Hi so i had a dream where a LOT of wild comic book shit went down but i remember at some point in the dream fracture!tim was in a face off against the bats bc he was hiding a bad injury but suddenly dr!tim shows up and fracture!tim is like ‘yes a multiverse me, he will so totes be ok my side’ and dr!tim just straight up slaps the injury to make red stop faking and basically forces him into being treated and hes just ‘w o w. In my own house. by my own self. betrayed’
Babe.
I love, LOVE, that you’re dreaming about Fracture!Tim because I’m fucking dying here. YAAASSSSS.
But it just gets so much better because Dr!Tim will literally take no shit even from himself and just pull out his bat-a-thing and go to town sewing his mulit-verse self up because if there’s one thing he hates, it’s bleeding vigilantes.
“So when the hell did you intend to tell everyone you are, you know, lacking a spleen?”
Red has a moment of oh shit when a still-cowled head visibly perks.
“Keep it down,” he hisses, already divested of his cape, dom, boots and glove/gauntlet combo, “it’s not–”
“It is,” his shorter counterpart sneers out, giving absolutely no shits about the members of the Batfamily scattered around the Cave suddenly very attentive, “you’re not a dumbass, so you know the complication you’re risking with asplenia. I don’t have to tell you about shit like septic shock that can very easily fucking kill you–”
“You are not helping. At all.”
“Who the fuck is stitching you up right now, asshole?”
Red grits his teeth a little and finally reaches out for the sleeve of Dr. Drake’s scrub top, pulling enough to move the physician closer and lean up so some nosy fuckers can tell this is an A, B conversation, C your way out.
He keeps it low, drawing the doctor’s eyes, a brow quirking up and a mask covering the lower half of his face. “However it is in your world…that isn’t the way it is here, okay? I don’t…this isn’t my place anymore. It’s been two years and it’s fine, okay? I’m good. I just need to get the fuck out of here. The faster, the better.”
The doctor gives him a long, slow blink. The same dark eyes he sees in the mirror every morning slide over to where N and Hood are working on the big computer and then the other side where B is running an analysis on the evidence found on site when Dr. Drake suddenly appeared.
The tension in the Cave is at an all-time high, and the good doctor is pretty sure it has nothing to do with him.
Which makes him sigh down at his vilgilante (Robin…fuck, he was the real Robin…) multi-verse self and shake his head before he goes back to the gnarly gash that ripped open Red Robin’s suit at the abdomen.
“I thought you were a detective?”
“So are you, apparently, nice job spotting the residue left behind from the time portal.”
“…I have other hobbies.”
“Interesting. So sleuthing is one of them?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m more into the investigative research.” You know, like three Batfam members completely eavesdropping. “And for the record, I think you’re a dumb ass.”
“Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment coming from a neurosurgeon with hobbies.”
“Dating hot vigilantes is only one of them. If you’ve never tried acrobatic BDSM sex, then I highly recommend it. My Nightwing is entirely flexible enough to make that shit incredible.”
And it’s possible he suddenly goes light-headed because the rest of the blood still in his body goes right to his face.
Behind his surgical mask, Dr. Drake is grinning maniacally. “I mean, not that my Hood is a slouch. Not by any stretch of the imagination–”
“Please, please stop talking,” Red groans and the burn of the stitches finally, finally eases down.
“I’m just saying, that you? Are looking right at the evidence and you still don’t see it.” Dr. Drake slathers some of Alfred’s healing goop over the neat stitches and tapes a gauze pad securely down before pulling down his mask to below his chin and peeling the bloody gloves off.
Red grits his teeth again, forcing himself to sit up and prod gingerly at the gauze pad. “I’ll let you know when I’m presented with other evidence. Thanks for patching me up. How about we do something constructive with our time and get a portal built?” Because Red is already moving to snap on his discarded utility belt, fish a dom out and slap it in place so he can be looking out through the whiteouts and completely ignore N’s slack-jawed stare and Hood’s abrupt stillness. The rest of his suit is on in a flash because really, it’s time to GTFO.
“Lucky for you, mechanical engineering is just–” And Dr. Drake follows Red Robin away from the medical bay and down to the lower lot where the Ducati is waiting.
“Let me venture a guess…”
The two laugh a little as Red takes a spare helmet and hands it off.
“I’m going to need your expertise to program the portal,” B is already starting after them, cape a mesmerising swish as he moves.
“I can do that at the Perch,” Red throws his leg quickly over the Ducati, grabbing the doctor’s wrist to tug him on, “and really, B, I appreciate the pick-up, but I’ve got this.”
