Babs & Alfred || Read on Ao3 || Happy Birthday, Barbara Gordon! ❤
<< A sequel to last year’s “Batgirls’ Favorite Mentor”
~*~
Barbara leaned forward and spit out the toothpaste Cass had let her use, on one of the many spare toothbrushes Alfred kept in the guest toiletries stockpile, then leaned back in her chair with a sigh and considered her mostly-put-together-again reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Wow, that had certainly been a party of a night, she mused, ruefully lifting a strand of her sleep-mussed auburn locks before deciding that pulling it back in a bun was really the only dignified solution.
Steph and Cass had kept her up all night--not like that was all that much different from her usual schedule, but mani, pedi, facials, horrible (great) superhero movies, and gossip until dawn had worn her out more than she would have expected. Although, the wine that had snuck into the mix right when the mani-pedis were left to dry and the third movie went in might have had something to do with it, she conceded with a smirk at herself in the mirror. It wasn't a bad sort of tired, she admitted as she tucked few stray hairs into her messy bun, but she was more than ready for a day to rest, recover and recharge.
Just after dawn, Alfred had invaded the sanctum of their home theater encampment to invite them up to the kitchen for a hearty breakfast. There he had laid out toast, eggs, bacon, sausage, fruit, juices, teas, coffee, pancakes and even some of the real cake from the night before--a rare breach of protocol from the prim and proper butler that Barbara took as a one-time gesture of affectionate indulgence of their whims--which eventually drew out the other occupants of the house, turning breakfast the morning after into as much of a party as dinner the night before had been.
After that, Alfred had shooed Steph and Cass off to bed and shown Barbara up to her regular guest room where the bed had already been turned down, the pillows fluffed and the blackest of blackout curtains tightly drawn, bless that man. After a few hours of much needed sleep, it was now just past noon, most of the manor's occupants were either still sleeping or out living their daylight personas, and Alfred had offered to drive her back to the Clocktower after she had "freshened up a bit".
Satisfied that she had done as much as she could to make herself decent for the drive of shame, Barbara gathered her things and made her way down the hall to the elevator. Alfred was waiting for her when the doors opened on the civilian garage.
"Ah, Miss Barbara, I take it you're ready to depart?"
"Yes. Thank you for driving me back, Alfred."
"Of course, it's my pleasure."
He led the way toward their several limousines, opened the door to one very special vehicle and began extending and lowering a long ramp. Barbara pressed her lips together to hide a smile as Alfred stepped to one side and let her wheel herself up the shallow incline. He retracted the ramp, closed the door and slid into the driver's seat while she positioned herself in the sleek interior and locked the wheels of her chair.
"Thanks again, Alfred. For everything," Barbara added as they pulled out of the garage. "Last night, this morning...it was all amazing and it must have been so much work--extra work--for you. I really appreciate it."
She saw his eyebrows rise in the rear-view mirror as he replied, "Of course. It was no trouble; I would hardly label hosting a small dinner in honor of and giving accommodations to one of my favorite persons "work". It was a pleasure, Miss Barbara."
She raised an eyebrow in turn. "Oh really? A fairly large dinner, putting up with the mess we all made in the theater afterwards, and putting together a big breakfast in the morning--and driving me back after letting me stay over, even when I'm sure you've got plenty of cleaning up to do? 'Favorite person' huh? If I didn't know better I'd think you were buttering me up for something, Alfred Pennyworth," she teased, sharing a knowing look with him in the mirror.
He didn't laugh out loud, but his eyes twinkled in that way Barbara knew meant he was amused rather than offended. "My word! Is it so hard to believe that an old man would take pleasure in doing what little he could to celebrate the birthday of his favorite Barbara."
Barbara did laugh out loud. "Your favorite...huh! First Jason calls me his favorite, then Tim and Dick, then Steph and Cass... and now you? All of you in less than twenty-four hours? Did you all have a meeting to discuss the topic or am I about to go home to one of the hardest cases of all time and you're all buttering me up to it?"
"I believe the subject had come up recently," Alfred replied evenly. "You do so much for this family and receive so little appreciation..."
"That's my line," Barbara muttered incredulously with a minute shake of her head.
"...and I'll have you know that of all the Barbaras I've had the pleasure of knowing, you most certainly rank supreme."
Barbara huffed a laugh through her nose. "And how many Barbaras is that exactly?"
Alfred met her eyes in the mirror and fixed her with an impressive look. "When you've lived as long as I have, served as long as I have, you come to know a great many people. Among all of those... you are rare soul indeed, Barbara. Surely one to celebrate and to venerate."
That gave her pause. What are you supposed to say to something like that? She didn't know, so she let the silence stretch and turned her gaze to the traffic speeding past her window while her true focus turned to beating down the bloom of color that had flooded her cheeks at Alfred's unexpected pronouncement.
They rode in silence--not an uncomfortable silence, but Barbara still felt the weight of those words still hanging heavy between them--for the rest of the drive. They'd caught the lull between the lunch-hour jam and afternoon rush-hour traffic--likely a strategic choice on Alfred's part--so it only took about twenty minutes to make the trip into the city.
Alfred graciously helped her disembark, escorted her to the ground level door to the tower, and--to her surprise--asked to walk her in, pulling a cooler bag from somewhere with leftovers from the revelries. Barbara invited him in, sending him ahead of her with repeated thanks, but the words of appreciation died in her throat as she rolled over the threshold and took in the interior of her homebase.
She wasn't a slob, per se, but Barbara knew she didn't tidy up around the Tower quite as often as she should, and she cleaned the place even less frequently. It was a lot of real estate for one person--a person with certain mobility issues, at that--and a small army of specially programmed Roombas and some casual dusting here and there could only do so much.
But today, her foyer was spotless. All the coats, umbrellas and other detritus were neatly hung or stacked in their places. The tile was a shade lighter than she remembered and the grout was actually white--she'd actually thought it was tan up until now.
Moving into her apartment showed the same story. Shelves of books and knick-knacks were freshly dusted, the rugs had been deeply vaccuumed, and personal items had been put away or neatly arranged. Every surface gleamed.
She turned to Alfred with an accusing look. "Alfred... did you...?" One look at his quietly pleased expression was answer enough. "When did you even find the time to come over here and do this? Did you clean the whole Tower?" She wouldn't doubt it. She didn't bother to ask him how he got into her super-secure, high-tech lair--this is the ex-MI6 agent who raised Bruce, after all--but given the timeline of events, it shouldn't have been possible for him to clean all this by himself and do everything he did for them while she was at the manor.
"We did, in fact, clean the entire tower--and we took great care not to disturb any of your things in the command center, mind you--but it hardly took any time at all with Masters Damian and Timothy along to help. In fact, we were in and out well before you rose from your nap this morning."
Barbara's eyebrow rose into her hair. Alfred had wrangled Tim and Damian--in the morning, of all times--into cleaning? Together? Without killing each other?
"Wow, Alfred, you got Tim and Damian to work together to do all of this...? At eight in the morning? You're a miracle worker, for sure. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this.
"Really, Alfred...this--" she gestured to rooms around them "--the party, the sleepover, and then breakfast... you've done so much. Thank you. It means a lot to me, but, really, you didn't need to do all this. It's... it’s too much..."
Alfred looked away for a moment, his expression uncharacteristically sheepish. "Ah, well. Yes. I admit, I may have gone a bit overboard..."
They entered the kitchen and Barbara came to a complete stop. The appliances shone, the stove was spotless, and, for once, the sink was completely free of dishes. But that wasn't what stopped her dead in her tracks.
On the polished kitchen table, laid out elegantly on a freshly washed and pressed table cloth that Barbara had forgotten she even owned, was a handsome tea set in lustrous lavender and gold--one pot, saucers, cups, sugar cellar and creamer. To one side sat a few varieties of Alfred's favorite teas, and on the other a plate piled high with Alfred’s signature tea cakes, one of her favorite things about visiting the manor for pre-patrol briefings or post-patrol debriefings, back in the day. A recipe card stuck out under the plate.
Barbara turned to Alfred, her vision going misty. "Alfred..."
Alfred graced her with a rare smile, beaming down at her, his expression fond, but his voice was quiet, "For when you need a break from Master Tim's gift of espresso or a moment of peace after along night."
Barbara broke out into a teary smile of her own and raised her arms, reaching out for a hug before she thought it through. Alfred surprised her yet again, leaning down to accept her embrace.
"Really, thank you, Alfred. For everything," Barbara murmured into his shoulder before he could pull away again.
