#No Talia and Jason didn’t fuck she literally raised him when he was an unstable teenager

[littlefankingdom]

Talia introduced Damian to Bruce as "their second child", and now Bruce is mentally panicking because there's another one, somewhere, when this unspoken first child is Jason.

[iphoenixrising]

Justice is Blind AU: Batfam

The first one is found here. Ah @satire-please is going to have a long week, so something, right?

**

He isn’t screaming.

But it’s a close thing.

Immortal, obsessive bad guys are really just a righteous pain in the ass.

Red’s back arches automatically in abject agony, gritting his teeth so hard he’s going to break one eventually, and the incessant pounding noise echoing in a psychotic, echoing loop from all sides brings him just a step closer to losing his fucking mind.

It’s a small catch in the track, an undertone hidden so well, he almost, almost misses the subliminal message among the madness:

Give in

Get.

Fucked.

Ra’s.

Seriously.

Without the cowl, though, he’s going to have it rough; the constant noise throwing him off hard enough for bile to burn at the back of his throat every few minutes.

He twists a wrist in the manacles, but can’t hit the right trigger to release the lock picks or blast pellets. His harness and utility belt are gone, and the sounds abruptly change to something more high-pitched, like nails on a chalkboard, and fuck, just kill him now.

He shouldn’t have gone off half-cocked to avoid Dick and Damian, should have stayed at the Manor for more than a few hours once he told Bruce the truth. If he’d been closer to functioning at 100%, the cowl’s radar array repaired, and one less concussion, the ninjas probably wouldn’t have gotten the drop on him.

Welp, now’s the time to think sneaking out of the Cave while Bruce was changing out of the Batsuit as a really terrible plan.

Give in

**

Ra’s al Ghul, however, cannot find it within himself to stay away. His previous fascinations pale in comparison to this, watching the Detective fight against the assault to his most powerful sense, attempt to regain his control, his equilibrium, to continue to surpass all expectations. And Ra’s should be watching the live feed from his throne room rather than plug his own ears and be here close enough to reach out.

Eight hundred years has taught him patience, and yet—

Just the tips of his fingers slide through the Detective’s hair, a ghost of a touch.  The next is feather light, a swipe under one eye in a barely-there motion, enough for the struggling vigilante to jerk away, to try gauging where an attack might come from. It is a reminder as they why he is here, why they are here.

Timothy Jackson Drake would have to be tested thoroughly for the League of Assassins to accept him as Heir Apparent to the Demon’s Head. And there would be many for the Detective; trials to test his strength, skills, and stamina. It would be the beginning on the long path of verification, to validate Timothy Drake as worthy regardless of this handicap.

Of course, the he had not come to this decision lightly. In fact, once Red Robin began to move around as a vigilante again, the League of Assassins’ information network reported the rumors and first sightings to him personally; unfortunately, the brunt of his displeasure was wrought upon the messengers, and, other than Talia’s tirade, had been exceptionally worth it. As the upstart was supposed to be dead, a forgotten, broken thing in the streets of Gotham City, his survival against the skill of Ra’s himself, a game played between them the Detective unerringly won in the end, was unheard of. The enemies of the League of Assassins do not live to regret their trespasses, and the exceptions to this rule are few.

Those few, however, are rather exceptional specimens—ones who could be his successor.

By the time Red Robin re-emerged in Gotham City, sited by his spies, the notion had been planted, a seed of possibility grown into vines. Bruce Wayne, the Batman, would never break. He would stay the path of the Bat until his last breath, but Timothy Drake had proven viable. If any of them were unstable, enough to possibly be turned to Ra’s way of thinking, it would be the abandoned son—Jason Todd or Tim Drake. As he already had his opportunity with Todd, the next of the Batman’s successors, the brilliant Detective, would be the most beneficial to the League.  

Even now as Ra’s watches, stares into those pale, useless eyes, he can see the thoughts calculating, churning. Yes, the Detective could be made better, already possessed the raw talents needed.

He would be tested—until he broke and then could be remade.

Let the game begin.

Ra’s smiles to himself as he steps back into the darkness.

**

Another change, another round of agony, pulling uselessly at the set of manacles around his ankles and thighs.

