#when Tim sees Danny he is hit hard with how much he looks like him and Conner and gets flashbacks to his childhood and being at Galas

[bluerosefox]

Tim, buddy, what do you mean you might had accidentally made a Love Child?!

Danny finds out that

1. He's a clonish 'love child' of two heroes

2. He was accidentally created during one of his donors mental break downs after losing his father and best friends (one of which was his other donor)

3. CW interfered before his creator realized what he made and pulled him out of that dimension because "it would had lead that world to true ruin if he found out at his state of mind. He's better now but it would had been the final straw for him should anything had happened to you in his care and given who he had to partner up with later... I did what I had to."

4. Due to Danny having a bad fall out with his parents after he told them about being Phantom (they didn't attack him... but they did disown him.) Danny is left adrift of what to do. He doesn't wanna bug Jazz, she's in college and dorming. Tuckers place has no room. Sam's parents would never let him stay. Vlad was a definitely a no go. And Dani (Ellie) last check in was near the Amazon rainforest.

5. Danny finds out some of his powers might not be as ghostly as he thought... it does explain the huge power boost some of his powers have compared to other ghosts.

6. He went to Clockwork... who proceeded to tell him the truth, smile his cryptic smile while saying "and now. Have fun this time around. I'll see you again in due time Daniel." Before yeeting him into a portal.

7. Danny woke up in his home dimension.... deaged to being five years old (the age he would be if he stayed and grew by now) (DC timeline is slower than DP in this)

8. He woke up apparently his creator's home city... during a Gala (Danny woke up in a garden, dazed and confused. His memories are fuzzy)... and wandered into the party... and apparently he looked like a perfect mix of his.. dads? Which catches A LOT of peoples attention.

9. Especially with Tim Drake-Wayne and Conner Kent-Luthor just announcing they're dating that very night.

10. Rumors and gossip of a random kid, who looks just like the recent happily announced couple, go flying quickly among the elite... and reaches certain ears before it gets to batfam and supers (I have a feeling they learned how to block out rumors and gossips during these events)

11. Those ears happen to be Lex Luthor and Ra's al Ghul (both who are there at the Gala just to annoy and unnerve the Bats and Supers)

12. By the time the rumors get to Tim and Conner, they find Danny almost getting taken away by one of those two.

[flamingpudding]

Part 5 of Ghost Kid in Gotham

For those that ask, yes an AO3 link is in the works. I will post it once its ready. Also fair warning, I will be focusing on DPxDC Family Week now so I have no idea when the next part will be up.

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Thrill and chirp brother

Tim sipped on his n-th cup of specially made Tim-brand-not-Alfred-approved coffee as he shuffled into the dinning room and sat down on the breakfast table. The moment he sat down he opened the laptop again and stared at its screen for a couple of seconds. The scan of the post-it note got nothing. None of the squiggles was recognised in any of the so far known languages. Hell he even ran it through the leagues recordings of interdimensional and interplanetary known languages. No hits so far. Right now he was running a picture recognition program to see if any of these had appeared before it was on 90% with nothing found so far.

Good he hoped this really was just a prank from Cass and Steph. Because if it wasn't, Bruce would go nuts and overly paranoid as well as up the entire Manors security system a third time this month. Sadly, despite his hope, Tim knew that it wasn't a prank.

A cough resounded behind him and Tim blinked two times before sighting, closing the laptop and pushing it only a couple of inches away from him as Alfred put a plate with his breakfast before him. Knowing Alfreds rules about work at the table he would better not touch it again for now.

"Replacement, you look like the dead walking. Did you even sleep last night?" He glared at his brother before he blinked taking in his surroundings before his eyes rested on little Danny.

Tim could see that all of them, despite barely knowing the kid for a couple of hours, had already become attached to Danny. It didn't help that they had discovered Lichtenberg scarring running up Danny's left arm all the way to where his heart was after the child had finally let Damien take care of him. Hell Tim wanted to know who would give a child, a once dead then revived one, scares like that. If Talia had let the kid go through some sort of experimentation…. Well Tim knew where the explosives were stored and by the looks of it he probably could count on Jason's as well as Dick's help to blow up a league facility.

Either way Damien had become very protective of the child. The scarring didn't help calming that protectiveness either. In fact he was pretty sure it steered it more in the rest of them too. Also the fact that Danny spat out glowing Lazarus Water once they managed to wrangle the kid off Jason last night wasn't calming down a different kind of worry anytime soon either. No, it was another factor next to the scarring that spoke for the League having experimented on the poor child. He probably should start investing more time into what sort of facilities the League had built or was using lately.

On a good note, thankfully Danny had let up on Jason after he spat out the green goop and thanks to the fact that he apparently recognised Damien, let said teenager manhandle -cough- take care of the little biter for the rest of the night. It also seemed like the little guys biting obsession with Jason had calmed down, for now. He didn't trust the calm, especially not with the way Danny was still focused on his second oldest brother. Though everyone except for the demon brat was still getting the hissing treatment. Considering his theory that the League probably used the revived child to experiment with Lazarus Water, it wasn't that much of a surprise. Anyone would be feral after being subjected to experiments.

Thankfully it looked that whatever Pit Madness had overcome the child last night was not reacting towards them. But as he watched Dick trying really hard not to pout at Damien who had Danny in his lap in a protective hold, he wondered how long that would hold. Jason sat as far away from Danny and Damien as he could, probably because of the way the child was watching him with glowing blue eyes while munching on whatever food Damien gave to the little biter.

He could also see the reason for Dick's pouting as the elder reached out to attempt to ruffle Danny's hair but the child instantly snapped his head in their eldest brother's direction, hissing, bearing his teeth and even snapping at the air until Dick withdrew said hand again. A pout very evidently on his face. Like a switch flipped the child's focus would then redirect to watching Jason like a hawk again and munching on the food the Demon brat gave him.

At least he was the bitey type that would hiss as warning and not the stabby kind without warning like Damien.

"Yo, anyone at home up there?"

Turning his focus back to his second oldest brother Tim glared at him once more. "If you have to know. Yes I did sleep last night."

"More than one hour?" Dick asked next and Tim refused to look at the eldest. He was not going to answer that. He had coffee, who needed sleep when you have coffee. Besides, he was a perfectly functioning human being even with minimal amounts of sleep. He had not face planted his breakfast for three days now.

"What got you so obsessed that you didn't sleep, Drake? Another case? Or did you try to find out more from the League in regards to Danyal's scars?"

"That too but mostly the post-it note." He finally answered after stewing a little longer under the stares of his siblings. "Neither our nor the JL's language recognition programs got a hit and right now I am running a picture recognition to see if there ever was any kind of writing like that found before but it ran up to 90% before I came down and hadn't found anything like that before. And-"

"Slow down there Timber. I thought that's just a prank from Cass and Steph?" Dick interrupted him and Tim suppressed a groan.

"It couldn't be. I wish it was but both of them weren't in the Manor last night and I don't think Duke would do something like this so-"

"Hold up." Jason cut in and Tim glowered at them for getting interrupted again.

"What do you mean no language recognition program got a hit?"

"It means that there is no languages to translate-"

"Why would you need that? Yea its cryptic as fuck but its clearly written out!"

"Jason what are you talking about?" He opened his laptop again, turning the screen so it was facing Jason. "These are squiggles! How is it readable?!"

"The fuck you talking about?! Don't tell me your sleep deprived mind doesn't know how to read anymore?"

"Jason what does it say in your eyes?" Dick carefully cut in before Tim could question the other any more.

"'The daylight knight will tell the truth with eyes that see the light'. See cryptic as fuck." The older gesticulated towards Tim's laptop screen while Damien raised an eyebrow at him.

"The what now, will tell what?" Dick asked confusedly while Tim turned the laptop back towards him noting down what Jason just said. He was confused as to why Jason was able to read the squiggles but at least that gave him some kind of hint about the post-it. Aside from adding more questions to the already growing pile.

Suddenly a thrilling noise echoed in the room and the four looked at Danny. The child's now green eyes were focused on Jason. Tim could see Damiens hold tightening and Dick tensing when they noticed the green. Danny repeated the same nose he made earlier, still intensely staring at Jason.

"Who the fuck is clockwork?"

The green fated and Danny made a similar noise to chirping, his head tilting in confusion.

"The fuck you mean you don't know? You just said that Clockwork wrote the note?!"

"Todd. Did you just understand the noise Danyal was making?"

Once again the three of them stared at Jason who looked at them confused. "You didn't?"

They shake their heads and Jason let out a frustrated groan as he sat back down his head in his hands. "What did you assholes hear just now?"

"Danyal made some kind of thrilling, then chirping noise."

"Well I heard him say that someone named Clockwork wrote the note and then he said all confused that he doesn't know who Clockwork is." He looked at them frustrated. "Why do I hear the kid speak and you guys don't. You're his fucking twin, right? Shouldn't you know what the brat is saying?"

Damien glowered at their brother offended but didn't retort anything. Tim did see a hint of frustration with their formerly youngest and he could guess. Damien was most likely frustrated about the fact that Jason understood his twin's noises and he didn't. The only thing stopping him from possibly hurling the breakfast knife at Jasons, was most likely his hold on Danny.

Tim also thought about the fact for a while until it suddenly hit him. He looked up and made eye contact with Dick who most likely came to the same conclusion. The two turned towards their siblings.

"The Lazarus Water." Tim carefully offered, watching Jason and Damien tensed slightly.

"What about it?" The second oldest scoffed, turning his attention towards them.

"That's what you two have in common. Both of you got revived and came back through a Lazarus Pit. You still have the Pit in your mind right? And Danny most likely also has a lot of it in his system. It even mixed with his DNA."

After a beat of silence Jason let out a hearty groan. "Fuck. So because of the Pit I understand thrill and chirps now? Just fucking great!"

"Probably can speak it too if you try. That would be pretty cute. Come on, say something in a chirp!" Leave it to Dick to try to lighten the mood, though the glare Jason sent the eldest did make Tim hide a chuckle. He had to admit imaging Jason talking in chirps was a funny image. Should his brother ever do that he would need to make sure to take a video for his black mail folder.

"I will fucking not!"

"Come on, don't you want to communicate properly with our little teethling here?"

"Fuck off Dick!"

"You have to try it Jaybird! For little teethling!"

"Richard." Damien warned but Tim could only snicker as he watched Dick reach out to pat the kids head carelessly, apparently not hearing the warning nor hissing as the elder was too engrossed in convincing Jason to talk in chirp.

Dick let out a shriek of pain.

"Ha! Not so fun getting bitten is it now?" Jason laughed gloating with the fact that for once he was not the biting target.

Tim winched the moment he saw Danny clamp down with his sharp teeth on Dick's hand. Damien was instantly scowling both of them but the little biter refused to let go. He saw Alfred approaching the three and instantly stood up from his chair with a warning on the tip of his tongue as the butler reached out towards Danny.

"Master Danyal." Stunned and frozen the four brothers watched how the butler fearlessly patted the child's head who only let out a small hiss in acknowledgement, teeth still digging into the eldest brother's hand. "I request you let go of Master Dick's hand. I fear it will not taste as well as this snack I have prepared for you."

In an instant Danny let go and chirped, turning his attention towards Alfred who was still patting the child's head without getting hissed at or being in risk of getting bitten. Damien even let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you Pennyworth."

Dick was now cradling his hand, pouting and mumbling something about unfairness at the three as Jason laughed. Tim too couldn't help but chuckle, of course Alfred somehow became an exception towards Danny's biteyness.

It was at that moment that Duke entered the room, took one look at them, blinked, rubbed his eyes and then turned around and left again muttering something about it being too bright and early for any of this.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Danny was weak. Amity had been destroyed because of his failure to act and it had hit his obsession hard. The other ghosts jumped on him exploiting his moment of weakness and while he was able to defeat them he was left with very little power left.

He was dying.

Again.

Danny had to choke back a sob. He was alone, scared, and in pain in an unfamiliar dimension in an unfamiliar city that had a smell bad enough to make raccoons turn thier noses away. He needed to find a way to feed his obsession and fast.

It was at that moment a very obviously drugged and hurt Red Robin came falling out of the sky and landed with a thud before him and promptly passed out.

Danny could work with this.

Dragging the other teen as far as he could (which wasn't far in the halfas sorry state) he settled down with the supposed hero on the front step of a boarded up store and rested the guys head in Dannys lap. Taking a deep breath he pulled out one of his parents weapons that he had personally modified. A laser gun that if turned up to the highest setting would be a death ray and at the lowest would be powerful enough to blast someone down a few city blocks. Anyone who tries anything would be in for a world of pain.

