#honestly am starting to think the only reason this problem (repeated dislocations) has only just flared up is because i am lazy

[fingertipsmp3]

Everybody: physical therapy hurts! You’re going to feel like you’ve been beaten up after you get out

Me: yep okay

Me when the physical therapy hurts:

[ali-kitkat]

Where Did You Sleep Last Night? Blooming Dread.

Damian rarely stayed in for the night; he preferred to patrol the city as Robin, but he’d chosen to stay in for the night and help Alfred and Gordon run comms. He was pulled from his musings by the manor’s proximity alarms going off, someone was on the grounds and checking the security feeds showed a girl.

“Marinette.” He breathed. He could hear the shakiness in his voice.

She looked as if she had walked out of one of Drake’s beloved horror films; she was bruised and battered and swaying side to side. Her right was cradled by her left and she was favoring her left leg, while attempting not to fall over. Only unbalancing herself further. She had a black eye, a cut on her cheek and a split lip. Blood had pooled at the corner of her mouth.

Her knees were exposed, showing bruises and skinned knees. One leg was torn more than the other and there was a half-circle of smaller bruises above her favored knee. The worst of her injuries was her side, her floral dress was bloody, someone had slashed her side open. She had four long lacerations bleeding severely.

He rushed from the cave to the front door. When he reached it, he hadn’t realized he swung it open so abruptly, startling Marinette and causing her to back away from him in fear, stumbling on a possibly broken leg.

“Who did this to you?” His voice was hushed, but his anger was unrestrained. She looked at him with such fear and apprehension that his breath hitched. Her swaying was worse, and he lunged forwards, catching her before she hit the ground. He wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth. He forced himself to relax.

“Habibti please.” He pleaded, voice cracking slightly and an urgency in his tone.

“Adrien.” She mumbled; her face half buried in his shoulder as she started sobbing. His heart ached at the sound.

He gathered Marinette gently in his arms and carried her inside, whispering words of reassurance to her as her sobs had subsided into whimpers. Her body went limp and her head slipped off his shoulder. He stopped in his tracks, frozen in fear. He let out a sigh of relief when he felt her labored breathing. He’d always been aware that Marinette was small but holding her unconscious form in his arms made him all the more aware of just how small she really was. Every instinct in him screamed to tear Agreste apart. They also demanded not to let her go.

“Master Damian, if you would please carefully place Miss Marinette on the dining room table for her wounds to be tended to? Miss Cassandra, Miss Stephanie if you would help tend to her wounds as well?” Alfred asked, causing him to look up from Marinette’s bloody face, which had scrunched up in pain from his abrupt movement. He hadn’t realized his family had returned until he saw them standing behind Alfred. Hell, he didn’t even notice he never made it back to the cave. He was standing in the middle of the hallway holding Marinette. It felt as if all the air in the room had been sucked out, everyone staring at him.

The blood that had soaked her dress was seeping through and soaking his own shirt making him realize that if he didn’t place her on the table, she wouldn’t make it and he knew he wouldn’t recover from that.

Marinette let out a small noise of objection as he gently set her down on the table. He sighed as he pried her hands off his shirt, she didn’t want to let go, and it would’ve been cute had it not been for the circumstances of why she did it.

It was as if Marinette knew he was leaving her side and she wasn’t happy about it. When she finally let go of his shirt, he left the room, Marinette deserved her privacy.

He settled on the floor just outside the door, away from Marinette. His blood boiled as he sat there, just staring at Marinette’s blood on himself. He wanted answers and since only two people knew what happened and with Marinette unconscious, he would gladly maim Agreste to get them.

“Did she tell you what happened Baby Bird?” Dick prodded gently, interrupting his thoughts. Todd and Drake were staring at him, their expressions tight with worry.

“Agreste.” He snarled.

“Agreste,” Dick repeated in confusion, “as in Adrien Agreste?”

“That’s the guy harassing her.” Todd voiced, as Drake nodded his head in agreement. It took all his willpower not to throttle his brothers for the information he was lacking.

“What do you mean harassing her?” He demanded, rising to his feet. Marinette had never mentioned being harassed by anyone, at least not to him. He was conflicted; she clearly trusted his brothers enough to tell them about the harassment she was facing, but not him. What made him so different? “Answer me.”

“She said he was invading her personal space, not taking no for an answer, I don’t think she thought he was going to escalate.” Drake elaborated.

“I want to tear him apart just as badly as you do right now.” Todd snapped. “But you’re the one that Pixie trusts, she came to you instead of going to the police or a hospital, don’t let her wake up not knowing where you are.”

“And since did you care about Nettie?” Drake inquired, staring at him, brows raised.

He growled. “I don’t, not that it’s any of your business, Interloper.” Drake and Todd gave him a disbelieving look.

“Boys.” His father interrupted, cutting through the rising tension in the hallway. They all turned to him, expectant, the air ripe with anticipation. “Alfred and the girls are currently tending to her injuries. She has a broken leg, dislocated shoulder and four lacerations on her side. Her leg has been set and she will need a proper cast from the hospital but for now she has a split. Her shoulder has also already been realigned. They’re working on stitching her side up now.”

“I’m going to eviscerate him.”

“I’d like to claim bullshit about your previous statement, ‘I don’t’ because that was fake as fuck.” Todd snarked. He glared at his brother and lunged forward only to be intercepted by Dick. He fought the urge to elbow his brother in the ribs and let Dick drag him away rather than wait impatiently by the door.

Dick dragged him into the living room, not far from the dining room for which he was thankful and stared at him for a moment before speaking. Well, implored more than anything. “Talk to me Baby Bird. You’re wound up tighter than usual. Something is bothering you; we’re not leaving until you tell me.”

“That’s the problem. I’m unsure.” He sighed. “Drake was right, you know how much I loathe to admit that. I’ve been less than cordial with Marinette; so, why am I so ready to protect her? I didn’t even want to let her go Dick. The only reason I did was because if I hadn’t, she would have died.”

“Do you have feelings for her?” Dick questioned; he opened his mouth to refute but Dick held up a hand making him stop. “Just think about it. Do you have feelings for her? They don’t have to be big ones or anything extravagant. How do you feel about her? Because from where I stand and your words alone, it doesn’t sound as if you’ve given it much thought.”

Did he have feelings for Marinette? He wasn’t sure. He actually had to think about it, as Dick said he hadn’t given it much thought. Normally he’d reply with how much he couldn’t stand a person, about how they were stupid or annoying but with Marinette the longer he thought about her the more complex his feelings got.

He didn’t hate her; he quite liked her intelligence but that certainly didn’t mean he was in love with her either. His feelings for her were a mixed bag of explosives.

He admired her tenacity; she was a new kind of stubborn that he wasn’t used to dealing with. Kindness was something he was taught to exploit and that it was useless, that it was used to garner favors or sympathy and the such. Marinette never used it in such a way though, she was a fountain of unreasonable kindness. She baffled him.

She treated everyone kindly, no matter who they were or what they had done. Including himself, he’d been rude to her the first time they’d met, and she never let it get to her. She told him she wasn’t trying to be friends with him for his money, or family name and he only huffed in response which prompted her to glare at him in a way that rivalled Dick’s own disappointed expressions.

Though that didn’t mean she let others walk over her. He had seen her deliver tongue lashings to people who were rude, she glared at them until either they apologized or walked away. The first time he’d seen her stare at someone else, other than himself in disappointment was an interesting experience to witness.

She was truly something else entirely. She had gained his respect and that was hard to accomplish.

The first time he’d called her by her first name came to mind, her smiling face. It was one of triumph and elation, he didn’t even realize it was a memory he cherished until now.

Marinette was someone he cared about, romantically, and he hadn’t even realized that until just now.

“I care about her.” He whispered; dazed by the revelation.

Dick snorted and laughed. “That’s not really new news, though I’m glad you care about her.”

“I hate you.” He groaned. Dick gave him a droll smirk. “I—”

“You?” His brother badgered, ginning like a fool. He let out a sigh, controlling the urge to smack him.

“I don’t know, honestly.” He sighed. He’d rather not admit to him or out loud that he had romantic feelings for Marinette. “I could grow to like her.” He admitted softly after a moment. He refused to acknowledge Dick, who had started humming in a knowing falsetto.

[lilsherlockian1975]

I need to unleash about my family and, unfortunately, I must do it here. Else I explode!

Feel free to ignore me but I could really use some love and support. It’s under the cut...

