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@remarcely
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Display Cases
Remarcely
Summary:
A young Tim's parents, during one of their rare visits back to Drake Manor, left behind a ruby in one of the display cases. It was unidentified, of an indiscriminate origin and purpose. It drew Tim's attention, luring him closer and closer, until... Its owner comes to collect it.
I would like to humbly offer this
for the DropoutTV selection of 'screenshots of people in the dome behind other people'
New addition from season 8 of Game Changer!
How is there no fanfic crossovers between Batman and The Mentalist? Both Patrick Jane and Dick Grayson grew up in a circus???
https://archiveofourown.org/works/80568031
A Creak In The Floorboards-
A very short Daredevil fic.
Matt bought the old gym his father had trained at before his death. He handed over management to someone else and kept his job as a lawyer, and trained himself in the ring at night. The place wasn't closed during that time, but was usually empty.
Until a gruff sounding man walked in one evening, calling himself 'Frank'.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/70140986
Summary:
Timothy Jackson Drake was born on the 19th of July at 4:45 in the morning, a healthy 6.2 pounds, wailed until he was shoved into the arms of the nearest nurse and rocked to sleep. His father had left only a few minutes after the baby was confirmed as a boy to draft out the announcement, leaving Janet to find sleep herself after a long 12 hours of labour. They would stay in the hospital for a day until the paperwork was filled out and a baby carrier had been delivered. Timothy saw the blue sky for the first time on a cloudless day, gentle swinging back and forth, as his parents argued in raised voices. His birthdays would be planned as a marketable event, until he reached the age of 6 when he was no longer considered ‘cute’, and every moment was recorded to plaster over his parents HR-run social media. After his 6th birthday party and the cameras stopped, the streamers were torn down and the decorations packed into boxes to go into storage. His parents were out of the country by noon and Timothy would realise two days later that they weren’t coming back any time soon.
With his face stuck to the ground with his drying blood and most of his bones either too broken or fractured to move away, Jason was forced to stare at the warehouse’s doors. It’s had probably been an hour since the Joker had left. His laughter still echoed off the stone walls and his taunts lingered on Jason’s skin, the worst of all in the shape of a ‘J’ on his cheek that had been carved in with a knife. He couldn’t see it, but the Joker had told him what it was with that stupid grin of his stretched abnormally wide on his face. It’d made him want to tear his skin off.
Underneath the memory of that monsters’ cackles and sickening crunches of a crowbar against flesh and bone, was crying. Shiela had been sobbing from the moment the Joker had gagged and handcuffed her to a pipe. She’d tried to stop him, finding child murder a little too far despite being fine with kidnapping, embezzlement, and other white-collar crimes, but hadn’t gotten very far. She’d screamed at the Joker for a while, cursing him to all hell and then begging him to stop. Jason had stopped hearing the words clearly when blood got into his ears.
Sheila was still crying long after the Joker left them for dead with a literal ticking time bomb. She was quieter, though, and Jason got the feeling the tears were more for herself at that point than him. He probably looked dead already. It hurt to breathe, he could feel at least four broken ribs, and moving was too painful of an idea to even consider. The rise and fall of his chest was bad enough. He almost wished he was dead, just to make it stop, but he didn’t dare because he was still staring at the doors and he knew Batman was coming for him.
Jason was on his back. His lungs burned and he struggled to draw in each and every breath. His eyes were fixed shut, he could feel debris on his eyelids. He could practically hear his inner Bruce-voice telling him to keep them closed, that opening them could cause serious damage, and it was his focus on that which distracted him from the pain radiating from every part of his beaten and battered body. He wanted to cry. He wanted his mum- Catherine, not that cold-hearted traitor Sheila.
A cool hand cradled the side of his face and he flinched, convinced it was the Joker, come back for more.
“Hello Jason,” A woman spoke in a soft and gentle voice, one that he did not recognise and yet it felt oh so familiar “Open your eyes, Jason.”
“C-Can’t-” He coughed out “I-It… hurts.”
“You’re alright now, Jason. Open your eyes.”
