ambiengreyarts

[ambiengreyarts]

you can only reblog this today

[ambiengreyarts]

i love art where you can look at it and just Know that the person who drew it really loves the thing they drew like just by looking at it u can tell that’s their favorite character. love is stored in art

[ambiengreyarts]

Jason and Cass were in the same place for three weeks in DCeased Unkillables and I got no bonding or interaction between them in all that time, and I am UpSeT. Just a little. So, I may or may not write things to fill that void all by myself over here. Enjoy.

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

He’d expected her to flinch, not having heard him and Ace approach above the din of moans and wails from far below, but, when he put his hand carefully to her shoulder, she did not.

She did not speak or turn to face him; did not acknowledge his presence in any way other than to place her hand gently atop his.

He squeezed her shoulder lightly, his touch a gesture of comfort now rather than a means of getting her attention or announcing his presence. Beside him, Ace had sat down as if unfazed, though his perked ears betrayed his calm.

Jason sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, loud enough to be heard.

“Me, too,” he thought she said, but, she did not speak loudly in general, and the longer he listened to the wailing, the more he imagined they were words that made sense – people trying to speak to him – and so he couldn’t be sure.

Ace whined; distantly.

He thought, too, she’d squeezed his fingers with that same intention of comforting as he’d had a moment ago, but, her touch was gone now and he wasn’t sure of that either.

He slid his hand almost awkwardly off her shoulder.

“You should come inside,” he said, firmly – loudly above the noise; regaining some clarity of mind. “It’s crazy out here.”

She nodded slightly, but made no move to get up.

He almost wanted to pull her back from the parapet and haul her inside by force if she still didn’t in the next minute.

…

She didn’t.

He scowled at the ground.

“I’ll leave Ace with you,” he said, at the dog, who looked up, ears twitching at the address. He pointed one finger at Ace, an indication to ‘stay,’ and, while the dog shifted briefly on his haunches, he did not stand to follow Jason when he headed unceremoniously back to the door.

[ambiengreyarts]

something i wish i had realized earlier: you can write poems on the same subject more than once. you can write, paint, draw the same thing over and over if you want to. you can spend your whole life making art about oranges. i think i always felt this pressure to get it right the first time like i couldn’t go back and use that inspiration again. but you can. you can go back and revisit it. you can pick up the conversation again and again if you have more to say.

[ambiengreyarts]

[ambiengreyarts]

[ambiengreyarts]

you: you do understand that, in order to receive validation for your stuff, you have to actually make stuff?

me:

[ambiengreyarts]

“When Van Gogh was a young man in his early twenties, he was in London studying to be a clergyman. He had no thought of being an artist at all. he sat in his cheap little room writing a letter to his younger brother in Holland, whom he loved very much. He looked out his window at a watery twilight, a thin lamppost, a star, and he said in his letter something like this: “it is so beautiful I must show you how it looks.” And then on his cheap ruled note paper, he made the most beautiful, tender, little drawing of it. When I read this letter of Van Gogh’s it comforted me very much and seemed to throw a clear light on the whole road of Art. Before, I thought that to produce a work of painting or literature, you scowled and thought long and ponderously and weighed everything solemnly and learned everything that all artists had ever done aforetime, and what their influences and schools were, and you were extremely careful about *design* and *balance* and getting *interesting planes* into your painting, and avoided, with the most astringent severity, showing the faintest *academical* tendency, and were strictly modern. And so on and so on. But the moment I read Van Gogh’s letter I knew what art was, and the creative impulse. It is a feeling of love and enthusiasm for something, and in a direct, simple, passionate and true way, you try to show this beauty in things to others, by drawing it. And Van Gogh’s little drawing on the cheap note paper was a work of art because he loved the sky and the frail lamppost against it so seriously that he made the drawing with the most exquisite conscientiousness and care.”

— Brenda Ueland, from “If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit”

[ambiengreyarts]

For @archiveofidentityconstellations, based on these ideas. Also on AO3.

