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gooddadstan · 6 years ago

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Fuzzy Walls and Tired Eyes chapter 3

At some point in time, Tim finds himself standing in a graveyard. Staring at the headstone in front of him, he recognizes it as the one with the bodies of Janet and Jack Drake, not from the unreadable words on the grave, or the scenery around him, but from the voice in the back of his mind that tells him it is, and he accepts it. All of his training along with every cynical bone in his body is saying he shouldn’t, that he should analyze and confirm the reality of the situation, but he doesn’t remember how he came to stand here anyway and every single point is telling him it’s a dream, so he’s just going to go along with it and see how it ends up. Nothing better than standing in front of your parent’s grave, right? Besides, he already tried waking himself up and it didn’t work, so he’s stuck here.

In front of the grave, his senses are accosted by the smell of wet grass and the feeling of humidity in the air, stuffy in the dressy suit he’d most certainly not been wearing seconds ago. The shadows are longer than he’d remembered, unwavering and intimidating in a way they hadn’t been in a long while. An all too familiar sense of failure and shame swells up in his chest, as off to the side a scene plays out of him standing over his father’s body, unable to do anything but stare at the corpse. He’d never really mourned the loss of his father, in the end, not other than what little he needed to do publicly. He’d only mourned the loss of the relationship they’d started to form. God, what kind of son is he? The hot, empty tears that sent rage to his core swelled in his eyes, and then he’s being lifted up with a batarang to his throat.

The fabric of the Robin uniform’s cape tangles between his feet as he struggles for a second before forcing himself into stillness, hands clutched around the arm holding him up. The arm of his brother. Not that this was his brother, but the likeness was enough to send shivers down his spine. Though the real version did attack him all the same, later on in their lives, this one was not him, and thus cannot be associated with the real being. Of course not. Then why do the memories flood over each other, fear undue for actions not Jason’s but Clayface’s. Why does he still have to fight down defensive movement when the Red Hood approaches him on patrol, in the way that he doesn’t have to do with any other Bat. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, it’s not happening anyway. With his newfound awareness of the situation and its faults, he could feel the ever so faint motion of clay as his captor pulled him close, shifting and yelling as the same as he had years ago. So as Batman formed in front of him, in that same stance with a vague panic hidden behind the cowl, he didn’t bother with the pleasantries of flailing around and trying to break free of the grip on his body. The words being spoken were inconsequential, and he only needed to wait it all out.

His stillness is interrupted by falling towards the grass in a practiced dodge, Batman sending a kick above his head. His uniform, Red Robin now, showed the diagnostics of Bruce’s disappearance even as Dick traded blows with him. The words spoken, full of venom, weren’t coming from him, instead floating into the air from nothing without changing the flow of the scene. To be called an equal then kicked aside and belittled, no trust in his words and pity in his eyes as he throws another punch. The sting of it hurt far more than the physical pain of his body. Unimportant, focus on the issue at hand, every nerve in him screeched, but his mind wandered elsewhere. And as his surroundings shift uneasily, from the red and white of a hightop as screams rang from ahead, to the empty halls of Drake manor sitting clean and proper under his small footsteps sounding rhythmically as he meanders, to the cold but home-like metals of Titans Tower with the sounds of laughter and chattering in distant rooms. He stands there a moment before sinking into his regular spot on the couch, warm and home in a way it hadn’t been since Bruce disappeared.

It only took a second after he’d let himself relish the calm for him to be punched to the ground. A fleeting glimpse of red, yellow, and green, conflicting with his own in the whirlwind his eyes are providing him. He huffs a sigh, falling back into the motions as he rises and gets hit again and again by the man he calls his brother. Jason, the real him now, angry and looming in an outfit meant to bring comfort and reassurance. Shouting about replacements, and asking questions the same voice from the graveyard answers as well as it can. A punch flies into his face before he can block it, and immediately he’s staring into the dark ceilings of the cave as he falls from the stuffed Tyrannosaurus. Damian’s smug expression stands unwavering above, watching as the green of his uniform and the dinosaur grows farther from Tim’s grasp.

Before he could hit the ground again, he found himself standing in a warehouse.

It wasn’t a particularly familiar warehouse, but it sparked enough recognition in his mind to not set off a panic. He doesn’t think he’d ever really been standing in this warehouse. Almost as if to adjust for that, his body snapped into pain, his Red Robin uniform scratched and battered like how he’d expect from coming out of an encounter with one of the A-list rogues, not a routine drug bust. But while he was about 90% certain he’d broken at least an arm before he was in this warehouse, there’s no marks on his skin, the new holes in his suit leading way to the normal pale skin contrary to the sting of pain in his limbs.

The floor sits as a dull metal, flecks of red across it from a few too many work accidents before the site was shut down. Normal. The walls, however, look like they’re made out of shag carpeting, appearing soft and inviting in a way that the walls of a warehouse really shouldn’t be. But no alarms go off in his mind, and he has to guess that this was commandeered by some weird villains in the past. Maybe they were dealt with on one of the gala nights he always hated attending. Would’ve thought he’d have come across it on his cataloguing of the Gotham villains, though. Reaching out to touch the carpeting, the softness of it goes through his gloves to his fingertips, and doesn’t fall away when he yanks at it. Instead, it draws him in with snaking tendrils of shag that envelops him easily.

What Tim saw next was best described as a Wonderland-esque clusterfuck.

People bustled around, occasionally popping from one part of the room to another and repeating tasks they’d already completed, talking and smiling and shifting their outfits and faces to be one person then another. They’d get into conversations with other versions of one person, cracking jokes about how ‘well one of us needs to change’ and then shifting simultaneously to a different person. The background kept changing, from warehouses to the Batcave to a bowling alley Tim had only been in once to do some undercover work. There were flowers sprouting in thin air, and writhing forms of matter twisting to try and be a solid object only to melt into an ocean of nonsense once more.