Backstory: About two years ago, I got into a HUGE fight with my oldest sister regarding my mother and her finances. I will admit, I’d made some mistakes. Let me be clear: I wasn’t spending her money - far from it - I had neglected to pay her property taxes at the house she all but abandoned when she moved in with us 7 years ago. Honestly, I lied to my sisters the handful of times they bothered to ask about it (they were more than happy to just ignore most of what was going with her and let me ‘deal’ with everything). I was overwhelmed and refused to admit that I needed help. 

**I hate to fail. Hate it!! Especially in the eyes of my family.**

So, I blew them off, “Yeah, all taken care of” when frankly, I had no idea what was going on with it. I didn’t have access to mom’s checking account was not (am still not!) on it, even though she has asked me to do so several times. It’s too much. I have enough on my plate to take on her money as well. 

I take care of her entirely alone. Not just a bit, I literally do everything for her except feed her and light her cigarettes (although on bad days or if it’s windy, I sometimes do). At our old house, she could at least get around, somewhat on her own, but not here. Someone (90% of the time me) has to wheel her from room to room and outside to smoke. 

Since moving, she seems to be in the beginning stages of dementia (I have a Speech Therapist coming over this week for an assessment). She has good days and bad. Sometimes, on bad days, she forgets how to walk - and when I say walk, I mean transfer from chair to wheelchair or wheelchair to toilet and so on. Last night, for instance, after her bath, she suddenly forgot how to stand and pull up her diaper at the same time. I was forced to hold her full weight of 200lbs and pull up the diaper at the same time. She put all her weight on my left shoulder, dead weight. I managed to keep her from falling, but because she’s so short (about 5′1″ and I’m 5′11″) I had to drop to my knees and brace her like I was changing a toddler. I thought she’d dislocated my shoulder but in now I think it’s probably just a pulled muscle. We’ll not talk about my knees, which aren’t in good shape from years of abuse, playing sports.  My point is: this is fucking hard. I quit my job to do this and it affects every aspect of my life, my marriage, my family. My typical day starts at 7.30am. If I’m lucky, Mom’s still asleep when I take H to school, but she’s always awake when I get home, yelling my name: Liiiiilllliiiiaaaan! In a sing-song voice. I HATE my name. Please never call me Lillian. Ever! I help her out of bed and into her wheelchair - about half the time she’s either soaked the bed (thankfully, my brilliant husband bought her a water-proof hospital mattress and it can be cleaned easily with bleach - but the laundry is another story), peeing through her diaper or crapped herself - no matter what time I get her up. We wheel into the bathroom and I clean her. If it’s bad (a nasty poo): Bathtime! If not, I still have to clean my mother’s bottom and girl-bits (repeat that about 4 to 5 times a day). She wants her meds next (my mother LOVES taking medicine) then wants to smoke, so it’s off to the porch. While she’s out there, I prepare her breakfast (usually an Ensure, some fruit and something sweet - old people love sweet things because those are the last tastebuds to ‘die’, or so I’m told). I’ve also been giving her some tea to replace the craptastic Diet Rite that I now refuse to let her have (she’s still mad at me about that one!). She’s usually good for about an hour or so, then it’s back outside for more cancer sticks. In between her smoking trips, I’m cleaning, doing laundry and P’s homeschooling (which is basically at an end, but he’ll be doing a smaller summer program too). Sometimes she naps, sometimes, when her bipolar is flaring, she calls me over and over, just for attention. I understand, it’s part of her and there’s nothing she can do about it. Then lunch (and clean up, because she always drops food) smoking, bathroom, smoking, bathroom. Dinner - clean up. Smoking, bathroom, smoking, bathroom. She’s suddenly refused to read - the only thing I remember actually doing from my youth - and now obsessively watches CNN. I feel responsible for this; I’ve turned my conservative, fundamental Christian mother into (and I’ll quote my beloved father on this one) a Pinko! She’s a liberal all of a sudden. Whatever. Every other day, she gets a bath. Once a week I wash and set her hair. I have to apply eye treatments, help her with her nebulizer, and administer her meds (if not, she overtakes them). I also try to keep her mind engaged, hoping it will stave off any deterioration that’s happening, talking about current events, reading my (not smutty) stories, asking any questions I can think of to make her brain ‘work’. She goes to bed at 10 on the dot every night and FINALLY, I can be alone with my husband if we manage to get the boys to leave alone, that is. 

Why would I do this? And, why am I bitching? I asked for it, right?

I’ve only mentioned this once before, and just recently broached it with my psychiatrist (because he figured it out, the sneaky bastard! “Lillian, did your father pointedly ask you to take care of your mother before he died?” - Internally: Of course he did, you sadist! Out loud: “Yes, he did. And I promised him I would.” - “What did he say? His exact words? I know you remember them.” - I really don’t want to do this... “Someone will have to take care of her, Lillian, she’s never taken care of herself. Never balanced a checkbook, never pumped her own gas. I can’t leave not knowing she’ll be okay. I love her too much...” I’ll never forget it. That man’s devotion is why I’m so fucked up! “And you feel like you can’t let him down?” Fuck me! Now I’m crying!)

I don’t know if he had similar conversations with the other kids (three of them, all much older and none of them with kids at home! Frankly, I don’t care. ALL of them make significantly more money than me and Mr Lil - we are practically destitute compared to all of them!) but I got her and she’s mine. I do this because it’s the right thing to do.

Now, to my current frustration, finally. Gin, my oldest sister, is selling mom’s house for $10,000. It may be worth more, but this is not my problem. Mom’s agreed to it and I don’t want to be involved. Her day to day care is my problem, not her money. I don’t touch it other than to reimburse us for what we spend on her, and nothing more. Mom, on one of her better days, told me she wants to pay me for caring for her, but I’m afraid about the backlash from the family. Mind you, she (alone!) makes more than we do as a family of 4. She also wanted to give us $2000 toward the house. I refused it for the same reason. She doesn’t know this, thinks I took it.  Gin has access to her account - she put herself on the account - she did this even though mom wasn’t really comfortable with it. Today, she texts me & our other sister in a group text, telling me to send a $3000 check to pay off the back property taxes (that she was supposed to be taking care of since I failed to... um, she failed as well, what do ya know?!). I text back, ‘can mom pay that much at once’ - she says, ‘yes’ - I still have to buy mom’s meds and a new walker this week and all her normal expenses, so I ask Gin how much mom has in her account. Her response? ‘Enough, Lillian. Just send the check.’. 

I ask you, how is that suppose to make me feel? It’s like she doesn’t trust me with the amount. Like I’m gonna go nuts and buy myself somethin’ French! But the idiot doesn’t realise that I have the account holder in my living room. I have mom call the bank and find out. She’s got well over $6000. How is that not enough to know that I’ve not been thieving from our mother?!  I’m so tired of being trusted to wipe her ass but not with anything else! I work my ass off for her - never going on vacation, never really taking much (or any) time for myself while the others take two, three, four trips a year. I can’t leave her alone and just go shopping or have a day out with my family. The other night, we wanted to go out to eat and try the new Mexican place in town. Mom didn’t want to go. We couldn't leave her, so... nope. Pizza again. When the four of us went to see End Game, my mother-in-law came to sit with her, not either of my sisters (and certainly not my worthless brother who, admittedly, lives 3 hours away but hasn’t phoned ONE TIME in the last 7 years to check on her... or me!). They couldn’t be arsed. Gin has promised over and over to ‘take her for the weekend, every two weeks’ to ‘give me a break’. It’s happened once, the weekend we moved. Never before, never again. She’s never really thanked me, even though she told our sister that she has. After returning mom after the move she told me that she told her husband, “Lillian deserves sainthood for doing this every day. Mom exhausted me and I only had her for two and a half days.” It was the only (I’m not even exaggerating) time she’s ever even mentioned how hard this is.  I don’t want anything from them. I don’t ask for their help because I know they won’t give it (my middle sister actually said, ‘don’t ask me to help with mom, I won’t do it’) but how about not making me feel like a dirtbag? How about, I don’t know, saying, “Hey, Lillian, Mom has plenty of money, you should pay yourself a bit every month. You work hard to make her quality of life really good and deserve it.” Or even a simple, “Thank you. Thank you for taking care of our mother, we appreciate that you do it and we don’t worry about her safety and wellbeing.” No one has EVER said this to me. Not once. 

[unavenged-robin]

Petrichor

Petrichor (n) the smell of earth after rain.

Or the one where they can’t take death seriously anymore (even if it still hurts).

Read on Ao3

He gets the call around 4:00 AM in the morning and almost dislocates his shoulder in the attempt to grab the phone on the nightstand without raising his head from the pillow. Once he sees the name on the screen he’s really tempted to just throw the phone away and go back to sleep. He answers it just because of Dick. A lot of his decisions lately are because of Dick. He doesn’t know why or, at least, he’s never in the right mood to get all introspective and actually find out all the reasons for this new misplaced sense of guilt that’s been affecting him since the day of his brother’s funeral. Like with almost every other thing in his life (and in his death) he just goes with it.