Unfortunately there were a lot of people who saw the downed bird being protected by a frail kid with what looked like a toy gun and came walking up with crowbars and bats, intending to get revenge only to find out that it was very much not a toy.

The most annoying ones were these wierd people who Just. Would. Not. Give. Up.

The one with a blue bird on his chest had almost convinced him that he was the heros friend, up until he let slip that his brother, Red Hood had tried to murder him. He got blasted away after that.

Red Hood didn't even get down from the rooftop before Danny blasted him. He had so much bad ghost vibes that Danny could feel exactly where he was even five miles away. Hood didn't understand why he couldn't sneak up on this kid.

Batman gets the "on sight" treatment and Danny is convinced he's a supervillian.

The Joker gets vaporized in front of the batfam, whose jaws are on the floor, except for Jason who's cheering. (Jason later throws a party) Everyone who has a bat logo on them gets blasted. No one can get close and nothing they do can get the kid away. Its only when Robin appears before the kid that Danny visibly relaxes. When Robin asks how he knew he was Red Robins ally Danny pointed out the matching colors.

Robin did not understand the logic behind it but was happy to get the civilian that had been giving them so much grief to a hospital and drag RR to the med Bay to see why he hadn't woken up yet. But no, it was not meant to be. Danny revealed he was not human and that his injuries were more severe than they first appeared, which said a lot because his white shirt looked mostly brownish red at this point.

Anyway, Danny was a supernatural entity who protected people and fed off of them, creating a mutually beneficial situation. The people he protected turned on him seeking knowledge about his biology via the "science and a knife" method and he barely escaped. Danny is so weak now that if he let's Red Robin go Danny would quickly die, but if he doesn't let Red Robin go, he won't wake up. So naturally Danny is too terrified of dying to let RR go and as a consequence Tim is getting the best sleep of his life

[wolfjackle-creates]

Bring Me Home Arc 3 Part 3

Again the winner of last week's poll! There won't be a poll this week because I'm planning something a bit different. I hit 1000 followers this past week and have been wracking my brain about how to celebrate! Wasn't up for doing prompts or adding more projects to my list, though, so I didn't want to go that route.

But I did come up with something that I think everyone will really enjoy. Especially those of you who have been voting for Carry Your Heart (I see you in the tags!). So look out for that post.

In addition, I've just posted the first chapter of Arc 2 on AO3! Link below.

Story Summary: Jack and Maddie install a new ghost shield on the house which activates the moment Danny tries to step into his home. His secret is out and his parents are determined to excise the ghost from their son.

Luckily Danny isn't alone. The Young Justice, Sam, Tucker, and Jazz aren't going to leave him to suffer.

Arc 1: AO3

Arc 2: AO3 (incomplete); Tumblr - First, Final

Arc 3: First, Previous

Word Count: 1.4k

-----

Fire rushing through him jolted Danny awake. His back arched as he cried out. He screwed his eyes tight, not wanting to see what torture his parents were going to come at him with next when he realized what the sound of his cry meant: the muzzle was gone.

As were the restraints. And he was lying on something soft. Trying hard not to hope, he opened his eyes.

Sam and Jazz were leaning over him, concern clear on their faces. They were in some sort of ambulance or van.

“How are you feeling,” demanded Sam.

Danny took a moment to answer, his chest was pure agony. He didn’t even want to think what it would feel like to sit up. And even past that, everything was sore. Though the fire that had woken him up had dissipated, the tell-tale feel of ecto-dejecto. “Pretty much the worst I’ve ever felt,” he answered honestly.

Sam and Jazz both winced and his sister grabbed his hand. He squeezed her fingers weakly.

At the foot of his bed stood Tim in full Red Robin getup and Kon as Superboy.

He couldn’t hold back the smile as he met Tim’s gaze. “You came,” he said.

Tim didn’t smile back, but some tension eased out of his shoulders. “I always will,” he said. “Been telling you that since we were ten years old.”

“I know. I’ve always known. Thank you.”

Jazz squeezed his hand again and he looked at her. “Red Robin and Superboy are going to take you away from here. Robin will help you recover.”

Sam nodded. “Yep. And the rest of us are gonna focus on making sure Amity is safe for ghosts once and for all.”

Danny shook his head. “I should be there with you guys, fighting.”

“Nope!” interrupted Jazz. “Not even a little. You’re going to focus on getting better, got it, Danny? That’s all we want from you.”

“But the ghosts—”

Sam covered his mouth with her hand. “Stop it right there. Tucker is working with Impulse and Wonder Girl to get the portal locked up. No one will be coming through. No one—ghost or human—will be in any danger while you’re gone. I promise.”

Danny slumped into the bed. Even the slight change in position caused waves of pain to radiate from his chest even through the healing ice he could feel implanted in his body. He whimpered and closed his eyes until the throbbing receded just a bit. “I trust you. I do, it’s just…”

“You’re used to taking care of everyone,” finished Jazz for him. “We know. So let us take care of you for a change. We love you, Danny.”

“Love you, too, Jazz. Sam.”

“Be good for bird-brain there, got it?” ordered Sam.

Danny gave her a half-smile. “Are Tim and I ever good together?”

She laughed. “Well, don’t burn down Gotham, capiche?”

“Capiche.”

“We have to go now,” said Jazz.

Danny gripped her hand tighter. “Don’t leave me.”

Jazz winced, but leaned down to kiss his forehead. “We need to make sure the Guys in White aren’t going to get involved further. And you need to get someplace safe.”

Danny huffed a half laugh. “Gotham is safe?”

Jazz rolled her eyes at his poor attempt at a joke. “For you it is. Now, I’m leaving Red and Superboy with a case full of ectoplasm for you and our entire supply of ecto-dejecto. I just gave you your first injection. Please try and eat something and drink your ectoplasm regularly.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Jazz.”

Jazz sniffed and it was only then that Danny realized it was wetter than usual and her eyes were watery. He tried not to feel bad for his jokes when she replied, “Yes, it is whatever I say. Glad you agree.”

Sam cackled, and now that he was paying attention, Danny could hear the hysterical edge to it. “You’d better text us multiple times a day, ghost boy. Don’t try and lie to us, either. Kon’ll tell me the truth about your condition. And as soon as we can arrange it, we’re coming out your way for a visit.”

“Course I will, Sam. Give Tuck my best?”

“Duh. He wishes he could’ve come with us, you know.”

Danny nodded. “But he’s better with the tech stuff and that is just as time sensitive.”

“Yeah. Now, get some sleep,” Sam ordered. “You’ve got a long drive ahead of you.”

Danny gave the rote answer after too many all-nighters taking care of ghost attacks before school, “I’m dead, I don’t need sleep.”

His sister squeezed his hand. “Ghosts who just went through what you did need their sleep. Love you, Danny. Get well and I’ll see you soon.”

“Love you, Jazz.”

She kissed his forehead one more time, followed by Sam. And with another two rounds of farewells and love yous, he was alone with Tim and Kon.

“Thanks for coming,” he said again.

“Obviously we weren’t going to leave you there,” said Kon. “Being a lab subject isn’t fun. Especially not that kinda lab experiment.”

Danny couldn’t quite hold back the flinch at that description. It was accurate, but blunt.

Tim walked over until he was sitting by Danny’s bed. “Just listen to Jazz and get some rest. We’re going to be taking the long route to Gotham by going south to start. If we stop for food in a few hours, think you could handle a smoothie?”

Danny shrugged and bit back a yawn. “Could try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Kon moved towards the front of the vehicle as well. “Looks like it’s time for us to skedaddle. I’ll keep the road from jostling you, ghost-boy.”

Danny gave a small smile and let his eyes close. As he did, he tried to mumble his thanks and he hoped it came across.

---

The next time he woke was more gentle. Someone was tapping on his shoulder and calling his name. But even so, as he was pulled closer to awareness, the pain made itself more and more known. He tried to cling to the darkness, but the tapping wasn’t stopping, nor was the person calling him.

He blinked open his eyes to see Tim’s concerned face. He wasn’t wearing the domino anymore, or his costume. Just a sweatshirt and jeans.

“Hey, Danny,” said Tim. “I’m going to need you to try and eat a bit right now. Kon got us those smoothies I mentioned. I’ve also got yogurt if that’ll be easier for you. But the smoothie will have more nutrients.”

Danny closed his eyes. He wasn’t hungry and didn’t want to eat. Why did Tim have to bring him back to consciousness for this? He hurt and just wanted to sink back into oblivion.

The tapping on his shoulder began again. “I know, Danny. But you have to eat something. And you should take some ectoplasm, too. So just stay awake for a few minutes.”

“Mm ‘wake,” said Danny without opening his eyes. He shifted his weight, hoping to push himself up to eat, only to scream in pain as his chest protested any movement.

“Shit! Don’t move,” said Tim too late. “I’ve got a spoon here. I’ll feed it to you, okay? So just stay exactly where you are.”

Danny gripped his sheets, unable to do anything else as wave after wave of pain over took him. Tim kept up a litany of reassurances and stroked his hair. Eventually, Danny was able to think past it again.

“Don’t think I can sit up,” said Danny.

“Of course not,” agreed Tim. He held a styrofoam cup between his knees and carefully took off the lid and straw. “Just let me. Take at least a few bites. Swallow as is, don’t try and chew. Just do what you can, okay?”

“Okay,” agreed Danny and Tim fed him the first bite.

Danny hated this. Hated it so much. Here he was being spoon fed like a baby all because his parents… He shut his eyes and took the next bite. He wasn’t going to finish that thought. Tim was here and that’s what mattered.

Danny wasn’t sure how much he ate, but it couldn’t have been much. His eyelids were getting heavier and heavier and the pull of oblivion stronger.

“Wait, Danny. Stay awake just a little longer, okay?”

Danny groaned but forced his eyes open again.

Tim showed him a bottle of ectoplasm. “Just a few swallows of this, too. Okay?”

He didn’t want to. He’d rather just go to sleep again, but he opened his mouth obediently. By the time he finished his third spoonful, he couldn’t fight it anymore and slumped into the bed. The pain receded back into blackness for a time.

-----

Next

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Danny is going to be getting all the comfort throughout this. All of them will, tbh. Because no one is happy and they all need a hug or five.

Let me know what you think!

[inthememetime]

Alfred finds and adopts three homeless teens while the whole of the Batclan is away, the three teens are of course The Fentons. Alfred on the other hand had been dealing with a bit of Empty Nest Syndrome and takes the trio in, so by the time the rest of the Batclan filters back there are three extra people in the Manor but the Fentons deliberately ghost the rest of the residents.

I love this for four reasons:

The potential for Alfred, who wishes Bruce would stop adopting small violent children, realizing that HE is the same.

You can't tell me Alfred, Danny, Dani, and Jazz won't be BFFs. Jazz is the only (mostly) sane person in this house besides him. Dani absolutely WILL spy and report on injuries in exchange for more of that casserole. Danny and Alfred have similar sarcastic wit.

"If we had a nickel for every billionaire with a secret identity we know, we would each have 2 nickels. Which isn't a lot, but weird it happened twice."

The SHENANIGANS!!!!!

Shenanigans include:

At first, Alfred doesn't tell the Batfam because they're a family of detectives. Surely they'll notice. Over time, it becomes a contest of who can make them suspect the most without being found.

Alfred either playing it off or staring with a raised eyebrow when one of the Batfam asks why/if he's talking to himself.

Jazz can only be turned invisible in the nick of time so many times before somebody finds out about her. "It says here, Ms. Fenton, that you have a brother?" "Yes, Danny. He died. But don't worry, he got better!"

When Tim is forbidden caffeine for a week, Danny drinks his coffee super fast or Dani replaces it with chamomile tea with black food coloring.

Dani: "You know Dick, you really shouldn't do that."

Dick, after a moment of panic, realizing there's nothing in the room with him. "....God?"

Dani, realizing how much chaos she can cause: "yeah, that's me! God."

Danny and Dani take turns being human just to walk past open doors. They all look enough alike to Tim, Dick, Damien, and a young Jason in uncertain light that the rest of the fam has to do double takes.

When someone calls Constantine over as a favor, he takes 2 steps into the manner, says no, and RUNS.

"So I've heard the voice of God, and it sounds like a 14-year-old girl."

"....how hard did Bane hit you again?"

"God says Jason is the one who stole your book."

"...right ok."

Bruce decides he's gonna go be Batman while wounded. He snuck out, so Al calls his Secret Ghost Squad.

Batman is repeatedly interrupted (*cough* saved) by 2 OP glowing metas. Constantine will no longer cross Gotham's borders.

Danny: "You need more ectoplasm. You're a growing half-ghost."

Jason: *shoots the wall* "WHAT THE FUCK WHO WAS THAT?!"