Bruce & Jason

Bruce downs the last thug with a fist to the face and turns immediately to their hostage. He crosses the length of the warehouse with long, hurried strides, having coaxed every batter and gunman into the farthest corner away from him, less one of them got it into their head to inflict any more damage on the boy.

He’s only vaguely aware of the need to tie them up and alert the authorities as he marches away from them; a more pressing concern at the forefront of his mind.

“Robin,” he says, as he reaches him, still seated in the same chair they’d strapped him to, even though he’d taken advantage of his capturers being distracted to slip his bonds. Batman rounds the chair and kneels in front of it, mentally bracing himself, uncertain of the expression he might find on his partner’s face. But Robin has his head bowed and his hands clutching the coil of rope that had bound him fast minutes ago. Batman’s gaze sweeps over the boy looking for signs of injury, but he can’t find any. “Report.” He intones, gently.

He watches the boy swallow, and lift his chin slightly, “’m fine,” is the mumbled reply. Bruce grits his teeth and clenches a fist, feeling a heavy weight rest on his chest. He should have gotten here sooner. Robin clutches the rope tighter, and his shoulders twitch for a second. Batman narrows his eyes at him, “Any injuries at all?” he questions sternly as the image of three muscular men grabbing Robin under the armpits and firmly by the ankles to haul him off, flashes briefly in his mind. Robin’s boots and gloves are so designed to prevent any serious abrasions in the case of his being tied-up or shackled, but the costume doesn’t provide any protection for his arms or legs at all – a design choice that has always irked Bruce since Dick fist decided on it.

“No,” Robin replies, much more firmly, and abruptly gets to his feet, as if to prove it, forcing Batman to lean back. He chucks the bundle of rope to one side and quickly clenches his hands into fists, but the minute tremor in his fingers does not escape Batman’s notice. “See?” he challenges, without meeting Batman’s eye at all. “I’m fine.” He watches the wall instead. “We should call the cops.”

Batman nods, and comes smoothly to his feet, only eyeing Robin in his periphery. The boy gives him a very brief glance, before he looks pointedly away again. Bruce is still hearing his screams from earlier as they’re hauling him off his feet and forcing him away, while Bruce watches, surrounded by a half-dozen others he’s failing to force aside. Desperate and distracted as he was, they’d managed to incapacitate him; Robin’s screams and his blurred struggling form the last thing in Batman’s mind before the inevitable darkness overtook him. Batman clenches his own fists and marches off toward the men on the ground. Robin has every right to be angry with him. He’s Batman, and Robin is his partner and his son, and it is his job to protect the boy. How could he have been so careless? How could he have let them take him?

He hauls one man after another up by the scruff of their necks, dragging them across the warehouse floor with far less grace or care than he’s capable of, unceremoniously dropping them side by side near the doorway. Pulling black zip-ties from his utility belt, he binds their wrists and feet together, one man to another, in a circle, holding up a halting hand at Robin when the boy attempts to assist. Batman moves angrily and impatiently, half-wishing some of them were more awake to experience his manhandling them.

He calls it in to the GCPD while he works, and beckons Robin to follow him outside to wait when he’s done.

He guides Robin underneath the awning just beside the open doorway, positioning himself next to the boy in such a way he can keep the contained kidnappers in his periphery, while hiding Robin from their view. Robin had taken long, determined strides past Batman and was standing with his chin up, eyes forward, and arms crossed to his chest.

There is silence between them. Bruce shifts his weight, putting his gaze to the thugs and Robin in his side view. Though he did not want to think that Robin was keeping an injury from him, the boy had dismissed his enquiry far too swiftly for Batman’s liking. He would have Alfred give him a thorough once-over upon returning to the cave. Well – Alfred would do that regardless. Bruce himself would have to sit through a check-up, now he considered.

He could not resist a low, disapproving grumble at the thought – regretting it at once when Robin flinched. Batman turned back to him, but hesitated. Robin had been watching him and must have assumed Batman’s grunt was aimed at him. Robin’s shoulders are stiff, hunched and trembling, his arms tight against his body with his hands tucked in beneath his armpits and his chin lowered to his chest while he breathes short breaths in quick succession.