“Hey B.”, he forces himself to answer, keeping his voice purposely rough to make sure Bruce understands he’s bothering him without actually telling it to his face. Baby steps, he supposes.

Bruce doesn’t seem to care about his subtleties anyway, because he only grunts into the speaker of his comm.

“Damian’s missing”, he says, getting straight to the point. He doesn’t add anything, doesn’t even pretend to ask for his help, he just expects it right away.

And a month ago, hell, even a week ago, Jason would’ve answered with something along the line of “and why should that be my problem?” or even a more straightforward “the fuck I care?” and then hung up on him for good measure, but now those words barely flash through his mind while he gets up from the bed and starts looking for his boots.

“Is that a “someone kidnapped him” missing or a “I yelled at him and he stomped away and when I checked his room he wasn’t there and now I can’t find him” missing?”, he asks, knowing that whatever the answers is he’s going to help anyway. Though the first option sounds honestly better to him, at least there would be someone to punch. But Bruce doesn’t answer him, so.

“Okay, the second one then”, he sighs, not surprised at all. “Did he take his bike or one of the cars? Please tell me he didn’t take the jet because I’m honestly not awake enough to fly around the States looking for your son.”

And again, a month ago, hell, even a week ago, Damian taking off to blow some steam on his own wouldn’t have been such a big problem. Rather the contrary, in fact. Often enough giving Damian some space was the best course of action for keeping the good health of everyone involved. But right now the kid is dealing with both his own resurrection and the death of the person he arguably loved more than everything else in the world, his own parent and maybe even his own pets included. Because the shit in their life works like that. Go big or go home it’s the ongoing motto.

“All the vehicles are accounted for”, Bruce answers. “At least all the ones we are aware of. He could have some of his own stashed away somewhere.”

Considering the kid’s passion for whatever motorized thing he could get his little hands on to make it fly or run twice its normal speed, the idea of him having some sort of secret mechanical workshop hidden in the city is not crazy at all. It wouldn’t be a reassuring thought the most of times, and now less than ever.

“But he took off from home on his feet, right?”, Jason asks anyway, hating the way his voice cracks a little around the word home and hoping Bruce’s too distracted to notice. He blames the lack of sleep for that slip of the tongue. And Dick. Alive or not, Dick’s always the one to blame when it comes to family.

“Yes, I believe so”, Bruce’s voice is tired, but Jason’s doesn’t care all that much about it. Knowing him, he’s brought this over his own head (and over Jason’s head too, apparently, and that earns him even less sympathy from him.)

“Anyone else looking?”, Jason asks again, putting on the first more or less clean shirt he finds on the floor.

“Red Robin and Batgirl are on it.”

Jason whistles, picking up his jacket and the bike’s keys.

“Then you can relax, old man. I mean, if we’re not a match for your ten years old we might as well hung up capes, computers and guns once and for all.”

“Mh”, Bruce answers noncommittally. He sounds suspiciously resigned. Like he’s just waiting for the next blow to catch him off guard.

Jason stops with a hand over the door handle, unsure of what to say next.

“C’mon Bruce, it’s Damian”, he tries slowly. “He’s going to be okay, you know?”

“He was Damian last time too”, Bruce reminds him sharply. And one could put Dick or even Jason instead of Damian, and the implications wouldn’t change. It irks him right away, and even if he’s actively trying not to be an ass about this whole thing, he doesn’t have a lot of patience for Bruce to start with.

“Okay, okay”, he returns, voice just slightly annoyed. “Don’t get all batshit now, we’ll find the brat. I’ll call you when I have news.”

He hangs up without a goodbye and just stares at the closed door.

He doesn’t have to do this, it’s not his problem. Sure, he cares about the kid - about the entire family, if he’s going to be honest with himself - there’s no use in denying it after he went over himself to help Bruce get Damian back. And he would do it again. There’s no doubting his help in case of emergency, that’s pretty clear to everyone. But this is not an emergency, this is family drama and he doesn’t have to get involved. Mostly because he knows that getting involved one time is going to set a dangerous precedent, and soon enough he may find himself running around Gotham every time Alfred runs out of milk (not that he would deny Alfred anything if he ever asked, but it’s the principle of the thing.)

He jingles the keys in his fingers for a moment, then he sighs.

Damian’s missing and Jason has to care about it. He blames this too on Dick. He’s pretty sure that now he’ll feel obliged to do the brat’s bidding and endure his outbursts just because of Dick. Because he’s not there to do it anymore. Because he would appreciate if Jason stepped up and took his place. Because there is a heartbroken child wandering alone into the night and Batman is after him (because Jason has no doubt Bruce geared up into his costume and all to go after Damian. It mustn’t have even crossed his mind, the idea to do it as himself, as Bruce Wayne. To just get into one of his expensive cars and go after his son in his pajama and slippers like any other normal father would. It’s one of those thing Bruce just doesn’t get.) (Although, to be fair, this is Damian, so the possibility of ninjas and weird villains and god knows what other unspecified dangers could be happening anyway, but honestly, that’s not how it feels. This feels like a kid’s temper tantrum, one of those crazy things that happen to normal families too. And no, the irony’s not lost on him.)

Jason grabs his helmet and locks the door, and doesn’t even bother to take his guns with him.

*

He calls Tim before starting the bike, just to have a second opinion.

“He called you too, uh?”, he doesn’t sound surprised. To be fair, there are very few things that can truly surprise Tim anymore.

“Yeah. You know how he is”, Jason answers.

They both know how Bruce is. Bruce is focused. Usually on more than just one thing or one person, but lately Damian has understandably stolen all of his attention. Which makes this missing business even more ridiculous, because after all that happened one would expect from Bruce to be a little bit more attentive to Damian’s whereabouts. Like, plant three different tracking devices on him attentive, at least.

Tim sighs in his ear, and he sounds as tired as Jason feels.

“Yeah”, he replies. “Which is why I’d like to find the demon brat as soon as possible and just go back to bed.”

Jason hums in agreement.

“Do you know what they were fighting about?”

Tim hesitates in a way that makes Jason think that yes, he does know, but also that he kind of feels guilty about knowing.

“Timbo?”, he prompts him.

There is another hesitation, longer this time.

“Dick”, Tim finally answers, and the pain is so damn clear in his voice. Damian may have been closer to Dick lately, but Tim had spent half his childhood with him. He was, in a sense, the first real brother Dick ever had, because if he and Dick had to be honest about it, then they’d have to admit that Jason became Dick’s brother in retrospect, when it was too late. Never when he was actually there, because Dick was still young then, and angry. Having been there and done that, Jason doesn’t blame him anymore, but now he wonders if Tim knows it, if he knows how much his presence has reshaped the family dynamic, so that Robin didn’t have to be an only child anymore. Somehow he doubts it.

Jason rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s really happy he was not there to hear the fight between Bruce and Damian. They both could be deadly vicious with their words (other than with their fists and their knives, obviously.)

“Obviously”, he repeats out loud. “Alright, where are you?”

Tim gives him and address and Jason frowns. It’s closer to his territory and that’s not a place where he wants an angry Robin to be wandering around. He hopes Damian’s not anywhere near there, and already regrets leaving his guns behind.

“First one to find him gets to swat him before calling Bruce?”, he dares Tim.

“Nope. If you want to volunteer for being a victim of fratricide that’s your problem”, Tim retorts. “Leave me out of it. I’ve already suffered my fair share.”

“Fine, Red Chicken”, Jason scoffs before hanging up. “You’re no fun at all.”

*

He calls Barbara and Alfred too, just to know which territories have already been covered. He doesn’t bother with Bruce because he’s pretty sure he’s doing a recog of the whole Gotham and trying to talk him out of it would be a waste of time.

In the end Jason happens to know just a little bit more than the rest of them about daddy issues, dead children and dead children coming back to life, and that’s probably why he finds him first. He doesn’t even have to look that hard or drive too far away. Only to the Manor’s and, more specifically, to the Manor’s cemetery.

Damian’s right there, sitting on Dick’s tombstone. He’s wearing his pajamas, mudded bare feet dangling above the ground. If it wasn’t the middle of the night, if this wasn’t a cemetery, and if this wasn’t Damian, it would look like a little kid mindlessly taking a break in the middle of a playground.

Instead there’s a child sitting on his brother’s grave, and around him there are his other brother's, his father’s and even his own empty tombs. Jason has no doubt that if Damian had the power to chose which grave should be empty and which one full, he would be a goner. It’s not a fair thought, but Jason rarely gets fair things, so he’s not ashamed of it too much.

