#The Red String of Tim Drake Is A Fucking Liar

[queerfandommiscellany]

Worldbuilding for The Red String of Tim Drake Is A Fucking Liar

The fic is here

1.       Basic rule differences

a.       Not everybody has soulmates

b.       Not everybody who has a soulmate only has one at a time

c.       Soulmates do not have to be romantic—they are often assumed to be, because of amatonormativity, but it’s pretty common to have platonic bonds or completely ignored bonds. Soulmates are an option, that’s all.

d.       Soulmates do not have to be people—they can’t be non-sapient things or animals as far as anyone knows, but someone can be soulmates with a city or a song or a piece of art. It’s weird, but it does happen. The average citizen doesn’t know this, but doctors will.

e.       Not everybody who has a soulmate, knows they have a soulmate.

2.       Types of soul bond

a.       Red string of fate – grows more taut the closer you are geographically

b.       First words – the first words (if any) that your soulmate says are on your body, may appear only after meeting

c.       Last words – the last words (if any) that your sm says are on your body, may only appear after meeting

d.       Color touch – blooms of color appear on your body where your sm has touched

e.       Countdown – each sm has a countdown on their body in unspecified units until either they meet their sm or the sm dies. These are two different variants, just indistinguishable until meeting/death.

f.        Color vision – you are completely monochrome colorblind until you meet your sm

g.       Tattoo – each sm has a tattoo-like pattern, which move to interact when sms are in contact

h.       Shared skin – your skin shares the same marks

i.         Deathless – sms cannot kill each other, often combined with another

j.         Emo bond – sms share strong emotions without context

k.       Shared dreams – sms appear in each other’s dreams

l.         Memory flash – upon first physical contact, each sm experiences the best and worst day of their sm’s life, past and future

m.     Moon compass – every time a sm throws something under the full moon, it moves toward their sm

n.       Touch bond – sms each feel noxious stimuli and skin-on-skin contact from the other sm

3.       List of known soul bonds

a.       Bruce Wayne has a touch bond with the city of Gotham (he does not realize this, but it’s true)

b.       Alfred used to be soulmates with Martha and Thomas Wayne via a countdown-to-death bond, and is now alone. Martha and Thomas had something else going on between them.

c.       Dick simply does not have a soulmate

d.       Barbara has memory flash bond (angst!), but has not met hers yet and does not particularly want to pursue it

e.       Jason has a primarily platonic color touch? bond with Roy, who is also his boyfriend. They are both also dating Starfire, but Kori has no metaphysical ties to them

f.        Tim has a touch bond with Danny (and later, both will have a bond with Kon)

g.       Cass and Steph are soulmates via a skin marks bond

h.       Damien is developing the red string of fate with Jon Kent (and refuses to acknowledge it)

i.         Jack and Maddie share a touch bond, Maddie has a color vision bond with Vlad, and all three of them share a no-kill bond

j.         Roy and Jason with a touch bond is A Story For Another Time because Yikes ™

k.        Sam Manson does not have a soulmate (or possibly has a moon compass bond she refuses to interact with because she would HATE that and it would be hilarious)

l.         Tucker sure has somebody’s last words imprinted on his ankle. It’s like an ENTIRE paragraph. Possibly two. He does not know whose. (It might be Danny’s, but also that would be a lot of soulmates for one kid... Hm. I have not decided.)

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

The Red String of Tim Drake Is A Fucking Liar

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/1k4OyaG

by Wanderbird

Tim Drake is at the dinner table at Wayne manor before patrol. And then Tim Drake is bent over himself, screaming until he loses consciousness.

Young Danny Fenton, he was just fourteen when his parents built a very strange machine...

 (Loosely) based on a tumblr prompt by ailithnight, in which Tim and Danny have a touch- and pain- sharing soulbond.

