#even tho its true it fits this stupid little bird

[sunnixsunshine]

Oh. Oh no. What started off as a warm up sketch turned into a real oc. Oh no. What did i do—

[northlight14]

A love for love

Description: Roman loved love. He always had, even as a small child. So why was it so different whenever he was involved?

TW: panic attack, mention of making out but nothing is actually shown, cursing, questioning, unrequited love, let me know if I should add anything else

Ships: unrequited royality, platonic roceit, dukeceit

Genre: high school au

Prompt: prompt 6, aromantic (prompt by @pridewrite2021)

Roman loved love. He always had. Even as a small child, he'd watch wide eyed as Prince Charming leaned down and gave sleeping beauty true loves kiss, something so powerful that it was able to break an evil witches curse. He'd stayed up till early hours in the morning, squealing with excitement as he read about two warriors able to take on an entire army, motivated by their want to keep the other safe and stealing glances at each other as their metal swords collided with the enemies weapon. He'd sing his heart out when a romance song came on the radio, gushing about their love interest with such emotion that Roman adored.

Yes, Roman loved love.

So why was it so different whenever he was involved?

The earliest memory Roman had of this was when he was in first grade. Two of his classmates ran up to him giggling as they sang "Savannah has a crush on you!" Instead of feeling that overwhelming joy like the ones described in his books and music, he felt a deep cutting disgust in his stomach. Roman felt less like he could conquer the world and more like the world was going to swallow him whole. Rather than singing any great love song that he'd sang so many times in his room or in the car, he began crying instead while the two girls looked at him in confusion.

"It was just because I don't like her." Roman told himself.

But this feeling of being out of place only grew as his fellow classmates gushed about their boyfriends and girlfriends, crushes and which cartoon character they find cute. Granted, they were in second and third grade, so the terms "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" roughly translated to "they let me borrow their crayon at break once and now we're in love and going to get married." However, this love for love spread like a virus and Romans desire to fit in only grew. So, during a sleepover with his friends, Roman looked upon the TV, at the princess Aurora and decided 'She'd make a good crush.' Before announcing it to the crowd of toddlers, the words immediately sounding wrong as he spoke them, as if he'd spoken them in a foreign language. He decided that night to never speak of his supposed "crush" ever again. Roman liked Aurora with Prince Philip much more, anyway.

Roman was in fifth grade when he was talking to one of his best friends, Valorie. The two of them just laughing and joking when his friends approached.

"Who's your girlfriend, Ro?" one laughed, putting his arm around Roman. And he knew it was a joke. He knew that. But it still felt like the arm hadn't wrapped around his shoulders and instead knocked all the air out his lungs in one hard punch. This moment lingered in his mind like a haunting apparition, quickly causing any friendships with girls to become strained. First only talking occasionally while in class or on the yard, to only talking when his guy friends weren't around, to only texting outside of school to nothing at all. Roman mourned these friendships but it had been made clear that boys and girls couldn't just be friends and the idea of people thinking he was dating any of these people made him feel like a caged bird.

Later that year Roman decided, despite his love for love, he didn't want to date. The reason for this being...

"I'm just more focused on my career."

"I just don't see the point in dating right now."

"I've never really liked anyone so what's the point?"

"I just like being more focused on myself."

And any other excuse he could possibly come up with, repeating them as many times as he needed to to believe them. Roman had always been a good actor, after all. But, of coarse, with this supposed decision came "reassurance" from adults, as if they had the ability to see the future.

"You just haven't met the right person, yet."

"You'll change your mind one day, when you get a bit older."

"All kids say that at your age."

"Roman isn't interested in dating YET."

These invalidating promises made Romans blood boil the more he heard them. It was as if he was yelling while trapped in a soundproof box, unable to escape. But, despite what seemingly everyone around him was saying, Roman knew deep down that romance just wasn't for him.

He also remained thankful that this love for love hadn't infected his friendship too much.

That was until seventh grade when what was originally a few cases of a love for love became an epidemic. It seemed that all anyone wanted to know was "do you have a crush on her?" "Did you hear that Lily and Reese are going out?" "Do you find her attractive?" This soon made its way over to his friends as they talked about how hot the girls were and teased each other relentlessly about who they liked. Roman once again felt like an outsider in his friend group. His friends conversations about their girlfriends may as well have been spoken in Latin.

Then the day came when his twin brother, Remus, came out as gay and started dating a guy named Janus. It then occurred to Roman.

"Maybe the reason I haven't been feeling anything for all these girls was because they were girls! Maybe I like boys instead!" Roman had never been a very logical person but this definitely seemed to make more sense. If he didn't like women then that surely must mean that he liked men instead, right? Because otherwise...otherwise Roman didn't know what that meant.

So Roman tried. Really God damn tried to find boys cute, to fantasize about dating them, to relate to gay experiences. But all he was met with was the same foreign and hollow feeling he'd felt when he lied about having a crush back in 2nd grade. Roman quickly began feeling his love for the concept of love diminish.

So when Roman entered grade 9, he decided to put anything to do with his romantic feelings (or lack there of) in a little box in the back of his mind to deal with later. Instead putting his passion and good acting skills to use by joining his schools drama department. The moment he stepped foot on stage, he felt himself come alive. The crowd, the praise, the creativity, it was addicting.

And it was only made better with the more friends he made. There was one person who he grew partially close to. Patton Heart. The two quickly became best friends, often hanging out outside of rehearsals and texting non stop. And, for the first time in what seemed like years, Roman was happy and comfortable.

That was until 10th grade. Roman way lying on his bed watching Netflix on his phone when a message from Patton came through. Roman clicked on the message and was caught massively off guard as he read it.

Patton: hey, Roman. So I've been thinking a lot lately. In particular about us and about you. And over the past few months I've started to realize that I have a really big crush on you. You're really handsome, funny and talented and I love spending time with you. It's totally ok if you don't like me back, but I figured it's better to be honest.

It should've been it. The moment when one of the main characters confesses their feelings for the love interest and they proclaim they feel the same way. Sparks fly and their hearts beat faster with excitement. It all becomes so clear when they hear that confession in movies and books.

But this wasn't a movie.

Roman felt time stand still as he read the message, his hands shaking so much he didn't think he would be able to respond even if he knew how to answer.

He couldn't breath. Why couldn't he breath?! The edges of his vision went fuzzy as he desperately gasped for air.

"Patton's great." He thought through his suffocating panic. "He's funny and charming and sweet. You should like him. Why don't you like him? What's wrong with you?!" Romans thoughts yelled as he tried desperately to hold back the tears threatening to spill over.

Not sure of what else to do, Roman ran to Remus' room, hoping he'd know how to respond.

Roman knocked on his brothers door and Remus responded with a very annoyed "come in" after a few beats of silence. Remus and Janus were sat on Remus' bed and Roman could tell from their slightly red lips that the two had been making out. But he wasn't in the headspace to even pretend to care that he'd interrupted them right now.

"Ugh, what do you want?" Remus said, clearly too irritated by his brothers presence to notice his distress.

"P-Patton just messaged me s-saying he likes me and I don't know what to say." Roman barely stuttered out, trying desperately not to cry in front of Remus and his boyfriend.

"Aw, cute. Roro finally got a man." Remus joked but Roman was definitely not in the mood for that kind of humor.

"Do you like him back?" Janus asked, calmly, clearly taking more notice of Romans distress.

"Well, I do. But not like that."

"Ok, so just tell him that. It doesn't have to be this whole thing. Why are you getting so upset?" Remus said, looking at Roman as if he was stupid.

Which, to be fair, Roman did feel very stupid right now.

"He's my best friend. I don't want to upset him." Yeah, that was the reason Roman was freaking out. He just didn't want to hurt Patton. That was it.

"Well, just say you don't want a relationship right now or some shit. Besides, he's probably more worried now because you've taken so long to answer." Remus pointed out. Yeah, Roman was never coming to Remus with his problems ever again.

"Yeah...ok." Roman said. Slowly, he walked out the room, noticing Janus looking at him curiously but deciding not to focus on it.

Roman: I'm really sorry Patton, but I don't feel the same way. We can still be friends tho. It doesn't have to be awkward between us. Especially because I really like being friends with you.

Patton: Yeah, that's ok. This is kinda what I was expecting to be honest. But yeah, I still wanna stay friends.

A few days later Janus came over again for dinner. Afterwards, Roman went into the living room and sat on the couch, scrolling through Instagram.

To his surprise, Janus followed after him and sat next to him. "So, how are you feeling after a few days ok. Broken his heart yet?" Janus teased.

Roman huffed out a laugh. "Uh, yeah, we agreed to just stay friends. Which I'm happy about but it's also really weird. I honestly don't know where we go from here which sucks because I really like Patton. Just not like...that." Janus nodded in understanding.

"You must care about him a lot if you had a panic attack just because you didn't want to hurt his feelings." Janus said. Roman just shrugged in response. "So, does that mean you like someone else?" Janus asked.

"No...I. I don't know. I've...I've never really liked anyone. I don't think I ever will. And people say I'll change my mind but...it isn't like I've made a choice. I've felt like this my whole life and everyone around me has had a crush on someone by now. I just... don't think I was built for romance. Which I know probably sounds stupid but that's just how I feel." He said, so honest it almost hurt.

Janus nodded slowly, taking in what Roman was saying. "It doesn't sound stupid." He said before pausing, as if considering his next choice of words. "Roman...have you ever heard of the term aromantic?" He asked.

"No." Roman answered, looking at Janus curiously.

"It basically means someone who experiences little to no romantic attraction. So they don't get crushes and stuff like that." He explained.

Roman felt his heart leap and for once it wasn't because of a fight or flight reflex. "Wait, that's a thing?" He asked in disbelief.

"Yeah, a surprising number of people identify with it. I don't want to assume anything but I thought I might mention it just from what you've told me and what Remus has said in the past. Plus that panic on your face yesterday reminded me a bit of when I tried to force myself into romantic situations with girls." Janus smirked to himself.

That night Roman researched more on aromanticism than he did for his science test. The more he searched, the more it just made sense. Of coarse, he still had a long way to go towards self acceptance. Roman could feel himself already starting to mourn the idea that this was a choice he'd made ages ago and he was going to feel romantic love one day. It was an odd feeling, realizing that even though he knew deep down it wasn't a decision and he'd always hated when people made those comments, a part of him took comfort in adults promising that he'd change his mind one day. He was also horrified to realize that he didn't know what his future was supposed to look like now without romance. After all, media seemed to show single middle aged adults exclusively as depressed and lonely. But as he scoured through wiki articles to tumblr pages to memes, he knew this was a good start to unlearning any nonsense society had been shoving down his throat.

The more Roman learned and the more people he talked to online about it, the more he started to feel his love for love increase. But instead of it being centered on a prince and princess in a movie, two in love warriors keeping each other alive in a book or a cheesy love song on the radio, it was a different type of love Roman was finally starting to feel the more he accepted himself.

Self love.