The rapid changing and confusion let growing around him, becoming louder and more crowded as glimpses of memories showed between people, right and wrong and both at the same time. It was starting to give him a headache. He could operate crowds, usually, his mother wouldn’t tolerate it if he couldn’t hold his own at a gala, but this was beyond any of the parties he’d been to. Too much chaos, too much indiscriminate noise, too much pushing and prodding and swirling existence. None of the rhythm he’d grown accustomed to with large groups of people. He wanted out, the pain in his body mixing with the pain in his mind until he woke up with a gasp.

Immediately, he recognized that he was in the cave. The dark ceilings high above his head were unmistakable. Irritation bit at his face and limbs, dull stings pulsing with his heartbeat. His left arm is immobile, along with his right leg, and he can feel the bandages tight where they’re adhered. He moves his unbound arm to his face, ignoring the objections of the IV sending some sort of fluid into his system, hand slapping directly onto an oxygen mask that shifts uncomfortably on his skin. Shifting his head first to the left, he sees the other beds in the medbay, empty and eternally prepped for quick transfer of patients. The medical cabinets sit off to the other side, lining the wall as orderly as ever. Turning his head to the right, where the chairs are when they haven’t been scattered from the movement of the assorted Bats, he sees four chairs, all empty.

He shouldn’t have been expecting someone to be there when he woke up. The Joker had been loose and the Bats needed to be prioritizing that. But it still stung, more than he’d ever care to admit, that nobody was even in the cave when he woke up. The increased beeps of the heart rate monitor was more than enough to act as an indicator for anyone outside the medbay, and the sounds of him hitting the oxygen mask and moving his head would do the trick even if a fluctuating heartbeat had been normal for his unconsciousness. It was normal for Bruce to sit and wait after patrol, or Dick to hover and mother-hen, or Alfred to sit with a cup of tea during what break time he gets. Now there was… nothing. It hurt, somehow, knowing that they wouldn’t deviate from their patrols to be there. It hurt more than any of the physical injuries he had. That was probably the worst thing, that for all the pain his body was in, he let some stupid guilt hurt him more. It was unprofessional.

Tim stayed awake for somewhere between a minute and a half hour, his mind too tired to keep count and no clock in sight. When he finally heard some shuffling out in the cave, his heart leaped at the thought of someone finally being there, and the damned machine betrayed him by saying it. Almost immediately, Alfred was in the medbay, and the guarded fearful expression melted into a kind half-smile covering a grimace. He felt guilty.

“Master Timothy, I’m terribly sorry I was not here when you regained consciousness.” Despite his mouth still open and taking in a breath to continue, Tim only raised a hand and waved it away. It’s not like it was Alfred’s fault, after all, he had a lot of responsibilities around the house. No use in making him feel bad for things he couldn’t change.

With a small pained expression, Alfred walks over and begins adjusting the IV stand just out of Tim’s sight. He could turn his head and look if he wanted to, but he was just so tired, and exhaustion was setting into his bones more every second. Maybe he should just… go back to sleep.

As his eyes droop downwards, more sluggish than normal, Alfred could only hope that this sleep would be a painless one. Tears never did make good background noise, in the end.

#batfam #tim drake #batman #fwtr #i've been messing the acronym up this whole time haven't I

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satire-please · 8 years ago

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My Teeth are like Swords - Part 2

Summary: (I’m tired and can’t transfer this in a way to keep my italics in dang it.) Tim is a detective...who lives with detectives. The other Bat's start noticing something different about one of their own. And Tim realizes that he can't hide forever.

Part 1

Dragon Tim on Ao3

Like finding gold dust on a blood moon, there are times Tim will hear about his Mother. It’s difficult to encounter another drake, they’re too rare, too widely spread that it’s a miracle that Tim has met two. But it’s always a surprise to hear that Janet Drake is considered a romantic, sentimental imbecile to other dragonfolk.

To mate with a human is one thing, but to shift and willingly live beside them in their pitiful metal ant hills? Preposterous.

And to carry young on that state? Inside of their own bodies instead of in a proper shell as hard as diamonds? Unheard of.

What foolish unnecessary risks.

Tim felt his core bubble in warmth whenever he hears such slander. That Mother would care that much. Once, he did approached her on the subject.

“I spent many centuries as a upstanding, model drake.”Janet sniffed disdainfully, steering Tim from a fuming man at one of Gotham’s many galas. The drake from the east is starting to show, smoke passing from his nose uncontrollably. How embarrassing, her Timothy showed more restraint when he was three. “Now I find it much more valuable of my time to do as I please. Besides, the fact remains that my line will continue to endure and adapt unlike most bloodlines that will taste stone and dust.”

Tim summed it up to, ‘I do what I want. Leave me alone or burn.’

She glanced behind her to give the man a subtle sneer. What a fool to think that she would accept such an inadequate betrothal for her son. And, to add insult to injury, the man’s daughter hadn’t even bothered to present herself. “A dragon is a dragon, Timothy. It doesn't matter if you are half, a quarter or only possess a single drop of our blood. Magic doesn't care. It will still take, you will still shift, you will still fly. And if those incessant pathetic hair ribbons say anything different, show them there are still ways to make a dragon fry.”

Tim loved his Mother.

It’s...a shame he’s the only one who knew how she died.

And it wasn’t from that stupid water Obeah left, no matter how traditional to dragon slaying poison is. True it weakened her to the point of inducing a death-like coma, but if Tim lifted an eyelid the iris would still flash and respond. If Tim pressed his hand to her chest, he’d still feel the hint of fire tucked within.

Robbing the cemetery had been a pain though. It’s not like he could just tell Dad that, ‘Um hey, mother’s not dead. No, I know she seems like she’s dead. Yes, I know she doesn’t have a pulse, but you see–’

Yeah, not happening.