Bruce drops to one knee at the boy’s side.

“Robin,” he says, catching himself in time. He’d nearly broken protocol and called Robin by his real name. While he still wants to; lower his voice and speak comfortingly to the boy beneath the mask, he reconsiders even as he thinks it. Apart from the risk, Robin is a source of strength for Jason. A now deeply diminished source, undoubtedly leaving the boy under the mask feeling exposed and defenseless. It would not do to draw any more attention to those feelings by dismissing Robin altogether, and “babying” Jason.

Bruce needs to approach this from as tactful a position as possible, without letting Jason think he was being too soft on or too careful with him. Jason did not like having his feelings pointed out any more than Bruce did. He did not like expressing them much, either, when they were this raw and vulnerable and personal; hard to explain and easy to misunderstand. Not to mention, for all his best efforts, Bruce knew he was bad at understanding others’ feelings. His children’s almost especially. Dick was proof of that, and more often than not it felt like Jason was going to be as well.

Today’s events had done nothing to help – Robin must be furious with Batman, but also just now starting to feel the ache of his fading adrenaline, and the potency of whatever fears and anger the rush had been masking before. He tries his best to hide it, Bruce can tell, and he wants so badly to comfort his boy, set him at ease, and, most of all, apologize for letting him down, give Jason an opportunity to let go of his anger – whether that means yelling at Bruce, calling him out on allowing Robin to be taken, or starting a fist-fight – but, Bruce does not know how to broach the subject. Distant sirens remind him this is not the place for it, either. Instead, he decides to do just as much as he can, right now, and save the full conversation for once they’ve returned to the safety of the cave.

Bruce lifts his hand to Robin’s shoulder and is startled back when the boy visibly flinches; his shoulders scrunch up even further, and what sounds like a cross between a gasp and a sob escapes him. Something like a cold, sharp sting stabs at Bruce’s insides and blossoms all across his chest, leaving him stunned and numb at the realisation: Robin isn’t angry at Bruce; he thinks Batman is angry with him. For being kidnapped, he probably thinks; otherwise, for being this upset in the field—

He must be expecting—

The sirens have become louder in the few seconds past between them, both seemingly frozen in place. Robin’s white-out lenses don’t allow for Bruce to see his eyes, but the pull of his mouth and twitch of his nose suggests he has them shut tight with anticipation.

The numbness in Bruce’s chest is swiftly replaced with a bitter, painful ache that Jason would think Bruce is angry with him – for anything that happened tonight – and moreover that he would express that anger in a way that would—

—hurt Jason—

He swallows thickly, taking a deep, audible breath in and out through his nose as he comes back to his feet. Red and blue lights flicker between warehouses down the line. He feels guilty, for having felt hurt. Batman slowly closes whatever space is left between them. Robin stiffens even more at his movement, but he does not duck away or lean into the side of the warehouse any more than he already is. Carefully, aware Jason must be watching him now, he reaches for him again. He cups his hand at the back of the boy’s head and pulls him slowly to his side. Jason allows himself to be moved, however stiffly, and, when he comes to rest against Batman’s side, Bruce relaxes his grip entirely, but does not remove his hand. Robin’s stiff shoulders lose some of their tension, but it quickly returns when the approaching squad cars finally pull up. With his other hand, Batman tugs his cape over his shoulder, covering Robin entirely. He can feel Jason’s shuddering chest against him, and, without thinking, he squeezes briefly at Jason’s shoulders, tucking him in tighter against his side. Too late he considers it may not have been as reassuring a gesture to Jason as he’d thought, and he half-expects the boy to bolt in the next moment – he’s already loosened his hold on Jason, and can’t bring himself to grasp back on to him and stop him from running if he tries—

Commissioner Gordon had exited his vehicle and sauntered over before Batman realises Jason is still under his cape, and, while he has turned his back to Bruce, he hasn’t shoved his arm away, but is instead holding it close to his chest as he leans back against Bruce’s side. Bruce’s own shoulders slump minutely at the immense relief he feels. They have much to discuss, but for right now he’s thankful to know Jason understands he’s safe with Bruce.