Reblog’s >>>> likes

[weaselle]

pay no attention to this collection I just need to post it so I can find it

hit walls and floor... tall inside of my skull; if I never fall at all, clever's awfully dull - so if "push" says the door you'll be watchin' me pull - 'cause I only shop for china when I'm walkin' with bulls

Order me sit? dope, I'm askin' how high; I out right hope my notes are causin' outcry - where do I fit? miles as the cow flies - statistically shit, climbin' slopes to outlie

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I can juggle knives, and proselytize, and wink my eyes in flirth (or mix words like mirth and flirt, like, ask what planet Dirt is wearth) I can lift a person by their soul, or... even let them down; I can fit myself to any role: demon, prophet, clown. I can write like frightened squid, or read a book from any shelf- but a lifeguard out at sea can drown, and I can't save myself

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I want an adventurous crew, less than 100 and much more than 2; I've got an idea or four to do and believe that "to lead" isn't "ordering you" - I want be thicker than thieves: if one of us cries, everyone grieves; stacked deck for success, form small companies so that every ace dealt goes up all of our sleeves - I wish I had Boromir's horn; I stand full of arrows, small and forlorn I'd summon an army as sure as you're born and we'd rend every obstacle / mend what is torn

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yo when it's late I don't know if debate is a pro that I'm prone to or con I conflate; yawn ok great it's the dawn of new date too soon gone like a pawn in a perilous state - do I wander or wait, keep closed yonder gate or transpose these ten toes 'til exposing my fate? if not off to bed nodding off head berates and refuses to do more than snooze/obfuscate

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I don't have time enough to tell the clock to stop its ticking talk, while I'm sublimely sleepy, still ensconced in twos of shoes and socks; I'm staring off in awful need of themes that breed these searing thoughts- I breathe more air when all unfair reality congeals and clots; when sleep is claustrophobic, fear near stoic in its static stay, I ride my nightmares into mounts more suited to the dreams of day

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time for me to be known from home to home, on the campaign trail like when Romans roam, I'mma do the damn thang, prevail and own every twist in this life-line vine I've grown

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sick like a little bit with a bad tum and sniffle it's not a badda-boom bat beating but a wiffle hit; sleep like the bleeping sheep gotta wring it outta me, sore like a freaking score that you sing without a "c".

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i got nothing to say, i'm all bluff in this play, i mean i'm here to swerve some verse it's clear i'm thumpin' away at the buttons with the letters on whenever it’s day like a cat attacks a sweater, just pretending it’s prey - I need to catch the thing I’m chasing, like, it’s gotta get caught, and so I jot it down a lot to try to capture the thought; but though the plot is often written out in dashes and sketches, i rarely cash in those checks, i need more carry than fetches, so I’m dreamin’ and dumpin’ out all the schemin’ or somethin’ and like, even if it’s meaningless these keys I’ll keep thumpin

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with the internet i’m magic and i’m casting a spell call a song out of the air to here as clear as a bell private playlist from the A-list like i’m famous as hell making music moving quickly so I’m faster as well

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“oh no” I shout “Where’s Trusty my phone?” I don’t know the whereabouts, must be shown- adjusted the tone of the ring to silence now trying to find it brings me to violence; really need to locate as I motivate to go today I throw the flippin’ sofa pillows hopin’ for a stowaway... but oh no way it’s gone I pray this song will make a tiny spell; a lesson less on lost forlorn and more intent on finding cell

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pocket full of humbug, some'll argue/ some shrug but damnit my whole planet's stupid like it's on the Dumb drug will there be a U.S. war? (I mean ANOTHER on our list) maybe something civil: neo-drivel vs. power fist... maybe accidental, mental trump insulting china's boss I fear these pale tears will steer us straight into a giant loss

so many people on the earth are searching for a safe life the rich'll keep their swords but lord they'll take away our steak knife Nothing free for you and me our banking fees are never waved; an act by black or poor is "crime" for white or rich it's "misbehaved" They're pouring us an ethanol and calling it an eggnog - time to run away and trade these reindeer for a sled-dog; the season of the commie christ whose message hasn't landed yet: money only isn't evil if the people's needs are met

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no thanks on the news, yo crank up the tunes, don't bank on the crankiness taking a snooze unless I get dressed from neckless to shoes and charge the horizon more wise than confused __________________________________________________________

hear the too late beep, missing two days sleep, and the road to a dream is a two way street; so the mood stays bleak though I do make sweet this coffee with cream and the brew ain't weak

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been a While since I styled out the verbs and tenses, went around the Gates and straight hopped the fences; penUltimately gotta be a sultan of self: master mind, rule body, find my worth-and-my-wealth; if i'm quiet too long I'll have sloth not stealth so I try to move along and get my words off the shelf.

my projects: objects I invent/books writ - that shit won't pay the rent; throw fits, I have, it don't prevent: what's real from feeling devil-sent.

so I must be clever, do each: sum total; whatever needs eating this dead-beat goat'll; ask what is the art in a pace grown sickly? cut to the part where the chase goes quickly

Now hook or crook I must prepare, to tell each truth/take every dare stand hand on hips, and one in air, you can kiss my lips, or my derrière

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got me a hit list, swear i'ma get this done til the sun goes under the business; witness, this is crazy and witless, lazy lately: maybe the wiz kid just hid restless - put to the test his quiz is bested get to the rest it's now or not again, get that got and then kill it til the whole damn lot is a slaughter pen, sweat til the wet drip drops gettin' hotter than the metal that your kettle corn kernel keeps poppin' in; hoppin' and hippin' and readin' what's written i gotta be gettin' to the List no skippin'! slippin like fall, new leaves i'm flippin - givin' my all just to keep on grippin'; breakin' what doesn't bend wrong way through, as i make it to the end of the long To Do

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i post at the prompt, chew big what i've chomped; grew kid to a ghost haunting most of this pomp; listless within this to do list i'm swamped - spirit in fits, corpse slow to go romp

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incautious swatches of saying; watch as he washes the playing: switching the swerving and swaying into some terms of conveying wishes conditions occurred in which this envisioned un-blurred digit could get itself heard and flip politicians the bird

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in the trace of the face off you tasted last, is the scent of the sense made fading fast, so your dreams leak sieve-like hiking past a scared nightmare crew of an all-you cast

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got me a pallet of shall get around to, climb out of shallow kie, it's not about you; just look at the play and see where the props ain't, take out a brush but don't rush it you'll drop paint; stop sayin' you're praying for planet like damn saint but get out and do, do it, do, 'til you feel faint; yes do it, true get into some writing, what you must chew is how much off you're biting, i dust off the lightning and plug it right in, if i play hard enough then my bluff just might win, all this tin in my pocket while walking about til the hat-caving camptown will clean me all out- my ten other projects, pretend money fudge it, i'll sell all my objects and end up with budget; i'd love it if some of my ideas ran, but i'll finish the one and be one happy man

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each piece is news, new peace in reach; tho a few of you choose nude tweets of Preach- but the rest got best bits fittin' here, what tests my pets must sit and hear: forget that past rush last two years going mash-gas fast 'til we're clashing gears, it's clear no room for fear to be, but the info flash is a blast to me- from the crashing sea to the land locked loam, we're lashed to the new word womb to tomb; and it's all fantastic like plastic foam that'll patch like magic a tragic home, or a tech part heart in 3-d print that'll let docs talk too intelligent; it's so elegant, that an elephant could do operations like he hella went: to harvard med my head is full but the school yard's sharp like a shaving tool; i'm a raving fool, but i drink it in, article particles 'til i sink and spin, win wonder i'm under delusions grand- will i sunder illusions and understand? or is it too much fuss will i cuss and worry, will i do what's just 'mid the dust and fury all i know is i go with the flow i find, tryna rein in my brain while i fill my mind

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so often was the A.M. spent prayin' for mayhem, like seeing riots firing inspired me to 'amen'; i'd hate when the job sucked, my robbed luck, i'd get stuck- attempts at free society my hopes and dreams were all fucked; but lately (don't hate me) the game is less crazy- i bust twice as lustrous if bosses don't make me; So new to the bragging, i catch up from lagging and write down solutions more lucid less nagging

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no sleep awake i sit and wait until the mill will dim/abate some whim shall take my fancy fate is to be sleeping dreaming state my eyes won't close i'll type i 'spose i'll write a night time rhyming prose those words i've heard but rearranged their meaning seeming weird and strange i've changed but how i could not say i only know no other way yet days gone by then who was i my mind was mine but what i tried to bind untied it flies! it runs! i rue what once i 'knew'; so dumb- untruth undo what time has done i can't so chant of what's to come oh spin oh sing oh show such things oh paint me what the future brings if won't be still then say your fill i pray my brain abstain from frills and spill the beans and give me scenes of things that help divine the means which plan to make which paths to take? i sit and wait no sleep awake

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rework this

i want things to be different, starting with me; like to find me a new mind, with new eyes to see; like to start a new life, with new ways to be; can't be hard to do right, or this dude might flee- but i like the older version, no aversion to he: the kid who up and did lots, and got up from knees; who figured bigger sub-plots, and thought it was neat; who questioned syncopation, by stepping off beat; so i'd like to start a nation, a tribe or a team; one with no reservations just, a vibe and some steam; a group think to shout out 'thou shalt know peace' and to try it they're provided with some elbow grease; what i mean is, i think it's, so nice to be me; and the thing is the scene seems a singularity; but my brain goes, down more roads, than the branches of trees; and with more crew, i might do, more glancing with ease; so for multiples of loyal, one/two/three: i might try it royal, and become true We

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[wolveswithhats]

For WIP Week

Abandoned idea from a few years ago, a melding of two of my favorite things, Buffy and Portal! Of the idea that the Initiative ships off some of its demons to Aperture. Because....reasons. Spike-centric (or, well, Spike-exclusive ). Very sloppy. Outline-quality, lots of meandering, unfinished, unpolished concepts. Riddled with editing notes. I didn’t even bother with capitalization. Still, there’s some fun stuff in here.

(I don’t care if anyone reblogs, just don’t put it on any of the aggregators, please. This is too rough drafty and embarrassing to be filed away as Content Worth Looking At.)

(captured by initiative again. s4 – s5. initiative shutting down, cementing off. exterminate all demons. riley pulls some strings to have spike shipped off instead of staked. the smallest of favors. i'm still on team riley-isn't-a-total-douchebag. he's aight.)

an hour later, spike and three of his ugliest friends are caged and carted into the back of a semi for a cross country drive across america's finest bypasses. through a hole in the wall watches steel and mortar slowly give off to rolling green-gold fields. teeny tiny farmsteads, clarkston and robin glen and with some disgust, notes the turnoff for a lake angelus, some thirty miles north of detroit.

(his initiative vamp neighbor, 90s grunge clothes, grunge name – trevor – fledge too young to drop game face.)

“christ, i heard about this place. some science lab in a salt mine underground. they say this place does weird experiments.”

met with deadpan, disbelieving stares, and a disgusted tsk from the blond lady-vamp, what's-her-face, something with calendars. april or may or half-past-eleven, day day day, sunday, right, that was it.

“they took my appendix, trevor.” sunday lifts her shirt, revealing a line of stitches, “for their mix-and-match potato head monster. what the hell is a frankenzombie going to do with a shriveled, century old organ? it doesn't even do anything. how is that not weird.”

“no man, I mean really, really weird. cross-dimensional travel, like stargate. bug people. turning your blood into gasoline.”

spike snorts. “I drive a '59 fireflite. gorgeous piece of machinery, but bollocks for mileage. single digits. could due for some petrol on tap.” sad, longing, separation anxiety. his desoto was 2200 miles away baking in the california sun. once he made his way back to the west coast, he'd find those military wankers for a dechipping, kill the whole lot of them, and piss on their corpses for good measure. then he'd book it to south america, away from scalpel-wielding lab jockeys, bouncy-haired slayers and the root of every major humiliation of his unlife over the past three years. bon-fucking-voyage.

ugly demon: “that's why you should switch to a hybrid. my prius gets great fuel economy.” how does a demon that big fit into a mid-size?

(ugly demon = horned, beastly. “your primitive human anatomy lacks the necessary mouthparts to vocalize my true name. what sort of creature only has one tongue? you may call me henrietta.”)

trevor is oblivious. “they were some respected science lab back in the sixties. now? when they're not making you test out their weird experimental products, they make you run through test courses, solve puzzles. and it's all orchestrated by this giant murderous robot. like HAL from space odyssey. once people go in, they're never heard from again. it's true. my cousin knew a guy who was there, he told me all about it.”