He kills the bike and walks slowly towards the kid. He can’t believe Bruce never thought of checking here. No, he must have looked around, and Damian probably just had kept himself hidden from his father. Not that Jason can blame him for that - and not like Jason didn’t use to do exactly the same thing himself when he was Damian’s age (both with Bruce and his real father).

The cobblestone-covered path crackles under his boots as he walks, wet grass making it slippery and squeaky. Damian’s looking down at his hands and he doesn’t acknowledge Jason when he approaches him, even if there’s no way he didn’t notice him.

Jason, for his part, doesn’t really know what to do now that he has found the brat. He should probably just call Bruce and leave, but that doesn’t feel right. He’s not so eager about picking a fight with the kid either, though, which is where any attempts at conversation is going to land him. But he’s not here to fight. There’s going to be scolding and heartfelt conversations about not leaving home in the middle of the night when everyone’s already so alarmed that they could start fucking ringing or howling like sirens at any little thing, but Jason’s not the one who’s gonna do any of it. And if Bruce’s half as smart as he thinks he is, he’ll not say a word either. Those kind of things are mostly Alfred’s job anyway. Used to be Dick’s too, but eh.

So Jason sits down on Damian’s own grave, his back against the tombstone, so he can still face the kid. He doesn’t say hello, doesn’t even try to attract his attention. Gives him the choice on when, how and on what basis their conversations should start.

The silence between them is heavy, but not uncomfortable. Definitely familiar. Jason remembers a night spent at Dick’s apartment, both of them sitting on Dick’s old couch. He was reading a book, Damian was playing on his phone, Tim and Dick were easily chatting in kitchen. This quiet feels a bit like that, just colder. And wetter. And lonelier.

He feels something crawl on the back of his hand and swats it away without even looking at it. For some reasons this seems to attract Damian’s attention.

“Why did you kill it?”, Damian asks, looking at him for the first time since he arrived. “It was only a firefly.”

And now Jason can see that there is a firefly in Damian’s cupped hands too, or at least that’s what the faint light between his fingers seems to suggest. He straightens his back and meets the kid’s gaze with his own. He thinks about his question for a moment, then just shrugs.

“I don’t care for bugs”, he answers honestly.

Damian tilts his head at him.

“Why?”, he asks again. He looks mildly curious, which is a good thing. Only a little weird.

Jason shrugs again.

“Same reason you don’t care for reptiles, I suppose.”

Damian scrunches up his nose at that.

“Snakes are between the deadliest animals in the world”, he retorts. “Some of them can shoot venom up to six feet with better accuracy than yours, not that it would be difficult to best you on that regard”, a little pause. “Beside, they slither”, he adds with a disgusted grimace.

Jason does his best not to laugh.

“Well, bugs are gross”, he offers in return.

And they eat corpses, but he’s not gonna say that with Dick six feet under them. Let’s not give the kid new materials for his nightmares.

Damian doesn’t seem to think “gross” an adequate excuse for killing fireflies, but Jason’s not going to push it. They all have their weird little things, and he’d rather not tell Damian horror stories about dead kids crawling out of their graves at night, digging into the mud under the rain and feeling worms and maggots and god knows what else between the fingers. He’s not going to tell him that that night smelled exactly like this one.

“Your dad’s looking for you”, he says instead, because at some point they’d have to address the topic of a giant, worried Bat scurrying the streets of Gotham in search of his offspring anyway.

Damian curls his fingers and his toes but otherwise keeps a pretty decent facade of indifference.

“I know.”

Almost no feeling behind those words too. Yes, the kid’s getting really good at the emotionally constipated thing. He wants to make a joke about Dick turning in his grave, but he stops himself in time. Why has his mind to be so fucking morbid he’ll never understand. He focuses back on Damian, who’s trying really hard not to look like a ten years old in dire need of a hug. He’s failing.

“He’s not angry”, Jason offers, even though he doesn’t know if that’s true or not. He hopes it is, though.

“No, he’s never angry”, Damian unexpectedly agrees. “Only disappointed.”

Jason’s heart kind of falls into the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t know how to answer to that. It’s too personal, the feelings hit too close to home. He can’t say I know, he doesn’t want to say it. He’s not ready to have this conversation with someone else, much less with Damian, who’s arguably the brother most similar to him. First, because Jason’s trying so hard, for his own peace of mind, not to make comparisons between them since the day Damian died, and second, because he can’t let the kid count the similarities and make dangerous equations about them. Can’t let him see a Red Hood in his future instead of a Nightwing.

That’s why Dick should be the one giving speeches about father-son relationships. That’s also why Dick should go fuck himself, ectoplasm and all.

Damian’s line of thoughts must have been wandering in a similar direction because, while Jason is still gaping and looking for something to say that’s not a death joke or worse, the kid just sighs and bites the inside of his cheek.

“I miss him”, he whispers, like it’s a secret, or an admission of guilt.

And at least there’s an easy answer to this, Jason thinks.

“I know, kiddo. Me too.”

They both speak in a quiet tone, but their voices are steady. On the outside there’s no way for someone different from their family to actually see how deep the scar is, or how much it hurts.

All of this would be a lot more simple for both of them if Damian just cried. At least Jason would know what to do. He would get up from his wet spot on the grass and hug him. Not that he’s good with tears or hugs, and even less with children, but a crying child is something in the realm of things he comprehend. Like grieving. Like missing someone so much you can barely breathe.

It would be oh so nice if they could do something - this, at least - like a normal family. But they are not normal, and if they ever were Jason doesn’t remember it.

Part of the reason they’re all so fucked up about this must be because this is not something new anymore. They have lost a brother before. A father. A son. They have all lost comrades and friends and lovers. It’s part of the job. And at some point it didn’t… well, it didn’t stop the hurt, of course, because the hurt was always there, but. It stopped the surprise. Because how else could have it ended if not like this? And what’s the point of crying about something that was inevitable from the start?

So crying is not how they do things. They get angry, they fight, they train until their bodies are spent and sleep comes to them as a survival mechanism and nothing more. The only people in their life allowed to vocalize their pain are the criminals unfortunate enough to find themselves between a grieving vigilante and his denial while they just go on with the show.

Until, of course, they get stuck in a cemetery with a child still too young to know the rules of a game no one wants to explain.

Jason runs a hand through his hair, wishing for a beer. Damian just looks at him from under his lashes, mouth twisted in a pout. He knows what’s going to happen next.

“I need to call the others, Little D”, Jason warns him anyway.

Damian shrugs.

“I know.”

Jason sighs again.

*

Tim’s the first one to join them. He looks at Damian, still sitting on Dick’s gravestone, then at Jason, still leaning against Damian’s, and to his credit he just raises an eyebrow at them.

“Is this some sort of inside joke?”, he asks, staring down at them with his arm crossed over his chest. He doesn’t look tired or angry as he sounded before on the phone, in fact he looks rather amused, if Jason’s reading his posture correctly.

“Inside game, actually”, he answers then, making it up on the spot because why not. “You have to sit on a grave that is not yours.”

Damian blinks at him, then frowns uncertainly. Tim, bless his soul, just goes with it.

“Well, that should be easy”, he answers almost cheerly. “I don’t have a grave here.”

“Yet”, Damian replies, but if the child’s intent was to sound ominous or threatening he fails miserably. His own voice betrays him, giving his word a sad undertone. Tim must have detected it because he only scoffs back at him.

“Yeah, thanks for the memento mori, brat. I’ll take this one, then”, Tim says, sitting gingerly on Jason’s grave.

“Aww, I knew I was your favorite, Timbo”, Jason jokes, shifting position and circling his knees with his arms.

“Does that mean that Damian’s yours?”, Tim returns.

No need to ask Damian about his favorite brother. Jason notices he still grips his fingers around the edges of the marble stone beneath him, almost as challenging them to question his right to claim Dick’s grave for himself. Like they ever would.

“Well, I do feel like we have a lot of things in common”, he answers anyway. “Nice hair, a lifelong passion for knives, we both tried to kill you-”

“Very funny”, Tim grumbles.

“I consider myself offended by that”, Damian retorts at the same time. “My hair is definitely better than yours.”

Jason laughs, cocks his head to the side with an amused glare.

“My, my, are we already fashionably aware?”

Damian points his eyes at him like one would point guns.

“Well, someone in this family has to be.”

Tim snorts, and by doing so he automatically gives the win to Damian. The traitor.

Well aware of his victory, the child smirks smugly, and Jason can’t help but smile himself. He feels lighter and honestly relieved at how easily the banter still comes to them. Even now, even here.