Batman succinctly reports on everything relevant to the gang, and Gordon listens patiently. Jason’s breathing slows and turns into long, deep, near-wheezing gasps while Batman speaks to Gordon, prompting him to clutch tighter at Batman’s arm while he tries to get his breathing and shivering under control. Bruce rubs at Jason’s arm and squeezes his shoulder as comfortingly as he can, but there isn’t much more he can do without drawing any more attention to Jason. When he looks like he might say something about the boy clearly hiding underneath the cape with nothing but his bright green pixie-boots exposed, Batman gives Gordon a tight-lipped look, and the Commissioner briefly drops his gaze with a heavy sigh. He turns graciously away to bark orders they’re already executing at his officers.

“I assume that’s all I need to know, then,” Gordon finally half-grumbles, all but mirroring Batman’s scowl back at him.

“Hnn.” Batman says. Gordon half rolls his eyes and waves his hand dismissively as he turns away. He calls for his officers to “Pack it up,” and Batman watches them pile into their vehicles and drive off, but, not before Gordon shoots him one last disapproving gaze over his shoulder.

Only after the sound of their engines has died off, does Batman move at all and then only to shift his weight from one foot to another.

“…Robin,” he says quietly, and squeezes the boy’s shoulder. Jason says nothing, and hardly moves except to cling tighter. “…Let’s go home.” Jason’s only response is to shift around and give a fervent nod into Batman’s side. It takes him a moment to decide, but finally, Batman scoops Jason up into his arms, the cape still mostly wrapped around his small frame, and marches them off in the direction of the Batmobile. Jason’s clutching at his thick cape, hands tucked underneath his chin, and his head resting against Bruce’s shoulder.

Bruce almost hopes exhaustion has caught up with the boy and Jason will fall asleep before they’d crossed the lot to where he’d parked the car. But, only a few paces in, Jason says very quietly, “’m sorry…”

Bruce clutches his son tighter and scowls at the night. “Nothing that’s happened tonight,” he says as firmly as possible without also sounding angry to his own ears, “has been your fault. At all. Do you understand?” he adds, much more gently. Jason doesn’t reply. “It’s alright, Robin. I’m not upset with you. You did very well. You’re safe, now, and it’s alright. I’m sorry. They should never have been able to get to you, at all. I should have stopped them before things got that far—”

“I thought you were dead,” Jason whispers, and Bruce nearly stops walking. “I thought they were killing you, and I thought—I couldn’t save you—I’m so sorry, I—”

“That’s enough,” Bruce cuts in. He softens his tone to continue, “I’m fine. And, whatever might have happened, it’s not your job to save me—”

“Of course it is!” Jason says at once, straightening in Bruce’s arms so he can look Batman square in the face. There’s enough light from surrounding warehouses and old streetlamps overhead, Bruce can make out the firm, determined expression on his son’s face easily enough. “If Robin doesn’t, who will?”

Bruce does stop walking then. He drops his gaze, not entirely certain of what to say. There isn’t anything to say, that could persuade Jason to think otherwise. He almost mockingly wants to answer “Superman,” but he’s afraid Jason might take him seriously and actually call the Kryptonian next time Bruce is in an unfortunate situation Robin can’t help him out of. Because, there almost certainly will be another. He’d have to think about it, because right now his head is still too stuffed with what-could-have-been’s if he hadn’t shown up just when he had, to recall off the top of his head if he’d ever been this worried and caught off-guard when Dick had been his partner.

“Batman…?” Jason’s hesitant voice pulls him from his reverie; he’d let the silence go on too long.

“It’s a two-way street,” Bruce says finally. “Of course Robin protects me,” he meets Jason’s eyes and wills the boy to understand how important this is. “But, it’s most definitely also Batman’s job, to protect me. And, to protect Robin. Not just Robin’s.”

Jason’s expression has changed, his mouth twisting into a thin line, his eye-line shifting as he appears to consider.

“Okay?” Bruce asks, but doesn’t wait to repeat, “It wasn’t your fault—”

“Okay,” Jason cuts in before he can say any more, “but it wasn’t yours, either.”