“Timmy!” Because Dick already feels the ache in his chest from Tim walking away from them (again) and is up from the computer to move across the floor while Hood paces him, “don’t go! Just–! Stay.”
But the engine purrs to life and Dr. Drake throws himself on the back of the bike, shuffling around the cape to get a firm grip. Red Robin throws up a departing hand before they take off down the ramp and out into the night, on their way to the Perch to calculate traversing time/space.
(And if the doctor gives him more details, well…that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?)
I just saw your last ask and was curious if you have a playlist for your Fractured story?
Hi Anon ;) I don’t really have a playlist persay, but I do have a writing playlist I use whenever I’m writing. It’s a crazy mix of things so I always have something for a certain emotion or action or scene in my head. I’ll change songs or section of songs depending on what I’m writing. I have a lot of metal and hard rock for things like Jason’s Pit scene, or the fight scene between Tim and Dick. For the littles, I have a different section of music. I always play Pink when I’m writing Karmen (lol), and Nahko and Medicine for the People when things need to be soft and gentle. Sometimes Dupstep or Skillrex for actions (I suck at action so much :`( sooo much). So…yeah.
Nightwing slipped in through the window, employing all of his abilities in stealth and hacking as he broke through the security of one of the most secure places in Gotham. It took forever to his impatient sense of time, but he knew one slip up and he’d either be electrocuted, a bird-a-ran-kabob, or an electrocuted-bird-a-rang kabob because Timmy was really getting serious about people breaking into his place. Even if they were well-meaning vigilantes that were just checking in on the resident work-‘til-you-drop-lone-island-asshole. He and Jason had come up with more inventive and truer titles for Red Robin, but that was one of the more innocent ones.
Regardless, Dick felt he should check in when neither Tim nor Jay answered his comms all night. They were both Bats. They always answered the call and seeing how there was no caller ID on ear pieces they shouldn’t have known it was him calling because yes those two jerks have ignored him before. So mean. Makes him wonder why he put up with them.
His wondering was put to an end when he finally entered Red’s perch and saw the living room. Stretched out on the couch was Jason, laying on his back and laying on his chest was Tim, sleeping for once. It had to be one of the most adorable things N had ever seen. Normally when Jason slept he threw his limbs in every direction, but here he had practically wrapped himself around the smaller man. It made Dick silently ask if that was how he looked when he went Hug-Monster on someone. Tim was actually laid out, pressed against Jason with his head laying on the bigger man’s shoulder. This was a bit odd because Dick knew for a fact that Tim tended to curl up into a ball in his sleep. To see him practically melted over Jason was a sight to see.
Nightwing was wondering if he could possibly get a camera and a picture without waking up either of the sleeping heroes (he was practically dancing in place because this was so cute he could feel himself getting cavities for the first time in his life) when blue eyes slid open and reflected in the light. For a single moment, Dick cursed himself for waking Tim up, but it was Jason who brought a finger to his lips to signal for silence.
They both waited for a moment, watching for any movement from the sleeping man, before breathing a small sigh of relief when Red only sniffled gently. Jason waved Dick over and gestured to Tim. “Can you grab him?” he asked, barely speaking above his breath. “I want to get him to bed.”
N bit his bottom lip, looking over his youngest lover with the same intensity he gave a ticking time bomb, before nodding and sliding his arms under Tim. Jason helped roll and flip the vigilante over and Tim, of course, woke up.
“Hmm?” he hummed, slitting open his eyes and shifting in the arms that held him. Red wrapped his arms around Dick’s shoulders and dropped his head to the larger man’s collar bone. “Wazza?”
The fact that the hero hadn’t woken up kicking and fighting spoke of trust and Dick couldn’t help but share a smile with Jason before dropping his head to kiss the long, inky black locks of hair. “Nothing, Timmy. Just going to bed.” He moved to walk down the hall.
Tim sniffed delicately before grumbling. “You smell.”
“I know. I’ll take a shower.”
“Good.” Tim blinked rather slowly before leaning up to nuzzle the jaw above him, pressing a kiss to the smooth skin. “’M cold.” His body chose that moment to shiver and to prove his point.
Nightwing shushed his youngest lover as he lowered him to bed. Jason crawled in from the other side of the massive bed and they both burrowed underneath the thick comforter, curling into each other. Dick took a moment to savor the image before rushing to clean up.
It was no surprise that the pair were already asleep by the time he got back, but they both stirred as he got into bed, spooning up behind Tim. This was his favorite time of night. They both turned to him and demanded kisses. Jason grumbled impatiently and patted his hip in small reprimand as he first kissed Red, teasing their lips together with infinite care and love before giving in to the larger man’s demand and kissing him. It was their nighttime ritual. As long as they were able to wake up when one of them crawled into bed they traded hello and goodnight kisses. The best thing about it, though? Dick didn’t start it. Tim did and Jason pushed to continue it.
