#sick bruce wayne is an awful patient

[flannelshirtsandbatcowls]

Bruce being the world's worst at taking care of himself, worried about everyone but himself as per usual makes an enemy of Alfred for the last time and the older man calls Clark the next time Bruce comes down with pneumonia.

Clark carries a very disgruntled and pissed off bat wrapped in a very warm clothes to the Kent farm and under the stern yet loving hand of Martha Kent takes care of him.

[currentfandomkick]

Bio! Dad Strange Part 10, Mr. J finds Robin

Realized it might be easier to add titles so people know whats going on in these

Marinette was glad she had red hoodie, er, Jay back. He helped her escape her overprotective rouges, and aas the only one she could rant to about JL members without worrying about secret identities.

They may also be plotting to get their Hero Stalker out of the batfam—apparently Dick was a dick to Jason and chances of him changing with Tim were slim.

Speaking of, he didnt pick up lastnight and there havent been Robin sightings lately. Though, she is a but distracted trying to manage Jay’s murder rampages. Zsasz was helping with those and the Sirens pointed him to targets that deserved it, mostly traffickers and cartels.

The Council said that at this rate, he’d be her bodyguard or a new member. She didnt know what that meant for him besides staying beside her, when she worked as ‘Harley’s Niece’ (thank you puzzles for that) but otherwise she was kept away as Pixie Pop (too easy to id her) and Jill was just her father’s daughter taking to his patients and keeping certain Rogues from plotting mass murder (Uncle Jerome, Penguin, Riddler) or terrorist attacks (mostly Scarecrow but sometimes Ivy, Dent and Mr. Freeze)

But it bugged her, Robin being missing. She mentioned it to Rose, who said her flowers hadn’t seen him at all. As Tim or Robin.

She sent out a rouge and RKC search city-wide. Jay helps, as Red Hood (helmet was better but no, hood. Even though he isnt wearing one and is still in the awful outfit they met in).

Red Hood has managed to get a following on the streets and made a no kids rule for everything. All kids found were given to Uncle Oswald or his ‘son’ Marteen (late twenties) for recovery phsycially. Mentall Harley had her own picks for help on therapy, social and psychological sides.

The RKC was thriving since that system was installed.

But Robin was missing two days in. Mr. J was still back and too quiet and damnit!

Marinette skipped her treatments. Gotham is loud and she knows it but she has to do something. Jay is in his gear and she puts on her knock-Harley outfit and stocks up on knives, stungun, bolas and rubber bullet guns on her hips or legs.

She doesnt think about the fact that the red and black makes it look like her and Red Hood are trying to match with the the different red and black he’s wearing. Her makeup covers her face again—done up like a mime with a few contour tricks now.

She sneaks out and patrols on the rooftop, one of Robin’s usual routes. Maybe they just need to talk in person.

Then she catches something that sounds like her Hero Stalker when he was frustrated and tired and oh god that was screaming in there.

She moved. hit Rose’s tracker flower hard enough to leave a distress trail as she ran.

Jay ran after her, following her twists and turns.

She wished she skipped her treatments sooner. Could fly off to help but she hadnt and she cursed herself for this.

At 10 she found Mr. J torturing her friend in a warehouse.

“Stalker,” she whispered. Becuase that’s who he was first, the hero stalker that loved Batman and Robin (Robin-Jay, a small voice corrected her) for helping his city and were kind and caring and nice when his home was cold.

Robin and Mr. J didn’t hear. She knew that words were being said but she couldnt process them. Shock, Harley talked about that a lot after last summer.

A camera was recording. The sick fuck, he wanted to show this to someone.

She grabbed her bolas and threw them at Mr. J’s head.

He went down, hard. Jay handled him, but Marinette only cared about getting her friend off that table.

There was an oversized ray gun lointed at them while she fiddled witht he restraints, picking the locks.

She heard the whirling in it and kicked it in another direction.

It threw lightning. What the hell. What the hell—where was Batman. Why wasnt he keeping her friend safe. Why did he fail to keep Jay safe. Why—why does he get to put kids in danger?

Marinette felt sick. She got an exhausted Tim out and carried him.

She felt Harley run a hand through her hair as she refused to let her friend go.

She didnt know when the others got there, but they were.

Never alone, never go in alone. Always call the family and they will show. Never fight alone—the Council drilled this into her for years. Why was Hero Stalker-Robin alone? Did Batman forget how dangerous Gotham can be?

Zsasz was there with Jay, something Jay being “too nice” about needing to kill him painfully and permanently this time—“properly put him down this time.”

Her mind was a mess. She went to her Father on autopilot, carrying Tim over the rooftops. He clung to her. She’s ten and he’s twelve clinging to her as support. Where’s his team, his backup. Where’s Batman or Batgirl or Nightwing or the newb—Spoiler?

Why was Tim clinging to her and her team when his should be there. When his fights hers. Why were his enemies there and Batman—no, Bruce, his dad. Why wasn’t his Dad there for him. Why?

Father’s assisant helped fix Tim, their ability is to augment healing after Father puts them back together. Any attempt to move his mask was met by her breaking their wrist.

He had enough to worry about. No identity reveals on top of this nightmare, not on her watch.

She didn’t leave him that night. Refused to sleep too.

When he came to the next day, Jay was with a despondent Marinette.

“Going Kronos route,” Jay. Jay was tlaking about that monster. “He said I didnt have to see that.” Jayw as looking at her weird.

Marinette nodded, hoping it was the last time for real Jerimah would die. She lost track of how many times he’d been killed.

“Dad, he’s gotta be worried...” Tim, why the hell aren’t you thinking for yourself? Marinette wants to shake him, to keep him there and never let Bruce see him again.

Jay is debating it too, she can feel it. “I don’t know, he replaced me pretty quick.”

She wants to hit her brother. Becuase she knows he’s hurting but Jay can you chill for a but—he knew Hero Stalker befor ehe became Robin. He kenw what Tim’s life was like before Bruce. And Tim has been through enough, especially for now, hasn’t he?

“I, Ja—” so his first name started with a J. He was Jason Todd Wayne. Red Hoodie was Jason Todd Wayne and Robin and now James Smith. A lot of o’s until now, she noted (distract to aviod processing an overwhelming situation.)

“Its Red Hood. That kid died.”

“Hoodie...” she wanted to hug him or hit him or something. She doesn’t know. It hurts and doesnt at once.

Jay put an hand on her shoulder.

She knew he meant it. That Robin was killed by negilence from what he’d told her and she could peice together. The batfam picked Dick who left over him—a new Robin with no idea what was going on and how to Wayne and was being bullied by the rich kids and teachers in the ways that Jason couldn’t fight against. And when he finally lashed out—started being abit more violent—they put distance and then he went to find someone that might want him, his birth mother. That person sold him out to Mr. J. He died trying to protect his birth mom who wanted him dead.

She wanted cry but her eyes weren’t working. Still in shock then.

“I’m taking you back home if you want, but you have to stop being Robin like this. You can still do detective stuff but you need backup when you patrol or do a bust ir anything. You’re thirteen, not twenty.”

Tim didn’t make eyecontact. “I, he needs me.”

Marinette wanted to throttle Bruce. Badly.

“I get that.”

Harley only got better when Ivy stepped in. Jerome only recovers as long as Marinette keeps talking to him, the Sirens are slowly adopting him so she has more free time. Zsasz does what she says, and when she said no more taking hits unless they broke an RKC rule—attacking kids, abuse (any kind), murder that isn’t justifiable (see Dent for clarification), and active enablers of systematic abuse (dirty cops and their ‘albi’ partner, the false alibi givers too—Rose and Ivy’s plants were happy to testify the truth of anyone’s lcoation at any time).

Hell, if it wasnt for Frost and Ghoul and Puzzles, she doubted their fathers would even be considering backing off of crime. As it stands, Riddler is now running a youtube let’s play and working on game design as her and puzzles constant request. The other two were slowly moving off of crime and more into science again.

Her father would still be.. she didnt want to know how he’d escalate. But there were rumors of an alter around... she’d handle that tomorrow. Today was making sure Tim understood boundaries.