Batman tries hard not to scowl less Jason thinks he’s scowling at him, again.

“Okay?” Jason insists, and very pointedly waits for a reply.

He sighs, but reluctantly concedes, “Alright.” He’ll take it back later when he writes up the report, but, then Jason visibly relaxes in his hold and he’s almost startled to realise he hadn’t been aware of just how tense Jason had still been. Jason’s averted his gaze, but Bruce can see a smile forming. He picks up the pace again before Jason’s self-consciousness can catch up to him and he requests he walk by himself, and, while it takes a moment, the boy does eventually drop his head back onto Batman’s shoulder. It’s his turn to smile to himself.

It fades after a moment.

“Jason…” he says, very, very quietly. Jason noticeably doesn’t flinch. “You know… I would never hurt you.”

Jason seems to shrink in Bruce’s arms. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Bruce says. “I just—thought you’d like to hear it again.”

Jason’s shoulders twitch; there’s a smile in his tone when he says, softly, “Yeah…thanks, B.”

[ambiengreyarts]

For @archiveofidentityconstellations, based on these ideas. Also on AO3.

Dick & Bruce

Stars spark across his vision; a new kind of darkness blossoming in patches all over the usual black of Gotham’s nighttime. His blurred, blackened vision is accompanied by a burst of pain at his temple that stings sharply then throbs.

His heart is racing and he might be shaking. It takes a long moment for him to realize he’s not standing anymore. His knees must have buckled, but he hadn’t even felt the hit to the ground for the pain in his head.

It isn’t a second later that he feels himself swept off the ground and with the motion, panic takes hold. He hasn’t the strength to move, maneuver himself from the firm grip that has him about the back and shoulders, and beneath his knees. He can’t see – eyes shut tight as if that might lessen the pain in his head, and besides, he’s ashamed to realize, he’s crying. At least he’s not sobbing audibly, but his throat burns at the resistance, while the tears gather at his lashes, and then pools behind the eyelids of his mask when he blinks them free, no way for them to roll down his cheeks.

The best he can do is to desperately thrash about, try to wriggle his arms free, kick out with his legs; trying to dislodge himself, however unceremoniously, from his kidnapper’s hold. Once he’s dropped to the floor, he figures, he could make a run for it, call to Batman, so long as he’s not restrained this way—

“Robin,” the low grumble of Batman’s voice just above him makes him go immediately still, breath hitching in his throat. His knees drop, legs no longer held up, and then he’s being pressed tightly against the body that holds him, as the cool night air comes rushing past – they’re moving; upward.

Every muscle has gone tight, and while he wants something to hold onto, his arms are pressed firmly to his sides, Batman’s arm wrapped all the way around him. A moment later they’re stationary, and he’s set onto his feet ever so gently. His heart is still pounding, from the hit to the head, and the panic, and the adrenalin and the realization that he wasn’t being kidnapped after all. His knees feel weak. He’s afraid he might collapse if not for Batman’s hold – large, solid hands on his shoulders.

The sob finds him then; a loud, gasped squeak from the back of his throat. He clasps his hands across his mouth, and his knees nearly do buckle. Batman holds him firmly upright. He’s almost certain Batman is speaking to him, but the words aren’t registering.

His eyes are still closed, and his head bowed, and he can feel the tears starting to slowly leak in under his mask. His throat burns, but he will not sob again.

He needs to push this aside. It was only a little hit to the head. He’s Robin. Robin doesn’t cry.

Robin. Does not. Cry.

“Dickie,” Batman whispers though, and he shrinks a little into himself. He can’t be Dick Grayson right now. He needs to be Robin. For Batman. He can’t be crying. Robin can’t be crying. He shakes his head, opens his eyes, blinking more tears off his lashes. There’s no way to wipe at his eyes with the mask covering them.

“’m fine,” he attempts from behind his hands, but it’s pitiful and small. His bottom lip trembles involuntarily; if he can’t stop crying, Batman’s going to bench him. He’ll never be Robin again.