Words: 2440, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Danny Phantom, DCU

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Tim Drake, Danny Fenton, Stephanie Brown, Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne

Relationships: Tim Drake & Danny Fenton, Tim Drake/Danny Fenton, Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake

Additional Tags: Good Grandparent Alfred Pennyworth, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Asexual-friendly soulmates, Polyamory, Background Alfred/Martha Wayne/Thomas Wayne, Background Stephanie Brown/Cassandra Cain - Freeform, Background asexuality, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, emphasis on the comfort for once, The Accident (Danny Phantom), rejected soulmate au, Timeline What Timeline

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/1k4OyaG

[quillsareswords]

Coping

Damian Wayne

(angst)

Vampire Reader, because I have a problem.

Coven: for all purporses of this fic, a Vampire coven is an organized underground society of Vampires. Often take pleasure/amuse themselves by partaking in violent and cruel acts toward Humans.

WARNING: USE OF UNIDENTIFIED DRUG AS A COPING MECHANISM (ESCAPE).

Prompt List // Masterlist (in bio)

When Bruce had told you what happened, it'd knocked the breath clean out of you.

When you'd tore off on your bike, helmet strapped on, eyes glowing a dangerous shade of red behind a dark visor, no one had moved to stop you.

When you cut all communication, they started to worry.

When the waterfall parted and the doors drew open, everyone had sucked in a breath.

You wouldn't look at them. You couldn't. Your eyes remained on the cement floor before you. Your tongue locked behind fanged teeth.

You could feel their stares. Bruce, Dick, Alfred, Barbara, Tim. All of them staring at you with horror, disappointment, and fear in their eyes. Dick's eyes were glistening with tears—you could see the shine out of your peripherals.

Your grip on the rear gasket of your helmet tightened, nails digging into the plastic. Not that it particularly mattered, anyway. The bloody crack down one side, peppered dents, and shattered visor put it beyond repair.

Heavy footsteps echoing angrily through the otherwise silent cave, you marched right through the small cluster they'd formed. You still couldn't bear to see their faces.

Bruce called out to you and stormed toward the elevator. At the wide doorway to the Medbay, Alfred waited dutifully as you passed. He would have treated the many cuts and bruises newly littering your skin, or stitched the holes in your jeans, your jacket, or your shirt, had you stopped. But you didn't.

Again, Bruce called you. He called you by a moniker you no longer deserved. This time, you could hear his boot steps gaining on your own.

Then, his hand his on your shoulder, and you're stopping abruptly to spin on your heel. You smacked his hand away, fury burning red-hot in your eyes. "Don't fucking touch me," you snarl.

His mouth hangs open for a moment. He recovers quickly. "Where is he?" He sounds breathless, and he looks tired. Terrified.

You all but leap away from his touch as he reaches to grasp your forearm. The rest of his family gather behind him, all anxious eyes and shivery hearts. You look away. Hurl your helmet across the cave with as much rage as you can pack into the motion. It shatters like glass and leaves an indentation where it hits the wall. "Gone."

Bruce let's out a breath that shakes as hard as your hands. "Gone?"

Dick braves a few steps forward. "What do you mean, gone?"

You bear your fangs and shout your answer, "Dead, you idiot!" It's angry and raw and pained. The word reverberates off the rock walls, echoing back in your ears like piercing needles.

You can't stand the look on Bruce's face, or the pain in Dick's eyes. You turn away, crossing the short distance to the elevator back up to the Manor. You punch in your code and slide in before the doors are comple open.

You should have known better. You should have been there. You should have seen this coming.

You'd warned him about that damned building at least a hundred times. You'd warned all of them. As unassuming as those dirty brown and red bricks looked, the horrors they held were beyond their pay grade.

You knew, though. You'd seen it.

It was a nest, you explained. An old, multipurpose building bought by a suspicious little group decades ago. Likely by the founder, but you weren't sure. A Coven, you'd said. Nothing to play around with.

You'd seen the spark in his eyes. A challenge. You did your best to stomp it out as quickly as you could, and you succeed. You made him promise that he'd stay away from it. And he never broke a promise to you, as cheesy as it seemed.

You had been keeping tabs on them since you'd moved to Gotham, a few years back. It was after they'd approached you, knowing you had a few strings to pull inside the circle of local vigilantes. You'd never liked Covens, but you were fairly new in town and decided that it was worth seeing how others like you acted around one another here. When you'd seen the horrors within those brick walls, you'd turned down the offer for a place among their ranks on the spot.

