Ryan’s.

“I think I have some pictures on my phone of him if you want me to-” Ryan quickly popped off two silence shots into the bushes while Jeremy did the same. “-show you.”

The two of them watched as two bodies fell out of the bush they shot at. A third body went sprinting off into the distance. Jeremy smirked, that one guy would tell his crew that the Fakes had found out their plans and had killed the other two guys who were staking out the place.

“Yeah, sure why not. My curiosity is killing me.” Jeremy clicked the safety back on his gun and slid it back into the holster on his thigh, Ryan mirrored him, sliding his back into the holster at his hip.

Ryan pulled his phone out of his back pocket and tapped on it, navigating to his gallery where Jeremy caught a glimpse of several candid shots of Michael. He decided that whatever was going on between those two, he definitely didn’t need to know.

“Here’s the smug prick decked out before he went off to a negotiation with Geoff,” Ryan turned his phone so Jeremy could see.

The Golden Boy was tall and slim, but he pulled it off. The way he was stretched out over the heist table highlighted the leanness in his figure. Jeremy realized now why he was called “Golden Boy”, everything about him just oozed money and ego. His hair was bleach blonde, the gold shades sparkled, the jewelry was a little much, but the nail polish was Jeremy’s favorite piece. In the picture he had his nails painted with gold and black, each nail alternating in color, reminding Jeremy of the woman from the movie Holes that painted her nails with rattlesnake venom.

Something about him just captivated Jeremy, just pulled him in and he couldn’t stop staring.

Ryan had noticed, and when Jeremy finally got ahold of himself, he swiftly gave Ryan a kick to his shins to wipe the shit-eating smirk off his face.

“He looks like rich asshole.” Jeremy lied.

“He kind of is, but in that annoying sibling way that makes you wish daddy stopped giving him an allowance each week.” Ryan turned his phone off and slipped it back into his pocket, giving Jeremy a chance to end the conversation.

“So… Guess we can head back to the penthouse?” He didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, so he settled on just putting them in his pockets.

“Yeah, let Geoff know the good news. Maybe celebrate a little bit.”

Jeremy nodded. Getting absolutely shit-faced sounded like the best option right now.

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nancywheelxr · 6 years

Text

long nights, daydreams, sugar and smoke rings

"The hours spent between coming back and chasing down his alternate self, it’s a blur. He’s tired and angry and hurt and worried.

Everything blurs together in one nightmarish night Tim wishes he could wipe out of his memory.

He can’t think too much on it, not without falling in a rabbit hole of paranoia and distrust and despair and-

It feels too much like looking in his eyes.

But after everything, after he repressed it all to a locked chest in the back of his mind, one thing lingers to the forefront of his thoughts.

Conner."

or, the one where instead of obsessing over the Knights Project, Tim focus on finding Conner, and maybe learns how to live one day at a time.

alternatively, Tim isn't Macbeth, Bruce needs a book on parenting, Jason is trusted with the custody of a teenager, and Kon finally sees the stars.

It’s like chasing a ghost.

But then again, in this family, this wouldn’t be the first time.

The hours spent between coming back and chasing down his alternate self, it’s a blur. He’s tired and angry and hurt and worried.

Everything blurs together in one nightmarish night Tim wishes he could wipe out of his memory.

He can’t think too much on it, not without falling in a rabbit hole of paranoia and distrust and despair and-

It feels too much like looking in his eyes.

But after everything, after he repressed it all to a locked chest in the back of his mind, one thing lingers to the forefront of his thoughts.

Conner.

He doesn’t know who Conner is or why he’s so important to that version of him.

Tim tries not to think about it, it can’t be good if it’s linked to that . And besides he has bigger things to worry about. Batwoman. The Knights. All the future he needs to avoid.

But still, in the silence when he lays down to sleep, it echoes.

Then, it all goes to hell.

That’s the thing about knowing too much. It comes with a price. It always comes with a price.

And this time all of Gotham is paying the fare.

He’s Macbeth, crumbling under a prophecy he fulfilled on his own.

His leg is broken, and he’s confined to his bed. No training, no unnecessary stress.

Bruce is worried, Tim knows. And so are Alfred and Dick and even Jason, in a way.

They all dance around him, waiting for him to snap.

Tim isn’t going to snap.

For something to snap, to break, there needs to be pressure. A balloon bursts when it’s full.

But he’s not filled with anything. Tim is hollowed out. Empty.

There’s not enough of him to snap.

Still, he waits, and when Dick asks him if he wants more pillows, Tim gives him the tantrum they’re all expecting.

That’s only fair, he supposes.

With nothing to do, Tim thinks of the name rattling around his ribcage, woven in between his bones.

Conner.

This future- no . This version of him from an alternate universe, had said tell him you’re sorry and you know how important he is to us.

Except, no, he doesn’t.

There’s only a handful of people Tim cares about on that level, even less that aren’t somehow connected to Batman or Gotham. None of them go by any version of that name.

So, with nothing else to do and everything else turning to dust and ashes, Tim decides he wants to.

Tomorrow , he’s starting tomorrow.

There’s not much information to work with, all Tim knows is a name.