He has no idea how long he’s been there, time slipping away—

But Shiva had pointedly reminded him of training with the armless master, while carelessly beating the absolute shit out of him Day 1 to make sure he got the message (next time, air mail, broken everything sucks). Everyone is handicapped in in some way, but only the master can choose that weakness. She made him realize it didn’t have to be his eyes.

Welp, time to take that little lesson to heart.

So he forces himself to adapt to it, and can concentrate enough to finally get the last fucking resort out of the seam of his under suit, lining up with his forearm, a thin metal rod that isn’t really the best thing for picking cuffs, but, you know, better than nothing.

He almost drops the damn thing—twice. His hands are shaking and lock picking is delicate work (in most cases, increased sensitivity in his fingertips is stellar), but the cuff does finally pop free and he can reactivate the gauntlets—two disruptors spit out into his palm and he throws without moving for a nice long thirty-eight seconds or so, just gives himself some time to enjoy silence when the disruptors kill the sound board and whatever else made the room vibrate.

Next, tech. The back of the right boot, enough pieces for an emergency bo, smaller than his standard. Left boot, four patches, one for each extremity under the uniform. They give a low-grade pulse when moving targets are scanned. The pulses speed up and slow depending on proximity. You know, things to make fighting without the radar array that much easier. Just a few hundred ninjas—kind of like a tough Wednesday.

The room leads into a narrow corridor, and if he takes any past encounters with Ra’s al Ghul into accounts, all roads lead to trap.

He strafes to the right, bo raise to run along the vent line, to place possible escape routes. Other hand skims, searching for iStar panels, card key panels, just something he could hack.

The nearly soundless footsteps answer that question. Seven from what he can tell, so someone apparently knows he’s out (disruptors probably took out cameras in the room).

A dip in the wall is finally a doorway, giving him room to duck, place the muffled noises. The corridor has a curve at the end, lets out into a bigger room—possibly a control/throne room or an underground hangar (knowing Ra’s of course).  But when it’s time to strike, he clears everything, empties out expectation and ego and fear—he becomes his senses, trusts them to put him right where he needs to be.  

And he moves like water and wind, a seemingly endless wave, using the bo to propel him into the thick, taking out two in a breath, a half whirl of the bo, using the momentum to leap and spin, extend the bo like an extension of his own arm to take out a two more, keep the swing to place where the others are. In the landing, he moves with an elbow to the face, corresponding shin kick, blood flying past his face with a molar.

Heel kick back and sharp (that’s going to hurt in the morning. Not sorry about it).

A right-handed palm strike at him, the waves of air by his face shifting, showing him which way to dodge. Too close, get your fucking head in it, Red.

He jumps, rebounds off the wall, get some power behind the roundhouse. Last one gives up the deets on where his gear has been taken. Then, well, it’s nap time.

Red runs the bo up the wall again looking for—

Jackpot

The vent is just an inth too small, but without the harness and utility belt, he’s glad he was good over the holiday season. He can totally still squeeze into the under suit.

He pulls himself along more than crawls, the sounds of training (ze! HUUAH!) from the right, heavier machinery from the left (hangar, something big is flying the fuck in), and when the right holds a nice calm sound of softly running hard drives does he grin and quietly pull the vent cover.

No breathing, no creaking chairs, no scent of old blood and dirt, score.

Dropping down is a terror even though he has the bo below his feet to calculate jumps; as usual, his brain rolls with it, configures his stance. He follows the noise to the loudest (reads as oldest or most overworked i.e. a lot of data) server and luckily has the hack pad still.

With a grin, Red cracks his knuckles, wondering if Ra’s is a fan of prime-time television.

**

Monitors all over the Cradle turn to static.

The Hunt for Sasquatch takes up every screen.

**

Twenty feet down and five more ninjas, he gets to the armaments room where his utility belt, cowl, and harness are hopefully waiting.

Hacking the keypad takes a minute and a half longer than expected (and sincerely pisses him off). He literally finds out why when the door starts to open.

Well, trap.

**

The sounds of fight in progress, please take a number to the brawl calculates fast: the hiss of swords and bos foremost; meaty punches from fists and kicks. He gets pulled into the fray with a group coming up the corridor behind him, and the fight takes them inside, Red listening for acoustics, size, and possible obstacles, anything in the room he can use or be used against him.

