#no.22

[jasmines-library]

Oh, Baby.

WHUMPTOBER DAY 21. Prompt: Vehicular accident.

Fandom: supernatural.

Summary: on the way back from a hunt, an out of control car veers into yours sending it hurtling off of the path and into a tree, leaving you trapped. Too far from the hospital, the Winchesters are left with the task of getting your body from the car as they wait for Cas to arrive.

Warnings: car crash, dislocated shoulder, broken bones/ribs, blood.

Word count: 1.4K

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

Dean was driving too fast. His foot was pressed all the way down on the pedal as he let the impala fly down the road. He was drumming along to the rhythm of the music as you and Sam sang. The hunt had been successful and spirits were high. The three of you were looking forward to a hot shower and a warm bed, because the night was cold and an eerie chill hung in the air.

The October chill had cast a fog over the road, which obscured everything further than a few metres ahead, but Baby was nearing Kansas and Dean knew the roads well, so he wasn’t too fussed by the narrow roads.

But what happened next came out of nowhere. Another passing car had skidded off of the road and veered into your lane. It smashed into the left passenger side of Baby, sending her sliding off the path. Your side of the car took the brunt of the impact as it collided with a tree. The motion sent your body sliding roughly into the door with a force that was sure to leave bruises. The glass spiderwebbed and then shattered, raining down hundreds and thousands of tiny glass flakes over your head.

Dean groaned when the car stilled, sitting up abruptly. His chest felt tight where the seat belt had flattened against his ribs, so he fumbled to unclip his seatbelt. As he twisted he caught sight of his brother whose head hung low against his chest. There was glass in his hair and a small cut on his temple.

“Sam.” Dean reached over to shake his brother. “Sammy.”

Sam sat up abruptly but immediately regretted the pull in his side. “What..?”

“Are you ok?” Dean took in the caved in metal, pissed that he would have to rebuild it again.

“Fine.” Sam brushed the glass from his hair as he too surveyed the damage. But his eyes widened and he gripped his brother's arm when he suddenly remembered you in the backseat. “Y/n.”

The two of them manoeuvred their bodies in the small space so that they could face you. Some of the roof had caved in, which made it hard to see, but they managed to make out your unconscious body in the darkness. It was crumpled against the doorframe. Your head rested on the window ledge, hair matted with blood from where it had collided with the frame and scraped against the shards of glass. Your arm hung at a concerning angle, and they were almost 100% sure your shoulder was dislocated, but they couldn’t tell from this angle.

Dean reached over the seat, straining his body but you were too far away for him to reach you, so he tried to call your name. You didn’t move.

Dean cursed and pushed hard on his doors to open it. “See if you can get her door open.”

Sam forced the door open and clambered out of the car as his brother made his way round the crushed bonnet. Half of your door was completely obscured by the tree that had made the car stop spiralling out of control, making it impossible to open the door.

Dean rammed his fist into the side of the car in a fit of rage.

“Fuck! Sam help me move the car.”

The Winchesters shuffled round to the back of the car and began to haul the car away from the tree. It took a great amount of effort and their boots leaving dents in the frosty ground of them to move the impala, but when it finally inched far enough away from the tree and your door was visible, they breathed a sigh of relief. But immediately took it back when they tugged in the misshaped handle and the door didn’t budge.

Then Dean tried to rouse you again, reaching through the window and rousing your body. You whined as all of the pain flooded in at once.

“Sweetheart?”

You twisted your head to glance up at him through droopy eyes. “Dean?”

“It’s us.”

You whimpered as you tried to shift, pinned down by your seatbelt. “Hurts.”

“We know sweetheart. We’re gonna get you out of there. Just hold on for us okay?”

You nodded, but made no noise.

Sam tried the handle again but it was stuck down firmly as if someone had welded the pieces together and then encased them in a layer of concrete just to make sure that they were secure.

He then considered the window. They could pull you out from it but that would run the risk of injuring you further, especially with the shards of glass jutting out from the bottom. It was far from Sam’s first choice, but at the moment it was looking like their only option.

“Give me your jacket.” He reached out a hand to his brother.

“What?” Without his jacket the cold air would bite at Dean’s skin. Sam knew this, but Dean’s jacket was thicker than his and would provide you more protection when they moved you.

“Just give it to me.”

Dean shrugged it off after pocketing his phone and placed it in his brother's hands who then laid it across the bottom of the window and leaned forwards to talk to you.

“Okay Kid I need you to unbuckle your seatbelt. Can you do that for me?”

You fumbled blindly for the buckle, wincing at the tug on your arm and ribs, both of which were already forming dark bruises and were more likely than not broken in some places. You relaxed as the pressure lessened, but without the fabric keeping you in place, your body slumped forwards.

Sam hooked his arm under your shoulders ready to guide you out of the window. “This is gonna hurt sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

When Sam tugged upwards you screamed. Every inch of your body burned as he slid you out of the window. The strain on your shoulder was immense, and the brothers were now certain that it was dislocated.

“Stop.” You begged. “Please.”

Sam’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry but I can’t.”

He pulled you out the last stretch of the window without adding too many cuts to your fragile body, only a few nicks here or there. Dean helped ease you down onto the ground.

“Cas is on his way.” He told his brother, who gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment because his full attention was on you. It was too far to get to the hospital in time.

“We have to pop it back in.” Dean told him, gesturing to your shoulder. “If we leave it like that it’s going to get worse.”

Sam bit his lip. “I know.”

“Please… it hurts” you whimpered. “No more. Please.”

“Just a little bit more and then it’ll stop. I promise.” Sam told you, bracing his hands on your shoulders as Dean leaned you against his chest. You cried into his chest, clinging onto his shirt to hide from the cold.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart.”

“On three.” Sam said. “One. Two-“

He rolled the joint, forcing it back into place before you had time to brace yourself. You cried out sharply, nursing your arm as tears flooded your cheeks.

Shakily he removed his hands.

“All done, y/n. All done.”

Dean rubbed your back gently and cast a worried gaze at his brother who towered above the two of you.

It was fateful waiting for the flutter of wings. Dean held you close to his chest as you shivered. Whether it was from the pain or the cold he didn’t know, but they had to keep forcing you awake when your eyes drifted shut. As Dean held you, Sam made work of trying to salvage anything from the car. He had found a blanket wedged in the backseat and draped it over your shoulders.

At last, Cas finally appeared.

“I am sorry.” He rattled out. “I came as soon as I could.”

“Can you help her?” Sam asked.

He reached out and placed a gentle hand on your forehead from where a blinding light was emitted and then a wave of calm washed over you, soothing all your aches and pains before you fell asleep against Dean’s chest.

“She should be fine now.” Cas instructed “she just needs to rest.”

“Thank you.” Dean pulled your sleeping form and smiled gently into your hair, glad to still have you by his side for a while longer.

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY 21 ⛤ DAY 23 ->

Taglist:

@senjoritanana

@deans-spinster-witch

@amaryllis23

[whumpypepsigal]

Whumptober 2023 | No. 22

Alternative prompt: Miscommunication

Gen V s01e04: “I don't know what's wrong. What can I do? How can I help?”

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

[narenohate]

HEEHOO!! Silly little piece for whumptober. day 22's alt prompt, "BODY MODIFICATION"

permanent titan! luz is my beloved : ) it's a blend of the beta designs and her canon demititan form!