Even if it makes his chest ache and long and burn for no reason at all, it’s no help. There’s thousands of guys named Conner in the world.

How is Tim supposed to find his?

He unlocks the chest at the back of his mind, and tries to remember all that the other Tim Drake told him about this.

His hands shake and cold sweat drips from his forehead, but Tim closes his eyes and clenches his fists and thinks.

“How are you doing, Tim?” Dick asks.

“I’m fine.” Tim says, and it’s only mostly a lie.

Things Tim knows:

Conner

Probably around his age

Becomes Superman in that universe

Possibly related to Superman

Things Tim doesn’t know:

His full name

Good or evil?

Where he is

Does he exist in this universe?

Why haven’t they met yet?

Is he Superman’s son?

Where is he?

Why no one knows about him?

How can he find him?

Does he want to be found?

Does it matter?

Stephanie texts him once, u ok?

yeah, don’t worry, he text backs.

His phone doesn’t chime again.

The problem is that the list of things Tim knows is way too short compared with all the things he should but doesn’t.

Without at least a last name, he’s stuck.

Where does he even begin?

He gives up on looking up Conner. Instead, he downloads all files on Superman from the batcave after Bruce leaves for patrol.

Cassandra shows up one night, and Tim isn’t sure why he’s so surprised. She comes through the window, in the hours between night and not quite morning, and she gives him a sad, tired smile before joining him on the bed.

“Does it stop?” She asks quietly, “how you make it better?”

Tim has his computer on his lap, too many tabs open, and the screen hurts his eyes and it’s hard to make out anything more than her silhouette in the dark. He’s been reading files after files after files since five days ago, and he thinks he might be making some progress. The name Cadmus is highlighted in yellow ink.

He wonders why she’s asking him, of all people, this. Tim isn’t good at coping with shit. None of this is healthy, he knows.

But maybe, she doesn’t want healthy. Maybe she wants honest.

So Tim swallows around all the words choking on his throat, and says “it doesn’t.”

He lets her curl up and cry under the artificial light. When he wakes up later, she’s gone.

Cadmus.

It all comes back to Cadmus.

Tim hobbles down to the cave again, downloads more files. This time, the name Lex Luthor flashes on the screen.

Jason comes next.

He leans against the doorway, says, “you look like shit.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Tim keeps typing, he’s so close to hacking on LexCorps.

“And he speaks!” Jason smirks, but there’s not enough bite in his voice, and it leaves him on edge. Jason is chaos and fire and sharp edges, if he’s walking on eggshells, then- “listen, Replacement, Dick’s worrying.”

There it is.

His blood boils.

“Then tell him I’m fine,” he says, focusing on the screen and the code he needs to write, “you can go now, you already checked to see if I’m alive.”

Jason looks conflicted. Tim guesses he’s as uncomfortable in this situation as Tim. But he doesn’t leave, instead he digs around his pocket and throws him a key.

“165, Belmont Street.” Jason sighs, rubs his face tiredly, “if it gets too much. Tell anyone and you’re a dead bird.”

Tim hides the key in his sneaker under the bed. When he looks up, Jason nods, hands stuffed in his pocket. Tim doesn’t say thank you but he knows his brother gets it, and he’s surprised by the fierceness of gratitude and fondness that washes over him.

“Take care of yourself, Timbo,” Jason leaves.

Tim lets him, wordlessly.

Bruce is standing in the doorway. Tim knows, he had heard the stairs creaking under his weight and had just enough time to close his laptop and dive under the covers.

Neither says anything, and Tim isn’t naive enough to think he’s fooling him. Bruce knows he isn’t asleep.

But he says nothing, and doesn’t come in either. It’s late, he probably just came home from patrol. Tim can imagine the wariness cloaking him better than the cowl.

A sigh. Something that might have been his name.

Tim keeps his eyes closed, keeps on pretending.

The door closes with a soft click. The stairs creak.

His leg is healed and Tim is so close to cracking his mystery, but the world around him is spinning again.

The Trial of Batwoman.

A charade. An excuse. A lie.

But then again, he’s not sure what is or isn’t true anymore. Batgirl-

No. He should trust Bruce. Batman . He wouldn’t-

Tim wants to scream and tear this room apart. Instead he clenches his hands into fists until his nails dig into his skin and blood dots the sheets.

For the first time since Clayface, Tim feels so stretched out thin he fears he might snap.

He’s so tired of having the ground shifting under his foot.

After he escaped, Tim thought things could go back to normal, pick it up where he left off. But this world he came back to, it’s so different from before, he’s not sure where is his place in all this.

He feels misplaced.

So it’s easy, so easy , to focus on his search rather than map out a way back in this reality.

Tim searches for Conner and hopes to find himself.

“You were supposed to be resting.” Bruce. Batman says. “Not on a wild goose chase.”

“I need to know-”

“When is the last time you slept?”

“That’s not important,” Tim grits his teeth, tries a different approach, “imagine what it would mean for the Knights Project-”

“ Tim.”

Batman is trying, Tim can recognize that. But it’s too little, too late.