The smile stays on Damian’s face for all of five seconds, then it crumbles down in a cringe, and that’s how Jason realizes that Bruce catched up with them. He follows Damian’s gaze and sure enough he can spot Batman’s unmistakable silhouette moving towards them. He looks back at Tim to give him a silent warning, but his brother is already focused on Bruce too, expression unreadable as always.

Jason turns his head again to watch Bruce slowly approaching them and frowns. He doesn’t know how he would react if Bruce and Damian started arguing in front of him, and he’s not eager to find out. So he waits for him to come closer and then he raises a hand and waves it in a show of no-hostility.

“Hello B.”, he greets him.

Bruce tilts his head in acknowledgment and just stares at their little circle from behind the cowl. He doesn’t look angry or ready to start a lecture, and Jason thanks god for small mercies.

“Can I sit down?”, he only asks after a moment.

“Sure. Just not on your own grave”, Jason answers.

“It’s tonight’s game”, Tim explains while Damian does his best to ignore all of them (an art he’s really well versed in, thanks to months of strenuous practice).

Bruce accepts it without so much as a raised eyebrow. He walks around them and looks at both of his parent’s graves before deciding to sit down in front of his father’s tombstone, if only because it’s the one closer to them or to follow some kind of messed up logic, Jason doesn’t know and he’s not gonna ask.

They ought to make a weird sight, though, Batman sitting in the mud, Red Robin crouched next to him, Jason in his civilian clothes sitting cross-legged in front of them, and Damian in his pajamas perched on a gravestone in the middle of their group. Jason wonders if he should take a photo for Alfred’s Bonding Moments Scrapbook. He’s ready to bet it wouldn’t even be the weirdest one in there.

“You know, I think we should have a grave for Timmy too”, he says out of the blue, because clearly Tim’s not going to talk first and Bruce and Damian are just as clearly trying to ignore each other’s presence like they weren’t the reason for this peculiar family meeting in the first place.

“Hey!”, Tim protests.

“...Jason”, Bruce sighs.

Jason smirks, crosses his arms behind his head and leans against the tombstone until he finds a comfortable position. Tim just narrows his eyes at him, already familiar enough with his quirks to know that this is not just a casual comment but it’s going to turn into a thing.

“I just don’t want him to feel, you know, cut off from the family or something”, Jason continues, keeping his tone as casual as he knows how.

“I’m perfectly fine without having a grave, thank you very much.”

“Ah, but we all already have a metaphorical grave waiting for us while we are alive. Some are just less metaphorical than others.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like to keep mine totally metaphorical for as long as I can, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind a little. Like, I am this close to feel personally offended.”

“I’m not getting myself a grave just to indulge your issues, Jay.”

“Are you cold?”, Bruce asks, interrupting their conversations with a low murmur, and Jason and Tim immediately pause. The question is obviously directed to Damian, who for the last minutes has done nothing but watching his bare feet. Even now he doesn’t raise his head, doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at them. Just barely nods.

“We could go home”, Bruce hums. Jason notices the obvious effort to put it as a suggestion, not as a request and definitely not as an order.

“It’s almost morning”, Tim adds gently, when Damian doesn’t answer. “I’m pretty sure Alfred’s making breakfast right now.”

Jason’s pretty sure that Tim’s going to be a good brother to Damian too, eventually. After all he learned how to be a brother from Dick, and Dick’s always been a good teacher. The kid just needs to give him a chance, and Tim just needs to take it. It’s a comforting thought. Not that he’s gonna share it.

“And I’m pretty sure that when you say Alfred’s making breakfast you’re just thinking about the coffee”, he replies instead.

“Jason, coffee is breakfast.”

“Uh, I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you but-”

“Damian?”, Bruce interrupts them again.

Finally, Damian looks up at them. And it’s not easy to read him, he looks still kind of surprised that Bruce’s not yelling at him, and he also looks guilty and uncertain and like he doesn’t want to leave the last connection he has with Dick, like there is a much bigger decision here to be taken, one they can not even start to comprehend.

Or maybe Jason’s just projecting and Damian’s only sleepy.

“Do you want to go home?”, Bruce asks softly.

Damian’s fingers linger on the marble, absently tracing its edges.

“...Yes”, he decides in the end.

He slides down from the gravestone and back on his feet.

Bruce stands up too, quickly followed by both Jason and Tim.

“Good”, Batman only says, then he walks towards Damian and offers him his hand.

Father and son look at each other for a second, and whatever their fight was about, it’s pretty clear that everything is forgiven and forgotten, even if no one’s gonna say sorry. Jason tries really hard not to be jealous about that.

“And I’m in favor of Drake getting a grave”, Damian adds in a chirp, taking his father’s hand.

Bruce hums noncommittally and scoops him up into his arms. Damian promptly wraps his arms around his neck, settling into his hold.

“And I’m in favor of giving you up for adoption”, Tim answers serenely, with no heat at all.

Jason just laughs and puts an arm around his brother’s shoulders as they follow their father home.

[jeremichal-archive]

human error

I’ve been working on this fic for months and I’m so glad it’s finally done. I honestly really enjoyed writing this one, and I love these boys to pieces. So anyway, hope you enjoy & let me know what you think!

Pairing: Raychael Warnings: Swearing, Alcohol Mention, Minor Injuries & Guns

They haven’t spoken in six months: there’s been no brief, catch-up phone call full of awkward silences to set the clock back to zero; there’s been no quick text message of a joke shared in the heat of the moment, no followed up embarrassed message because they’d accidentally forgotten about the self-inflicted silence.

There’s been nothing to even suggest that Michael and Ray are even still best friends, or allies, or acquaintances.

It’s in the evenings, though, when things get… difficult. When Michael’s had one too many beers and he lacks that crippling fear that follows him when he’s sober; the one that demands he doesn’t contact Ray. His phone seems to taunt him on those nights, reminding him that his best friend is literally right there within his reach- that he could pick up the damn phone and call him, right now. And he’s come close, hand hovering over “BrownNERD” in his contacts list so many times that he’s lost count. He could call him, he could make the first move- but then he thinks about the last time they talked to each other- and Michael’s phone ends up tossed in his nightstand drawer, hidden away and ignored.

It’s like a song on repeat, one that Michael’s forced to constantly relive; so it’s not really a surprise when he finds himself in the same situation yet again. His phone is in his hand- a beer bottle in the other- so close to just taking that final leap. He’s pretty sure he’s drunk, there's a buzz in the back of his head and his fingers can’t stop twitching. So honestly, it’s a setup for failure, because if there’s one thing Michael knows about Ray, it’s that his best friend can’t stand it when he’s drunk.

(He finds it pathetic that he still calls Ray his best friend, since he can probably guess- for good reason, too- that he no longer holds that title from Ray.)

Back when they talked, back when Ray used to spend the night at Michael’s apartment without hesitation. There was a time- that Michael can only distantly remember- when Ray would crawl between his bed sheets and tuck his smaller body up against his. At first, he’d been hesitant, unsure of Ray’s motives- unsure of his own motives. But like everything else they did, a sense of familiarity quickly settled between them and it became second nature for Michael to wrap his arms around Ray’s waist and pull him tight against him. They’d lay like that, pressed together in a way that was usually reserved for lovers, yet seemed oddly perfect for them.

(Were they lovers? Did they pass some unseen point in time where they could confidently describe one another as their other half?)

“I hated him,” he would whisper, and Michael would freeze, hesitant to even breathe lest it results in Ray falling silent, “I hated him so much. He used to always smell like liquor; used to joke that his blood was ninety percent alcohol too. It was all a joke to him, didn’t give a fuck about what I thought. What I felt.”

If he thinks about it- if he lets himself fall back to that night- Michael’s pretty sure he can still remember his reply.

“I give a fuck about what you think.”

Even now, well into the point where he’s sure there’s no way to fix this, Michael know’s he still means it. God, he’s such a fucking idiot.

Six months will quickly turn into eight months if you don’t pay attention and so Michael tries to convince himself that if Ray wanted to talk to him, he’d message him. It’s a one-way ticket to regret, but Michael’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

He doesn’t call.

They have a timeline. It goes like this.

Michael is currently 29 years old. Ray is 27.

They met for the first time at 16 and 14, respectfully. They don’t become friends; rather Ray steals his backpack and Michael chases him three blocks, finally cornering the small kid in an alley beside a laundromat and a 7/11. He gives the kid a broken nose, a dislocated shoulder and leaves him there curled up in the dirt.

