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Okay
Epic thingie
im sitting down, we'll see how far I get tn
I feel like I'm contractually required to at least mediocre-ly attempt to live blog as i go thru this bc of the sheer amount of cultists that have been trying to claw me down this rabbit hole, bear with me (has never live blogged a damn thing and will probably forget what she's doing)
Love it when you read a fic so brilliant it single-handedly kicks you out of a multi-week writing slump and you can slam out a 3k fic in under 24hrs....
(we love and adore FrownyAlfred, go check out their End Of Year Writing Sprint (Tumblr/Ao3), they're only a couple days in but it will fix you)
/|\ ^._.^ /|\
"It's not even that hurt! And I'm not that upset, I just—" his lower lip trembled dangerously and then he was crashing forward into Bruce's chest.
"It's alright." He scooped the acrobat up into his arms and tried to settle the energetic limbs comfortably. "Sometimes it sucks cuz it sucks, buddy. And that's okay."
"It's not!"
"It's just living, chum, there's no way around it." He touched the side of his head against the boy's. "But we can work through it together, okay? Just slow down and breathe with me."
Dick scrubbed at his face, chest hitching around broken breaths and he choked through tears in his hands again. "But yo-ou don't hurt!" He hiccuped around a particularly aggressive sob and Bruce rubbed a slow circle against his back. "You don't c-cry li-like a big baby!"
"I'm the Batman, darling," he smiled into the curly hair and rocked them side to side. "Batman's a shadow and shadows don't live."
"Why can't I be a shadow? I don't wanna—I don't—" the sobs slowed some the more his mind worked but his breath was still so very erratic— "it hurts so much..."
"I know," he hushed softly, "I know, chum, I know." Bruce slowly stepped off toward the stairs, controlling his own breath, hoping it would coax the small body against his down into a lower rhythm as he carried the boy.
"You can teach me ho-how to make it stop, c-can't you?"
The world fell away for too long of a second as the implication of what that could entail—what it had been to him—hurtled to the forefront of his mind at the speed of the earth's turn and it was only muscle memory that kept them from tumbling to the floor as Bruce navigated the top step blind.
"No."
"Bruce—"
"Shh..." He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, the child cradled as tightly in his arms as was safe, then let his attention drift outward again. "I can teach you how to dampen it, little Robin, to shift it... but I won't teach you to stop it."
"Why not!?" the eight-year-old, begged, incensed, and nearly pounding a fist against Bruce's shoulder.
"Because Robin's aren't shadows, silly."
"I hate you!"
"I know." Bruce rubbed his back soothingly once more as they neared the kitchen. I'm glad. "You know what I've been told?"
Dick made his highly stressed disgruntlement extra clear in his silence.
"I've heard that—and don't tell Alfred this—that small doses of ice cream can be extremely beneficial to the recovery of sprains."
The silence lasted only through to Bruce opening the freezer, having shifted the boy to one arm.
"Can it be butterscotch...?"
"I think that should probably work just fine," Bruce hummed, retrieving the requested carton.
(☞ ಠ_ಠ)☞
"Bruce."
"Hm?"
"Where's your I.V.?"
"Why?"
The ten-year-old narrowed his eyes at Bruce. "Because that's how they give you the good stuff."
"There are other ways."
"Bruce."
"Chum."
"That looks worse than bad, that has to hurt—"
"I'm alright."
The truth was, it didn't matter wether he was or not. There was an unknown chemical agent in his blood right now and so it couldn't be risked. No anesthesia. No painkillers. Just a particularly mangled arm that needed to be put back together before irreparable damage set in.
"You're not!" The boy argued, emotion flaring in his expression. "That's bad, Bruce, that's really bad, and I need you to be okay—so just—"
"I am okay," he canted his head to emphasize the words, "chum, I'm right here and I'm gonna be alright."
"Why do you act like it doesn't hurt when I know it does?!" Dick protested, eyes—the deep, soulful eyes of a child who'd empathized with pains too deep far too fast—brimming. "It's living..."
"Shadows don't live, darling." He tucked a curled knuckle gently under the small, defiant chin and tipped it up to slow the next rebuttal building. "Remember?" He traced every inch of the nervous face with his gaze as he counted another breath. "I'm Batman. I'm alright."
Dick laughed, small and watery, the fight not leaving him but abating at least for Bruce's sake as Dick rubbed at his eyes. "...Ice cream after?"
In the privacy of his mind, he wrinkled his nose at the concept as the thought of food, particularly sweets, made his stomach tighten all the more, still caught in a holding pattern of survival. "Ice cream," he agreed solemnly, his heartbeat spiking against his will as J'onn caused something more than the slightest of shifts inside his arm. "Now, go on. Agent A is already going to be furious, hm?"
The touch eased off immediately, Martian Manhunter assuring, somewhere at the back of Bruce's awareness, that he would wait.
Bruce offered the idea of gratitude back while he watched the boy's face flush with embarrassed fear and shame, his small frame unconsciously shrinking in on itself.
"And, chum, be honest with him."
The guilt in the young eyes increased tenfold.
"You've snuck out and you've traveled where you know you're not allowed to be. Best not add lying and make it worse?"
"Yessir..." The yellow boots scuffed the floor as Dick began to back away. Reluctant. His eyes darting the whole room again, scanning everything. Everyone.
"I'll be home before you know it."
Dick swallowed hard, breathed how they'd been training, then squared his shoulders and nodded once at Bruce. Professional. "Don't be late."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The boy nodded again, satisfied in his feeling of faux control over the situation and slipped out as quietly as he'd come in.
The room held that silence for several long seconds, the necessity blissfully unspoken.
"Kal?"
"Not yet."
Bruce felt along his belt without looking while offering up a single nod in place of a more involved acknowledgement or thanks.