He abused his connections for a nice cave carved out of the cliff face next to the manor. It’s not like Mr. Wayne was using it. It could be accessed from the rocky beach if necessary, the entrance tight until you were a couple meters in. Then it stretched enough for his mother’s body to shift unconsciously, so the dragon could heal and sleep in peace.

Tim had thought it was perfect.

It didn’t matter much in the end.

Not when Mother finally woke and could smell Tim’s lie about Dad. Not when she stopped eating. The young teen would find, hunt, and drag dead deer and antelope into the cave only to rot around her body as she stared emptily at the stone walls. She waited for death. Nothing could change her mind...no matter how much he begged and pleaded.

“Please!” He stroked her rough eyelid, thoughts racing for any excuse for her to stay with him. To not leave him alone. “Isn’t there something you still have to teach me?”

His hand falls away as a lazy violet eye cracks open. It’s bigger than his head and the pupil focuses so achingly slow. “You’ve known all since you turned twelve, my pet. Our race never repeats themselves, not with memories like ours.”

“B-But I need–”

“You have my hoard, you will not go without means. You have my brain, you will do well and even thrive. You have a territory, a perfect environment for your future form and most of all you possess a purpose to keep your heart beating. Even if it is as ridiculous as looking after those silly humans. I am satisfied...now let me die in peace.”

“No please, m-mother, stay with me.”

“Oh, my darling. One day you will understand. Our love...is a terrible thing.”

And with that she stopped responding. Tim reasoned, screamed, cried while the reflection of his distraught face became clear in those unblinking glassy eyes. His throat raw as he hit and scratched uselessly at the black scales going grey, like the ashy rock dripping behind them until the camouflage of her skin was truth and she was stone.

Like all dragons when they die.

That’s how Timothy Drake inherited Gotham, sobbing on his knees as the refuge became a crypt.

It takes several years before Tim raids another grave...his father’s.

After all, Mother would appreciate his skeleton crystallizing next to hers. She would have liked that.

Timothy still loves his Mother.

It's a slow night and Jason’s gonna explode. He's stopped four muggings, seven car thefts, and a couple of kids trying to make a molotov cocktail. Okay, Jason felt bad at stopping the last one, come on what is he turning into? A twitchy cop? Geez, let kids be kids and fuck the police. He’s about to shoot his own damn foot for some excitement when he sees something in the corner of his eye as he hits the next roof.

Oh-ho? In the curve of hanging gargoyles menacingly scowling at those is a hint of red that tugs a smirk on Hood’s lips.

Replacement.

Well, alright, he hasn't meant that name in a bad way for a while. It's not like Jay wants to carve a new one in Mr. Serious anymore. Sure, he’s an annoying prude with the biggest stick up his ass, hangin’ off Bats’ every word like the good guard dog, the good tool he is, but, hey, he ain't a bad guy. Saved Jay from enough pinches that he feels right and guilty about the whole almost bleedin’ him out thing. So he makes it up the only way he can..with tough love. Plus, the more Jay can shake that Babybird nice and loose, the better. He takes in the former Robin’s figure, how he’s hunched in upon himself. His head of black resting on his knees as the crouch tucks him right under one of the silent stone guardians.

Babybird snoozing on the job? Have some shame.

Not that Jay has any of that. He barely stops himself from snickering, giving himself away when the helmet goes static for it, and creeps closer. Close enough to get the best view of the little shit’s face. It takes a Bat to sneak up on a Bat, you know. A grin spreads wide on his cheeks as he pulls his gun from his holster (it’s only rubber bullets now, calm the fuck down) Then, he aims to the sky and fires.

The crack of the bullet gives Jay the most beautiful flinch and jerk you ever did see–

Boom.

–but the returning blast of burning hot possible death that floods the ledge is not.

It takes every scrap of speed he has to not singe his fucking eyebrows off. It’s more fire than force, but thank Batman for quick reflexes and the tell tale click near Red.

“What the hell, Babybird?” Smoke billows, curling around the two and Jason coughs, waving his arms madly.

“I could say the same for you, asshole.” In the black mess, a spark sputters between Tim’s teeth, just like an annoying lighter that flickers and hurts your thumb the more you try, as he tries to control his shaky breathing. Inhale. Damn, that really startled him. Exhale. His fangs sink into his lower lip, drawing blood over the rude awakening. He shakes his head like a dog, forcing what was sharp canines into blunt square human teeth. “Gunshot really? Gosh, you always have to be a dick, don’t you?”

“Do you always have to throw something flashy when ya wake up? Ain’t that Robin’s way?” Jason brushes his clothes, disgruntled. He didn’t see a flash grenade or anything, but Bats right? More prepared than a Girl Scout.

“Maybe.” Tim wonders how long he’s going to get convenient excuses.

“What? Ya sleep with them or something? Didn’t know ya needed a teddy bear, Replacement.”

Tim smirked, “Oh, come on, Hood, didn’t you learn to let sleeping dragons lie?”

“Ha, ha. Whatever, call it a night, you pyromaniac piece of shit.” Jason puts his gun away and fishes for a peace offering under his collar. He thrusts the white cigarette at the other, “Smokes?”

“Not right now, Hood.”

“Your loss, Replacement.” Jason lights it, dragging a puff to cover up a pout. Hmpf, stuffy princess. Doesn’t drink with him (I’m not legal to drink, Jason). Never smokes with him (We have set an example to Damian, Jason). Jay should be offended cause nowadays Tim carries the hazy scent round like a club’s perfume and Jay knows he’s hiding the good stuff somewhere.

He’s just never seen Tim do it.

Tim observes the turn of Jason’s mouth and jerks his head towards the street below, “Not smokes, but you hungry enough for hotdogs?”

“This is Gotham, baby, when I am ever not down for hotdogs?”

The two shoot their grappling lines towards a vendor who’s too used to this shit to give one. But as Tim rattles off their order, something itches at Jason. Something that’s off.