Like most teenagers, Jason avoided cameras like the plague. He'd tug his hood over his face in protest, but you would still be able to see his grin poking out underneath. He took great pride in the photo albums Alfred lovingly put together only holding motion-blurred pictures of himself.
After he died, Bruce tried to seek solace in those photos.
All he found was a ghost.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/62379628/chapters/159619882
hunting dogs- by Remarcely (Ao3)
A whistle cut through the forest. The call did not belong to the woodland’s birds, instead a young boy, still a few winters away from becoming a man. His hair caught the light, shining like gold in the dappled streaks of sun, and his eyes flickered from every branch and leaf that surrounded him. Frowning, he whistled again but sharper that time. The hunting dog he’d brought with him that morning was still nowhere to be seen and, concerningly, not to be heard of. Faye- Morgana had named the creature and should take full responsibility for its name- was a loud boisterous dog, never not making noise. She was useless for stealth but speed was her saving grace, as she could catch the fastest of rabbits better than the rest of the litter. As she often did, she’d run off at Arthurs command and was yet to reappear.
Dry foliage crunched under Arthur’s hunting boots as he strode further into the trees, searching for the dog.
“Faye?” He whistled again “Come here.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
CW: BODY HORROR
It had begun as a tremor through his hand, then an itch that blanketed across every inch of Peters skin. By the time the field trip was over and he was on the bus home, it had bubbled up into a fever that sent him stumbling blindly through his apartment’s door, barely able to fumble for his key long enough with his blurring vision to unlock the damn thing.
May arrived home from her late shift to find him passed out, flat on his face, in the hallway. She’d screamed and later admitted she’d thought that, at a first glance, Peter had been dead.
If it weren’t for her medical training and piles of unpaid bills on the counter, May would have taken him to the hospital. Instead, they had to make do with a home-remedy-treatment. He was out of school for the first week just to gain a control on his fever, then another until he could keep food down.
Peter didn’t really remember much of it; his mind had been in a haze and half the time he’d been asleep anyway. May, however, had been nauseatingly conscious for every second.
She’d sat by his bed side and watched as something moved under his skin. When May had been using a sponge to give him a quick bath in the hopes of cooling him down, she’d seen something pulse around his wrist. Like whatever it was had been flexing, she’d described, and that the small bumps and lines that had risen had done so in a ripple before sinking back in to the rest of the flesh. What she would contest though, out of all the grotesque shapes that had wriggled beneath his skin as if they were alive and the distressed cries when his fever was at its peak, May was certain she’d never been more terrified than when his body had started to contort.
It was during a painful fit that Peters torso had begun to jerk up, his back arching into the air as his neck craned as far back as his shoulders would physically allow. His arms had flailed out, one slamming into the bedside table to smash a lampshade and send the alarm clock flying, while the other whirled into the wall with crunch. It had left a dent in the brick. Peters mouth had been open in a silent scream, jaw so far stretched that the corners of his mouth had started to tear and bleed.
May had removed his shirt that morning when his temperature spiked, and it allowed her to watch in pure horror as his ribcage unfurled inside him like a blooming flower, pushing so hard against his skin that May had been certain they’d tear right through to escape. They moved in and out, in a breathing-like motion without the lungs guiding them, and once a tense moment passed, they gradually curled back into their rightful place.
She had run to the bathroom to throw up after and, for the first time since Ben had died, curled in on herself right there on the tiles to pray to a deity she hadn't believed in since she was a child.
Three days later, Peter Parker was awake and asking to return to school, confused as to why a shaking pale-faced May had insisted he take another week off. Well, confused until he went to brush his teeth and moved to turn the tap on, tearing the sink off the wall in the process.
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Okay so The Shadow Falcons are definitely people in Never Stop Blowing Up that are either trapped there from the real world or gained self-awareness that they're in a tape that resets and are attempting to prevent it from doing so, to keep the tape running. Forever.
I like to believe that it's entirely the fault of Barsimmeon Higgs.
That man has spent so much time- an insane amount of time some might say- fucking around and never finding out, purely because he could just wait for the tape to reset to avoid the consequences. Sure, a friend of his died, he trapped random celebrities for eternity, and it appears that others spread throughout the world may have gotten trapped too.