Especially when his blood is boiling and his foundations are crumbling again because it was all built on smoke and mirrors and how could he-

Tim thinks of the key hidden in a secret pocket on his utility belt and it feels like lead and burning iron on his hip, and he wants to punch Jason and he wants to hug him thank you.

He hops on his bike and speeds away.

Jason’s safehouse turns out to be an old warehouse near the docks, but to be fair, it’s furnished and well stocked enough to last for a good few months.

Thank god for Jason’s paranoia.

Tim drops down on the beat up couch, feeling the free fall from everything he knew. It makes his skin crawl and itch and buzz.

He knows Jason is bound to show up at some point, knows this place is probably bugged and tripwired, but he can’t begin to deal with this.

For now, Tim cries.

When he wakes up later, the sky is dark and there’s a warm pizza on the coffee table and ice cream on the back of the small refrigerator. A quick search around the warehouse and Tim finds some clothes that might fit him for the most part.

It’s easy to forget, but Jason is his older brother too. Dick’s not the only one that worries, he’s just the loudest about it.

Tim gets in the shower and lets the hot water wash over him, scrubs at his skin until it’s red and raw and hurting. The mirror slowly fogs over and the water runs hot, then lukewarm, then cold before he reaches for the towel.

He’s feeling a little more human by the time he sits back in the couch, hair dripping a puddle on the floor. The pizza has gone cold, but he doesn’t bother microwaving it, eats half of it without even realizing while some mindless talk show plays on the old TV.

There’s no clock anywhere Tim can see, so he has no idea how long has passed since he first got there when Jason comes through the door in full Red Hood gear, but the ice cream is already almost gone and the talk show has been replaced by an action movie with a too low budget for the kind of stunts they’re trying to pull.

Jason nods at him before climbing the stairs, two steps at a time, and disappearing inside one of the bedrooms. When he comes back down again, the helmet and armor has been replaced by sweatpants and a Wonder Woman T-shirt, and a blanket is bundled under his arm. Jason waits for Tim to make space for him on the couch before sitting down beside him. Tim hesitates for only a second, but stretches his legs over his brother’s lap as he lays the blanket over them both.

The credits are rolling in the screen and Tim is completely wrapped up in the soft fabric of the comforter when he finally speaks up, “Bruce is an asshole.”

Silence. Then, a snort, “tell me about it, kiddo.”

Tim snickers. And surprisingly, he tells him.

After the first night, Jason comes and goes randomly. Sometimes he shows up in the middle of the afternoon, arms full of groceries, and sometimes he comes in during the night and the only sign he was ever there at all are the blood stains in the couch and the bullets in the bathroom floor. Sometimes he stays for dinner and then breakfast, and sometimes he insists on cooking lunch. But his visits are scattered over the course of weeks, and Tim is grateful for the solitude.

It gives him time to pull himself together.

And pick up his research where he left off. In the five weeks he stays holed up in the warehouse, he finally narrows it down to an address.

Maybe Bruce has a point, he’s obsessing and refusing to face reality. But things have changed since he first started. This isn’t just about finding Conner anymore. It’s about Cadmus and Lex Luthor trying to clone Superman and getting it right. It’s about a version of Bizarro that doesn’t degenerates out of confinement. It’s about LexCorp creating and manipulating a weapon in masse.

It’s about a boy grown in a lab that might never have any choice at all.

After the utter failure with the Knights, Tim has a purpose again. Something to focus on and fight for. He’s helping people and feeling more like Red Robin than in all the time he spent scrambling to avoid all those what ifs.

He buys a ticket to Metropolis.

What Tim knows:

His name is Experiment 13, and he’s the most successful attempt to clone Superman Cadmus has managed so far. His DNA is half kryptonian and half human, although the human donor has not been listed in the files and Tim can’t find a trace anywhere.

He’s 19 weeks old and is being given implanted memories while undergoing an artificial maturation process. A few more weeks and he’ll match Superman’s age.

Cadmus’s plan is to build and manipulate him into carrying on their plans and defeating any threat Superman might pose.

Tonight Tim is setting him free.

“And where exactly do you think you’re going, Babybird?” Jason’s voice comes from the kitchen, “you seriously thought you could sneak out? Really?”

Of all the days Jason might want to check up on him. It’s just Tim’s luck, really.

“Don’t call me that,” Tim frowns, “and I’m going home. Not that I’m not grateful, but I figured I couldn’t hide here forever.”

Jason comes from the kitchen, dish towel hanging on his shoulder. “Man, that’s funny, you think you can lie to me.” He shakes his head, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, “you don’t have to tell me where you’re going, but you gotta tell somebody.”

“Since when you’re the responsible one here?” Tim glares.

“Since everyone else is busy being idiots,” Jason raises his an eyebrow, “is this about your sudden interest on Cadmus?”

“How the hell you know that?”

“Language,” he smirks, “please, this is my safehouse.”

That’s fair, Tim shrugs. This is a waste of time.

“I’m storming Cadmus in Metropolis,” Tim says, “do you want to help me blow shit up?”

In the end, Jason follows him to Metropolis with only mild complaining, but in Tim’s opinion that’s already more complaining than he’s entitled to, since he’s the one who inserted himself into this operation.