“But that doesnt mean you die for him. Do you hear me?”

Tim wasn’t looking at her then, looking at Jay instead.

“How are you even...”

“I dont talk about it.”

Tim nodded, slowly turning back to Marinette. “I, uh...”

Jay shook his head. “He wont get it pixie.”

“I,” Marinette sighed. Everything in her hurt and she didn’t know why. She wasnt injured. “He can try. Just, please Jay?”

Jay ruffled her hair. “Talk to him then you’re getting some z’s got it?”

Marinette nodded, feeling Jay leave. Probably to talk to Father about this. Maybe the Council.

“T—Robin.” He turned to her then. “Please, don’t die. If its life or death situation, please dont be the one to die. Don’t pull an idiot move and martyr yourself fighting a war. Focus on the causes, find the root issue and kick its butt. If anyone can, its you.”

Tim blinked slowly at her.

Marinette sighed. “Get some rest. Everyone knows if the touch your mask Jay’s got free reign.”

She went home and let Harley gove her Ivy’s knockout tea.

“Hun, how...”

“He doesn’t even realize how screwed up it is. I, he can’t becuase he came from such shit parents and...”

Harley raised an eyebrow at her word choice, and decided certain people would get a talk. Lter, when her neice didnt look like she couls blow up at any minute.

Marinette wanted to scream and kick and fight but thst won’t help her friend.

“...how bad.”

“His birth parents left him alone enough for him to stalk vilgantes and rogues and get pics. They didnt even notice.”

Harley took a deep breath. “I’m giving him a burner. If he’s in deep, he can message us. I can talk to him but we both know that not how Waynes work.”

Marinette rubbed her temples. She suspected Harley knew but... “Do they know?”

“Only me, Selina and Jerome for now. Ivy suspects. Want it to stay our secret?”

Marinette nodded.

Harley patted her head. “Get some sleep. You have a Bat to chew out tonight.”

—

Marinette walked Tim to Batman, escorted by Jerome and Harley.

Jerome was pissed, she noted.

“Batsy, care to explain why my neice and us were the ones to find your bird?”

Batman didn’t look good. His skin was tired. Hopefully from searching for his son, right?

Batman was silent.

Tim ran into his arms, crying.

Marinette could feel Jerome ready to punch Batman. She held him back.

“Give him a minute, please.”

Jerome narrowed his eyes, but nodded.

Batman idly noted the interaction. Apparently this girl... clown-mime? She had sway over Joker and Harley. And found his son.

He didnt know how to thank them, or what to do with that.

“Er, Mr. Batman?” The girl sounded different then. More than a tonal shift.

“I, you need to fix your team. This is the second time this happened to one of your sons.”

Batman tensed at that.

“It was Mr. J again. I, one of my uncles and my brother are handling him. This is the third summer he’s tried killing a kid.”

That had both looking at her. “He,” Marinette was smaller then, almost... scared.

Batman seemed to catch what she was trying to say.

“He kidnapped my girl here with hatter, killed Hatter infront kf her, and held her for a week while deciding how to kill her until she escaped and called us.”

Batman stared at Marinette then, something clicking enough to make him pale.

“He targets kids. The, the RKC are claiming jurisdiction on him and claiming his body to prevent future revivals,” Marinette got out, shaking slightly. She hated thinking about that week. It took day with the green crystals and week after to recover phsyically.

Batman didnt say anything, waiting for her to talk. Not the adults—he put together she’s incharge.

It was unnerving.

Tim was looking ar her too. They both knew she knew a lot. He wanted to see what she’d do with that knowledge.

She hated to dissapoint him, but Oswald and Marteen and Fish told her to make sure negotations go her way by any means necessary.

“I, Robin is either to be supervised or partnered during all patrols, put on a team somewhere else where he gets that support or be removed from fieldwork and he needs a new alias for his safety.”

Robin, not Tim, stiffened. “You’re not the boss of me!”

“If these conditions aren’t met, then i...”

Harley stepped forward then. “Then me or Jokes will blab about who’s under the mask. If its bad enough, then my mini-me will let out four other leaguer’s identities and their sidekicks. She’s pretty smart, even panicked when she found out i knew how much she knew.”

Marinette was paler under the makeup. She knew

This was the best plan for sucess but it made her feel sick.

Batman put Tim behind him.

“How does she—”

Marinette winced at the tone.

Batman froze at her reaction. He didnt like it when kids were scared of him.

She was shaking when she spoke. “Paterns and friends with their obsessions and me with mine and a few photoshop jokes and it just...” she trailed off, curling in in herself and eyes on the ground.

Bad move but she, she cant look at people right now. Maybe Jay but not the man who pushed her brother into a palce where he was vulenerable, not one who failed to get two of his sons away from Mr. J.

“You, you should have a meeting or something on secret identities becuase i have to keep a lot of them now. Becuase, becuase you guys are bad at them and blocking JL news did nothing to stop figuring out Arrow with his archery style and Superman’s only works with general disbelief and acting and Wonderwoman should vary how she carries herself or something and uh, yeah, Flash was more a senses thing and uh, i just...”

She was fiddling. With her ropes. When did she start doing that?

“I’ll talk to the league.” Batman was watching her carefully. Too carefully.

“Just, just think things through, okay? Tag team patrols if he stays and new costume—i made him by knowing him before... maybe a different role on the team? I, i don’t know just...”

Marientte squeezed the rope. Oh, those were tears starting up. “please keep him safe.”

She didnt see their reactions. She heard Jay coming over, in his helmet.

“Pixie, time to go.” It was Jay that lifted her up. She was lighter then? Did her worry screw with her treatment processing again? She didnt know. Or maybe she was just light to him?

She let him take her the long way, to the RKC.

She cried with Rose’s plants growing over her and Jay into him. Rose kept Ghoul from going to kill someone by getting him to help her make crepes for Marinette.

It was an absymal attempt. But it got her to laugh.

Frost gave her an ice sculpture and told them he’d be taking her to his summer classes in Central for a few.

—

The JL have a meeting. No one likes what Batman tells them.

“You’re telling us Harley Quinn—who took you down on her own twice—she has a neice that knows not only your team’s identities, but mine, Supes, Wonder Woman and Flash’s?” Arrow summized.

Batman sighed. “Yes.”

The League was silent for a moment.

Flash was the one to break it. “You wouldnt happen to have any pictures of Harley in casual clothing would you?”

Everyone turned to him, various looks of confusion, rage and disgust.

Batman put a picture of Harley with the Sirens up, one where she forgot her make-up during a ‘shopping spree’ in the Sirens early days.

“Yeah, i think she’s this girl, Jill i think, her aunt. The kid was wicked smart when i met her at the Flash muesum last year, and knew more than she should about acfive police cases. I think she’s our mystery girl, Pixie.”

“That’s what Red Hood was calling her before taking her away.”

The league burst into chaos then.

“We need to find her”

“Get the security feeds from the Flash muesum last summer.”

“Theyre deleted already.”

“Databases for american girls named variations of Jill born between XXXX and XXXX”

“Wait, alias, maybe?”

“Damnit!”

—

The Flash was patroling his city when she spotted her. Pixie. At central city university.

“Hey there kiddo.”

The girl jumped a bit, turning to see him. Earplugs. sensory issues?

“Uh, hello?” Th girl looked around, like she was expecting someone else. “Are you looking for someone?”

“Kind of. Maybe you can help?”

That got the girl’s attention, sitting up straighter and her eyes sharper. Definately the girl Batman said she was. He put his league comm on, hoping the others would hear.

“There’s this case I’m working on, but the lead scientist is stuck on. I heard from a certain reporter you’re pretty good at forensic science, think you can help with a bit of bio?”

Marinette blinked a few times, but nodded. “Kind of. Im not allowed in labs yet so i mostly just look at data and figure out what patterns fit it best. My father doesnt want me to get too involved with biology or medicine since mom has a science ban.”

Red flag. Restrictive learning is a red flag. Possible abusive or toxic home. Procede with caution.