He didn't. Instead, he replied, so quietly Barbara almost missed it,
SociallyAwkwardFox’s Spooktober (2018) - Day 16 “Graveyard”
Tim & Damian | Implied JayTim | Implied DickDami | College AU | No Capes | Crack | actual discussion of literature | Dick Grayson was adopted by the Drakes instead of the Waynes | Want to write/create with me? Find the prompt list here!
~*~
"How about four out of seven?" Tim asked with a shrug, winding up the toilet paper roll again.
Damian, his fellow barista, threw his roll at Tim's head, missing wildly. He glared. "You cheated, Drake!"
Tim rolled his eyes as he retrieved Damian's roll and began winding it up too. "How could I cheat at coffee cup bowling, ‘Wayne’?"
"You wind your roll too tightly. It doesn't unravel as much when you pitch it and thus has more mass by the time it hits the cups."
Tim raised his eyebrows. "What are you now, a physics major? That just sounds like strategy, dude. You are free to roll your roll as tightly as you'd like. That isn't against the rules."
Damian fumed. "The rules you made up! This is why I said we should use the rice crispy ba--customer."
Tim whirled on the spot, seeing that, indeed, a paying customer had entered their little, semi-enclosed coffee shop. Outside, a few students sat or sprawled over the sectional couches that filled the large basement of the university student union in which the shop was located.
Tim turned and vaulted over the counter. He heard a quiet "-tch-" from Damian as he walked to the hinged raise-able section of the counter and let himself in.
Tim straightened his apron and stepped up the register with a smile. The customer stood about five feet from the register, head tilted back, studying the menu board over Tim's head with bleary eyes. The guy was like a zombie, he was that exhausted. Tim cut his eyes over to the clock on the wall. 3:45 am. Hell of a time for coffee.
Tim glanced over his shoulder at Damian, who was reawakening the cranky espresso machine with deft fingers. Seven hours and forty-five minutes with Damian "the Demon " Wayne down, only four hours and fifteen minutes to go. Tim turned back to their customer and sighed. This was going to be a loooooooong morning.
At second glance, there was something familiar about the guy, but Tim couldn't put his finger on where he knew him. The guy had pretty teal eyes, but they were reddened and dull, like he hadn't closed them except to blink in way too long. He was also pretty well cut, Tim noticed, with clearly muscled arms and pecs so defined that Tim could clearly see them through the man's sweater. Maybe that's how Tim knew him? Maybe he'd seen him in the UREC weight room?
The guy's most eye-catching feature by far was the white forelock that curled down over his forehead. He was the third person Tim had met to have a whitened forelock like that; the other two were fraternal twins who had had small patches of albinism right at their widows peaks which affected both the skin and hair. Tim idly wondered if this guy's white lock was natural too. In any case, it looked frickin' cool, a lot cooler than his own; the best thing he could say about his own hair was that he could pull off the 90's curtain cut plus semi-mullet well enough that he could go an entire semester on a single haircut.
Tim was drawn out of his thoughts when dude finally stepped up to the counter and began to speak.
"Uh, hi, could I get a large, double-shot caramel latte?"
"Absolutely. How many pumps of caramel do you want?" Tim asked cheerily.
The guy looked up from digging through his overly stuffed messenger bag. "Uhh…the normal four should be fine."
"Okay, that will be $6.47. Can I get a name for the order?"
The guy didn't look up this time. "Uh, Jason. Gimme a sec', I know my wallet is at the bottom of this thing somewhere."
"No problem, take your time. It's not like we have a line, anyway," Tim joked.
This guy looked so dead right now--inside and out--that if he didn't find his wallet, then Tim would probably just buy the coffee for the guy himself. He understood better than anyone the sudden need for caffeine at odd hours of the day. He's not sure how he would have finished half his computer science projects this term without a much-needed double-espresso every couple of hours, to be honest.
The guy--'Jason' apparently--finally fished out a small money clip then handed over a student ID card. "Put it on my Dining Dollars, please."
"Yeah, no probl- wait a minute!" Tim cut off, staring. Suddenly, it had hit Tim where he knew this guy. "Aren't you that kid who always sits at the front of Professor Hyatt's nine-fifteen, Tuesday-Thursday, Modern European Literature and answers all the questions?"
The dude raised an eyebrow. "Uh, yeah. Why…? Wait…" He squinted and leaned in. "Aren't you the kid who once tried to sit all the way back in the AV booth, since, and I quote, 'the back wasn't far enough back'?"
Tim grinned as he swiped the ID card through the register. "Haha, yeah."
Damian moved as if to step up to the counter, the guy's drink in hand, but stopped dead about a foot away. He stared.
"Wait. Aren't you the guy who always comes in, gets tea, and sits in the window over there and reads romance novels?" Damian asked, eying him appraisingly.
The dude huffed. "Yes. My name is Jason--by the way--and they're not romance novels, it's classic lit. Now can I get my coffee?"
Damian handed the coffee over the counter, but raised an eyebrow skeptically. "You mean to tell me Rebecca is not a romance novel?"
"Wait, what!? Do you mean Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca?" Tim asked as he handed Jason's ID card back over the counter.
Damian nodded wordlessly. Tim snorted, then said, "That's not a romance! That's a totally a murder mystery! You must be confusing it with Jane Eyre. I get those mixed up too."
Jason nodded in agreement, tucking his ID away before taking his first sip of coffee. He moaned, his eyes fluttering for a moment as he savored in the sweet bliss of piping hot caffeine at 3:49 in the morning, then he looked at Damian and said, "Well, actually, I'll give you that one, uh…" --he paused to squint at Damian's name tag-- "...'Damian'; Rebecca is a modern romance novel by classification, but it's also a crime thriller just like--whazzatsay?--'Tim' said."
He turned to Tim. "I'm not surprised you'd confuse it with Jane Eyre, considering that a lot of scholars believe du Maurier adapted it from Jane Eyre."
"Wait, really?" Tim said with a laugh. "I'm glad I'm not the only one thinking that! Rebecca is like the less boring version of Jane Eyre."
Jason froze halfway into sitting down in one of the arm chairs that lined the wall closest to the door and looked up at Tim as if he had just suggested burning down the library or something similarly unthinkable. "Whaaaaaat?! I can't believe you just implied that any of the Brontë sisters' works is boring!"
Tim laughed again. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I was only twelve when I read Jane Eyre, so maybe I'd enjoy it more if I read it again now--with a mature perspective--but I remember Rebecca being a blast for thirteen-year-old me so…" He smiled, then shrugged.
Jason stared. "Twelve? Thirteen? Jeez. What else were you trying to read that young?"
"I mean, I read Moby Dick the year before that, in sixth grade," Tim admitted, shrugging until his shoulders hit his ears.
Jason gave him a flat stare. "Moby Dick? Moby fucking Dick? You've gotta be kidding me. And lemme guess, you also thought Herman Melville's masterpiece was a load of crock?"
Tim laughed, but shook his head and waved his hands placatingly. "No, no, no. I only understood, like, every fifth word--so.many.whaling.terms!--and it took me four months to get halfway in only to realize there was no way I was going to finish it by the end of the school year--I ended up skipping to the end and guessing for a lot of the AR test questions--but I definitely got the sense that it was a seminal work and that I was just too young to appreciate it. I've always meant to go back and try it again, but I still haven't gotten around to it."
"Why the hell were you trying to read Moby Dick at the age of twelve?" Jason asked incredulously, leaning back in the chair and taking a long sip of his coffee.
"Eleven, but, ah, well, my mom was convinced I had to be The BestTM in everything, so she pushed me to max out my Accelerated Reader level by the end of sixth grade and demanded that I always get the most AR points of anyone in my class, so I read a lot of the 20 point-and-up books." Tim tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I think Moby Dick was 47 points...Rebecca was 25...Jane Eyre was 33..."
Jason stared, shaking his head slowly. "So…what? You're fine with Moby Dick, a romance of the American Renaissance, but a gothic romance of the British Victorian era like Jane Eyre isn't good enough for you? Next you'll try to tell me you think Wuthering Heights is a snooze fest!"
"Well, I mean, I never could get into it, so…"
Jason slammed both hands down on the arms of his chair, incensed. "Okay, Mister, get your butt over here and sit down, we need to have a talk about Victorian Gothic and why, hands down, it is some of the best literature ever written."
Tim laughed again, then bit his lip, considering the offer. He glanced around the nearly empty coffee shop. Then he leaned over the counter and looked out into the lounge--there were exactly four people there and only one of them wasn't completely asleep in their books. Yeah, he could probably afford to humor the man.
He turned to Damian. "Hey, Dames, I'm going to make myself a coffee and take my break. You good to hold down the fort?"