It was small things like that and tangling themselves together under a blanket to fend off the chill of night that warmed Dick’s heart because he would never get this anywhere else. This is where he belonged. Right here with Jason arm snaking under pillows and blankets to act as his pillow, with Tim pressed fully to his chest, with Jason’s other arm resting over Tim and on his hip, with Tim’s arms wrapped tightly around his chest, and with all their legs kicked and wrapped around each other. He belonged here where they shared the same air, the same heat, the same space. He belonged right here with Tim and Jason and he couldn’t think of anything better in the world.
Dick smiled as he clutched his boyfriends closer and closed his eyes, drifting off into warm peace and love.
Okay, so @the-all-seer had such an epic idea: tag team writing a scene. I LOVE THAT, so ah, I’m going to start a scene from the Fractured Verse and tag someone to write more if he or she wants :) If that person wants someone else to step in, please have it, or can tag me again and I’ll hit up another person that rocks the Verse, yeah?
If you want in or not, please feel free to PM me and I won’t tag you, but, well why not try it? I know @the-all-seer, @yangmallow, @satire-please, @graywhims, @earthenarya, @azazel999 , @ferudekahiry all know of the verse, but anyone can jump in, okay? I’ll tag the next person at the end.
**
And Red gives a half-assed hand wave from the floor, realistically thinking about what witty banter might possibly explain this fuckery.
N is patiently looking around at the utter carnage that was probably, maybe at one time one of Black Mask’s warehouses.
Hood, however, is rarely at a loss for words.
“You ass hat,” not even the synths could hide the incredulous sqwak, “you went bowling for bad guys and I didn’t even get an invite?! I am seriously not inviting you to the next Vigilante Spring Formal. Fuck you, man.”
“Oh,” Red deadpans while slightly bleeding out, “how will I ever get my first dance now?”
An abrupt laugh is pulled right from N’s chest, and he shakes his head a little since Baby Bird is just never going to learn. “I thought we talked about who you’re supposed to be calling with contingencies.”
“The Bats,” Red parodies sullenly while the older vigilantes grip an arm a piece and heft him to his feet.
“More specifically?” N digs.
Self-sacrificing sigh, “Nightwing.”
“Aw, he can’t be too fucked up if he’s being an asshole, right?” Hood winds an arm around Red’s waist.
“I think I mentioned I get it from you,” Red grunts with pain in the first few steps.
“You know what? Baby Bird, I’mma need you to stop with — “
And the resounding crash makes the three vigilantes turn.
Sigh. Why do I like making Dick Grayson suffer so much?
From the Fractured Verse:
And that shit is like owfuck with a little bit of how and the fuck mixed in. Doesn’t matter. Shit heals, right? Ask Jason, he healed dead. Impressive.
Right now, however, Red is more concerned with hauling Dick’s dumb ass up and away. All the bullshit between them still a wall of this and that, keeps the two of them on professional terms (“I’m your co-worker, asshole. Where’s the fight? Other than that, fuck off). It’s been that way for the last two years, and, yeah, he’s gotten used to it. It wasn’t fine as much as it just was.
And the damn Batcomm, the one he should have pitched in the river, broken under the heel of his boot, thrown from his Ducati (what seems like) a lifetime ago when he subtly moved the majority of his shit out of the Manor while Dick and Damian set up shop in the Tower, is still in his belt.
Damn it.
Holding on the back of Nightwing’s thighs while his free hand keeps them flying rather than falling, Red has long moments to contemplate why the hell he stepped in tonight rather than send a text to O and went along his merry fucking way.
Because it’s Dick. Seems to be the only answer his brain can spit back at him.
Fine. If he could, he’d throw up his hands at the utter fuckery of the situation as he lights down on the roof of the Wallstone Apartments and tries very hard not to think too much about his own motivations when he saw the utter odds against the guy, the various weapons, the holds on his limbs, and the big bunch of that’s going to hurt like shit in the morning, right?
Nope. He jumped in with both feet when the lead pipe came from nowhere and N hit the ground. Nothing registered except a quick round of ‘let’s zip tie these motherfucker’ and pulling Nightwing’s limp body over his shoulder to get them gone. He’s used N’s comm to call O for police pick-up.
She’s been pretty shocked to hear from him since, well, he didn’t chill with the Bats or anything when he was in Gotham. Nope. He picked his routes away from their nighttime usual with a propensity to know when one of them had a night off and their territory up for grabs.