(The Gargoyle they left above bares new marks along its side. The side that Jason couldn’t see. They were not chiseled in, but Tim is sure most wouldn’t notice the new additions.)

Whatever.

He’ll figure it out.

Timmy’s been sleeping more.

Dick is so grateful he wipes at an imaginary tear, sniffs, and whips out his phone to snap a picture again. Tim doesn’t snore, but that’s definite drool on his chin, nicccccccce. Dick takes in the scene and gets another shot from a different angle. He almost has a full album now titled, Behold the Cryptid Sleeps, it’s only fair after all the pictures Tim took of them when he was their cutest little stalker. For now, Dick just calls it karma and texts Babs to back the good stuff up.

But, okay, Dick admits it’s starting to get weird.

And Timmy’s sleeping habits have always been weird. Before he had stolen Bruce’s crown and title of Sleep Dep King. Working on case after case, day after day only to finally pass out, usually with something like,

“How many days does it take to start hallucinating again, Bruce?”

“...Three.”

“Huh, so that’s why you’re purple with seven eyes.”

It usually takes a lot to get Timmy to crash and burn into a bed, usually (always) in the form of Alfred and good food laced with sedatives. It’s not that Timmy doesn’t know that they’re in the food, it’s just that no one says no to Alfred Pennyworth. No one.

But now it’s like Tim is on an egg timer and it’s wonderful.

After about 24 or 26 hours, against his will, Timmy starts swaying on his feet and lurches grumpily towards a safe, soft spot to snooze. True, Dick notes sometimes they’re odd places, like underneath the desk of the bat computer, nestled in much of the wiring. Or head resting on the kitchen table, his angry eyes drooping with, “I don’t understand. Coffee has failed me, Alfred.”

“Our bodies change over time, Master Timothy. One cannot expect caffeine to sustain them forever.”

“You’re...lying. You did something to the coffee, admit it!”

“I have not...this time.”

“You must have I...can’t even–” But Tim doesn’t get to finish the response.

“Master Dick I believe Master Timothy needs to be escorted to his room. If you would–” Alfred leaves the sentence open, because anytime Dick can hold an unconscious, not struggling brother? You know he’s all over that.

Bruce has even started to prioritize breaks in the patrol schedule for Tim. Or, to be more accurate, he’s encouraging (enforcing) Tim to use the breaks that have always been there.

But…really the switch in the dynamic is kinda odd, especially when Dick finds Tim on one of the Manor’s couches after patrol, his skin paler than milk and shivering in his sleep. When the room is set to 75 degrees….and he’s under at least five blankets.

Dick pads over and cups the younger vigilante face in two hands. “Holy Batman, Timmy, you're as cold as ice.” His brow furrows when Tim barely responds to the statement, his eyes half open to blurrily peer at Dick. That’s not a good sign. Plus, he’s is not kidding. Tim’s skin is cool to the touch, it could compete with one of the dripping stalagmites in the cave.

“S’cold Dick…and tired.” The words push out of his lips clumsily. He raises his arms to grasp the Dick’s wrists as if he was going to push the hands off his cheek and then just forgot. The heat’s too inviting. “Just need sleep, m’fine.”

“I think you're a liar that lies, Babybird.” Dick leans back only to pull the covers off enough to slip beside Tim onto the couch. He tugs the boy in with an arm until Tim's head finds a comfy spot on his shoulder. Heck yeah, it's cuddle time. The best way to share body heat ever. He looks around the den and sees the remote for the T.V. It takes a few tries to stretch in a way to get it, especially without moving too far from Tim, but Dick’s not an acrobat for nothing.

Tim huffs a weary laugh against Dick’s neck, “Well, I'm the guy that lies to Batman, you know.”

“Shhhhhhh, he’ll hear you.” Dick pats Tim’s hair, starts clicking channel after channel (a thousand channels is just not enough) for something to watch.

“M’good, you can go.” Tim didn’t expect it would take so long for his core to normalize. Fire might smoulder under his breast, but damn it, it’s sucking most of the heat from his extremities. To his calculations, it may be months before his body can adjust to the change...if ever. Tim can already imagine the mountain of clothing he’ll need for Gotham’s winter. Mother got away with it by layering and calling in fashion. How is Tim going to spin it when he’s jumping off roof-tops fat with every wool item he can find? Oh. Or he could design heaters in his clothing. That could work. But still, this is the reason why most drakes live near volcanoes. Temperature regulation is a bitch.

Dick hums above him and breaks Tim’s line of thought. Oh well, he guesses he’ll stay here for a bit longer, just until he thaws out and stops being an Tim-icicle. It’s not that Dick minds, right? He fades away at the sound of a bad romantic comedy playing in the background.

He doesn’t see the frown on Dick’s face.

Or hear him quietly whisper into his com, “Alfred, could you run some tests for me?”

Alfred would have a conniption.

“Drake, you wretched slob.”

Damian must see to it that the competent butler never visits the former Robin. Ever. The man is old and truly must be spared from any health issues that may occur from witnessing this vile display of chaos. In fact, Damian wishes he could spare himself from the scene, yet Father did request him to fetch the evidence and Dick is off planet. How dare he.

Damian squints pass the entrance only to flinch back. There in the dark, two pinpricks of purple follow his every move...and hiss.

The Robin swallows and forces the door open all the way, allowing the dim light from the basement to flood the room. There are no light switches. It’s...odd. The boiler hums nearby explaining the heat that’s almost sweltering. Heaps of objects litter the floor, making narrow pathways here and there. Fortunately, food must be absent in the debris since the smell lacks rot. Instead what perfumes the air is what Damian associates with his predecessor, the smell of spices burned with a touch of something chemical. Gasoline, perhaps? Damian’s breathing finally evens out when he spots a mess of black hair poking out from a mountain of bedding.