"I told you not to call me that," Damian snapped, but there was no real heat to it; he liked to pretend that he hated the guts of all his coworkers, but Tim knew that he was Damian's favorite. "However, yes, I think I can manage. Go take your damned break, but when you come back I fully expect a rematch in bowling…and don't you dare cheat this time!"
Tim rolled his eyes and groaned, then turned toward trying to coax Ol' 'Spressolino--their affectionate name for the cantankerous espresso machine--into spitting out a double-shot for him. "It's not cheating, but fine, we'll do it your way," Tim replied. "But I'm telling you, you have to buy those rice crispy balls. I definitely don't want to have to explain to Barbara why some of the food on sale looks like it went through the spin cycle in a dorm washer."
Damian grinned smugly. "My pleasure. It will be a small price to pay in order to ensure your swift defeat."
Tim shook his head, grabbed his espresso in one hand and two biscotti off the front counter in the other, ducked under the counter drawbridge, then slid into the armchair across from Jason. He offered one of the biscotti to the other man and Jason accepted the free food with an appreciative smile. He already looked ten times less zombie-like, thanks to the caffiene, and he was honestly pretty damn attractive.
"Okay," Tim said, peeling the wrapper off his own biscotti and dunking it into his bitter cup of joy, "Educate me."
Between sips of coffee and bites of biscotti, Jason began explaining his thoughts on the romantic period of literature, but barely a minute into his lecture, a plastic-wrapped, ball-shaped rice crispy treat about the size of a cantelope whizzed by their feet and crashed into the ten extra-large paper coffee cups arranged in a bowling triangle at one end of the coffee shop, scattering them in a definitive strike.
Jason jumped in his seat and looked around wildly. "What the fuck?"
Tim sighed. "Daaaaaaamiaaaaaaan…"
"Shut up, Drake! I'm practicing. I need to hone my skills and adjust my form so I can thoroughly crush you in our next round," Damian called back. He marched from the counter to the end of the shop to retrieved his plastic-wrapped projectile.
Jason blinked in confusion. "I repeat: what the ever-loving fuck?"
Tim sighed again, then explained, saying, "It gets pretty boring in here during the graveyard shift, so we invented a game, coffee cup bowling. Normally, we'd sleep or study, but Damian finished his exams two days ago and I don't really study for exams, per se-"
"And sleep is for the weak," Damian finished, nodding as he walked past them carrying his sweet, gooey ammunition.
Tim nodded sagely, in agreement. "Sleep is for the weak."
Jason glanced over Tim's shoulder at the coffee cup bowling 'pins' and then over his shoulder at Damian as he lined up another throw. "You guys are insane," he declared.
Tim made a dismissive gesture. "I mean this is my third graveyard shift in a row and Damian here is almost 20 hours into a 24-hour stint. After that much sleep deprivation, you'd lose your sanity too."
Jason tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Fair enough."
"If you want, you're welcome to join us after we finish our coffee and literature talk," Tim offered amiably.
Jason watched as Damian threw another strike, sending one cup so far it landed in the pot of the ficus in the corner, and raised his eyebrows. "You know what…why not." He turned back to Tim with a grin. "I could use a bit of fun before I go back to work on my Native American Lit paper."
"Are you a lit major?" Tim asked curiously.
"I am."
Tim nodded. "That makes sense."
"And you?"
"I'm a CS major--computer science."
"That makes sense," Jason echoed, grinning.
Tim grinned back at him and waved a hand. "Okay, so as you were saying…?"
"Yes, as I was saying…"
Jason continued his little lecture while they continued sipping their coffee and nibbling on the biscotti. When they had finished--the coffee, not the discussion, because Tim was pretty sure Jason would go on for hours about literature once you got him started--they joined Damian in a game of "ten-cup."
It was in the middle of this heated battle of cups and marshmallow-bonded puffed-rice cereal balls that their next customer found them fifteen minutes later. The man, dressed in flower printed leggings and a black hoodie with "Gotham University Aerial Arts" printed across the chest in blue, took one look at them and grinned.
"Oh, hey! Coffee-cup bowling! I love that game! Do you think I could interrupt you guys for just a sec to get some hot chocolate?"
All three of them--the two baristas plus their customer--turned and stared.
"Hot… wait, what?" Jason said, laughing a little. "Man, it's like 4:30 in the morning. Why are you getting a hot chocolate at 4:30 in the morning?"
The man laughed, too, shrugging before he explained, saying, "I don't like tea or coffee all that much, but I just finished a 20 page paper on ethics in police enforcement and I need a pick me up. I need to get my warm fuzzies going again."
Tim rolled his eyes and sighed, moving back toward the counter to get the man his drink. "You're going to end up being the cuddliest cop on the street, Dick."
"You know it, Timmy!" the man--'Dick' apparently--exclaimed, pulling Tim into a bear hug when he made the mistake of passing too close to Dick on his way to the counter. The hug escalated into a full on octopus hug as he lifted his legs to wrap around Tim's hips. Tim, for his part, ignored the grapple, opening the leaf in the counter and hobbling over to the drink bar with the human cephalopod still attached.
Damian and Jason stared. Damian cleared his throat and eyed Dick with poorly disguised interest. "Wait, do you know this man, Drake?"
Tim blinked dully as he turned around, a cup in one hand and a packet of instant hot chocolate in the other. "Yes. He's my brother." Dick made a squeeing noise and nuzzled his head into Tim's neck. Tim sighed. "My adopted brother," he amended testily.
Dick laughed, dropped his feet back onto the floor and stood up. He nearly wrung Tim's neck as he tried to hug him around the shoulders. "Awww, don't be like that, Tim. We haven't seen each other in two whole weeks and I needed my Tim-hugs! Gotta meet my cuddle-quota."
Tim shook his head and handed the hot chocolate back over his shoulder. "You're insufferably, insatiably clingy when you're this tired, Dick. Go home and sleep."
Dick finally released him to take the drink. He took a sip of the hot chocolate, sighing in appreciation. "Thanks, Tim, and yeah, but, only if you do the same. You're just as bad as me when you haven't slept, if not worse."
"Can't. Working," Tim answered curtly, vaulting the counter to escape before Dick's grabby hands could reach for him again. His brother wasn't wrong; Tim was always up for a good cuddle after a long stint without proper sleep, but he didn't like public displays of affection.
Dick took one look at the nearly empty coffee shop, the three of them, their game, and then laughed out loud. "Ahhh, the days of getting paid to drink coffee and make up games at 4:30 in the morning. I kind of miss it."
"Would you care to join us," Damian asked abruptly. Dick brightened.
"Absolutely!"
And so that was how the four of them ended up bowling for empty coffee cups with rice crispy treats the size of spaghetti squash while blasting ABBA’s greatest hits--Dick's terrible, wonderful idea--until the sun rose and their shift ended, at eight AM.
By the time the four of them walked out the door, Dick was trying to convince Damian to join him in the aerials gym before breakfast, and Damian, clearly eager to do anything with the handsome college senior, accepted readily. Jason and Tim, on the other hand, were back to discussing literature over coffee--now focused on the merits and downfalls of contemporary science fiction and fantasy as an art form--and making their way to the East Campus Dining Hall, so they could continue their discussion over breakfast.
Tim snorted softly as he listened to Jason list all the ways Dune defined an era of sci-fi/fantasy, then smiled at the way Jason took his hand--without seeming to realize it--to pull him forward after the crosswalk light changed out of Tim's line of sight. Oh, yeah, this one was totally gay/bi/pan and he was definitely asking him out the minute he saw the opportunity, Tim decided.
He smiled. Who would of thought he'd come out of last night's graveyard shift not only having seen his demon coworker and his older brother hit it off--of all things!--but having met someone for himself too! He laughed, thinking, you never know what crazy things you might see, or the people you might meet, at the campus coffee shop at 4 o' clock in the morning!
<< A sequel to last year’s “Dick’s Favorite Person”
~*~
After Barbara's birthday dinner, Tim, Cass and Steph dragged everyone down to the Wayne Manor home theater to watch movies-- 'everyone' including Bruce, Damian, and her father, all three of whom seemed uncomfortable at the prospect of spending the evening participating in normal family bonding activities rather than heading back out into the night to fight crime, even if they couldn't acknowledge that they all three shared that discomfort.
(She was pretty sure her father knew everything--that she had been Batgirl, that Bruce was Batman, and about all the Robins and succeeding Batgirls--or at least suspected most of it, and had for a long time now, but he would never admit as much in order to maintain his plausible deniability).
Barbara struggled to contain her amusement every time she glanced over at them sitting side-by-side, stiff and awkward, on the couch. Oh, the rich irony.