By the time he'd retrieved a mouth guard and fit it into place, Superman had tensed again. "Alright. He's out of earshot for sure, but B are you—"
He jerked another, single nod. Deliberate where the first had been hazy. Do it.
J'onn moved on the signal, not leaving Bruce time to over-anticipate the pain, and just like that the elbow of his fractured arm was scraping back into place.
The sudden, consuming, white-hot flash of it bubbled up through his being as a startled shout, but the passive thought of little ears still far too close gave him the strength to swallow it back into a loaded huff without him having to deliberately choose it. Even so his chest—and the shoulder not immobilized by traction and Clark—heaved with the next few, heavy breaths. He felt two pairs of eyes on him and he ignored them, keeping his mind in that far-focused space. As if a robin-sized acrobat might swoop in again should his thoughts of discomfort become too loud.
He let the sensation of touch against the inner workings of his arm fade to the edge of his awareness again. All his focus was breathing and anywhere but here. As Ra's had taught him. As monks had. As the meadows and seas and time and all the way back to Gordon and Alfred and a very dark and cold street.
Lifetimes were relived into those moments, Bruce finding every way possible to inhale inside them and learn it like new until eternity ended in the careful squeeze of a hand at his shoulder.
J'onn's impassive expression awaited him as he cracked open the corner of an eye, glancing sidelong, and then Bruce was coming back to himself with a horribly gradual immediacy that had him slumping back on the bay wall.
A daydream's puppet who's strings had been cut.
"Impressive." A greeting and a confirmation of completion.
"Doesn't feel like it," he murmured, voice fraying at the edges. Blinking forced quicker adjustment to the sudden low-light of post-operation, courtesy of J'onn's observant compassion. A curse and a boon as cognition inherently closened him to the ache of what was.
"What does it feel like?"
A whisper of a laugh threatened to turn to a wheezing cough as his lungs and heart moved out of sync for a few beats, trying to catch up to each other, so he shunted it off into a grimace.
Then he counted again.
In and holding and out.
Anchoring him to all those lifetimes in the same instance of breath, all the way back to the gravity of Gotham, who had taught first, without words.
His eyes roamed over J'onn and his patience as he came back to focus more steadily this time. "Surviving." He glanced down at the work those patient hands had done—his arm casted and slung—and back up at the empath buffering his aura like a retention wall. "It's only ever been surviving."
┗(•ˇ_ˇ•)―→
Robin looked confident still. Calm and steady at Aqualad's right hand and Bruce hated that he'd given him the tools to do it. Kid Flash was unconscious, just above comatose in the bay, and Robin was staring dead-eyed behind the domino at something in the distance above Batman's right shoulder while listening impassively to Aqualad's report to Wonder Woman and himself.
The kids had done everything right. As right as any teen hero could in the circumstances they were in with the tools that they had. Already on par with a caliber of soldiers twice their age and size. Decorum to match. Bruce could see Robin counting his breaths and he had an inkling of pride over the concept but it was hard to dig out from under the storm of grief it also evoked.
Robin stared and that was good, but Bruce knew more, and so his eyes wandered enough to seem truly calm and neutral even as he counted the same patterns.
The discussions eventually came to an end under the knowledge that the Speedster would recover, far sooner than most, and that enough had been learnt from the severity of such a thing that neither Bruce nor Diana need say more at present.
A nod to his colleague was all it took, she much of the same mind as he, and then she was drifting closer to Kaldur, becoming less commander and more mentor as she led the young leader off to another room. Bruce motioned and Robin fell into step behind him to do much the same. Dick wouldn't go far with Wally this vulnerable right now, and Bruce knew it, so he guided them to Robin's quarters rather than the Zetas.
He kept charge the whole way, feeling Dick's wall cracking under that boon alone. Bruce keyed the code to the room, led the way in, and waited by the door to secure it once Dick had passed by. Then he breathed. Because he was a shadow and Robin was not and it couldn't matter to him how much this was about to hurt when Dick was suffering infinitely more.
Bruce undid the cowl and let it fall to the floor as he turned. "It's time to go back to the living, darling."
A slight but powerful form slammed into his ribcage and he crushed the boy to his chest.
"Fuck."
"It's okay, chum."
"It's not, fuck, it's not, it's not at all—how do you do this?"
Bruce hummed, nuzzling into the messy head of hair, still damp from a shower post-mission. He didn't say anything not because he didn't want to, but because there was nothing that would help. Instead he held Dick quietly and soothed him as much as one could soothe a teenager when they cried in your arms after nearly dying and then saving their best friend from being even closer to nearly dying.
"I don't want to feel this."
"I know."
"It wasn't okay, B, I lost it in the field! And I know that you know how to teach me to find a way to turn that off but you just won't—and for what?" One of Dick's fists beat against his shoulder just once, harder than both used to. "We could have lost him just because I couldn't keep it together!"
Bruce peeled them apart just enough to cup the boy's face in both hands and squarely hold his gaze. "Did you panic?"
"That's not the point—"
"Did you panic? Did you go offline and give away your ground?"
The deep blue eyes flicked away. "...no."
"You were as together as you needed to be, and I won't ever ask for anything more."
"But I am! I'm asking! I don't want there to be even a chance of... of..." his eyes closed, a slow, quiet sob building in his chest again.
Bruce drew him back in close and held him together while he broke. "It's part of living."
(ﾉﾟ0ﾟ)ﾉ→
"I can't fucking believe you!" Dick shouted and Bruce let it run over and through and past him without so much as a shiver.
His eyes wandered the room to steady themselves. Nothing had changed amidst the kitchen in the past—he glanced at the calendar—two weeks, a block of time he could hardly recall. There had been an alert or five through the cave during that time, high priority things. The only one he had responded to involved a child's kidnapping. He'd been aware of that—had gotten the boy home—but had not been overly cognizant of the treks through the kitchen to get only enough water to still be here. Only so aware as to be distantly sure it had happened.