“Well that’s good. Give me one sec, the lead on this isnt getting it done.”

flash came back in less than a second, holding a file. “Can you look this over and tell me what happened?”

“The kid was moved through multiple locations while injured. He, he couldnt fight back since there’s no defensive wounds, but restraint bruising, looks like metal since its uniform... i, mr. flash, they have a lot of injuries, but some are old and defensive so in bad fighting situations a lot too.”

Marinette handed him back the file.

“Thank you. The forensic guy is taking forever.”

That had the girl, Jill? Looking at him again, this time curious. He hoped the league turned on his camera to see her reactions. Get her into their database.

“Who is it?”

“Barry Allen.”

Marinette couldnt help it, Barry (not flash, Barry who is hiding being a meta and still speaking out) is her personal hero. Him and Harley, but still. “He’s really cool!”

Okay, she can’t hide her fangirl side.

Flash raised an eyebrow. “Not really. Always late, sloppy attire, testimonies are eh.”

Marinette was mad then—why cant Flash let his alter be amazing!

“He’s late becuase he’s known to stay up late working on other cases when he isnt paid to and doesnt have to. And appearances and organizational skills arent what matters—his expertise is and he’s one of best with getting everyone what they need in time for case-building. So what if his reports are hard to read sometimes? He explains it in personso everyone gets what happened, which is very important and a lot of people are super bad at. And—and he advocates for meta rights and for their ability and circumstances taken into consideration during sentencing—none of the others even try to remind people of that and that a lot of metas dont chose their powers and it gets overwhelming and scary and then one instictive reaction later and people get hurt when you didnt want to react at all.”

Flash felt something kick him in the chest then. The girl is meta. Ear plugs. Possibly hurt somone by accident.

“If its okay, can i ask what your ability is?”

Marinette froze. “I. If anyone finds out, I lose Maman and Papa and Father and everyone.”

Flash froze at that. “What do you mean you lose everyone.”

“I, I’m visiting family for the summer. I live in France.” She didnt want to say more than that for location. “Being meta there is bad. Automatic life sentence with no trial bad.”

Flash sat down, putting an arm around her. This, this was not what he was expecting.

“My powers get worse in the summer. If I slip here, most of my family can handle it. Nothing bad happens. If i slip at home with Maman and Papa, i... if anyone knew then i’d be taken away whether they wanted it or not.”

“Where would you end up?” He had to know how bad it was.

“Living zombie in correction centers. Then jail-jail when you’re 18 until you die... no trial. Being meta is a crime there. And, and mr. Allen doesnt think that way at all. He keep saying you need to contextualize power and abilities and intents and if you defend yourself and you’re meta you go jail...”

Flash stayed silent, letting her continue.

“Maman screamed a lot when i hit this stalker in france. He was following me and other kids from school with a bat, saying he’d teach us all lessons. We got away but he kept trying to get us. I snapped one time and he was mostly fine, nothing permanent but Maman was so angry at me for almost getting caught becuase it was on tape and i was a little kid and little kids run, they dont fight.

“My powers didnt show though—Father made a treatment to keep them from that. No one suspects stickers... but she’s still scared its enough for a rep to come and check me for meta abilities and that she’ll lose me again.

“Again?”

Marinette twisted at that. “I, uh, probably would be dead if Father didnt find a treatment for me as a baby. Its how i got my abilities, but if theyre ever neutralized completely, i’d be dead. So we have to curb them... Maman forgets i need them and almost threw out my supply once. She forgets that i’m not normal until things like a student stalker happen and i hit the guy with his bat and then she remembers and gets scared i’ll be taken and its just...”

Flash decided he was adopting her, somehow. Smart and powered and in need of help.

There would be an intervention in France soon.

“Sounds like a lot of pressure, especially for someone your age.”

Marinette didnt make eye contact. “I have to. If i dont then there’s a dot in the open and thats a possible pattern and someone might connect it to the ones i couldnt stop. And Father and me are good at connecting dots and finding possibilities.”

Flash wanted to scream at the League then, he ahd a feeling they only added to her stress.

“He, he says we’re hardwired to find patterns and possibilities. But i shouldnt catch as many as i do. My teachers keep saying i need to slow down and dial it back and stop catching on so fast and blurting things out but i just...”

Marinette was fiddling with her hair then, it was down enough to.

“Sounds like you’re a real smart kid.”

“Smart kids don’t get caught.” She needed to be smarter, untraceable.

Flash thought she meant the Justice League wasn’t smart. And if the girl was reluctant to let him bring them in just yet...

“Do you at least have someone you can talk to about this?”

“My Auntie Quinn and Rose. Rose doesnt like you though.”

“Oh? Who made her mad at us? Was is Arrow?” He already knew but he wanted to know why.

“Batman. He, uh gave her to someone who, and i quote, ‘should never be allowed to have a sentiment child that is not a plant’ when she was found by him. She’s younger than me but she looks older, and isnt allowed outside of her house.”

Flash heard a low thump from his comm. oh, Batman knew who it was alright.

“I, uh, do you need help with another case?”

Flash smiled at her. She needed a distraction from what she just said.

“Back in a flash!” Once he was back in starr labs he turned on his audio. “Who was it?”

“Poison Ivy’s daughter. Cadmus, not Ivy, created her apparently.”

Flash swore as he grabbed a differnt file. Potential speedster case he hadn’t gotten around to.

“Here ya go kiddo,” Flash grinned at her.

Marinette nodded her head and looked over the file.

“Something doesn’t add up... there!” She pointed at one of the photographs. “See?”

Flash leaned in to get a better look.

“It looks like the speedster marks but that would only work if the speedster was messing with spacetime continum! But there’s no evidence of that so Occam’s razor, its a lightning meta!”

Flash looked over the picture and it did add up. Especially the lack of certain streaking patterns.

“They were probably teleporting since theres no drag or streaks, just one epicenter,” Marinette continued.

Flash decided that the League would be visiting Paris, and he’d be personally fixing the meta policies. And that the girl, Jill, she’d be in the League. She lectured Batman and Robin on safety and seemed to be focused on helping them in their weaker spots as heroes... mainly identity maintenance. And she likes science and is good at it—perfect to add a science-centric member to the League as she grows up.

—

That’s the end of this summer. Next time we do marinette meeting Tikki and becoming Ladybug. That should take a few posts until we get back to gotham.

Let me know if you want a JL handling looking for Marinette as Princess (the kiddie kyptonian) and Jill (who Flash found and is presumed to be Harley’s neice). Im happy to if there’s interest.

Reminder, there will be many a miraculous swap and the Ladybug parts will diverge from cannon as 1) i changed a lot of characters, 2) charater dynamics are altered too and 3) i’m changing when students came in and how Adiren ended up in school.

Also, see my kwami posts for how the kwami are in this AU as they are not the same as cannon and it will be a bit obvious.

@dast218 @ilovefluffbutsmutisalsogreat @weird-pale-blonde-person @emeraldpuffguide @mystery-5-5

[novaviis]

sick!dick au. part seven. 

Read from the beginning here. 

When things calm down a bit, Wally takes a shower. He’s barely got the energy to stand, but he feels grimy and disgusting from days of travel with no rest. He needs it. So, he uses the ensuite in the hospital room, the entire bathroom designed to be clinical and accessible with handles on the walls. As steam fills the room and fogs the glass and mirrors, Wally takes a while to just stand under the hot spray like it’ll just wash the image of Dick from his mind, so pale and still he’d thought he was dead. The shower makes Wally feel better, but that image is going to stay with him forever. When he comes out, and towels off, there’s a knock at the bathroom door. Alfred brought him some fresh clothes. Wally takes them with his thanks, finishes drying off and getting changed, and goes back out.