( it GOES with a fanfic, yet unpublished, featuring the premise of "elsewhere and elsewhen", with luz and belos meeting, happens at the start of season one.

i have multiple interconnect whumptober stories (i say, with sadness and despair))

[whumpetywhump]

Whumptober Day 22 - Vehicular Accident

Flying Tiger - Ep. 4

If You Wish Upon Me - Ep. 6

Stay With Me - Ep. 24

The Good Bad Mother - Ep. 2

True Beauty - Ep. 11

[lailyn]

Only When I Sleep (the full fic!)

TW: Gun violence, Idiots In Love

“Did either of you put poison in my food?”

“What? Of course not!” Tony cast Stephen a doubtful look. “I didn’t.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Stark,” Stephen growled. He turned his attention back to Loki. “More importantly, why do you think someone’s poisoned you?”

“It tastes a bit strange…”

Tony grabbed a clean fork from the cutlery drawer. Before Stephen could stop him, he scooped a mound of cauliflower rice and shovelled it into his mouth.

“Tony!” Stephen yelled.

Tony chewed thoughtfully. “Tastes fine to me.”

“Just give it a minute or two, it will come,” Loki said ominously.

“Are you crazy? Do you have a death wish or something?” Stephen berated.

“If it was really poisoned, there really isn’t any point in living anymore, is there?” Tony lamented. “A life without Loki is a tragedy too terrible to contemplate.”

“Tony, you idiot.” Loki’s eyes shone. “I love you.”

“What about me?” Stephen asked, almost fearfully. “Do you love me too?”

“Out of necessity, I suppose I must,” Loki sniffed. “You know CPR.”

________________

"I don't think Loki loves me very much."

"Don't be ridiculous," Tony said mildly. "Of course he does."

"He loves the things that I can do, sure," Stephen said glumly. "Like making the best eggs Benedict on this side of Manhattan. Or turning cheap wine into the best vintage. Or getting him authentic momo dumplings from Nepal - "

Tony sneaked an amused glance at his morose lover over his Starkpad. "I never realised that your achievements were all food-related."

"Can you be serious for once? I'm in the middle of a crisis here!" Stephen glowered. "And that cauliflower rice recipe had five stars on Good Eats!"

Tony sighed. "Look, Doc. Loki's not a big fan of our planet, as you very well know. The fact that he's staying here, with us? He must love you a little."

Stephen snorted. "That's not saying much."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, he's obviously staying for you," Stephen pointed out. "I'm��baggage."

"Baggage," Tony said flatly. He snapped his fingers. "Hey. Levi. Get over here."

The Cloak of Levitation wafted over from where it had been hovering by the windows for the past few hours people-watching.

Tony pointed at Stephen. "Can you knock some sense into your Master here for me?"

The Cloak gave Stephen a few sympathetic pats on the cheek, before returning to its station and favourite pastime.

"See?" Stephen cocked his head unhappily. "Even Levi agrees with me."

"Have you ever heard of 'opposites attract'? Loki's a closed book, and you…" Tony waved a hand, making vague gestures that alluded to something Stephen could only guess the meaning of. "You gotta open up! Tell him you love him in public! Shout it from the rooftop!"

Stephen blinked. "But we live on the hundredth and thirtieth floor. No one's gonna hear it."

Tony rolled his eyes. "That is not the point, you dumbass."

"Then what is your point?" Stephen asked, exasperated.

"Put aside your ego and show him some love! And I don't mean the tough kind."

"But I only know just the one kind," Stephen grumbled, blushing a little.

Tony stared. "You're hopeless."

"I knooow…" Stephen moaned, listlessly dropping his chin onto the table. "I'm screwed."

"Hmm, what to do, what to do…" Tony drummed his fingers on his desk. "I've got it. Remember that scene in The Sixth Sense? When the 'I See Dead People' kid told Bruce Willis how to get through to his wife?"

"What about it?"

"Say it when he's asleep," Tony said excitedly. "Tell him you love him, and to please love you back."

"But that's ridi - " Stephen paused. "Actually, that's kind of brilliant."

Tony gave a modest shrug. "Well, I am known for my genius."

Stephen snorted. "Thanks, Mr. M. Night Shyamalan."

_________________

"That was a stupid plan," Stephen growled as he emerged from their bedroom the next morning.

Get out of my head, a half-asleep Loki had hollered at the top of his lungs in the middle of the night, waking the entire household in the process. Stephen, being the closest to him in terms of physical distance, had received the brunt of Loki's wrath, which explained his brand-new shiner.

"Serves you right for being a creep," a fully-awake Loki glowered. "And you!" Tony cowered under the intensity of his glare, "Enable him further and we shall see how you fare."

With that parting warning, Loki stormed away, presumably to make himself a hangry sandwich before they were due to join the Avengers in battle in a few minutes, something Tony had neglected to mention to either of his husbands.

"So…planting subliminal messages is a no," Tony said sheepishly. "We should have thought about that, huh?"

Stephen heaved a sigh of despair, and hung his head. "I'm screwed."

____________

"We're screwed," Stephen announced an hour later; the enemy had utilised an impressive new weapon, a magic dampener that had basically rendered him powerless. "Hand-to-hand combat is not my forte!"

"Hang on," Tony grunted through the communicator. "I'm coming!"

Stephen frantically looked around for his other husband, and his blood ran cold.

A sniper on the roof had Loki in his sight, right in the line of fire, magicless and as helpless as a kitten.

And Stephen ran.

"Loki!" he shouted, "Look out!"

____________

Stephen awakened to a startling brightness and his whole body hurting with an unidentifiable pain. "Urgh."

"You fool."

Stephen saw the tears in Tony's eyes and his heart began to pound. "Tony?"

"You brave, crazy fool."

"What's wrong? Is Loki okay?" He asked anxiously. "Is that why you're crying? Did he get shot?"

"No, but you did. You pushed Loki out of the way, and got hit instead."

"What?" Then Stephen remembered the barrage of bullets hitting his chest. "How am I not dead?"

"You were bleeding to death on the damn battlefield, right in front of my eyes," Tony said, his voice stricken.

"Tony…" Stephen reached for Tony's hand. It was shaking terribly. "Tony, I'm alright."

"I nearly lost you. I nearly lost you both."

Stephen stilled. "Loki?"

"He's resting." Tony nodded at the other bed across the room. "He nearly drained every drop of magic but it worked. He got you back."

"Help me up," Stephen mumbled. "I need to tell him something."

"Can't this wait? He's still sleeping, and you should be sleeping too - "

"No. It has to be now."

With herculean effort, Stephen dragged himself to Loki's bed. He climbed in beside his slumbering husband.

One look at Loki's exhausted face and the memories came rushing back: the pain, the geyser of blood spurting from his torso -

Damn you, Stephen!

- the sensation of Loki's healing magic pouring into him, dousing the agony in his chest like ice water.

But most of all, he remembered Loki's desperate whispers, I love you. I love you. I love you.

"I love you too, Loki," Stephen whispered in Loki's ear, hugging him tight.

Loki sighed in his sleep. A tell-tale smile began to tug at the corners of his lips. His hands palmed the silk sheets as if looking for something.

"You too, Tony," Stephen ordered. "Get in here."

Grabbing one of Loki's flailing hands, Stephen watched as Tony clambered up onto the bed and grabbed the other.

As they cuddled each other,

"Should we just order in breakfast?"

"For the rest of our lives, yeah."

[mynameisrobiniamadumbass]

i think about her a lot.