Danny: would you believe it was God?

Jason: NO

Jason figures it out first because he's being parented by a dead guy. He actually doesn't mind that much because he gets to visit the GZ

Cass figures out second because she's observant.

Dick figures it out third by spraying 'God' with paint. He then realizes he attacked an invisible creature that can go through walls with no idea how to fight it.

Tim figures it out by deliberately putting salt in his coffee to see what would happen.

Damien finds Cujo. He is Upset that Cujo already has an owner. Danny tells Damien in exchange for Damien to stop yelling insults at him. (Dani calls him Weak for this, and tells Damien 15 minutes later because he thought she was calling HIM weak and had Opinions)

"Oh shit."

Steph bribes the 'house spirits' for prank help, and then tricks them. They tell her out of Respect.

Duke starts talking to himself about star output on his homework, gets stuck, and SpaceBoi helps. Duke's 10 minutes into stars actually being interesting for once before he realizes he's talking to a ghost.

Bruce has been introduced to them by Jazz. Alfred made her after the 4th sleepless night due to researching the surprise metas.

Dani: its cool dude, but now I have to go prank Tim. Bye!

Vlad shows up for a private meeting with Bruce Wayne. The ghosties reveal themselves in order to kick his ass.

Alfred is the only person who can get away with calling Danny 'Daniel' and Dani 'Danielle'. Anyone else has Serious Regrets.

The Joker breaks Alfred's leg in a bombing. He's never seen again. Danny, Dani, and Jazz are a little TOO innocent

[dairy-farmer]

No because “sweet is the lullaby over your nest” was my personal favorite because of how gut wrenching it was. It was beautiful and the reactions to the reveal in the last chapter was my absolute favorite of how Bruce is torn between the father and Batman

I don’t think Tim will ever be able to get beyond chilly civility with Jason and probably would never let him near his baby

Jason being the thing he hates and I wanted his blood and complete devastation throughout the entire fic. I don’t think the family will ever be able to fully forgive him

Dick trying to be a better brother and he has doubts but never wanting to acknowledge them trying to believe in the best of his brothers then when the truth comes out tries to protect Tim picking a side.

But my favorite was Barbara because she was to closest to the truth the outsider looking in and seeing Tim’s perspective not caring that Bruce is trying to be blind to the worst but correct conclusion. The fact that she also point of Jason’s hypocrisy over his actions against Tim was refreshing seeing how everyone else tries to brush it off as the past. She was the one who warned Bruce against his actions

The ending the cliff hanger of what would be the family’s reaction be how they would be able to move on from this revaluation Bruce falling apart was perfection

Favorite piquancy fic

thank you!!!! wow!! thank you so much i'm so happy you liked it!!!! it means a lot to hear your kind words 🥰🥰🥰

and yeah you're right, in terms of how it plays out in the future it's a very very very slim chance of tim and jason ever getting to a point where they can be somewhat civil. i think the only thing that would push tim to treat jason with some amiability is once danny grows up and starts asking questions. even then tim will not tell danny that jason is his father and if he ever asks he'll just say something like 'dad is out of the picture but it's okay because momma loves you more than there are stars in the sky'. jason is completely out of the picture. he doesnt come to danny's soccer games, to his first day of school, his graduation, him going off to college. he gets none of that out of a mix of tim not wanting him there and jason not wanting to disrespect tim's wishes because he's the bad guy here, he's not owed anything much less from tim.

tim is willing to compromise for the job. he'll work with jason if he has to but not when it comes to danny which he absolutely draws the line. jason is dead to him on that end and the family quickly learns that if they're not okay with that, then they'll be dead to tim too. it's a tense situation, a very walking on eggshells thing. everyone know that if its going to work they're going to have to deal with all the ugly parts. jason's guilt and feeling of injustice would definitely hit him hard because it's not just him learning about what he did while under the influence of the pit, it's seeing the results. the disgust and sickness he feels is indescribable and it makes him want to cry and it makes him want to throw up.

he's not that person he isn't, and he tells himself that everyday for weeks afterward because he's in a haze and in denial and telling himself that even at his lowest, at his angriest- he'd have never done that. but the truth is that he did (the evidence is right there). it was with the influence of the pit but he still did it. something inside him had the potential to do that and he acted on it and he's never wanted to rip his skin off more, he's never wished that he'd stayed dead more. he hates himself because he's trying to rationalize it, justify it just like those pigs who have one too many drinks at the bar and then go home and touch their daughters. 'oh it was the pit! i'm not me when i have too much devil juice in me!'

jason despises himself, he can't look at himself because it was still him. maybe a bit twisted and carved up but it was his hands, his face, his mind. it was him. all him. he did it.

i didn't delve into it much but the amount grief, the hatred, the realization it definitely send jason into a spiral which makes him feel worse because what if he does it to someone else someone innoce-(tim was innocent tim was innocent how could he have ever thought he wasn't?). given his tenuous connection to the family, the only person i can imagine him reaching out to for support to is roy. telling him what he learned, what he did. roy has a lot of experience with the feelings that jason must be feeling and i think he'd help him a lot coming to terms with the guilt, accepting what he did, and knowing that he could spend the rest of his life trying to make up for what he did and even then neither he or tim may ever forgive him. he has to play it by ear, because up until that point tim had told no one about danny (had he though jason would hurt the kid if he knew? and the thought just sends jason down a whole other path of self flagellation).

i don't think jason ever forgives himself. i think tim learns to live, learns to accept what happened and try to move past it with his baby- he regresses, has bad days where it feels fresh but most days he has are happy. but jason never forgives himself for not remembering, for not being able to ever truly know what he did (because he won't ask tim, he will not put him in that position).

bruce i think is similar to jason in which he never truly forgives himself for not seeing, for failing tim, for failing jason. it all comes back to him that if he'd found jason sooner, if he'd just been better then tim wouldn't have gotten hurt and jason wouldn't have to live with the knowledge that he did what he did.

dick also has a hard time processing but ultimatly decide to lend as much support as he can to tim. that's who he is worried about more. (it's a bit cruel, tragic even that jason is suffering so horribly but isn't determined to be someone who deserves support or aid but like i said this is a really bad situation for everyone). a commenter on the fic had said they hope that dick ends up as a sort of fill-in dad for danny and i think this is how it would play out somewhat. dick is there when tim can't be, dick tries to put in the effort and earn back the trust he knows he's lost after all that happened.

barbara is definitely someone who deserves a lot of credit. i think if she'd been present after titan's tower she would've picked up on something. bruce and dick were chasing after jason but she'd always been an in-the-moment thinker and i think she would've seen something in tim that got her concerned. when she learns about what happened i think she'd be sad, because it's a horrible situation and as much as she'd expressed some annoyance with jason for his comments in the cave she'd feel bad for him. because she knows he's not a horrible person but he still did this horrible thing (not in his right mind and that's a slipper slope to be on, justifying vs taking accountability. blaming vs being blameless. at fault vs innocent). it's a massive gray area of justice and since they all work in pursuit of justice it would definitely be difficult. she feels for jason and for tim and all she can do is try to to be there and help pick up the pieces.

danny i think figures it out years down the line when he's much much much older. from there i think he makes the decision of wanting to reach out and see who jason is or to stay and remain content with the mother who cared for and loved him despite how he was conceived. how that turns out though wel...ill leave it up for interpretation.

thank you so much for your kind words!!!! it means a lot to hear that this was your favorite fic !!! 🥰🥰🥰

[vamptigergal]

Chapter 3 Extras

Gwen:

I was shocked when DP actually ordered a drink as we got to the café, sighing my question to her to see what it was she feeling since normally she never gets anything. DP answering “more human in Gotham then anything” 

“Well thats good, seeing as you dont normally feel anything around the most of us. It’s going to be nice to just sit and enjoy this day, so we sitting outside or in here?” I asked, linking arms with both DP and Kate as Riri joined us after she ordered.

Looking at the sky, Kate hummed “Well honestly I think outside. It’s not like it would be the first time we’ve eaten outside in the rain if it does, which you did check right DP?”

“Eh, the app said its not supposed to. So its about a 40% chance I actually agree with this Wayne Weather App.” DP answered as we all took seats outside around a table. Riri rolling her eyes at that which I had to agree, that didnt seem very reliable even Tony’s weather app used the top research for predicting the weather so hopefully this worlds billionaires took after him if just a bit. 

As we wait, Kate pulls out her phone to put on some music. Riri snatching it to change the soft melody before I could which of course she stuck her tongue out at me. Letting her pick the first song while leaning into DP’s space to see who she was messaging, only to see it was a picture from one of the people she meet here. Kate kicked me before I could tease my sort of sister about the soft smile on her face from the guy’s pic as the song started. Dancing along to Shots with my friends while we waited for our buzzer to go off. 

As the song hit the mid point two guys came over and to say the fact they knew DP was shocking till I reconized the guy from the picture. Nudging Kate to help me tease my sister as we spoke to their group since it seemed DP knew some of them already with how close her and one of the guys (Jason was it?) kept sitting.

Tim:

All because Dick had to invite these four girls to join us, we now get to try to not only avoid paparazzi but had to play normal civialians too. Just because Duke and Jason made a friend, I could leave either and why because of course these girls seem to not get that a guy might just want coffee. Grumbling till we all stopped at a local coffee shop not to far from the mall Dick wanted to show off to the girls, I quickly got in line ignoring the rest of the group. Or at least I would except Damian got in right behind me with the woman that Jason willingly let into his space, and no I wasnt going to think more about that because I wasnt jealous.

“This place has a great selection of teas.” Damian spoke, clearly trying to impress her.

She laughed at it sounded so familiar for a second I almost forgot my order as I got to the counter before mutter “One Death Wish Coffee, extra six shots with carmal please”

Stepping to the side so Damian and the other could order, since it didnt pay for each of us to pay separate and would hold up the line, I tried not to listen to everyone else’s order but knowing what my brother’s get it wasnt that hard to figure out the girls were a strange mix. One order of Pumpkin Hot Chocolate, Two Black Coffees, and One London Fog extra foam, that didnt seem like a mix would make a good friend group. But thinking about it two of them did claim to be sisters, so that could explain it since nothing else did.

Once we all got our drinks, DP walked next to me even though Duke was walking close by. Jason took up her other side much to Damian’s huffing since Dick seemed to take his side with someone else talking their ears off, I didnt care as I took a sip of my beloved drink. DP giggled at me before I could growl at her, she spoke “Sorry it’s just the only other person I know that drinks that much expresso is Dan, and he hates caramel so it’s strange to see anyone drink them together. I was trying to picture Dan with that drink and nope definitely can not. Danny maybe would try it, Dani might enjoy it. But you Tim are a coffee adicit after my own heart with that strange love of the drink”

“Yet you got an earl gray” I muttered, the snark taken out of my sail with her expression being so soft and open even Jason was smiling. It felt like maybe just once hanging out with him as if he was my older brother and not the guy that tried to kill me.

Jason rolling his eyes as he grumbled “Come on Timmers, London Fog isnt just an early gray. I’ve got an Earl Gray, you really should know this by now.”

“Well excuse me for not knowing all the different types of tea drinks. I’m know for drinking my Death Wish and not much else thank you very much.” I teased back, happy to spend this little time on the walk with my favorite brother even if it was only because of someone else being there. Maybe one day it could happen, maybe?

Dick:

It was supposed to be a nice day out with the family, but of course I knew as soon as B backed out the day fell on to me to make it good. Sometimes I hated being the oldest, which is why when Duke said we were meeting up with some friends of his and Jason actually let DP into his space, that maybe the day had turned around. Hack we stopped at the coffee shop Tim loved and Damian and him didnt fight, everyone got drinks and no one got stabbed. I was really thinking it was going well for a Wayne outting, so of  course some villain had to show up. Only this huge guy wasnt someone Any of us knew, or at least that I thought we knew till Riri and Kate started yelling at each other.

Kate screamed “No Heart we cant just leave Pin to the local guys! Why because clearly they wouldnt know how to take him down! Heck we wont even be able to take him down without Spider-Man and you want to leave him for people who wont even have our knowledge of him. Why the heck would you ever be a leader!”

“I’m not saying we leave him here Kate! All im saying is if we arent supposed to be avengers here then maybe we shouldnt even step in and let these local heroes handle this. Since it seems Death feels so strongly about it!” Riri screamed back.

I rubbed my eyes, trying to figure out how to get my brother and self away from the girls so that we could change to handle Two-Face and this new villain but of course the girls just have to keep screaming. Before I could figure out a solution, I hear Tim yelp whipping around to make sure Two-Face had grabbed him or something else happened only to see DP dropping her jacket onto Tim’s head with a dark smile blooming on her face that honestly looked so sexy. If only she was a red-head then I would totally go for her but the black hair just couldnt be that sexy, didnt see why Jace kept blushing as she and Gwen both grabbed their friends.