Dick is awake, if only barely. Wally goes back over to his bed, and Dick just sort of shifts over as much as he can, asking Wally to lay down with him but unable to really get the words out. It breaks Wally’s heart, but he complies, and carefully positions himself so he can lay beside Dick without getting in the way of the monitors and tubes (he swears that they’ve doubled since he left). Dick rests his head on Wally’s chest, and they both drift off. When the Doctors return and try to argue that Mr. West really shouldn’t be in the patient’s bed, and that visiting hours will be over soon, Bruce just shuts it down. Because that young man just travelled across the world to get the answers that could save Dick’s life, that young man is Dick’s husband, and that is the best rest either of them have gotten in weeks. They need this. Neither Dick nor Wally wake up during that conversation, and Wally doesn’t even stir until it’s late into the night.

Wally is allowed to spend the night whenever he wants.

Once Dick’s diagnosis is confirmed, things finally start moving. His condition differs slightly from his distant cousin’s, with the tubers centralized in the brain more than the kidneys or other organs. They caught it in time before it could spread with irreversible damage. Dick is slowly transitioned to new medications to minimize the tubers, and it’s a rough few days as they kick in, leaving Dick ill and aching, but slowly the colour returns to his cheeks. Light and life return to his eyes.

One morning, Dick wakes up, and looks at Wally (sitting beside the bed, going through lab reports from work he’s missed) and just rolls over, propped up on his elbows, to kiss him. For the first time he’s really awake and coherent enough to realize just what Wally had done for him. Wally is shocked enough by the coherency and movement alone. Hearing Dick chuckle at the look on his face is enough to shake him out of it. It’s little moments like that that Wally doesn’t take for granted. He comes into the room one afternoon after a visit to the lab to pick up more work and reports he can do from the hospital. Dick is sitting upright in bed, with Damian sitting at his feet, and Jason, Cass, Duke, and Tim all sitting in chairs on either side. Dick is just setting down a “Pick Up Four” Uno card when Wally walks in, and Cass makes a face and sticks her tongue out at him while the boys all boo the eldest brother. Wally laughs and sets his bag down, taking a seat on the bed next to Dick. He calls across the room to Bruce on the sofa in the corner, asking why he’s not playing. Tim informs him that he’s a sore loser and stopped playing after he lost two rounds. Wally’s more than happy to play in his place and picks up a few card. They play until Dick gets tired, slowly drifting off with his head on Wally’s shoulder.

Finally, when Dick is well enough to both consent and undergo it, the Doctors suggest a procedure. Brain surgery. He’s a good candidate for the RNS system, a sort of pacemaker for the brain that could treat the frequency of his seizures if not stop them all together. They’ll need to operate to remove the tubers that were too large for the medication alone, and then install the device flush with his skull. The talk lasts hours, with the Doctors explaining everything clearly and patiently, and Dick, Wally, and Bruce asking questions. Finally, Dick agrees. It’s terrifying, and risky, and though Wally is tense, he supports Dick’s decision without second thought. This is the best chance they have at Dick having a normal life again.

The surgery date is set, and once Dick is responding to new treatments, he’s allowed to go home. Well, not quite home. Dick is reluctant to agree to it at first, but he and Wally end up temporarily moving into the Manor. Try as he might, Wally can’t be with him every second of the day, and at least at the Manor there’s more room and freedom for Dick than their tiny apartment, and more people around in case something happens. So, they agree to stay at the manor in the months leading up to the surgery, but first spend a night at their apartment to pick what they need.

Words cannot describe how Wally feels, holding the door open for Dick to walk inside, watching as Dick kicks off his shoes and flicks the lights on. Wally’s really not been spending much time in their apartment aside from stopping in to pick up things and clean so it doesn’t get dusty, but even in those short visits the place has always felt dead and empty. Now, what was missing had come back. Wally just wraps his arms around Dick in the middle of the living room, the both of them just taking a minute to hold onto each other and let the past weeks of hell to fade into just that – the past. Dick falls asleep, laying across Wally’s chest, as they watch a movie that night. Wally gently prods him awake and guides him into the bedroom to sleep more comfortably, and can’t help but revel in how quiet the room is without whirring monitors and hospital staff outside the door.

Things are quiet like that for the next few months. Dick and Wally live at Wayne Manor, in a suite big enough that they have their own personal space (and more importantly privacy). Dick has the occasional migraine still, but he only has one seizure, and even that is in the library one night while he, Wally, Duke, and Tim are hanging out. He has enough time to warn them, if the fact that he goes quiet and pale isn’t an indicator enough. Wally catches him, lowers him down, and takes care of him through it like it’s second nature. “You’re alright, babe, I’ve got you. Just let it pass.” Not ideal, but so much better than where Dick could have been had Wally not gotten that diagnosis. This, they can handle.

Over the course of that time, there are of course appointments, weekends spent at the hospital to prepare for the surgery and the like. Dick is told, during one of the last visits before the set date, that because of the nature of the operation happening in two stages (the removal of the tubers and the installation of the RNS), and the operating team will most likely have to shave his head once he goes under.

And it’s such a stupid, vain little thing, but Dick really struggles with that. His hair’s always sort of been part of his identity, and he knows it’s not tied down to that, but fuck it, he’s allowed to be a little bummed out. So, a few days before the surgery, he drags Wally into the bathroom and hands him a pair of clippers. The last thing he wants is to wake up from surgery, already feeling fucking awful, and have that depressing moment of seeing himself without hair. That’s not what he wants. So, he sits on the edge of the bathtub with a towel around his shoulders and another on the floor, and Wally shaves his head. When it’s finished, and there’s a pile of soft, thick black hair littered in clumps all over the floor, Dick looks in the mirror. It still looks like him, but distinctly not him. Wally catches him sort of focused on his ears, reaching up to flatten them against his head, and remembers that when they were kids, Wally used to make fun of his ears. He used to call him Trophyhead. It was something that they’d laugh about.

So, Wally takes Dick’s hands off his head, kisses him. Tells him how sexy Dick looks with a buzzcut. It’s a small gesture, and it means absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of Dick’s treatment, but it means the world.

The day of the operation comes.

They head out to the hospital at the ungodly hour of 4:30 in the morning, when Gotham city is still and quiet – well, for Gotham it is. They check in, they get lead up to the private room, and Dick gets changed into his gown. He’s already got a headache, and he’s shaky from not being allowed to eat anything since the day before. It’s easier to brush it all off as just that rather than nerves. Even Wally’s fingers are shaking a little bit as he helps Dick tie up the back of the gown. This isn’t something to scoff at. It’s fucking brain surgery. Every time Wally thinks about Dick’s head getting cut open and operated on, he wants to vomit, but he keeps his own anxieties at bay for Dick’s sake.

The staff comes in, check up on Dick, have him sign a last consent form, prep him for the operation, and otherwise Wally just tries to keep him distracted until it’s finally time to go. He leans over the bed, kisses Dick on his lips, his cheek, and his forehead, whispering to him “You’re going to do great, okay? It’ll be over before you know it. I’ll be there when you wake up,” before he has to let go.

Dick is surprisingly calm now that it’s zero hour, but he gives Wally’s hand a squeeze and mouths “I love you” as the nurses wheel him out.

Wally is left behind, watching the doors close, feeling like he can’t breathe. The waiting begins.

[awordawayy-blog]

Self para || wanted dead or alive

Summary: The chronological events of the threat to send Billy Batson to Jail. In the span of two day’s Billy’s life has been turned on his head, never before being a criminal, he struggles to keep safe. 

Mentions: @wonderasms , @gothamcitylazarus , @dmianwaync , @crusadeiisms , @hxroldosborn

Tw’s: panic attack, homelessness, child abuse, violence

March 12:      A letter addressed to Willam Batson was delivered to his Foster home. Once the letter had arrived into the hands of his foster parents they had patiently waited for Billy to come home from a friend’s to read it. Once the boy had finally arrived he was handed the crisp envelope. Asked to read it out loud to the family. They had respectfully waited for their son to read it first, giving him a small sense of privacy. Watching their son’s face pale as he first read the letter in his mind, hands trembling as he finishes. They don’t get an explanation as the boy drops the letter and rushes out the door, where too? Probably to the Wayne’s, they weren't sure. Concerningly Billy’s foster parents take the letter and read it. The threat was clear, no not a threat a sick game. They had known Billy wasn’t the best child, but they had thought with the new influences from The Todd man, and the Wayne child he’d shape up. The matter seems to be out of their hands. They had adopted a criminal. 