They meet again, for the second time, in a Taco Bell car park at 4 am. 20 and 18; neither of them quite able to forget the other since their first meeting. They don’t become friends; rather Ray breaks Michael’s arm and leave him bleeding out behind a shitty 2002 Toyota Camry- a bullet wound in his upper thigh. Even now though, Michael still doesn’t know if Ray missed his femoral artery on purpose, or by complete accident.

They meet again, for the third time; 23 and 21. They become friends, but how, Michael doesn’t even know himself.

He's standing on the sidewalk, watching his apartment building burn; He’s watching twenty-three years of junk, and memorabilia and possessions burn and yet he doesn’t care.

The fire department is doing their best to save the building, but whatever caused the fire originated from his apartment- so he knows it’s all gone. His guess, a grenade or two tossed through his window by the fire escape; but he’s not going upstairs to fucking play detective.

“I’m guessing this is where you used to live?”

The voice comes from behind him, but Michael doesn’t need to turn around to know who it belongs to. Funny enough, despite only meeting twice, Ray has been cemented into his memory whether he likes it or not. He’s seventy percent sure Ray also shares the same problem.

He can’t ignore the other forever though- not even sure he wants to- so in the end he does end up turning around, catching the sight of Ray’s blinding grin. Part of him wonders if this was Ray’s doing, but then he remembers bleeding out in a Taco Bell car park at 4am and he realises Ray already got his revenge.

They stare at each other for a few moments, both trying to silently decide if the other is worth their time when Ray sighs.

“You can stay at my place.”

So yeah, they become friends; but how, Michael doesn’t even know himself. Instead, he just thanks his lucky stars and thanks anyone who’s listening that he didn't become Ray’s nemesis in that moment instead.

He feels numb- from head to toe- the kind that starts slowly until it's all you can feel.

Maybe he’s dissociating, maybe he’s having a panic attack; all Michael knows is that he’s frozen on the spot- watching them. There was a point, where he’d thought they’d saw him- a brief moment of eye contact that had forced his heart to stop beating- but nothing but boredom flickered over Ray’s face so he chalked it up to paranoia.

He can see them through the front window of Ponsonby's- a clothing store well known for both its high-priced fashion and it’s bulletproof windows- and by God, it’s so hard not to just go to him. To walk up to Ray and say hello, or to hug him, or to get his shit kicked in by Geoff- who is to his left, flicking through the new imported suit jackets.

He knows he’d be unwelcomed, he knows that Ray would blanch at the sight of him; but it would almost be worth the black eye he’d receive to just hear Ray’s voice again.

His feet move without his permission, fast-paced steps that propel him to the clothing store. He makes it to the front door before he’s seen, before Ray’s eyes dart to catch the movement in the corner of his eye, before his gaze falls on Michael. Arm extended to push open the door, he watches his best friend’s face flash with a quick array of emotions. Once upon a time, he could read them all, could pick out Ray’s emotions with a quick glance and a low “What’s up?” Once upon a time, they were inseparable, but time is a bitch and things change relatively quickly in Los Santos.

After a moment, Ray shakes his head- a small movement that’s barely noticeable- and Michael swallows deeply. Geoff’s still not looking at him, Ray’s within reach and Michael’s not sure he can do this again.

It's a decision, it’s a choice: leave now and forget about him, or stay and don’t.

He pushes open the door, listening to the small bell jingle above him- but his eyes never stray from Ray’s face. Michael doesn’t understand how Ray can look so small standing beside Geoff. Like all of the fight has drained out of his body; it just looks wrong and Michael hates it. The man standing before him, it’s not his Ray, and it’s infuriating. So when he catches the slight flicker of fear in Ray’s eyes- his hands curl up into fists by his sides.

Because he’s the cause of this. This is his fault.

Geoff spins on his heel, reading the panic in Ray’s body language. His hand automatically moving to the gun tucked into the back of his pants by pure instinct- but when he sees Michael though, he pulls it out completely. It’s loaded, aimed and seconds away from being fired when Ray speaks.

“Oh, Michael. You weren’t the one who had to leave.”

To understand something, you must have the full story, that’s just how it goes.

He and Ray haven’t spoken in eight months; yeah, that’s true. But- that’s not all there is- there's a fact that’s been left out by purposeful omission. Michael hasn’t spoken to anyone in the fake ah crew in eight months, not just Ray.

And if there's one thing he knows, you can’t just leave the crew without consequence.

☾ ☽

They have a timeline. It goes like this.

At age 27, on March 16th, Michael takes a job for a man named Geoff Ramsey. He does what’s expected of him, doesn’t ask questions and goes back to his apartment to find Ray waiting for him. It’s fine, they’re fine.

At age 27, on June 3rd, Michael takes another job from Geoff Ramsey- his seventh? Eighth? He hasn’t kept count- but this time Ray joins him. They do what’s expected of them, they don’t ask questions; but while Ray’s waiting for him in his Adder, Geoff asks him a question. “Are you and that Brownman kid fucking? No sweat off my back if you are, just curious.” The question sticks with him so much, that Michael can’t sleep that night.

At age 28, on November 5th, Ray jumps off a roof after being chased by the lspd and breaks his ankle. He calls Michael- Michael who is halfway through a Mario Party game with Gavin and his girlfriends’ Lindsay and Meg; Michael who is slightly drunk and not at all in the right state to be driving- who rushes to meet him, catching his friend curled up in a dumpster with wet tear tracks drying on his face and an ankle that’s turning purple.

At age 28, on December 25th, Michael has six presents hidden in his bedroom closet, all for Ray. A new bong, two tickets to a Blink 182 concert, keys to a new motorcycle, a new pair of shoes, a snickers bar and grey beanie.

At age 28, on December 26th, Michael gets four presents from Ray. An engraved pocket knife, blue hair dye, a pair of socks and keys to a Volatus helicopter.

At age 28, on January 1st, Michael kisses Gavin when the countdown hits zero and everyone laughs. Everyone except Ray.

At age 28, on January 3rd, Michael corners Ray at the penthouse and asks him- no- demands- to know why he’s ignoring him. Ray tells him that he's not but then proceeds to bolt from the penthouse, leaving Michael doubting the truth of his words.

At age 28, on January 7th, Michael realises he’s an idiot.

Michael’s learnt Ray- a side effect of spending so much time together- so Michael knows, clear as day, that Ray is angry with him.

He just doesn't know why.

Watching Ray now- spine riged and shoulders tense- cursing at the coffee machine, it's obviously a situation he’s not going to be able to get out of with just a quick apology. He sighs lowly and moves quickly, leaning against the counter- staring at Ray’s back.

“What did I do?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Ray sighs, something so defeated and spins to face Michael. Eye contact makes it worse, makes a low level of guilt settle in his stomach because of the hurt- pure, unhideable hurt- on Ray’s face cuts at him. He doesn’t know if Ray understands that Michael can read his so well, he doesn’t know if Ray thinks he’s still hiding his emotions, but he’s not.

He opens his mouth to say something, whether it’s too apologise or just to ask again what he's done to cause this, when Gavin’s bedroom door swings open.

The golden boy doesn't notice the thick smog of tension suffocating them, either out of obliviousness or ignorance, so he doesn't linger. But Michael’s fast- quick-witted and observant- so he can't help but notice the way Ray’s eyes harden when he catches sight of Gavin; the way his mouth falls open ever so slightly.

A tell, pointing directly at the source of his upset.

Oh.

Ray seems to realise that Michael understands in that moment too, eye contact breaking and fingernails digging into the skin of his palms. Michael wants to stop him, lest he draw blood and end up hurting himself, but he doesn’t dare touch Ray.

“Can we not- can we just not do this, Michael?” He whispers brokenly and Michael- the man known for his bravery- runs.

He nods slowly, takes a few steps back and then rushes to the front door- doing his best to avoid looking at the destroyed expression he knows is on Ray’s face.

So yeah, it takes haphazard love admission for Michael to run. He leaves and he doesn't come back, because love in this business is a death sentence and Michael’s not sure he could do that. Get attached, halve his soul and give part of it to Ray, only to watch it get destroyed when the inevitable happens- when Ray leaves… Or... when Ray dies.

Days turn into weeks, weeks turn to months; phone calls go unanswered and messages get ignored. The silence cuts at him, just enough for him to realise what he’s done- what he's invertedly lost.

He doesn't go back, because it's been to long and he’s missed his chance with Ray- messed up the life he had and could have had. He can't go back- because you don't just leave the crew by choice. He can't go back- because you don't just break your best friend’s- lovers- crushes- heart and then get to come back and ask for a second chance.

He's out. He stays out. He’s weak. He comes back.

Geoff lowers the gun pointed at him even so slightly, but it’s very obviously still aimed at his chest and Michael knows the threat is still there- unspoken. He knows that Geoff won't hesitate to shoot him if he presents himself as a risk, if he tried to start something inside the small clothing store. If he even so happens to look at either of them wrong, Geoff will shoot, no hesitation- even if they were practically family before he left.