“if no one ever gets out, how the hell does your cousin know a guy, you stupid sod.”

trevor's fangs close with an audible click, and he sits sullen for the rest of the commute.

as it turns out, stupid sod and cousin-of-sod actually did know what they were talking about.

housed on the outskirts of a wheatfield, through a gated parking lot, innocuous brick building. on the loading dock, a hispanic man in blue work coveralls wheels a dolly into the back of the mac truck. looks at his living cargo with what spike considers to be an appalling lack of concern, considering the very blatant human trafficking unfolding before him.

“you're not the parts I ordered.” gruff texan drawl. yells to the front, “where are my chamber parts?”

driver swings around front, clutching a clipboard, hands it off. “friday, likely. this is your wednesday shipment.”

“these are people.” texas squints at array of annoyed, tired faces, takes in the gnarled brows, the shackles, and the powder blue scrubs, eyes finally settling on the barbed, hulking form of henrietta. “theoretically. why do I have a shipment of mangled faces, billy idol--”

“hey!”

“--and one-fifth of gwar? are we making a music video?”

the driver shrugs. “i just deliver. sign the thing.”

texas reads off the clipboard: “subject donation from sunnydale university. volunteers?”

“experimental lab rats,” trevor offers.

“prisoners,” spike corrects, growling. “this has got to be in violation of the...what's it? geneva convention. I feel unduly treated. I want an attorney. actual, not one of those 800-number infomercial suits. due my civil rights.”

texas blinks owlishly. “what civil rights? you're not even american.”

“i'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed to shit red, white and blue to not be accosted against my will.”

ignores bitching. “are you even human?” points at henrietta. “i don't think that's human.”

(“what multiverse are you lot from?”

“california.”

“huh. always had my suspicions.”)

he was hoping for an upgrade to trousers, denim, in a dark blue or black. maybe a pale wash if it had a grunge-enough look to it. what they gave him was a pair of coveralls in sunshiny bright incarceration orange, with lines of white piping tracing the seams and a stitching of black lettering across the breast pocket labeling him as HST0017. for fuck's sake.

“i'm not wearing this.”

“as soon as you pass through that emancipation grill, any unapproved paraphernalia is forfeit.”

“meaning what?”

“your current clothes will be emancipated. pffft! you could go naked, wouldn't be the first test streaker, but I gotta warn you, there's the acid pits, the gun turrets, and oh, the lasers. burns like a bitch, and that's not even touching the potential crotch-rotting radiation--”

“just give me the fucking jumpsuit.”

they surgically grafted a band of white metal to the back of his shins, where a long curved spring of steel could be notched, lifting his feet into a painful arch, weight balanced on his toes. he was suddenly that much more impressed with the slayer and her preference for fighting evil in teetering heels, which did wonders for making her teeny weeny hobbit legs look elegant but offered only a promise of scuffed heels and snapping ankles in grave dirt. angelus-grade torture, he decided, hobbling awkward and bird-like from one side of his little glass prison to the other.

he found the entire affair ludicrous, demeaning, and oh, stupid, until he witnessed another test subject slip on a slick of orange goo and nosedive off a platform, pancaking wetly across the tile in a display of hilarious cartoon physics. it was admittedly very, very funny, and funnier still watching jaded custodians squeegee up the red smear that used to be a person, but not something he was looking to experience himself first hand.

“you know, I can see the upside of not doing my best wile e. coyote impression,” he groused, “but you should really have these things in boot form.” shifting uncomfortably as the screws in his knees creaked, puckered and itched.

rick looks at him, surprised. “that's.....that's an idea. we'll take that into consideration.”

(aaaaaaand a jump to the P2 section. slightly better quality, a little less outline-ish. tho very stream-of-consciousness)

waking up with a dry mouth, mouth full of cotton, mouth full of fluffy biker beard, and where had that image come from? like all the moisture had been sucked from the room, stale recycled air like new car smell and musk. where is here? bed, desk, dinged up dresser, ceiling-mounted tv, blacked out and coated in dust. walls decorated with murals of snowy mountains and ski lodges, tacky thrift store oil paintings. the bed he's laying on has a threadbare blue hospital blanket, and a man-shaped crater pressed into the mattress, like a police chalk outline with serious gravity. motel room? UGLY motel room. there's no windows in the room, just slated blinds stretching the length of one wall.

can't move, groggy, wet limp noodle muscles, the dead waking. stares down the length of his body. dressed like a petrol station attendant, orange jumpsuit rolled mid-shin, legs bony and corpse-white. wow, seriously overdue for a date with mr. sunshine.

figure out the who the what and the why after he quenched this sahara on his tongue. room to the left of the bed, loo, good, yes. force himself to move, up and over, muscles clenching in rebellion, stumble over with white white legs buckling like a newborn deer. sink, yes, water churned and choked god why is it taking so long finally sputters out, drinks and drinks tinny tap water until he feels like he's going to burst. sates the fire in his mouth but not the thirst, the hunger, god what is that?

looks up in the dark of the bathroom into the mirror, and sees nothing, just dingy white tile where his face should be. huh. well that's just... different. it's unnatural, he knows, because hello, does still remember how a mirror works, even if he can't remember much of anything else. experiments, lifts the crusty dry slab of soap and watches its reflection bob phantom-like in mid-air. right, so, the mirror isn't broken, just him. but it doesn't feel wrong, like somehow he's just used to staring at empty space in the mirror.

what the hell is he?

sits back on the bed, hands clenching knees.

beyond the doorway, he expects a hallway, maybe, decked out in the same mottled 70s look his room is themed, or a carpark dotted with out of state license plates and neglected marquee signage. but there's no cars, no buildings, no outside. just a massive storehouse, stretching up and out beyond what he can see, dimly lit by flickering yellow halogen. snaking lines of track above his head following the catwalk he's standing on, weaving between towers of grafted metal and grey-green storage units stacked like legos. huge. massive. his own room was in a storage box, labeled next to the door.

test subject packed on 11/17/1999 EXP: indefinite ADT SLM M SHRT

short? was he short? well sure maybe by comparison of the super humongous warehouse he was stored in. not a very helpful selection of information, most of which he had already established. a picture would be helpful. a name. a passport. a blockbuster rewards card. literally any brand of identity.

goes back in, shuffling about, looking for something he's not aware of yet. there's a pad of paper in the desk and a cheap ballpoint pen. picks up the pen, but it feels awkward and childish gripped in his hand. moment of panic that he's illiterate, until he swaps the pen to his left. it feels much more natural.

--mirror challenged. am a ghost? --left-handed. evil ghost? --posh penmanship though --orange is not my color --i could do for a tan

pauses thoughtfully.

--who the fuck am i

sound of screeching metal and cracking drywall, urban destruction at its finest. implied shortness a sudden and unexpected gift as something ghosts over his head, ruffling his hair, clipped english accent as a storage crate cranes above him: “--ten thousand flippin' vegetables--” carves a winding trail of destruction as it tears through crates and cables and catwalks before finally coming to an explosive stop, half buried in the far wall.

his own crate tips, agonizingly slow with groaning whale song of careening metal, before momentum and gravity takes it for its own. crash bang boom, gaudy motel mountain ski lodge avalanches into another stack of crates, creating a domino effect. check-out achieved, in more ways than one. leaves him stranded on a creaking catwalk with no more than an ugly jumpsuit, a pad of paper, and more questions then before. he left the pen on the bed. bugger.

picks a direction and walks. periodically checks crates. like his own, all decked out like vintage motels, oil crusted murals and tacky faux-wood paneling. and on every bed is a person. all coated in a fine layer of dust, gray-skin, perfectly preserved but very, very dead. room after room. men, women, children. old young tall short fat skinny. a varied collection of corpses lined up like sleeping porcelain dolls. flippin' vegetables, indeed.

turns a corner and comes face-to-cornea with a massive metal eyeball. yells in surprise. the eyeball screams, then rears back on the rail suspending it. in its backwards attempt at escape, cracks into a closed door where the rail vanishes, and stirs woozily on its axis.

“what's that then. you alright?” he asks, cringing even as he speaks. it feels more obligate social politeness than actual concern; he honestly could not give one flying fuck about its condition. beyond that, asking a metal eyeball of its well-being seems ridiculous, even in light of this entire weird situation, but it—he—chuckles nervously, looking all at once embarrassed and grateful for the inquiry. an impressive emotive feat, considering he's lacking the other 95% of his face.

“sorry, sorry! you startled me! wasn't expecting a human to come waltzing out of nowhere, considering all of them are dead. corpses usually aren't so ambulatory.” the glowing iris slits to a suspicious blue line. “though in your particular case--”

“you're bristonian,” he says, realization dawning.

“no,” the eyeball chided slowly, with a patronizing squint, “i'm a robot.”

“your accent. you talk like you're from bristol. bristonian.” stubbornly. not getting into an argument with a fucking metal orb. “i heard you speak before, back in that warehouse. you're the one who almost ran me down with a crane. who taught you to drive, mr. magoo?”

“hey now! how about some leeway? bit of a limb deficiency here.” the robot waggles its handlebars in demonstration. “i haven't exactly mastered the art of ten-and-two.” sudden realization: “say, you talk like me! i'd say we came from the same development wing, but that's unlikely, you being organic and all that.”

did he now? that hadn't even occurred to him.

he weighs the language on his tongue, the thoughts in his head, parsing through words, foods, spellings, culture. carparks and car boots, wheatabix, man-u, european craft beers, and a strange smug superiority over chirpy, obnoxious californian twang. and of course, a beautiful array of curse words rolling fluid off his tongue. “bloody hell, sodding, blimey, shagging, knickers, bollocks – oh god, you're right, i'm english too.”

he was a londoner, his accent said as much, though with a sort of languid, unpolished quality that came from excessive travel and extended exile from the mother country. he hadn't been home for a long time. expat? study abroad? he didn't feel like a student, well past adolescence, but he didn't feel like much at all, beyond hopelessly confused.

[iphoenixrising]

200 Followers Prompt Fill

Ah, over 200 actually, so THANK YOU ALL!  I’ve taken a bunch of Asks and answered them here. This is only part 1 tho, so there will be five more I believe? Anway, thanks for the loves :)

From Anon:

Prompt: What if Dick or Jason or both;) are taking care of Tim while he's got the concussion of the century, and staying awake with him and having fun. Tim, noticing Dick or Jason eyeing a really bad scar, and him not being in the right state of mind, tells them where the scar came from. Not from vigilantism or anything dangerous or villainous as Jason/Dick came to expect, but from small Tim taking care of himself (while his neglectful parents were away) and not being careful enough. Love you <3

You got it, babe.

**

And

—W—

Walter is just a pissy companion for the night.

Seriously.

Walter is a concussion that comes with a distinct lack of boundaries apparently. He’s already told Dick how much he just really enjoys his hands, and Jason is now aware of how fucking cute he thinks that little white tuft of hair is, and just…

He’s never going to live this one down.

Ever.

The Perch is at half-lighting, softly curled around the edges of his vision because of things like sleep dep and owfuck. Luckily, the two eldest Robins tried doing a rock-paper-scissors for who got to come find Timmy’s hurt ass—since, well Bats and shit, there was no chance at ever getting a winner. Dick is just that good and Jay cheats like a nasty bastard.

Cue the two of them jimming the windows open shortly after O put out the word of a possibly bad end to a little fight Red might have been in on down in the Narrows. Commence with the Where’s Red? protocol, Bat edition.