You should've known they'd turn their eyes on your partner. You just hadnt thought they'd be so bold.

They knew you, after all. They knew what you were capable of. That's why they invited you. They knew your power.

Or at least, now they did. With a building of bodies and blood and flames licking at those filthy bricks, you were sure they knew.

The steel doors pulled apart, a grandfather clock sliding to the side. You moved out and down the hall as quickly as you could with a new limp.

Hours later, you're locking a deadbolt to a dingy door in a dark apartment.

The first thing you did was shut off the heating. You didn't mind the cold—you hadnt since you were Turned—but Damian did. The warmth only reminded you of him.

Next, you unlaced and kicked off your boots, then tossed your jacket toward the kitchen counter on your way through the doorframe.

Then, you find yourself staring blankly into the freezer.

A to-go box, a tub of ice cream, a shelf of tofu, six ice packs, and a bottle of rum.

All of it his.

You slam the heavy door and growl. You growl, because if you don't, you'd whimper.

Finally, you're relacing your boots and marching back out to the city in a different leather jacket.

• • •

Even from across the street, the strong scent of alcohol burns your nose. Red eyes hide behind dark glasses, picking carefully through a steady stream if exiting patrons.

In such a bad part of Gotham, you aren't questioned about such dark glasses so late at night, nor your lonesome leaned against a brick wall in a dim alley.

Finally, your eyes find one man, stumbling about like a newborn fawn, dopey grin, and sloppy words spoken to the breeze.

You push off the wall and cross the slow traffic on the street.

For nearly three blocks, you tail him. Waiting for a buddy to catch up, a phone to ring. Your suspicions are confirmed when no such thing happens.

At last, he all but collapses against the cement wall of a building, obviously fighting for consciousness.

You move in.

As he begins to fall to the ground, you catch him by the collar of his shirt and swiftly haul him into the nearest alley. You slump him behind a dumpster and crouch next to him.

"Sorry bud," you grumble, ripping the collars of his coat and shirt from the base of his neck, "but I could really use a pick-me-up."

Teeth sink into flesh with a sickening noise. Blood draws immediately, spilling out just a little faster than you can drink it. You gulp it down with a desperation you haven't felt in years.

Eventually, the intoxication hits you. Your mind grows fuzzy at the edges, and thoughts become sluggish and tired.

When you've had your fill, you brace yourself against the wall for stability to stand.

You breathe deeply, taking in all the wild, horrid smells of this wretched city.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Your head turns slowly, to peer over the arm still braces against the wall. You arch an eyebrow, glasses slid lazily down your nose. Tim Grayson. No, no. That's not right. Tim. Tim Bake. Drake. Tim Drake. You snort. "What does it look like, Red?"

You can imagine the horror in his eyes as he stares at you from the other end of the corridor. His quiet for a long few seconds. "I thought you laid off the, uh . . . live feeding."

You pushed off the wall, found your balance with little difficulty, and whipped the excess blood from your mouth with the sleeve of your jacket. "Yeah. I did." You stalked closer, hands shoved deep into your pockets. "About the same time I took up the whole hero gig." You waved your hand around in a general sense, before returning it to your pocket. "For obvious reasons."

You stopped a few feet in front of him.

His grip on that bo staff loosened. The sneer of disgust at his mouth softened. You wonder if he can see it in your face.

You're both very quiet for a very long time.

Unfortunately, it didn't last. "You know," Tim started, voice timid and soft, "he really loves you." He'll be back. For you, if nothing else."

You rolled your shoulders. Shifted your gaze. That rock is awfully neat.

"Did you . . ." Your eyes meet his, briefly, before he continues. "Did you see it happen?"

And just like that, whatever buzz you've built up off drunk man's blood subsides. You go rigid again, and your hands are shaking again.

He deserves to know.

"Yeah," you whisper, voice curling like smoke in the air, but it's not in the same way Tim's breath does. "I was so close I could have touched him."

He doesn't reply.

You shrug off the chill that runs down your spine. Your eyes glow a little brighter. "Shouldn't you be patrolling?"