Gwen with a similar wicked smile on her face, speaking “Heart, Hawkeye we are going to handle Pin and the other guy till the local guys get here. So Heart you better have grabbed your suit because your our eyes in the sky”

“Kate, you are going to be running interference and making sure civialians get to safety with Riri’s help.” DP said as she and Gwen both stalked towards the fighting. Before I could yell for them to stop, the two sister were holding guns that they did not have before and I decided that I didnt want to deal with that. Keeping my mouth shut and making sure everyone else was safe as we got to safety as we watched the fight from a distance as the four girls moved in perfect movement without comms.

DP seemed to move in time with arrows shot from Kate as they took down Two-Face and tied him up, I couldnt believe it when I looked to see that they took him down in under 3 minutes since not even we could do that. Gwen, DP, and Kate all turned to take out the last guy they called Pin, I turned to look at Tim who put on the jacket and had out his phone to see if he could get any information on him. Cursing since it seemed he couldnt, but no one said anything about the langue, I looked at his phone as it came up with nothing I asked “Could they be from another universe?”

“Well they did kind of hint to that. And that would explain at lot of things, but why wouldnt there be something. Theres always traces of people in other universes, but nothing for any of them!” Tim muttered.

Duke and Jason exchanged a quick glance as Damian huffed as we all watched Gwen seem to tie up this Pin guy as Kate and DP walk over with Riri land in a strange suit next to Gwen. Kate cursing up a storm as she gets closer “No really DP, why do you carry that, and dont say just because!”

“Because you never know why a spider is going to lose their web-shooters and you never know when they are going to come in handy. You have to admit it’s a good thing I do, learned it from Peter here, always carry extra web-shooters and fluid cardiges.” DP laughs “Oh thanks Tim for taking care of the jacket, I’ll take it back since we’ve got to take Kingpin to jail. I swear I’m always doing more paperwork then I want to”

“Ah, well, it was nice of you all to come. Hopefully the next time you are in Gotham it wont be so exciting as this time and you can see more” I say as Tim hands over the jacket as the girls all get ready to leave. I knew i was going to be interrogating Duke later.

[voiceless-terror]

I am so completely enamored with Danny as jons ex and I would be forever in your debt if you finished that

i wasn't expecting people to like this idea so much, its definitely one of my weirder ones xD since im not sure when i'll get around to actually finishing it (if ever) you can have a very rough chunk of it instead. you'll have to forgive any mistakes, im not up to editing it.

In a surprising show of athleticism, Jon ducks under Sasha’s chair before the specter of his past manages to see him.

Sasha swears at the action, backing up in her chair and peering down at Jon in bafflement. “What on Earth are you doing, Jon?”

Instead of answering her question, he backs up even further, tucking his feet out of sight. He thinks Sasha’s umbrella must be under here, and judging from the sharp point currently jabbing at his thigh, he probably broke it. “Is he still there?” he hisses, tilting his head to avoid bashing it into the desk.

“Who?”

“That- that man!”

A pause. “Tall, dark and handsome?”

Jon’s turn to pause. “I suppose you might call him that,” he replies stiffly. And it’s true. The man, from Jon’s brief, panicked glimpses, is at least six foot, with thick, dark hair and a bright grin.

And he looks exactly like Jon’s ex, Danny Stoker.

He’d done an almost comical double-take after a cursory glance; at first he’d thought Danny was the new hire, but this man was more angular, like a sharper, leaner version of his ex. So no, it couldn’t be him.

That didn’t stop him from diving under the nearest object, ergo Sasha’s desk. Not the wisest of decisions, considering his throbbing side, but he’s never been known for grace under pressure.

He’s not exactly sure why this fight or flight mode’s been activated- he and Danny had parted on fairly good terms, each recognizing that although they cared about the other, they simply weren’t compatible in the long term. They’d dated for a little over six months when Jon was a freshman, and he’d fallen hard.

Danny had been his first real relationship, and Jon was shocked that someone like him even looked his way. Impossibly handsome, incredibly fit, desired and envied in equal measure, and he dated scrawny, shy, insecure Jonathan Sims; the rumor mill went wild. They’d met at a party, and not even a good one. In a brief moment of liquid courage, Jon managed to insert himself into a group and fit in one snarky joke that sent Danny into stitches, the rest of the partygoers following his lead. For one second, Jon felt like he truly fit in, like he was someone worth knowing.

Danny had a way of making someone feel special. Big, romantic gestures, surprising him after class, taking him on little expeditions beyond campus. Jon didn’t drive, still doesn’t, and Danny wanted to show him the world outside of their privileged little campus.

But, like all of Jon’s relationships, it came to an end. Jon wasn’t ready for such overwhelming affection (didn’t think he deserved it, quite frankly), and Danny needed someone who could handle his fast-paced lifestyle. Jon was not that man. They broke up amicably, even if Jon shed a few tears in private, saw each other on campus a few times. Danny tried to reach out more than once, just as friends, but Jon’s never been able to handle more than one relationship at a time, and by then he’d met Georgie.

But now it seems the past is unavoidable, and standing near the circulation desk. Well, now walking in his direction, if the steady footsteps were any indication. Jon’s heart begins to hammer in his chest as it hits him that he is, in fact, hiding under a desk because a man who sort of looks like his ex is in his general vicinity. Coward.

“‘Lo!” God, even the voice is similar, if not as deep. “Tim Stoker. Reporting for duty.”

Stoker. Tim Stoker. Jon startles, slamming his head against the desk with a yelp.

Somewhere in his spiraling thoughts and throbbing head he remembers- Danny had a brother. An older brother that he adored. This must be the famous Tim- Danny made him out to be a saint, and though Jon never met him, he felt some fondness via Danny’s descriptions. But Tim’s going to have no fondness for him, especially considering Jon’s current position, hiding in pain under his coworkers desk.

“Pleased to meet you!” Sasha chirps, very clearly amused by the situation. “I’m Sasha James. And this-” she tugs at one of Jon’s legs, dragging him a few inches into sight. Jon buries his head in his hands and wishes he were invisible. “-is Jonathan Sims. We’ll be training you.”

“Excellent.” Tim’s voice holds the same good humor Danny’s always did, and sends a pang of nostalgia through his chest. “Er, you alright down there?”

“Yes,” Jon responds robotically, scrambling to his feet and standing behind Sasha’s chair, unwilling to meet the man’s eyes, lest he be drawn in. “I- uh, lost a pen. P-Probably left it in the copy room, I’ll just be going...there.” With that incredible performance, he fled.

And only tripped once on the way out.

________

So Jon’s kind of cute.

Tim doesn’t normally go for tiny disgruntled academics, but Jonathan Sims is an interesting fellow. He’s got a reputation for being the ‘problem child’ of the Research Department, awkward and prickly and always available with a snide word. He wields his books and files like a little suit of armor, and the only person he’s seen him open up to is Sasha. Besides their little conversations, Jon is all work and no play.

Except with Tim.

Sasha says she’s never seen anything like it, with one of her secret little smiles. Jon’s always staring. Usually, the man can’t hold eye contact to save his life, but he’ll spend full minutes looking at Tim when he thinks he can’t see. The first few times, Tim would turn around and smile, but that practically sent the man into convulsions, dropping his papers and jumping out of sight like a spooked cat. It was funny the first few times, but Tim pitied him enough to ignore it now. He hopes Jon enjoys the view.

God forbid he ask the guy a question. Jon will look around the room, as if waiting for someone else to answer, when it’s clearly directed at him. He’ll blush and stammer his way through every explanation, keeping a wide berth of at least two feet between them. Even when Tim wants him to look at his screen, he’ll squint from far away. Tim starting to think he smells bad, or has some sort of communicable disease unbeknownst to him.

“It’s not that,” Sasha assures him, again with that unreadable smile. “Trust me.”

Time to try something else.

He prints out his latest follow up, a rather elaborate statement regarding mistaken identities and absolutely nothing supernatural. He knows Jon prefers to look at things on paper, as screens ‘trigger his migraines’ if Tim understood his mumbles. Maybe if he can engage with him on familiar territory for the both of them, he’ll be able to hold a conversation. Tim specifically requested his help on this one.

“If you could just look it over, make sure everything’s up to snuff, that’d be great,” Tim says to the top of Jon’s head, as the man refuses to lift his own to meet his gaze. “You know how Dr. Walker is. Always-”

“Finding mistakes where there are none? I’m familiar with her methods,” Jon snorts, and Tim feels like he’s getting somewhere. A whole sentence! With classic Jonathan Sims snark! “I-I can give it a look. I’m rather busy, but -”

“Take your time,” Tim says with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I finished a bit early, so I don’t need it for a few days yet. Don’t want to put you out.”

“You’re not.” Jon meets his eyes for about ten seconds before ducking his head back down.

Progress!

[iceeckos12]

A time travel au. angst and h/c. inspired by this post

Warnings: jon’s very low self-esteem

“What do you think of him?” Jon suddenly asks, staring blankly at the wall of the breakroom.

Tim pauses in the middle of chewing his sandwich to give him a long, considering look.

He’s mostly decided to suspend his disbelief until further notice, simply to keep from losing his mind. What else is one supposed to do when future versions of Jon and Martin, who are also apparently dating, tell you that your workplace is currently involved in a plot to end the world? Ideally he would’ve processed one big revelation at a time, but apparently they don’t have time for that, so goodbye grip on reality, it was nice knowing you. I’ll hit the restart button as soon as things start making sense again.

Tim wipes his hand across his mouth, swallows, and asks, “You mean Jon II?”

Jon rolls his eyes, like Tim’s being obtuse on purpose just to annoy him. “Yes, I mean...him. Me. Jon II.” Then his nose wrinkles amusingly, the same way it always does whenever he says the moniker. He’s hated it since the beginning, but it was a battle he quickly lost, what with all three of his assistants opposing him.

Normally, Tim wouldn’t have thought twice about shrugging and answering, but...Jon’s been uncharacteristically quiet lately. Oh sure, he’d blushed up a storm upon learning that his future self and Martin were dating, and he’d expressed his own misgivings at the beginning, but...since then he’s been eerily, silently watchful. In Tim’s experience, when presented with this sort of puzzle Jon generally buries himself in research, and doesn’t emerge until he’s good and ready to do so.

There’s something else on his mind.

So Tim puts down his sandwich and gives himself a moment to think carefully through his response. “I mean...he’s a lot like you, obviously. But he seems…” What’s a polite way to say, the trauma and the boyfriend seems to have made him a little more easygoing? He certainly smiles more freely than he ever has, which...honestly, makes Tim want to cry sometimes. How horrible, that so much abject cruelty had just made him more kind. “...tired. A little less high-strung?”

“I see,” Jon says, turning his mulish gaze to his curry, dragging his spoon through the thick sauce.

Tim waits a beat longer, but when nothing else seems forthcoming he prompts, “Why do you ask?”

Jon’s reaction is only to press his lips into a thin, tight line. Tim knows this mood; he’s weighing how insecure he’ll look if he says whatever’s actually bothering him out loud, versus how much he wants someone else to hear it. Pushing him now will only make him clam up, so Tim just waits.

Tim’s patience is rewarded when Jon blurts, “But you like him. You...you all do.”

“Yes,” Tim says slowly, because it’s true. Martin’s so enamoured with a Jon that actually likes him that he keeps bringing him tea just to get another glimpse of that gentle, thankful smile, just to strike up another conversation about nothing. Sasha has decided that he’s the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to her, and insists on consulting him whenever she reads a new true statement.

Tim’s personally a little unnerved by the awful, sad way future Jon looks at him sometimes, or the way he flinches back whenever someone tries to touch him without warning. But he’d taken Tim aside and quietly explained everything he knew about what happened to Danny, so.

Oh, Tim thinks, feeling like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. Jon may be an old hand at fooling others with his grumpy persona, but Tim knows that he’s just using it to hide his massive inferiority complex. “Wait, are you jealous?”

Jon ducks his head, and his ears darken. Gotcha, Tim thinks. 

“Jon, you know that that’s still you, right?” he explains gently, quietly relieved that it’s not something more complicated. “We like him just as much as we like you, because you’re the same person.”

“But he’s not the same, is he?” Jon protests. “Look at the scars on his neck, on his hand. And he has panic attacks, and he flinches at loud noises, and, and—”

He breaks off, biting down hard on his lip, threading a hand through his hair.