“You’re not,” Batman says, and he shakes his head in response but Batman doesn’t care. “Sit,” Batman all but orders, large hands pressing down on hunched shoulders. His knees have started shaking anyway. He drops more than sits, but Batman goes down with him, still holding firm, keeping him from hitting the rooftop hard.

He wants to apologize, but he’s afraid if he drops his hands the sobs will leak out. They do, inaudibly, just a shake and a hitch of breath one after another, when Batman pries his fingers loose, and gently lowers his hands onto his lap. He finds he hasn’t any more resistance to offer.

Batman removes his gauntlets and his fingers find the edges of his mask. It pulls off more easily where the tears have leaked under.

He clenches his hands against his thighs, keeps his eyes lowered at the ground.

Batman makes no comment on the tears. Somehow that makes him feel worse. Instead, Batman pushes back his fringe, and he flinches when his fingers brush against the newly-obtained bump. Batman makes a noise – of disapproval. He inspects the area with a small flashlight pulled from the utility belt, gently pressing against the wound.

Very carefully, he doesn’t flinch again, or hiss, or cries.

Batman’s fingers are under his chin the next moment, pushing his bowed head up. He doesn’t raise his eyes, though.

“Robin,” Batman says. “I need to check your eyes.”

He wants to shake his head and look away and claim to be fine again, but then Batman’s thumb runs across his cheek, wiping at the wet tearstains there, and he knows it’s useless to pretend he hasn’t been crying. So he looks up, nostrils flaring at a sudden intake and release of breath. He swallows hard past a lump in his sore throat.

Batman’s little light shifts this way and that across his vision, but he keeps his eyes on the white slits of the cowl, imagining Batman’s blue eyes squinting at him. There’s a rush of heat beneath his skin, brought on by the embarrassment and shame he feels.

“You’re concussed,” Batman declares, finally lowering the light. He rummages through his belt again, and then he’s gently wiping the wounded area clean with a soft cloth, before carefully rubbing some ointment or other into the lump against his hairline.

“’m sorry,” he squeaks out, eyes lowering and then shutting again tightly. He can’t keep the sobs in any longer.

He cries, uncontrollably, bending forward, all the more into himself the louder he gets. Batman’s pulled back, but—

It’s only for a moment. Batman’s pushed him gently upright by the shoulders, snaked an arm about his torso, and pulled him into his lap. His head rests against Batman’s shoulder. Batman’s wrapped both arms all around him, is stroking his hair, careful not to brush against the bruised bit.

He shakes all over, and can’t seem to stop for the longest moment.

It’s only once the sobs have lessened, his breathing slowly starting to even out, that Batman speaks.

“It’s alright, Dick,” Bruce says, and when no reply is forthcoming, he adds almost urgently, “Don’t fall asleep.”

He shakes his head slightly, his wet cheek pulling this way and that against the bat-suit. “’m not,” he mumbles.

“Good,” he can feel Bruce sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, before he can change his mind. “I wasn’t being careful enough—”

Bruce shushes him before he can get any further, “It’s not your fault. I should have been quicker.” He wants to protest, because Batman was already taking on three opponents at once, and it was Robin’s job to be the distraction. He’d been caught cocky and off-guard. He should have done better. His lips thin and he’s not sure how to protest or plead, or if he even has the strength for it, but he wants to insist on still being Robin before Batman can dismiss him of the position.

“Let’s get you home,” Batman says before he can gather his thoughts, though.

“No!” he says at once, pulling off Bruce’s chest and sitting upright, levelling his best glare at the cowl. “I’m Robin—” his voice cracks. “You can’t, please—”

“Dickie; chum,” Bruce says, putting one hand against Dick’s face and pushing the cowl back with the other. It’s hard to tell, because there’s not much light this high up to illuminate his face, but—

He could almost swear Batman’s eyes are puffier than what sleep-deprivation usually equates to…

“You have a concussion,” Bruce says firmly. “Alfred would skin me alive if I kept you out here in this condition.”

He bites his bottom lip; blinks, swallows. “I’m…” he doesn’t know how to adequately finish that sentence with the prospect of Alfred’s wrath looming. “…Okay,” he concedes.