Tim glances back down the alley, the way he'd come. "I was. Then I heard there was some shady person hanging around a bar down the street . . . I'm guessing that was you?"

You nod.

"Right." His eyes drift back to the man slouched beside the garbage. "Is he, uh–"

"No." Liar.

He nods stiffly.

You blow a hard breath through your nose. "I'd better be on my way."

"Uh, hold on," he grabs your arm before you turn away completely, but the look you throw him has him shuffling a step or two back. "Bruce wanted me to tell you, if I saw you, that he wants to talk to you."

You roll your shoulders higher, turning back down your side of the brick passage. "Tell him to shove it," you growled.

"You aren't the only one who lost him, you know," he says suddenly.

You try hard, you really do. But in the end, you've already got him pinned to the wall. When you speak, it's dangerously low and he can't tear his eyes from yours, gleaming threats under moonlight. "You weren't there. You didn't have the chance to stop it." Your teeth were bared, pink-stained fangs on full display and you snarled. "It wasn't your fault."

Forcefully, you released him. Hands shoved back in your pockets, a silent promise to your lover lingering in the back of your mind, you stalk off again, vanishing around the corner and into the shadows.

Tim watches you go.

• • •

Your head is absolutely spinning. You feel dizzy, despite laying perfectly still on your beat up sofa. Colors and shapes swirl behind your eyelids, entertaining you easily in the silence. Your mind is numb, vague thoughts blurring around the edges.

God you love this. You'd never done drugs like this before, partly because you were young and partly because it wasn't who you were. But you needed something stronger than second-hand drinking. You couldn't keep seeing his face. You couldn't keep hearing his voice.

So here you were, half asleep on your empty, dark apartment, exactly a week after that night. You didn't know that, though. You were blissfully unaware of the date, the time, and the dimming sunlight creeping beneath and above thick, drawn curtains.

Your jacket is still half on from the night before, boots still loosely laced on your feet, one flat on the floor and the other tossed over the arm rest opposite your head.

Your lips are parted in a dopey smile, fangs only barely visible through the crack.

You jolt at the knocking.

Red eyes snap open, lips clamp shut. Colors and shapes just barely line you vision and you silently search for the source of the noise.

Your eyes hit the door, finally, and you see the shadow shifting in the crack of yellow light beneath the door.

Standing from the couch is a task of it's own, as you have to take a good minute to find your balance. Whoever it is knocks again. Boots barely leaving the floor as you cheat steps, you make your way to the door and flip the deadbolt, before you haul the door open.

Dick stands before you. His clothes are rumbled, and he looks as though he'd rather be absolutely anywhere else.

You have to squint against the buttery hallway light, using a flat hand to shield your eyes from what seems to you like a bare bulb. "What?"

He looks a little startled. You aren't sure why.

(In reality, he hadn't anticipated your eyes to be do dark around the edges with days old makeup, or your complection to look so sickly.)

Your jacket has fallen down on one side, now bunched around your elbow. You make no move to fix it, obviously leaning against the door for support.

He stammers before he answers. "Are you okay?"

You know there's a reason he's asking you. There's something big that happened, but you aren't sure what it is. Was it recent? What's it about? "Yeah?"

He blinks at you dumbly once, twice. "Really?" He runs a hand through uncombed hair. "Nobody's heard from you since the, uh . . . since last week. I thought I'd check on you." He doesn't meet your eyes.

You rest your head against the door, too. "Uh, thanks, I guess." Your eyebrows slump together.

Now his gaze flickers to yours. "Are you sure you're okay? You seem a little . . . out of it."

You nod, wood scratching your scalp. "No no, yeah, I'm totally good. Little high, is all." You shrug, as if you've said nothing out of the ordinary.

His eyes blow wide. "You–You're–? High?"

"Mhmm."

Again, he stares. "Are you serious?"

"Well," you make a face, "yeah. What do you do when you wanna, uh . . . I don't know. I had a reason, but I kind of forgot it." Your head raises from the door and you snap your fingers. "That's it! I wanted to forget something."

A blank stare hits you. His jaw is left slack by astonishment. Shock? You aren't sure.

"Anyway," you scratch the back of your head, "what did you come here for?"