Michael knows he’s not a risk- at least, not to his family, to his crew- but Ray has taken a step back from him and Michael can see that he’s a second away from running. Ray’s afraid of him, and he’d be stupid not to know why. The last time they saw each other, the last time they talked to each other, Ray let slip his feelings and Michael crushed them under his feet on his way out of the penthouse.

The words stuck to the tip of his tongue would be easier to say if Geoff weren’t standing in the room with them. He hadn’t thought this far ahead when he pushed open the glass doors, he hadn’t thought at all really- an action based on a whim that he can’t back out of now. So he doesn’t- instead he stands a little taller, puffs out his chest slightly to give the illusion of confidence and glances at Geoff out of the corner of his eye.

The older man’s a mind reader- Michael’s absolutely sure - because he jerks the gun back up and shakes it at him. “Nah, no way buddy. You’re an idiot if you think I’m leaving you alone with him for even a half a second,” Geoff says. He plants his feet firmly in a stance that tells Michael there’ll be no arguing with him and Michael sighs, looking back at Ray.

He feels like he’s seven again, trying to apologise to his foster-mother for very deliberately starting a fire in the backyard. He feels like he’s ten again, trying to apologise to his teacher for calling her a ‘stupid bitch’ for giving him homework on a Friday. He feels like he’s twenty again, trying to apologise to a Puerto Rican kid in a Taco Bell carpark because he just can’t seem to stop. He can’t seem to just stop provoking those types of situations, the one’s where he knows he’s in the wrong, but his words of apology never come.

Ray takes pity on him, or maybe he’s just trying to end the conversation faster, because he ducks his head slightly and mumbles, “Don’t worry ‘bout it, Michael- I get it.” It’s an out, he’s offering Micael an out- but he can’t help but grit his teeth at such a submissive action. That’s not Ray, that’s nothing like Ray; to give up without a fight, to let Michael get away without retribution for his actions- it’s almost as if he’s talking to a completely different person.

“What?” he spits, something a bit too aggressive for Geoff, who furrows his brow and gives Michael a dark look. So he tries again, removing all trace of harshness from his tone. “What? What is that supposed to mean?” He’s not finished, he shouldn’t be finished; he should tell Ray that this is all on him, that he’s the one to blame for this whole shit storm. He should apologise, he should just do anything really, other than just stand there and stare at his best friend.

But he doesn’t, because Michael doesn’t know how to apologise.

Ray just shrugs, hunching in on himself but he still holds eye contact. “Come on man, don’t- don’t play stupid, yeah? I fucked things up, brought feelings into this- into us - and so I get why you left. Don’t- don’t make me, fuck, please don’t...”

Michael’s stomach drops, and the breath he sucks in sounds harsh even to himself.

Ray’s taking the blame, he’s taking Michael’s fault and putting it on his own shoulders; Michael has the small thought that maybe that’s why he stopped calling, why he stopped messaging- not because he blamed Michael for just leaving, but because he thought Michael blamed him for making them complicated. He opens his mouth- to apologise, to beg for forgiveness, to just get Ray back - but all that comes out is dead air and Ray sinks in on himself, curling up on himself and ducking his head.

“Alright, fuck off Michael- you useless prick. You had your chance, now get out of my sight,” Geoff spits and Michael jerks back, finding himself agreeing with Geoff’s cutthroat words.

He looks down at the floor, mind quickly filling with self-loathing as he realises that he’s doing it again; he’s seven and he’s getting sent back to the group home again because he’s too difficult to look after. He’s ten again, getting a week's suspension for the fifth time already that year. He’s twenty again, bleeding out with a bullet wound because he just doesn’t know when to stop. He doesn’t know when to stop.

He doesn’t know when to stop.

He sucks in a small breath and lets it out through clenched teeth, glancing back up at Ray one last time before he has to leave. His best friend isn’t looking at him, eyes deliberately turned away and Michael hates it.

“This isn’t your fault, Ray.”

The words just slip out without a second thought, and Michael catches sight of Ray’s head snapping up so he can meet his eyes. But Michael’s already pushing his way out of the clothing store, heartbeat pounding in his chest because it might not have been an apology, it might not have been what Ray needed.

But it was a start.

It’s two days later when his phone buzzes from its place on his night stand, that he realises just how much he missed this. Just how much he missed Ray- missed talking to him, missed being with him, missed knowing him. It's a simple text, nothing more than a basic ‘hey’ - but it means the world to Michael. He just sits there for a while, reading and re-reading the one-word text again and again, trying to convince himself that it’s real. They’ve got to talk, that’s why Ray is texting him of course, but Michael just needs a moment first- before things get heavy. He sucks in a breath and shoots back a quick, ‘hey’ in return.

He needs things to go back to how they were- no, he needs things to get better. He doesn’t want Ray to hide from him, he doesn’t want to run from the people he cares about- he wants. He just wants.

From brownNERD

‘Uh, I’ve missed you,’

Michael doesn’t know how Ray can just throw himself out there so easily, as if he still trusts Michael. God knows he couldn’t do that, but Ray’s always been just a bit better than him at everything, so it shouldn’t really surprise him that much. He swallows down his own unease and quickly types out his reply, fingers shaking.

To brownNERD

‘I’ve missed you too.’

Don’t leave the conversation dead, Michael tries to tell himself, don’t force this onto Ray; don’t make him have to keep this alive - but he can’t and he grits his teeth. He can’t keep it going, because everything he want’s to say is too much. He wants to apologise, he wants to tell Ray just how much he misses them falling asleep together, he wants to tell Ray just how much he loves him and how much that scares him- but the words stick to his tongue and he can’t.

He’s stuck in his own emotional incompetence and it’s aggravating.

From brownNERD

‘So, ah, what did you mean?’

‘Like, when you said it wasn’t my fault?’

‘Of course it’s my fault, Michael,'

‘You don’t have to lie to me,

He’s dialing Ray’s phone number before he even realises it, and when the line clicks over and he knows Ray’s listening, time just seems to stop. Because he can hear Ray breathing through the phone, can picture him so clearly sitting in his apartment, in the penthouse, waiting for Michael to talk- and it’s definitely Michael who has to speak first, he called, he talks.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers and Ray’s breath hitches audibly. “It’s not your fault. It's mine? Cause I’m an idiot? You know that right?” He poses it like a question, but he’s not waiting for an answer. Ray tries though, a small, “Michael-” slips past his lips but he effectively cuts him off. He’s gotta get it out, he can’t just keep giving up- he has to stop.

“I am, it’s not a question. I-I’m an idiot and I’m so s-sor- fuck. Look, I left- I ran, because I can’t- I can’t, shit. But you need to understand, that this isn’t on you, it’s on me,” he says, words tumbling out in a rush and Michael’s not even sure if Ray can understand him. His heart is pounding, because this is it? This is all he can muster for an apology? He grits his teeth, wishing he could do better; wishing he could be better. Be something that Ray deserves, be someone that Ray deserves- instead of what he is now, an emotionally constipated criminal that can’t tell his best friend he loves him.

“Michael, Michael stop- you can’t, you can’t take all the blame, yeah? I fell for, uh, I complicated things, and you don’t do complicated, so I should have known better,” Ray replies, just as rushed and just as panicked as Michael. He’d laugh, in any other moment, at how ridiculous they sound- trying to convince the other that they’re not to blame- but right now Michael can’t do anything but squeeze his eyes shut and argue back.

“No, I can- I can, I swear. I can do complicated, we were doing complicated, right? I wasn’t imagining it? We were doing complicated long before we even realised it ourselves. It just, scared me? To realise, so explicitly, what we were becoming. It scared me and I ran, leaving you alone- but I won't do it again. Fuck, never again,” he swears, and Ray’s quiet on the other side of the phone. He doesn’t answer, and Michael’s stomach drops. He can’t stand the silence, so he tries again, words a lot more hesitant this time.

“Ah… I just, I fucked up. I made you think, for eight months, that this was all on you- all because I was too afraid to call you. So yeah… this is my fault, I should just- I should just go.” He lets his words sit for a second, waiting for something from Ray; whether it’s angry yelling or a cold dismissal, he just wants any sort of reaction. But Ray stays quiet and Michael sighs, pulling his phone away from his ear and hanging up the call.

Now that Ray knows, now that Ray realises that it’s Michael’s fault- he doesn’t want to deal with him, not that Michael blames him. It’s just a bit to hard to stomach the idea, to know for sure that nothing is salvageable between the two of them and so Michael turns off his phone, discarding it into the top drawer of his bedside table. He rolls over, tugging the sheets over his head and presses his face into his pillow, trying to block out the world.