“Don’t you have teammates to bother?” Tim sighs, as he turns the security system offline, “I don’t know, really tall amazon? Looks perpetually grumpy? Or giant Superman clone? Ringing any bell? Really, they’re impossible to miss.”

“Nah,” Jason shrugs, working on disabling the cameras, “Artemis and Bizarro are having some good ol’ bonding time. She needs to chill.”

“To be fair,” Tim overrides the door locks; they’re good to go, “all of you need to chill. Come on, we’re clear.”

“Honestly, one month and you’re a little shit again,” he shakes his head, and Tim has the annoying sensation Jason is grinning under the helmet, “lead the way, Replacement.”

When they reach the actual labs, underneath all the facade Cadmus puts on for the world, Tim is horrified.

Experiment 13, and Tim forces himself not to think of him as Conner, because this is a real human being and not a ghost for him to chase, is submerged in a tank, hooked to a multitude of machines.

Jason fires another round outside. The sounds of the fight are getting louder, he doesn’t have much time, Jason can delay them for only so long.

Tim begins unplugging what he can, hoping he’s not doing more damage than good. The machines beep urgently, and the water level start to slowly come down. Tim watches as the boy in the tank takes his first breath.

It feels like he’s witnessing a miracle, something holy.

But there’s no time, as soon as he opens his eyes, Experiment 13 panics and Tim is fumbling to open the tank and outside Jason fires something that sounds suspiciously like a rocket launcher but Tim can’t deal with Jason’s bullshit right now.

The tank slides open, and the boy falls to the ground, tangled in wires and IV lines and coughing up water. He tries to tear it all out, and blood begins to stain his white suit, and Tim figures he needs to do something, but to be honest, when he had started looking for Conner, he hadn’t expected to get this far.

“Who are you?” Experiment 13 asks, voice hoarse and broken and stilted, “what- where-”

And he looks up with blue eyes confused and open and scared, and Tim aches , “I’m Red Robin, I’m here to rescue you. You-” He hesitates, unsure if that’s a promise he can keep, but decides to make anyway, “you’re going to be fine.”

Experiment 13 doesn’t look very convinced, and Tim braces himself for him to lash out, but the boy stumbles, tripping on the wires, and Jason is bursting through the doors, helmet a little cracked. “Yo, Red, we gotta go. Like, now. ”

Tim nods, rushing to help the boy stand up, feels his legs faltering, hesitant knees wobbling, and ends up throwing one arm over his shoulders and supporting most of his weight. “Hang on, we’re getting you out of here.”

“That,” Jason points to Experiment 13, as if he’s not using most of his strength to hold the door closed, “why you wanted to bust this place? Nice. ”

“Can we focus on how to get the hell out of here?”

Something pushes against the door from the outside and Jason grunts, throwing his weight to keep it closed. They need to find a way out, they should’ve known better than to let themselves be cornered like this, but Tim had been distracted by the excitement of finally, finally , getting to the end of this. And what’s the use? If they all die here because he couldn’t figure out an exit- oh man , Bruce is going to kill him if Jason dies again. Jason will probably hunt him in the afterlife and kill him again, too.

“Time’s running out, Red,” Jason grits his teeth. “Tick tock, use that big brain of yours-”

Before Tim can tell him to shut up , Experiment 13 whimpers, hands flying to his eyes, but it’s too late, he’s not fast enough, a beam of red laser shoots off, almost catches Jason’s helmet and burns a hole in the ceiling, causing half of it to collapse.

“That works too,” Jason doesn’t waste time gaping like Tim, instead he shoves both boys away, yells for them to just hurry the fuck up , and waits until they’re halfway up the next floor to fire his own grappling gun.

Dick would probably be so very proud.

As the three of them come to a stop in a rooftop in the other side of town, Tim sits down and breathes.

Tim isn’t stupid, he knows Superman and probably Batman will be here as soon as the situation in the Cadmus lab is dealt with, he’s actually surprised it’s taking them this long.

But he’s glad they have this moment to gather themselves, and when Jason says something about buying cigarettes and jumps down into the night, Tim lets him.

“I,” Experiment 13 starts, hesitating, “I don’t understand-”

He clutches his head, eyes squeezing closed as he begins to hyperventilate, so Tim rests a hand on his back, rubs circles soothingly, “it’s okay,” he repeats over and over, until the boy is breathing evenly again; then he asks, because he has to, “do you know who I am?”

“I’m,” his eyes glaze over, but he shakes his head to try and clear them, “Superman?”

Tim swallows. “Not exactly-”

“They- a clone?” He runs a hand over his hair, the tanks thick liquid sticking to his fingers along with the dust from the debris, “I heard- bits and pieces- they didn’t know I could- but I, I remember. ”

“I’m sorry,” Tim says, and he means it, “they are bad people, and they wanted to use you.”

“A weapon,” he nods, looking a little better, if still overwhelmed, “they called me their secret weapon.”

He spits the words out like poison, and Tim can understand. “You’re free now, you can choose for yourself.”

The boy looks up, and it’s almost a smile.

“What is the meaning of this?” Batman asks, “that building exploded , people could’ve been hurt, what were the two of you thinking?”

“We just want to understand,” Superman amends, but there’s a frown on his brow.