This seems to rouse him from his daze, but the expression that replaces it pulls at your heart. He seems disappointed, maybe even a little sorrowed. "I, um. I wanted to check on you after what happened to Damian."

There it is.

Your mood sours immediately, stills and snipets if memories flashing through your mind like a messy animation. Your eyes hit the floor as his screams rip through your subconscious. Eyelids squeeze shut.

Your thoughts are still muddied. It feels like trying to pull something free of tar.

"(Y/N)?"

"You should leave."

"But–"

"You should leave," you repeat, eyes cracking open just enough to see his. You ignore the blurriness and the knot in your throat. "Now."

He nods silently. He understands. "I'll come back in a few days," he warns. You nod.

Your deadbolt is back in place before he's to the elevator.

Peering around the apartment, at the dark shadows lining every wall and outlining every piece if furniture, the mixed drink on the coffee table, the empty vile beside it; your press your back against the door.

Your gaze turns to the bedroom door, still closed from the night you left. You haven't had the strength to even near it.

A dim, deep red light casts odd shadows over his face, especially from where you lay beside him. His eyes look odd, too. You aren't sure if you like the way his features appear, bathed in red.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks you, eyes meeting yours in the semi-dark.

You continue to trace careful patterns into the back of his hand the nail of your middle finger, cradling it in your other palm. "Nothing worth talking about," you assure quietly. "Just you."

"Are you insinuating that I'm not worth your words?" He cracks a grin, though it's lopsided and tired. He's been out all night. The sun is coming up, and yet he's only just going to bed.

You opted to call it an early night. The shine in his eyes had you sure he needed the company.

You'd always been good and weeding out the good night's from the bad. Maybe it was just because you'd experienced them yourself, or maybe you were just more observant than you should be.

You chuckle softly. "Well obviously. Why do you think our schedules contrast do much?"

He smiles at you directly. He's silent for a moment. It's long enough that your gaze moves away from your hands and his to his eyes, to see if he's fallen asleep. You find his eyes staring deeply into yours.

"I love you so much," he states, voice all velvet and honey, every syllable dripping adoration.

You scrunch your nose. "And I love you more than the stars and the moon, but what's got you saying it now?"

You only ask because he isn't typically so forward about it. You've always had to look for it, seek it out between lines of poetry or small favors or little gifts. His love is always coded and complicated, and it's part of why you love him so dearly.

He doesn't answer you. Instead his eyes refocus on your hands. He focuses on the shapes you're drawing. He listens closely to your breathing.

He's never going to tell you that he came so close to death only two hours before hand. He'd felt the icy grip on his heart, threatening silently to freeze it completely.

You enjoy the quiet moments before you both nod off.

You tear your eyes from the door. Focus on the floor. Focus on breathing. Focus on the sound of blaring horns and roaring engines outside. Focus on anything but the laughing silence.

And laugh it does. It cackles at you, howling with a malicious roar, hell-bent on pounding the understanding into you: you're all alone now.

No one is coming for you now. No one is going to pick up the phone now. No one is going to be sliding into your bed at noon. No one is going to surprise you with hand crafted chocolates you can actually enjoy. No one is coming home.

You squeeze your eyes shut again. You can't go in there. You've been sleeping on the couch for the past week, blankets thrown over every curtain hanger to keep out the sunlight. You've done it to the entire apartment. The second bedroom, the bathrooms, the living room, the attached kitchen. You'd come to associate the sunlight with him.

From sunkissed skin to stories of life before cloudy Gotham, your mind thought sunlight and Damian was never far behind.

You can't take it.

You cross the room in a blur, picking up the glass from the table and hurling it at the opposing wall.

It shatters on impact, splattering dark red liquid down the wall and splintering glass all over the wooden floor.

• • •

Your posture slouches as you trek down a wet sidewalk. You don't know exactly where you are, which isn't the best idea, but then again, you haven't been having many of those lately. You aren't even paying attention to anything around you. Music playing through your headphones, eyes trained straight ahead.

The people around you don't spare you much attention. Some darkly dressed seventeen year old shuffling around in a hoodie is the least of anyone's concerns, this time of night. You know this. You use this.