Blearily, Tim focuses on the intruder. “Damian? What are you doing here?” he sleepily grumbles.

Though Grayson might find the tone endearing, Damian does not.

“I have come for the Spear of Enue. Father requires it and has requested me to retrieve it from you. He said it was in your possession?”

“B needs to leave my stuff alone.” Tim sits upright, staring emptily for a moment and clearly displeased about being awake. Then, with a groan he sluggishly works himself out of the bedding. “But a case is a case, I guess. Yeah, I have it, just give me a sec to get it.”

“The spear is here?”

A hum. “Sure, it is, why wouldn’t it be?”

Well, at least Drake seems more amenable when half-awake. Robin crosses his arms and strives not to look too haughty. Usually collecting data from the older vigilante takes more coaxing (threats) and persuasion (heavy bickering) to get the desired result. Perhaps he should lend his assistance.

“Drake, where are your lights? Two pairs of eyes would obviously be quicker than one.”

“Lights?” A confused tone. “Why would I need lights? I can see just fine.”

“Tch, I’m surprised you can locate anything in this outrageous dump.”

“Mother always said I was a messy hoarder, but I have a strong belief that mess is a matter of perspective. Besides, I know exactly where everything is.”

Tim slinks out of bed and makes his way toward a pile that seems to have earned the category of lethal and shiny weapons. Damian attempts to move towards the same direction, but his foot hits an item and he just manages to make the trip look intentional. Of course, Drake was not even looking. Wait.

“Drake, is that my katana?” He points to the hilt barely poking out from the bottom, half of the weapon slithering from under the bed.

It’s a silly habit that Tim can’t shake from childhood to put the most prized things under his bed, like the old cardboard box full of pictures, a few stacks of spanish golden doubloons marked from a toddler’s teething, a cursed ruby the size of a skull, you know the usual.

“...Yes?” Tim’s head bobs up from his search and glances over at the weapon. Then, he pauses for a moment or two, his expression shifting so fast (Mine, not mine, mine, not mine) that Damian cannot place it, “Oh, sorry. I guess you’d want that back. I mean, of course you do, it belongs to you, I only had it because you were gone and–”

Drake cuts off, making no movement towards the old katana. Damian reasons it must have been acquired while he was not among the living. He doesn’t know how to feel about Drake keeping that kind of memento, yet he notes there is a definite lack of rage that usually accompanies such a theft. In addition, Drake looks like a petulant child.

“It does not matter. I no longer require a child’s katana.” Damian waves a hand to the other heaps. “The spear, however, Drake, Father needs immediately.”

“Right.”

It is then he notices Drake’s unusual attire. The vigilante groggily separates the pile for what Damian seeks in boxers and a baggy Gotham U sweatshirt that keeps sliding over a white shoulder. How peculiar, Drake never went to college so why...ah, yes, Dick. But what really has Damian’s brows rising is the two thick watches on Tim's wrist. One that he's definitely seen on his father once before and a glint of something shiny peeking from the sweatshirt.

“Do you often sleep in diamonds, Drake?”

“They're nice to look at before bed,” Tim muttered absentmindedly.

“Is that a slogan for this new fashion statement?” Damian walks over and curiously pulls down the collar to look at it more closely. Many of the gems are larger than an egg as they lace together in the metal filigree. It covers a wide band over Drake’s collarbones before cascading towards his sternum in delicate chains. “This piece is familiar to me. Drake, are these the jewels we recovered from Catwoman?”

“One, I demand the fundamental human right to always be pretty, witty, and gay. You’ll understand when you’re older. Two, I bought these from that auction fair and square, so Selina should have keep her mangy paws off them.”

Suddenly, Damian remembers that specific tackle to take down the thief had been...more enthusiastic and vicious on Drake’s part. Usually Father is the one to handle any incidents with her, but perhaps all it takes is emotional investment to pin down the slippery woman.

Tim pries off Damian’s fingers only to press what he seeks in them. “Here, the spear. Now, get out. If you’re gonna mock and insult me, I want four more hours of sleep first.”

The spear is heavy, but Damian manages with a tilt to this lips. “Very well, I’ll skin and eviscerate you later, Drake.”

Drake snorts. “And, hey, you have a spear and everything. All you have to do is be knighted and we’d have the perfect fairytale set up. Farewell, Sir Brat.” He waves to the door before collapsing onto the bed, preparing his nest the way he wants it.

Damian watches the ritual all the way to the door. Stops to take in the scene one a final time. It’s strange, but it does seem like a lair from one of his grandfather’s monster stories. Dark, warm like a breathing thing, full of hidden treasure...and danger.

How right he is.

But he comes to the realization later...much later.

Bruce has seen a lot.

He’s fought aliens on ships millions of lightyears from Earth and tangled with kraken under the sea. He’s negotiated with Circe for Diana’s sake and fed viruses to ruin robot armies for Clark’s. He’s handled witches, sorcerers, and time-travellers from around the world. Every night he tries to plug one of Gotham’s bleeding holes as they gush out the vile and the crazy with the Joker, Ivy, Harvey, and more.

Bruce has seen a lot.

But the universe keeps surprising him one way or another. And sometimes? Closer to the heart then he expected.

“So, you’re the drake that rejected my proposal.”

“And you’re the dame that didn’t even bother to show up to make it.”

Bruces eyes flicker back and forth between his third son and the young, literally steaming woman in front of them. Her pale white hair whips behind her like something alive. The villain of the month does the same. Apparently, Gotham has the perfect waterfront property for the taking, especially with the leyline that cuts right through the city or so the warlock just finished monologuing about.

“What are you doing? I said destroy them.” The fuming sorcerer demands pointing at the Bat-clan. Golems rise in various stages around them being the only opponents beyond the man and woman. They’re all near the Manor by the beach, a few miles from the city but even with the home field advantage...Bruce feels a thread of concern to see Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian joining him to put their backs against the cliff face below his family home.