Natch.
Now, however, he takes a knee, let’s N’s body slide off his shoulder so he could lay his previous mentor and friend, the guy that was his Batman once, out across the roof while he palms the comm again, already hearing O’s distorted voice come over.
“Red Robin. Red. Respond.”
He sighs, straightening, staring down at (the guy that betrayed him, took everything from him, cast him out) Nightwing and finally answered the fucking thing with a harsh,
“He’s unconscious, Fifth and Grand. Get one of the Bats here for a pick-up, O.”
“You are a Bat,” she counters, pissed off in her own right.
Whatever, maybe she’s had a long night, too.
The laugh that tumbles out from under the beak of his cowl is the very opposite of hardy-har-har. “Who do you think you’re kidding?”
“Red…I—“
“Get. One. Of. The. Bats, O.”
Since he sure as fuck doesn’t want to be here when the asshole comes to. Nope. He picked up on that train a while ago. He’s the intel guy, the fucking soldier. He comes back to town when business calls, when the big bads need more than the Bats, when they need to be in the know, when his blood calls for the dirt, the fight of the streets where he started. Other than that, he hasn’t spoken to Dick Grayson in more than a year, within a ten foot radium in longer than that.
It’s fine. He gets it. He shouldn’t have been a douche about giving up Robin to the real son. He should have bowed out gracefully and got fucking lost the minute the new kid got the tunic. Now that he understands how it should have went down, it’s all good.
“B is on his way. Ten minutes out.”
“Good. ‘Bye O.”
“Tim, hey—“
“Nope,” he comes back immediately, “I do my part, O. That’s it. Night.”
“Come by,” and now there’s a thread in her tone…something he need a few years ago. Something he sure as hell doesn’t need now.
“Some other time,” he placates in an empty tone, hearing the bullshit in his voice like when he tells the same thing to one of the Titans when they ask him to come home with them. “Red out.”
He flips the thing completely off. It’s still tracking, sure, but he doesn’t have to listen to the lip service.
The tug on his cape, however…Fuck.
“Timmy—“
With the lenses down, he can see a whole bunch of concussion there.
“Nightwing,” empty, neutral. “B is on his way.” Subtle turn so his cape is tugged out of that hold. He steps back into the shadows while N takes a second to assess the hurt.
“Hey…In Gotham?” The older man smiles a little off.
Obviously asshole, I’m standing here.
“Been a long time since I’ve seen you.”
Red says nothing, doesn’t bother. Hurry it up, B, or I’m leaving him here by himself.
Now the frown is there.
“Tim?”
“Dick.”
“It’s been a while.”
Yup.
“Ah,” the guy sits up, woozy since head shots are really just a bitch. He named his last concussion Jeff and that dude was such a downer. Terrible concussion, really. “How are you? Where are you? Still in San Fran? How are the Titans?”
Another slide further back into the shadows. “Titans are fine.”
And a sigh, a hand with finger stripes held out in his direction, those eyes…
“Hey. We haven’t talked in too long. Stop trying to bolt.”
“No reason to stay.” Red fills in. “Other crime to stop. B should be here for you soon.”
“Look, little brother—“
Oh no you didn’t asshole. “Don’t,” he snarls out, “call me that.”
Even with the possible concussion, N’s spine straightens out with a snap, sharp and coordinated. His eyes clear, narrow. “Tim.”
And, ah. The familiar rumble in the alley below. “See you at the next Office Party,” he deadpans, turning, a few running steps, the leap into the night.
**
And it was a mistake to get too close to Dick like that. He knows it even before he shot the grapple right after; it’s why he’s on his way back to San Fran in the morning. But his goddamned phone hasn’t stopped going off.
Mother. Fucker.
In the old, recommissioned Batwing, Red sighs, monitoring the flight pattern when Titan’s Tower comes into view. He finally thumbs the damn thing off while the roof slides back to let him land.
Gar is there when he comes down the plane’s walkway with his duffle over his shoulder with the wings and pack inside.
“Hold on,” Gar is saying, one hand up right above the Red Robin insignia on his chest, those green eyes narrow. He thumbs his phone on speaker. “All right, dude. Go ahead.”
“Why the hell aren’t you answering my calls, Tim?”
A well of old anger and hurt just—
Nope.
“Obvious answer, N.” He walks to the elevator with Gar trailing behind him, holding the phone out in one hand while the other is shoved in his pocket.
“That is not—“
“Save your lecture bullshit for the Bats, Dick,” he finally gets out. “I’m out of Gotham, out of your fucking hair, so take a pill.”