Not a thing was out of place from before... then, but he pretended like he could find something that had shifted if he simply looked hard enough.
An accusing finger jabbed at his face. "You don't get to ignore this! You ass! My brother's—" a horrible, visceral thing bubbled up through the boy's chest and called Bruce's gaze back to him.
He wanted to reach out but the fire in those eyes told him exactly how that would end.
"You couldn't even call?!"
That nearly got Bruce to blink. He had. He was more than sure that he had, only... Only he'd disconnected hard when—it had all been—shit.
He'd thought he had. But maybe he'd gone too far this time. Maybe this once, he'd got it mixed up.
Bruce zeroed back in on Dick's grief-driven rant when the young man shoved at him.
"YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY ONE THAT'S HURTING, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!"
He thought about explaining that he wasn't. Not really. Not like Dick did. And that was it's own kind of hell. Bruce had slammed that gate hard sometime through the first initial hours of shock and he'd been drifting on some level or another ever since. It was the only way not to be screaming back at the only child left now.
The details wouldn't help, he knew, and so he didn't speak.
Just watched, and listened, and let it happen.
Dick screamed himself hoarse and shoved him some more and then the tomb-like silence of the manor returned tenfold in the loss of his first ward alongside the second.
(o_O)--->
"It never made sense to me because you are warm, B, and you care—I know that you care—so damn much, but then you'd just go dark and... I never understood."
Bruce hummed softly. Good.
"Like that." Dick took a shaky breath and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I know you're still listening. You could repeat this whole conversation back to me in three minutes if I asked." His head shook slightly, eyes dancing as thought searching for words. "But it's like you've switched something inside you off. Like your heart's gone offline."
"Dick—"
"And I always knew that's what it was and it's why I'd get so mad at you, cuz I couldn't understand, but I get it now..." The deep blue eyes caught Bruce's and held them steadily. "Because of Damian, and Tim a little, but mostly... Most of all, because of Cassandra." He offered a pained, crooked smile. "And because you've always told me. Shadows don't live."
"I'm sorry for how much I hurt you."
Dick smiled a bit more kindly. "I know that, B. I've always known that, why do you think I'm still here?"
"Most days, darling, I haven't a clue." Bruce tipped a shoulder. "But I'm grateful for it. You should know that. I'm sorry and I'm grateful and I am so proud of you."
"Stop trying to manipulate your way around this," the boy said gently but firmly. "Not this time."
Bruce took a slow breath and forced out the tension in his shoulders.
"Okay." A look that was far too Robin to be Nightwing flickered through the ancient-young eyes. "So do you just totally disassociate or...?"
"Or something," he allowed.
"That's what I figured, cuz I know you're cognizant, it's just..."
"Not total."
"Yeah."
The lanky boy crossed the rest of the room in a few long strides and then he was burrowing into Bruce's side like he was eight again. "How do we help them not do that?"
Bruce hummed, touching a kiss into the mess of curls resting at his shoulder now. "Teach them to live, darling."
"Living hurts."
"Mhm. And they need to be shown that's good."
"It would help..." the boy began carefully, "it would help if you learned." He peered up at Bruce, curling tighter into his side. "They look up to you."
"You have a point."
"But?"
"It's been a long time, chum. A lot of life not lived." He smiled ruefully. "And life hurts. I'm not sure I'd be able to function."
"Yeah..." Dick let his gaze drop and pointedly nestled back down. "But you'll do it for them." Not an order, just a deep, quiet surety.
Bruce sighed, long and slow through his nose. "If you and the other rugrats will teach me..."
"Lesson one is ice cream after hard conversations."
Bruce let his lips quirk a fraction. "Mm?"
"Mhm."
"M'kay, chum."
I'm not neurotic at all i swear and this ficlet is totally based on absolutely nothing
ft.Diana
->
"It makes more sense if I just leave the car at the venue, but I appreciate you considering the options."
Diana's brow furrowed. "You are sure? I have no problem helping you out with this."
"I'm sure. Thank you."
"...why? What has changed in the last... Ten hours?"
Bruce looked away, focusing on his hands, clenching and unclenching them slowly, tapping his thumb against his fingers. "I lied," he admitted, finally.
Diana took a breath and put her hands on her hips, probably talking herself down from flicking Bruce across the room. "Meaning...?"
"I had thought of it. Driving over to you, leaving my car, and letting you drop me off... I had thought of it." It took conscious thought not to steel himself against the flat look he was being leveled with. "I plan everything, when it comes to knowable circumstance. I play long angles daily. It's what I do. I had thought of it..." He had to clear his throat to buy himself time to recall the next part of his hurriedly rehearsed script. "But I manipulated the situation in a way that I knew would prompt you to make the offer, if it was something that you were fine with doing, rather than risk asking myself and putting something on your shoulders that might be carried out at expense to you simply because you're too kind not to try and make it work."
Diana stared, squinted, and stared again. "You—" She took another breath and looked away for a moment before acknowledging him again. "There is... multitudes hidden in that. You understand that I see it, yes? How much there is to draw out into the light?" She shook her head softly, appraising him. "And you would have gotten away with it, too, if... Why did you tell me, my friend? Why break your own cover?" The words were spoken in a way that implied she knew she wouldn't crack what was under the surface without his explicit willingness.
"Because this is the first time in all my life that I've manipulated my way into getting help with something important and wished that I had simply asked because it feels dishonorable to your character for me not to have."
"Bruce..."
"Don't. Don't worry about any of it. You just needed to know; that I lied, that I manipulated the whole deal, and that I'm sorry for that." He stepped back, angling toward the door. "So I'm gonna go."