Tim stares at him, feeling off-kilter, like he missed a step coming down the stairs. That doesn’t sound like jealousy. “...Jon?”

Jon shakes his head, his breath escaping him in thready, devastated gasps.

He can’t tell what’s going on in Jon’s head, and it’s starting to scare him. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Jon just sits there for a moment long, tugging at his hair, staring sightlessly at the middle distance. Tim gently untangles his fingers, giving him something a little more solid to hold onto.

“You all like him,” he says at last. “You all...he’s so kind, and he’s funny, and you like him, because someone hurt him first. He’s different—we’re different—because someone cut our throat and burned our hand, and you like him better.”

Tim’s horrified. “Jon—”

“Should I accept that?” he continues, the words flooding from him like a dam finally exploding in a shower of groaning wood and weathered stone. “Do I—how do I carry on knowing that I could be the person I want to become, if only I give myself to monstrosity, if only I let myself be hurt like that?”

“Of course we’re not going to let that happen to you!” Tim interrupts, voice higher and more frightened than he meant it to be. He’s applying duct tape to a raging river. He has no fucking idea how to fix this. “You don’t deserve—”

“Don’t I?” Jon demands, whirling on him, eyes flashing. “Don’t I deserve to be happy? Or am I unworthy of even this kind of improvement? Am I doomed to be like this forever?” Tears well in his eyes, spill over. “Don’t I deserve it?”

And then he slowly, inevitably, dissolves into tears, his slim shoulders shaking as he curls over and buries his face in his elbow. Tim drapes an arm across his back, angling his body so he can gently tuck Jon’s head against his shoulder. He doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. Even if Jon were in any shape to hear it, he has no idea how to fix this.

Tim could tell him that he and Martin and Sasha all think that he’s fine the way he is, and it’s the stress of an apparently eldritch job that’s causing him to push people away, but he doubts Jon would believe it. Words mean nothing when actions have been screaming something entirely different all this time, and Jon’s always been more observant than they give him credit for.

“Oh, Jon,” he whispers when the tears finally start to slow, dropping a kiss onto silver and black hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you felt that way.”

Jon pulls away and shrugs, averting his reddened eyes. Tim squeezes his elbow to prevent him from retreating entirely. They sit like that for a moment, Jon going very still and very tense under Tim’s hand, settling into the vulnerability like an open wound.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says finally, sniffing heavily. He’s aiming for his usual brusque, dry tone, but his voice is shaking, and he’s not fooling anyone. “That was unprofessional of me.”

Before Tim can stop himself, an incredulous laugh rips out of him. “Jon,” he says quickly, “We’re well beyond professional. You know that, right? You don’t have to hide from me.”

Jon flushes. “Yes, well—it was unfair for me to put this on you, as your fr—as…” His expression goes all fragile and uncertain, and Tim’s heart aches.

“It’s not unfair,” Tim corrects gently. “As your friend,” and here he pauses for emphasis, “I want to know when you’re feeling like this.”

“Oh,” Jon murmurs, then straightens and scrubs the teartracks from his cheeks. “Oh.”

Tim nods reassuringly, takes a deep breath, and makes an educated guess. “I know you’re scared, Jon. We all are. This place is...horrible, and seeing what you went through is...terrifying. I can’t imagine how that must be for you.” He lets his eyes flicker up. Jon’s still watching him, rapt, and good, good. I haven’t lost him. “I won’t deny that he’s getting along with Sasha and Martin quite well, but...but that’s not because of what he—you—went through. It’s because….right now, you’re pushing people away because you’re scared, but he’s already done that. He knows that pushing people away just means you end up alone. It doesn’t mean he’s a better person, just that he’s a little wiser.”

“But how can you be sure?” Jon asks, leaning forward, eyes big and desperate.

“I mean, I wouldn’t have become your friend if I didn’t like you,” Tim admits unashamedly.

His bold honesty is rewarded by Jon flushing and ducking his head.

“But even so,” he continues, sobering, “Even if you were the worst person on the planet—and you’re not—you wouldn’t deserve to be hurt like that, no matter what the outcome. Does that make sense?”

Jon looks thoughtful as he says, “I—yes. Yes, that makes sense.”

He can tell though, that Jon doesn’t quite believe him. That’s okay—honestly, it’s what he was expecting. Tim’s been running headfirst into the wall that is Jon’s terrible self-esteem for as long as they’ve been friends. This problem is going to take more than one half-assed pep talk.

That’s okay, though. Jon’s worth the effort.

[bluejayblueskies]

can i be gentle?

Words: 7.1k

Relationships: Jon & Tim, Tim & Martin

Tags: Canon Divergence, Tim Lives, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Post-Unknowing, Injury Recovery

Warnings: suicidal thoughts/ideations, blood, injury, hospitals and hospitalization, survivor's guilt, body horror, minor gore, gun and knife violence, mentions of death, mentions of canon-typical worms, implied child abuse, meat, alcohol, swearing, crying, smoking

Ao3 link in source

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Tim aches. It’s full-body, radiating through his arms and back and legs, and he wishes more than anything that he could go to sleep, to chase away the pain for at least a little while. It feels like he’s been hit by a bus.

 Or been on the receiving end of several kilos of C4 igniting all at once. But that metaphor’s a bit too on-the-nose, in his opinion.

 He should be dead. He should be dead. 

 (Does he wish he were dead? He hadn’t cared, in those few moments of clarity before he pushed the button on the detonator and the colors solidified into black nothingness, whether or not he would wake up when the smoke cleared. It’s hard to tell. He’d attached so much of himself to revenge, before, when it was easier than feeling everything else bubbling up underneath, and now that it’s been ripped away from him, he doesn’t know what emotion should be filling the gap. Probably relief.

 He doesn’t feel relieved.)

 The nurse is speaking to him. Her lips are moving, but he can’t hear her. His ears ring and ring and ring, and it sounds like spirling, mocking laughter.

 They do some tests. Blast-induced hearing loss, the pamphlet they give him proclaims. Prognosis is good. Most patients recover in 6 weeks. Hearing aids can help with high frequencies.

 His ears ring and ring and ring, and he’s alive.

 He’s alive.

 Jon is not.

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 “It’s because of him, you know.”

 Martin startles badly at Tim’s voice. Tim wonders if it had been too loud; the ringing in his ears is incessant, and every word spoken sounds as if it’s coming from a very, very far distance. He moves a bit further into the room that they’ve placed Jon in, his hands shaking where they grip the wheels of the wheelchair they’d given him. Hard to walk when your leg is shattered. And some ribs as well. 

 Martin says something, Tim thinks, as he’s turning. His eyes are wide and rimmed with red, and he’s looking at Tim expectantly. Tim sighs, then winces as the motion sends tendrils of pain through his ribcage. “I can’t hear you, Martin. Either speak up—way, way up—or just… move your lips more or something. I don’t care.”

 “What?” Martin enunciates, and it’s so ridiculous, Tim wants to cry.

 He answers anyway.

 “Me. Being here. I’m alive because… because of him.”

 It was stupid, thinking he could protect Tim from an entire building collapsing on top of them. But his hand had gripped Tim’s wrist and he’d pulled him to the floor and he’d covered Tim’s body with his own, so when the shock wave had hit, Jon had gotten the worst of it.

 Tim refuses to feel guilty about it. He does anyway. Because they’d argued, and Jon had stalked him, and Tim had cultivated his anger and fear into a simmering ember deep in his chest, but at the end of the day, Tim wasn’t supposed to survive.

 Jon was.

 Tim swallows, hating the bitter taste in his mouth, and says, “Do you… do you think he’s going to wake up?”

 Martin says something, too softly for Tim to hear. His mouth twists into something small and pained, and he looks at the floor.

 It’s answer enough.

 Tim doesn’t ask again. 

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 They arrest Elias a few hours later, after Martin’s collected himself enough to bring his plan to completion. Tim’s only regret is that he isn’t able to see the look on Elias’s face as he’s dragged away.

 Knowing Tim’s luck, he’d probably have just looked smug.

 The name Peter Lukas crosses Martin’s lips, spelled out in exaggerated motions when he visits Tim again. Tim thinks, absurdly, of the hydra. Cut off one head, two grow back.

 Lukas probably won’t be better. Knowing their luck, he’ll be much worse. But Tim thinks of the way Melanie had shaken after she’d come out of Elias’s office, of the haunted look in Martin’s eyes when Tim had asked how his plan went, and can’t find it within himself to care.

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 They release him from the hospital with a hefty prescription of pain meds, small plastic hearing aids tucked in each ear, and a thick folder of discharge papers. Martin’s there when they do; the bags under his eyes are dark and smudged, and he nods mechanically as the nurses talk to him, outlining Tim’s care regime for the next few weeks. His eyes keep flicking to the side, to the corridor that leads to the long-term care section of the hospital. Wordlessly, Tim reaches over and takes Martin’s hand in his, giving it a single squeeze before holding it tightly.

 Martin lets out a breath through his nose and squeezes back.

 “Do you want me to, er. To take you back to yours?” Martin asks once they’re out, his voice on the softer side of muffled and overlaid with that constant ringing but audible enough now that he doesn’t have to shout. 

 Tim feels something almost like embarrassment curling in his stomach. “I, uh. I don’t have a place anymore.” Tim drums his fingers on his thighs, looks at the ground, and says, “I canceled my lease. About a week before we left for Great Yarmouth.”

 There’s silence between them—or at least, as close to silence as Tim can get right now. Tim thinks Martin says something, a word or two brushing up against the edges of what the hearing aids allow him to hear, but he can’t grasp any of it. So, Tim looks up at Martin, at the pinched, pained expression on his face, and says, “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know.”

 “Know what?” Martin says bitterly. “That you never expected to come back? Yeah, I got that part. I even got why, you know? Doesn’t make it better, though. I didn’t want to lose you, Tim.” Martin pauses, then says, so quietly Tim can barely hear it, “I didn’t want to lose anybody.”

 “Yeah,” Tim says. But that’s not how this works. We were never going to all survive. Everything is fucked, and it still is, and it always will be.

 “I’m sorry,” he says and finds he means it. Then, to clarify: “For hurting you. And… and for Jon.” He doesn’t elaborate on that point. He doesn’t know what he would say even if he tried. “But I’m not sorry for going, and I’m not sorry for pressing that button. If I would have died, I wouldn’t have been sorry for that either.”

 “Right,” Martin says slowly. “But you didn’t. And the Circus is gone now, so do you…?”

 “Do I still want to kill myself?”

 Martin winces.

 “Hey, your question, not mine,” Tim says, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture. After a moment, his hands drop back to his lap, and he gives a small shrug. “Don’t know. I knew I would do what I needed to in order to destroy the Circus, and I did. Thought I would die in the process, but I didn’t. I’m still trapped in the world’s shittiest job, and I don’t really…”

 Tim shrugs again. “I don’t know,” he repeats. Then, because it feels true: “It was never… it was never the dying bit I was chasing, you know. I didn’t do this because I thought it would be a good way to get killed. I did it for Danny, and that’s it. Plain and simple. So if you’re asking if I want to die, the answer is no. But I can’t guarantee that I won’t make the same decision again if I have to.”

 Martin’s quiet for a long moment. Then, calmer than Tim expects, he says, “Okay.”

 “Okay,” Tim echoes. Then, with a levity that only feels slightly forced: “I suppose it’s back to your place, then. Just be sure to buy me dinner first.”

 Martin doesn’t smile at that like he used to, but his face does soften a bit. His voice is lighter when he says, “Oh, I will. Within your dietary restrictions, that is. Which means no alcohol.”

 Tim groans. “You’re no fun.”

 “Uh huh.”

 They begin the commute back to Martin’s flat, and the atmosphere between them grows more lighthearted than it’s been in months. Tim feels something warm and familiar curl in his chest, and he realizes just how much he’s missed this. It’s not quite easy conversation, not like it used to be, but it’s nice all the same.

 Tim’s ears ring, and his entire body aches, and he still feels a numbness in his core in the shape of suspicious glances and calliope music and a face he can’t remember, but for the first time in a long, long time, he allows himself to smile.

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 Tim doesn’t visit Jon often. At first, it’s the guilt, acute and cloying and weighing him down. Then, it’s old hurt and stale anger, resurfacing and driving away any passing thought of Jon that isn’t tinged with bad memories and broken trust. After that, it’s just habit.

 It also hurts, if he lets himself admit it. To see Jon lying there, motionless and clad entirely in white, the heart monitor attached to him reading out a constant horizontal line even as his eyes move in small, jerky motions behind his eyelids. 

 See? a part of him whispers. He’s not human. Maybe he never was. Maybe he was always a monster, and you just never noticed. It wouldn’t be the first time.