A beat of silence. “What you told O?”
“What? You think I didn’t get the memo a year or two ago?”
Now Gar looks decidedly uncomfortable. Well, shouldn’t have put the phone on speaker, dude.
“Call me when you need data, a detective, or a soldier. Other than that, I’ll stay the hell out of the way.”
“Timmy, no, Tim, we are so going to talk about this.”
“Hell no we’re not.” The elevator opens on the communal floor, and he’s across the room with Gar trailing behind him. Red gives a wave to Bart and Kon ball deep in video games.
“Yes we are. This is long overdue, Tim.”
Irritated, Red turns and snatches the phone from Gar’s outstretched hand, brings it close enough for: “Get. Fucked. Dick. That’s all the talking I need except for giving you your goddamned intel and which asshole to punch in the nuts. I stay away from the Cave, from the Manor, from everyone else and I do my fucking part.”
“Jesus, Timmy—“ and now the happy-go-lucky mask is gone. The guy sounds like ass.
“Nope. All good here, thanks. Have a good one.” He hangs up, hands the phone back, and starts back on his way to the steps leading to his perch.
“Good times in Gotham, I take it?” Bart calls after him.
“The usual! Bad guys to stop and data to collect,” he calls back without stopping.
Do you ever have a moment in the middle of a scene, and it’s so painful for your character that YOU want to scream. You just want to break down and cry and be furious and be indigant on their behalf? The answer is: you are writing using your pain as the catalyst. You are ripping out pieces of agony from your own soul and putting them on paper for the world to look at. You are baring you own share of scars.
And that’s okay, isn’t it? You know that pain is a collaboration of experiences, pain is a synaptic response from your brain that culminates from hard decisions and choices made. You know that pain, your pain, your character’s pain is all derived from the human experience.
By all means, weep for the things you wish you could change. Get angry for the things you can’t.
From the Fractured Verse:because everyone in the cape and cowl crew has to crash sometime.
The wall is the only solid thing right now, pressing on his shoulder blades and the corresponding lacerations between them. He's…everyone has a bad night occasionally, even him. It's one of those. Technically, he should have been hanging out with the couch, eat cereal, and getting the fucking boxes in his closet unpacked (finally). But naw. He's sitting here getting blood on the wall, still in the tights, the suit, and just…
Blockbuster.
Tarantula.
Jason.
Bludhaven.
The Titans.
Red Robin without Tim Drake.
And fucking Black Mask.
It’s been coming for a while, the eventual instances that he has to ask himself the question as to whether or not the good they do outweighs the bad.
And he feels like breathing is a struggle, like his chest is too full of the bad, like he's too used up to be any good now. He just lets the wall hold him up, allows himself to just slump, be useless, be empty.
And something is there, a noise in the background, then a head of dark red hair, dark eyes that used to be green, still were once and a while. Right now, they're blue, not as blue as Tim's or Bruce's, a lighter but more intense depth.
Intelligently, Jason hadn't touched him (good idea because Robin training), was just kneeling at one side of his sprawled legs, mouth moving, eyes taking him in from head to foot.
"…Wing? Hey, I need you to come back, okay? It's just me. Left the brat home. He can take a fucking pill. Hey, can you hear me now?"
Finally, the real world is filtering in, "what-?" 'Are you doing here?' We haven't been doing this thing in months. You weren't comfortable. I was fine with it. I could just be family if that's what you needed, fuck, that’s never a question.
"Dick?" and there's a small smile there, "weren't answering your phone or comm, asshole. Isn't that a big 'no,no' on your list?"
And he can't say anything to that, just stare at his brother pretty much sitting across from him in his bathroom while blood oozes slow and slimy, itching now that he’s aware of it.
"Hm," Jason just gives him another once over like he's looking into the guys thought processes. When he speaks again, his voice is almost an octave lower. "If I touch you, you gonna feed me your boot with a side of knuckles?"
Still, he's got nothing because maybe in the suddenly blown-out part of his brain (where he usually squirrels away the big bads and the failures and the fucked situations), he still thinks he did some major damage to one Jason Peter Todd.
He'd let the kid get acclimated to Robin, to figure out Bruce and himself before coming back to Gotham on occasion. He'd tried to let the kid he was to figure out his place, figure out Bruce. He’d been trying not shaking up the kid's sense of self in the ranks (since the old Robin showing you up is never the way). The anger and betrayal at B for replacing him didn't belong to the kid, and he tried—God, he'd tried so hard not to take it out on him because even then Dick realized how much it wasn't his fault…
Initiating a casual, sexual relationship was just another fuck-up on his part. He'd come to care about Jason (rage and all), he'd wanted to do something, anything to help him heal, to move on. He'd been part selfish about it because it had been a while and…
The nice cut on his back gives a sharp edge, bringing him back out of his own head again. Fucking Jason is pressing down hard enough to almost make him flinch.