Jason shrugs, and Tim will give him this, he didn’t expected him to come back at all. “I think it’s pretty clear, old man.”

Batman twitches. Superman fights down a snicker. Tim facepalms. 13 looks confused.

“Cadmus was trying to find a way to clone Superman,” Tim steps in, “Bizarro wasn’t the last one like we thought back then. But after tonight, there’s no way they can pick up again. Not in the next decade.”

“What?” Superman starts, gaze landing on the boy standing behind Tim, “does that mean- did they succeed?”

Tim looks behind him, Experiment 13 nods. “Yes, mostly.” He steps back, nudging the boy forward gently, “this is him.”

Superman lands in front of him, eyes softening, “do you know who I am?”

“Of course I do.” Experiment 13 crosses his arms, glaring, “I’m not stupid.”

There’s a tense moment of silence, where even Jason seems uncomfortable, but then Superman laughs, rests a hand on the boy’s shoulders, “that’s fair. Sorry, do you have a name?”

The boy falters, and Tim feels his heart beating wildly on his chest, tries not to wonder , tells him instead, “it’s your choice, if you want. Whatever you decide, whoever you want to be.”

“Conner,” the boy says quietly, after a pause. Then stronger, certain, “ call me Conner .”

It’s no surprise that Conner leaves with Superman, Tim had expected, hoped , for that. But after they leave, the boy awkwardly holding on for the flight, it’s only Batman, him, and Jason standing on a rooftop, and that’s probably the most volatile combination.

“Red Robin,” Batman starts, stops himself. Starts again, “you look better.”

I was right , Tim wants to scream, you should’ve believed in me . Instead, he says, “I am better.”

“Nightwing is worried,” he continues, taking his answer as a white flag, “and so are the others.”

“You can tell them I’m fine.” Tim closes off. He wants this conversation to end, he wants Jason to shoot him now if only that would make it stop.

“What happened today,” and now Batman sounds wary, “you could’ve called, we would’ve helped.”

No, you wouldn’t. They would have dismissed him. Would tell him he needs rest in that voice that drips pity like acid on his skin.

“Yeah, well,” Jason is suddenly a part of the conversation again, resting his elbow in Tim’s head in the way he always does just to show he’s the tallest, “he did call the cavalry.”

Batman purses his lips. “Red Hood, while I appreciate you- helping your brothers, you should’ve called back up. The two of you- people could’ve been hurt.”

“Bats, and I say this with only mild intention to offend,” Jason continues, even after Tim shakes him off, “but you seriously need to chill.”

A pause, then Batman sighs, looking too tired to pick fights. “Make sure he sleeps, at least.”

And with that the Dark Knight is gone.

“Why do I feel like I just accepted to babysit his cat?” Jason frowns, “this is a trap, but I don’t know how yet.”

“Can we go home now?” Tim yawns, “and ‘sides I’m hungry.”

“Did he just trick me into getting custody of you?” Jaso stops, “wait, goddamnit, I want a lawyer!”

Later, after they ate a whole pizza and Jason stumbled upstairs to pass out on his bed, Tim lays on the beat up couch, wrapped in the softest blanket he could find. On the TV another action movie drawls on, and Tim finds himself lost again.

He spent all this time trying to find Conner, and now that he has, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

From what his alternate self had said, they would grow to be important to each other. But when? How? Would this even happen here, in this reality?

There’s a whole new future waiting for him, all these days laid down in front of him, and Tim is excited and exhilarated and scared.

While he doesn’t want to live out what the other Tim Drake told, running away, fighting against it, has only made it true.

Alternate Tim Drake had said after Batwoman, it was all downhill. And while he was right, the Knights Project is over, he was wrong, too. Because upstairs Jason is snoring lightly, even though he’ll deny it if Tim brings it up in the morning, and Batman is an asshole and it will still take some time, but all bridges can be rebuilt.

And somewhere in Kansas, there’s a boy named Conner learning how to live.

In the morning, Tim might call Dick. Check in with Cass. And maybe even with the Demon Brat.

This is not downhill, it’s not easy, but Tim never expected it to be; this is him, taking a day at a time and embracing whatever his future might hold.

It's like chasing a ghost, but Tim finds he can live with the unknown this time.

#Tim Drake #Jason Todd #bruce wayne #batman #timkon #detective comics #robin #red robin #red hood #red hood and the outlaws #rhato #batman fic #timkon fic #kon el #conner kent #there i fixed rebirth #and the detective comics last issue ending #bring kon back you cowards #give tim his boyfriend back

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thisdaynews · 4 years

Text

South Africa v England - hosts bat first

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/south-africa-v-england-hosts-bat-first/

South Africa v England - hosts bat first

Got a TV Licence?

You need one to watch live TV on any channel or device, and BBC programmes on iPlayer. It’s the law.

Find out more

Live Reporting

By Jack Skelton

All times stated are UK

Posted at 16:0716:07

Post update

Tim Peach

BBC Radio 5 Live in East London

There’s a really strong breeze coming across the ground from the sea. Expect to see lots of sixes hit one way, and some misjudged fielding the other way

1.5 overs

six

SA 18-0

BIG. Quinton de Kock has the first six of the match, using the wind to clear deep extra cover with a booming drive.