“There’s a good lad,” Bruce says, and shifts as if to lift him from his lap, but he holds fast to Bruce’s shoulders a moment, and Bruce settles back into his seat, expectant.

He swallows. “Are…are you mad at me?” he whispers, not meeting Bruce’s eyes.

“Heavens, no,” Bruce says easily and immediate. “Why on earth would you think that?”

He sniffles, rubbing furiously at his nose. “I—I can’t even—” he chews at his lip.

“Dick—”

“H-handle a little b-bump to the head, and—”

“That was anything but little,” Bruce says fiercely, and the force of his tone makes him jump. “I—I’m sorry,” Bruce says, more quietly, rubbing circles across his back. “…You’re still a child, Dick. And…when I saw you take the hit, and – drop like that…”

Tears swell in his eyes again, his chest heavy with the memory of his parents – dropping—

He’s flung his arms around Bruce’s neck before he can think on it twice. “I’ll never leave you,” he promises. “I’ll be better next time. No one will ever get me like that again, ever.”

Bruce’s shoulders droop a little, but he also squeezes a little tighter. “You’re…you’re incredible, Dickie; do you know that? You’re going to be amazing at this. Better than I could ever be.”

It makes him giggle, because he doubts it very much, but feels a little proud and flattered to hear it. He pulls back, “I have to recover from a concussion first,” he says, quips.

Batman laughs, a soft, quick thing easily missed. “Let’s get on that, then,” he says, pulling the cowl back in place.

He reaches back for the gauntlets and hands them to Batman one at a time to pull on. He nods once, firmly, and then winces at the way it makes his head swim. He’s all too aware of Batman watching him carefully so he knows Batman’s noticed. He tries to brush it off all the same, making to scoot out of Batman’s lap, but Batman holds him fast the way he’d done before, and comes smoothly to his feet with him in his arms.

He clings to Batman’s shoulders, feeling immeasurably safe.

“My mask,” he says, realizing he has no idea where Batman had put it.

“Don’t worry about it,” Batman replies, and he’s aware now Batman had stood holding onto one end of his cape, effectively providing cover for his exposed features once he’s tugged it neatly overhead and settled comfortably against Batman’s shoulder.

He grins.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Batman warns again, but despite the dull ache at his temple, and the lingering burn in his throat or the heaviness of his eyes from crying,

“I wouldn’t miss this,” he says, peering out from beneath the cape.

“Hnn,” is all the reply he gets, lilting at the edges with amusement. Batman drops from the building, holding him fast with one arm while the other launches a line through the night and Batman’s cape only half-bellows as they swing homeward.

[ambiengreyarts]

Hey @identityconstellations this is basically a tangent of that hc of yours a few days ago (Bruce accidentally scaring his tiny Robins) that got me thinkin: what happened when the smols got upset as Robin, but were so afraid of disappointing Batman by not staying stone cold in the field?

Like imagine baby nine-year-old Dick getting one of those injuries in the field that doesn’t quite incapacitate but just hurts. Like banging your head or getting your face smashed into the side of a building by some goon. And he’s just stunned for a few seconds before the tears start to leak out. So of course a furious and mortified Batman just decimates the guy before scooping Robin up and carting him off to the nearest secluded rooftop. But Dick is trying so hard not to cry because if he can’t even keep from crying like a baby in the field then there’s no way Bruce will let him be Robin. So Bruce sits him down on the roof and sits cross-legged in front of him, only for Dick to hide his throbbing face in his hands to keep Bruce from seeing tears despite his now-audible sobs. But Batman just calmly pulls out his first aid kit, and it’s only when he gently pries Robin’s hands away from his face to reveal a mouth and chin covered with blood running out of his nose and bruising already spreading across his cheekbones that Dick really starts to cry his eyes out. And it’s breaking Bruce’s heart, so he just shushes Dick softly, cleaning up the blood, grime, and tears and gently prodding his face to look for broken bones. After finding none, he just pulls Dick close, presses an instant ice pack to his nose, and holds him in his lap until the crying stops. Then, after calming down a few minutes later, Dick wipes up the last of his bloody snot with his cape and they continue patrolling.