 A newer part of him, one that gets more prominent by the day, recognizes that even if Jon isn’t human anymore, he never would have chosen this. This stasis, this half-death. Not what came before, either. That part of him remembers the way Jon’s hand had gripped his tightly as they’d opened that trapdoor, and how it had continued to do so even as the worms had begun to bite into their skin. He’d tried to protect Tim then, too, putting himself between Tim and Jane Prentiss. For all the good it did, when the worms began to come from all directions. But Tim remembers the way the terror and pain in Jon’s eyes had been tinged with sadness, with a silent apology as he gripped Tim’s hand hard enough to bruise and they both accepted that this was it.

 It hadn’t been, in the end. And now it is, with Jon all-but-dead and Tim still here, wheeling his way into Jon’s hospital room for the first time in weeks. 

 He’s halfway in before he realizes he’s not alone.

 “Oh,” he says. “I… I didn’t know you’d be here.”

 Martin lets out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Where else would I be?” he says, and it’s tinged with something bitter and broken that takes Tim a bit off-guard. It’s become almost routine now, for Martin to visit Jon, and usually, he comes back looking drained but otherwise fine. Sometimes, when Tim asks him for status updates on our resident medical mystery, Martin even manages a small smile and responds, still dreaming.

 Martin scrubs a hand across his face, and Tim realizes belatedly that he’s crying.

 “Martin?” Tim says carefully, moving a bit closer to where Martin’s sitting. “Are you… did something happen?”

 “No,” Martin says, his voice catching in a way that indicates that something very much did happen. “It’s fine.”

 “Is it…?” Tim pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Is it about Jon?”

 Martin’s laugh this time is more like a whimper. “Nope, he’s- he’s the same as always. Still asleep.”

 Tim moves closer but doesn’t say anything. The clock ticks rhythmically in the background, and he waits. Patience has never been his strong suit, but it’s been something that’s been required of him as of late, and he’s getting better at it.

 He likes to think he’s getting better at a lot of things.

 Martin doesn’t speak again for a few minutes. He stares at his hands where they rest just shy of one of Jon’s, his fingers restless against the sheets, coming up occasionally to fiddle with the thin black ring that rests on the middle finger of his right hand. Then, so quiet Tim almost can’t hear it, he says, “My mother died today.”

 Oh.

 “I’m sorry,” Tim says. They’re empty words, but they’re better than the good riddance and about time and you’re better off without her sitting on the back of his tongue, begging to be released. He doesn’t think they would be appreciated right now, no matter how true they might be.

 “Yeah,” Martin says. He’s still staring at his hands. “They called me a few hours ago. She… she passed away in her sleep. Natural causes. From- from her illness.” He falls silent for a few moments, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Then: “I… I think I should be sad?”

 Tim studies Martin’s face—the tear tracks down his cheeks, the unhappy set to his mouth, the way he’s shaking ever so slightly where he sits. His face is one of grief, but Tim doesn’t ask. He waits for Martin to continue, and after a moment, Martin says, “She was the only family I had left. She- she was my mother. I took care of her, I- I did my best to be a- a good son.” He takes in a shaky breath, curls his hands into fists, and says, “I haven’t seen her in months, you know. I- I visited at first, but she… she never wanted to see me. So I just stopped going. I’d call, every Saturday, but it was the same every time. She’s resting. She doesn’t feel up to talking right now. Call later, and we’ll see what we can do.” 

 Finally, Martin looks at Tim, and the guilt in his eyes is so acute Tim can feel it cut through him to his core. “I should be sad that she’s dead, but… but all I can feel is relief. And that hurts. I- I don’t know… why am I relieved? God, she was right, I- I’m horrible, no wonder she- she never wanted to see me, I- why can’t I- I can’t—”

 Martin cuts off with a wet sob, and all at once, Tim understands.

 “It’s okay,” he says, and he collects Martin’s hands from the sheets, holds them tightly in his own. “You can feel however you like, it’s- it’s okay.”

 He squeezes Martin’s hands, just once, and repeats, “It’s okay.”

 He knows Martin won’t believe him. But still, he sits, and Martin cries, and he says, It’s okay.

 It’s okay.

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 The hearing aids are a permanent fixture in his ears now, as most people have full hearing restoration after six weeks apparently doesn’t include him. The tinnitus is still particularly bad some days, but they help with everything else. It’s not perfect, but it’s a small price to pay for living, he supposes.

 He’s not sure when, exactly, he decides that he’s glad he’s alive. But he does. 

 He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear at all, when the Flesh attacks. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the wet, sticky sounds of things that shouldn’t be able to move without bones slipping through the vents, shattering the relative peace they’d begun to cultivate. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the pops of Basira’s gun, bullets burying themselves in things that barely flinched at the contact. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear Melanie’s screams of anger, the responding screams of pain from things with too many eyes and teeth and limbs as her knife carved a violent path through them.

 There are yellow doors and hands slick with blood and a sudden quiet as the last of the twisted, mangled creatures falls, sliced neatly in two in a way that’s just a bit too clean. 

 Melanie is breathing heavily, but her hands are steady and her eyes are hard with something raging and violent. When Basira reaches tentatively for her knife, saying, “It’s over now, Melanie. We’re- we’re safe,” Melanie stiffens but doesn’t resist.

 “This isn’t right,” Tim says after Melanie comes back to herself in bits and pieces, enough to shudder at the blood coating her arms up to the elbows and mutter something he can’t quite catch before disappearing into the toilet. “None of this is. God, can we ever catch a fucking break?”

 “We can deal with it later,” Basira says. She’s calm, but she can’t quite hide the tremor in her voice. Her Al-Amira is splattered with viscera. “Right now, we need to make a call. Get this cleaned up.”

 “What,” Tim says bitterly, “so we can continue hiding away in the Archives? You’re the one who said we should start sleeping here. Should have known it wouldn’t be safe. It’s not like it was before.” 

 He rubs at one of the small circular scars on the back of his left hand, his skin crawling with a phantom itch that makes him vaguely nauseous. 

 “We stay here,” Basira says, leaving no room for debate. “We make the call, and we stay here.”

 Tim makes a low, frustrated noise, and bites out, “Fine. Because Basira always knows best. Whatever.” He unlocks his wheelchair and says shortly, “I’m going outside for some fresh air. The smell of rotting meat is making me sick.”

 Basira doesn’t follow him.

 Martin does.

 They situate themselves just outside the glass doors, and they don’t say anything for a long time. Martin still looks vaguely ill. His face is pale, and his hands are fidgeting at his sides. His fingers are resting on his ring, twisting it back and forth, agitated. His shoes are stained a glistening red.

 Finally, Martin tilts his head back so it hits the wall behind him and says to the air above him, “Is it horrible that I wish Jon were here?”

 Tim snorts, anger still bubbling under the surface of his skin. “Because we’d have done so much better with our own flavor of spooky bullshit?” He bites out a bitter laugh. “Maybe he could have compelled them to explain exactly why every single monster out there has a personal vendetta against us. Working for an eldritch horror of voyeurism doesn’t give you much in terms of an offense.”

 “Stop,” Martin says sharply. “You know what I mean.”

 Tim does. He’s just not particularly inclined to wax nostalgic about the power of friendship and comradery when he’s got bits of meat stuck in his hair. 

 Still, he finds that he means it when he says, “I wish he was too. For what it’s worth. Which isn’t a fucking lot, but it’s what we’ve got.”

 “Yeah,” Martin says. His hand brushes against Tim’s, and they fall back into silence.

 The police arrive, followed closely by the ECDC. It’s a messy affair, even messier than the last time Tim had been in this situation, and Tim wants nothing more than to get away. Forever.

 He doesn’t make any jokes this time. He just nods in the right places, and when they’re finally released and he and Martin return to a flat they haven’t seen in weeks, he can feel weariness cutting through him to the bone.

 When he wakes the next day, Martin’s gone. His note, stuck to the door of the fridge, says, At the hospital. Be back around noon.

 It’s ten in the morning, and the sunlight is bright as it streams in through the kitchen window.

 Tim digs out the bottle of rum that Martin keeps tucked in the back of his cabinet and pours himself a drink.

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 “Peter Lukas wants me to be his assistant.”

 Tim looks up from what’s turning out to be quite an impressive doodle of the little figurine of a frog in a top hat he’d purchased back in research from a charity shop and says, “Absolutely not.”

 Martin sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, holds it there for a moment, and then says, “I don’t know if I have a choice in the matter, really. It’s… it’s not safe here anymore.” Quieter: “He said he can help. Off- offer protection.”

 Tim audibly scoffs at that. He sets down his pencil and notepad and crosses his arms across his chest. He can already feel a headache coming on. (More than the usual, that is. He’s almost able to tune out the constant ringing in his ears now.

 Almost.)

 “What’s he going to do, isolate them to death? It’s not like the Lonely’s any better of an offensive force than the Eye. We’re doing just fine without involving him.”

 “Are we?” Martin’s voice is hard and a bit choked when he continues, “We’re living down here because it’s not safe to stay outside for too long. We’re still finding bits of- of flesh in- eugh.” Martin shudders and folds inward on himself. Quieter, enough so that Tim has to watch the motion of his lips to make out the words, he says, “Jon’s not waking up.”

 Tim feels something inside of him twist. “We don’t know that. We don’t know what’s happening with him.” A touch bitterly—old habits die hard, he supposes—he says, “Maybe he’s just not done going through his monster metamorphosis yet.”

 “Tim.”

 Tim sighs. It’s a profoundly weary sound. “Yeah, yeah. I… I miss him too, you know.”

 He’s surprised to find that it’s not a lie.

 “Right.” A small, shaky smile crosses Martin’s face, and he says, “I- I suppose they’re right, then. Distance does make the heart grow fonder.”

 “Somehow,” Tim says, “I don’t think whoever coined that phrase had this situation in mind.”

 Martin’s smile fades as quickly as it had come, and Tim feels a pang of guilt. “Sorry,” he says, pushing away from the desk and wheeling across the room to where Martin sits. He hesitates, just a moment, before placing his hand on Martin’s where it rests on his knee. “I… I suppose I’ve forgotten how to be lighthearted about all of this.”

 Martin nods. It’s a small motion. He’s silent for a long moment; Tim squeezes his hand and says nothing. Finally, Martin looks down at his hands and says, “It’s been four months, Tim. Nothing’s changed.” He pauses again, his mouth pinching around the edges. “I… I visited him today. I begged him to wake up, to- to do anything to indicate that he’s even still there. I don’t know why I expected him to answer. It’s not like anything’s different now. He- he’s never going to wake up, Tim.”

 Martin’s voice cracks, and he repeats, wetly, “He’s never going to wake up.”

 Then, Martin’s crying, heaving sobs that overtake him completely and have him hunched over, dripping salty tears onto the back of Tim’s hand. “Hey, hey, hey,” Tim says, leaning forward as far as he’s comfortably able to and wrapping Martin in as hard of a hug as he can manage. He rubs his hands in circles across Martin’s shoulderblades, feeling Martin’s shaky breaths against the side of his neck, and says, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

 He repeats it, again and again, as Martin cries into his shoulder and says, over and over, words thick with grief, “He’s dead, Tim. He’s dead.”

 “It’s okay,” Tim says. Maybe if he says it enough times, he’ll start to believe it.

 Eventually, Martin’s body stops shaking and he pulls back, the tear tracks on his cheeks already beginning to dry. His eyes are red-rimmed and glistening, and he looks tired, grief apparent in every line of him.

 “I said I’d think about it,” Martin says, in a voice rubbed raw and hoarse. “When Peter called me. I- I said I’d think about it. I- I don’t know why…” He cuts off, makes a small, distressed noise, and says, “What do I even have left? If- if this can help, what- what do I have to lose?”

 Tim feels a pang of hurt flash through him, but he suppresses it. He squeezes Martin’s hands, gives him as wide a smile as he can without breaking, and says, “You have me. And I’m not leaving—you’re stuck with me. So don’t think for a second that if you take Peter’s deal, I won’t be there still. I’m like a bad penny, or, I don’t know, a- a fungus or whatever. The point is, you’re not going to get rid of me. Whether or not you decide to work for Lukas—which you shouldn’t, by the way, in case I haven’t made that abundantly clear—you’re not going to be lonely, okay? Not on my watch. I can be very persistent when I put my mind to it.”

 Martin looks at Tim, eyes wide, and another small, hiccuping sob escapes him. “You really mean that?”

 “Yes, Martin,” Tim says, exasperation and fondness filling him in equal measure. “Christ, just because things got… rough for a bit, it doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you. Honestly, don’t know if I could. You’re a very lovable person, you know. It’s not like being your friend is a hardship.”