While Steph, Tim and Cass convinced her to pick out a few movies for the family to watch, Dick and Jason helped Alfred clean up from dinner and make some popcorn, and then they escorted the grandfatherly man down to join the little party as well. Barbara picked the Ghostbusters series--including the new reboot film--for their watch party, feeling a little pre-halloween excitement for the first time in a long time, thanks to her good mood.
Her father stayed through the first film--it was something special having her father on one side of her on the big sectional couch, Dick on her other side, and the rest of her chosen family around her, laughing and making witty remarks about the movie--and then he excused himself.
Bruce, Damian, and Alfred persevered through the second, after which Bruce excused himself to "check on an ongoing case"--Barbara knew there was no ongoing case, but she was sure Bruce would also mind his manners around the Birds of Prey, seeing as he had promised her he was fine with them taking over for the night, so she let it slide--and Damian followed, muttering excuses of helping his father.
Alfred sighed and apologized to her, saying he should probably go down and ensure they didn't get up to too much mischief. His tone and the way he phrased it made Barbara giggle and she kissed him on the cheek with a quiet thank you for the dinner and everything else before letting him leave.
That left Barbara, Steph, Cass, Tim, Jason and Dick to watch the reboot film together, and Barbara had to say she enjoyed the extra quality time with her Robins and Batgirls. After that Tim, Jason and Dick also took their leave.
From the sounds of it Jason planned to drag Tim back to their apartment where he had apparently made and hidden extra portions of the mocha frosting used on the cake he gave her earlier and had some creative ideas about where to apply it only to lick it off again--Jason kept his tone low, but Barbara, being Barbara, overheard anyway. She smirked, but also blushed, making a note to avoid watching the surveillance video records for their apartment during these next couple of hours unless it became absolutely necessary.
Dick, blissfully oblivious of Tim and Jason’s plans, wandered off after them, probably headed up to bed or down to the cave to train for a bit before turning in.
After the boys left, Steph and Cass got even more excited and energetic, pulling out nail polish, face masks, and makeup. Barbara chortled at the idea of them doing makeovers and manicures like teenaged girls at a sleepover, but she went along with it with grace. Despite being Batgirls, the three of them weren't overly feminine, but every now and then it was fun to do some normal girl stuff and laugh together at how silly some of it felt.
They put the ridiculous Halle Berry Catwoman movie on in the background--Selina hadn't been overly impressed with that cinematic take on her persona, but Steph vehemently claimed that Halle Berry, acting in that role, had been a crucial part of her gay awakening--and then they did facials and manicures while they talked about boys--not boys in general, and definitely not daydreaming over dating them, but specifically the batboys, commiserating long and loudly over how ridiculous they could be, particularly Bruce.
At a certain point, Steph began not so subtly steering the conversation toward something that was not yet apparent, but Barbara was the one who had taught Steph the finer points of redirection, so she would know, even if she hadn't spotted the end goal as of yet.
"Y'know," Stephanie said, "it's nice when the Birds of Prey come and help out around Gotham. They always do a good job and work well enough with the boys, too." She glanced over as Cass and gave her a pointed look. Cass grinned back at her and began nodding along to the words very deliberately.
"Yeah, that's true…" Barbara allowed cautiously, suppressing the urge to shake her head at their painfully-obvious non-verbal signaling. Their poor attempts to manipulate the conversation notwithstanding, she was curious to see where this was headed, at the very least.
"I mean you should totally ask them to come take over for a couple of days, sometime," Steph went on in a carefully casual tone as she finished the second coat of polish on the fingernails of Barbara's left hand. "Y'know? Maybe take a vacation? Get out of Gotham for a while?"
Barbara sighed and began waving the hand, encouraging the wet polish to dry. "I appreciate what you guys are trying to do," she replied, looking them each in the eye in turn, "but I just don't have the time, what with Halloween and then the holidays. This is such a busy time of year for the crazies--and even for the not-so-crazies--and Bruce will never-"
To her surprise, Cass crouched down right in front of her and cut her off, both with her patented Cassandra Cain stare and with the words, "Yes. But listen."
Barbara blinked, then nodded. Cass smiled slightly then looked up to Steph and nodded for her to continue.
Steph nodded back and dropped the faux-casual tone, saying, "It's already done, Babs. We asked every single Bird on the roster to come by during the second week of November, right after the Halloween crazy-fest and just before the holiday madness.
"Kara, Donna and Koriand'r agreed to rotate out to keep an eye on things from above, Cass convinced Bruce to let them all to bunk here at the manor-" Barbara's eyes boggled while Cass nodded smugly "-and all the boys are on board with the plan and ready to play nice. Cass and I will be here too, just to make sure everyone gets along." Cass cracked the knuckles of one hand and grinned, nodding ominously.
"So, you see, it's all settled," Stephanie finished, looking smug. "You just have to say yes."
Barbara blinked rapidly, struggling to process all the surprises that had just been dumped on her. "Wait… so…I get a choice? To say yes or not?"
Steph laughed. "Yes, Babs, of course; this our gift to you, not a mandated vacation! So what do you say?"
Barbara shook her head, not sure how to respond. "Look, even if I had the time, I haven't exactly saved up to, you know, do anything special or go anywhere...I wouldn't even know where to go..."
"Well, Dick said he would go with you, if you wanted some company," Stephanie said, "Or he would stay here to help hold down the fort if you prefer but, as for paying for the trip…"
Cass walked up to the double doors to the den, pushed them open a crack and stuck her head out into the hall. "Hey, Dick, get your dick in here."
Steph choked on air and then burst out laughing. Barbara couldn't help but grin, especially when Cass backed up far enough to allow an upset and confused Dick Grayson entry into their den of Batgirls.
"Cass, that uhhh…isn't how that saying goes…" he began slowly, looking at Steph and Barbara in alarm.
"She knows that," Steph replied with a smug smile. She shot Cass an appreciative look that Cass returned with a grin and a wink.
Dick simply shook his head and let it go. "So we're doing the gift now?" he asked, glancing at Barbara, but directing his words to Stephanie.
"Yes," Barbara replied, barely concealing her amusement at their 'sneaky' tactics--What had Dick done for an hour in the hall while waiting to be called back in again? Since when did Dick Grayson have the patience for subterfuge anyway?--"Steph and Cass just explained to me that I'm being sent on vacation-"
"If you want!" Steph blurted.
Barbara laughed out loud. "If I want, apparently, and that you've also volunteered to go with me." She raised an eyebrow and adopted a mischievous tone. "Is the part where you offer to be my personal cabana boy? Or to bring your police uniform and strip for me every night?"
Dick grinned. "No, but those aren't bad ideas." He sobered and went on, saying, "No, this is the part where I offer to fly you anywhere in the world--out of my own BPD savings--and give you the choice to go and explore on your own, or to take me along for the ride if you want someone to keep you company and have your back while you're on the road."
Barbara stared, feeling her eyes go misty. "Dick, I...wow. That's…Yeah, I'd really like that."
Dick's grin brightened into a genuine smile, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Stephanie fist pump and then fist bump Cassandra. Barbara thought about it for a few seconds and then said,
"The Italian Lakes."
Dick tilted his head questioningly. "In the Italian Alps?"
Barbara nodded decisively. "I know it will be chilly in November, but I want to go there. I've always wanted to see them and stay in one of the villas."
Dick laughed and nodded. "Like that one they used for the Naboo lake country in Star Wars Episode II?"
Barbara rolled her eyes but smiled. "Yes, you closeted-nerd, exactly like that."
"Consider it done," Dick replied without hesitation.
"Thank you," she replied sincerely, turning her gaze onto all three of them. "You all had to have talked about this extensively, probably weeks in advance, and done so much leg work to get everyone on the same page…" she narrowed her eyes, suddenly suspicious, "and you still managed to hide it from me of all people?!"
"Yes, from the all seeing Oracle," Steph laughed, grinning infuriatingly.
How even, Barbara mouthed, shaking her head incredulously.
"By only speaking in-person in electronics-free areas," Steph replied, smiling conspiratorially. "By passing each other coded notes and-"
"Smoke signals," Cass added, nodding sagely.
"And messenger pigeons, too, of course," Dick finished, his eyes sparkling with mirth.
Barbara shook her head at the three of them then shook a finger at one in particular. "Dick, you son of a bat, you lied to me," she accused, smiling broadly. "You totally had a gift all along and you led me on all evening!"
"Yeah," Dick admitted with a sigh, running a hand through his hair, "I didn't want to spoil the surprise, but it was sooooooo hard, I really wanted to give you something--anything--so much earlier..."
"I'm glad you didn't," Barbara cut in. "The surprises--both of them--were wonderful. Thank You." She looked Stephanie, then Cassandra in the eyes. "All of you. Really. This means a lot."