In a little less than twenty seconds using nothing more spectacular than his crappy iPhone to hack into some traffic cams, Dick verifies Red is still in Gotham and looks to be moving toward his own little nest in the city.

B at this juncture just waved them both off into the pre-dawn with the same old, same old: call me if he needs transport, call me if you need transport—just call me.

And yes, B is paranoid as fuck—that doesn’t mean his dad instincts don’t rise to the fore, especially when one of his Robins gets hurt…and doesn’t come back to the Manor for proper treatment (reads as mother-henning).

The call was promptly made within twenty seconds of N and Hood breaching the Perch, strafing through the apartment until the injured bird came out of the shower in only a towel, giving them both an ample chance to look him over for anything else. Gloved hands turned and prodded while B asked a ton of questions over speakerphone.

Anything Tim might have had to say is drowned out with a mix between finger wags, the know your limitations speech, and absurdly attentive vigilantes.

N wrangles him to sit long enough for Hood to dig out boxers and sweats, then kneel down to get the things up his legs, and even if his balance is just fine fuck you very much, N still holds him standing for Hood to get them the rest of the way up. A t-shirt is pulled over his head, muffling his useless protests; the only pause in the mother henning is when a short noise escapes when one of the wrangling hands brushes over his bruised (but no longer bleeding) temple.

Hood tilted his chin with absurdly gentle hands, leaning close to get a good look at the scrape while N fits together a small device from pieces hidden around his suit, effectively pulling out a mini X-ray scanner.

Agent A gets immediate results from the scan, looking at Red’s skull for any fractures.

And coffee is made, frozen pizzas thrown in the oven, calming over-protective Bats taking turns changing into civvies, the fight is discussed, and diagnosis per Alfred made.

Of course it’s a concussion, like he hasn’t had enough of them to know.

“What letter ya on, Timmy?” Jason just happens to ask, putting coffee right in front of him.

“I think W, so Walter it is.”

“Right on. Eat yer pizza.”

From there, since, you know, why bother trying to sleep anyway, the three of them end up on his overstuffed couch, watching something he never gets time to check out, and he just blurts out all kind of embarrassing shit.

The worst is when Jay traces a fine white line on the inside of his forearm, making Tim feel even hazier where he’s laying against Dick’s side, nudged between them. It’s telling how close he’s come to being back.

“Where’d this one come from, Timmy?” Is asked low and quiet, in case he might have dropped off (just to be woken up in an hour or so? Nope, all good here).

“Making dinner when Mrs. Mac couldn’t come for a few days,” he blurts out, “I was trying to make chicken the first time and slipped.”

And that is apparently not what Hood had been expecting to hear.

He makes a noise of protest when Dick straightens a little and reaches a bare hand over to grip his wrist and look closer.

“How old were you?”

He doesn’t even have to think about it, and that’s the problem. With Walter hanging with him, his eidetic memory is at the concussion’s mercy, and he blurts out, “almost eight.”

Both vigilantes stop, the creepy-like Bat-stillness. The only movement is Dick’s hand tightening on his wrist and the increasing downturn of Jay’s mouth.

“How long did she leave you alone, Tim?” Dick asks in a low, dangerous voice.

Tim blinks, knowing he’s walking a very, very fine line here.

“She was snowed in at her sister’s house,” he carefully adds, trying to deflect. “It was a bad blizzard that year.”

“You were seven years old alone in a fucking blizzard?” Is the Red Hood’s snarling reply. “Jesus-motherfucking-Christ, Timmy. How many times were you left alone?”

His mouth drops open (because Walter) automatically, but he manages to stop all processes and laugh a little instead. “Having a housekeeper let me have the opportunity to be Robin, you know.”

“Not the point, Tim,” Dick fills in for a not-happy Red Hood, who is still grinding his teeth. Like, obviously.

But there are hands, making him sit up from his comfortable slouch, and his clothes are pushed, pulled, lifted off while the two are looking for the oldest scars, but it’s not enough. And the two finally manhandle Tim up on his feet to strip him down to boxers and take in every mark on his body, causing a flush to stain his cheeks down to his chest while they find, touch, and ask about a majority of the oldest marks, horrified at his years in a silent house, being left to his own devices.

“Mrs. Mac usually made me meals once a week and left them in the freezer. It wasn’t hard to work a microwave.” He argues at one point, and had no idea why Jay looked completely crushed.

“I think it was fine,” he finally tells them, “that they were always gone. I mean, they couldn’t get sick of me if they never saw me, right?”

Dick completely engulfs him in a full-bodied hug, almost suffocating him enough that he has to literally tap out. Just please stop trying to kill me with your love.

“This one?” Jay points to a tiny nick on the back of his right hand by the knuckle.

“Trying to make a grapple so I could follow you and B better,” he yawns, finally allowed to get dressed again.

The grapple, well, it sort of worked, but really no one needed to see the scars from when it failed. The boxers and sweats are, fortunately, covering that one. (Just, it’s bad enough he’s got such a thing for these two anyway and it’s getting worse each time he comes back to Gotham, each time one of them finds him on patrol, calls out, eats roof tacos, just all of it. Their hands all over him is just not fucking helpful and Walter isn’t making the sitch better.)

“How old?”

“…” They wouldn’t want that answer.

“And none of us noticed?”

“Um, well—“ and he breathes and glances over, “I think Jay saw me. Once.” Then Tim’s face gets hot, cheeks flush a little, a sign that draws both older vigilantes like a moth to a flame.

“Timmy,” Dick draws out.

“I…” and he breathes out, “I may have accidentally been trying to get up to the old Mylar building and…”

And he just leaves it off because really.

Dick blinks down at him; he and Jay exchange a look.

Tim wakes up enough to shift, shove the waistband of his boxers down only a few inches or so by his spine, showing them an old mass of white scars. “I think B took a beating at the hands of Killer Croc because Nightwing and Robin were patrolling side-by-side. It was the first time I’d seen you two together.”

And Jay might be smiling rather than smirking because even with the Pit messing with his mind and memories, he knows he has that time, the one Tim’s talking about, buried so deep, a memory so important, not even death, his death, could smear it. And the Robin that never talks about it, about that time in his life, breathes out through his mouth softly.

“Was the first time B got all kinds of fucked, well ‘a-cause of me anyhow.” And Jay smiles faintly, accepts Dickie’s broad palm on the back of his neck. “Nice that someone took a break from his team ta come home.”

“I’m glad I did,” Dick shrugs, grinning back, and both vigilantes look over at their Baby Bird, slouched over. “How did you get the scars?”

There it is, his face heating up again, “I didn’t know you’d be up there, it surprised me so hard, I fell.”

Both older vigilantes flinch. Everyone in the cape and cowl crew knew the Mylar and its damn treacherous design, four stories of possible doom from crumbling brick to thin wrought iron.

“All the way down?” Jason’s eyes are blown wide, picturing a little kid with a camera falling four stories to the unforgiving pavement below.

“Ah, no,” and Tim scratches the back of his neck, cheeks pink, “Robin caught me, actually. Smelled like cigarettes and told me to get my stupid ass home before I got hurt.”

Dick’s brows shoot up into his hairline at the same time Jay’s jaw drops, “seriously, Baby Bird?”

“Yeah,” and it’s low in his chest because, well, he’d already told Jason when the Pit was riding him and he needed something to bring him back, “you were my Robin.” Literally, it’s true.

“I don’t remember it either, Timmy, I’m sorry,” Dick claims softly, a hand inching into Tim’s hair to rake blunt nails gently against his scalp. And he feels awful about it, the majority of his memories from that night about trying to make it work with the kid that took his place as Batman’s partner. It was the first time he’d been back to the Manor for any length of time since their fallout, and Nightwing had been the next feasible step. Something to keep going.

“S’okay,” Tim slurs, falling right into the motion, “big vigilante now, remember?”

Jason hums as Baby Bird’s eyes finally flutter closed and Dick settles him more comfortably against his chest. He finally passes out to the old scars, the foundation of his life, being outlined, and catalogued by the two vigilantes that will eventually be his undoing.

 Justice is Blind AU (for @satire-please) :D

“Ah, there you are, little bird.”

And that voice. He’d know it anywhere. Well, hard to forget the first person that taught you how to maim, isn’t it?

Tim smiles faintly, fingers moving over the grooves of the delicate tea cup in one hand, “long time.”

She hums a little, and with the modified shades covering his dead eyes, the radar array pings just the outline of her lithe form sliding into the chair across from him. The sweet Jasmine always a part of her wafts over in the breeze; she only surprised him being down wind. Well, touché.

“What are you doing in Beijing?” She signals for tea, acting like they’re just here in a random tea house, you know, just hanging out. Not like he was pretty damn sure they’d been an inch from killing each other the last time. But, if there’s one thing he’s learned in his time as part of the cape and cowl crew—bad guys who generally seem to want to kill you? They get all kinds of messed up when the heroes are down for the count.

But Tim Drake smiles, flashing white against the dark sunglasses. “I think you already know the answer to that, Lady Shiva.”

And the gentle laugh rolls down his spine, settles somewhere in the base.

“I suppose you need a reminder then,” and he hears the exchange, get the impression, the outline of the waiter bringing Lady Shiva a fresh pot, her own cup, bowing low in respect.

“Things…are more complicated.” And in his civvies, a young American, ratty jeans and hooded sweatshirts, miles away from the clean-cut CEO he played on video screens wherever he happened to be needed in the world.  It’s been painfully easy keeping shades on, making sure he’s in bright enough rooms to explain it away while keeping the confidence of Wayne Enterprises Board of Directors after the successful transfer of power. In less than five months, he’s already expanded Research and Development, put several new products into Production, made suggestions to exiting products to adapt to a changing world.

Profits were up, the Board was happy, and no one was more the wise about his “condition.”

Except Tam, that is.

Being taken by surprise by the Widower is the epic fail of his life, but to be blinded before he’d even found Bruce?

Not to mention that somehow during the punch drunk blood loss and perpetual night, he’d managed to patch Pru up enough that she could pilot the Jeep to one of the League of Assassins’ safe houses not far from the site of the attack. It was Tam’s bad luck to get snatched up by the League’s spies when word reached them she was hot on his heels, wrangling him for Wayne Enterprises. They thought she already found him and was the only reason Ra’s ordered her alive.

Luck of the draw there.

The downside of it all was that Tam had been there while he danced between the League and the Council of Spiders, trying to acclimate to his new condition, trying to bring everyone down, trying to keep himself from falling apart, not when he was ass-deep in bad guys of oh shit proportions.

And yeah, he’d pulled it all off like a boss. Well, other than getting kicked out of a window to a potentially fatal free fall. That? Slightly sucked.

But, all’s well that end well—he’d pulled Bruce out of space/time with the help of S.T.A.R. labs, sent him back to Gotham, and…

Came directly here.

Tam is covering his ass at WE for a few weeks while he gets his head together. The documentation is signed, sealed, and delivered.

Other than that, well, there’s really no reason to go back, is there?

Bruce will train, get himself back, and take up the cowl. Damian will keep breaking criminal faces. Nightwing will start appearing again.

Everything in its place.

Except—

To Do List:

1)      Figure out where to live

2)      Figure out what to do

3)      Figure out how to do it

4)      Figure out who to do it with

5)      Figure out who to do it against

Yup, that’s why he’s here.

“You must find your balance, little bird.” She sips delicately, “to learn yourself again.”

The laugh coming from his chest is one of those unfunny ha-ha ones because that sounds a lot like one of those crazy platitudes she sprouts just before the fight starts.

“Let me guess,” the radar array pings back, and he gets the impression she’s smiling, “you can help with that, right?”

“I think,” she fills in, steadily sipping her tea, “I have an old acquaintance who may be better suited.”