 Martin laughs a little at that, his voice still thick with tears. “Well, when you put it like that…”

 Tim gives him another smile, and this one feels easier. Like it would be harder not to smile. Still, he’s careful with his words when he says, “So, then. What are you going to do? I’ve made my opinion more than known, but…” Tim swallows around the lump in his throat and continues, “It’s your decision.”

 “Yeah,” Martin says, barely more than a whisper. “Yeah.”

 Peter calls again. And when Martin hesitates for a long moment before giving a quiet yet firm no, the relief that sweeps over Tim is enough to make him feel weightless.

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 Two months later, as a man who smells of death shuts the door behind him, Jon takes a rattling breath and finally opens his eyes.

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 “Tim?”

 Tim raises the hand that’s not holding a rather large bouquet of white daisies and baby’s breath in a half-wave. “Hi, boss. Been a while.”

 The look Jon gives him is half-shocked, half-nervous. “I… I suppose it has. Six months, apparently.”

 Tim makes a sound of affirmation before wheeling himself fully into Jon’s hospital room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “You know,” he says, allowing a blanket of levity to fall over him, “when we said you should get more sleep, this isn’t exactly what we meant.”

 Jon just stares at him for a moment, face blank and eyes wide. Then, a laugh escapes him, a small hiccup of amusement. “Yes, well. I can’t say that I feel particularly well-rested.”

 Tim imagines what it must have been like, to be locked in a dreamscape stasis for six months. He can’t say that the idea sounds particularly relaxing. “Yep, sounds about right. Guess we can cross ‘spooky coma’ off our list of possible cures for sleep deprivation.”

 Jon folds inward on himself a bit, hugging one arm to his chest and gripping the other tightly. “Right,” he says, his voice small. He looks away from Tim, focusing on the small window in the corner of the room, and says, “I… I’m sorry, Tim.”

 Right. Jon still thinks Tim hates him.

 Tim lets out a long, weary sigh and makes his way to Jon’s bed. He practically shoves the flowers into Jon’s hands; Jon takes them, more out of surprise than anything, white petals tickling the bottom of his chin. “It’s been six months, Jon. You’ve been… honestly, a bit dead? No offense. And I’ve been alive. And we both know it was meant to be the other way around.”

 Jon opens his mouth, and Tim holds up a hand. “Don’t. I know. I already hear enough about it from my therapist, I don’t need to hear about it from you too. The point is that I’ve… I’ve had time to think. And some of the things you did, I can’t forgive you for. But some of it…”

 Tim shrugs. “Martin would always go on about how it wasn’t your fault. About how you were suffering just as much as us. And maybe I didn’t believe it because I was already angry, or maybe I didn’t believe it because all I could think about was finally getting a chance at the revenge I’d chased after for years. But then you were gone, and the Circus was gone, and I just… didn’t have anything left for the anger to hold on to.”

 Jon clutches the flowers tightly in his hands, looks down at the petals. “But you were right,” he says quietly. “A- about me.”

 Tim casts himself back six months and sifts through a metric ton of bitter remarks and angry assumptions. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

 Jon lets out a slow, shaky breath. “About me not being human.”

 Oh.

 “Jon—”

 “Do you know what I was dreaming about?” Jon cuts in before Tim can say anything else. “I- I don’t remember, not really, but… but I can guess. I… I Know, somehow, that- that they were the same dreams, over and over and over again.” Jon takes one of the flower petals between his fingers and rubs it back and forth, a nervous gesture. “I started having them soon after I took this job, you know. Naomi Herne was the first one, and I- I didn’t understand why. Every night, she was trapped in the fog, forced into her own grave, and I would try to move, because it- it felt like I should have been able to, but it- it never worked. So I… I stopped trying after a while. I would stand and watch as she relived one of the worst experiences of her life, every night, and I- I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

 Jon crushes the petal between his fingers. “She was the first one, but- but there are so many more now. Lionel Elliott and Jordan Kennedy and- and, Christ, Georgie—”

 Jon makes a small, unhappy noise. “I don’t know when I realized that they could see me in their dreams too. That in trying to help, I- I’d just made myself another source of terror.”

 Jon falls silent for a few moments; the quiet is filled by the familiar tick tick tick of the clock in the corner. Then, so quietly Tim has to focus on his lips to catch the words, he says, “I… I think I made a choice. Before I woke up. I don’t… I don’t know what it means for me, not really, but I know it means that I’m worse than I was before.” He lets out a bitter laugh, devoid of any humor. “So, you were right. I’m just- just even less human now.”

 Jon falls silent again, and for a few moments, there’s just tick, tick, tick. Tim rolls the words over in his mind, looks at Jon’s pinched, unhappy expression, and says, “Okay.”

 Jon looks at him then, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Okay?”

 Tim shrugs and repeats, “Okay. You’re not human. I’m not going to pretend like that thrills me or whatever, but it’s… honestly, it’s a lot less of an issue for me now than it was back then.”

 “I- I don’t…” Jon trails off with a frustrated noise. “What?”

 Tim sighs. “A lot’s changed, Jon. Things have… well, things have kind of gone to hell. Honestly, we could use a few monsters who are on our side for a change.”

 Jon blinks at him in stunned silence for a few moments more before saying, bewildered, “... Right. Uh, I- I suppose I shouldn’t ask how you’ve been, then.”

 A wry smile cracks across Tim’s face. “I’ve been just peachy, thanks for asking. Blow up one Circus and suddenly every spooky monster out there wants to kill you. It’s been one big, long, horrible sleepover in the Archives. But hey, at least Elias isn’t there! Now we’ve just got Lukas, and if one or two staff members disappear every once and a while, well—that’s just how it is at the Magnus Institute. Nothing to be concerned about. Sometimes, we still go out for drinks.”

 “Tim,” Jon says flatly. The exasperated expression on his face is so familiar—so Jon—that Tim feels a tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding slip away. 

 “Yeah, yeah,” Tim says, waving a hand absently in Jon’s direction. “Point is, I’m not disappointed or angry or whatever that you’re back in the land of the living.” He pauses, and then, more sincerely: “Martin’s not the only one who’s missed you, okay?”

 Jon’s lips part into an O. Then, his mouth twitches up into a smirk, and he says, “Mm, you’re right. Basira did stop by earlier, and then of course Georgie, and I bet even Melanie—”

 “Unbelievable. And here I was nice enough to come all the way over here, to bring you flowers.”

 “Mm, they are very nice flowers.”

 “Damn right they are.”

 Jon smiles then, a fragile thing, and says, “Thank you, Tim. I… I’ve missed you too.”

 Tim could point out that Jon had been asleep for the majority of the time in question. But he knows that’s not what Jon means. So instead, he offers Jon a smile in return and says, “Be honest: more or less than the Admiral?”

 Jon shoots Tim a flat, unimpressed look. “Tim, don’t be ridiculous. Of course less than the Admiral.”

 .

.

.

 Tim’s been out of the wheelchair for a week when he finally manages to make his way to the roof of the Institute, still learning how to maneuver the crutches he’s moved on to. He swears he can feel every motion of the pins and the rods in his leg—skin covered with even more scars for the collection—as he finally heaves himself through the door and into the cool night air. 

 The view is just as good as he remembers.

 There’s the faint smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, and Tim’s entirely unsurprised to see Jon silhouetted against the glow of London, leaning against the wall that rings the roof with his back facing Tim. The cigarette glows a dull red as he raises it to his lips and breathes in.

 Jon doesn’t say anything, even as Tim painstakingly makes his way over to where he’s stood. Tim props his crutches against the wall before leaning his weight heavily against it, arms crossed atop the wall in a mirror image of Jon as they both look out onto the city below, humming with life and light.

 Finally, after a particularly long drag of his cigarette, Jon says, “I’m going to get Daisy.”

 There’s no room for argument in his voice. But that’s never stopped Tim from trying anyways. 

 “I thought you were done doing stupid shit that��ll get you killed,” Tim says, turning his head to look at Jon. Jon’s staring forward, but Tim gets the distinct impression that Jon isn’t looking out at the city at all.

 “It won’t kill me,” Jon says quietly. He moves his hands as he talks, surprisingly competent sign language that he’s begun using tentatively in his conversations with Tim. When Tim had asked him where he’d learned it, Jon had been quiet for a long moment before telling him that he hadn’t.

 Well. At least the Eye was being useful for once.

 “Yeah, whatever,” Tim says. “Dead or not, you’ll still be gone. You know people who crawl into that coffin don’t come back.”

 “I don’t—” Jon cuts off with a frustrated noise. After a moment, he continues, “I have a plan. I- I read a statement, and it said that I would need an anchor. A- a piece of myself to keep here. I can find it when I’m down there, and- and use it to guide me back.”

 “Right,” Tim says dryly. “Because our plans have always gone so well.”

 “What would you have me do, Tim? I- I can’t just do nothing.”

 “Why not?”

 Jon affixes him with an expression that’s half-affronted, half-stunned. “Tim.”

 “What? Jon, we barely know Daisy. She tried to kill you. No, don’t give me that look.” Tim jabs a finger in Jon’s direction. “You know I’m right.”

 “I…” Jon trails off. After a moment, he hugs his arms to himself, his snubbed-out cigarette still smoldering slightly on top of the wall. “I know. But I… I still have to go. I… I’m still going to go.”

 Tim exhales slowly and says, “Right. Suppose I should have expected that.”

 There’s silence between them for a moment. Then, Jon removes his hands from his arms and signs as he says, quietly, “Why don’t you hate me?”

 Tim stares at Jon for a long moment before saying, “What?”

 Jon sighs and repeats, the motions of his hands larger and more emphatic, “Why don’t you hate me? Basira and Melanie, they- they keep looking at me like I’m some… thing, and- and maybe I am. No, not… not maybe. I’m not… I’m not human anymore, and I- I know what you said, but what happens when I—?”

 Jon cuts off with a small, choked noise, like the air’s been sucked out of him all at once. Weakly, he signs, “I’m so hungry, all the time. What happens when I… when I can’t take it anymore? When I- I become dangerous, a- a monster, will you—?”

 Jon’s fingers curl into fists, and he drops his hands to his sides, angling himself away from Tim and staring at an arbitrary point in the distance. “It’s better this way,” he says, loudly enough that Tim can make out the words above the hum of London at night and the ever-present ringing in his ears. “I… I don’t want to go. I don’t want to lose this, to- to lose you and- and Martin. But maybe it’s better than becoming something that will hurt you.”

 Jon won’t meet Tim’s eyes. Carefully, Tim reaches across the space between them and takes Jon’s hand in his, uncurling Jon’s fingers gently in an attempt to release some of the tension. Slowly, he says, “You know, I… I shouldn’t be alive right now. Back after the Unknowing, when I woke up in the hospital, I… I didn’t want to be. It was supposed to be whatever it takes, and to me, that was always going to mean my death. Revenge and poetic justice and all of that. I should have died, but I didn’t. And… and you did. And it’s not something I feel guilty about, because we both made the same choice in the end, but that… that doesn’t stop me from feeling, sometimes, like it was my fault somehow.” He lets out a sharp laugh and says, “Well, I was the one to actually blow the place up in the end, but, you know.”

 Tim holds Jon’s hand carefully in his like it might break otherwise, the mottled texture of the scar tissue firm against his fingertips. His eyes find the thin white line slashed across Jon’s throat, the stark white bandage poking out from the collar of Jon’s shirt where it covers a fresh scalpel wound in his shoulder, the pale pink spots that pepper Jon’s skin in a mirror image of his own. He can’t see the splash of jagged scars across Jon’s back, a memory of shrapnel and white-hot explosions, but he knows they’re there. “You asked why I don’t hate you?”

 When Jon nods mutely, Tim says, “I just… ran out of reasons why I should. I still wanted to, but…” He shrugs and gives Jon a wry, humorless smile. “We’re all just stuck in the same shitty situation. And I guess at some point, I just decided that you hadn’t chosen to be here any more than I did.”

 “Oh,” Jon says, barely audible. 

 Tim takes Jon’s other hand in his, squeezes them firmly, and says, “And I’m sorry. Not for- for how we used to be, because I think the blame for that falls pretty evenly onto both of our shoulders, but… but for everything else. For what’s happened to you. Figured I’ve spent enough time feeling sorry for myself, I might as well extend you the same courtesy.”

 Jon’s fingers tighten around Tim’s, and he mumbles something Tim can’t quite catch. Then, he extracts his hands from Tim’s and signs, shakily, “I’m sorry too. For everything. But for what it’s worth, I… I’m glad you’re here. That you’re not dead. I- I know it’s been bad and- and I wish I could fix that, but I… I don’t know if I can.” Jon’s eyes when they meet Tim’s are sad but determined. “But I can fix this. I- I can get Daisy back. I can find my way out.”