“Just a moment, Master, I have some unfinished business to attend to.” The woman raises a hand and starts to undo her cloak.

“Master? My, my.” Tim flicks his bo to the side. It’s not going to be useful here. Ugh, this is not how he wanted this to go. “Just how low has your line fallen? Mother was right to refuse to even consider you as a candidate. Do you follow his every command or do you just lick his boots?”

“How. Dare. You.” The woman’s eyes glow yellow and her voice’s pitch becomes grating.

Tim snorts. “Look at you. You can’t even control your shift….pathetic.”

“Red Robin, the situation, now.” Bruce tries striking another golem, but Tim ducks to put himself between the Bats and the newcomers.

“You judge me, when you wear human flesh so much that you stink of it? Your true scent barely bleeds through.” The odor of rancid sulfur strikes the air. The woman peels off her clothes, layer by layer until a pile litters the sand. “Half-breed.”

Rude. The human and dragon are both his scents. Tim thinks he smells fine, thanks.

“I said–” The villain tries to command but the dame strides towards Red Robin.

“How are you different from me? The warlock will save my line and give us power, but you? You play at human.”

“I do what I want,” Tim icily states. “Which is more that I can say for you. Now get out of my territory or burn.”

“No, I think I’m going to put a male in his place. Beneath me.” And the woman lets out a cry that turns into a roar. The other Bats watch as the woman’s form hutches over, makes a terrible crack and then grows. And grows. And grows. Scales take shape as her neck elongates and it’s sickening. Before them a white dragon rises and crashes a claw on the beach. It’s the size of a house.

‘Well…’ Bruce thinks. ‘That’s something new.’

“A dragon, come on. You have to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” Jason snarls, shooting at the beast. The rubber bullets do nothing but irritate the overgrown Godzilla-wanna-be.

“Wait, it gets better,” Tim mutters. “So, burn it is. This is why we can’t have nice things between dragons. What a pity...bring it.”

And there is a collective gasp.

Because Tim smirks and the beach is overcome with a violent blast. When the smoke clears...there’s nothing?

Nothing but the golems on the beach, the Bats fighting them and the warlock hissing out commands to a white giant worm, who is diverting much from his cunning plan.

But no Tim.

The white dragon shrieks in fury and raises her giant wings, preparing to crush those on the sand when something large slams into her side. She lurches over and peers over her shoulder. Nothing. But several of her scales are cracked from the impact.

Then, it’s as if thunder booms right in front of them, making their eardrums ring from the force of the sound. Under the blow, the white worm topples forward attempting to steady herself.

It’s shadowy and massive, a heavy body and the thumping beat of wings. It’s slowly moving into the moonlight on the beach, kicking up sand.

The Bats shields their eyes even with the whiteouts down, the gust knocking into kevlar and nomac. Nightwing automatically throws an arm out to keep Robin from falling; Hood makes an unconscious grab to the other arm.

And when he lights down, massive razor-tipped claws digging into the sand, the black scales and shiny leather of wings give the Bats one hell of an answer to all those burning questions.

Timmy’s always cold.

The cave, the hoard.

The night vision.

The ever-ready exploding “pellets”.

All of it comes to a sudden dawning realization.

The baddie of the night looks from one dragon to the other, trepidation leaking in because who would have thought two dragons at once.

Low muttering, winding a spell even as the new dragon throws back his power neck and roars. It shakes them down to their very bones, a sound unlike any they’ve heard before.

The shift of muscle, dark eyes narrowing, and the first lunge is punctuated by the abrupt cries of the Bats who have come to the realization this is one of their own.

But there’s no pause when claws come up to strike, when the first is a good one, raking into his side, putting his first blow into soft underbelly, close to the intended target.

(Only one way to kill a dragon, the heart has to go.)

“Motherfuck--Tim!” But Hood can do nothing but watch the blood, ripe and rich in the night splatter the beach, hoping stupidly it ain’t all Red’s.

“Get to the sides!” the Batman roars, already moving, already reaching for the next weapon in his belt.

He sees the opening when both dragons rear up on hind legs for the next blow, his gauntlet spitting out flash pellets.

It’s go time as the rest of the Robins take it all in and move. Robin pulls a duck and dodge through legs with a batarangs ready for the baddie on the other side.

Hood pulls a whole lotta how ya’ doin’ when the .45s spit a few rubber bullets right on the gouge marks, sliding through the sand as the bigger dragon leans down to latch teeth into Tim’s neck and hold the fuck on.

Nightwing leaps, even with the sand trying to bog him down, both sticks out in a double blow at the exposed weakness behind the white dragon’s ear. He has enough time to cringe at the sound of pain tearing into the night, to see the gleam of claws sinking into her belly in a knee-jerk reaction.

The fight going on behind them, the golem starting to shift and move at the sorcerer’s botched command, and Robin just breathes out a deep damn sigh because honestly, some of us have homework to dumb down. But he shifts, pulling out pellets in rapid succession as he moves closer to the army. The abrupt, “huu,” is just more proof he is a superior marksman. The mental note to pick up the tome from which those accursed spells emanate from is another task on the night’s to-do list.

The abrupt shock of Nightwing’s stick and the barrage of bullets takes its toll, getting the white dragon to jerk away from that black jugular, to rear back with pain.

The claws sink deeper, Red growling low, smoke curling from his maw. His eyes slide to the sides, making sure the Bats are out of firing range before he opens his maw with that familiar and suddenly very telling click.

“Down!” It’s Batman that throws the last exploding batarang within range to the white dragon’s injured belly, so the blast of burning blue flame ignites, sets the soft, vulnerable innards to char.

Red, however, takes the last blow for his own (because she picked the wrong fucking city, the wrong family, the wrong dragon to fuck with), claws sinking in, and the meaty thump in the center is just at the right place to reach.