But Barsimmeon is fine.
At the end of the day, all he has to do is rewind the tape and slot it back into his VHS player. He gets to be Damian Bane, a man with more muscle than should be conceptionally possible, and run around having fun without the pain in his joints from his age, without wondering what the next day brings because he's watched it thousands of times.
The world of Never Stop Blowing Up is straight up insane, but it's Barsimmeon Higgs that has been consistently making an effort to match that crazy. To be a bystander in that tape... no wonder they want things to change.
Perhaps it's not such a bad idea after all.
The Red Hood had big plans for Gotham, more specifically for its bats, and had shown just as much with the spray painted symbol on his chest, looking more like a bloodstain than anything else. Severed heads left on the doorsteps of precincts, meetings of dealers shot up, mutilated bodies found in back alleys more than made their mark on the city.
However, shortly after the unfortunate and unexpected death of Bruce Wayne, things fell quiet.
There never was a fatal meeting between the Batman and Red Hood, the Joker never had that gun held to his head, and the man remained a mask and nothing more because there was no one left to prove his point to.
His 'father' was dead and another person wore his skin. There would always be another Batman, just as there would always be another Robin.
The lesson was never learnt and the graves continued to be dug.
Batmanfic Prompt: WHAT IF Batman got turned into a cat and Red Hood found him?
(This was a prompt somewhere on Tumblr but I lost the original post, if you know who it was let me know so I can tag them)
There were good reasons behind Batman’s rules. ‘Don’t travel without bat-shark repellent’, he’d always managed to get caught off guard the few times it had been missing from his utility belt. ‘All dominoes must be fitted with lenses’ was another. He’d gotten too many bugs in his eyes during his first year to waver on that. Then there was his ban of magic. There were too many examples to count for that rule and, as Bruce looked down at his hands only to find two small black paws, that number appeared to be climbing.
He wasn’t sure why this magic user had come to Gotham, or how for that matter, but one thing he was certain of was that when his body was back to being human again, he was going to throw them off a roof. See if they land on their feet.
Bruce stuck to the shadows and walked behind dumpsters and kicked over bins, stepping over newspaper pages so trodden on they matched the grooves of the streets. He headed further down the alleyway, ears twitching with each droplet of water that fell from the metal fire escape stairs to the puddle collecting the left-over rain beneath it. Sounds of chatter and laughter escaped through the back door of a restaurant, which was cracked open and preventing the fire escape to lock the establishment properly. A fatal mistake in a city like Gotham, especially on such a night when Batman wasn’t in any shape to protect them.
One of their bins was one of the many that had been knocked over. Bruce could smell it, half-full of scraps of food, the delicious scent of cooked meat and fast food. His stomach rumbled and Bruce drew back in shame. He hadn’t eaten before leaving the manor that night, much to Alfreds displeasure, and his hunger had been gnawing away at his focus the entire night. Bruce glanced around warily and slowly crept forward. No one would cast a second glance at it, surely. Stray animals eating discarded food was nothing unusual and, unless that damned magic user was lurking nearby, he wouldn’t be recognised as either Batman or Bruce Wayne. Of course, he would know, but this was hardly the worst thing he’d done.
Bruce darted forward before some unseeable force could stop him and tugged a mostly-wrapped flat shape from the bin. His sharp teeth tore the paper away to reveal most of a hamburger with a single bite taken out of the side. It must have been a mistake and returned. Bruce leaned closer and sniffed it. It smelled fine, nothing dangerous, and pretty damn tasty. His stomach gurgled again and, his hunger getting the best of him, Bruce took a bite. A very small bite, seeing as he was a cat and all.
He took another, and then another. He was pushing his nose further into the torn wrapping, lapping his tongue at the sauce, when two heavy footsteps at the mouth of the alley made Bruce freeze up. His head whipped back and tensed as he recognised the red helmet, illuminated by a single flickering street light.
The Red Hood.
The biggest threat to Gotham in the past few years, and not because of his kill count. It was high but, again, this was Gotham and they’d seen far worse. No, it was the unknown factor to the villain that terrified Bruce. He had no name, no face, and no idea who the murderer was. Even his motive was unclear and Bruce had struggled to piece together much to the mans goals, other than the death of the Joker and the destruction of Batman.