Steph swooped down to give her a hug. As soon as she straightened, Cass leaned down gracefully to give one of her own. Barbara squeezed each of them tightly in turn, trying desperately to relay the gratitude beyond words that she felt for their thoughtfulness as well as she could through the contact. The knowing smile Cass gave her as they separated told Barbara her unspoken message was received and understood.
"Only the best for the best mentor," Cass replied quietly.
Stephanie nodded. "We wouldn't be the Batgirls we were-" she glanced at Cass "-and are today if it weren't for you. You're the MVB forever."
Barbara frowned for a moment, then smiled. "Most Valuable Batgirl?"
Cass and Steph nodded and Dick nodded too, in the background.
"Forever," Cass repeated.
"Awwww, Batgirls…" Barbara cooed, feeling tears prick at the corners of her eyes. She motioned them back in and drew them into a tight group hug, all three of them slinging their arms around each other, laughing when their heads eventually clonked together. After a moment Barbara noticed Dick smiling fondly at the three of them from a discrete distance.
She raised her head and cleared her throat. "Okay, all non-Batgirls, please vacate the room. The official Batgirl spa night continues now."
Steph and Cass giggled but stepped away and busied themselves with rewinding the movie, giving Dick an opening to approach Babs before leaving once again. He stopped beside her chair, leaned down, and kissed her gently on the forehead, murmuring, "Happy Birthday, Babs."
She caught him by the chin and drew him down into a quick kiss, murmuring her thanks against his lips. He smiled, stood, then left quietly through the double doors.
To one side, Steph and Cass scrutinized bottles of nail polish with undeserved concentration, clearly trying to give Barbara and Dick some privacy. Barbara smiled.
"Okay, so, back to business. We’ve finished facials and fingernails, so...how about pedicures now?"
Steph and Cass blinked in surprise. "Are you sure?" Steph asked. She and Cass never made a big deal out of Barbara's paraplegia--often openly discussing it with Barbara as the situation required--but they'd also tried to avoid activities that would highlight her differences, such as pedicures.
"Yeah, I know, I wouldn't be able to feel it, but, you know, it's been such long time since my feet have had a chance to get fancy. It's my birthday, so…why not?" Barbara replied lightly, smiling slyly at them.
Slowly their faces brightened until Steph was beaming and Cass' eyes were reduced to delighted slivers.
Many, many, many thanks to @chibinightowl for commissioning the fantastic @snowzapped to draw and paint this amazing fanart for my gen Batfam fic Tim the Drake (ao3) in honor of my recent birthday ❤ The scene came out fantastically and I absolutely love it!!! Thank you guys so much!
@sociallyawkwardfoxwriter created a casual writing event as part of their 2018 Write 365 challenge which they entitled “Spooktober” ~ The event consisted of 31 one-word writing prompts for the month of October themed around Halloween.
I, in my boundless writing ambition, began writing along with SAF on their prompts, but two weeks into my endeavor the realities of taking the most difficult computer science course in my program (Operating Systems) at the same time set in and I was forced to abandon my plans and WIPs :(
So, last year,
I thought, why not go back and pick up where I left off? So that’s what I did! I wrote for an additional six prompts and celebrated by posting/reblogging all thirteen, the old and new, in 2019 :)
And, finally, this year...
I will tackle this same list for the third and final time!
Meanwhile, SAF has since updated their prompt list (which can be found here), in case you’re interested in participating in their 2020 Spooktober...
...OR if you ship Jason Todd x Tim Drake, @jaytimweek is hosting a month-long JayTim Spooktober event too! (Details for that here) (I guess this year I have to specify: my Spooktober is general DC with some shipping, all ships clearly tagged.)
All the Spooktobers! Not to mention Whumptober and Inktober...so many October-themed events to choose from!
Of course, anyone who would like to write/create/edit/playlist with me on this sad, old list of prompts is more than welcome; I’d certainly appreciate the company!
So, for the rest of this October, I plan to reblog the fics I posted last year and the year before, post more a few new ones for this year, and, then, finally wrap this list up, one way or another!
So I started thinking about my writing process earlier...
I'm coming to the realization that the most prominent reason that developing my personal writing process has given me so much trouble is that I used to be so stuck on the idea that there is only one good/right way to form and/or tell the story, and really, if my experience has taught me anything, there are many ways to develop a story, some better than others, but oftentimes any "good" way will be "good enough". No need to be a perfectionist about it :3
The idea that there is a single "right" way to depict a story is an illusion created by the fact that in putting the story into "print" - especially publishing it to public record - effectively creates a "finalized" single version. To the reader, or the new writer, this makes it seem like there is always one authoritative, "true" version of a story.
But fiction writers aren't depicting historical events that have defined facts; rather, we have as much freedom to change the story as we do to change how it is told. (And even in non-fiction there are serious arguments to be made for the point of view of the writer and/or of society influencing the shape of the historical narrative; there can be many versions of history, depending on the POV).
I guess it is a sign of maturity as a fiction writer when you come to the point where - and the realization that - when you write, you aren't trying to replicate the "ideal version" of a narrative that lives in your imagination, but rather you define what the "ideal" version is as you write it.
SociallyAwkwardFox’s Spooktober - Day 15 “Horror Movies”
JayDickTim | Established Relationship | Horror Movies | They’re not always scary but they can still put you in weird headspace | Sleep Deprivation | (brief) graphic descriptions of horror scenes | Panic Attack | Want to write with me? Find the prompt list here!
~*~
Tim loves his boyfriends. So, so much. But one thing that Jason and Dick both love that Tim just can’t wrap his head around: horror movies.
They’re watching one right now, the third of a trilogy Jay and Dick love, and Tim is sandwiched between them on the couch, feeling faintly ill.
Jay and Dick are the kind of people that get that something from a horror movie, the adrenaline or the enjoyment of their terror or whatever it is that hooks people. Tim isn’t and he gets nothing but is a sick feeling in his stomach and the impression that all the color has been sucked out of the world.
It isn’t the scenes themselves that get to him, because as terrible as it is to admit, he’s seen and experienced thing just as terrible, maybe worse, in his time as Robin. All of them have. Brutal serial killings, human trafficking tragedies, figurative and literal monsters left and right, not to mention the rogues. A run-in with Scarecrow’s fear toxin? That would make most horror movies seem like a pleasant summer picnic. Chasing and being chased by Killer Croc in the sewers in the dead of night? Monster B-flick gold. And the Joker? ‘Nough said.
No, for Tim it’s more about the way the scenes are presented - the cold, dark filters; the unnatural lighting; the haunting music and grisly sound effects. It turns a factually horrifying scene into an garish exaggeration, like a scene from one of his nightmares - you don’t fully believe its real, but it still strikes a chord deep in your psyche.
He can handle one movie. Easy to shake off. Maybe two, in the daytime. But tonight they watched three, using their one night off from patrol to stay up into the wee hours of the morning–as if they would ever think use that time to catch up on sleep or something.
Three-quarters of the way through the third movie, Jason notices Tim getting twitchy and asks if he’s okay.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s just getting late. I keep nodding off and then every time someone screams, I jump awake again,” Tim tells them, playing it off with a laugh. Dick and Jason laugh with him.
“No problem, Babybird, we’re almost done. We’ll let you sleep in peace soon enough.”
“Did you mean 'rest in peace’, Jaybird?”
“Ugh, Dick, staaaahp.”
They laugh and kiss over Tim’s head, then come at him from both sides when he makes a disgruntled noise for being squished between them, showering him in kisses and noogies and awkward side hugs. The warm moment of affection between the three of them almost distracts Tim away from the grim mood affected by the movies. Almost.
When they settle down into bed an hour later, Tim snuggled between the two of them–all of Dick’s limbs wrapped around him and Jason drooling onto his shoulder–the sick feeling, mental and physical, doesn’t budge. Tim spends the rest of the night staring up at the dark ceiling, mind circling the imagery of the movie in endless spirals. He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep when Dick gets up at 4:30 to pee, and again at 5:15 when Jay startles awake for a few seconds at the sound of a car alarm blaring down on the street. When they all get up at nine the next morning, neither Dick nor Jason seems to be the wiser to his deception.
Tim spends the next day exhausted, but makes up for it with a jam packed schedule–keeping busy always helps–and copious amounts of caffeine. That night he goes out for a quick patrol, then turns in early, hoping to make up for lost sleep.
He can’t. He’s still awake, his mind bombarding him with the images of a decapitated zombie child crawling toward a screaming young woman in the grey rain as “mama, mama” whistles in the wind; the sounds of a man sobbing as he clutches his dead partner in the snow–her womb torn out messily–and the smells he imagines a child clinging to their mother’s green, long-dismembered corpse would experience when Dick comes in at three AM. He’s still awake–and pretending he’s not with every Bat-trained skill he has–when Jay comes in a half hour later.