Low and huffing, “try me.”

“You wouldn’t,” her voice cracks from agony.

“Threaten what’s mine, and I won’t think twice.” He gives just the smallest squeeze to punctuate the point.

“Better not fuck with him, bitch,” Hood’s voice, lazy through the synths while he eyes the army Demon is gonna be taking on, “he ain’t one ta joke.”

The white dragon growls and the iridescent black dragon can feel her tensing up as if to give her last hurrah, to go out with a bang, but he’s having none of that. He snarls, the sound deep from within his chest as he snaps his jaws just in front of the dame’s face, sparks clicking behind his gleaming ivory teeth. “You should know,” he practically purrs, “there are fates worse than death. Don’t. Push. Me.” His words, his threat (a bluff, shh), thankfully, gets the right reaction. She sags with a trailing growl, eyes glittering with malice and defeat.

“Go. Get out of my territory.” The words leave no argument.

“W-Who…” she spits blood, dotting the sand, “who would want...your...shoddy terr-territory anyway.”

Slowly, he retracts, pulling his claws back while the click echoes against the bluff, a warning and a promise. But the dame doesn’t move to start the fight up again. She needs time to heal the grievous injuries. The mage will earn his own fate.

“And now, next on the list,” Nightwing sighs, looking from the dragon to where Robin has starting whipping out the tricks and traps on the moving golem.

“By the way, Timmers,” Hood’s neck cranes as he look up at the massive face hanging low, the chest heaving with that little scuffle. “You ever think, hmm, I dunno to say you might be a motherfucking dragon or some shit? I mean, don’t they say that shit right off the fucking bat?”

The dragon huffs down at him as Hood holds up a hand to demonstrate, “‘nice ta meetcha. Name’s Timmy. Like long flights ‘round the beach, beatin’ the shit outta assholes, and literally roasting my enemies.

Ya know, just the usual shit for Gotham.”

#Dragon Tim #my writing #tim drake #batfamily #I'm tired #iphoenixrising is awesome and helped with the fighting scene #allseer is a sweet beta too

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lonedoctrine · 6 years ago

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Welcome to our segment of the “Think Tank” where we send out a Q&A to the people, to keep building and exploring “Food For Thought” for the people. Each and every moment someone’s story is unfolding and I feel each and every one of us is significant. Together, we make TODAY better than YESTERDAY.

Our next next guest has led a life of great resilience, commitment, and compassion. Even through the harshest conditions, she's a wildflower that continues to bloom.

Think Tank

1. Give a bit of your background/context. (Where you’re from, what you do, etc.)

I am a Los Angeles native through and through. Lived in northern California for a few years after high school, but LA has my heart. Professionally I am a commercial coordinator – this means I make TV commercials for a living.

2. What are some your top values in life and, why?

Empathy & compassion are the big ones – my parents always said I had a big heart from an early age. I have always found myself drawn to and rooting for the underdog and I yearn for an even playing field; a world where we all have the same opportunities, the same basic needs – physical and emotional (a roof over our heads, access to clean and safe food and water, and the love and support of family or friends, a world where no one is burdened or disadvantaged by lack). My heart breaks every time I pass a homeless person on the street and I am often left wondering – why them and why not me? How is it that I get to go to work every day, come home to my (modest yet comfortable but most of all SAFE) home, eat healthy/fresh food, be warm and safe and know I am loved and this person is left cold, hungry, lonely on the street day after day. I just don’t get it. I try to help when I can, but am often left scratching my head when I start to compare – I look at the abundance in this world, and I mean exorbitant abundance – people that own multiple cars (for pleasure not necessity), live in mansions, wear designer clothes and eat at fancy restaurants…how can they do that in good conscience when there are people lying on the streets…let alone people, in say Africa, who don’t even have access to CLEAN WATER?! So yeah, I think what this world needs more of is compassion…if we all cared about one another a little more, it would go a long way.

3. In your work and personal/home life what are some of the ways you stay motivated?

I have struggled with depression nearly my whole life, so staying motivated is a crucialpart of maintaining my wellbeing. I recognize that and therefore am hyper aware & pro active of certain steps and tools that are necessary for me to stay “level.”

Tool #1 – waking up early and starting my day with exercise. Being up early affords me a head start. I feel like the hour and a half I spend exercising before the sun is up, not only gets me physically ready for my day (loosens the muscles, gets my blood pumping, endorphins going, etc.) – but it also prepares me mentally. It gives me that time to mentally run through my day, play out all I have on my agenda and gets me geared up to tackle it head on. That time is essential in combating the anxiety that may come with heavily pressured work days, or days when I have a lot to get done in a little time. That hour and a half spent thinking in silence (I used to listen to music to amp me up, but I found that it was drowning out my thoughts and have only recently noticed I do better listening to my inner voice than say Tim Armstrongs’ of Rancid. ;) ) – that time helps me not feel overwhelmed with all I have ahead of me on that day.

Tool #2 – Subjecting myself to healthy influences, mentally and physically. I LOVE me a good murder mystery show and I have never met a cheese burger I didn’t like, but I have to keep my consumption of both in check if I am going to keep a positive, energized and hopeful outlook on life. I find that the more I expose myself to mental downers (the news – ugh, CSI, angry rap music to name a few for me) the more I find my mental well being in jeopardy; I find myself predisposed to being agitated or weighed down/sluggish, which in turn makes me unmotivated. Same goes with food, when I eat clean, I am physically lighter and more energized. When I eat greasy delicious chili cheeseburgers all the time, all I want to do in nap in sweat pants. That being said, I also think depravity is not healthy (it will make me resentful, sad), so its all about moderation.