A hand caught him by the arm as he turned and he reluctantly forced his eyes upward from the point of contact to the sharp gaze studying him. "You will be at my apartment tomorrow."
"Excuse me?"
"You are going to arrive at my apartment tomorrow, as we had planned, and I am going to drop you off as we had planned and after everything is over, I will retrieve you as we had planned."
Bruce softened his incredulous expression, trying to will Diana to absorb the magnitude of what her easy acceptance of everything he had just thrown on the table meant to him. "Okay."
"And on the way, we are going to discuss what damned complex has you so strangled that you cannot ask for a ride without feeling like you've set the world on fire."
He grimaced as a cold twinge of humiliation rolled through his cells but it was a small price to pay for the easy forgiveness and so it settled quickly enough. "Okay."
ft.Clark | ft.J'onn
lmao at what my dash just did
@infysreblogs it looks like @myfairkatiecat got u ✨
that didn't take long lmao its been some kind of an end of a year but that's all good cuz being Well-adjusted means Projecting Ur Petulant Bullshit on The Characters
ft.J'onn
/\/\/\/\
Bruce took a long slow breath and then another. It didn't matter. He'd been repeating it over and over in his head for the past ten minutes and it still had yet to settle as true in his emotional processing even though it had settled everywhere else near instantly. Ridiculous.
There'd been no less than seven chances for him to subtly indicate that he had, in fact, already known the information discussed. Not to mention the unlimited opportunities for blatant correction. That he was not in fact an idiot. That Oliver did not have special knowledge that Bruce was somehow ignorant of—
But it didn't matter.
It affected no one for it to be left unchallenged. Really, it bolstered the group dynamics, if anything. Trust and respect toward Ollie inherently increased for having been knowledgeable on the thing and the enjoyment of those gathered multiplied tenfold for being able to rib that Batman hadn't.
Which did not—at all—matter.
He knew that wholeheartedly. At every logical end. So every time that the repetitive thought of wrong poked it's head up, he slapped a cover over the annoyance and gave it a label. Doesn't matter.
There remained another thirty minutes, minimum, to get through the meeting and though he had been easily resolute in continuing to listen and catalogue, deeper focus and actual planning regarding the subject matter would be better.
Yet even knowing this, in the space where that process should have been, between "Re-arranging the Weekend Patrols Around Damian's Absence" and "The Probability of Alfred Letting Me Skip the Next Gala", things were fuzzy. Rather than working at "Coordinate on the Fly to Make the Plan Actionable by End of Day" as he should have been, he was playing "Doesn't Matter Whack-a-mole". Which felt childish and consuming and he was all the more disquieted for seemingly being unable to resolve it by any sound means.
Dinah asked for a figure regarding certain estimates he had been responsible for and Bruce answered as neutrally as he always did.
Without it sounding like he'd been incessantly, reflexively running his tongue over the bloody gap of doesn't matter, doesn't matter, only pausing to say "three thousand and sixty-eight," before returning to doesn't matter. He still had that much control at least. Enough not to sound like a petulant six-year-old. If only just.
A thought of a sensation reached him; J'onn lightly touching the back of Bruce's hand where it rested against the table, and he internally cringed. Then made his answer back the idea of insulation around his zoo of thoughts and a soft apology. Distracting himself to the point of forgetting J'onn's sensibilities like that was unforgivable. The empath had to field enough as it was and Bruce was never one to add to it. Not if he could help it. Which he could, here, he simply hadn't been and that was no good excuse.
'Peace...' Manhunter eased, 'I only wanted to quiet you against yourself.'
In the shared privacy of his mind, Bruce offered the idea of his head shaking, brushing the concern away. 'It's nothing."
'I feel you disdaining yourself.'
Bruce mentally shook his head again, but the concept of a distressed mutt chewing on it's own leg had been conjured at those words before he could help it and the skilled telepath latched to the image quickly.
'Yes, it's like that...' The vague presence of J'onn bled into something more tangible in his thoughts and a St. Bernard soon looped to the miserable dog's side to nudge it's muzzle away and flop down on the paws tucked at it's side, making it impossible for the two to connect again. 'You're not one to project so strongly without intent.'
'I—'
'And it's not that I mind, it's that I know you do.'
Bruce huffed a sigh, the concept of him bleeding into the caricature of the mutt and he let himself feel the difference in it. J'onn's steady heart next to his, the Bernard's large form preventing him from interacting with the allegoric fixation. The warmth of it soothing a hint of something at the back of his skull. It suddenly all seemed a lot less bleak and loud. Mostly... hazy.
'Perhaps, a great lack of sleep is not your ally at this moment...'
He chuffed at the Bernard but didn't argue the point. It would certainly answer a lot of questions very neatly. The case in Gotham prior to this meeting had been... rather consuming. He was only vaguely aware of the current day by necessity, really, otherwise he would be drifting time-blind by now.
The image of the Bernard shifted it's front legs a bit to it's left and then used its big head to gently squash the mutt's head down atop them, even further pinning the delirious dog into a warm, comfortable place. 'I will keep you aware when required, let yourself drift, my friend.'
'It's not nece—'
'You're being unreasonable.'
Bruce bared his teeth at the hulking figure slowly soothing down his thoughts, incensed at the childish treatment, but the bailiff of his consciousness that still fought valiantly for ground at the edge of his mind registered that the accusation—spoken as nothing more than a gentle note—was true.
Spontaneously, a brood of fledgling robins in suspicious colors—J'onn's thought, not his, but just as concrete—added a shivering weight at his back that froze him. He snarled at the tactic and a chorus of alarmed squeaks rose from the baby birds in response. All of which was swiftly quieted under a low and comfortingly pervasive rumble from J'onn.