When the crash of expensive glass signals throne room, he grits his teeth (because of this fuckery) and makes the next dodge, the next punch, the next knock out, he moves like he’s against Shiva, against King Snake, against the Iron Fist; he adapts fast, bo pinging off an embedded hand rail he uses to leap, uses to kick and disarm. He gets knocked into what’s apparently Ra’s private system, monitors shattering under his back, and owfuck, that’s the tower. He bets the damn thing has Windows 96 or something equally as horrific.

He’s up, bo extended when the too familiar sound of an epic spinning back kick is his undoing. A meaty thump in his chest is fucking ow because he hasn’t even been close since the whole nah, I don’t need that cape, thanks anyway, debacle (catching unconscious Red Robins notwithstanding).

“Oh my God, Tim?”

Fuck. His body stutters to an abrupt halt, turning useless eyes in the direction of—

The approaching ninja from behind him gets a once-in-a-liftime ass kicking, just so he can completely forget he heard Nightwing from somewhere across the room.

The second voice, though, that one makes the muscles in his arms and legs twinge.

“Drake! Down!”

He ducks on instinct, the wind of a body flying over him: short, light. Robin’s boot takes out a jaw with probably righteous indignation.

He doesn’t spare time for a thanks, but don’t eviscerate me, but gets up and moves, throwing himself back into the fray because, well, Bats apparently.

And before he realizes, before he’s ready, his last backhand leads to quiet, just panting breaths and a whole lot of unconscious. It’s a nice enough sound that he leans an elbow on the bo to breathe for this little thing.

Fucking Ra’s.

“Tim!”

The Nightwing boots make a specific sound, probably because of the extra weight in the sole; you know, makes those stunning spinning back kicks just that much more in your face. But the fast approaching vigilante alert makes him straighten, wary since, you know, not really good here.

He just holds up the free hand, “all fine,” and it is fine, now that the torture is done, some ninjas stomped, he’s good. Really. Well, maybe hand Ra’s a little vigilante ass beating because what a complete dick. “Anyone find my utility belt? That would be stellar at this juncture.”

And like he expects a punch to the face, he flinches when gloved fingers press against his jaw, tilting his dead eyes up, and Nightwing chokes, a sick noise.

“Your eyes.”

Yup. Thanks for the news flash.

“Oh my God, oh my God, Tim, you’re—”

“Pretty much,” he supplies, gingerly pulling back, but N’s hands tighten down, and he knows the older vigilante is staring down at him, probably in shock.

With a sinking suspicion, he wonders how long it’s going to take for N to try and take this cape away from him too.

“I — Tim, when. What...How? Dammit, I’m sorry, but —”

“It’s fine,” he deadpans. “It’s been over a year.”

And N just grabs on, the instinct never fading, never truly gone. The one that always nudged him to be more affectionate, more protective than he was with Jason; considering Tim’s past, his absentee parents, well, it was really obvious how much the third Robin needed it.

Regardless of whether Red wants it or not, he’s getting it right now because Nightwing’s chest stutters hard (and look at how much he’d missed, what he let happen), and the fine tremble works its way through. All the old recriminations come back to haunt him and there isn’t anything he can, this isn’t a bout of Joker venom or fear gas, it’s not torn skin that could be sewn to heal and scar, another mark in the fight against the baddies. It’s not even a broken back that can heal and support weight, that can fight again. 

This is a lot more fail than that. A year, blind, and without a safety net. No Titans to back him up, no using WE resources so Tim Drake wouldn’t be outed unless he chose to be.

“I’m sorry,” Nightwing chokes out, face wet under the domino, “I’m so, so sorry, Tim.”

But, Red can’t do it, he just doesn’t have the strength for this. Him and N? Very much not this anymore. Firmly, he pushes N back a step, gets enough room to breathe.

“Like I said, it’s fine,” and yeah, guy that lies to Batman because almost nothing about this situation is really fine right now. But he takes another step back, away (body is two more steps to his slight right, dodge that shit). “You two just do your thing. Ra’s has my tech and I’m getting it back.”