March 13:     Out of fear and paranoia, Billy had spent the night at the Wayne manor. Pretending the safety of his boyfriends home could temporarily shield him from the dangerous of the threat. He’d been spending all day and night, texting his friends and getting advice. He’d never had to deal with the law in this way, sure he had gotten in trouble several times but nothing to this degree. Nothing that threatened his livelihood in this way. 

To pass the time Billy had flicked on the Tv. Curled tightly in a soft plush blanket. Needing some sort of distraction from the crazy fear of going to jail. Being in Bruce’s home, of course, the first channel that popped up was the news, he almost flicks to cartoon network- But the image on the screen makes him freeze. His friends. His teammates. He’d recognize them and their code names everywhere. Flashes of cameras showed on screen as a video of them arresting cassie shows up. They had pulled her out from school. SCHOOL. Just took her and lead her away as she proudly walks to the car. Fear eats in the put of Billy’s stomach, breath starting to come out harsher. “No no no no.” He breaths out, unable to do anything as he watches them take away his friend. Right after, a fuzzy image of Bart flashes. The words ‘ANOTHER YOUNG HERO CAUGHT” Captioned bellow. His friends were in jail.  in jail.

The remote clatters onto the ground as Billy weeps, hands cupped over his face. Tears soaked his shirt as he silently felt his heart broke. This wasn’t some fucking sick joke, it wasn’t a nightmare. it was REAL. “no. no. WE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!! WE DIDN’T W-WE DIDN’T.” He screams out. It had attracted Damian’s dog’s attention. Titus walking over and nudging him as he cried. With shaking hands, he pet’s the dog’s soft fur. Even the comfort of the animal was dulled. This was real. He was going to go to fucking jail. How the fuck can he handle this? What does he do? He couldn’t stop crying as he wonders what his friends did to truly deserve the things that were coming to them. Tears, and shuttering only stopping once he was enveloped in a warm embrace. Turning into the hug he clings onto the person. Damian’s soft voice reassuring him as Billy struggles to calm down. 

“Thank you...” He softly whisper’s. 

March 14:      Things really couldn’t get any worse for Billy. His friends are in jail, their probably looking for him too. But he’s not sure. Fuck. What is he going to do? Luckily he has suspended not too long ago, or he would have been taken in from school like Cassie. He was going to spend another day hiding in Damian’s bed when his phone beeps. Rolling over the blankets he check’s his messages, wondering who would text him at- 1 in the afternoon.

{text: Foster “mom”} -> Billy. We’d like you to come home. We have something to discuss.   {text: Foster “mom”} -> Come as soon as you can. Please.  {text: Foster “mom”} -> Don’t make this a fight.

Snorting under his breath he shoot’s ‘omw’ to her. Pulling up his shoes and a jacket, he starts his walk over to his Foster’s. He’s not sure what they wanted, but he was too tired to argue. Too tired for any more fights. He just wanted to sleep and hide, hoping it’ll all blow over. Once he finally get’s close enough to the house he see’s something on the overgrown lawn.

his suitcase. 

Blinking, he doesn’t know what to say. Finally getting close enough to see the disappointed looks on both of his Foster’s faces. He wants to scream and yell at them, demand what this was. But he’s been this route before. He knows what it all fucking means. “took you guys long enough. Told you you’re like the others.” Billy shouldn't have said it, he knows he shouldn’t have. It was rude and petty, and he knew this would happen one day. There was no love between him and his new parents.

SMACK. The slap across his face makes him stagger backward, he touches his aching cheek looking up/ The women who had adopted him was standing there. Hand raised, obvious to what she just did. The women weren't ever one to be violent. Always using her words and never even yelling at the children, that was always her husband. But here she was, tears in her eyes as she looks at him. Disgusted.

“Billy how dare you. We FED YOU. CLOTHED YOU. WE TRIED TO LOVE YOU BUT YOU SHUT US OUT. WE DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS. YOU UNGREATFUL CHILD, HOW DARE YOU. I KNEW YOU HAD A TOUGH SHELL. BUT A CRIMINAL? A CRIMINAL BILLY?” The woman screams words that Billy heard all before. The screaming, the hitting. All so familiar, he should have known better than to even get slightly comfortable. 

It had seemed the silence was enough to calm her down, her hand trembling as she reaches out to touch his cheek. As if she was apologetic for raising a hand. He takes a step back, not wanting to be touched. Her voice came out genteller, but still stern. Obviously already made up her mind. “Police came by. Their looking for you, we told them we don’t know. We gave you time to leave, all your stuff is in the bag. B-billy we didn’t want this. But you left us no choice.” 

He lets out a dull laugh. A choice? He was being punished for doing what was right? But they had no choice. This was fucking ridiculous. “Fuck you. Fuck you no choice? FUCK YOU. Fine. I get it. Bye, I hate you, Your supposed to help me. what kind of parents are you? You could never be mom. She’d never leave me like you, and like every one of you awful people.” Grabbing his suitcase he spits on the ground in front of them and runs. Where too? he’s not sure anymore. Where the fuck is he supposed to go? He’s on the fucking run. 

The street lamps slowly flicker on as he walks, head dropped. he guesses he’ll try being homeless again. No one could kick him out...if he didn’t belong anywhere.

[starspatter]

Ozymandias

Title: Ozymandias

Fandom/Universe: BTAS, post-RotJ flashback

Summary: The mighty looks upon his work, and despairs.

Rating: PG-13, for references to character death, child psychological torture and trauma.

Genre: Family/Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 5,013

Also on ff.net and AO3.

“It’s okay, Tim.  It’s okay.”

You stand there for lord knows how long, watching Batgirl cradle what once was Robin in her arms, repeating the same hollow assurance over and over.

It’s not okay.

To abduct a child – torture him relentlessly for an entire month – intending to crush his mind and body and spirit – and, on top of it all, compel him to commit cold-blooded murder – how could any of it be okay?

But he has to be okay.  You have to be okay.  Even when inwardly you want to curse and yell and cry at the unfairness of it all.

Why couldn’t it have been you?  You could’ve handled it, withstood any pain in his stead. Because you’re Batman, dark knight and defender.  Unbeatable, unbreakable.  God among men.  And he’s just Robin.  Dear, sweet, innocent Robin.  A minor, and a mere mortal.  Nothing bad was ever supposed to happen to him, not on your watch.

But you weren’t watching him, were you.

“…I think he’s asleep.”

The breach in pattern and subsiding of sniffles stirs you back to attention.  Batgirl tucks the boy’s slumped head over her shoulder, tenderly rubbing his back.

“Poor kid.  He must be exhausted.  What in the world did Joker do to him…”

“Electroshock torture.”

You respond in monotone.

Her pupils widen with horror.  “My God.  How could that monster…?”

“I’ll explain more on the way back.  For now we need to get him out of here.”

You move brusquely, unclipping a pair of handcuffs from your belt.  Batgirl bites her lip as she shields her body around the small bundle.

“Are those really necessary?”

“As a precaution.  We can’t be sure he won’t attack us again if he wakes up.”

Begrudgingly, she allows the restraints.  You lift the weight – too light – and transport him out to the Batmobile, placing him gently in the backseat.  Batgirl insisted on riding beside him, and you made no objection. Someone needs to monitor his status, and you don’t trust yourself to keep an eye on the road with whitewashed hide and green hair glaring in your periphery.  (Ignoring those tiny gloved palms that had just aimed a gun at your head, fettered though they may be.  You’ve seen him chop through the same chains before; you taught him how.)

You hurtle down the hill from the asylum, detouring across the lawn the avoid wasting time with hefting the demolished gate out of the way.  As you tear through the town at top speed, you recite back to Batgirl what you witnessed on the tape Joker showed you.  She punctuates with perturbed exclamations, but it’s all vacant noise – static.  A part of you wants to think that this is all just a movie, a mistake.  Some kind of sick joke, gag reel.  Reflex. Someone, Alfred or Dick, will pop out with a hidden camera and shout “surprise” and you’ll all have a hoot and forget about the last three weeks like it was a bad dream.  (Erase the sounds of silent scream.)