It was the ridiculous and irrational fear of harming them that kept him hunkered into himself then, despite knowing they were only as real as he let them be. Even J'onn's pleased aura wouldn't rile him from the charge and he was well aware that was exactly why they'd been chosen. Because they both knew part of him understood it was the right thing to let that work against him.
So he slowly drifted while the empath kept watch, his last precise thought a reluctant but genuine note of gratitude to the patient soul grounding him before he completely slipped into a space were it finally did stop mattering.
ft.Diana | ft.Clark
i am a chill and rationale person honest pt.2
This time ft.Clark
/|\ ^._.^ /|\
The cellphone weighed heavy in his hands as Bruce fiddled with it. Which was ludicrous. It weighed the same it always had. 176.3 grams. He knew that. Could feel every centimeter of that weight with a more than average understanding of it.
Even so, it had his hands all but crushed to his lap.
He rotated the gadget yet again.
Too much time had been wasted already. He needed to get back to the chaos. Post-haste. But the only way that any of this worked...
Clark would answer. He was sure of that. In a way, that was part of the problem. If there was even a hint of there being a way to stretch it to work, he was more than sure that Clark would push to get it done. Even at detriment to himself.
Bruce couldn't have that.
No one else should have to suffer for his stupid mistake. Especially not for something so simple. If this had been a field issue, he'd be just as angry, but lives at risk would mean this had to happen regardless and he could swallow that a bit easier. But this?
No.
He stood, as if to cross and exit the bedroom, but he got no further than getting to his feet. Because this needed to happen. He owed it to the family. There was nothing more important today, so he had to do this, but—
The phone was so heavy.
Bruce bit down on his tongue. He sat back down on the edge of the bed. Even set the cell to the side. The clock on the bedside table glared ominously at him.
If he didn't make a decision soon, then he'd be out of luck either way.
He could not allow that to happen.
Not today.
Blood cold, he pulled the device back up, navigated the contacts, and punched the call button.
The line only rang three times before it was picked up. "Hello?"
"Hi, um—" he processed the background sound and swallowed hard.
"Bruce! What's up?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt anything. I'll contact you later—"
"Wait. Bruce, wait!"
"No, please, you sound like you're at a party, it's no worry, I'll—"
"You never call unless it's important, don't you dare hung up." The background noise had rapidly disappeared under a creaking door. "I'm right here."
"Clark, it's fine, I can..." He had no damn clue what he was going to do. "It was just an unimportant question, it can wait, alright?" The cheer in his voice was entirely too real for the nervous apprehension in his gut.
"You're lying." There were more doors opening and closing. "You're gonna scare me—"
"No! No, no, everyone's fine. Everything's fine, it was just—I had a favor to ask, that was all, but I've got it. Please, just enjoy your afternoon."
There was a long enough silence. Long enough that he had to pull the screen back to see if the line had dropped. It hadn't. That made his stomach drop five stories further.
"Clark? Clark. Tell me your still there."
Silence.
"If your event has just come under attack, I swear—"
"That's your gambit, not mine."
Bruce squinted at the soft but distinct echo Clark's voice had taken. "Clark—!" he growled as he stalked to the balcony doors and ripped back the curtains over them.
One midwest farmboy in his best jeans and a collared polo waved at Bruce from where he'd perched on the railing. "Hi."
Bruce threw the covers closed again biting down harder on the teeth marks in his tongue, flushing, gratitude and guilt rolling up his spine.
"Mature. Open the door already." When that didn't work, his voice softened to something distinctly soothing Kryptonian that he rarely used and only on those he held closest. "B."
On stage seven of articulating to himself exactly just the kind of idiotic that he was, Bruce grudgingly undid the security and the locks and opened the door.
"How can I help?"
"It's stupid." That revelation needed to be immediate, impartial, and blunt. Clark had to understand from the outset that he had every opportunity to walk away at any moment.
Clark shrugged. "Nicer than deadly. And I'd be here even then. So how can I help?"
He had to squint at the golden retriever, idly trying to determine if he was emitting a glow or just attracting all of Gotham's meager sunlight directly to Bruce's balcony. "I need a second driver."
"That's all?" Those stupid curls were hanging all at odds from him tilting his head.
"I told you it was stupid, so—"
"It's not that—I'm in, by the way—you looked like you had to gut half your heart just to ask, B, I thought it was gonna be something worrisome." Clark slipped from the railing to stand on his feet, hands on his hips. "Where to?"
"It won't take long, I promise—"
"Wouldn't care if it did."
"—for Alfred. We were putting together a celebration for him." Bruce heart squeezed at the sure interjection, but he continued to sidestep around it. "I'm supposed to get the crew from here and the rest of the supplies over to the shelter we rented at a park. We've situated everything so that we can fit in two cars but Cass had to call the cops on her Uber driver so Dick has had to split off to go pick her up, Jason has a bad break and can't be bending his leg to do that sort of driving, Tim hasn't slept in fifty-one hours, Duke is responsible for distracting Alfred and getting him there at the appointed time, and Steph and Barb are too far away to stop for us and still make it on time."
"Damian didn't offer?"
Bruce glared viciously at Clark and his stupidly sweet, knowing tone.
The man of steel wisely held up his hands in surrender. "No Damian driving jokes lest it start another war. Got it."
"I will pay you for your time." He drug hands down his face and heaved a deep breath. "I will bribe you with cupcakes, I'll take your monitor duty for a week, give you one unconditional favor, I'll—anything. Okay? Your payment can be anything. Because I can't afford for this to go badly and I need your help for it to not do that." He forced himself to look Clark in the eye again. "Please."
The big idiot just waved his offer aside. "I already told you, I'm in." Clark was across the balcony space in two quick strides and then was dragging Bruce out of the doorway to reset the security. "What time we need to be out of here?"