N swipes a forearm over his face, mouth open to immediately argue even if he feels like he’s deep in Gotham Harbor, drowning, unable to get a hand hold to claw at the water, cold all over.

Robin beats him to it before Red can turn, “the Batplane is located out the south-west corridor. It is prepared should you have sustained any injuries, Red.”

And he can’t help it. At all, but turns toward the sound of Robin’s voice since say what now?

There’s a shifting of feet that means his empty stare is succeeding in making Robin uncomfortable.

“Seriously, we’ll have to do the whole Vigilante Anonymous Spring Formal sometime other time,” and it doesn’t hurt his feelings in the slightest fucking bit to turn his back and step over the piles of bodies everywhere because you wanted me gone, remember? Well, once the shock wears off, Nightwing and Robin will have the perfect excuse.

“Whoa, wait a minute, Tim, Timmy! C’mon, please just wait a minute,” N coming right the fuck after him, and he sounds a little more together.

Red manages to avoid the grasping hand, turning quick on his heel to make N have to stop fast to avoid smacking into him. “I don’t have time for whatever the fuck this is. Set-up an appointment outside of bad guy, super-secret lairs.”

“If you’d answer your damn phone when I call, I would have made an appointment.” N seethes back, snarking just like the better days, and maybe that’s whyhe lets the elder former Robin grip his shoulder in an impossibly tight hold. The thumb of the other hand swipes under his bare eye; without thinking, he slaps it away, wishes for a domino or the cowl.

“Look, I have no idea what the fuck you’re even doing here, but can we just—”

“Why we’re here?” N repeats dumbly, “for your silly ass, Tim. Why else would we just be crashing the League of Assassins?”

For that, he’s got nothing.

“It is true,” Robin’s voice sounds…off, and he turns toward the direction of that voice automatically to figure out why—

Oh. Lack of hate and disgust.

Hm. Wonder what happened there.

“Drake…Timothy—“

“It better not be because of this shit,” he warns Robin in a low tone (since, well, fuck your pity), “because I will seriously break your face for it, Demon.”

Something of a chuff, almost a laugh, and that throws him right the hell off of his game.

“No,” the youngest admits in an uncharacteristic neutral tone, a hand around his wrist, one smaller than his own, fingers like steel that can’t quite wrap around his wrist yet, but his hand is brought up to the R on Robin’s chest.

The same one he used to wear.

“Because of this,” Robin replies in that same tone, calm and neutral, while the shuriken R feels like it’s too small for his hand now. “I have worn the uniform, Timothy. Perhaps I understand you now when I could not then.”

And Red’s jaw works, a muscle twitching there, and he pulls his hand away, turning back to the path out of Ra’s throne room with sixteen steps to the door.

“It was wrong,” Robin continue, moving with him, “how everything happened. This,” and Robin falters for a word, waving a hand while he thinks, Red can feel the motion from where he’s standing, “family was far, far beyond my experience. If anyone knows the life inside the League of Assassins, it is you and my Father. I had no reference, you understand. Weakness could mean death, but proving one’s self is to earn a place—and that is the “family” from which I came, of which I could function.”

“Damian,” and Red pointedly breathes out, massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers because this is not where he saw the breakout/kick-ass-a-palooza was going to go. Sure as hell not with Demon Brat trying to almost, you know, apologize and shit.

“Grayson is with me, and we shall attempt to do our upmost.”

And N hums in the positive, still too damn close (where’s a group of ninjas when you need one? Seriously.)

Pause, “do your upmost what exactly?” And oh no, he’s not going to like where this is going.

N’s the one that steps in on it, leans down just a little, “we’re going to make it up to you, Timmy.”

What now? His brain goes painfully blank.

“We have agreed,” Robin add solemnly. “We will do what is necessary.”

“… To make it up to me?” And his voice only warbles because he is pretty much lost here.

“Yup! Whatever it takes to bring you back to the family, Tim. It’s the new mission.”

And oh God no, this is Dick Grayson because that guy is all arms, and it’s too late to run. He’s pulled into the patented octopus hug, and nothing short of dick bag aliens, legions of doom, or maybe Alfred pizza is going to pry him lose.