[aceofwhump]

Whumptober 2023

Day 22 - Vehicular Accident

MacGyver 4x03

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

[celtic-crossbow]

Whumptober 2023

No. 22 Glass Shard

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Prison Era

Warnings: Injury, Blood

“Don’t take it out!” You swatted Daryl’s hands away from a large glass shard protruding from his right side. “You might bleed out. We don’t know if it hit anything vital.” He scowled at you and murmured something you couldn’t hear but dropped his hands to his sides. “Shouldn’t be picking fights.”

“Ain’t pickin’ no fights. We needed the meds n’ we got ‘em.” He snapped, walking toward the bike with his left hand below the injury. 

“Wait a minute! You can’t possibly think you’re driving us back like that!”

He looked at you like you’d sprouted another head. “Why wouldn’ I?”

Lord, give me patience. Don’t give me strength because I’ll kill him. You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You’ve been stabbed, Daryl. You’re bleeding. When someone bleeds a lot, they sometimes pass out. I’d rather not be behind you on a fricking motorcycle if that happens.”

Scowling again. Typical. “Ain’t gon’ pass out. Le’s go.”

You started to follow but decided against it. Appeasing his pride would get you both killed. Planting your feet, you crossed your arms. “No.”

Daryl had thrown his leg over and plopped heavily onto the seat, raising his brows at your brazen refusal. “Wha’?”

“You heard me. I said no.”

“Woman, don’ make me leave ya here.”

“You would never.” Your eyes narrowed in challenge, flickering down toward his boot when he toed up the kickstand. He really would never, right? When he started the engine, you really started to doubt but would not be swayed. He was already pale and sweaty, droplets of blood pooling behind his boot. With a deep breath, you squared your shoulders. Daryl cared about you. You had to believe that he wouldn’t leave you. 

He watched you with a stoic expression, only faltering once you stood straighter. He must look like shit if you wouldn’t trust him to get the both of you home. Lowering the kickstand, he shut off the bike. “Wha’s the plan?”

You blinked at him. 

“Ya let me start up the bike n’ make enough noise ta attract ev’ry walker in there n’ ya didn’t have a plan?” 

“Well I didn’t exactly think you’d try to bully me into letting you kill us, Daryl!” You dropped your arms and looked around while he muttered to himself. You spotted a pick up next to the gate. It must have belonged to the men that attacked you. The driver’s door was still open. Maybe they just happened to leave the keys and you wouldn’t need to hotwire the stupid thing. “Wha’re ya doin’ now?” The archer called after you when you sprinted toward the truck. 

You leaned inside with a spirited ‘yes!’ upon finding the keys in the ignition. Next up: fuel. “Please be enough. Please be enough.” You turned the key and watched the fuel gauge before leaning out. “Will just below half get us back?”

“Should.” He yelled back, getting off the bike. He stumbled but caught himself, leaving your heart hammering. You definitely couldn’t drag him to the passenger side, much less get him in there.

Climbing back out, you jogged over to help him. “Let’s get the bike in the back and I’ll drive, okay.”

Daryl only nodded. You pushed down your concern and opened the tailgate, helping him lift the bike into the back. Damn thing was fucking heavy but if you were hauling it, that was the only way to get it loaded. Panting, you closed it up just in time to see the man beside you sway on his feet. 

“Whoa!” Small hands grabbed his shoulders to steady him. “You okay? You’re looking a little pekid.” He was panting just as hard as you were, which wasn’t a shocker since the two of you just bench pressed a 400 pound bike into the back of a pickup. Probably not the best idea when one of you has a large piece of glass playing poke-the-vital-organ. 

He lifted his hands to gently grab your wrists, lowering your arms from his shoulders. “M’fine. Le’s jus’ get outta ‘ere. We got company.” A nod toward the area behind you had you turn toward the group of walkers approaching. 

“Okay, hop in.” You walked around him but slowed your steps to make sure he made it all the way to the passenger door. Sure, he was using the truck to steady himself the entire way but he finally climbed inside. You quickly slid behind the wheel and started up the engine. Once you pulled out onto the road, a little of the anxiety churning inside your chest dissipated. “We’ll get back just after dark, I think. Get Hershel to take a look at you.”

When he no more than hummed in reply, you glanced over at him. His head was against the window, eyes closed, lips parted to release shallow pants of breath. His skin glistened with sweat while holding a sickly pallor in stark contrast to the dark circles around his eyes. You would bet anything that if you touched his skin, it would be cold.

“Daryl? Daryl, your wound. How’s your wound?” You asked frantically, trying to split your attention between him and the road. 

“S’fine, Y/N. Jus’ drive.” 

“Let me see.” You requested softly, still trying to stay on course. 

“Drive. M’fine.” Daryl replied. He hadn’t opened his eyes at all. 

Mindful that neither of you were wearing seatbelts, you slowed to a stop and turned in the seat, grabbing at him to turn where you could see. He was slow to open his eyes. 

“Knock it off. Why we stopped?” The shove he gave you was gentle but enough to put some space between you. He didn’t expect you to come right back, this time to roughly grab his vest and pull him down across the seat. 

“You pulled it out?!” You yelled, pressing your hand over the steadily bleeding wound. His blood coated the interior of the door, the seat, and had puddled on the floor. “I said not to take it out, Daryl!”

“Didn’.” He replied quietly, sounding more than tired. “Got…got pulled out loadin’ the bike.”

You gaped at him. “And you didn’t think to say something?”

“Didn’ wanna worry ya. ‘Sides, m’fine.” His eyes slowly closed. “Doc’ll fix…me…righ’…”

“Daryl?” You kept one hand on the wound and used the other to shake him. “Daryl?! Goddamnit!” Peeling off your flannel overshirt, you folded it and pressed it against the injury, laying his arm over it to hold it in place. You climbed back behind the wheel, glad to have him lying across the seat so you could check his pulse while you hauled ass back to the prison. 

You found yourself carding your fingers through his hair, stroking his jaw, feeling his pulse, anything that let you know he was right there. His skin was so cold, his breaths so shallow that you could hardly feel the exhale at all. 

When the prison was within sight, you almost didn’t even stop to let them open the gates. 

Carol found you pacing outside by the picnic benches three hours after you had returned with Daryl. Three hours after you had leapt from the cab of the truck screaming for help. Three hours after you had collapsed to your knees watching Rick and Glenn carry Daryl inside. Three hours after you couldn’t find a pulse.

“He’s alive, Y/N.” The woman said softly. She sat down on top of one of the tables and watched you. You were thankful she had led with that but still couldn’t bring yourself to stop wearing a hole into the concrete. 

“But?” You weren’t naive. There was something more if she wanted to give you the good news first. Wanted you calmer. A very Carol tactic. You loved her for it but couldn’t entertain it. Not now. 

Carol could sense that. “Whatever he was stabbed with nicked his liver. Hershel was able to repair it but there was some internal bleeding. Hey,” she reached out to grab your hand. “He lost a lot of blood so he’s not out of the woods yet but he’s tough.”

“That’s the problem, though, isn’t it?” You laughed wryly. “Everyone thinks he’s invincible, so he feels like he has to be. He didn’t even tell me that he was bleeding out, Carol. He was just gonna sit there and…and…”

“Okay, okay, come here.” Carol pulled you to sit next to her, hugging you tightly. “You’re right. We need to make sure he knows that it’s okay to need help.” Pulling you back by your shoulders, she swept your hair out of your face. “And when he is better, we’ll get to work on that, okay?” You nodded, allowing her to wipe away your tears. “He’ll be okay.”