He’s seen just as bad in real life–and how messed up is it to say that?–but here the imagery is also accompanied by such a deep sense of sorrow, lasting pain and depression. Lives, minds, souls ruined. He’s still wide awake as dawn begins to light the sky. He extricates himself from their sleepy dogpile while Jason and Dick are still in the deepest stages of sleep and heads down to the gym to get a few hours of training in to pump him up for another exhausting day.
He struggles through day two, barely functioning as he makes his way into night three. He volunteers to stay on comms for the night, citing some bullshit excuse about a sore ankle he wants to rest to keep Dick from worrying and Jason from asking too many questions. He stays up late, working on case docs, hoping that if works himself to utter exhaustion that he can just pass out at dawn. He tells Dick and Jay he’s doing it to make up for not going out, and they seem worried, but he promises he’ll rest in the morning.
He doesn’t. Daylight doesn’t bring any relief from the wild thoughts and images that pop into his head any time he tries to quiet his mind. He pretends to nap on the couch until Jay and Dick leave, then goes into Wayne Enterprises and works late.
He goes out as Red Robin that night–night four–but turns in early after he gets a call from Alfred asking about unexpected telemetry from the vitals sensors in his suit–racing pulse, high rate of respiration. He excuses himself with claims that he’s in a bit of pain from his “sore” ankle. It’s a lie. His body and his mind are hitting their natural limits, his anxiety levels increasing and his organs screaming for rest. He meditates for the rest of the night, feeling somewhat refreshed the next morning.
Day four is like a bizarre dream, time zooming past or crawling by in fits and starts. He loses his appetite and even coffee starts to lose its appeal, the smell of it making his stomach twist. By five PM swears the shadows at the corner of his office have started to ooze toward him and he jumps at every little sound.
That night he skips dinner, disables all telemetry in his suit, and goes out for solo patrol. Just a loop around his territory. Then he’ll stop, take a sedative, and pass out for twelve to fifteen hours. Sweat it out as the drugs force him to stay under no matter what nightmares may come.
His patrol is patchy, if that makes any sense. Some moments he is clearly aware of where he is and what he’s doing, and then there are whole stretches of time that are total blanks. Halfway through his loop he gets sidetracked to a neighborhood outside his scope after he hears about of a drug deal going down outside a middle school.
He handles the would-be dealers–high schoolers dealing to middle schoolers who were lucky Red Robin caught wind of the deal before Red Hood did–then retires to the roof of the school for a breather. He sits down between two AC units and lets his head fall back against one for a few moments…
—
Tim slowly comes awake to the sounds of quiet conversation around him, gentle fingers combing through his hair, and a soft bed under him. He blinks his eyes open, squinting in confusion at the overhead light of the room he shares with Jay and Dick. Who left the lights on? Wait, why is he in his uniform? Did he forget to take it off before he dropped into bed?
“Dick. Dick, shut up a second, I think he’s coming around. Tim? Timmy? You with us?”
Tim turns his head to the side with a grimace. His neck is sore like he slept hanging off the side of the bed half the night.
“J-Jay?”
The hand leaves his hair and Tim turns his head minutely to see Dick sitting beside him on the bed, running both hands through his own hair, expression a blend of relief and worry.
“Holy cow, Tim, you scared the crap out of us. What were you thinking?” Dick demands of him. Tim blinks, confused.
“Whoa, whoa, ease up, Dickie, give 'im a sec to reboot, 'kay?” Jason chides, settling down near Tim’s bare feet–-oh, someone removed his boots, gauntlets, belts and cape and unzipped the collar of his suit. He rubs a soothing circles into the arch of one foot. “Hey, Timbo, you know where you are?”
“The 'partment,” Tim answers slowly. Did he hit his head on patrol?
“Yeah. You know what time it is?”
Tim blinks. It’s dark outside, so he knows it’s nighttime, but when he tries to think back to the last time he remembers he can’t get it straight. He was on patrol? Which patrol? He can’t remember. Did he get drugged? Shot?
“No? You know what day it is?”
He doesn’t. He starts to panic. What happened to him? He tries to sit up.
“Easy, Tim. Just rest for a minute,” Dick soothes, easing him back down with a hand on one shoulder. Tim flops back, heart racing. He’s missing something, something important, something awful he should remember.
“Breathe, Tim, don’t force yourself,” Jason chides. Dick’s hand returns to his hair and Jason lies down beside him, now rubbing circles into his exposed hand.
Dark spots cloud his vision and he starts to shake. Why can’t he remember? Now that he’s more aware, why do his joints ache and his limbs feel like they’ve been filled with cement? Why does he feel so cold? Is he dying? Is he dead?
“Jay, he’s hyperventilating.”
“No shit. Timmy? Tim? Breathe with me okay?”
“Breathe with Jason, Tim. Nice and slow.”
“Hey, fo– on m–”
“Ti–”
Their voices fade out along with the sensation of fingers feeling for a pulse and hands pulling off his suit. Darkness fills his vision until there is nothing left but the darkness.
—
When Tim comes around again it’s with a hiss for the bright overhead lighting of the Batcave’s med bay. You’d think with all their resources they’d invest in a light dimmer at some point.
“There he is. Rise and shine, Timbo,” Jason’s voice calls from his left. He groans and tries to squeeze his eyes closed.
“Ah, ah, ah, no falling asleep again until you endure the wrath of Big Bird and Alfie. They’ve got a lot of choice words for you, Babybird,” Jason chides, squeezing his hand. Tim tries to curl onto his opposite side but freezes with a gasp when a sharp twinge in his right arm informs him of the IV inserted there. The numb, slightly clammy feeling on his right index finger speaks to the presence of a pulse oximeter clip. Did he get injured, he wonders?
No. Bit by bit, Tim’s head clears and snatches of memory come back to him. He’d been on patrol. He stopped to rest. No dinner. No sleep. Wayne Enterprises. Disabled telemetry. Solo patrol. The teenaged dealers. A middle school.
Disabled telemetry. Shit.
“H-how long was I out?” Tim asks, croaking around the dryness of his throat. He turns back to Jay in time to see Alfred and Dick walk into med bay, expressions stern and relieved in equal measure. Jason snorts at whatever expression Tim makes in response to theirs.
“About a day, in and out of it,” Alfred replies smoothly, voice cool and unamused as he raises the back of the bed to help Tim sit up. “You gave Masters Dick and Jason quite the fright, not to mention myself, going out alone and under the radar the way you did. I thought we had taught you better than that, Master Timothy.”
Tim shrinks in on himself. You know you’re in trouble with Alfred when he calls you by your full first name. “Sorry, Alfred. Dick. Jason. I haven’t really been myself the past couple of days,” he admits, thinking back on the past week. He cringes internally as he thinks about their last free day and all the stupid things he did in the resulting funk.
“I imagine you wouldn’t be, skipping meals until you passed out from exhaustion,” Alfred lectures sternly as he deftly removes the IV and pulse oximeter. Dick looks sad and disappointed. Jason looks unconvinced.
Tim shakes his head. “I wasn’t skipping meals - mostly - I just wasn’t sleeping very much.”
Dick raises his eyebrows. “Define 'very much’? Why weren’t you sleeping?”
“Uhhhh, well… not at all?” Tim replies shrugging with an apologetic grimace. Alfred shakes his head as he leaves med bay and Jason’s eyes blow wide. Dick makes a sound of indignation.
“Not at all?!” Jason echoes. “What the hell, Babybird? What were you thinking!”
Tim scrubs his hands over his face and deliberately ignores the question in favor of asking one of his own. “What happened? I remember stopping to rest on the roof of Parkview Middle and then briefly waking up back at the apartment.” He looks around the med bay then takes stock of himself. He feels fine now, but he vaguely remember feeling like he was dying the last time he was fully conscious. “Did I get hurt?”
Dick doesn’t look happy about the redirect, but shakes his head and takes a seat on the edge of the gurney. “Well, after me and Jay got home at four AM, realized you weren’t there, and found your suit was missing, we called Alfred and Babs to see if you’d been out that night.
"Alfred said he hadn’t heard from you, and neither had Babs, but she eventually tagged you in a couple of surveillance feeds along your route. We tried to call you on comms: nothing. Then Babs tried to find you on live surveillance: still nothing.” Dick’s expression is dark and his eyes drill holes into Tim.