The answer was as simple as a word. Now. They needed to go now—five minutes ago, actually—but it all just stuck for a moment. It seemed so utterly trivial and worthless now, the guilt that had surged to get to this point. Not an ounce of it had been needed. Yet even now he knew it was somewhere just behind his teeth.
Something to continue dissecting another time.
Once Alfred's birthday was done, maybe.
Or maybe not.
He closed his eyes and took a breath. "Clark?"
"Mhm?"
"...thanks."
The midwesterner just smiled. "Anytime. You know that."
There was a distinct emphasis on those words that wasn't lost on him even if it was hard to swallow.
"Now, come on, we've got to go?"
Bruce hummed and stepped after him. "Yeah."
ft.Diana | ft.J'onn
Uh. Apparently I write these idiots sometimes now? Idfk I don't even go here blame @robindrake13 she keeps sending me links, specifically, this one
(full disclaimer, I do not hockey. At all. My limited knowledge comes from links I've been fed. There will be stuff that is inaccurate and I don't really care lol If you do, this is not the fic for you, my friend. Otherwise welcome and have fun 🫶)
🏃➡️🐧🏃
Sid was antsy. It was easy to see, and worse if you knew him well. Normally, Sid could be called energetic. He could be particular at times, picky really, but generally there was an aura of assuredness about it all that made it feel not entirely insane.
Somehow that secret ingredient seemed to be missing from him now and it had Geno on edge.
He tried clearing his throat to gently and unobtrusively bring the man out of it.
But his friend only continued to stare at the ground, one knee rising and falling at a rapid rate as he tapped his foot against the ground.
"Sid."
Nothing.
"Sidney."
Still no.
Geno scrubbed a hand down his face and reached for his "game voice". The one that said pay attention. The one everyone knew meant business. "Captain."
Sid's head snapped up, deep brown eyes locking sharply onto him. "G?"
"Something's wrong," he said, as statement of fact, gesturing at the mess that was Eighty-Seven.
Sid understood the intent of his words almost immediately, as he most often did these days after so much time spent together. "It's nothing. It'll be nothing."
Geno raised an eyebrow at him.
"It's... a bit of something."
He continued to wait quietly. Often with Sid, if you left him with a heavy enough silence he felt a need to reach and fill it. Most times that was how Geno got him to tip his hand. Today would be no different.
"It's just that damned mile run, okay, don't worry about it," Sid was, expectedly, quick to assure, kindly not wanting Geno to worry any further.
"Ahhhh," Geno laughed, the trepidation of worser unknowns sloughing off quickly. "Due?"
Sid nodded wearily and ran a frustrated hand through his hair, blowing out a sharp exhale. "I hate it."
He eased up on his amusement, knowing how much these things got under Sid's skin, even if he would never be able to understand why. "I know."
"It's stupid. I get that. But it—" Sid had both hands held out before him, elbows propped on his knees, fingers curling as though clutching a ball between them all and then he let his hands fall slack, sighing again. "I hate it."
"You're ready for it. Always are."
"Mm. And it always feels like this."
Geno hummed, pushed to his feet, shuffled a few stalls over, and perched beside Sid. "Always have to be special," he joked in solemn tone. "Princess behavior."
"Princess—I do not!" Sid half-scoffed, half-laughed and rolled his eyes as he looked away to hide his chagrined smile. "Who's teaching you to say shit like that anyway, Tanger? Sounds like something one of these iPad kids would say. 'Princess behavior'," he scoffed again.
Geno chuckled, glancing over at him. "You're, ah, Cinderella, maybe. You know? Lose skate, run from dance... But only if no one times you."
Sid had his head in his hands, exasperated, but he was laughing too.
"Come on." He pushed to his feet and stared expectantly at Sid.
"Why?"
"Just... Come on."
Grumbling like an old man, Captain got to his feet and briefly threw up his arms as if to say 'well?'
Geno headed for the door, motioning over his shoulder for Sid to follow. They walked in silence for a while, Sid casting him a few sidelong glances now and then. It only took a few halls, though, before the other man began to get an inkling of their heading.
"I'm not doing it right now," Sid stated dourly, freezing in his tracks, giving him a look.
"No." Geno rolled his eyes. "No timer. Run with me."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
"You're scheming something."
Geno shrugged and waved him on again. "Come on."
The heavy steps behind him told him that Sid was following, however begrudging, and he smiled to himself. Captain could be so dramatic. Still. He'd always stuck up for Geno and helped him feel comfortable around the team. How could he not try to return the favor?
They stumbled into the training room, already tired from the day, and meandered over to the running track.
"So." Sid turned on his heel to face him. "What's the big plan?"
Geno just motioned at the track before them. "Running."
Sid squinted.
"Come on." Geno mentally picked a spot a few yards ahead of them and started walking toward it, dragging Sid with him. "Ready?"
There was an exasperated huff, but Sid kept pace at his side with the fast walk. "No."
"Too bad," Geno hummed, starting to pick up into a jog. "We go now."
"Why the hell are we doing this?"
"Keep going," he instructed, upping the pace into more of an actual run.
"I'm not an idiot," Sid grumbled, speeding up right along with him. "I understand how to do all of this. It just doesn't..." he let the sentence die out in a puff of breath as exertion grew.
As they moved about the track Geno pointed out different odd shapes in other equipment or made a comment about something stupid that they or one of the other teammates had done nearby along certain points of the track. Not constantly. Not so many things that Geno wouldn't be able to remember them in ten minutes. But enough to space out some mental gaps in the run.
By the end, Sid was thoroughly frustrated with him.
"Good job," Geno told him anyway, clapping him on the shoulder as they walked off the high heart rate. "Again next practice."
"I don't get it—"
"Next practice."
Sid blew a heavy sigh through his nose. "For how long?"
"Until I say so."
"Geno—"
"Trust me?"