You sniffled and nodded again, more softly than the first time. “Can I see him?”

Daryl made it through the night. Hershel had said his chances of a full recovery only increased after that. You hadn’t slept much, but couldn’t bring yourself to close your eyes just yet. So you just sat in a chair by the bunk with your head lying on the mattress by his hand. Your own hand looked so small wrapped around his, your skin so much paler than his tan. You counted any freckles you found on his arm. You even cleaned from underneath his nails. 

Carol eventually came by with two bowls of oatmeal. You thanked her quietly while never raising from your spot. True to form, she came over and kissed the top of your head, giving your shoulder a squeeze. Her dainty hand then on Daryl’s bicep, gently rubbing up to his shoulder and back down before she walked out of the cell. 

Eventually, exhaustion won out. When you opened your eyes again, it was dark inside the cell. An almost burned out candle filled the room with dancing shadows but it was the eyes that reflected the flame that had your attention. 

“Daryl!” You leaned closer, touching his face, his neck, anywhere you could while his eyes followed you. “I’m so glad you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Tired.” His voice was rough from sleep and lack of use. He coughed weakly, face scrunching in pain before smoothing out again. “Thirsty.”

“Be right back.” You jogged from the cell to fetch some water and to let Hershel know Daryl had finally awoke. The veterinarian came not long after you had finished settling Daryl against the pillows once he had taken a few sips. 

“Blood pressure is a little lower than I’d like but that’s likely from the blood loss. Everything else looks real good, son.” He patted Daryl’s leg before standing with his crutches. “I’m sure you know you’re benched for a while though.”

“Yeah, figured.” Daryl shrugged a shoulder. He looked as though he could fall back asleep at any given moment. 

“Alright. I’ll check in tomorrow morning. Get some rest.” The older man stopped beside you and added “the both of you.” You gave him a nod and wished him goodnight. 

“Ya okay?” Daryl asked before you could even sit back down. You chose to sit on the edge of the mattress instead of the chair. 

“I’m fine now that I know you’re okay. You scared the hell out of me.”

“I know. M’sorry.” He answered quietly, his gaze falling away from yours. He knew exactly what you weren’t saying. “You should have told me.” 

“Hey.” You reached up to brush his hair away from his face, smiling and letting your hand come to rest on his cheek. “Don’t worry. We will be talking about this but I won’t yell at you until you feel better.”

“S’real comfortin’, Y/N.” His smirk was half-assed at best, either from fatigue or guilt. 

“I know. I have a great bedside manner.” You beamed. Getting to your feet, you moved closer to his own and crawled onto the bed and across his legs to his left side. He turned his head to watch you, each blink lasting longer than the one before it. 

“Guess it ain’t half bad.”

“Oh come on, it’s phenomenal. What other caregiver’s gonna crawl in bed with you and snuggle?”

“Hope ta hell Hershel don’ take notes from ya.”

“He had a hard time with the missing foot but you two looked super cozy when my shift began.” You snorted when he shrugged the shoulder you had cuddled against, jarring you back a little. 

“I can’ stand ya sometimes.”

“Pft, you love me.” You nuzzled your nose against his cheek before kissing it. He huffed a tired laugh and let his eyes drift shut. 

“Eh, I migh’.”

“Wait, what?” You blinked. “You might what? Daryl?” The only replies were his deep, even breaths. You laid your head back against his shoulder and watched him, biting back a wide smile. Now you had even more to talk about. 

[how-much-for-a-whump]

WHUMPTOBER day 22:

Prompt: "Vehicular accident"

Ateş Kuşları 22. Bölüm

[omgiamwish]

Whumptober 2023 Day 22 - Glass Shard

[whump-they-it-is]

Whumptober

No.22) "They never saw us coming, 'till they hit the floor" (Glass Shard)

Cold comes the night 2013

[maschals]

Oct 22 - Watch out

Arthur! You have to keep moving Arthur! Yes, through the incomprehensible horrors. There's no other way.

[whumpdoyoumean]

Whumptober #22

Whoops, I missed it by like an hour. It's fine!

My sincerest apologies to any Texans reading this, I have definitely just fudged all of the geography (and we’re just going to pretend that the 126 responds to any call anywhere near Austin) :’)

xxx they never saw us coming, ‘til they hit the floor

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” There isn’t an immediate answer, but Grace thinks she can hear someone breathing. “Hello, can you hear me?”

There’s a short pause and then, “Grace? Thank god, I hoped it’d be you.”

Grace’s stomach drops and she sits up a little straighter. “TK, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I--we need help. We got in an accident and Carlos, he--he’s stuck, I tried to get him out but I couldn’t do it and he’s stuck and I--”

“Hey, hey, hey. TK, slow down honey. Where are you?”

“I--I’m not sure, exactly. Uh, we were headed--headed west on 71, maybe fifteen minutes outside of Austin?” His voice is taut, and Grace knows the tone well. It’s the kind of tone that comes when someone is on the verge of panic and trying very hard not to be. “Is that--will they be able to find us? I don’t--”

“That’s good enough, TK,” Grace says, typing quickly. “Help is on the way. Can you tell me what happened?”

“The car rolled. Something darted into the road, just came out of nowhere. Carlos swerved to miss it--oh, god, Grace!”

“Hey, TK. TK, I need you to listen to me. The best thing you can do for you and for Carlos is to stay calm. Take a deep breath for me. Are you still in the vehicle?”

TK takes a deep, shaky breath. “No. I was able to get out.”

“Okay, good. Are you injured?”

“No, Grace, I’m okay. I’ve got a--a burn on my arm, from the airbag I think, but I’m okay.”

“What about Carlos? Is he conscious?”

“Yeah, he, um. He says he’s not hurt but Grace, he’s stuck and I’m--” He lowers his voice. He sounds like he’s on the verge of tears. “People who are trapped in a vehicle have higher rates of critical injury. Broken bones, blood loss…Where are they?”

“The 126 is on their way to you, TK.” Grace speaks calmly, doing her best to sound reassuring. “They’ll be there soon. Can you--TK?” 

The line disconnects suddenly, and Grace’s heart jumps. She immediately reaches for her phone, pulling up TK’s number so that she can call him. 

It goes straight to voicemail. 

xxx 

“Grace? Grace, are you there?” TK looks at his phone. No signal. “Damn it!”

“What’s wrong, TK?” 

TK takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down a little before he turns to Carlos, walking back to the wrecked car. “Lost signal. How are you doing, you still breathing okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Carlos says, and smiles a little. “Ready to be out of this car. What about you, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, babe,” TK says. It’s mostly true. His chest and stomach hurt a little, but it’s probably just from the seatbelt. “Grace said the 126 is on their way, it shouldn’t be long now.”

“Good…Hey, I’m really sorry I totaled your car.”

“Carlos, the car is the least of my worries right now.” TK can’t help the anxious edge to his voice. He looks down, running his fingers nervously through his hair. “It’s replaceable. You’re not. You’re sure you’re not feeling dizzy? No pain?”

“TK, look at me.” TK looks up to see Carlos staring at him, brown eyes wide, brow pinched. “I promise you if anything starts to feel wrong, I’ll tell you.”

TK is about to answer when his attention is drawn by the distant sound of sirens and he lets out a long sigh of relief. “Here they come, thank god. We’re gonna get you out of there.”