“We were freakin’ out, Timmers,” Jason continues. “Like, did you get hurt? Did you get kidnapped? We tried to check your telemetry and got fuck all. No vitals, no location. Dickie here was nearly shittin’ himself thinking you’d gone and gotten yourself killed or somethin’”
Tim’s face heats up in shame.
“In the end we pulled out the nuclear option and activated your subdermal GPS beacon,” he explains, gesturing to the stretch of skin on Tim’s arm under which the small capsule resided, a measure they all–Bruce included–agreed to take in order to avoid situations just like this one.
“We found you on some random-ass roof four blocks off your route, passed the fuck out. When we tried to check on you, you nearly cleaned Dickie’s clock, kicked me in the cup–it still hurt, even with the cup, so thanks for that–then tried to throw yourself off the roof. After we got you to calm down and wake up a bit, you seemed to recognize us, understand where you were, and we escorted you home.
"Everything was fine until we got into the apartment, at which point you threw yourself across our bed, cowl up and belts on, and passed out again,” Jason explained, rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of it. “You weren’t outwardly bleeding and your pupils reacted appropriately to light, so we thought you were just a little tired or whatever. When you woke up again, you were disoriented as fuck and freaking out. Then you went completely non-responsive and we freaked out. We brought you down here just to make sure you didn’t have a brain bleed or a punctured lung or something.
"A million scans and some bloodwork later and Alfie concluded you that probably hadn’t been taking care of yourself,” Jason concludes, pinning Tim with a severe look of his own. “And now we’re hearing from you that you haven’t been sleeping? Cough it up, Timbo. How long?”
Tim clears his throat and shifts his legs restlessly. “About five days.”
“Five days!” Dick exclaims, jumping up from the end of the gurney. He rounds to the other side, across from Jason. “Why?”
Tim shrugs and looks away. “I dunno, I just haven’t been able to fall asleep. I couldn’t shut my brain off.”
“Why didn’t you tell us you had insomnia?” Dick asks.
Tim shrugs again. “What would you be able to do about it?”
“Make sure you didn’t do something stupid like stay up all night filing reports or go on patrol with all your tracers turned off, probably,” Jason replies wryly. He stands up, bracketing Tim between himself and Dick. He narrows his eyes.
“You know, I can tell when you’re keeping something from us, Timbo. Spit it out. What’s been so heavy on your mind that it hasn’t let you get a wink of sleep for nearly a week?”
Tim tenses and curls in on himself subconsciously. “Nothing. It’s not important.”
Jason laughs mirthlessly and Dick frowns. “If it’s important enough for you to lose sleep over it, then it’s important to us,” Jason insists.
Tim mumbles under his breath, avoiding eye contact.
“What?”
“It’s nothing,” he mumbles a little louder.
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you, Timbelina,” Jason belts loudly into his ear.
“It’s your damn horror, movies okay!? I couldn’t sleep after we marathoned that trilogy on our night off,” Tim shouts back, scooting down the bed and throwing off the sheet. He swings his legs over the side, stands up, and only sways a little as the room swims around him for a second.
“The movies? They scared you?” Dick asks uncertainly as he steadies Tim with hand around his upper arm.
Tim shakes him off. “No, they’re just depressing as fuck. We see enough horrible stuff in our line of work, so sue me if watching it presented in a way intended to be emotionally gripping as possible puts me in a bit of a funk.”
He moves for the doorway, pretending not to be embarrassed that his ass is hanging out of the back of his hospital gown, only to be stopped by Dick darting in front of him, closely followed by Jason. They’re both watching him with concern, worry, and a tinge of guilt. Tim deflates. This was exactly what he hoped to avoid.
“Babe. You never told us they bothered you,” Dick starts while Jason says, “A bit of a funk? It must really bother you if it’s keeping you up for days.” They look at each other, then Dick nods to Jason. Tim sighs.
“What’s really going on, Tim,” Jason asks.
“That’s really all it is,” Tim replies, crossing his arms. “We watched the movies, I didn’t sleep that night and then it kind of snowballed from there, the sleep dep feeding the funk.” Looking at it objectively, after a good night’s rest, he can admit that the situation never should have escalated past that first morning; he should have taken a sedative and a day off right then and there to avoid falling deep into the funk.
“Is it really that bad? Why didn’t you tell us you don’t like scary movies?” Dick asked, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy. Tim groaned.
“It’s really not a big deal. Not usually. They don’t scare me, they just kind of… I dunno, haunt my thoughts for a while afterwards. You know how it goes; I overthink everything,” Tim admits, waving a hand dismissively. “And I didn’t tell you guys because I didn’t feel like being made fun of for being 'too scared to watch a scary movie’. Who would have believed me if I said they’re not scary, just emotionally disturbing?”
Dick opens his mouth like he’s going to object but Tim cuts him off. “No, don’t even try to tell me that you would. Look at Jay, at least he’s honest with himself.”
They both look at Jason, who is nodding along, looking chagrined. “Yeah, I’ll admit, if you’d said something, I probably would have teased you about it.” He gives Tim a look Tim can’t decipher. “You’re an odd one, Timbo, but there’s no arguing with the results. If it bothers you, it bothers you, whether it’s frightening or not. But if it bothers you so much, then why watch with us? You could have just told us you don’t like horror and gone to bed.”
“And not spend time with you guys?” Tim asks incredulously. “We get one night off together every two weeks, and you think I would just give that up and go to bed alone?” He shakes his head at them. “I put up with it because I wanted to spend time with you guys and I wanted you guys to do something you both enjoy. I didn’t want to be the wet blanket in the room that put a stop to that.”
Both Jason and Dick’s faces fall on hearing this, and in that moment Tim is done with this conversation. He tries to skirt around them, but Jason blocks his path.
“Move, Jason, I need to pee.” He does. IVs are great and all, but sleeping for twenty four hours through one, maybe two liters of fluids equals one very full bladder. He’s grateful Alfred didn’t stoop to inserting a urinary catheter just to punish him, even if it would have done him a favor in this one thing.
Jason crosses his arms obstinately.
“I will pee on you,” Tim warns.
Dick steps between them and places his hands on Tim’s shoulders. “Tim, it means a lot to us that you would put our enjoyment above your own, but it hurts a little to think you don’t trust us enough to let us know when something’s bothering you.”
“What Dick said,” Jason seconds. “Yeah, we’d probably tease you at first, but eventually we’d get that horror makes you uncomfortable and picked something else to do. We care about you just as much you care about us, ya know?”
Tim looks away, uncomfortable.
“Look, we’re not trying to blame the victim here, we’re just saying give us a chance next time, okay?” Jason clarifies, tone softening. “We deserve the opportunity to prove ourselves assholes or saints for ourselves, yeah?”
Tim snorts softly. “Yeah.”
They smile and Dick draws them both into a hug, sandwiching Tim between them. “Good. And we’re sorry, Tim. We should have noticed you weren’t having a good time and asked.”
“You did,” Tim admits, “But I told you I was 'just tired’ and you guys bought it. That’s on me.”
“Yeah, well, dealing with you–the guy who lies to Batman–we should have pressed the issue no matter how convincing you were,” Jason replies, pressing his face into Tim’s hair. “And you shouldn’t feel like we won’t take you seriously. That’s mostly my bad for teasing you so much.”
Tim presses his face into Jason’s chest and shakes his head. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” Dick says softly at his back. “But it will be.” Tim feels Jason smile into his hair and nod. He lets them hold him tight and close for a long minute.
“And no more horror movies around Timmy!” Dick exclaims belatedly, making Tim and Jason laugh.
“Definitely. We’ll save it for our solo dates, right Dickie?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Okay, this was nice and all,” Tim begins, squirming a little, “but I wasn’t kidding earlier; someone needs to let go now or I’m going to pee on Jason.”
“Eh, I’m fine with that,” Dick replies lightly.
“Dick, you dick!” Jason shoots back, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Stop making me laugh! I’m really going to pee on him!”
<< A sequel to last year’s “Tim’s Favorite Oracle”
Dick & Babs || Read on Ao3 || Revised 2020.09.23 || Happy Birthday, Barbara Gordon! ❤
~*~
After Tim left, Barbara tidied up her kitchen, got herself dressed, and bided her time doing light chores around the apartment until her father arrived to take her out for their traditional birthday brunch.
They had started the tradition, long before she had become Batgirl, as a logical alternative after so many postponed or cancelled birthday dinners and parties over the years, postponed and cancelled due mostly to her father's demanding and unpredictable work with the GCPD. In the end, Gotham's crime came to dominate both their lives, and the birthday brunches, precisely timed to occur in the daily lull in crime that occurs just after the sun rises, had worked well for both of them.