1.4 overs

SA 12-0

Smashed over mid-off this time. Four more.

1.3 overs

SA 8-0

After two dot balls, Quinton de Kock skips down the pitch to loft it down the ground.

The ball hangs in the air and Chris Jordan is at mid-on…but not even England’s finest catcher can leap that high.

That’s four.

Posted at 16:0416:04

Post update

Tom Curran had a fine Big Bash campaign with champions Sydney Sixers (though he missed the final for the ODI series in South Africa).

He’ll open up from the other end.

Posted at 16:0416:04

Post update

There are worse ways to spend a Wednesday evening…

AFPCopyright: AFP

1 over

SA 4-0

Bavuma 2, De Kock 2

Moeen Ali gets away with a leg-side delivery that Temba Bavuma chooses to tap to mid-wicket for a single.

Tighter next up and Quinton de Kock has to defend down the pitch before glancing a sharp single off his pads.

And a dot to finish as Bavuma can’t connect properly trying to cut a wide one. Just the four singles from the over. A gentle start.

0.1 overs

SA 1-0

Temba Bavuma rocks back to clip through mid-wicket for a single to get off the mark.

Proteas captain Quinton de Kock is opening the batting with him.

Posted at 15:5915:59

Post update

Moeen Ali is going to open the bowling for England.

Fun!

Getty ImagesCopyright: Getty Images

Posted at 15:5815:58

comments

Waylon in Leicester:Dawid Malan needs to put the team first and not protect his average (re Robert Stow, 15:51).

Getty ImagesCopyright: Getty Images

Posted at 15:5715:57

Post update

Is that a football?!

Getty ImagesCopyright: Getty Images

Posted at 15:5415:54

Post update

Tim Peach

BBC Radio 5 Live in East London

Managed to sneak a look at the DJ’s playlist yesterday. Some big tunes in there.

BBCCopyright: BBC

Posted at 15:5115:51

comments

Robert Stow:So what more does Dawid Malan need to do to get in this England T20 side?

Posted at 15:4915:49

Post update

England will wear black armbands during this match in memory of the daughter of former Glamorgan and England cricketer Steve James.

On Monday, James – now a journalist for the Times – announced the “sudden death” of 21-year-old Bethan.

He told the newspaper he was “honoured” by England’s “moving gesture”.

James, who played two Tests for England, scored almost 16,000 first-class runs during his career.

Posted at 15:4715:47

Post update

Tim Peach

BBC Radio 5 Live in East London

People already getting their spots on the grass banks by the floodlights

BBCCopyright: BBC

Posted at 15:4515:45

Post update

So, yes, the ‘old man’ as Shaun Pollock put it, is back.

South Africa fast bowler Dale Steyn will make his first international appearance in almost a year.

Steyn, 36, has not played for the Proteas since March and missed the 2019 World Cup with a shoulder injury.

He retired from Test cricket in August to prolong his playing career and proved his fitness in a recent stint with Melbourne Stars in the Big Bash League.

Posted at 15:4215:42

Post update

Jos Buttler opening the batting. Hello.

No place for Dawid Malan, who also didn’t play England’s last match in New Zealand after hitting a ton in the fourth match.

He was criticised by Eoin Morgan for not attempting to run a bye off the last ball of the innings because he wanted to stay not out.

England were rotating their side in New Zealand but what might Malan being left out here mean?

Saqid Mahmood, Sam Curran and Matt Parkison are the other members of the squad not playing today.

Posted at 15:3815:38

Teams

South Africa XI:Quinton de Kock, Temba Bavuma, Rassie van der Dussen, Jon-Jon Smuts, David Miller, Dwaine Pretorius, Andile Phehlukwayo, Beuran Hendricks, Tabraiz Shamsi, Dale Steyn, Lungi Ngidi.

England XI:Jason Roy, Jos Buttler, Jonny Bairstow, Eoin Morgan, Ben Stokes, Joe Denly, Moeen Ali, Tom Curran, Adil Rashid, Chris Jordan, Mark Wood.

AFPCopyright: AFP

Posted at 15:3815:38

Post update

South Africa captain Quinton de Kock:“It looks a good surface. We don’t mind batting first, runs on the board can be key.

“Dale Steyn, the old man, is back. He’s bowling really well lately, so it’s great to have him in the side.

“The build-up to the World Cup, it’s a great time to start. We want the boys to put up their hands and make selection difficult for us.”

Posted at 15:3515:35

Post update

England captain Eoin Morgan:“The wicket looks good, there’s a bit of a howling wind and there’s not a lot of data on games being played here. It irons out what we’ll have to do later one.

“Our senior players are back in, we’re looking forward to tonight and what comes after this.

“Buttler, Wood, Stokes come back in. These are experienced guys who have played all over the world.”

#first #hosts

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dragonbagel · 7 years

Text

Retrograde - Part 10

the nerds finally reunite, but shit stays shitty. [read on ao3 here]

"Rhys?" Jack called, fitting the key into the appropriate lock and opening the door with a sharp click. "You in here, pumpkin?"

