Damian: * in the living room with all the bat siblings* As much as I despise you all there is something I want to say
Dick: What is it baby bird, you know you can tell us anything
Tim: Did you commit a murder
Jason: Do you need help in cleaning up a murder
Steph: Do you need to cover up your trackes
Cass: Do you need anyone dead
Duke: come on guys, let’s hear what he has to say
Damian: Thank you Thomas, so the thing is that I am gay and I am dating Jonathan
Steph: well damn I wish you both the best I guess
Tim: Ha I knew it, Duke you owe me $50
Duke: Aw man
Cass: I am so happy for you Damian I wish you both happiness
Damian: Thank you Cain
Jason:….
Dick: ….
Duke: Hey you guys good
Dick: Tell Alfred we will be late to dinner tonight
*Dick and Jason walk away*
Steph: This ain’t good
Tim: Well if he runs fast enough he might make it
Damian: You think they are going to take it easy on him
Duke: knowing them this is going to get messy
* Meanwhile with Dick, Jason*
Jon: *Sleeping until a rock comes crashing through his window with a note in it*
Jon: WTH *reads the note*
Jon: look out of your window , what does that even me-
Dick: *throwing rocks* stay away from Dami you little shit
Dick: Jason I am outta rocks what else do you have
Jason: I found this bazooka which is filled with kryptonite
Dick: Great we will kill two birds with one stone
Jason: what do you mean two
Dick: Clark , he may be able to hide the fact that he is superman from a whole city, but he can’t hide that obvious boner he gets whenever he is around Bruce
Bruce knocked quietly on the door—force of habit—before he entered. The windows were closed, but the curtains were open, letting shafts of moonlight stripe across his sleeping child’s face. Bruce left the door open, the warmth of the hallway light diffusing in, and crossed to the bedside.
Less monitors, today—Alfred had taken off the oxygen mask in favor of a simple tube. The finger clip-on displayed the blood oxygen level and the heart rate, both holding steady. The IV was still in, though, as was the catheter, and Bruce was careful of the lines as he bent down and brushed dark hair out of the too-pale face.
He pressed a kiss to the clammy forehead, and drew back, trying not to look at the stark white bandage around the throat, or the outlines of bulky casts covering three out of four limbs. The rest of the bandages were thankfully hidden by the blanket.
Finally, he turned to the room’s other occupant, a shadowed figure curled up in the armchair on the opposite side, still and silent.
The wrongness thrummed inside Bruce’s chest every time he looked at him—Dick Grayson was always a blur of motion, fidgeting and jumping and smiling. The young man unmoving in the armchair couldn’t be him. Shouldn’t be him.
Bruce could still see that mass hovering over Bludhaven, a grim specter seared into the back of his eyelids.
“How is he?” Bruce asked hoarsely, in lieu of asking how are you.
“Oxygen level’s doing alright,” Dick responded dully, “Stayed awake for a full half-hour this morning. If he makes it to an hour, Alfred’s going to try solid food.”
Bruce stared at his sleeping son, his small frame dwarfed by his bandages and monitors. It would’ve been comical, if it wasn’t heartbreaking.
“Keeps having nightmares,” Dick added, after a stretch of silence, his voice shifting to something darker and Bruce braced himself. “Not that you’d know that—you’re never here.”
Bruce absorbed the jab, and didn’t rise to the taunt. He’s upset, echoed through his mind on a loop. Bruce wouldn’t—couldn’t—do anything to drive Dick away. Not now. Not after his city had turned into a crater.
Bruce was keenly aware that the slimmest of threads were keeping Dick here, in the Manor, alive, and if it broke, Dick would fall.
“I’m trying to find Jason,” Bruce said softly—the warehouse, the Joker, the explosion, the pile of rubble that Bruce had abandoned in favor trying to get to Bludhaven before it was too late.
In the end, he’d failed everyone that night.
“Hood,” Dick said, still cold.
“What?”
“You’re trying to find Red Hood. Not Jason. Jason’s dead.”
Bruce took a deep breath before he spoke. “Dick,” he said softly, “It is Jason. I checked the DNA. I checked his grave. I don’t—I don’t know how it’s possible, but it’s him. It really is.”
“It’s not,” Dick snarled.
“Dick—”
“DNA doesn’t make it him, Bruce,” Dick cut him off, his voice growing louder, “Something crawled into your dead son’s body and then crawled out of his grave—don’t you dare call him Jason.”
“Dick,” Bruce said, an edge to his tone, “I understand it’s difficult to accept—”
“Difficult to accept?” Dick hissed, furious, “I remember my little brother. I remember the kid that gave everything to this city. That pushed you to build a rehab clinic in Crime Alley. That used to hand out free food to the street kids. That made you laugh. And you think that kid grew up to run a criminal empire? To sell the same drugs that killed his mother?”
“Hood makes sure no one sells to kids,” Bruce pointed out, careful to keep his voice low, “He protects the working girls—”
“All of them have to have a gimmick,” Dick threw his hands up, “Something to convince you that they aren’t monsters. Well, guess what, B? They are. I don’t know when you started caring more about the criminals than their victims, but some people don’t deserve to be saved.”
He’s upset, his mind echoed, he’s upset and he’s angry and he’s grieving.
“You remember him,” Bruce said carefully, “From odd weekends. Holidays. He was—is my son. I know him better than anyone else in the world. I know—Jason had issues with anger. Violence. He was disillusioned with the system.”
“We all have anger issues, Bruce, or do you think we dress up and punch criminals because we’re so remarkably well-adjusted?”
“Jason—Jason didn’t believe in the rule. No killing.”
For a moment, Dick was silent. Then, he rose from his armchair, and what little Bruce could catch of his face showed the fury writ across every one of his features, from narrowed eyes to twisted lips.
“Is this about Garzonas? Are you seriously trying to compare Tim to Felipe Garzonas?”
“No—that’s not what I meant—”
“Okay, Jason might have pushed a rapist with diplomatic immunity off a balcony and watched him fall to his death—and you think that he’s capable of beating an innocent sixteen-year-old to an inch of his life, slitting his throat, and watching him drown in his own blood?”
Bruce swallowed thickly, and glanced at Tim again. The dark circles showed up stark against the sickly skin, and the pillows were stiff with dried tears.
“Or, do you think a monster dressed up in your favorite child’s face because they knew you couldn’t bring yourself to hurt him?”
“Dick.”
“Find Hood,” Dick snapped, “Throw him in the deepest, darkest hole there is. Because I am done losing little brothers to the Joker’s legacy, Bruce, and if you can’t bring yourself to do it, I will.”
He turned away, curling back up on the armchair, his gaze fixed on Tim’s slack face.
“You stopped me once,” Dick said, soft and quiet, “I won’t let you stop me again.”
i was really angry at what i saw this morning so i looked through my files and got y’all some dick anger because we all know my boy would never have let bruce hit tim
sorry no sources today because i’m actually sitting in a class rn lol