But when you glance in the rearview mirror and see the boy mumbling and moaning restlessly in his slumber, Batgirl consoling his cheek with concern, you know the nightmare is far from over.

Pulling into a concealed driveway in the mountainside, the passenger (perhaps “prisoner” is still more precise at this juncture) jars awake as soon as the engine’s hypnotic pulse shuts off.  The hood slides back, and his eyes blink as they daze and adjust, darting frantically about his surroundings.

“Tim?  Hey, hey, it’s all right.  Do you know where we are?”

Batgirl quickly speaks to reassure him.  He scrunches his brow, staring up at the stalactites and shadowy critters flitting back and forth between them.

“Buh-at.”  He slurs slowly, as if struggling to recall how to form words.  “C-cave.”  Piecing the information together bit by bit, irises lit with hazy recognition.  “…Bat-cave.”

“That’s right, this is the Batcave.  You’re home.  You’re safe now.”

“…Ho-me?”

At that moment, Alfred appears at the top of the stairs.

“Master Bruce, I received your message.  Thank God you found him.  Is he all right?”

He descends in a hurry, halting abruptly when he catches sight of the hunched shape being helped out of the car.

“…Good heavens.”

“The Joker had him.  He’s been tortured and brainwashed.  This is the result.”

You brush past him, summarizing briefly.

“Sir, you’re limping.  And bleeding as well-”

“I’m fine.  Take care of him first.”

The butler straightens sharply at a commanding bark.

“Yes, of course.”

As you begin dialing Leslie’s number, you hear their conversation continue vaguely in the background.

“Tim, you remember Alfred, right?”

Pick up.  Pick up.

“Al-fred…  He’s… a friend.”

Please pick up.

“I’m going to remove these now.  Promise you’ll be a good boy and listen to Alfred?”

You rotate in time to see him nod, and Batgirl bends down to undo the bonds.  Every muscle in the cavern tenses, but as soon as the shackles are released he merely lets his limbs hang loose by his sides, looking expectantly at Alfred like he’s the only being who exists in the world.  An angel who kindly takes his hand, leading him up the steps from hell. From darkness into light.

“Come, Master Timothy. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“…Whoever’s calling, this better be an emergency.  Do you realize what time it is?”

Despite the weary exasperation, the elderly voice that finally greets on the other end is like a divine saint that elevates your own soul.

“I have a patient for you.”

“…Bruce?  What trouble have you gotten into this time?  Don’t tell me something’s broken again.”

“It’s not me.  …It’s Robin.”

There’s a grave pause.

“How bad is he?”

“I need you to come to the Manor.”

“Why, what happened?  Is it so serious you can’t bring him to the clinic?”

“Just come.  Please.”

“…Understood.  I’ll be right there.”

-

The waiting is agony.

Barbara left to meet her father at Arkham after calling to inform him and Dick.  You’re alone, anxiously pacing the front parlor despite the burning anguish in your leg.  You hastily patched it as best you could by yourself, relying mainly on fading adrenaline fuel to keep you upright.  Even though you’ve changed back into Bruce Wayne, you feel anything but a million bucks right now.

At last, the doorbell rings, and you wrench open the knob to usher the physician in.

“Bruce, what in the world is going on?  You look positively awful.”

As you describe the situation, her own expression pales.

“I always feared something like this would occur…  The very idea of taking on a ‘junior sidekick’…  It’s bad enough you go on these suicide missions every night, but how could you have let this happen to someone so young?”

You have no words, no arguments. You can only lower your head in shame, realizing how right she is.

“What would your father think?”

The angry, whispering disapproval lingers in the air, cutting you like a knife.

“Good evening, doctor.”

You’re spared from further lecture – although not from confronting your own sin – by Alfred’s timely entrance. He has what now more closely resembles ‘Tim’ in tow, at least superficially.  The hideous stage cosmetics have been successfully scrubbed off his complexion for the most part – thank God it was only greasepaint and not permanent bleach – although his hair is still tinged with verdigris.  Even though the gauntlets and gauche garb were removed as well and replaced with pajamas, the slack ensemble only emphasizes how gaunt and haggard he is, jawbones drawn and pinched like he hasn’t eaten or seen sunlight in days.  (Which you glumly realize is probably an accurate assessment.)  In essence, it feels more like a robotic simulation, an animatronic model made to look like him.  There’s none of the spark and spunk he used to have, no more eager stars of excitement in his bold, wondering eyes.  Only a meek, dead doll dragging along, a zombified puppet trailing by its strings. Abiding obediently by a leash like a petrified puppy.

Shuffling his feet, Tim timidly shies behind Alfred as Leslie approaches.

“Hello, Timothy.  There’s no need to be frightened.  My name is Dr. Thompkins.  I believe we may have met before; I run a small clinic in Park Row. Do you mind if I take a look at you, and maybe ask a few questions?”

He hesitates, tugging slightly at Alfred’s sleeve as he shifts his gaze upwards, as if requesting permission. …Not from you.

And that’s when you notice. Not once has he regarded you since that instant in Arkham when he was about to shoot a spear between your eyes. Instead, he seems to be deliberately evading any contact or communication in your direction.

Alfred gives an encouraging pat, and Tim signals willingness.

“Good.  Why don’t we go in that other room?”

You start to follow them, but Leslie holds up her hand.

“I think it’s best if you stay outside.”

Before you can even protest, Alfred advocates on your behalf.

“Pardon me, but is that wise?”

Leslie purses her lips in that firm, no-nonsense air you’re familiar with from when she would treat you as a lad yourself.

“In order to make a proper evaluation, I need to speak with him – in private.”  Her tone drops to a hush.  “And if I’m not mistaken, he seems less… comfortable with you around.  Your presence could be a hindrance to obtaining specific details out of him.  It might be easier to open up to a relative stranger in a relaxed environment, without any other adults or authoritative figures he could perceive threat of punishment from, however false it may be.  Right now he’s likely mixed up and associating speech with distress – or disloyalty.  He has to feel calm and safe enough to be able to tell me the truth, and he can’t do that with you looming over my shoulder like you always do.”

The blade twists deeper in your gut, but you acquiesce.

“I’ll… go see how Barbara is doing then.”

She and the Commissioner could probably use a hand with the mess you left behind after all.

-

By the time you lug yourself back, covered in soil and sweat from burying the Joker’s body, Leslie is about to pack up her medical kit.

“I’ve done all I can for now.  The twilight anesthesia’s wearing off; I’ve given him another dose of sedative to help him sleep.”

Can you fix him?

She sighs.

“His wounds are treatable. He’ll probably be going through a period of severe withdrawal for several days, but I believe we can wean him off the Joker toxin eventually.”

That means he’ll get better, right?  He’ll be normal again?  He’ll go back to being the carefree kid who pulls dumb puns and daredevil stunts and smiles cheerfully while swinging his legs, if not from rooftops?

“It’s not his physical condition I’m worried about though.  Mentally, he’s unstable.  He’s been through an extreme traumatic experience, and I can tell you it’s going to require intense long-term therapy.  I fear this is far beyond my capabilities.  …I’m not a psychiatrist, Bruce.  He needs professional help.”

I’m not sending him back to Arkham.

“That’s not what I’m suggesting.  There are other options available.  I was going to recommend that perhaps you admit him to the pediatric unit at County General’s psych ward.  Or, if you want my personal opinion, I could refer you to a licensed specialist…”

No.  No hospitals.  No other shrinks.  You’re the only one I can trust.

“…I’ll do what I can. But I make no guarantees.”

Thank you.

“Don’t thank me, Bruce.   We’re not out of the woods yet. Far from it.  And don’t think I’m not holding you accountable for all this.”

You know.  You’ll accept responsibility, foot the bill, do whatever it takes to make it right.

…At length, you risk one more inquiry:

“Does he hate me?”