There was a strangled cry, and that was all the confirmation Jack needed before bolting through the doorway.

"Rhysie?" he said again, glancing around to find himself in some sort of observation room. The stench of a rotting body assaulted his nose, and he turned to see a bloodied bandit corpse lying in the corner. In front of him, there was some sort of control panel. Some of the multicolored buttons had no labels, but the ones that did made Jack feel nauseous. Electrodes, extreme temperature gauges, oxygen level controls-- God, he couldn't wait to get his hands on Vasquez (or, more specifically, around his throat).

"I did it! I k-killed them, just like you asked!"

Jack looked up to see there was a slightly tinted window, which he easily identified as one-way glass. And beyond that window... Jack felt his heart shatter in his chest.

"Please, please no! You've taken everything from me!"

Rhys' body looked even worse than it had on the video feed, and Jack quickly located the button that would allow him to enter the other room. Rhys was crumpled in a corner, a Loader Bot holding his flailing body in place.

"Rhys!" he called again, hurrying to disable the Loader Bot's viselike grip. But Rhys didn't respond, looking in the space beyond Jack in panic.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he whimpered, and it took Jack a moment to realize that Rhys wasn't talking to him. What had Vasquez done to him?

A small part of his brain remembered what Tim had discovered earlier, and he searched Rhys' body for any sort of injection site, which proved difficult with the way the man was thrashing about, still pleading with nonexistent enemies. Jack finally located a small needle lodged into Rhys' exposed skin just below his neck, the skin abnormally cold and clammy. It looked like some sort of IV, connected to a port on the wall behind the Loader Bot.

Jack carefully slid it out from beneath Rhys' skin as he flinched, the point of entry now dotted with blood and a purplish liquid. He then went back to trying to get the Loader Bot to release Rhys, who was still begging for his life. No, not his life-- his parents'. Jack thought back to what Sasha had told him, about what that bitch Vallory had done to Rhys and his family. He felt sick at the thought of Rhys having to relive that again, even if it was only in his mind.

Rhys screamed all of a sudden, wrenching himself free from the Loader Bot's now-loosened grasp. His left hand, which dangled from a crooked and probably broken wrist, attached itself to his empty right shoulder socket, clawing at the marred flesh where his arm used to be. He was crying now, yelling nonsense, his nails drawing blood from the half-clotted scabs.

"Rhys! Rhys, look at me!"

Rhys didn't seem to hear him, didn't seem to register that what he was experiencing was nothing more than a drug-induced hallucination.

He grabbed Rhys' wrist to stop him from hurting himself even more, and Rhys howled in pain. Yep, Jack thought to himself. That wrist was definitely broken.

"Rhysie, it's me, it's Jack," he said soothingly, brushing a few strands of Rhys' hair from his sweaty forehead. "Come back to me, baby, please."

Rhys recoiled at the touch, trying to push himself away from Jack despite already being pressed against the wall. "Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch me!" he snarled, his features contorted in anger despite the clear fear and pain in his non-bloodied eye.

Jack took in Rhys' shaking form, noting with another wave of anger that Rhys was naked save a now blood-speckled pair of boxers. He could barely handle the thought of Vasquez beating Rhys physically; if the man had so much as thought about touching Rhys sexually...

"Th-that was different!" Rhys said, his voice wavering. "I-it was just a j-job!"

He was trembling more violently now, his speech lower. "P-please," he said again, his voice weak and sounding defeated. "I-I'll d-do it, just l-let them go."

His body went rigid for a moment, giving Jack enough time to wrap his arms around him before he started to flail again. "Shh, I've got you," he said as he gently pressed Rhys' face against his chest.

He didn't know how long the drugs would stay in Rhys' system, so he did the one thing he knew how to: he held him. Rhys tried to struggle, but the torturing had made him weak. His breathing was unsteady, and the stench of blood and sweat was overpowering as Jack pressed a kiss to the top of Rhys' head. He didn't care, though; finally, finally he could keep him safe.

Rhys began to let out pained moans, although Jack's chest absorbed most of the sound. He tightened his grip, providing the pressure and tactile comfort that usually calmed Rhys down after he had nightmares.

"It's okay, Rhysie. You're safe, it's not real," he said softly. But from the way Rhys was continuing to struggle, it was clear Jack's words hadn't sunk in.

"I-I'm sorry," he said again, this time with less force. "I-I let you down. I w-won't l-let her get away w-with this."

He continued to stammer out apologies until his voice faded out, his shudders lessening in intensity until his body went limp. Jack felt a wave of panic wash over him before he felt the warmth of Rhys' breath, irregular as it was, ghost across his collarbone. He hummed as he ran his fingers through Rhys' hair, not caring that it was sticky and matted with blood. Once he was through with every last bastard that had taken part in this little operation, some scarlet on his fingers would be the last of his worries (or, rather, the worries of his dry cleaners).

"J-Jack?"

Jack looked down to see Rhys staring up at him from his lap, his functional eye less glossed over than before. His voice was hoarse, and he looked like he was about to slip back into unconsciousness at any moment.

"Hey cupcake," he said with a smile, although he couldn't help but glance over all of the cuts and bruises littering Rhys' body.