“He’s in prison,” Tim fills in because she can’t really be suggesting—

“The King Snake is here in Beijing, little bird. Perhaps a week with each of us, and you may find what answers you are desperately looking for.”

His useless eyes are wide behind the shades, his brain picking up on the impossible theme happening here. His career as Robin began with Lady Shiva and the King Snake, Sir Edmund Dorrance, the blind crime lord and exceptional fighter. Kind of fitting to either end his walk down vigilante lane if one of them decides this is the perfect opportunity to kill him, or to give them all the kudos if they manage to get him able to move again.

Either way, it seems like things have a way of coming full circle.

**

*The list is from the Red Robin comic series ;) Just FYI

Angst

travellover1245 said:

Hey! I am craving some angst right now. Any chance you can take up this prompt: Tim/?? with someone else having feelings for Tim that Tim has never or no longer feel for that person. Please and thank you!!!

Angst, babe? Let’s see what I’ve got ;)  Maybe something from the No Home for Dead Birds Verse, yeah? But Mentions of Adult Themes.

**

And it’s more than he remembered.

The sweet press of their bodies together, hands fitting in the most perfect niches of flesh, muscle, and bone; like this body is made for him, made to respond to his touch, made to give in.

His mouth is still soft and always slightly bitter with coffee or sleep deprivation, and it’s almost painful how much it’s like getting something back, something so crucial missing from beside him in bed, in a fight, in the shower, in all aspects.

Thumbs in the dip of hips, moving in circles, and he growls low, refusing to let up, to let go—

He needs this back in his life.

Hands grip his wrists and push.

An abrupt pain arcs in his chest, thumping hard against his sternum.

“Wait,” is hoarse, a plea, don’t go said right into Tim’s mouth.

He’ll swear it was all muscle memory, grabbing on, pressing Tim against the wall, quieting his messy rambles until they’re both panting, ready for more.

Well, that was all before the downward spiral, the one that cost them one former Robin in Gotham—back when he took up the mantle to keep Jason from staining it with blood, from defiling the meaning behind it all, Bruce’s mission. When he made the call for the right reasons…

Not that it mattered now.

“I can’t do this,” and Timmy doesn’t sound any better, pushing away even further, breaking him open wide. “I can’t—I can’t do this.” And the tone of voice, the words, the deep, husky quality fills in a lot of blank spaces for Dick Grayson; he knows the reactions, knows the subtle tells of Tim’s body when he wants. Under Dick’s hands and mouth, Tim had shown all his previous weaknesses in spades, allowing the eldest Robin a look into his very depths, to unravel all the secrets and mysteries. The only time Tim had ever offered insight into his soul.

Being pushed away, denied, is like a stab, sharp, cutting, biting, in the soft meat and ripe viscera rupturing underneath. It literally feels like he’s dying.

“I miss you,” and oh God is it true. He’s been functioning, moving for over a year feeling like one of his limbs has been cut off, turning automatically to talk to someone—who isn’t there anymore. When he’d taken the tunic away, when he’d done it without thinking, without reminding Tim just how much he was needed, wanted, would always, always, be utterly and completely necessary, when he’d done that, he’d been cutting himself off at the knees.   “I miss you and I’m still crazy about you, and—and I did what I thought was right, but I should have done it differently.”

Tim backs up until the kitchen counter in his Perch stops him, looking back at Dick without a cowl or a domino, just those blue-violet eyes narrowed slightly, full of old pain. (And it wasn’t as bad as the look Dick finally saw on old video footage from the Cave, when he was at the big computer with his back to his former boyfriend, missing the way Tim’s expression just crumpled in on itself, a mask of real, true pain before that terrible realization, the ‘I was never really part of it all anyway’ changed his face into the same separated neutrality Dick gets to this day).

And he cuts through Dick’s ramblings, forcing himself not to focus on the sentiments and false declarations (because really), he keeps his tone soft and firm, “unfortunately…I’m not available. Even if I was… I couldn’t. Not with you, not anymore.”

Oh.

Too late.

The pain is an immediate thing, low in hidden places he didn’t realize could hurt like this (too little, too late).

And Dick Grayson just lets his body slide back, brace against Tim’s fridge because his knees feel weak, and for a man that knows his body, knows his limitation, his strengths, his capabilities, he inanely thinks how odd it is. He dives off buildings, throws himself into fights, bends and twists to escape fatal traps, he’s an acrobat, a vigilante, and weakness like this is so uncommon.

With a shaky hand, he pulls at the domino, looking up bare-faced, and makes the question easy, “Kid or the clone, Timmy?”

It’s telling when red heats up Tim’s cheeks, darker against his pale skin, and his eyes move away to an uninteresting spot on the floor, and as absurd as it is right now, with his held hopes crumbling, the old recriminations biting at his heels, that the reaction can make him choke on a laugh, a genuine one. That he can drop his face into a gloved hand and snort because some things just never change.

And even getting this much is more than he could have hoped for.

**

Anon Sick!Tim or Sick!Tony prompt

Okay. But. If you had to choose. Tim Drake being the absolute badass he is but the second he gets sick around someone he trusts he turns into goo. Like be prepared to be a pillow and a servant until he's better where then he'll pretend it never happened. Or. Tony Stark being the badass he is and when he gets sick he gets more stressed (he thinks he's a burden) that he gets MORE sick until someone stops him and makes him sleep and eat and he never forgets so lots of secret gifts.

You know, I’ve done Sick!Tim, so maybe a little Sick!Tony just to round it off ;) And, ah, sorry but just fluffy? Maybe?

**

“Sir, this is the third warning. I have permission to set U lose should you not cease and desist at once.”

J.J.’s voice is just so matter of fact that it actually does permeate Tony’s running train of thought; he leans back from the hunched over crouch, several vertebrae popping in succession.

Unfortunately, leaning back makes him immediately light-headed enough that almost falls off the damn stool anyway. “Well, fuck,” is about accurate. The last fight had more of an impact than he realized.

“Scans indicate your core temperature is elevated.” And, yes, his AI sounds smug about it. All that Sir should rest after that many hits taken in one battle.

Well, going to feel it about now then. Fantastic. Schematics for the new navigation systems are due to R&D ASAP, and there’s a whole lot of damaged uniforms in need of fixing before the next Avengers fight, then he owes Fury the upgraded designs for the new helicarrier’s defense system.

Which means he has no time for this.

“All right,” he claps his hands, completely pretending not to feel the tingly soreness in his muscles, the headache starting right at the base of his skull, or the abrupt chill hitting him right in the upper body, “taking a break, J. We’ll start back on the Nav designs in four hours.”

“In that time, I suggest you contact Dr. Banner for a medical exam.”

“He’s not that kind of doctor,” Tony fills in as he stands, rides the headrush that makes the pounding progressively worse. Besides, Bruce always has to gossip to Nat, and Nat will tell everyone in the Tower just for her own amusement. She is exceptionally good at being an evil hell bitch when she wants. Hm, making a t-shirt with that phrase, just for her. In every color.

“I am certain he has and will make an exceptions for you.” Is J.J.’s smooth attempt.

“Touché, but we’ve already got a protocol,” he waves to DUM-E and U from their charging stations, and as he walks to the double doors (maybe slower than usual), the lights and systems power down behind him. The elevator is already waiting to take him upstairs to the Penthouse where he can start checking the reactor seal, make sure nothing was breached.

But, with the familiar arches and sick sucks feeling, he already knows the answer. A low whistle and Butterfingers is rolling out from the stocked shelves, following his creator to the elevator, and whatever previous events he’s learned from are telling when he sticks his arm straight for Tony to strategically lean on without seeming to do so. The bot probably thinks it’s a game, Tony is grateful one of them has some kind of discretion.

When they make it to the Penthouse, Tony gets as far as the island, sliding himself into one of the tall stools and braces himself for the next few steps. He breathes in, tightening his hands into fists to get the tingling sensation in his joints to calm down enough.

Butterfingers boops at him nonchalantly, small talk how about that weather, while he wheels to the cupboard at the back of the island where his tracks can fit just fine. And yes, the name is Butterfingers, but the bot is completely competent in grasping the handle of the bottom cupboard and opening the door. Likewise, he rolls back in to grip the handle of a large kit inside on the lowest shelf and sliding it on to his chassis to wheel around to Tony with more enthusiastic beeps.

“Mmhm,” his creator murmurs, eyes half-mast, “those really are the best kind of wrenches. Next time I’ll get you something better to play with, okay?”

Butterfingers boops back happily in agreement and lifts the large kit up in a claw, moving back and forth to wave it in Tony’s directions.

The mechanic takes it, choking on a laugh, and starts with the preliminaries. He spins slowly (to keep from falling) to scrub his hands at the kitchen sink in hot water before removing his shirt. He lays out the two sealed, sterile trays from the stacks, and gloves up before he opens any of them.

No blood around the reactor, but the bruising is absolutely beautiful, all dark blacks and purple. Apparently, that hit to the chest was a little more ow than he realized. Any compromise to the skin-on-metal seal could allow on-set infection, hitting his system like a freight train. The plan is to get the appropriate samples, ship them to Helen, and see what kind of antibiotics & etc. he would need to fight it off.

All the pizazz of being the Tin Man. Metal heart and all that.

He starts with a blood draw, leaning back to breathe, gathering himself to be steady when he already feels like doing nothing other than falling into bed for a few hours.

Priorities.

Well, that and a slightly compromised immune systems stemming from the metal magnet in his chest.

The band he manages to get around his bicep is faded blue, the ends already have teeth marks from other instances just like this one; he manages to get it tied without more fumbling than necessary and moves on to open the package with the syringe and vacuum sealed container.

He has to sit back and breathe, working the hand open and closed, getting himself steady before he can stabilize his left hand enough to actually hit a vein.

The bright red splashing into the container makes his eyes hurt slightly above aching sinuses.

Butterfingers accepts the padded envelope, one that would be sent to Helen’s lab for a discreet testing, wheels over to the far wall next to the door, and drops the envelope down a suction tube built in to his floor that could disperse anything necessary throughout the Tower (Pep hated it, just gave him more of an excuse to miss meetings).

The next samples are from the reactor/skin connection, the swab opened in gloved hands, run below the primary casing. It’s placed in a sterile vial with shakier hands, fumbled into a padded envelope and given again to Butterfingers.

Now the rough one.

Tony leans back for another get it together moment, waiting to crack the next swab just to make sure the sample is as pure as possible.

“Sir, this is highly unrecommended,” J.J. breaks in and there must be something terribly wrong with the intercom system in here because the voice cracks, fades in and out a bit.

Tony blinks owlishly up at the ceiling, adds checking the systems as another thing on the honey-do list. He ignores the warning and starts up with prepping his chest for the arc reactor seal to be disengaged and the unit to come partially out of his chest.

“Won’t be a problem,” he assures his AI, fighting down an abrupt roll of nausea. “Just a quick swab.”

Butterfingers boops worriedly at him this time, sliding his arm under Tony’s to brace. Agreeably, Tony wipes down the metal with an alcohol wipe; with a deeper breath than necessary, he palms the reactor and—

Opens his eyes to the Winter Soldier crouching a few feet away on top the island.

In full regalia, Jim’s eyes are granite gray and miss nothing.

Tony doesn’t jerk in surprise, but it’s a good damn thing.

“Troll,” the mechanic sneers.

There’s enough light that Tony can see the flash of teeth, a sharp smile, through the slits in the mask (reads as muzzle).

“Doll face,” Jim cocks a brow up at him, “thought we had a talk about this.”

“How was the mission, dear? Did you get to blow up anything exciting?” He diverts immediately and still feels like crap about it since he’s not in the best shape to meet his significant others home from a hard week at the office.