The wrinkles of her face soften.

“You have to understand, Bruce- the one he hates most right now is himself.  He thinks he failed you.  Became what you hate.  He’s scared to let you see that side of him.  Scared of himself as much as the Joker.”

It wasn’t his fault. He was confused, under duress, acting in self-defense.

You’re not sure whom you’re trying to persuade more with that statement.

“I know that.  And I think deep down he knows that too. Still, it’s going to take time to convince him otherwise.  …That despite what he’s done, whatever error he’s made, he’s still a decent human being with a good heart, capable and worthy of love and affection.”

She rests a hand on your shoulder, and you’re not sure whom she’s trying to persuade now.

“Now, let’s have a look at that leg.”

-

He’s terrified of thunderstorms.

At the first rumble and sign of lightning, he’ll immediately dash for the dim confines of the closest closet, curling in a fetal position as he cocoons himself in jackets and down.  Entrenching within trenchcoats.  Bracing tightly into a ball and clenching his jaw, he alternates between hugging his knees and clamping cloth over his ears to drown out the din.  Whimpering and wincing at every resounding boom, counting down each one to encroaching doom; cringing further upon crackles of electricity bursting underneath the door.  It’s like he perceives the silver sky-webs as a creature’s claws, slivers of a beast’s tentacles extending towards him, roaring in wrath.

He traces the tendrils over and over again in grim, grade school-esque drawings, which Leslie proposed as a way to help “convey his emotions”.  Reproducing ominous images of guns and knives, morbidly stabbing, stripping gray flesh off shrieking, skeletal stick figures.  (Judging by these, any projects involving scissors are clearly out of the question.)  Other pictures are more difficult to interpret: grinning, deformed fish dripping from purple clouds of acid vapor as abstract rain.  Sometimes he’ll just scribble randomly over the strange doodles, dumping dull shades on the canvas, blending water splashes and streaks into a freakish maelstrom.  The puddle’s murky palette usually merges into a pitch gloom, despite providing an abundant rainbow of paints at his disposal to choose from.

For that matter, it’s almost as much a catharsis for your benefit: spending extravagant amounts of money on a vast array of various arts and crafts supplies… Not for the fact you can afford it, but because it’s the only method you can conceive of to show support.  You lavish expense on entertainment, indulge whatever inventive whim in distant hopes of fostering some semblance of “fun” again – recapture stolen youth.  Boosting confidence through creativity.  (You cautiously read every label in the aisle to ensure selected products are nonhazardous before purchasing, lest he ingest or inhale; he’s had enough chemicals pumped into his system at this point that he doesn’t need pigments absorbed as well.  Juggling an assortment of medications is already an arduous task, and you still haven’t identified every element of whatever jumbled serum concoction Joker injected in him.)

…On occasion, when he concentrates hard enough (at least according to instruction to depict “contentment”), he can bring himself to conjure more common, colorful content via vivid red birds and sunset scenery, golden capes fluttering over city landscapes.  (Somehow managing to effectively capture dynamics of flight with skilled crayon strokes.)  Adding contrast to the composition with black masks and bats – before subsequently ripping every single sketch into shreds.

It takes him forever to simply go near a toaster again, let alone touch or use most daily power-driven appliances.  Plugs, sockets, wires; all of them need to be kept out of reach and safety-proofed, as if for an infant.  You deactivate all excess outlets, defuse and defang, insulate and inspect – constantly checking and conducting careful circuit tests in order to block potential conduction. (Not to mention subtly swapping the Bat Signal nightlight in his room for a plain one.)

There are other triggers as well, and you endeavor to learn them all, memorizing a meticulous list on how to neutralize them prior to exposure.  Creating a sheltered atmosphere as per Leslie’s advice by minimizing ambient distractions – containing within a crystal cage, a modified crib.  Limiting sensitive stimuli and stressors not just for the sake of aiding recuperation, but also for your own well-being.  Anything clown-related is strictly prohibited, and God forbid he see a grill or smell barbecue…  One time he tackles and nearly critically injures Alfred for daring to wear an apron in the kitchen (the latter might’ve ended up in traction had you not intervened), apologizing profusely afterward upon regaining clarity, but maintaining guard all the same.

The first few nights, he refused to even sleep on a real mattress, could scarcely stand a couple hours without getting up and crawling to the floor.  As if he were uncomfortable being on anything but a hard surface.  …Like he didn’t deserve it.

Even when he’s heavily put under, he’ll still toss and turn, often rousing in the middle of the night, kicking and screaming loudly.  (It’s fortunate you don’t have any neighbors to upset, else the persistent racket would surely incite them to riot.  If anyone were to file a complaint, not even Gordon’s influence could likely deter the launch of a full-on investigation.)  You rush to his side, wrap him up along with thrashing sheets (pinning his arms on purpose to prevent self-harm), rocking until he settles down.

You don’t mind the screaming.  It means Tim is still inside, just afraid to come out.  Afraid to accept the harshness of a fractured fantasy, of abuse delivered by delusion of grandeur and blind devotion to an idol.  Ideals displaced, manipulated and “molded” to putrid decay, serving another’s depraved needs.  Scarecrow was a bogus; the real bogeyman must’ve thought it funny to disguise himself to the next generation as a disgusting bozo.  A gloating glutton who feeds off dread, gleefully taking pleasure in distorting delight to despair.  Converting a child’s unbridled joy into something more terrible than anyone could imagine.

…Still, at least you can somewhat comprehend that contorted notion, rationalize the motive for such behavior. The kid has every right to be afraid of the demons that plague his skull, dancing in visions only he can see.  (If only you could leap in and slay them all you would.)  Fear is natural, visceral.  Primal.  You know fear.  Know how to use it as a weapon, strike others’ cores with it.  …Know the damage it can do.

The laughter is something else though.

It echoes through the halls at odd intervals, even when he’s asleep.  Dry, mirthless sound interspersed with bouts of hysteria, completely alien. Sometimes the uncontrollable giddy spells last for hours on end, and when mania reaches its peak he becomes uncharacteristically violent, vicious.  A danger to anyone who comes near, as well as to himself.  Aggressively lashing out like a rabid animal, hissing and growling, scratching savagely at any intruders to his space – or else invisible bands choking his wrists.  Resorting to nails and teeth rather than fancy tools or fists, throwing a fully feral fit.  Every now and then he’ll disappear afterwards into his shell, shrouding in a fort of blankets like a lair as he blankly transfixes on the walls.  Reducing respiration, his senses enter a practically comatose state, a half-hibernation trance.  Utterly rigid and unresponsive, inert.  Non-alert. Remaining stiff as a statue until gurgling amusement ripples and rises to his throat again, transitioning to the first stage of the cycle.

You don’t know how to react to these… “fluctuations” in mood (wavering over use of obvious terms like “creepy” or “crazy”).  Can’t even tell whether the hallucinations and hostility are induced or inhibited by drugs.  Can only listen to hypnogely helplessly.  Pray that it passes swiftly, that the morning will bring peace.

But when he snaps out of the snickering stupor (and you have to remind yourself that he will – he has to), whose hovering silhouette will be the one he sees vigilantly stalking by the foot of his bed: a stark, intimidating outline barely illuminated by moonbeams flickering through the window – tentative but tenacious, unwilling to leave to go on regular patrol except during rare respites – even when criminals are likely running amok in Gotham each evening you don’t show?

The hero who saved him

or

The man who betrayed him?

-

You ask – demand to know once, during one of his “episodes”:

“Where’s Tim?”

JJ looks at you and giggles.

“Timmy’s not here anymore.”

He’s in there somewhere. I know he is.  Give him back.

“Timmy was weak.  A crybaby. Little wretched shit wouldn’t shut up, wouldn’t stop whining. Waiting, wailing for Batman to come and save him.  So Daddy kept hitting him, over and over…  Even though the pathetic worm needed to be taught a lesson, I couldn’t stand back and watch anymore.  You weren’t coming, so I had to take over.”

You locked him away.