At the sound of a particularly sharp car horn, your eyes jolt sideways, mostly out of instinct. Just some bastard too impatient to wait for the light to change.

You take the moment of broken concentration to look around some. You're a few blocks from that building, you realize.

You turn immediately. Start walking the other way, keeping your distance from the buildings and the main stream if people by walking right next to the road. Sure, you're gonna have to dodge a few street signs but–

"Josephine!"

Your eyes jump again at the shriek. Your body goes rigid, your mind recognizing the panic in the man's voice instantly after patrolling for too many years.

You haven't been out properly since that night, and you aren't sure if you ever want to out again. But those instincts never seem to leave. There's no off day once you've gotten into the swing of things.

You see it before you realize it. Across the street, a little girl, about seven or eight, with dark hair and brown skin, chasing after a robotic dog as it turns and rolls right into the road.

Before your even have the chance to regard the situation, you're charging into traffic. You hoodslide a towncar as the horn blares, and then you're leaping out if the way of a Ford. You race through the temporarily empty lane, and then you're bringing down and scooping the little girl and her toy up and ducking off the road completely.

You set her down in front of the stricken looking man, who proceeds to thank you profusely. You forge a tight lipped smile and tell him it's not a problem, that you're just happy to have been fast enough.

And once again, you're on your way.

By the time you make it home, the sun is starting to think about rising, and your playlist has cycled through twice. You unlock your door with a dry throat, a blank white plastic bag in the crook of one arm.

The room is dark when the door opens, but you smell a person the second the hallway light spills in.

You don't tense. You recognize the remaints of expensive calogne before you even get in the door. "Morning, Bruce." You lock the door behind yourself and flick on the kitchen light.

He still stands in the shadowiest part if the large room, behind the armchair by the window. "We haven't heard from you in two weeks."

"Dick came by," you stated. You kept your back to him, pretending to be too busy putting away two pints of A Positive.

You can't look at him.

You can't look at his face, especially. It's too similar.

And besides that, you already know why he's here. His son is dead, and you are the only one who knows what happened.

"That was six days ago." You hear the give in his tone. He doesn't want to talk about this any more than you do, but he has to know. He moves toward you. "You were supposed to come back. Tim said he told you."

"He did," you assure, getting a glass down from the cabinet by the refrigerator, mostly empty plastic sack in your other hand.

You hear anger seeping into his voice. "Do why didn't you?"

Hesitance. The glass is on the counter, but you aren't pouring yet. Your eyes are on the splash back in front of you.

"(H/N)–"

"Don't call me that," you growl. His steps stop. "Don't call me that."

"(Y/N)," he corrects, "I have to know what happened to my boy."

Your shoulders slump. You have to flatten your hands on the countertop to ground yourself. The bag of red liquid lays on the counter beside the glass, waiting to be poured. You stay that way for a good minute, weighting your words carefully. You reach back into the fridge, but your hand hesitates over the bottle.

Fuck it.

You grab it by the neck and twist off the cap. You half off your glass, and leave the bottle open on your counter. You open the bag and add it's contents to the glass, emptying the bag and filling the cup.

You aren't even sure you'll get a buzz off of this, but you're more than willing to try.

Bruce watches you carefully from the end if the counter on the other side.

"Drink?" you offer, holding out the bottle of rum where he can see it. It almost feels wrong, to offer up something of his so freely.

He pauses before he answers. "No."

You bob your head. Turn around. Lean against the counter. You swirl the concoction idly. You still don't look at him. You keep your gaze on the painting in the living room, through the wide gap in the wall between the counters and the cabinets.

You remember when he was still painting it.

"I told you all not to go around that place," you begin. Your voice is gravely and sharp, a hardness he hasn't heard from you in a long while guarding your words. "This is exactly why."

"What is it?"

You take a long drink. You revel in the burn it leaves. Your eyes glazed over. "A Coven nest. They gather there, live there, thrive there. It's like a church for a particular group." He crosses his arms and leans against the wall. "They do things there I hope you never see.