The engine has barely stopped before Owen is off of it and running to TK’s side. 

“Hey, TK, you okay?”

“I’m fine, Dad,” TK says. “We need to get Carlos out of the car.”

Owen lifts his eyebrows. “We don’t need to do anything.”

“Dad, I can help. I want to help, he’s my husband, I--”

“I know,” Owen interrupts, putting his hands on TK’s shoulders. “I know, believe me. But right now, you are not a first responder, you are a victim. You need to let us work.”

TK feels a surge of frustration. “I am not a victim.”

“Hey, TK.”

TK turns at the sound of Tommy’s voice. She nods at Owen. 

“I got ‘im, Cap.”

Owen nods back, then turns to the 126 crew. “Alright, let’s get started on that extraction.”

“Come on, TK,” Tommy says gently. “Let’s get you checked out.”

“I’m fine Captain Vega. I need to be with Carlos, I--”

“Hey, hey. We’ve got ‘im. Nancy is over there making sure he’s alright while they get him out. Now I need to make sure you’re alright, too. Bandaging that arm, for instance.”

TK looks down at the nasty burn on his left forearm and sighs. “Fine.”

It’s with no small share of reluctance that he allows Tommy to lead him to the back of the ambulance, though he keeps his eye on the car and the 126 and Carlos, barely paying attention as Tommy takes his vitals. 

“Heart rate’s a little elevated,” Tommy says, “but you’re under a lot of stress, that’s to be expected. I’m gonna wrap that arm up for you now, okay?”

TK hisses a little as she wraps a bandage around his forearm and she looks up at him. 

“Sorry about that. All done.”

“Thank you,” TK says, standing, ignoring the pain in his middle as he does so. He can ask about that later. Right now, he just wants to be as close to Carlos as he can. Tommy follows him, bringing a gurney along as they move nearer to the car.

It takes another ten minutes to get Carlos out. He’s got some scrapes and bruises, but as they load him onto the gurney he, miraculously, actually seems fine, smiling and even cracking a joke. The relief is almost too much for TK, and he actually gets lightheaded as they get onto the ambulance. 

“You’ll both need to be checked out at the hospital,” Tommy says as they start toward the hospital, “but your vitals look good, Carlos. The two of you are extremely lucky. I’ve seen a lot of car accidents in my time, and not many people are able to just walk away.”

“We’re gonna be okay, baby,” Carlos says, looking over at him as best he can with the neck brace on and reaching over to take TK’s hand in his own. He frowns a little. “Hey, TK, you alright? You’re clammy.”

“Uh…” TK takes a deep breath, then closes his eyes, leaning forward to put his head between his knees. “I’m a little dizzy. It’ll pass…”

He feels a hand on his arm and Tommy says, “TK, I’m gonna take your vitals again.”

He blacks out for a second as the blood pressure cuff tightens on his arm. He’s distantly aware of Carlos’s voice. 

“TK? What’s wrong?”

And then Tommy’s, in that professional tone she gets on serious calls. “His pulse is high and his blood pressure is dropping. He might be bleeding internally. TK, you with me?” 

And then everything fades. 

xxx 

[whumpypepsigal]

Whumptober 2022 | No. 22: PICK YOUR POISON

toxic | withdrawal | allergic reaction

Daredevil s02e08-09: “I’ve got you.”

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Whumptober prompts 8 (everything hurts and I'm dying), 17 (breaking point), 22 (pick your poison), 27 (stumbling), alt3 (dazed and confused), alt12 (carried to safety), alt15 (tears)

Bruce fumbled for his phone, only partially awake but more so by the moment. It was still dark in his room, the only light coming from the screen.

Dick, his heart stuttered. Tragedy out in Bludhaven. Or the League, some threat that couldn’t wait until morning.

Bruce’s grasping hand missed, knocked the phone to the rug where it landed face up with a muffled clatter. He noticed the time first, a mere hour after he had gone to bed. He noticed the caller second, the name in white across his default ocean coast background: T.

Tim?

Tim was supposed to be home, asleep—Bruce squinted one-eyed again at the time even as he snatched up the phone—yes, definitely home asleep. Jack had come home yesterday, so Robin was off-call for the weekend.

Bruce tapped open the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

Silence.

No, not silence. Faintly, Bruce could make out the sound of someone crying.

“Hello?” he asked again, still half-stretched out of bed, one hand braced against the floor.

A wet, hiccuping noise, louder this time, closer to the phone. It still took Bruce a moment to recognize Tim’s voice. Gooseflesh rose up his arms. He had never heard Tim cry before.

“Tim?” Bruce pushed himself fully upright but sat frozen in bed.

He saw death. He saw blood. He saw Joker with a knife to Tim’s throat, Riddler with a bomb duct-tapped to Tim’s chest. He saw more heartbreak than he could survive.

“Bruce?” It was definitely Tim, even with his voice warped by tears.

Bruce, not Batman, some detached corner of Bruce’s brain noticed. This was Tim talking, not Robin. Tim, calling Bruce, in tears.

At least he’s still breathing.

“What’s wrong?” It was a fight not to dip into Batman’s register, low and with bands of steel to bind back his emotions.

Bruce was on his feet now, reaching for clothes, for shoes, phone pinched between his cheek and shoulder.

“Uh’need he-elp.” Tim wasn’t just crying. He was sobbing. Sobbing so quietly that Bruce hadn’t noticed until he spoke, words slurred and hiccuping with each breath.

“Where are you?” It could be anything. An accident at home, a tragedy in the city. What if Tim had gone patrolling on his own? What if he and Jack had been out somewhere? He needed more information, but Tim was crying too hard.

Bruce put the phone on speaker so he could pull on sweatpants and scoop the fob from the end table into his other hand. Tim’s wheezing echoed tinnily, and Bruce found his own chest catching.

He stopped, hand splayed against the dresser, knuckles white, and forced himself to take a breath before picking up the phone. “Tim, listen to me. I need you to breathe with me, can you do that?”

Tim mumbled something indistinct. It could have been an agreement or not meant for Bruce at all. Was he drugged? Fear-gassed? In some kind of medical crisis?

“Tim.” Bruce let a little of Batman’s command thread into his voice. “Take a deep breath right now. With me, ready?”

In.

Out.

He could hear the exhalation from Tim, sooner than Bruce’s own, and still too shaky and shallow, but he was doing it.

“Good. Again.” Bruce breathed again as he yanked open his bedroom door and sprinted for the stairs. “Again.”

Bruce took the stairs three at a time, thundering down in a way he hadn’t since his youth. He needed to get to the Cave. There was no time to wake Alfred, and Bruce worried that shouting for him would distract Tim. They repeated the process as Bruce tore through the back hallways. Tim was still crying, but he wasn’t gasping for air any longer. That was good.

Or is it because he’s dying? He’s not breathing at all, that’s why you can’t hear it.

No. No, Bruce could hear breathing, voiced exhalations like teary moans.

“You’re doing great,” Bruce lied. “I need to know what’s going on. Are you hurt?”

“Hurt,” Tim echoed in little more than a croak. “Hurt.”

“Okay. Okay, tell me what hurts.”

“Heeeeeaaaaad,” Tim groaned. “M’st’m’ch.” As if to underline his point, the sound of retching echoed over the line. Poison?

There was a garbled noise like a stumble or a fall, and a cry from Tim.

“Tim?”

No answer. The silence made Bruce’s skin crawl.