“…me, Dickie. C'mon. Talk to me."
A second to clear out the fog, "I'm okay. Long…couple of shifts." And Jason could deduce he meant more than the day job.
“Well, you’re not going to win Miss Gotham any time soon, Big Wing. I don't care how fucking cute you might think you are under the road rash."
A laugh, rusty and hoarse comes from the base of his chest, startling him.
Jason grins a little sadly and stands from his crouch. "What trouble did you get into tonight?"
"Black Mask is going to take a few steps back after this."
And that's enough said because now that the Red Hood was a foot out of the 'control the gangs and drugs' racket, Black Mask had taken a step back in.
The first thing that could spew from Jason’s mouth might be are you fucking dense? Why didn’t you shoot a text, asshat? Mother-fucking Batman just thinks he can roll out like that? You. Suck. Any combination really of them really. But Dickie…Dick was the first R, so his fucking precedent set the tone and all of them had their own versions of vigilante shock syndrome once and a while. Par for the course.
Instead of giving in to the urge of reminding Big Wing (again) what an asshole he is, the red-head just makes choices.
The sound of water trickles in, making Dick lift his weary head enough to look at gauntlets, gloves, and jacket coming off; then to the linen closet for fresh towels. Just looking at the haphazard mess would give Al palpitations. It's enough Jason is frowning hard; he used to pick up Dick's mess back when.
Not the time, Dick.
He vanishes out of the bathroom for a few long blinks while Dick gets some of his sense back to be able to wonder if this is a good idea, letting Jason take care of him like-
The guy has two pairs of sweats and t-shirts so the thinking pauses, mutes, something because the red-head is bending down, winding an arm around him to pull Dick to his feet without aggravating the wound on his back or the mad impressive road rash pretty much everywhere else (skill, just skill to get rash right in the crease of the damn) hip. And it's a crazy thing that Jason braces on his left side, remembering the bad knee, compensating for the initial give. Once the thing stretches, he can put his weight on it again.
And this is very déjà vu, even when in reverse: carrying one another’s assess in through the window because fucking ow is going to be the mantra of the following morning, patching each other up (more Red Hood than Nightwing, natch). It’s the domesticizes they managed to stumble into somehow.
Jason leans in to test the water with a hand and looks just slightly down to start peeling the rest of the Nightwing suit down his hips and legs. It's nothing he hasn't seen (the reinforced jock and underwear) or done (scarred fingers moving over the indent of his hips, down the outside of his thighs and calves) before, but the hesitation is there in the way his hand just rests on Dick's bare thigh, gaze slightly off to the left.
"I can manage, Little Wing." He only limps once while moving to the shower, leaving the blood trail on the wall without a shit to give. Stiff with old pain, Dick peels the last layers off and steps into the shower, ignoring the initial sting on the raw skin. He hangs his head to let the water run over him, sighing hard, bracing his hands.
The door slides open; he doesn't need to turn to know Jay's bare ass behind him. Maybe he's left the Red Hood behind for the night.
The arm comes close because the body wash is in the shower caddy hanging over the pipe. They don't need talk while Dick doesn't flinch at the minute pain of soap and Jason isn't still checking out his body, probably tracking out the new scars (he can't convince himself those calloused fingers aren't touching the newest ones knowingly). Dick just closes his eyes, gives himself over to the ministering.
Jay's hand on his shoulder turns him, pulls him slightly out of the spray, so the cloth can work the sides of his neck, down his collar bone, and ease over the his shoulder. Down his chest, careful on the bruising, and there’s no hesitate this time. He just kneels down to reach feet and legs and hips, gripping the left one tight, keeping Dick with him and out of his head.
It works better than meditation or terrible movies. When Jay looks up at him with a quirked brow and it's the look that started after their first time, and that ass knows what it does. The fight had been epic, bloody, ending with Jay throwing the damn helmet and shoving his tongue down Dick's throat like a dying man. They didn't make it off the roof, jerking each other off in the shadows, stumbling back to a safe house to shower and do it all again like they’re both horny teenagers or something. Three (four? Fuzzy on that part) times, wrapped around each other, mapping scars and sensitive places, mouths and tongues, teeth and hands, skin on skin. At the time, he'd taken it as a sign. Maybe Jason would let him back in, maybe even let Dick help him however he could.
It had taken a month for Jay to still be there in the morning…but, that look is still part of him, a testament to how far they had come in welcoming him back to the family.