"You see, a lot of vampires like to believe they're above humans. That they're inferior. Some Covens use them like animals. Bull fights, gory plays and musicals. You've seen Interview With a Vampire, yeah?"

He nods.

"Kinda like that. Sometimes worse, sometimes not as bad. I've been watching that particular Coven since I got to Gotham. They approached me shortly after I started the gig, wanting to know if I'd join them. I turned them down, obviously." Another long drink.

"I told Damian and the rest of you to stay away from that block. It's crawling with Vampires like that. I didn't want to see any of you getting snatched or worse. I should have wiped them out then and there, looking back. But I didn't. Just watched. Kept tabs.

"Then you called me. Told me he was gone without a trace, and you said he'd been down at that old car rental place. I knew the area. That's why I didn't wait for details.

"When I got there, they already had him tied and ready for something. I still don't know what they were planning on doing with him. I didn't ask questions, because I didn't have time. They jumped me the second I got inside. I had most of them dead or dazed by the time I got to the Big Kahuna."

When you didn't continue, Bruce prodded. "And?"

Your voice came back quiet. "And I wasn't fast enough." You downed the rest of your drink and slid it towards the sink. You misjudge the trigectory, and it slides off the edge and crashes to the floor. You stare down at the chunks and splinters of pink stained glass darkly. Emptily. "I couldn't get to him fast enough, and Regdoral killed him right in front of me."

Bruce was silent for a long time. Neither of you moved to clean up the mess you'd made. "When we went to check the building–"

"I know."

He follows your gaze. His words are softer than you expect. "What happened next?"

You chuckled, but there was no humor there. "I snapped," you shrugged. "I slaughtered every one of them where they stood. Burned every one of them in the Crypt."

Bruce doesn't speak.

Your next words are hardly a whisper. So light and airy that Bruce has to strain to hear them. "Did you find him?"

He goes quiet as well. Then, "Yes."

You close your eyes. Bite your lip. You pinch your palm. Anything to jolt your mind away from him. The memory of that silver sword gliding through him with a sound that still turns your stomach.

"Why did you leave him?"

You pick at a spot on the lip of the counter. "I dunno. I guess, maybe, some part of me hoped he'd beat me home. Maybe he'd been faking his death for one reason or another. Maybe I thought if–if I didnt–"

You sniffle. Your teeth sink into your lip and red spills down your chin and over your tongue.

Bruce shifts his weight. He wants to comfort you, but he doesn't know how, or if you'd let him. He doesn't what to do.

Your legs are shaking as hard as your hands, but they don't last as long. Your knees give out, and you go sliding to the floor, tears streaming freely down both cheeks.

Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you speak. Not until you stand, shakily, supporting yourself with the counter.

"Bruce," you all but croak. He turns his eyes on you. "I miss him so much."

"I know," he replies quietly, risking a few steps toward you. "We all do, (Y/N)." He rests a hand on your shoulder. He's testing.

You slip forward from the counter, wrapping shivering arms around him in a desperate pursuit of comfort.

He gives it willingly, hugging you tightly.

You cry. He cries. All in a dark, bitter silence that traps you in a place you once knew as a home.

PART II COMING SOON

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

The Red String of Tim Drake Is A Fucking Liar

by Wanderbird

Tim Drake is at the dinner table at Wayne manor before patrol. And then Tim Drake is bent over himself, screaming until he loses consciousness.

Young Danny Fenton, he was just fourteen when his parents built a very strange machine...

 (Loosely) based on a tumblr prompt by ailithnight, in which Tim and Danny have a touch- and pain- sharing soulbond.

Words: 2440, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Danny Phantom, DCU

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Tim Drake, Danny Fenton, Stephanie Brown, Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne

Relationships: Tim Drake & Danny Fenton, Tim Drake/Danny Fenton, Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake

Additional Tags: Good Grandparent Alfred Pennyworth, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Asexual-friendly soulmates, Polyamory, Background Alfred/Martha Wayne/Thomas Wayne, Background Stephanie Brown/Cassandra Cain - Freeform, Background asexuality, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, emphasis on the comfort for once, The Accident (Danny Phantom), rejected soulmate au, Timeline What Timeline

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/45452428