In which Jaydick meets and nobody is happy about it
Every miserable, cold, hungry, desperate, shitty moment of Jason’s fucked up life- all of it, from the moment his Mom had shat him out onto dusty wooden floors to when she ate it and left him alone to fend for himself, when he was picked on by thieves and drug dealers and the occasional wannabe pervert until he was eventually picked up by Batman (potential pervert status still pending)- fucking all of it had been leading up to right then. This was it.
Jason, donned in shiny red and yellow. His face, no longer gaunt with hunger, maybe with the first specks of stubble starting to dot around his jaw. His back straight, his brow sternly furrowed but in a contemplative, sexy way, he hoped. It would be great if there was some sort of back breeze to flutter his cape around but the Cave’s air was unfortunately stagnant.
And in front of him, the most beautiful guy- no, person- that he had ever seen in his life. Dick Grayson’s eyes were blue, bright and shiny and deep and framed by dark lashes and a unnaturally pretty face that was somehow equally handsome and chiseled. His hair was dark and shiny and definitely tousled, and while Jason couldn’t even tell you really what being tousled was he knew that Dick Grayson was definitely doing it effortlessly. He smelled like… like, fuck, sunshine after rain and fruity sweetness with just a hint of sharp, bitter tang, to keep things interesting. Dick Grayson was a warm smile and praise and a good meal after being hungry for a long time. He was perfect, and Jason was the dumb bastard who was lucky enough to be looking at him.
And Jason couldn’t quite say that fucked over in ever conceivable way since birth was worth it, exactly, but… shit, every pile of thorns really does have its rose because Dick Grayson was there and Jason was with him, but more than that Jason was somebody. Not some street kid Dick would pass by on the street with a pitying glance and maybe a couple bucks, if Jason was lucky. Not some nobody with a dirty face and a too-sad past, but Robin. Robin. This was it, the moment that all the hours of being pounded into the dirt by Bruce in this stupid cave, the measurements and memorizations and failures and scoldings, all of it actually meant something now, because maybe he hadn’t actually gone out on the streets yet but he would and Dick would see that, and he would- he would-
Jason puffed out his chest and took a step forwards, bravely sticking his hand out to shake. “Grayson,” he said gruffly, hoping his voice sounded appropriately masculine and intimidating.
Dick’s face did a funny thing. It was slack, for a moment, stunned, before it contorted like someone crumpling up a paper ball. This was probably not a good sign.
“Who the fuck,” Dick snarled, his teeth flashing white as he puffed up defensively, “are you?”
~~
So that sucked.
The context that Bruce had ripped Dick’s costume, identity, and mother’s nickname away from him and slapped it onto a new kid like they were playing musical chairs did sort of explain why Dick’s first reaction to him had been one of violent, acrid displeasure. This did not make Jason feel better, or any less like a stupid kid who had been caught playing dress up in clothes that didn’t fit. His ego was bruised, so sue him.
And yeah. That sucked. But the deal was, most things sucked. Like, all of the time. Things sucked a lot and all of the time, so much so that after Dick and Bruce were done having their batshit crazy screaming fight and Dick had stormed back to his little hovel in where-ever-the-fuck, Jason just figured that was that. Goodbye, Dick Grayson. Dick would be gone and Jason would start being Robin for real and he would do an excellent job and be super cool and not even need anybody to think so, thank you very much. Because he would do it for the mission. And the people. Not some beautiful, strong, amazing guy who was much older and definitely out of his league and also hated him, apparently, so it was a dead end even ignoring all the “out of his league” stuff. Fuck. Shit.
But actually, this would turn out to be the first of many, many times that Dick Grayson would end up surprising Jason Todd, because that was not the end of things. Believe it or not, it was more like the beginning.
The white capped peaks might as well been gleaming teeth from a jagged maw, for all the softness they contained. There was no mercy. There were no second chances. There was survival, or there was death.
“Be prepared,” Elias’s mother ordered. She stood tall and proud, her hands clasped neatly behind her back and her posture immaculate even through the thick bulk of her coat. “It will be a difficult journey.”
Her dark gaze didn’t waver. Elias nodded, wringing his hands behind his back. He felt almost nothing through his thick woolen gloves.
It would take nearly three weeks to make it down to the flatlands and into the Capital. Longer, perhaps, if their single horse cart slowed them down. They were only a small party, Elias, his guardsmen Polnious, and two other footmen to aid their descent.
Behind his mother, her dark and white–frosted castle loomed, golden fires dancing in every window. Elias yearned, suddenly, to step inside just once more– to run his fingers over the richly covered tapestries insulating each walls, to race his way down winding, endless corridors, met only with the familiar, never-changing faces of his people. His family.