“Tim, talk to me,” Bruce ordered. “What happened? Are you bleeding?”

“Bleeding?” Tim’s voice was high with panic, nearly a squeak. “‘m I bleeding??”

Okay, bad question, though not having the answer made Bruce want to curl up and have a little panic attack of his own. He was in the Cave now, sprinting full-tilt to the computer, praying to anyone who would listen that Tim had the GPS on his phone turned on.

“Where are you?” he tried again.

“Dunno. Don’t know,” Tim wailed, and he sounded more like a lost little boy than Bruce had ever heard him be before.

Please, he’s just a kid. He’s not even mine, but he’s just a boy.

“Okay, sweetheart, okay, just breathe,” Bruce soothed. “I’ll find you. Stay right where you are and I’ll find you.”

There was the sound of retching again and quiet weeping. Bruce could have drowned in it, but he tried to listen beyond to background noises, any clue to where Tim was being held.

“What do you see?”

The BatComputer was waking up. He just needed a minute more.

“Dark.” Tim’s voice was muffled. “Trees.”

Trees?

“Tim, are you outside?” Trees in Gotham? A park? Or was he not in Gotham at all?

“Nn-hnn.”

Outside with trees, but dark. It was a waxing moon that night, not full but nearly so, and even at this hour, there still should be some light to see by.

“Can you see the moon?”

“No-o. Just trees. Hurt, hurt my leg, I—” Tim coughed, then groaned.

Woods? Bruce knew every block of Gotham, every patch of scraggly brown grass and crooked branch, but his mind was blank with panic. All he could picture was cracked asphalt and crumbling brick. Nowhere with enough trees to block out the moon.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” he asked, desperate to keep a coherent line of dialogue flowing and to have some picture of what was happening.

“Fell off,” Tim said, blunt in a way that made Bruce’s brain stutter. “Can’t—m’stuck. Bruce, m’stuck, help me. Help me.”

Tim had his GPS on. Bruce stared at the screen, disbelieving, but only for a moment. In the next heartbeat, he was gone, sprinting back upstairs.

“I’m coming,” he promised, putting every drop of conviction into his voice, as if he could reach through the phone and clasp Tim’s hand through force of will alone. “I’m coming, Tim, just keep talking to me.”

Nothing made sense. Not the blinking red light on the map Bruce had thrown to his phone. Not the mumbled, weeping replies from Tim. Not the way Bruce felt like he couldn’t breathe, broken from the inside out at the thought of anything happening to this child.

It took too long to reach the thick patch of trees that delineated the property line between the Waynes and the Drakes. Bruce had Tim on speaker again, looking from the screen to the dark and silent wood in front of him. He didn’t pause at the edge, instead plunging in even as he flicked on the flashlight function. He wanted searchlights, floodlights, but had to content himself with sweeping the narrow beam in enough of an arc to see by.

“Tim!” Bruce bellowed into the open air. “Tim, can you hear me? Timothy!”

The return cry was more echo than noise, but Bruce heard it. He crashed through the bushes, leaping over scrub and fallen branches, until he reached the ditch where a black-haired boy lay sprawled half in, half out, limbs tangled among the thick shrubs.

“Tim.” Bruce knelt and lifted his phone to get a better view.

“Bru-usssse.” Tim’s face was smeared with tears, snot, and dirt, a red scratch across his cheek, likely from stumbling through the woods. He tried to reach for Bruce, but the sleeve of his t-shirt had snagged on the bush he had fallen through.

“Hold still,” Bruce ordered, checking quickly for broken bones, impalement, or any other danger that would prevent Tim from moving.

When he found nothing, he looked back to the still-weeping boy in the ditch. With Bruce in sight, Tim had stifled his own hiccuping sobs and subsided back into near-silent tears. He looked miserable, which Bruce tried to keep in mind as his cresting panic warred against the reek of alcohol that wafted off Tim like smog.

“Timothy,” Bruce began, relief and crashing adrenaline quickly shifting into growing anger, but Tim had flinched back from the light and was cringing with his face buried in his own shoulder. He looked pathetic. Pathetic and so very young.

“Hurts,” Tim croaked again. Bruce sighed, relented.

“Okay, he murmured. “Okay, hold still, I’ll get you out.”

Bruce began the painstaking process of disentangling boy from debris. Tim’s stumbling path through the woods was clear enough, even by flashlight. Just out of sight would be piles of vomit where alcohol and fear had forced their way up. Bruce could see where Tim had tripped and fallen into the ditch. A better examination later would likely show a twisted ankle.

Tim was still crying as Bruce lifted him out of the ditch and into his arms.

He should cry, Bruce thought bitterly, then regretted the bitterness and the approval alike. He never wanted to hear a child cry, no matter the reason. Especially not this child.

“Okay,” Bruce mumbled and shifted Tim to hold the boy a little closer. “Okay. It’s alright.”

The journey was a slow one, hindered by the lack of light on the return and Bruce’s need to be careful with his back. It was silent except for the crunch of Bruce’s carefully placed steps in the dirt and the distant chirping of crickets. Tim’s tears soaked Bruce’s shirt but didn’t make a sound. Bruce was careful to think only about what would happen next and not about what could have been, nor about the disorienting muscle memory of cradling a half-grown boy he had never held before.

Alfred was waiting at the side door when they arrived. They exchanged looks over Tim’s head—Alfred’s concerned, Bruce’s dour and bewildered all at once. As they passed by, Alfred caught whiff of Tim and his expression changed. Bruce’s stayed the same.

He didn’t understand. This was Tim. Quiet, responsible, meticulous Tim. Tim, who bullied Bruce into going to bed and eating dinners outside of the Cave. Tim who had never once shown any signs of addiction or even interest—who had, in fact, ratted Bruce out a time or two to Alfred or Dick.

Tim, who didn’t ask for help.

Tim, who didn’t cry.

Bruce carried Tim into the kitchen and poured the boy into a chair. In the light, Tim managed to look even worse than he had outside. Though less hauntingly pale, he was still several shades below his normal color, a difference only heightened by the high pink in his cheeks and nose. Bruce kept him braced upright with one hand as the other pulled a second chair close. As he sat, Alfred placed a damp washcloth on the table with a cup of water and then disappeared after a nod of thanks from Bruce.

“Tim,” Bruce began, then stopped, not sure how to proceed.

Dick had gotten drunk once that Bruce knew of. He had been given a bottle of wine by a grateful citizen who had ignored the teen in Teen Titans, and he and Wally had made short work of it. As far as Bruce knew, Wally had been fine, but Dick had staggered home, peed in a vase, and then woken the next morning with a hangover powerful enough to make Bruce almost pity him. Almost.

Bruce had been at a loss then, too, not sure how to navigate the already unsteady ground of brother-father figure that was further in flux as Dick became more independent. The illegality of underage drinking he could deal with, though he knew it was hypocritical of him. The rest… He had fumbled through it, as he often did, with one eye to Alfred’s example. Their relationship had survived, and as far as Bruce knew, Dick had waited until 21 to drink again.

But Tim… This was different. Tim was different, but so was Bruce’s role in his life. Right?

Anger, a white-hot flareup from a fire never fully extinguished, roared in Bruce’s chest before being banked again. Where was Jack Drake? Why didn’t he care that his son was wandering through the woods, drunk, upset, and alone? Or maybe Jack was also drunk, passed out safely in the shelter of his own home.