The cloth left his feet and Jay is rising again, thumb on his chin to direct his broken gaze.
"It's one of those nights, Big Wing." Not a question, but Dick still doesn't need to confirm or deny. He just needs to keep breathing.
Jason's the one that dries him, wrestles boxers up his legs and over his ass before drying and dressing himself. Jason is the one that puts him on the sink and stitches his back, puts ointment and gauze pads over the road rashes. And he doesn't need to talk or justify, to quote the rules or theorize how he could have done it all differently. He does that in his head, a version of the younger Batman in his own voice critically replaying how shit should go because when he was Robin, when he was Robin… Jay's arm around his back slides him off the sink, pulls the sweats up his legs, shirt comes over his head, one of the few blank ones (trust Jay to forgo the Bludhaven PD ones). He leads Dick through the apartment to the kitchen, sitting him down at the island and pouring coffee from the fresh pot he must have made before coming into that bathroom. He puts the mug in front of Dick with only a pointed finger and already has his phone in one hand.
No hello, "I'm with him. He's good. Check ya later, Brat Wonder."
“Shit.” Because—
“Yeah,” Jay pulls a container from the fridge, opens cabinets for plates, and works the microwave like a champ.
“Shit.”
“I believe we’ve established that.”
“You know, in case it wasn’t clear.”
“You’re the guy that went out against doctor’s orders, don’t blame the messenger, Big Wing.” And he’s grinning with his back pressed against the counter, waiting for the (nice smelling) food to get done.
Dick huffs a laugh back, savoring coffee, “I was ready. A week, Little Wing.”
“Yeah, actually dying really gives you more time off than that, but semantics, you know? Maybe we should talk to B about setting up a standard, yeah?”
“You’re an ass,” but fuck if he isn’t laughing when the plate lands in front of him and the smell hits.
“Someone’s gotta balance your dumb assery, Dick. I’ve got an obligation here.”
“Everyone exaggerates,” the elder deadpans, “I am not some rabid hug-monster that coddles all the littles and follows the Bat Rules like it’s my religion.”
In mid-chew Jason pauses, gives him a patient look.
And because he’s eating, Dick automatically picks up his fork, “hugs are great, man. If more people would just hug it out—”
“Hm. That’s why every crime fighter in, gee, well, ever, trusts Dick Grayson*? Huh, I thought it was your ass in that suit.”
And there’s what Jay wants to see, a little heat to Big Wing’s cheeks even though the guy totally knows already how fine he is and doesn’t usually need reminding (it’s a ‘Dickie feels like ass’ night, let him have something).
The two eat in comfortable silence, glad for chicken and rice in a bag because it’s actually pretty good, and dawn is still three hours away, so maybe a few hours to sleep in…
“What set you off?” He finally asks, taking both empty plates and searching for dish soap. “The Fear Gas? Baby Bird? Lady Spider that is still alive regardless of my numerous offers to—“
“Nope. Don’t kill anyone,” comes from his mouth by rote. “Not sure. I just…”
Plates are set up to dry, the water stops running, and Jason Todd is boosting himself on the table right by Dick’s hand, looking down with those blue eyes, taking him apart a little at a time.
“Yeah,” the younger man reaches a hand and is pulling Dick into his side, easy, not restraining because well, he’s been there before in his life, knows that sometimes (just sometimes when old demons ride you when you inevitably have to look back) easy is the way to go. And Dick moves willingly, pretty much letting his upper body drap over Jason’s and take a full breath in what seems like too long. One hand is in his hair, blunt nails scratching, carding through, and it feels like he might be able to move again, pull himself together and just fucking move…
He may have nodded off or meditated into sleep yas hell because the next thing he knows, he’s pulled to his feet, hand on his wrist, following the lines of Jay’s shoulder under the t-shirt, watching the covers pulled back, and the guy is holding them up for him to crawl in too. Which, of course he does, scoots down to let the younger man curve around him, wind an arm around his hips and warm. Warm. Been cold for too long if this warm makes him relax immediately.
And it’ll still be warm when the two inevitably shift in their sleep, and Dick’s plastered to Jason’s back with his nose right at the nape of his neck where the ends of his hair are just almost hitting. It’ll still be warm when the sun is blocked from the windows, and they’re laying facing one another, arms over the other, slowly coming awake with sleeps half-smiles. It’ll be warm when Jason is the one that closes the gap to press against Dick from mouth to knees, and warm even when the clothes come off.