Jim moves out of his crouch, off the island, to look at the charming, charismatic pain in his ass. Between Tony and Stevie, Jim Barnes had enough to keep him mother hen instinct working overtime for the next seventy years. He works his sleeve up to press against Tony’s forehead, tisking at the smirking mechanic.

“Heya Sugar,” Jim calls to the ceiling.

“Yes, Bucky?” She chirps back, sounding suspiciously smug (and she had better not be on their side now—it’s enough Jim and Steve already have J.J.).

“Tell the others I found ‘im first, okay? Hundred points ta me.”

And because it’s just hilarious, he feels like ass and still laughs at the little things.

Good times.

The mask and gloves come off while he chorts, layers of the Winter Soldier sliding away on the island until Jim’s exasperated face makes his eyes dart away and pause in the last swab of the night, admittingly violating his own protocol for sick is ass. Besides, Helen would be able to make a diagnosis with the samples he’s already sent.

“Hit up Stevie too. Let ‘im know our fella ain’t feelin’ well.”

Oh God, not both of them.

“Completely unnecessary, F.R.I.D.A.Y. Belay that!” Tony leans up enough to brace his elbows on the island, talking that loud making his head do that thing again. He snaps the gloves off, still feeling shaky, “this part? Not conducive to hello, honey, how was your day. But, no, seriously, welcome back. Everyone good? Mission go well?”

Jim already puts a glass of water in front of him and two white pills. The flesh hand against his forehead is nice and warm while the metal one cool on the back of his neck.

“Mmhm. Standard usual, Tones. Y’ didn’t miss nothing good.”

As silently commanded, Tony takes the pills and drinks, keeps going until the glass is empty, and sleepy is starting to look like the perfect state of mind. The bandage underneath the reactor from this morning is still holding, so he can definitely take a few hours to get it together before uniforms in need of mending start coming in from the mission, just another thing on his never-ending plate of shit to get done.

“I hate it when I do, you know,” he returns with a somewhat pathetic yawn, and Jim steps a little closer, the hand on the back of his neck directs his listing upper body right against Jim’s stomach and chest where the Winter Soldier can be a total sap and wrap a throw stolen from one of the couches around his shoulders without letting go.

“Considering yer fevering and already starting with the shakes, I’m glad y’ didn’t come anyhow. J.J. woulda ratted you out faster than Sugar-Pie up there.”

“Need to reprogram him, both of them” Tony huffs right into Jim’s abdomen, eyes half-mast. The metal hand rubbing against the ache in his joints, making him huff out low, almost imperceptible moans (but, well, got pretty good ears over here, doll face).

Jim laughs low and soft, the flesh hand tunnels in to the mechanic’s curls, gently raking nails over his scalp, easing the painful points of the headache.

“Don’t much matter. He knows how ta take care o’ you, so’s only a matter o’ time until we got ‘em both on our side.”

Tony hums (because true, rude but true) closing his eyes, letting himself shiver against Jim and pull the blanket further around his shoulders.

“S’okay, Stevie’s gonna carry ya ta bed and I’m gonna make some warm soup, take the chill outta ya bones. Sound good, doll?”

But the shorter man is already half gone, making Jim’s mouth quirk just slightly.

He doesn’t have to wait much longer for the elevator to open up and the Cap, shield on his arm, to take the floor. Always the strategist, Steve’s eyes take in the scene, narrow, and he’s striding across the room, flipping the shield to his back and pulling his gloves off, shoving them in the tactical pocket of his uniform.

“Whadda we got?” He asks low, taking in the snoozing mechanic.

“Dunno. Looked like he was trying ta take a sample of the AR when I caught him at it,” Jim waves a hand to the open medical trays. “Pretty sure he was gonna pull it outta his chest, Stevie.”

The two super soldiers exchange an irritated glance, but Steve is already bending down, sliding his arms carefully under Tony’s back and knees. Jim’s hands gentle as the two of them ease Tony up into the Captain’s arms (and yes, Steve holds him up high enough to kiss the top of his head a few times, glad to see him after a week of being knee-deep in bad guys).

“Plan?” Jim starts down the hall first, opening the Master Bedroom door for Steve and moving to turn down the blankets.

“You hit the showers first. I’m going to start some soup and sandwiches.”

“Aw, Stevie. I was gonna make matzah ball. You geta wash first, and I’ll throw everything together.”

“Haven’t had the Barnes’ special recipe for a while,” Steve admits with a grin as he eases Tony’s lax form down into bed. “Sounds good.”

“When Tony wakes up, we’ll find out what all the trays are for. Gotta feelin’ this ain’t the usual round o’ the flu.” Jim shakes his head and eases the covers up over the sleeping mechanic.

Steve paces over to the wall-length closet and opens a section—one with very familiar jeans, khakis, and t-shirts. He pulls the black case on the floor, the one Tony made for the shield, out of it place first before getting out of uniform. Jim does likewise, opening his section and hanging up the Winter Soldier gear.

“Something with the reactor, huh?” Steve muses, toeing his boots off. “Anything you can tell us, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“I apologize Captain.”

Both men quirk a brow at the ceiling.

“What if he uses his fancy pass code?” Jim snickers, down to an undershirt and the tight pants. He palms the twin .45s and slides them both into the holsters Tony had built in to the back of the closet door.

The notable pause is well worth the question.

“Avengers Emergency Protocol will allow the Captain to request a medical update of the team members, Bucky,” she fills in after a second. A very non-subtle hint, hint.

The Captain gives a put-upon sigh, “fine. But don’t think I’m not aware you just wanna get something to laugh at—“

“True,” Jim cackles, “don’t mean it ain’t gonna work, babe.”

“All right, all right. You take too much enjoyment outta of busting my balls, Sergeant.”

Now that look—that look is the same one from Brooklyn a lifetime ago, when shameless and scandalous was the fella’s M.O. Steve just laughs to himself when he catches it, when his heart stutters for half a second before righting itself. The curse of any time traveler—metaphysical vertigo.

But Steve puts himself back in the moment. They’ve had a rough week, Tony is apparently working his usual hectic schedule while feeling awful (and yes they recognize the signs and can now do something about it—another glaring benefit in the transition to “significant others” as Tony specified), and the others are in various stages of hurt, tired, and grumpy, getting themselves together on their own floor. The usual post-battle communal meal wouldn’t be for a few hours if everyone is already on their way to sleeping off the mission.

So: first, take care of his fellas, then make some food for his people.

Sound plan. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.? All right, here it goes. ‘This is Captain Handsome ordering you to rock and roll on that 45.’” *

As usual, Jim plain out laughs (softer than normal since Tony is just passed out a few feet away) with it, and Steve gives him a patient look.

“Subject: Iron Man.” A hologram from one of the wall projectors pops up in front of them, a 3D image of a shadowed human body with circular arc reactor in his chest, a red splash of color around the bottom.

“Was it breached?” Jim asks, stepping closer, eyes wider. How long had Tony been getting sick?

“Not substantially,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. fills in. “A small tear in the connection between skin and metal, Bucky. It is, however highly susceptible to infections.”

The two exchange a look. The look.

“What’s Iron Man gotten into while we were gone, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

The AI goes silent a moment. “Boss has been answering the Avenger’s alarm since your mission, Captain.”

“By himself?” Jim interjects, eyes going to the lump on the bed. “We left Bruce and Wanda—“

The soldiers exchange an irritated glance and go back to eye-balling the bed.

“All right. When the team gets somewhat lucid, we’re having a meeting,” Steve growl out, pulling his undershirt over his head.  “Next protocol for consideration: no one goes out on an alarm alone.”

Jim peels his pants down his legs, tossing them in the special uniforms only bin. “He’ll be a pain in the ass about it, Stevie.”

And the Cap, hair a mess from pulling his shirt off, grins a little at one of his two best guys, “really, Buck? When ain’t he?”

They share a rueful expression and lean in, hands pulling, bodies fitting together in all the right niches.  A week of being around the others and toning down the PDA was just professional courtesy, but here, in their own bedroom (well, Tony’s but possession is 9/10th of the law, and they own the mechanic as much as he owns them), they can hold, touch, kiss, and take comfort in intimacy—the same way they did in their shared apartment in Brooklyn a lifetime ago, the same way they did in tents stationed outside France, Italy, Spain, and Normandy. The time may be different, the mad mechanic may be part of their bond now, but this, this, hasn’t changed.

Steve holds on to Bucky for another important second, breathing out against the brunette’s temple, stirring the hair there, and Jim sets his worry for Tony aside just long enough to shudder delicately at the press of skin, at Steve’s arms around him, holding on.

It’s comfortable and necessary, only one thing missing from the embrace—

A small noise from the bed, the mechanic shifting to his side, a hand flung out where other bodies should be.

The two soldiers laugh softly and pull back, looking at Tony with warm, soft eyes. But Jim, as much as he claims the opposite, is just as much of a sap as his two boys, and presses his mouth softly against Steve’s before pulling back to throw on sweats and a tank top. He’d get more details out of the AIs while cooking and fill Steve in on them. Once Tony was up to fill in the extra blanks, they were going to feed him, medicate him, cuddle the ever-lovin’ hell out of him, and make him sleep for another day.

“Going to hit the showers,” Steve leans down, noses at Jim’s jugular.

“Mmhm. I’ll have something fer ya ta eat when ya get out, babe.” Jim just tilts his head enough to allow the touch.

“Still worried too much about me, Barnes. Gonna make ya old before your time,” is a gentle tease, Steve sliding into the old accent when he feels particularly warm.

“Stop doing dumb shit then,” Jim snarks back, not even raising his head.

“Really?” And one broad hand goes up, fast and sharp, comes back down with feeling, aiming for Jim’s right ass cheek, the sound muffled through his sweats, and dammit if he doesn’t have to bite his lip to keep from yelping.

Smart, but Steve is already through the bathroom door, doing a little snickering of his own.

Rubbing the spot, Jim sneers at the closed door, but leans over and presses a few kisses to Tony’s forehead and jaw line without even making the mechanic twitch. Once he was awake, at least somewhat, and they got all the details on how do we take better care of you?, Jim will make sure he eats plenty, takes more medicine, and gets better.

After years of making Steve toe the line, Jim Barnes already has a plan.

**

A noise makes him come to blearily, an itch of panic takes hold. His body works even if his mind hasn’t caught up, legs and hands moving to try and stave off a blow to the—

Broad hand cups the back of his neck, pulls him into a familiar chest where a strong, clear heartbeat sounds like good things.

A hand in his hair, being gentle with nails scratching lightly.

Circles on his back made by a hand without any give.

“—oughta just give her a call, babe. It’s Cho, right?”

“Pretty sure. Don’t think she’ll tell me a whole lot—“

“Aw, Stevie. Like she can resist Captain America?”

Lips on his forehead, warm and just so nice.

“Spiking again?”

“Yeah. Need to try and get some food in him. I don’t like how light he feels.”

“I’ll get a bowl, get Sugar Pie to order us some raw ingredients, make ‘im a couplea good meals. Maybe if he eats, we can get some details on the arc breach.”

“You ask. He gets all weak when you give ‘em that look, Buck.”

“Who ya kidding? You get the same way.”

“…That’s…that’s so true—“

“A’course it is, punk. Just makes ya all the more susceptible ta my charms,” and a soft noise, lips touching, gentle hums.

Consciousness is here, and here to stay (for the moment), and he feels even more like ass when his brain finally catches up with the rest of his synapsis.

The pressure in his chest and sinuses, the ache in his joints, the cold feeling down to his bones, all big flashing signs of reactor breach.

Dammit. One of the unfortunate side effects of having a magnet in one’s chest—getting sick is usually worse than the normal garden variety.

