Is that ask for ra'stim prompt still going on? Because if so, I'd like to humbly beg (on my hands and knees if need be) for the color white... Or the word roses... Please... I'd give you my cheetos!
@thenamesiwantedrtaken for the Ra’stim prompt meme.
There was *laughter* The Ra’stim meme will go until I die, trust that. But I think I’ll pass on the cheetos, they would kill me (curse that dairy allergy), so long as you come an discuss headcanons with me!
But as I like both and can’t decide which I like better, both shall be done!
So this can go under a read more because it got… unexpectedly long.
White
White had never seemed like a powerful colour. It meant soft, delicate things, yet untouched but the evils of the world. It was the colour of brides (even Janet Drake was married dressed in white). Here though, it held a certain power. If you could keep a white shirt white it meant you were a fighter worthy of respect- of reverence. And outside the walls of Nanda Parbat (that had become more familiar than Tim ever thought they would), the sands were bleached white, a shining, glowing white that drove men insane.
The desert stretched on farther than he could see, an endless sea of shifting sands, all faded to a white that sunk into men until they could hardly remember their own names. In the centre of it stood the city of the League of Shadows. Tim tilted his head, staring out beyond the window of his room, the fluttering curtains (white. Of course they were white), only seemed to amplify the effect.
Ra’s didn’t wear white. No, the Demon’s head donned clothes of green and gold, a distinct, contrasting colour. Green wasn’t a regal colour, unlike the blues and purples that rulers of old always seemed clothed in, but Ra’s made it seem that way. He made it seem like the colours that kings and queens would have envied. It was true, Ra’s al Ghul didn’t wear white, but he was no less deserving of the reverence that his assassins placed on him.
He had fought the man long before he had ever become his paramour (they weren’t lovers, they couldn’t be. He had been kidnapped and spirited away like some damsel from a fairy tale). He was a respectable fighter, elegant and precise in a way that Damian had never captured (in a way Bruce never seemed to deem more important than a well placed punch).
Turning away from the window, Tim closed his eyes. Perhaps he was beginning to go mad from the white as well. Lifting one hand, Tim spent a few seconds observing the lovely white fabric. It was different than the red and blacks, so vastly different, and yet it seemed to denote a level of skill. White was a powerful colour in the League, and it was a mark of respect that Ra’s had chosen to see him dressed in it.
(Janet Drake had been married in it, and so it seemed, would her son).
Roses
Tim glared long and hard at the roses that sat on his table. They were beautiful and the vase they were in, with the intricate gold and green pattern was also stunning, but that was not the point. (One of these days he would kill Ra’s. Really, truly, he was going to die). He didn’t even like roses; he was also pretty sure Ra’s wouldn’t know true love if it hit him over the head with a batarang, but somehow he didn’t think the other had take that into consideration when he sent assassins into Tim’s (heavily secure) apartment on a flower delivery.
No, Tim thought, grabbing the offending flowers in his hands, they absolutely had to go. It absolutely would not do to have Dick, or Jason, and god-forbid Bruce pick up on the not subtle at all coloured vase holding flowers that meant true love. That was a recipe for disaster, and something he was not ready or willing to explain. (If he was honest the chances were slim. The relationship between Tim and the rest of the family had been strained since Bruce’s ‘death’, they hadn’t noticed any of the other flowers, or the fact that Tim seemed better rested now than he ever had before. )
He could give them to Tam, like the roses before that, and the primroses from the time before that. The press would have a field day with it. They were still technically engaged to to the public’s knowledge. (The others hadn’t mentioned that either). She didn’t need to know the complete truth, she knew enough, she understood enough not to question it.
Maybe the next time he woke up with flowers he would keep them, maybe if they weren’t roses. (Maybe, maybe, maybe, Bruce would be so disappointed if he knew just how many maybe’s and compromises Tim had made with himself). After all, they were always beautiful, and what could the harm possibly be?
(Tim pointedly doesn’t think about the implications of that, no, that was a bridge he would burn when the time came. It was only a matter of time, and eventually it would be enough. Tim didn’t think about that either).
The next week Tim woke to a pot of dahlias sitting on the table, next to a cup of perfectly brewed coffee.