Bruce couldn’t think about that right now without wanting to break something, and Tim already looked like he was on the far side of fragile. Instead, Bruce pressed the water into Tim’s hand and forced him to drink as he did another inspection under the sconced kitchen lights. Only when Bruce was sure that there was no damage other than some scrapes, bruises, and a mildly twisted ankle did he let himself breathe more fully.

Tim had stopped crying for the moment, his attention and concentration fixated on lifting the cup of water to his lips. Bruce took advantage of the moment to pick up the washcloth and begin to wipe away the dirt, snot, and tears that caked Tim’s face.

“Tim,” he began again, and swallowed a grunt as Tim’s head jerked toward his voice. “Do you know where you are?”

Tim blinked, then looked around slowly as if realizing he was somewhere new for the first time. “Inside.”

Bruce made sure his sigh wasn’t vocalized. “Yes. Do you know inside where?”

Tim hummed. “Th’ Manor.” As soon as he said it, his already slouched body relaxed further, as if some tensely strung cord inside of him had been released.

“That’s right,” Bruce agreed. “You’re in Wayne Manor with me and Alfred.”

He dragged the washcloth across Tim’s cheek and was both bemused and amused when Tim physically leaned into the sensation. Bruce was struck again by how very young this Robin was. He wanted to strangle Jack Drake. The man was only in town for the weekend after three weeks abroad. The least he could do was be aware that his underage son was drunk in the woods in the dead of night.

Bruce cleared his throat and made sure his tone was neutral before asking, “Tim, where’s Jack?”

Tim burst into tears. Bruce froze, washcloth still lifted. He stayed completely still as Tim—sobbing, nearly incoherent, and still very drunk—confessed that Jack Drake had not come home after all. Instead of arriving the night before, he had texted, saying he would see Tim next week instead. Tim, hurt, angry, and bewildered, had helped himself to Jack’s fully stocked bar. Because it was there, and Jack was not.

“Why didn’t you just come here?”

Alfred would have been thrilled to have company, and Bruce had thought Tim knew by now that he was welcome any time. But Tim shook his head and tearily refused to answer, and Bruce understood. No child should have to protect their parents the way Tim did.

Bruce relented. “Okay,” he murmured as he wiped the fresh tears from Tim’s face. “Okay. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

“M’sorry,” Tim mumbled. “M’sorry.”

Bruce bent down, ducking his head until he could catch Tim’s gaze. “Tim. I’m glad you knew it was safe to come here. Next time…” He hoped there was never a next time. “Call me. I’ll come get you. And don’t ever drink alone.”

Tomorrow, they would address the legal concerns, the danger Tim had put himself in, the what-ifs, and the consequences. But not tonight.

If Tim were Dick or… If Tim were his child, Bruce would have kissed his forehead and pulled him into a hug. Tim was not. Instead, he squeezed Tim’s narrow shoulder and then straightened with a pop of his spine.

He could hear Alfred setting up an IV pole in the living room. They would need to check Tim’s BAC and monitor him for the night, so Bruce mentally bid farewell to his bed. Knowing Alfred, there was likely a toothbrush and spit bowl waiting as well, so no need to detour. Rather than lifting Tim back into his arms, he helped the boy to his feet and guided him into the waiting gloom.

“Baseball or talk shows?” he asked as they sat on the couch.

Tim wrinkled his nose. “Ugh.”

Bruce grunted, as close as he would get to a laugh tonight. They would get Tim cleaned up and settled. Alfred would return to bed. Tim would get to doze lightly, letting rest burn away the alcohol and sharpen the edge of his first hangover. And Bruce would stay awake, blinking gritty eyes at a bright screen, another man’s son heavy against his shoulder.

———

The phone vibrated by his elbow, the accompanying flash pulling Bruce’s focus away from the paperwork spread across the desktop in front of him. It was still relatively early in the night, at least for his family, and as he pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and lifted the phone to see the caller, he mentally calculated the odds of whose name would appear.

TIMOTHY DRAKE WAYNE the screen read. Tim’s face looked back at him, a nervous little half-smile captured at Bruce’s request a few months after his adoption. He had looked so young even then, but younger now, several years onward.

It was Dick and Damian’s week at the Manor, a routine that continued to chafe but also eased many of the tensions still bubbling after Bruce’s presumed death and return. Tim would be at his own apartment, most likely, or maybe at one of Jason’s safehouses. Bruce didn’t know the full shape of their relationship and he was reluctant to take its measure without invitation. Whatever peace they had brokered in his absence, he was glad of it.

Bruce set down his pen and leaned back in his chair before answering. “Hello?”

He expected a question, perhaps a tricky case Tim was fiddling with in his spare time, or a random thought Tim would then use to segue into a casual chat to help fill the time until it was his week at the Manor. Bruce enjoyed both of these, when they happened. Tim was more inclined to text, but Bruce liked to hear his voice.

Instead, there was no greeting, just the sound of breathing.

Bruce sat up a little straighter. “Tim?”

“Broke my promise.” That was Tim’s voice, but not the Tim Bruce knew. This Tim was flat, as dead-toned as a hostage reading from a script.

Bruce had to remind himself to keep breathing. “What promise did you break?” he asked, careful to keep his tone light and open.

Tim hadn’t made many promises to Bruce. He had a way of going quiet when pressed, implying agreement without actually agreeing, then slipping off to do whatever he had planned in the first place, conscience clear and mind set. The few Bruce could recollect pinning him down on all had to do with his own well-being.

There was a noise like the gurgle of water and a clink.

“Tim?” Bruce asked again. “Everything alright?”

He braced, waiting for the family code, the signal that Tim wasn’t alone, that he was under duress, that he needed Batman to crash through his window.

Instead, Tim asked, “Can you come?”

Bruce was already pushing away from his desk. “Yes. Where am I going?”

“My place.” Another sloshing sound, which Bruce finally recognized as a glass bottle being tipped up.

“I’m coming,” Bruce promised. “Stay on the phone with me.”

Tim left the phone on but didn’t speak again. Any attempt at conversation was met with a grunt or silence. Bruce drove with an iron grip on the steering wheel, keeping track of each audible sip.

He knew Tim’s address but had never been before. He had asked, more than once, and Tim had demurred, citing conflicting schedules, messy bedrooms, or later times that would be better. And it was true, the current shape of their lives meant it was difficult to make schedules align. If it was Tim’s week at the Manor, he didn’t want to be at his apartment, and if it wasn’t, then Bruce was expected to spend his time with Dick and Damian. Bruce had always expected to find a way, someday, or just wait out the clock until Tim was able to move back permanently. This was not how he expected to visit.

Bruce took the stairs, phone off speaker and held to his ear now as he hiked up narrow stairs to Tim’s apartment. He had a key. Tim’s emancipation was still a touchy subject, but after his collapse earlier that year, Bruce had required a backup set. So Bruce didn’t have to wait to be let in, but instead gave a perfunctory knock and then stepped inside.

Tim was not in the living room. At least, Bruce thought this was the living room. The front door opened onto a small room, carpeted, with a couch, beanbag chair, and end table. A small television sat on the floor against one wall, a gaming console with two controllers in a pile next to it. The walls were white. The carpet was vaguely beige. A Mario poster taped to one wall was the only thing with color. It was all so un-Tim that Bruce could only stare.

The kitchenette was a narrow strip of linoleum and one half-wall of cabinets with a small square of laminate countertop. There, at least, was some sign of life—a sink full of dishes, a roll of paper towels without a holder, a wilting geranium in a plastic pot. But still no Tim.