It was the first time he’d ever left home. It was the first time he’d ever left his mother.
“Oma,” he murmured, lifting his chin to meet her eye and taking care to keep his voice steady. “I’ll be strong. I’ll send word, when we arrive.”
“You should focus on your studies, not letter writing,” she corrected. “Your brother has high expectations of you. Take care that you do not disappoint him.”
Elias blinked away the rejection. “Yes, Oma,” he agreed. “I won’t let you down.”
She pursed her lips, and then, with a smooth and intentional movement, bent down to adjust his hood. She pulled it tight around his face, looking him over with an expression that Elias couldn’t read. Her dark lashes were dusted with small particles of snow.
“I’m sure you won’t,” she offered him quietly, and with that, pulled away.
Elias let out a deep breath, watching it collect into mist in front of his face. Polnious placed a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezed. It was time to go.
The thick spikes under his boots cracked the thin coating of ice present on each step leading towards the ground. His mother and a few more figures remained by the doors as the parting group gathered, checking over their supplies and tying over the tarp from their cart.
“Up you go, then,” Polnious said, and lifted Elias up onto the front seat of the cart. He headed around to the other side, and Elias chanced one more look towards the castle, where his mother lingered. Her long hair, normally twisted into a tight braid, flowed freely in the wind. Elias wished he had thought to pull tight her hood as well. It was too late. Polnious, with a snap of the reins, began to pull them into the dimmed embrace of the tall, lumbering pines.
It was moments before the castle was out of sight.
Elias blinked furiously, dropping his head and forcing down the growing lump in his throat.
“Hey,” Polnious murmured from beside him. Elias didn’t dare lift his gaze, but from his peripheral, spotted the man rummaging in the interior pocket of his coat. “Here,” he said finally, holding out something in the midst of his green glove.
Elias reached out cautiously, and pulled out a ornate black–glass knife.
The handle was a carved wood, symbols of wolves and pines and fire on the sides. The dark grain extended up, the black, night–like material emerging from it like a tree from jagged rocks. Elias pulled off one of his gloves, ignoring the biting chill, and traced a finger on it’s edge– almost scalloped, in the way it dipped and rose, but razor sharp. His cheeks pinked.
“From the Lady,” Polnious explained softly. “She asked me to give it to you.”
“...Thank you,” Elias whispered, his vision blurring. Polnious, kindly, stayed silent as water began to drip down on the beautiful knife.
My date mate has a migraine so I sent "kisses for your brain" 🧠🧠🧠🧠🧠
and now picture this
Dark Harry, same age, time travel, blah blah blah
"kisses for your brain love" Harry gleefully coos over him.
Tom remembers how often Harry would say that to him. When late sleepless nights of studying and planning brought expected and unexpected headaches. Harry would somehow just know and already hold out a potion or have a spell ready. A sweet peck to his hair, a gentle hand on his shoulder, and tender touch always accompanying. Did He always say his brain? For some unfathomable reason, rather than his head?
Now, Toms mind races. Who would have guessed, who would have spotted the cracks. Even now he can't spot a lie in Harry's eyes. Harry loves him.
Harry's lips glisten a frankly seductive red. They trail all over his face, his neck.
Tom's brain is alarmingly useless now, no ideas come forth, he can't even think about moving any part of his body.
Blood begins to drip down his forehead, slowly at first. He's so disconnected from his body that it takes a while for Tom to notice. Too long, it drips into his eyes that he can barely blink and clogs his ears, losing his senses in a long grueling battle.
A red blindfold.
Worse is that he can't feel the panic or rage. Logically, it's there. Instead he is as numb and cold as death.
All he can feel is Harry's touch. Gentle, probing, and warm as it always was. It's Harry's magic that is like nothing he's ever felt before. A massive pressure squeezing him all around, pulsing to a heartbeat he's not sure is his or Harrys. Loosening and tightening in quick succession. How did he hide this much power?
Is he even breathing, Tom wonders or is the magic breathing for him.
Tom sort of feels it at the same he hears it. He can't bear to let his eye close. He instead watches pieces of hair, the drip and splatter of his life across his body.
And then another voice pierces through the fog, the pressing silence that was all around his and Harry's bubble. The cacophony of sounds from his head.
Tom has no clue what was said, but he knows that voice all the same. If he could just think-
Harry stops, and and the noises stop, and Harry angles his head in the speakers direction. Harry's eyes never leave Tom's. And there. A crack.