**
A/N: The trusting Dick Grayson line comes from a panel shown here: http://theflyingwonder.tumblr.com/post/132255485896/how-do-you-think-the-dc-universe-would-have-been. I couldn’t find what issue or where this panel is from, but I really like that: “Next to Superman, Dick Grayson is the one guy alive that every other crimefighter trusts.” *Swoon*
Red Robin couldn't keep the Red Bird, but the Batman always has a plan.
Someone wanted the next scene from the above chapter.
“I heard you needed me,” and what he walks into is very not what he expects.
Alfred directed him to the underground garage, insisting he have a sandwich first, and could change so his suit could be laundered should he prefer. The pointed words obviously said Bruce was in a mess of car parts during a brilliant creation spree and probably needed to be helped and eventually persuaded to shower and eat something.
Tim didn’t need to be told twice.
He’s already scarfed down the sandwich, accepted the t-shirt and sweats from Alfred, and handed over his three-piece before making his way down.
He expected the big car to need maintenance or some of the bikes. He didn’t expect a build-in-progress. He sure as shit didn’t expect it to be the Red Bird.
He knows he made some kind of noise unconsciously and sucks in a slow breath at the sight of his car demolished, doors and windows off, top being modified, taken down to the gray undercoating and the ass end with several red shades to test on the right fender and a final black done on the left.
The man himself is out from under the thing in a flash, face streaked with oil and grease, hands black up to the elbows, and that tank top was probably maybe white before he started.
“Dammit,” Bruce sighs with the wrench still in one hand as he lays a forearm over his knee. “Alfred sent you down here, didn’t he?”
“Uh,” Tim blinks at the exasperated look. “He said that car maintenance we were talking about is coming together.” His eyes go from Bruce’s sitting figure to the parts of his history.
“It was supposed to be for your birthday in a few months,” the older man is grinning a little when Tim looks back. “But, this is probably Alfred’s way of telling me you should know about it now. Like I didn’t build the thing in the first place without any problems.”
“I—“ and his eyes go over it again, “I had to fix the navigation system.” The admission was quiet, one Bruce has to strain a little to hear. The wrench gone, Bruce is up and walking easily to him, winding an arm around his shoulders to pull him in against his side.
“It took so long last time,” Bruce just tisks at himself. “Trying to think of everything you’d need. It was good for you to have while I was down and Jean Paul took up the mask.”
Tim shrugs, all that just seeming like a lifetime ago, like a whole different person lived those events. “You gave me contingencies with that car,” and he didn’t really realize that fact until right now, “because you probably had concerns about him even then.”
With a rueful nod, the older man doesn’t disagree, “Too many times I left you to deal by yourself, Tim. I wasn’t a very good Batman to you.”
And there’s a whole lot of what now? when he pulls back from Bruce just enough to look up in his face, but Bruce is just looking at the car torn down to parts.
“It’s ironic. I took the most time with you to make sure you were trained well, and you were the one I left alone the most. Dick, not until his later teens when he started leading the Titans, but you got thrown into a lot of fights on your own when I should have been there.”
When did this turn into…this?
“You were the Batman I needed.” Tim finally comes out with. “I tried to be the Robin you needed and you just gave the same back.”
At Bruce’s huff, Tim persists a little, “I’m serious. If you would have been riding me like Dick or Jason, it might have spooked me off wearing the R. By letting me make it my own thing, you gave me the freedom I needed.”
“I don’t know about that. You and Dick worked well together as partners the first time he took over.” When the whole, Bane’s a douche-nut ordeal happened and shit, shit, Batman started becoming his mantra too.
The shoulder not in Bruce’s hand shrugs. “We did okay.” Because, at one time, Dick had been serious about the two of them being closer to equals than mentor and student, and well, there had been so many big brother times that had made him trust in Dick with everything. Well, damn if he wasn’t worming his way back to that with being more like his old normal, crazy, paranoid self; eh, the asshole has a secret power to make himself endearing.
“You two did more than okay.”
“Some nights.”
“Hm. He was good with Damian, but he was also good with you.”
“He didn’t make the changes with me he did with Dami. Good things, I’m saying. Not trying to be the Bat, but make the Bat be him,”
“I knew he’d figure it out eventually. That’s the kind of mind Dick has. The two of you complement one another.”
“I’m not side kicking for him, forget it, B.”
There’s a glimmer in Bruce’s eyes, “you might straighten him out.”
“Pfft, like that’s even possible at this stage.”
They share a laugh at that and Bruce is tugging him closer to look at the work, to see what he’s making the Red Bird into; now that the awkward is gone, Bruce delves into it, describing the car that already has one decal on the black painted side. And Tim…Tim just listens, nods when appropriate, a goofy smile on his face.