Rhys must've noticed, because he shifted so that less of his skin was in view of Jack. "Is it really you?"

Jack nodded. "Of course it is, pumpkin."

Rhys sighed in content, although he winced at the sudden deflation of his lungs against what were clearly broken ribs. Jack had to hold back a shudder at the thought of what else Rhys might've seen while hallucinating, especially involving himself.

"I thought you'd never come," Rhys murmured, pressing his face against Jack's chest again.

"And leave you here with that psycho?" Jack asked, laughing, as he put his arm around Rhys' back.

Rhys just shrugged, curling into himself more tightly. The distraught look on his face made Jack itch even further for some sort of revenge, for retribution against the damage done to Rhys' mind and body.

Rhys let out a whine, closing his eyes tightly and clenching his fist as he wrapped his arm around his knees, which he'd brought up to his chest.

"Rhys," Jack said, placing a hand on his shoulder; it reminded him of how Vasquez had done the same thing no more than an hour ago, and he felt sick. "Babe, I need you to stay with me."

"It hurts," he said quietly, sounding far more vulnerable than Jack could ever remember. "It hurts so bad."

"What hurts, Rhysie?" Jack asked, shifting to carefully inspect the bruises and contusions littering Rhys' skin.

Rhys didn't respond, slowly rocking back and forth.

"Please, let me help you," Jack said as softly as possible, refraining from touching Rhys despite how badly he ached to do so.

Rhys shook his head, scrunching his face in the way Jack knew he did on those rare occasions when Jack caught him crying.

"Did he touch you?" he asked, swallowing hard. He didn't know what he would do if Rhys' answer was yes.

But Rhys simply shook his head again, and Jack felt a sense of relief flood him. It was short lived, however, as Rhys started to speak again in a trembling voice.

"Th-they did. They a-all did."

"Who, Rhys?" Jack said, his voice low and defensive. "Who put their hands on you?"

"I didn't want to!" Rhys said frantically as Jack stared at him in confusion. "I never wanted to."

Jack hummed as he looked Rhys over, his gaze landing on his panicked hazel eye and the blood coating the other half of his face.

"P-please don't go, Jack."

Jack huffed, gently pulling Rhys into another embrace. "I'm not going anywhere, cupcake."

"But he's right," Rhys said, his voice cracking. "He's right about me."

"Who?" Jack asked, nestling Rhys' head in the crook of his neck. "That asshole Vasquez?"

Rhys flinched at the name, and Jack reached to run his hand over his back, soothing him.

"I fucked up, Jack," Rhys said, his voice hitching. "I fucked everything up."

Jack pulled back from Rhys, looking into his eyes as he softly brushed his thumb over Rhys' split lip. "None of this is your fault, Rhysie. I promise you, once I finish with him there won't be anything left to airlock."

Rhys felt his lip begin to tremble, averting his gaze. "He knows," Rhys said, choking back a sob. "He knows everything."

"Shh," Jack said, rubbing his back again. "It's okay, it's going to be okay."

"B-but it's not," Rhys said, trying and failing to untangle himself from Jack. "You don’t know w-what I d-did.”

Rhys’ chest felt unbearably tight, and his surroundings were flickering in and out of existence. He was in that disgusting, muggy torture chamber, and then suddenly, he was back on Pandora, in the cold air and the red dirt and the--

“Rhys,” Jack said, seeing the man in his lap starting to fade out of awareness again. “I don’t care what you did, okay?”

Rhys tilted his head slightly to the side, not completely comprehending Jack’s words. Jack’s lips on his forehead, however, was something he understood.

“I love you Rhys,” Jack said, pulling him as close as he could without agitating his broken limbs and bruises. “I’m never letting you go again. I’m so, so sorry.”

He could feel Rhys smile against his chest, the hand that he still had left cupping Jack’s cheek lightly. He grimaced at the pressure it put on his wrist, but the reassurance that Jack was real and Jack was here and oh God Jack loved him was all he cared about.

“You think you can stand?” Jack asked, meeting Rhys’ gaze and shuddering slightly at the sight of his missing eye.

“Uhh...” Rhys tried to push himself up, and with a generous amount of help on Jack’s part, he was able to shakily stay on his feet. Jack took Rhys’ arm and gently draped it over his shoulders, supporting him as they hobbled towards the door.

“We’re almost there,” Jack reassured him, painfully aware of the mental torment their surroundings were somehow still causing Rhys.

Rhys nodded, clenching his jaw at the pain shooting through his limbs. He watched as Jack reached out the arm not supporting Rhys to grab the wall and hoist them through to the observation room.

But then Jack froze, looking to Rhys in confusion. Rhys tried to reason out what was going on, but the combination of drugs, lack of sleep and overwhelming pain were quickly turning his brain into mush. Rhys saw Jack’s lips form the words “it’s locked” before the world was spinning around him, turning black around the edges as his cheek was met with something hard and cold.

There was a loud, reverberating laughter, one full of self-satisfaction and pride. This time, however, the laughter wasn’t just in Rhys’ head.

#rhack #rhack fic #rhack tftbl #rhys the company man #handsome jack #retrograde #trash writing

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