“Tim?” Bruce called.

He heard his own voice echo from a hall just off the living room. Cautiously, Bruce followed it down, until he was standing in the doorway of the bedroom. The room had no overhead light, just a small bedside lamp. Tim was caught in the edge of its glow, profile limned in gold as he sat slumped on the bed, back against the wall, a bottle resting against his leg.

The lighting obscured most details. Bruce tried to look for injuries but saw none. Then again, his children were far, far too good at hiding all but the worst. He was afraid, studying Tim’s profile in silhouette, that this was one of those times.

“Tim?” Bruce said again, low and gentle.

Tim twitched, not quite turning to look at Bruce, but jerking his chin enough to acknowledge the sound. “Hey. I…” He licked his lips, pausing to chew on the top one a moment. “Sorry. Broke m’promise.”

“Promise?” Bruce echoed, aware of the reverberating deja vu from earlier. “What promise is that?”

Tim made to lift the bottle, but only managed to waggle it a few inches off the bed before letting it fall again. There was a good portion gone. “Not t’drink alone. Sorry.”

Bruce hadn’t thought about that horrible night in ages. There had been other horrible nights since—with Tim, with Dick or Jason or Cass or Damian, or with Bruce himself—and new traumas took precedence over old. And Tim, as far as Bruce knew, had stayed away from alcohol since, the combination of his resulting hangover and Bruce and Alfred’s joint disappointment a powerful enough deterrent.

But Bruce had been gone a long time, and there was no accounting for what else he might have missed.

Bruce edged into the room, careful to keep his posture loose and nonthreatening. All of his children were sensitive to his disapproval, his perceived anger, and Tim was no exception.

“Where’d you get that?” he asked, not sure where to start but knowing he must. A full bottle of alcohol supplied to his still very underage son was at least a place to begin, if not the best.

“Don’ worry ‘bout it,” was Tim’s slurred reply. As Bruce watched, he brought the bottle to his lips and took another drink, grimacing at the bite. He looked no less miserable as he lowered the bottle to the mattress again.

“Jack,” Tim began, and Bruce went still. Tim rarely brought up either of his parents freely. “Jack always said a good negroni was the mark of a ‘proper Drake man.’”

Tim’s voice deepened in mocking approximation of his dead father. He snorted, rolling his eyes at his own air quotes. “Only, only he never taught me.” Tim sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his wrist. “Thought I c’ld figure it out. YouTube.”

He shook his head. “Nope. So I…” He lifted the bottle again, wordlessly displaying the result of his failure.

Bruce didn’t know what to say. He never did, when it came to Jack. The man was dead. There was no healing to come from excoriating him, no matter how badly Bruce wished he could. Nor did the story explain why Bruce’s straightlaced son felt the need to get drunk in the first place.

“Rough day?” Bruce asked.

Tim shrugged, shoulders rising and falling the way a marionette’s might, all string and no muscle. Even as he brushed away the question, his expression rippled, collapsing into something nearing tears before righting itself again. He closed his eyes and let his head rest back against the wall.

It had taken Bruce too long to notice how skilled Tim was at hiding his own hurts. At how quick he was to bury the first sign of need or want. And too often Bruce had let him. They were both trying to be better now, but some patterns were hard to break. But Bruce knew, for Tim’s sake, he had to be better. And it turned out he knew where to start after all.

Instead of waiting for an invitation, Bruce took the two steps needed to reach the bed and sat next to his son.

“C’mere,” he murmured and caught Tim as he collapsed into his side.

It was a unique kind of pain, listening to his children cry. If Bruce could snap his fingers and change the world for them, he would. But there was nothing to fix here, not really. All he could do was listen and wait.

Bruce pressed his lips to Tim’s scalp and held him close as Tim sobbed, then decided that an arm around him wasn’t close enough and pulled Tim onto his lap instead. Tim, small though he was, was too big. Bruce didn’t care. He had allowed Tim his space early on, assuming that Tim didn’t want or need physical affection, that he was too independent, that he didn’t look to Bruce for that sort of thing. It had taken dying to find out he was wrong.

Tim clung to him, face pressed into his shirt, body shaking with sobs.

“Talk to me,” Bruce encouraged gently, one hand rubbing circles between his son’s shoulder blades.

“Hurts,” Tim gasped. “Hurts.”

“What does?”

“Ev’rything.” Tim pressed a hand to his own chest, over his heart, and pushed as if he could rub the pain out of himself.

Bruce caught that hand and brought the knuckles to his lips. “I’m sorry, love. I wish… I could fix it for you.” He would have moved earth itself, crossed universes, thrown himself back into the clutches of time, if it meant his children never needing to cry again.

Tim made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh, and Bruce rested his cheek atop Tim’s head. There would be time later to find out what, if anything had happened. It could have been an event, a memory, a trigger. Or it could have been nothing at all. They all bore their own scars, and some ran deep enough to be lifelong. They could talk about medication, about a change to Tim’s therapy, about consequences for underage drinking. But all of that could wait for the new day.

Bruce rocked his son until the shaking sobs subsided into sniffles. The combination of booze and tears had left Tim boneless and nauseated, so Bruce lifted his boy as if he were fourteen again and carried him into the living room.

There was no Alfred this time, so Bruce had to fetch the water and the washcloth himself, but the rest was an echo, reverberating and distorting. The face he cleaned now was leaner, older, its nose crookedly reset after a break, but it was his boy’s face. Bruce was getting better at leaning into impulse, so he did now, pressing his lips to the spot on Tim’s cheek that the cloth had just cleaned.

Tim gave a wet little snort. It was a nicer sound than tears.

“I’m glad you called,” Bruce murmured. “Thank you.”

Tim hummed, and Bruce pressed the glass of water into his hands as they settled back on the couch.

“Baseball or talk shows?” Bruce asked as he reached for the remote.

“Only got subscriptions,” Tim said, this side shy of smug, though his voice still wobbled. “Cartoons or cooking shows.” He gave a little urp, then amended, “Cartoons.”

Bruce chuckled and reached for his phone.

At Tim’s, he pecked out with one thumb. Done for night.

A pause, and then a thumbs up on the other end.

Bruce turned off his phone.

[lbibliophile-sw]

Breaking Habits

Also on AO3 @whumptober-archive - day 1: safety net, day 22: "watch out", vehicular accident @clonefandomevents - Haunted Clones week & 501st bingo - day 1: time loop

They say that it can take as little as 21 rotations to build a habit.

Rex doesn’t know just how many weeks he was trapped in the loop – he lost count somewhere after the 30th morning of waking up in the Coruscant barracks. Yet eventually he found the combination: he saved Fives, made the Jedi listen, defeated the Sith.

But then there is the aftermath. For all that he had been desperate to unravel the mystery, the routine had become familiar, comforting, safe. Details fading into the background as he focused on each variable.

Now… People aren’t where they’re supposed to be. Conversations take unfamiliar turns. Someone moved ‘his’ caf-mug from the shelf. Things change without his input, and it leaves him wrong-footed and unsure.

The first time he leaves the barracks After, only Jesse’s reflexes keep him from being run over by a speeder-truck. Rex didn’t check, because this intersection is always clear. Rex didn’t react fast enough, because dying just meant waking up.

He has to remind himself that consequences linger; people remember and injuries take time to heal. He has to relearn how to accept uncertainty.