That earned him a look. "That's not even a question, I just don't understand."
Geno waved over his shoulder as he broke away to make for the door. "Next practice," he reminded.
Just before heading out of the building, he paused to jot down reminders for the next run.
It paid off when Sid, however grudgingly, did in fact oblige him and stuck around again after the following practice they both attended. Geno skimmed through the hasty notes while Sid changed out of his skates and then they trudged down to the track again.
"Ready?" Geno prompted as they stepped onto the lined flooring.
Sid cast him a suspicious glance, sidelong, as he moved to a jog with Geno. "No."
"Too bad. We go now."
And round and round they went for a week or two until the night when Geno finally nodded as they packed up to leave the UPMC.
"Tomorrow," he said simply.
Sid was shaking his head halfway through the word. "No. No, no. No, I'm not ready, G, my heads not..." He manipulated a hand beside his head, as if manually rotating a gear. "It's not in the right place."
"Tomorrow," he repeated simply. "Same time. With O'Brien... And me."
Sid was still shaking his head, pulling a hand down his face and sighing. "Just... No."
"Tomorrow."
"Geno, I appreciate it, man, but it just doesn't work like that. I can't make myself work when it comes to this. The whole thing just pisses me off and I get... Stuck."
"What would be hurt?"
Sid grumbled something incomprehensible to himself, tiredly pressing his palms against his eyes before scowling up at Geno again. "Nothing."
Geno patted his shoulder and slipped out, making a beeline for the offices before all of the team staff was gone for the night.
"Sid is going to run," he declared, flopping into an open chair, just inside the door.
O'Brien spared him a cursory look. "What?"
"The mile run. With the evil timer. Sid going to run it tomorrow."
"Oh?"
Geno nodded. "Meet us at the training room? After practice?"
O'Brien cast him a wary look. "Sid doesn't let other people watch."
"He will if it's me."
The man stared at him a little longer. "Alright." He shrugged. "No harm in me staying a bit over tomorrow, even if it doesn't work out, no big deal."
Geno grinned. "Good. Thank you."
"Sure, kid."
And so, the next day, same as they had for several previous, Geno hung around with Sid until everyone else had cleared out after practice and then they walked to the training room. Only this time as soon as they reached the door, Sid was darting his eyes around as if seeking out a threat. Geno rolled his eyes and pushed him forward, walking him to the track, same as the last five or more times.
"You can't run it with me," Sid argued into the quiet.
Geno hummed and didn't bother hiding his small grin. "Will be." He tapped a temple. "In here."
He received a dubious look for that but continued to let himself be led toward the same starting point as always.
"Ready?" Geno asked when they were only a few yards off, again, all part of the pattern.
"No," Sid, expectedly, replied.
"Too bad," he shrugged as they stepped onto the running track. "We go now."
Sid rolled his eyes and began their run.
Only Geno remained rooted to the spot, watching after the odd little penguin as he made his breakaway. Sid nearly hesitated after a half of a second when he didn't feel his running partner's presence at his side, only that was usually when Geno would say 'keep going' and Sid would snap back—
"I'm not an idiot," Sid grumbled right on cue, looking a bit surprised at himself at first and then laughing about it, feet still carrying him along.
Geno stepped off to the side of the track and waited patiently while Sid went through the motions. The great thing was that, outside of Sid's freaky brain, there was no actual stress here. You didn't get to be a top level player without good cardio, there was no chance that Sid didn't walk away from this with a time that would be unconcerning to medical staff and coaches alike. At this point, as long as he didn't stop, Sid would be through this whole thing in another—Geno checked his watch—five minutes or so, by now. All Sid had to do was get through the cues that Geno had leeched into his brain and he'd be fine.
Meanwhile, Geno yawned and stretched as cover to glance in the direction he was sure O'Brien was subtly tucked away in. Sure enough, he got a thumbs up from one of the doorways off to his right. Triumphant, he smiled to himself and turned his attention back to Sid. The disgruntled runner would be bringing it in soon, and so Geno shifted the few feet back out on the track to meet him.
"You're an ass!" Sid was shouting at him soon, crossing the point where he'd started and slowly winding down to a jog.
Geno fell in at his side. "Good time."
"Don't, don't tell me, don't tell me. I don't want to know."
Geno hummed, holding out Sid's water bottle.
Sid swiped it gratefully as they continued a cooldown loop around the track, slowing to a walk.
"Okay?" he checked, throwing an arm over the other's shoulders.
"Ish?" Sid shrugged, scowling. "Not really? I still hate it."
"I know."
"I know that you do..." They walked the next several feet in silence. "And, Geno?" Sid began again, abruptly. "Thank you..."
He smiled and threw a bit of his weight into Sid, making them both stumble to the side a little. "No problem, Cinderella."
Sid rolled his eyes.
Geno grinned.
actually managed a fic for Cass Cain Week ehehehehe
(much love to the mod(s?) that set this week up 🫶)
🖤💛🦇💛🖤
Alone had been quiet.
It never used to matter, it simply was what it was. Because her purpose was following orders and nothing more. So when she stood guard at meeting after endless meeting, as she was occasionally assigned to do, the voices bouncing around inside the rooms that seemed far too small to contain them would drift in one of her ears and out the other, useless to her and her orders but for the feeling behind the voices. Those could be measured to help judge their actions. But on the whole of things, conversations were not for her.
Even merely among the other guards. Those others were not to speak in those spaces either, they all shared that job of remaining invisible, and yet some defied that. Small twitches and tips of heads, nearly imperceptible movements, that were still present enough to speak volumes under the right set of watching eyes.
But Cass couldn't engage in even that level of communication. Sometimes a thing as innocent as a blink at the wrong time brought consequences, she couldn't risk anything as low as a grimace like they did. It would be failure, as far as her handlers were concerned, and such a thing would not be tolerated. So she refrained. Always. Which made her alone. In rooms full of people, she was always alone. It was always quiet.