“Hey, hey,” is Steve’s soft voice admonishing when Tony makes the attempt to get up, “don’t gotta move ‘til Buck gets back with some soup, Tony.” And those hands pulling him in just that much closer, do an excellent job of thwarting his well-meaning motion to get up and get back to the workshop.

He rambles, still muddled, about the list of things waiting for him, eyes already falling half-mast because Steve is just always so warm and comfortable, and there’s this perfect place on the shoulder/ collar bone so his ear doesn’t hurt, and he can smell Steve’s aftershave and fresh, clean skin.

“Nope, not happening, Shellhead. No workshop for you.”

The ensuing conversation might have some placating or some justification, but the Captain obviously ignores him, all for keeping a hand in his hair and the other around his back, keeping him completely weak and helpless and—

“Startin’ ta come around, doll face?”

“Work.” Is his slurred return reply because Jim would understand. Things needed to get done and if Tony’s down for any amount of time, who would—

“Ya ain’t going nowhere, Mr. Stark. Already had a word with Pep and One-Eye. Nothing gonna be needed ‘til ya fever’s down.”

Shit. Usually having at least one of them on his side means winning, but it’s really a moot point because he’s getting tired just from being awake and makes a questioning noise while his eyes slip closer and closer to good night.

And the feel of Jim’s warmth against his back again, the other soldier turning him with gentle hold, maneuvering Tony to be laying on Jim’s chest instead of Steve’s. Something warm close to his face, metal arm pressing around him—

“Open up, doll. Slaved over a hot stove ta feed my poor fella.”

And Jim smells absurdly good too, recently showered and shaved (and no fair his brain taunts him, missed the communal shower—saving water and all that), enough that he hums in appreciation and sighs in contentment.

Home. They’re both home—

“S’good ta be home,” is said softly against his mouth while Jim noses at his cheek.

“Missed you two, worried—”

Jim half-hums, half-laughs, and his eyes are that soft kind of gray, one that means he’s happy and safe and—

“Yer a good boyfriend, Tony. Gotta heart and all that. C’mon an open up fer me, yeah?”

When his mouth opens next, something good and warm is spooned in, and he swallows on instinct even if his throat is sore and scratchy. If he was just a little more on the up-and-up, this might be mortifying, being hand-fed like he was helpless. But Jim is relaxed while he focuses on the task, making soft humming noises in his chest, and Steve is right beside him against the headboard, running a hand through Tony’s hair and checking his forehead at intervals.

They talk softly and fondly, mission details he picks up between a spoonful of soup or a drink of water, his mind fuzzy with their presence and the medicine Jim made him take.

And since he’s lying in the tangle of their bodies, being fed, held, and oddly pampered, well, the usual urgency fades down to mild irritation, an itch of creation and completion. But the warm broth, fresh vegetables, noodles, and spices sliding into his stomach rules out the itch just as sure as Steve’s hands and low tone vibrating against Tony’s back and Bucky’s gentle laugh and equally gentle scolding.

**

*This phrase was really one Tony gave Steve in the comics. Lol, just because Tony couldn’t remember his own birthday.

Sad Anon: JLA Posthumous Award

Just throwing this out there: Tim Drake, AKA Red Robin (or whatever alias he was going at that time given his split from the Batfam), is posthumously and unanimously inducted into the Justice League. This could be after he dies during the multidimensional counterattack in the Fractured Destroyed universe/timeline, or some other verse where Tim dies in the line of duty away separate and away from the Batfam.

Tim is remembered as a Robin of legend among the Titans and the JL at large, but the Batfam struggles with their regrets for the rest of their lives. (I might be a little vindictive on Tim's behalf.)

Ah, I did something similar to this one time because SUFFER BATS! Lol, but I’ll give it another go for you, babe, okay?

**

Outside the Hall of Justice, the Batman steps out into the early morning quiet. Flanking him, the other founding members follow silently, solemnly. They stay with him, close, as he lowers each flag to half-mast.

**

The nameplate is added to the wall, below the original seven.

**

For the ceremony, the Titans accept the award, something to hang in their own remembrance hall. They all wear a yellow bandana (red, gold, and green was the OG Rob) tied around a bicep.

Kon-El and Kid Flash are turned slightly, trying to hide wet eyes and trembling forearms, trying to be the epitome of super and hide their mortal weaknesses.

Superman follows the group away and wastes no time in pulling his sidekick right into his chest to hold on, talking softly against the teenager’s ear—how sorry he is, how much Red will be missed, how he’ll be here for Superboy anytime, anytime.

It’s not the first time the hero has ever taken his “clone” (reads as son) into an embrace, given him desperately needed comfort, but it’s still not an easy thing, stiff and awkward, but Superman can’t help it. Some inner instinct drives him forward, wraps his arms around the younger man to just try. When Kon-El allows it, slumps to let the older hero take his weight, to let the pain and recriminations (where were we when he was bleeding out on the battlefield? Why didn’t I hear his heart slowing, stopping, until it was too late?) overcome him, Superman just picks him, carries him like a child while rubbing circles on his back and making soothing noises in the base of his chest where he can.

It’s a crucial moment that shows him how remiss he’s been—the moment he swears Kon-El, Conner, won’t be left alone without a safety net again.

The rest of the Titans disburse before the service is over—BB and Rave leave go back to their own little apartment in the Village to hold one another and remember the bird, their bird. Bunker will be taking some time off, to remember what it is he’s fighting for, or so he tells Cassie before he leaves, back to El Chilar and the man he left behind. If anything, Miguel has learned to cherish what he has while he has it.

Wonder Woman goes for Wonder Girl, making certain she puts a gentle hand to Bruce’s shoulder first, gives him a squeeze, just before she wraps an arm around the floundering teenager and flies.

A small inlet off the coast, a place where they once trained together, where Cassie Sandsmark was first given the lasso and bracelets, was taught how to use them, she tells all the stories, hands shoved in her thick hair, weeping while she recounts the best times, tries to burn them in her memory. It’s Diana that holds on to her, making supportive noises, laughing when necessary, her eyes wet and heavy with the terrible ones. And when the sun sets, when night picks up a peaceful pace in the rhythm of the sea, Cassie feels like she can breathe again without pain.

Without a word, Kid Flash runs. He runs like the world is ending. He runs like the Speed Force is going to suck the life out of him. He runs like he’s trying to escape the future. He runs until he’s screaming.

The Flash finds him in the Swiss Alps, bent over in the snow, tearing himself apart, ripping his uniform because he just wasn’t fast enough. And the older speedster knows what it’s like to bury someone you love that much—someone that would walk with you from one fight to the next, one catastrophe after another, someone that would step out in front of the fatal shot to save you. Someone that knew you, not the mask. And that’s why he doesn’t let Kid, his little bro, fight him on it. It’s why he breaks off from the JLA, lets the rest of them see to the obviously grieving Batman, follows no matter how far or how fast. It’s why he refuses to let Kid push him away, convince him all good, nothing to see here, it’s why he just sits his ass down in the snow and grips the smaller speedster tight, tucking the smaller boy into the shelter of his body to shake apart, to scream, to rip himself apart at the seams.

The bravest thing he’s done all day—is to keep holding on.

**

Flanked by superheroes on all sides, Ra’s al Ghul steps up to the podium, dressed in the colors of mourning.

The immortal speaks briefly on the character of the Red Robin, to agree his membership is long overdue. There is no mention of the Council of Spiders, the Widower that ended his life. The undertone, the he died alone in the desert while the rest of you moved on, is certainly there.

Slyly, he laments the loss of a great detective, one that would have fit among the ranks of the League of Assassins with such ease, and turns just enough to catch the Batman’s shadowed figure, offering his condolences for yet another dead bird.

From the audience of mourners, O makes a note to put cameras up around the sparse span of ground where Red would be buried in his civilian identity. Best not to give Ra’s the opportunity, he already has plenty of motive.

Beside her, Batgirl and the Black Bat look pale and worn against the darkness of their masks and suits, even with the whiteouts, O is aware Batgirl has been crying since she heard the news. Of course, didn’t they all have their regrets? Batgirl certainly for the deceptions and betrayal, the broken friendship and lost respect. And O knows the next few weeks, few months, few years are going to be full of the should’ve, could’ves in respect to keeping up with the former Robin, that maybe a phone call, an attempt to catch up, an attempt to get back into his life, no matter how miniscule, some level of effort on the part of the Bats could have made all the difference.

None of them would have felt like he wouldn’t want them to be here.

All his arrangements had been made, his final wishes come through lawyers not associated with Wayne Enterprises. The instructions were short, and obviously never meant to be seen by anyone in the cape and cowl crew. Just a simple coffin already purchased, an ordinary blue suit and white shirt, a generic headstone with his full name and the dates. O and Agent A are the ones who went to see the stone the day after when B was falling apart, down in the Cave, stripped of the Batsuit, and working the punching bag until Superman finally gave in, came to Gotham, and restrained the Bat in his massive arms, forced him to stop trying to work through the pain with more pain.

O and Agent A let the two heroes have their privacy so one of the few people on the planet Bruce would actually yield to at time could get through self-destructive rage.

Instead, they found themselves on the outskirts of Gotham, a husked-out neighborhood, staring down at the stark engraving, and O could keep it together, did so in fact, for N if nothing else. She prides herself on the ability to keep moving despite all the wrongness of the world, the burdens it wrought upon her, prides herself on the distribution of strength—until she and Agent A realize the only other markings on the stone is a small picture in the lower corner.

A robin.

When she cries, Agent A kneels down with old, creaky knees, wraps his arms around her shoulders, and holds on.

In this moment, with the JLA inducting Red Robin into their ranks, to honor his deeds and sacrifices, O is the one with both arms around Batgirl’s shoulders to keep the teenager grounded, to try and give her some much needed strength. Since Nightwing and the Red Hood refuse to let anyone comfort them, to let anyone near them, this is the best she can do.

**

One week

Robin stands in front of the glass case, staring at the familiar (and yet not) suit displayed. It’s the first one Drake wore during his time in the tunic—red, gold, and green instead of the strict red and black Robin recognized, one that signaled his predecessor’s downfall, when Drake’s Robin lost the vestiges of innocence, of light that previously embodied the Robin mantle, even after the years of fighting the worst, most twisted criminals on the planet. As he learned later, the red and black suit was meant to be the colors of remembrance when really it signaled something in his predecessor breaking open wide.

It is little wonder Father chose this suit to display.  To remember Drake as he was before.

And his eyes take in the details, the shuriken R, the laces over the chest, the nearly imperceptible broken stitches to create hidden pockets; he catches the glint off the ring added to the memorial—the same ring Father wore on occasion, the entire obvious one with JLA in a circle.

He had said the appropriate words during the ceremony: a good soldier. He knew the risks and died bravely. The epitome of a positive demise.

He said the right things Robin would have said about anyone in their ranks.

And yet, he has been in the Cave for hours, staring at this suit.

Father is finally sleeping, the alien apparently successful in pinning him down long enough to let his eyes close for longer than a few moments—to put his grief on hold. Grayson is in the wind, Todd chasing after him all over the country probably. Cain remains in residence, seemingly in no hurry to return to Hong Kong.

The three of them, him, Brown, and Cain, patrolled tonight, planned on where to meet up tomorrow.

Like him, like Father and Grayson and Todd, they show how deeply they mourning by fighting, trying to drown out the emotional pain with physical. The least he can do is be there should the situation become dangerous for them, to try and do his best to protect them, these two Drake cared about so deeply.

He’d played Pennyworth’s role in a safehouse close to the Wallstone apartments when dawn was but a few hours away, patching up the road rash on Brown’s arm up to the shoulder, making Cain wiggle her fingers while he bandaged her bloody knuckles.