Or Jason, who’s so stubborn about keeping up his tough street kid image, having no fear and pushing down any vulnerable feelings, having his first Robin the Boy Hostage incident. Robin being taken away kicking and screaming from Batman, yelling himself hoarse as the latter is brutally incapacitated. Being badly frightened by the villain and the thought that Bruce might be dead somewhere, snarling and trying to play off his shaking as rage-filled rather than terrified. And later, after Batman rescues him and it’s all over, his fear of getting tortured or killed along with losing Bruce, plus the aching adrenaline comedown, plus being so angry with himself for feeling so helpless, and the fact that god Batman’s probably so mad at him for needing to be rescued instead of getting out of it himself, all becomes a little too much to repress. And Bruce can see that he’s trying so hard to keep it together, but he’s tense and shaking and trying to hyperventilate as quietly as possible, which Bruce has come to learn are the warning signs of one of Jason’s rare, explosive, infamous meltdowns. But when Bruce reaches out to him Jason flinches away, which cuts Bruce deep that Jay would think he’s angry with him for getting upset in the field, and also notes that he may need the talk again about of how Bruce will never ever lay a harmful hand on him. So he reaches out again, cups the back of Jason’s head, pulls him into his side, and feels Jason pressing his face against him and tiny fingers clinging to his suit. Jason begins to have those long wheezing gasps that mean he’s trying so hard to control his breathing and keep himself from crying, but quickly failing. So Bruce just tucks him up in his cape, stroking his hair and back, murmuring to him over and over that he’s safe and everything’s alright, that it’s not his fault and he did very well. And later, when Gordon shows up with the GCPD to chat with Batman, he pretends not to catch a glimpse of green boots underneath the swish of Batman’s cape, or the red-rimmed domino eyes that peer out from the face pressed into Batman’s side, briefly visible through the part in the cape.

And with Tim, imagine the first time he needs some serious patching up, like Bruce brings him back to the cave with a big nasty gash running down his leg that needs a bunch of stitches. And Tim’s anxious because he’s never gotten hurt like this before, has never had to get stitches, and there’s so much blood that Bruce and Alfred have to clean up and they have to be very careful when cutting the tights off because his leg (along with the rest of him) is shaking so badly. And he’s trying so hard to still himself and keep quiet because he trained for so long to be Robin and he can handle pain but it’s never been like this. But it’s times like these when Alfred really pours on the kindness - he’s so sweet and gentle with his hurt little birds, throwing in some “love”s and “darling”s when speaking to them. He gives Tim a couple shots of Lidocaine, which hurts like hell on its own, and then starts in with the stitches. Tim is gripping the sheets of the medical bed and clenching his jaw and screwing his face up to keep the tears from bubbling over, but quickly ends up sobbing. Bruce is sitting there just kind of awkwardly rubbing across his shoulders, and Alfred is talking softly and reassuring Tim the whole time, trying to stitch as gently as possible. But when Tim isn’t looking, he keeps shooting glares at a bewildered Bruce, both as a where were you when this happened and you know how to be more comforting than that. So Bruce slowly puts an arm around Tim and lets him cry into his shoulder, occasionally raising a thumb up to wipe a stray tear off Tim’s cheek. After Alfred finishes and they get him cleaned up, an exhausted Tim has earned being carried to bed by a heart-heavy Bruce. 

And after all of these Bruce just feels awful because they’re so young and who is he to put them in these positions? They’re just babies they don’t deserve this kind of trauma, and he hates himself for it and always goes on a very sweet dad kick for a while, and makes them take at least a couple nights off patrol after one of these incidents, less for them making mistakes and more for him to get used to the idea of how he could possibly let them out there again.

[ambiengreyarts]

Do you ever think about the Robins when they were like tiny ones? And how Bruce/Batman was really big? And scary? My point is, they weren’t fearless at first. They must have jumped or accidentally cried or something when Bruce got too intimidating. And poor Bruce, that must have broke his heart. :(