Being with the Waynes, however—being a Wayne—was loud. The chatter was the same as before in that it was ever-changing in every way, but somehow it was so much louder to her now. Because she had to pay attention. She wanted to talk, at times, and they liked letting her, but it meant having to pay attention to the sounds and that seemed to magnify them tenfold.
The family was nice. They tried to be slow, they tried to help, and she almost thought that they understood at times. But then they would get quickly carried away and she knew she was still alone. The words always, inevitably, began to move too fast and Cass would promptly stop being able to see what they were saying.
Names were easy. She had one. Everyone used one. And how they were said changed less between languages than other words. She could picture names because names were people. She could picture what "Tim" meant even when the words got fast. She could probably still say it, too, but a name on it's own wasn't enough to matter.
Used-a-lot-but-not-name words were a little trickier. Cass had seen a lot of doormats in recent days. Steph had, for some reason, insisted on helping her pick one for her new room in the manor and the word had been said a lot. She could picture doormats well. However, fitting her mouth around those sounds, especially while remembering Shiva talking about a square of fabric just like them but in a different set of sounds, sometimes made it take more focus to get it right the way that Steph did. Even so, she could picture an idea of what "stop being such a doormat, Tim," meant.
"I'll DDOS your crimelord mainframe servers, Shakespeare," said at the speed of a bullet train, on the other hand... Cass wasn't sure if she had managed to actually hear all of the words, let alone being able to decipher how to copy half of them. What even was a "deedaws"?
And so, just like that, she was alone again, somehow, even in this room full of very loud and very kind people.
It wasn't their fault. Not in the least. They hadn't been anything but genuine in trying to help her and make her feel comfortable. She didn't blame them. But it was a little numbing after some minutes to continue watching them, the volume of the voices going up and up while becoming more unintelligible every second. Until at some point it hit a peak where she stopped distinguishing voices. Everything around her was just a field of rises and dips in nonsensical sounds, like having the ocean in your ears, but worse.
Cass didn't even realize that she had stopped focusing on anything at all until Bruce's large, warm hands were cradling her face and covering her ears and he was slowly coming to rest in an easy crouch before her. Posture gentle and open. She tried to smile for him and grasp any piece of information that had just floated by them to try and prove she had been paying attention—that she did care—but all her brain could grasp was static. The only thing that she did understand, still, was Bruce. The tilt of his head said everything that he carefully wasn't and shame clawed at her throat.
"Um..." She finally leaned into the touch, grateful, it made her feel less floaty and far behind. "Fine." It was one word, just one, but even that was stumbly and annoying. "Slow," she explained, tapping her head. "Stupid."
Bruce tilted his head, facial muscles shifting, showing... disbelief.
It made her feel almost foolish.
He wasn't stressed or worried. There wasn't any annoyance in his eyes. There was apology, love, safety, and now... The raise of a single eyebrow. He was challenging her. Questioning her embarrassment now too.
She just wanted to be enough—
That had both of Bruce's eyebrows raising.
Which she appreciated, she did, but Bruce was... Bruce. Just because he thought she had nothing to make up for didn't mean that she wasn't slow and stupid. Him being fine with the way she was didn't change the fact that she was behind compared to these new siblings. She may not know how to say it in her own words but she knew that it was.
Bruce sighed through his nose, gaze softening a little more. Everything from before was still there but sad had joined the ever-shifting mix. And doubt, though that one wasn't directed at her. But that meant that it had to be because of her. Which had guilt trickling into her mannerisms.
Cass reached out to smooth the lines of too much thought from Bruce's face. She hadn't meant to make him feel that he done anything wrong just because she—oh. Something bemused and a little bit sheepish turned her expression. Bruce's own worry eased at that, expression lightening as he breathed a short, quiet, little laugh.
The same banknote, only different sides. One blanket, different folds. Same knife, different teeth.
The same thoughts, just a different person.
The way that far too often, just like now, staring into his face may as well have been looking into a mirror still froze her. Bruce only felt guilty for letting her down because she felt guilty for letting him down. They'd only go around and around and around like this. She didn't want that for him. Which meant he didn't want it for her.
They had to find another way out. A bit of... patience, with themselves, and in that way they could spare the other from concern. So maybe Cass wasn't really all that stupid, merely struggling for now. Because she knew that Bruce hadn't really failed her, he simply hadn't known what to do with her distress at first.
Bruce tilted her head down slowly to press a gentle kiss to her forehead and then released her, his hands slowly falling from her ears as if ready to step back in at the first sign of discomfort. But she flashed him a smile as she straightened and risked a glance around the room. Conversations had seemed to dip to a hushed buzz again and across the room Jason caught her eye.
"Sorry, bug," he said slowly. "We get caught up sometimes..."
"It's okay."
"No, cuz it's not fair. But if you and B are done reading each other's minds, we promise to keep trying to slow down."
She stared at him, having to backfill the purpose of a few of the words, but he waited patient and unbothered and after a moment she smiled. "It's hard for you, too. It's fair."
His face softened as some of the guilt sloughed off. "Maybe. But you can tell us, ya know, bug. When it gets too fast, it's okay to say something, you know?"
"Really, though," Tim piped up. "I would much rather be asked to slow down than overwhelm you." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I understand the feeling. It's not fun."
She hummed, grinning for them before letting her eyes drop back down to Bruce, still crouched protectively at her knee. "Just means... Together." She shrugged. "Better than quiet."
Bruce smiled back at her, small and secret, and she knew it was because the little boy grown in a big house full of silence that had his own sort of trouble with words, even now, knew exactly what she meant.
Together would still be too loud sometimes.
But being quiet inside of that didn't make her alone anymore.