After a quick bite to eat at her favorite diner, a brief exchange of gifts, and a few hugs from her father before he had to hurry back to the all-consuming task of wrangling Gotham's crime, Babs spent the rest of her day of birth sleeping. As a gift to herself she slept an extra hour and a half before rousing herself around five. A call to Alfred earlier had confirmed dinner for eight, so she took her time showering and dressing and enjoyed a refreshing double-espresso made from the beans Tim had given her earlier while she played around by putting on real makeup--beyond a little eyeliner and lip gloss--for the first time in a long while.
Right as she was about to call for a ride, she heard a ring from the street door. She smirked. She wouldn't put it past Alfred to magically know when she was ready and to come for her himself, even in the middle of preparing her celebration dinner. She opened her door, not to Alfred, but to Dick Grayson, dressed in nice civvies and smiling widely. He beamed down at her.
"Hey, Babs, Happy Birthday!"
He bent over to give her a hug, partially lifting her out of her chair after she wrapped her arms around his neck. She thumped him across the back of the head - he laughed, the goofball - but after a moment he gently lowered her back into the chair.
Barbara settled back into the seat and raised eyebrow. "Did Alfred send you?"
"No, I sent myself!" Dick replied defensively, although his grin turned sheepish. "But I may have had to talk Alfred out of driving down to get you. Honestly, he has enough to do preparing the manor and the food and all of that!"
Barbara nodded. "He does. Shall we?"
Dick stepped to one side and made a sweeping gesture. "Ladies first." Barbara stuck her tongue out at him as she rolled out the door, but she appreciated the real sentiment, which saw her roll herself up to his car and load herself in under her own power. Dick was one of the few who knew her well enough to not offer unnecessary aid and not be weird about it either.
Dick did help her by stowing her collapsible wheelchair in the trunk before hopping into the driver's seat and steering them out into the traffic clogging the roads. They slowly made their way toward the interstate, hopping on in the direction headed out of the city, toward Bristol.
After a few minutes of driving in relative silence - nothing about traffic in a big city was ever actually quiet - Dick cleared his throat.
"So, uh, how'd you spend your birthday?" he asked, sending her a quick glance before turning his eyes back to the road.
"Oh, you know, the usual," Barbara replied offhandedly. "Dad and I went for our annual birthday brunch--quick and simple like it always is--and then I spent the rest of the day sleeping. Let myself sleep in; gave myself a break from research this afternoon. Nothing special."
Dick hummed in acknowledgement. "Does it bother you that your dad always suggests brunch instead of dinner or whatever?" he asked, voice deceptively casual.
Barbara raised both her eyebrows. "Not really. We're both busy and I still find it sweet and kind of funny that he convinces the diner to send me a stack of birthday pancakes with icing and candles on top every year. We eat, we talk, he gives me all the gifts he would if we sat down to dinner or had a party. What else could I ask for?"
Dick shrugged. "I dunno, I was just wondering. Making conversation to pass the time…" he trailed off into breathy whistling that died the minute he made eye contact with Barbara's questioning stare. She raised an eyebrow but let it drop.
"Speaking of gifts, I take it you heard what Jason and Tim did earlier this morning?" She asked, changing the subject.
Dick huffed. "Yeah, they totally jumped the gun, giving you your gifts right after midnight," he grumbled. "Before the sun even rose! Cheaters."
"Oh?" Barbara was getting tired of raising her eyebrows today. "And yet this is the first I've seen or heard from you all day. No visit, no gift, not even a phone call wish me a happy day…"
Dick spluttered and she grinned to herself. "I-I was waiting for the party! A-and I thought it--I thought you'd be resting most of the day, so I didn't want to bother you and…"
Barbara shook her head with a knowing little smile. Dick caught it out of the corner of his eye and grimaced.
"Admit it. You haven't gotten me anything yet, have you?" she asked slyly, eyes twinkling.
He glanced over at her and deflated. "Fine. Yes! I just, you know, couldn't figure out what to get you." He blew the horn at a person who tried to cut him off right as he steered the car over into the exit ramp toward Bruce's neighborhood in Bristol, then shook his head. "It used to be so easy. Flowers. Jewelry. Bat-themed anything."
"It's not that hard," Barbara countered. "Jason made me a coffee flavored cake. Tim gave me coffee and a picture frame covered in coffee beans. Later, Bruce will probably give me the newest, fastest processors from Wayne Tech for my Oracle servers."
Dick rolled his eyes. "First of all, I refuse to enable anyone's coffee addiction, and second, and what kind of computer doodad am I--me not being the owner of a cutting edge tech firm--supposed to get you--the all-knowing tech guru-- that you don't already have?" he asked, glancing at her as he turned down the drive to Wayne Manor.
They rolled to a stop beside of the grand front entrance. "I'm only teasing you," Barbara replied with fond smile, leaning over the center console to give him a peck on the cheek. "But I'm sure you'll figure out something great. You always do."
Dick's cheeks pinkened and he smiled back at her. "Thanks, Babs. You know, this is why you're my favorite person."
She rolled her eyes. "Sure."
"No, really, you're my number one, all-time favorite, absolute best…"
His voice faded away as he hopped out of the car and disappeared into the trunk to grab her chair. Bruce and Tim appeared at the front door and laid the long, portable chair ramp across the front steps--it wasn't often Babs visited by way of any entrance besides the Cave or the ground level door at the kitchen, but for a special occasion they would roll out the red carpet, so to speak.
The three men hovered uncertainly as she wheeled herself up the steep ramp. She flexed her arms when she reached the top, kissing her bicep, just for them. Tim laughed, at least.
Cass, Steph, Damian, and Jason waited for her in the foyer, bending down to give her birthday hugs. She could hear Alfred not too far down the hall, speaking with someone, maybe taking a last minute call.
"I heard Timmy here gobbled up the last of your cake," Jason teased, giving the person in question the 'I'm watching you' gesture by pointing to his eyes with his forefinger and middle finger held in the v-shape and then turning his hand to point at his target. Tim made a noise of exasperation behind her.
"No, it was an equitable trade. He gave me my favorite espresso and a ton of other coffee paraphernalia in exchange for splitting the last slice with me. He earned it," she replied, sending Tim a wink over her shoulder.
"Sweetie?"
Barbara jumped and turned her attention to the new faces crowding into the foyer. "Dad?"
Alfred finally made his appearance and beside him--apparently the person he had been talking to earlier--was her father. He smiled and his eyes crinkled around the edges in the way they only would when he smiled for her.
"Happy Birthday, again, sweetheart," he said as he leaned down to hug her.
"Dad, how? I thought…"
He straightened and gestured over her shoulder, where Dick had just entered with Bruce. "Dick called me right after we finished up our brunch, told me all about the special dinner Bruce and Mr. Pennyworth were planning for you, invited me over, and I thought to myself, you know what, Gotham and the PD can take care of themselves for at least one night, for once. You're worth at least that much and much, much more."
"Dad…" Barbara had to wipe away a tear before she tugged him down into another hug. "I'm glad you came."
He squeezed her tightly, voice soft as he replied, "I'm glad I came, too."
The rest of her chosen family gave them the space and time to enjoy the moment, but as soon as she and her dad disentangled, Alfred began shooing everyone toward the dining room. Barbara shooed her father toward the others with one hand, motioning meaningfully toward Dick with her eyes. Her father nodded, getting her drift, and shot her one last twinkling smile before he followed Bruce and the others down the hall.
Dick paused beside her and sketched a playful bow, sweeping an arm out in front of them. "Ladies first?"
Barbara snorted, then leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. "Thanks, Dick. I knew you'd figure out something. At least now I can understand why you waited to 'give' it to me," she teased.
He beamed. "It was a last minute inspiration, but I'm glad it worked out. I still plan on getting you something else, too, just not coffee or computers, okay? Maybe…hmmm…maybe something with bats all over it?" he mused teasingly. "Now, who's ready for some of Alfred's best grub?"
"I'll race you there," Babs challenged, grinning over her shoulder at him as she shot ahead in her chair.
"You're on!"
Race or not, neither of them dared go too fast--there was only so much running or speeding Alfred would tolerate in the manor before he gave you a disappointed look and a piece of his mind, after all. Barbara won, course. Just before they entered the dining room, she paused and snagged Dick's sleeve. "Wait. So who does my dad think Jason is?"
Dick chuckled nervously. "Well, I think he knows that it's Jason, somehow, but earlier I got everyone to start calling him 'Peter' and your dad's just been going along with it, so…"
Barbara tugged Dick down, silenced him with a quick kiss on the lips, and threw her arms around him. "Really, Dick. Thank you," she mumbled into his neck.
She felt him huff a fond laugh into her hair. "Of course."