Tool #3 – making lists. I find, the deeper I get into this whole adult hood thing, the more things there are to get done and the less time we have to do them. Sometimes I can feel completely overwhelmed by all my responsibilities that I will be completely paralyzed/unmotivated because I don’t know where to start. Making lists so I can compartmentalize and better see the big picture and this decipher what demands my current attention and what can be addressed at a later date, setting reminders (“hey Siri, set a reminder” – literal life game changer for me, thank you apple) – both of these things really help keep my momentum moving forward.

4. We speak of “Food For Thought” that provides a means of making TODAY better than YESTERDAY. What do you do or do you have a daily routine to keep your mind on the right track?

Well, I feel I addressed some of this above but I can expand a little. A big part of keeping my mind on the right track is controlling my inner dialog. I struggle with my own perception of myself (body image, self worth) and I often catch myself speaking really negatively about myself and that is something I make a conscious effort to combat. Lately (and I mean only super recently) – I have been trying to flip the script by saying positive and hopeful things about myself. I am currently working hard to get healthy (physically) and though my physical progress has been minute, I am praising myself every day for getting up and out of bed and exercising. When I start to go down an anxiety black hole in work because my load is “too much to bear,” I remind myself – “I have done this before and I will do it again. My colleagues have chosen me to work alongside them for a reason; I am beyond capable and skilled and over qualified and I will excel in this and all that I do because of my strong work ethic and unfaltering, well sometimes faltering but always getting back up, attitude.”

5. What are your top three favorite books, movies, or shows and, why?

Favorite books – “Beach Music” by Pat Conroy, “Summer Sisters” by Judy Blume & almost anything by Michael Connelly, my favorite probably being, “The Poet.”

My love for these three books are all deeply rooted in the memories from the time in my life I was at, when these books came to me. When I was in my early 20s I had just moved back to LA and into my first apartment alone. I was scraping by, paycheck-to-paycheck and I could not afford cable. My grandpa started a book club with me; every month he would give me 5 books that I had to read, and to this day he has never recommended something that didn’t move me in some way.

“Beach Music” is an incredible story about life and love and the journeys we all take and it was just a really powerful read. All of Connelly’s works are really well written. Probably my favorite thing about his books is that they are all set in Los Angeles and he constantly references little places that only natives would notice or recognize. I can close my eyes and instantly be transported to my first apartment in the Hollywood hills; lights dim, crickets chirping, 1950s slatted windows letting in a crisp breeze… (I can even see the crimson red bed sheets I was lying in when I was reading “The Poet”). I remember turning the page and the protagonist (Harry Bosch) found himself in his apartment off Woodrow Wilson drive and the murderer was creeping up his back stairs unbeknownst to him…Woodrow Wilson drive was literally less that a mile from my apartment; all the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I got chills. I remember calling my grandpa late that night, after 10pm, and scolding him for giving me this book – such a terrifying and salacious read, I could not put it down and I just remember his laughter and commiseration because he felt the same way when he read it…such special memories, and a bond that we still share - to this day we have both read almost every one of Connelly’s works and we still come together to share stories about our reads.

Judy Blume, I don’t think I need to expand much here as her reputation precedes her. But, “Summer Sisters” was her first adult novel and I was 14, and traveling with my best friend from kindergarten, when my mother gave us both a copy. The story is set around two girls, different in so many ways but the same at the core and it follows their friendship from elementary school through adulthood. This book lined up with both our lives in so many ways and I can again, close my eyes and be transported to the deck of a ferry boat in the Mediterranean (side note, how lucky was I?!) eating chocolate with Erica (my bestie) and eagerly turning each page, we could not read the book fast enough! I have since re-read the book over 10 times and recently gifted my copy to my little sister on her graduation from junior high (at age 14) and she read it while traveling with me (in the Mediterranean no less!) and it’s just continued to impact my life in so many lovely ways.

6. If you could chose a superpower or spirit animal what would it be and, why?

I don’t quite get the spirit animal thing; blame it on my lack of imagination so I guess I’ll go with super power? Though I really am not one for the fanciful ideas, I prefer to stay rooted in reality but I guess that sounds like a conversation to explore with my therapist.

If I had to choose, I guess I would say flying? Birds have always seemed so free and to watch one soar is just a magical experience and I suppose it would be nice to see how that feels. Also, would be awesome to beat traffic – ha!

7. If you could call your younger self, what sort of advice would you offer?

Funny that this question should come up, as I found myself actually yearning to talk to my younger self just the other day. I was going through a keepsake box when I stumbled upon my journals from high school. As an adult, I have always owned my upbringing, “the fast life, growing up way too quick, exposed to so much at a young age because of distracted young parents & living in a big city” but re-reading these journals, combined with all the emotional work I have been doing in therapy lately, I found myself desperate to hold the younger me, shower her in love and reassure her that everything would work out as its meant to. You see I had a tough time in high school – dabbled in drugs and boys at an early age, which derailed my path and shifted my priorities. That, combined with a brutal divorce, distracted (neglectful seems harsh but accurate?)/busy parents & a falling out with my friend group, which left me “completely alone,” basically plunged me into a really dark and deep depression. Reading my words back, I was gifted with the perspective and able to see that it was all really a cry for help, for love, and most of all for accountability. I found myself lost in the shuffle and desperate for a place to belong. Only now am I finding that I have to create that place for myself and to lift the responsibility and subsequent disappointment off of the other people in my life. When I allow myself to be the filler of my own cup, I can be fulfilled and happy – when I look to others for validation, love etc. – I open myself up for disappointment. Mostly, if I could talk to my younger self, I would pull her into a deep embrace and tell her she’s worthy of the love she so desperately craves. I would tell her life is so much bigger than high school and though it seems hopeless, things will change and shift and these years will just be a drop in the bucket. I will reassure her that her parents did the best they could and inadvertently taught you what to do/not do, and hope that you will be given the opportunity to right those wrongs with your own children at some point in life.

To learn more VISIT www.patreon.com/lonedoctrine

#Support #SelfHelp #Puppies #People #Awesome #LoneDoctrine #Podcast

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