The Red Hood stepped forward and tilted his head to the side. There was nothing else of significance in the alley for him to be staring down other than Bruce. Painfully aware of the villains instability, Bruce took a few steps back until he was partially hidden behind the pile of garbage. Red Hoods chests moved strangely, almost as if he was laughing, but made no sound. It wasn’t until the man pressed something on the underside of his helmets jaw that Bruce could hear him speak.
“Hey there.” The villain spoke softly and crouched down. He removed one of his gloves and extended a hand for Bruce, trying to cajole him forward “Are you hungry, little guy?”
As demeaning as it was, meeting the Red Hood in the unwilling form of a cat was probably the best shot Bruce would get at gathering information on the villain. He acted the part and approached the man, bumping his nose into his bare fingers. The villain chuckled and petted him gently, scratching behind his ears.
“Not a little guy at all, are you?” He snorted at the flat stare Bruce gave him at the comment “You’re pretty big for a cat. Must be a fancy breed or something, huh?”
Bruce dared to place a paw on Red Hoods leg and stretched closer, nosing at his jacket and belt pouches. The Red Hood was armed to the teeth, guns holstered to each leg and another two hidden in his leather jacket.
Hood moved his scratches to under Bruces chin and neck “No collar.” He hummed and carefully picked Bruce up, adjusting the large cat to curl up on his chest half under his jacket “You’re all alone, aren’t you?”
Bruce paused. He’d never heard Hood sound so human before. Their previous meetings had consisted on taunts and threats, almost all of which were followed through on in the same breath. He had theorised that the Red Hood had undergone an intense trauma and found comfort in flying bullets and blood. Bruce could understand using violence to balance out the darker moments in people’s lives, he had done something similar through becoming ‘The Batman’, but hearing Red Hood speak so fondly to what he perceived as a stray hungry cat- it was too much. Bruce had found a ‘cat’ of his own, starving, and desperate, in an alley less than an hour away.
“How about I get you a proper meal.” Red Hood mumbled and ran his free hand up and down Bruces back, revelling in the softness of his dark fur. Bruce raised a front paw, batted his helmet lightly, and was stunned to hear him laugh “Come on, let’s go home.”
Bruce tensed and wriggled in the Red Hoods hold, not caring how ridiculous he might look. He’d only wanted to gather intel, not get the man emotionally attached to him. The shapeshifting-spell could wear off at any moment and he doubted the Red Hood would hesitate in shooting him if Batman suddenly appeared in his home.
“Fuck, stop that. It’s freezing out here, I’m doing you a favour, furball.” He grumbled and wrestled his hold on the cat.
Bruce yowled and made disgruntled noises when he realised he was completely pinned in place. He got louder when Red Hood laughed at him again, settling for swatting him with his tail.
-
Despite hating every moment of it, Bruce made sure to commit the route the Red Hood took as he returned to a safe house to memory.
Batmanfic Prompt: WHAT IF Superman heard Jason come back to life?
The coffin, unfortunately, was so comfortable that when Jason woke up inside it he’d been tempted to roll over and go back to sleep. It was only when he knocked his elbow onto something hard and way too close that he opened his eyes. He didn’t see anything, they hadn’t exactly put a nightlight in for him, but he could still feel and his hands scrambled to touch everything inside the box. He knew that he was wearing a suit buttoned all the way up, which was weird because he never did the top button, and there was a slab of something solid laying flat above his face.
He had to bend his arms to press his palms against it, not having enough space to do much else, and shoved. It didn’t move so he shoved again and then again, the third attempt using his knees to try and force it open. No matter what Jason did, it wouldn’t budge.
It was as he laid there, panting, and growing dizzy for some reason, that he began to remember. He had no memory of crawling in a box or getting stuck under his bed, but he could recall a warehouse. There had been laughter, blood, and a steady beep as the countdown of a bomb grew ever closer. Jason swallowed hard as panic started to take hold. He hit the lid again, frantically this time, and thrashed his entire body in his desperate bid to escape because he knew where he was. He was packed underneath six feet of dirt and trapped in a box that no one had thought about putting air holes in.