He still hasn’t apologised.

Something rouses Michael awake at 4:49am, and he just lays there, staring at the ceiling above him. He’s going to be useless today, he can just see it- the heavy fog of depression settling over him so early in the morning. There’s a small amount of light filling the room, and he blinks his eyes a few times to adjust to the change, but he doesn’t have the energy to climb out of bed and fix the curtains. He wants to go back, back in time to when they were simpler, back to when Michael could pull Ray into his arms without questioning if they were something.

He sucks in a shaky breath and deliberately ignores the sound of footsteps shuffling around his apartment. He’s got nothing worth stealing here, everything he owns is at the penthouse- which he hasn’t been to in eight months- and if they’re there to kill him, then he’ll get a few good hits before he goes down. He rolls over onto his side the same moment his bedroom door opens, and squeezes his eyes shut. He waits for the press of a knife or the click of a gun, but all he gets in return are fingers touching gently against his face and the sight of Ray when he opens his eyes.

Part of him wonders if maybe he’s just hallucinating since Ray shouldn’t be there in front of him, Ray shouldn’t want anything to do with him- but he’s there, he’s real and Michael’s heart starts pounding in his chest. Ray moves slowly, hands pressing against Michael’s shoulders to push him backwards until there’s enough room for him to slide in underneath the bedsheets and press his body up against Michael’s. It’s an instant reaction, the second Ray relaxes against him, that Michael’s arms encircle him and pull him tight against his chest.

And then he realises what he’s done.

He’s about to let go, about to apologise for touching him like they used to, but Ray presses his face into the hollow of Michael’s neck and his grip involuntarily tightens. They lie there for a while, neither of them daring to utter a single word and Michael relishes the feeling of having Ray in his arms. He tried to commit the feeling to memory, so that if he never gets the opportunity to have this again, at least he has something.

He feels Ray shift against him, pulling back ever so slightly so that they’re face to face and Michael glances down at him, hands resting in the hollow of his spine.

“You scared the shit out of me, Michael,” he mumbles and Michael opens his mouth to try and apologise, again and again till Ray knows how much he means it- till the words don’t seem real anymore. But Ray reaches up between them and presses a finger to his lips, effectively quieting him and Michael’s not sure if he’d be able to anyway. But it’s not his turn to talk, so he’ll keep his mouth shut and just listen, he can do that, he can do that for Ray. “You left, and I thought I’d never get to see you again. I told myself that I could handle a bit of rejection, that I would bounce back and we’d move on- and it would be fine. But then you didn’t come back, week after week you were gone and I thought, fuck I’ve ruined us.”

“I was afraid,” he whispers back, and Ray meets his gaze. “I was afraid that I’d missed my chance with you, I was afraid to come back and find that you’d moved on and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, cause it would be my own fault.”

Ray shakes his head, a slow deliberate movement and mutters, “You broke my nose, remember? I was fourteen and trying to steal shit so I could pawn it for money, so my dad could pay some bills. You broke my nose and yet I still fucking fell in lo-” he cuts himself off and Michael feels the way Ray tenses in his arms. Love. He was going to say love. “I still fucking… didn’t leave...” he finishes lamely, and Michael can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut.

He remembers that day, watching the fear flicker over Ray’s face before he desperately tried to hide it behind false bravado. He remembers being so angry that someone was trying to take something of his, when he barely had anything to begin with. He remembers the pop sound that echoed throughout the alley after he dislocated Ray’s shoulder and the pained scream that followed after.

“Yeah, I remember,” he mumbles, because how could he forget.

“And then I shot you.”

That one's a bit harder, mind fuzzy from the blood loss. He knows they argued, he know’s they tossed insults at each other like they were playing a game of tennis. And he knows that he went too far, cause that’s what he always does.

“Yeah.”

“My dad told me, before he died, that if you ever wanted to kill someone quickly, shoot for their femoral artery. He showed me where to hit.” He pushes himself up onto his elbows, catching Michael’s eyes with a serious look and says, “I knew how to kill you, I could have killed you, but I looked at you and I thought, four years. It had been four years since I last saw you, and I wanted to see you again in four years time. And four years after that. I wanted to know why you fought for a shitty backpack so damn hard, I wanted to know why you were at a Taco Bell carpark at 4am, I wanted to know why you didn’t flinch when I pulled my gun on you. And I couldn’t do that if I killed you.”

Michael stares back at him, letting Ray’s words sink in for a moment. “You kept me alive… because my stubborn ass refused to let you think that you intimidated me?”

Ray laughs, shaking his head slowly before lowering himself back down again. “When you put it like that, it sounds stupid- but yeah. That’s exactly why.”

Michael huffs, but on the inside he’s happy that Ray deliberately chose to keep him alive. He’s glad that it wasn’t just a fluke, a lucky miss. “Nah- it’s perfect,” he says, “it suits us.” And the smile Ray offers him in return makes his heart stop beating momentarily. Something must show on his face, something a bit more tender- something that resembles just how much Michael loves him- because in the next moment Ray is tugging his face down until their lips meet and then Michael sees stars.

He doesn’t waste a second, hands gripping Ray’s waist so tight he’s afraid he might leave bruises. He pulls him in close, until they’re chest to chest and he can feel Ray’s heart pounding beneath him- and he kisses the boy back for all he’s worth. It’s like being kissed by lightning, and Michael can’t help but enjoy the burn. It’s everything he wanted it to be, it’s everything he imagined it to be and he doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t want to stop.

Ray pulls back with a gasp, and when Michael tries to dip in for another kiss, he laughs, tilting his head away slightly. “C’mon man, need to breathe,” he mutters and without a word, Michael just shifts his attention to Ray’s jawline- peppering little kisses across it’s length. He has Ray right where he wants him, and he’d be damned if he’s going to let him go just yet. Ray, for the most part, seems content to be littered with little kisses and he lets out a soft sigh. “You’ll come back to the p-penthouse with me, yeah?” he asks, “G-Geoff will get over himself, he can’t stay mad forever- and I know everyone else misses you. Come back, yeah?”

Michael pauses his onslaught, pulling back just enough to catch Ray’s gaze with a sigh. “I left,” he says and Ray nods.

“Yeah, you did. But that doesn’t mean you can’t come back.”

“Geoff almost tried to kill me the last time he saw me,” he argues and Ray snorts, shaking his head.

“He was just being pissy cause he thought you broke my heart- you know good old daddy Geoff.” Michael watches Ray’s hands drift upwards, until the come to rest on his chest, fingers rubbing small circles into his skin. “We’ll go back, I’ll tell Geoff that were-” he pauses and Michael’s not going to let him out of this one so easy.

“That were dating. That I love you.”

Ray’s breath hitches the same moment Michael’s anxiety spikes, but he ignores it, because this has been a long time coming. It takes Ray a few moments to respond, but when he does it's with a wide grin. “Yeah. I’ll tell Geoff that were dating and that you love me. But I’ll also make sure to tell him that I love y-you too- because I do. I love you, Michael.”

Michael doesn’t answer, instead he just leans in quickly and captures Ray’s mouth in a kiss. He kisses Ray until he feels light headed, he kisses him until they have to pull away lest the pass out, he kisses Ray with everything he’s got, because he can . And when they do pull back, Ray’s lips are pink and puffy, and he looks completely ruined- and it’s everything Michael’s dreamed it to be.

But he still hasn’t apologised. And he needs to fix that.

He offers Ray a small, hesitant smile and rests their foreheads together, watching Ray closely as he whispers, “Hey- I need to, I have to say something, yeah? I can’t- I suck at this sort of thing. Never was able to, never could quite take responsibility for my actions growing up. But I need to-” he sucks in a breath- “I need to say I’m s-sorry, yeah? These last eight months, I put you through hell cause- cause I freaked out, but I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, and I swear I’ll never do that to you again.”

Ray smiles back softly, hands moving to frame Michael’s face. “I’m sure the last eight months were just as bad for you, as they were for me, Michael,” he says, and Michael nods, albeit a bit awkwardly with Ray’s hands holding him. “But thank you. Yeah, I-I accept your apology. And just know, that if you do fuck up again, Geoff will be coming for you with a shotgun next time.”

Michael laughs, something loud and carefree- and it doesn’t take long before Ray joins in too, both of them giggling messes, wrapped around each other on Michael’s bed. It’s so much better than before, because now Michael can press kisses into the curve of Ray’s neck and he can run his hands underneath Ray’s shirt. It’s so much better than before, and Michael doesn’t know why he needed eight months to realise it.