When they parted ways, Cain followed Brown back to her own haven, and he returned to the Cave, his own meager injuries notwithstanding.

Rather, it is here, in front of the display where Pennyworth brought him tea and toast, informing him Father was out cold and Kent still in residence. Summer is here and no school to attend, so Pennyworth left him to his thoughts while he stares up at the colors of remembrance.

**

Nightwing has shaken off the Red Hood off his trail twice while he fights his way through Detroit’s seedy underground. He’s in the same suit he’s put on for days, clean, but ripped up and worn, an obvious I don’t give a fuck, I’ll still break you.

The fight tonight is a good one, constant to keep his mind from taking a stroll other places. A lot of guns and knives to keep him on the move, a lot of strong players with righteous left hooks or upper cuts, guys in fight clubs that earn the real cash. It makes the vigilante that much more vindicated when bone crunches under his fist, his boot, when blood arcs wildly, when he takes a few good ones himself.

It’s pain he needs.

And the ghosts follow him when he moves to the next hot spot, only a duffle of belongings for the trip. The next BI safe house is outfitted with the usual gadgets and first aid; he wraps his bad knee and ignores the laptop, the comm link, and anything else that would let O trace him. Instead, he drinks water while standing at the kitchen sink, staring out into the daytime like it’s a curse—he needs nightfall, he needs the dark and the shadows to twist and bend around him (Batman). He needs the fight and all the broken skin that goes right along with it.

It’s the only thing that can stop him from seeing Ra’s al Ghul walking into the Cave holding Tim’s body in his arms, close against his chest.

It’s the only thing that can stop him from screaming until his throat rips and his ribs creak, until his lungs tear, until he can forget the feeling of cradling Tim’s cold, stiff body, of the matted blood around the fatal wound. It’s the only thing that can cover up the recriminations and regrets, the where-were-yous and how-could-you-have-let-this-happen-agains. It lets him get out of the endless loop of reliving the last time they’d spoken in person, when he’d given Damian the Robin mantel without Tim’s knowledge, when he let Tim leave Gotham alone.

In the broken mirror of the shoddy bathroom, his upper body is a roadmap of bruises and contusions, half-assed sewn-up lacerations; he peels the falling apart gauze pads off, ignores the old blood, and gets in a weak shower of cold water, his eyes falling half-mast while the water washes over him.

And it’s just like that moment when he’d taken Tim’s body from Ra’s, fallen to his knees, and laid his cheek against Tim’s to cry, it’s pain and regret, cold and terribly hollow.

It’s a place he expects to be for a while.

**

One year

Ra’s al Ghul is not normally one for anniversaries. In his extensive lifetime, he’s had many moment, dates, he could celebrate, and all those instances would fill a year ten fold.

Rather, he is a man to celebrate accomplishments. The ones in need to careful planning, time, care, those are the ones he chooses to remember.

This will be one of those.

“Demon’s Head,” one of his soldiers bows low, “we are ready at your will.”

“Excellent,” said absently while he raises a hand to the large, wooden box sitting on a stone slab, the usual eerie green glow reflecting off the dark wood. “Prepare the platform.”

His people do as instructed, working to bring the descending platform level. When the Demon’s Head is pleased with the results, he gives a simple nod to continue.

The box is loaded on the platform by four more soldiers, centered perfectly.

“As I once said to your mentor,” he begins casually, “true greatness cannot be learned or acquired. It cannot be made. It must be bred.” The platform rises steadily, pulled by a soldier at either fulcrum points, and Ra’s eyes follow the progression intently. “Those in this world with the genetics are the ones bound to save it.”

Carefully, the platform moves, follows the track until it looms over the suspicious body of liquid. “I had planned to wait as long as necessary. Until you were older, mature, until you understood the real way the world must work and why the balances of power must be occasionally tipped.”

He sighs a little wistfully for those days, for better days.

“The unforeseeable circumstances almost foiled all of my carefully laid plans, plans to tip the balance. Plans that hinge—on you.”

The platform comes to the end of the track and sways just slightly, alarmingly. An ominous click begins a slow descent.

“But we can still have our day, can’t we? You will still save the world. At my side, we will be unstoppable. Where I have failed with others, I will not fail again with you.”

And the platform starts to sink into the turgid green waters, the box sinking with it.

“We shall have our day, won’t we, Timothy?”

**

Thank-you for following and reading! I’ll post Part II when I get them done, lol

[renfys]

Cats Are Idiots: Six Things I’ve Learnt About Cats

Micky

Before having my first cat Micky nearly seven years ago, I’d never had a cat. I hated cats (furry jerks) and I like hamsters. I’m not a dog or a cat person. I am a

hamster person. I have no hamsters at the moment because Kitten ate the last

ones and I can’t risk that again. I have had a lot of hamsters though.

And now have a lot of cats. Two planned, three unplanned. Since my first cat, I’ve learnt a lot about cats. Most of it can be summed up in three words “Cats are jerks.” However, this can be split up into several categories of ‘cats are jerks’, as you’ll read yet. There’s also a couple of other interesting things about cats I’ve learnt that doesn’t make them jerks but certainly adds to it.

So buckle in, we’re starting with the big one:

Cats Are Gross

  Wiggles

I think this can be best summed up by the following scenario that hasn’t happened more than once, to the point where I’ve lost count or just blocked the memories.

  Wiggles eats his breakfast. Apparently putting the word ‘fast’ into a meal has given him all the information he needs for this task and eats it as if the biscuits were mice and about the runaway at any second. He’s always been like this, we think he lived with too many cats and had to fight for food (and usually lost). So he eats as fast as he can. Faster if possible.

And then throws up.

Gross, right? It gets worse. Mostly undigested biscuits are pretty easy to clean up but make me gag a bit cause it’s still cat sick. This doesn’t seem to be a problem for Reb Brown who will eat partly digested cat biscuits. And other partly digested food.

Regularly,

Just writing it makes me gag a little.

There is so much more I could say, Kitten won’t use a litter box, Stink won’t either and also sprays inside if he’s waited too long for breakfast. They lick their own bums and the bums of each other. They get blackheads on their chins and bogeys. Wiggles has the most horrendous wind right now and I swear he’s trying to kill us. I could write an entire blog post just on how gross they are but I don’t think I have the stomach for it.

Not All Purring Is Good

When cats purr it usually, nine cats out of ten, means they’re happy and content and will have more fuss, please. However, on occasion, there is a cat that will purr when he’s happy and when he’s frightened, angry, upset, suffering from an existential crisis. I don’t think it’s common, I’m six cats in and so far only Wiggles purrs when he’s upset as well as when he’s happy.

And he purrs all the time.

I have no idea what’s going on with him most of the time. Is he purring because he’s hungry, happy dinner is coming soon, He’s always purring. Purring when he’s being fussed, purring in his sleep, purring when Snappy rugby tackles him for a hug. Purring when I’m trying to get rid of the damn blackheads on his chin (see above). Always purring.

The other four only purr when they’re happy. Kitten only purrs when she’s being fussed and she already relaxed or when she’s with her grandaddy cat Reb. Merry purrs between the hours of ten at night and two in the morning when it’s her designated fuss time (designated by her, not us). Thos four idiots are easy to figure out (well) but Wiggles, is always bloody purring.

Grass Is Good For Cats

In his favourite baking tray.

I had a dog when I moved to Wales called Danny. He was a cairn terrier, the runt of the litter, my parents didn’t expect him to live for more than two years cause he had a suspected hole in his heart (jokes on them he died at fifteen). He would eat grass and one of two things would happen. He would throw up grass or he would have green diarrhoea.

My cats eat grass and when I first saw Wiggles doing it I lamented the fact I would see it’s unpleasant green return from either end. Or knowing Wiggles both just to wind me up. When neither happened, my wife explained that grass is good for cats, and it aids in their digestive system.

And, and, you can actually buy grass for cats in little posts. Just in case you live in a block of flats in the middle of the city devoid of grass (or they’re indoor cats like mine were before we had a child).

Cats Are Idiots

You know all those cats on films, evil geniuses and tv cats that catch mice and are almost useful. Yeah, no, What I have are four idiots and a Hollywood cat. Kitten is my Hollywood cat. She catches mice (and rats and birds and recently almost caught a shrew) and comes in at dinnertime and uses the catbox we (my wife) made for them if they’re every outside in the cold or wet weather.

The other four are idiots. Even Merry. I mean, on a sliding scale of stupid she’s the smarter of the four, but it’s not a great scale. And it’s pretty a pretty steep drop down to the other three. Merry ate the shrew Kitten had been hunting, either she stole it off Kitten or caught it after it had been traumatised by her. Wiggles ‘caught’ a bird once though I suspect it died of natural causes and fell on his head. The chickens have killed more rodents than the four of them put together.

Reb must’ve been able to catch animals once upon a time. I mean he was wild and free before moving in with us and definitely not underfed. Though he could’ve been hitting up crazy cat lady every day and a few other old ladies in the village. Stink is an idiot but a sweet idea, however, he is the only cat I know of that does not land on his feet.

I’ve seen him do it once, from a foot in the air. Any higher and he belly flops or lands on his side.

These cats have nine lives and this is what they’ve chosen.

Cats Will Sleep Anywhere

“If I fits I sits.” is definitely and sadly very true. And so is ‘If I don’t fits I sits’ because, well, see above.

Right now, our current problem is the fact that Reb keeps trying to sleep in my wife’s tray of pea seedlings. There is a circle that has not sprouted that matches his bum. It’s not evidence you can take to court, mostly because you could get laughed at but considering we’ve seen him sitting on said peas is pretty damning.

I’ve seen then sleep sitting up in boxes, curled up like doughnuts on counters or cushions or on top fo my PlayStation four – that’s a very popular place right now as it heats up when we’re playing video games. Kitten likes to sit on shelves. Wiggles likes to go to sleep loafing on my wife’s back at night. We usually have one cat in bed with us at night. They also sleep in Snappy’s cot – sometimes with him but they usually wait until he’s asleep first before getting in.

They will sleep on top of each other too, my three boys sleep in a big gay cat pile sometimes and I’m not even sure how they all breathe in there. Especially whoever’s at the bottom. For over a year they’d been slipping in an old rusty baking tray we’d been using to catch water from a potted plant. They killed the plant by knocking it over and then took over the pan. We put a blanket it in it because it was pathic. At Christmas, we upgraded them to a wicker biscuit.

Only for them to ignore it so they could sit on the peas…

I could go on. And on. And on.

Cats Will Eat (Almost) Anything

I’ve talked about this before, and as mentioned above, cats will eat vomit. And not just their own. They will also pretty much eat everything else ever. The only thing they won’t eat is chocolate. I’ve noticed a couple of times now that they will not steal chocolate. It’s like they know its poison. Which seems unlikely cause they’re idiots (see above) but possible.

However, they will eat anything and everything. Wiggles especially – I’ve written about it before.  He will pretty much eat most veg and anything else you don’t want him to have. I need to write part two on the things he stolen and eaten. It’s such a big problem now that we have to feed him in a  special bowl and lock him in the bathroom on his own.

Kitten has eaten mice, rats, birds and shrews so far. that we know of at least. its good that she can kill rats but not so great for the other small creatures.

Easy(ish) To Look After (very) Hard To Live With

Don’t get me wrong I love my cats a lot. Even when they’ree in the way causing me injuries and generally being a pain in the arse. I don’t nee anymore though, no matter how sweet the ginger Tom is. I could do with fewer cats but I’m stuck with them now.  The Cats are jerks but they’re my jerks.

I’m sure there is more to learn too, and there is more to say. What have you learnt about your pets? Anything weird or unusual? Let me know in the comments.

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