Somewhere in his lashing out he’d begun to cry and plead to closed in air. He shouted for Bruce, begging to be let out and that he was sorry, and screamed for Alfred to find him. Jason even called out for Dick, even though they’d barely gotten on for the last few months after years of nothing but bitterness from the older boy.
His chest heaved as he hyperventilated with little oxygen to take in and, with his list of potential saviours running low, he recalled something Bruce had told him. If he was ever in trouble and Batman or Nightwing were too far away, then he should always shout for-
“SUPERMAN!” Jason wailed, slamming his head into the coffins lid and clawing at the wood. His nails ached and bled, but he continued to scratch away “PLEASE, SUPERMAN! BRUCE! HELP ME!”
His movements grew weaker and his head pounded. Jason slumped against the cushioning and, with his limbs too heavy to lift, sobbed. His tears rolled down his face, trailing over his cheeks and past his ears, to soak into the pillow beneath his head. He was dead. He was dead and no one was coming for him.
At least when he’d been half-beaten to death and inhaling smoke, he’d held onto hope that Batman would find him in time.
As Jasons eyes slowly closed and his inhales and exhales felt as if they were minutes apart, he heard something. It was muffled and hard to make out but, for a moment, Jason was sure he could hear someone calling his name.
-
It was midday in Metropolis and Clark Kent was on his lunch break. He was three bites into a disappointing BLT sandwich with far too much mayonnaise when he heard a voice, far outside the bounds of his city, call for Superman. That wasn’t rare in itself, neither was how young and distressed they sounded unfortunately, it was after the second time they called for Superman that Clark flinched.
“SUPERMAN! BRUCE! HELP ME!”
By the time his sandwich landed on the breakroom table, he was gone.
The voice had stopped screaming for help but Clark could hear them crying uncontrollably and that was enough to track down the source. He broke the sound barrier as he flew into Gotham and the ground was dug a few inches deep as he landed. Clark whirled around for the crying child, drowning out every other noise in the world to focus on them, and looked down with dread. They were underground. In a graveyard.
Clark raised his eyesight to the headstone planted above the child and stumbled. In expensive marble, carved in swirling font, was a familiar name and all of a sudden, the person screaming out for a ‘Bruce’ made alarming sense.
‘Here Lies Jason Todd’
Before he knew what he was doing, Clark was tearing away at the earth in chunks, throwing it behind him without care (and hopefully avoiding the surrounding headstones). As he moved deeper into the ground he lost the need for his enhanced hearing. While it was faint, Clark could make out the sound of Jason weakly crying out. He reached the coffin in a matter of seconds and didn’t hesitate to tear the lid away, breaking through its seal with ease.
Laid out on white satin lining, stained by red where his hands rested at his sides, was Jason Todd- oxygen deprived and passed out, but alive nonetheless.
“It’s going to be alright.” Clark whispered to the boy as he knelt down and carefully lifted him into his arms “I’ve got you, kiddo, you’re going to be just fine.”
As soon as Jason was securely tucked to his chest, Clark launched upwards and in the direction of Gotham’s nearest hospital.
Had a weird dream last night where I hurt my right arm, elbow up to wrist, and I was asking people to take me to a hospital because I was certain is was fractured at the very least. It looked bad too, all bruised and crooked.
But no one would take me, they could all see my arm but insisted it wasn't "that bad" and that they wouldn't take me because I "did it to myself". I was walking around for the whole dream, in pain, going to work and back cradling my fucked up arm to my chest wondering why no one would help me.
I wonder what it was like for Tim Drake to put on the Robin costume that first time. How heavy was the uniform knowing it was a dead kids clothes? That every time someone looked at him, they wouldn't actually see him but instead a ghost. How many heroes just refused to even address him because to them he just wasn't Robin, Robin was dead, and Tim was just a placeholder.
Bruce Wayne wakes up in the past, five months after Jason Todd died, and spends most days sat beside the grave because he never found out exactly when Jason had come back and he wanted to be there to save him when he did.
From an outside perspective, everyone is extremely concerned.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
:)