He chuckles at the accusation, sneering derisively.  “Coward fled by himself, ran off into his own little ‘secure’ realm.  Couldn’t deal with reality anymore, I guess.  But I was strong, I could take the hurt.  I could protect him.”

You’ve done enough. Now let him go.

A twitch of irritation – or perhaps dissatisfaction.  His smirk vacillates, vanishing before being supplanted by an obscure grimace.  “Can’t.  Daddy’s watching.  Always watching.  He’ll be mad at us.”

I want to talk to Tim.

“Yeah well maybe he doesn’t want to talk to you, old man!”

The costly ornamental clock smashes on the wall beside your head, followed by a China plate.  But you don’t flinch.  Don’t move.  Don’t breathe.

Let me talk to Tim.  Please.

Frustration wells, flooding against the dam – sentiment surging behind a barricade.  Charging and churning until it crashes through the ruptured channel, unleashing a streaming barrage of wild expletives, a bombardment of blame that’s been long building up towards both parties.  Inner turmoil roiling, exerting overwhelming pressure beneath a fortified exterior, mutely repressing resentment and (mutual) self-loathing.  Ticking down to zero until he detonates.  You don’t bother disproving or dodging projectiles, letting him lob and vent, explode into a volatile rant – at you, at himself – expelling all the pent-up vexation that’s been lodged inside, driving the wedge between you further.  He flings obscene insults and (increasingly expensive) items everywhere as he proceeds to lividly demolish the living room, razing and raving in a razor rage, rashly upending furniture until the area approximates a combat zone.  Shrapnel scrapes your skin, but you stand your ground, declining to budge. Toughly taking in the tirade without offering any retort or retaliation.  (Rather, you idly reminisce to the time Alfred came under temporary effect of laughing gas and destroyed a priceless Ming vase.  …If only you had let Joker fry then.)

Eventually he runs out of ammo, and when that doesn’t work to daunt or dissuade, he breaks – into tumultuous sobs. Trembling, he takes a faltering step towards you, stretching out like a bawling toddler.  You catch him as he wobbles and falls, collapses into a colossal wreck – a crying, shaking, howling heap in your arms.  Conflicted, he grapples between beating his paws on your chest and clinging to it.  Gasping and grasping, flailing, failing to reject.  His head is hectic, pounding – hounded by the deafening argument of split personas within his consciousness.  Crisis of infinite identities.  Separate psyches collide and clash, a whirlwind of whispers, taunting and haunting, wreaking eternal havoc as they all clamor for authority – each facet of a fragmented personality claiming “authenticity”:  Id versus (alter) ego versus super(hero)-ego.

The quarreling quells, quieting as his sincere side wins out.  He clutches your collar with all his might to keep from sinking further, desperately holding on to the vestiges of his sanity.  His family.

“I’m sorry, Bruce.  Oh God, I’m so sorry…”

Abandoning dignity, he weeps openly without reserve.  You wipe dry his tears and soothingly embrace the huddled, shuddering mass (so slim and subdued and startlingly vulnerable), enveloping in warmth.

“I’m sorry too, son.”

You forgive – and forbid – from ever putting on the uniform again, and he silently affirms agreement. Closing his eyes, he leans his frail forehead against your breast – where the standard symbol of your shattered link would typically be – murmuring faintly through unadorned fabric.

“Was I a good soldier? Was I?”

You answer him, honestly.

“Of course you were.”

Tomorrow, and a lifetime later, he won’t be able to reflect on this declaration due to rebounding delirium and depression.  Overcompensating for guilt by suppressing everything your partnership – relationship – friendship stood for, good and bad. Flashbacks to war but not ceasefire. Whatever foundation for a shot at happiness crumbled when he fired – when you “fired” him.  For him there’s no fulfillment, only relief of duty.  Dismissal.  Disillusionment.  Disappointment.  It’ll take all his effort and will to climb back up from the bottom afterwards, impaired self-esteem slowly recovering from the whole sordid ordeal (only for it to ultimately consume him once again, “relapsing” after years – decades even – have elapsed). Until then, any accomplishments or approval he once sought will mean nothing.  The breadth of bitterness broadening between you stings, but even when ages pass and he wants to try and mend the gap, you won’t permit yourself to cross that bridge.  Instead you turn your back on the tide, wallow in waves of remorse.  Resist the temptation of exoneration – of salvation.  Because it’s easier to retreat than move forward. Beyond.

…Because even if, somewhere down the road, he finds the resolve within himself to reconcile – absolve your own stubborn conscience – you won’t forget you were the one wrong, for recruiting a bright-eyed boy into battle in the first place.  Lured in with hope and a welcome hearth to escape your own loneliness, leading only to misery in the end.  Your inadvertent contribution to the crime was unknowingly far greater, if you could have only foreseen the cost of captivating worship.  He admired you, adored you – and you let him down.  Invested more energy in cultivating and carving than caring, sculpting purity for your own selfish objective, preparing to succeed when you’re gone.  Training to march as a mascot to your petty parade, a masquerade.  …Some mentor – guardian – parent you were.  For all your scolding and “molding”, tending a garden of flames for the future, fanning embers and glimmers of glowing prospect – in such a short span they were snuffed out. Smothered without a second chance to rekindle.  Never to ignite – take flight – again.

Even though someone else sprung the trap, you were the one who set it.

You’ve dug your own grave.  Now lie in it.

-                                                                                                                           

You found the suit at Arkham – stumbled straight into it whilst exploring the ruins for any evidence you missed – slipped over a dummy in a straightjacket, dangling from the ceiling of a bare cell by a noose.  No doubt another cruel display Joker was planning to mock you with before dealing the final blow, had he been given enough time.  …Or maybe, he strung it up as a warning – a grisly example to goad the victim it once belonged to.  The thought makes your blood boil, simmer to a sear, swear and furiously punch the wall until knuckles are raw as you fume and speculate just how horrendous he could make a hostage’s experience.  Seething with steaming contempt, you coldly cut the suspension and took it home, along with a disturbingly large collection of more films and photo albums you retrieved rooting through the remains.

You sift and pore over them all, one by one, to confirm the source of each and every scar on Robin’s body – internal or external.  Defying but not denying suspicions a thousand times over.  Each atrocity is worse than the last, owing exorbitance and… “originality” to that insane bastard’s inflated sense of self-import.  (If points could be awarded for inspiration in causing suffering, the Joker seemed to be actively trying to amass them all.) Though you swell with pride upon seeing your brave warrior hold out for so long, such ruthless brutality is too much for any one person – let alone an adolescent – to bear, and you wonder if it’s a mercy it didn’t kill him.  You doubt you could have even endured it without ultimately succumbing to the impulse to extinguish Joker – if not yourself – once and for all.  (If JJ hadn’t ended him, then you suspect you eventually would have.)  Some of the malicious acts recorded are so repulsive they make you retch.  Yet you force yourself to compose and compile, review and revile.  Rue every last gruesome deed, matching to marks of defilement.  …Repress bile growing in your gut.  Replaying until your stomach can’t take it anymore and wants to hurl, until you want to hurl a chair at the screen.

You place the costume delicately back in its case, next to Batgirl’s.  Someday, Nightwing’s would join too, and so would yours, when you’ve driven yourself to the brink of moral abyss – over the edge in an endless, empty attempt at atonement.  For murder and madness and mother and father and children who looked up to you, who had faith in you, would die for you.  Would follow you to the ends of the earth, pledging fealty forever.

Never again.

…And yet, you couldn’t return the favor when it counted.  You don’t know how to give back, reclaim what was lost.  Restore honor to a dismantled mantle – nevermind a mind mangled beyond repair.  How to even show grief or mourn anymore, as much as you lament the row of regrets rallied behind the glass.  The only thing you can do is keep fighting, carry on the solitary mission (you’d rather sully your own hands, let them burn at this point than pass on the torch – inherit your liar’s throne and crown of thorns, your rotting empire of dirt – even though you’ll end up violating that vow too).  For everything – and for nothing.

For “family”.

Even then, it won’t be enough.  But – for now – this is how your legacy begins and ends: Not with a whimper, but a ”Bang”.