 Tim looks at the firm set to Jon’s mouth, the furrow of his brow, and says, “Okay. But I’m going to hold you to that. Otherwise, I might have to go in after you.”

 Jon looks horrified. “Tim.”

 Tim holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, come back in one piece and we won’t have to worry about it.”

 Jon opens his mouth, then closes it again. There’s a long pause before he finally says, decidedly, “I will. I- I promise.”

 Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Tim wants to say. Instead, he shuffles closer to Jon and leans against the wall again, crossing his arms on top of it and looking out over the city. “Good,” he says softly. 

 After a moment, Jon shifts to face the city as well. His arm brushes against Tim’s, and Tim lets that point of contact ground him as he looks up and up and up at the stars above, pinpricks of light on a satin black sky. 

 “Thank you,” Jon says, just loud enough for Tim to hear. 

 Tim moves his hand to cover Jon’s where it sits on the wall and squeezes once. “Yeah.”

 They stand there until sunlight begins to tickle the edges of the horizon. And when Jon gives Tim’s hand one last squeeze, the other holding the lid of the coffin open, and says, “Be back soon,” Tim believes him.

 .

.

.

 Three days later, Jon climbs out of the coffin with dirt caked underneath his fingernails and a thin, sharp hand clutched in his. “Tim,” he says, and Tim ignores the pain in his leg as he lets his crutches drop to the floor and hugs Jon tightly.

 “Looks like I’m staying above ground after all,” Tim jokes, his voice light even as his words come out wet and choked.

 Jon’s laugh vibrates against Tim’s chest. “Yeah,” he says, burying his face in the fabric of Tim’s shoulder to hide his smile. “Yeah.”

[bluegarners]

Dick realizes he’s forgetting his childhood. 

~oOo~

It hits him one day. It hits him hard.

In reality, it must have been a gradual thing. An overtime thing. A steady decline thing that he just didn’t notice, like rain on eroding rocks. Chipping, chipping, chipping away and weathering it down into pebbles. 

But when he stops to actually look around, takes a moment to really think, it hits Dick hard. The wind knocked out of him, train plowing into him, upper cut to the jaw, mind reeling hard. 

He can’t remember what his mom’s voice sounded like. 

He remembers the old song she used to hum to him, can still dredge up the melody if he really tries, but he can’t remember what she sounded like. He’s almost sure she had a beautiful voice. Almost sure it was breathy and lower in pitch because she was a proud woman that used her voice for authority and rule. Sometimes, if he sits down and thinks exceptionally hard, he thinks even his father might’ve sung with her too.

Oh. Another thing.

He can’t remember the name of the cologne his father used.

It was something spicy, Dick’s sure. Something spicy that smelled like a mix of all the worlds best fireplaces and cinnamon sticks. It was warm, Dick’s positive of it, but sometimes he catches a whiff of vanilla and his mind goes back to his father on Sunday evenings when they didn’t have a performance, so maybe the cologne wasn’t spicy and Dick is just forgetting and remembering it all wrong.

That’s terrifying. How can he forget something as unique and special as his own mother’s voice or his father’s scent? What kind of son forgets something so pertinent to their parents?

He’s read articles about trauma messing with memories. Something about stress hormones going into overdrive, infecting and plaguing the fear factor and hippocampus that the brain just doesn’t recall anything. But he’s also read articles that say trauma enhances memory, that the adrenaline is just so prolific that it literally encodes the events permanently into the hippocampus rather than erase. 

He’s even read articles that victims of childhood trauma lose their innocent past completely in a blink. That they may even believe the events never happened and it was all just a dream.

But Dick knows he had parents. He knows that his father was a happy man, outgoing to the fullest and in love with life. He knows his mother made delicious pancakes straight out of the box and that she always used real maple syrup instead of Log Cabin. He knows that they were all very close and his parents never made him feel ashamed for being clingy or wanting to sleep in their bed after a nightmare or seeking comfort after yet another failed trick or flip. 

Dick knows. He remembers. 

But sometimes the details get fuzzy. Was his baby blanket, the one he knows his long dead nana stitched for him, blue or gray? Were there two rooms or just a bed and a couch in their tiny trailer? Did Pop Haly boom or rumble with laughter? He knows these things happened. How else would he even know he had a blanket or a trailer or the comfort of loud laughter during even louder performances? 

But for all his remembrance, for all his recollection, he doesn’t know if it’s real. If what he thinks are memories are but fond daydreams substituted for the blank spaces. He doesn’t have many pictures, but he’s got so many posters from Haly’s Circus. Enough so that his father’s face will never be confused with some stranger’s on the street. Dick has stared at all the bright colors for hours on end, and he knows exactly what shade of green his mother’s eyes were. He could pick out their colors in a forest and still know it wouldn’t be as close to what his mother’s eyes were like.

He knows faces. He remembers faces. He doesn’t remember who they were though. Who these people were and what they sounded and smelled like. What stories they shared. What family lineage they held.

He doesn’t remember what routine they were doing that night. He thinks it was a daring one, one they hadn’t done many times before hand because they wanted to make a good impression in Gotham. They were only going to be there for a month, Dick remembers that, but he can’t remember why it was so important to impress. 

He was up next. His father had just flung his mother into the air, twirling and falling, and then his father had caught her by the ankles and they were swinging through the air as if they had grown wings and learnt how to fly.

He was up next. Only nine. Nervous but excited. There were so many people in the crowd, but he can only picture a massive blob. Bright lights. His mother’s face. Green eyes. His father’s strong shoulders. Cinnamon carrying in the wind.

He was up next. He would leap out, flip twice, and somersault his way into his mother’s awaiting grasp. Then, they would float and trade off holds with one another and Dick would be the one holding his mother’s ankles and he would be upside down as well and then-

He was up next. He was up next and he could see his mother’s bright smile beaming towards him, his father’s reassuring grip on the bar steady, and Dick was tensing to make the leap and then-

The line snapped.

Dick thinks his mother might’ve called out to him as they plummeted. Maybe a cry for help. A startled yell. A gasp. A shriek. Terror.

Dick likes to think he remembered her calling out his name.

He doesn’t know if what he does remember is true or not; if his parents’ bodies actually crumpled like wet paper or if they snapped like dry wood. He remembers their descent, but maybe not, because Graysons were known for flying but his parents fell like they had weights tied to their legs. Sound escaped him, smell too, and maybe that’s his problem. Maybe he just can’t remember important senses like sound and scent, but he does remember the way the sawdust turned black.

They had all worn their favorite leotards that night. Red, green, yellow, bright and happy. He doesn’t remember why it was so important to impress Gotham. It just stained their uniforms anyway. Stained their livelihood.

He doesn’t remember how long he stayed up there, gazing down down down at his parents. Broken and bloody. There was white mixed in with the red, and a little bit of purple here and there, bright splotches of blue and pink, and it’s funny that he remembers all that because their leotards only had three colors. 

He blanks on the rest. Just knows that Danny Poteet shoved his face into his shoulder as the crowd disappeared, the mass of blobs and blurry faces fading. Mister Poteet was a nice man. He can’t remember what Poteet did, what his act was in the circus, but he’s pretty sure he had a long beard. Was that important? Was that even his name? Dick doesn’t remember.

And it angers him to no end that he can remember the organs that split their way through his parents leos, can probably name them now that he’s older, but not what his mother said to him as she fell. Not what his dad smelled like. Not what Danny Poteet mumbled to him as red and blue lights filled the tent.

He’s forgetting. Did he ever remember?

He wants to tell stories of his childhood. So badly wants to regale his brothers of his days in the circus. He can tell them all the working secrets of how twenty clowns fit inside a car meant for a baby. How fire breathers drank oil without it ever touching their tongues. How the strong man was actually just a pillow lifter with down in his suit. How strong and fast and beautiful the Flying Graysons were on the trapeze. 

He can tell all those things because they were simple and everyday and honestly common knowledge (which also scares Dick because what if he only “remembers” these things because he looked them up one day and just pretended that he always knew it because that’s how he grew up, that is how he lived, but what if he’s wrong-). More than anything though, Dick wants to tell them about his parents.

About Mary and John Grayson and how they were the kindest and most amazing people Dick ever knew. But he can’t. Not without lying, and his parents hated liars (he hopes they did, please, he hopes he remembers at least one truthful thing that he hasn’t made up).

So when Tim looks at him like he’s lost his mind when he says, “I think my dad smelled spicy,” or when Jason laughs at him when Dick tries to tell him about this baby elephant that might’ve existed at some point or when Damian only sighs when he tries to recall a story with so many holes and fragments that it’s just incomprehensible, Dick feels like crying.

How can someone just forget a lifetime of memories? How can he just lose the only connections he has to his parents like it’s nothing? 

Posters only go so far. Faded and hazy dreams of a melody that won’t leave his throat only do so much. Wisps of vanilla and burnt wood only taper the feelings of loss ever so slightly.

It’s not enough. It’s not enough.

He’s forgotten. He’s forgotten.

[captaincravatthecapricious]

After the Circus- Part 3

@janekfan

cw: strained friendships, arguing, fainting, dizziness, trauma, references to Jon's getting covered in lotion, disassociation, food mention, mentions of panic attacks (none in the story), canon typical season three Tim headspace (although he's being less mean!)

After his kidnapping, Jon continues to have a rough time

The next time Jon wakes up, he is actually able to sit up.  He’s alone on the cot.  For a moment, he almost panics, looking for Martin in the darkened room.  

It’s hard to see.  The only light is from the hallway, oozing in because the door isn’t entirely closed.  He doesn’t have his glasses on.  He doesn’t know where those are.  

Does he just have to resign himself blurry vision and the headaches?  Not as if he doesn’t get enough of those.  He sighs.  He can’t even remember when he last had them.  Did he have them when he was kidnapped?  Did he have them when he got back?  

He makes out Martin’s blurry form sitting slumped in front of the cot.  Leaning against it and the wall.  Asleep.  

Guilt pools in the bottom of Jon’s empty stomach.  He doesn’t know what time it is.  But Martin has, presumably, been here for hours.  Jon doesn’t know how many, sliping in and out of lucidity too quickly to get a firm sense on space and time.  Martin should be at home, forgetting all this supernatural shit as often as he can, for as long as he can.  Not worrying about Jon.  Christ, certainly not worrying about Jon constantly since Prentiss.  

All those times Martin dragged him to lunch, or provided tea when he still treated Martin like shit.  

Jon can’t look at him.  

He wishes he could get Martin onto the cot and let him get some proper rest, but even in top health, he couldn’t lift Martin, let alone do it without waking him.  Best to just drape a blanket over him and let him rest.  

Jon… well he needs to get up.  Get to the loo, get a jumper, get some water or food if he can manage it.  He isn’t sure.  There’s still a good chance he’ll just end up on the floor again.  Especially without his cane.  

At least he doesn’t have to worry about Georgie.  He was leaving her place anyhow.  She wouldn’t have expected a call.  Probably.  

Standing isn’t great, but he manages his first two tasks.  Leaning on the wall is the best he can manage, but he makes the way to the break room, drowning in an oversized hoodie.  And finds Tim.  

Tim is on his phone.  He looks… tired.  He’s still wearing that familiar scowl, but it’s softer.  If Jon didn’t know better, he’d say Tim was looking worried.  If Jon didn’t know better, he’d think Tim might be worried about him.  

He’d think about that more, if his vision wasn’t starting to darken.  He takes a rather abrupt seat on the floor, in hopes of staving off another faint.  

Jon, essentially slamming into the floor makes Tim look up.  There is a long moment where he is caught between sitting still and rushing over.  (See if he’s still awake, if he’s hurt himself, if he’s hit his head, get him some salt and a sports drink.  The routine still ingrained.)  But.  He doesn’t know.  

He finds himself half standing, phone halfway on the table, screen still on, game chirping at him angrily as he loses.  

He finds himself hesitating for a long moment, before he walks over to Jon.  Slowly.  

Jon’s conscious, but looks he’s contemplating if he’s going to stay that way.  

Does Tim want to help?  

Does Jon even want his help?

If he touches Jon, will he scream again?  

If Jon screams, will Martin wake up?  

He does care if Martin wakes up.  Martin hasn’t gotten much sleep… in months, but especially not in the last couple days looking after Jon, and making sure Jon got enough water, and any meager amount of sustenance that he can manage.  

Tim wouldn’t stay for Jon, but he is staying for Martin.  

He stands there, looming over Jon.  Jon shrinks away.  Instead of making Tim feel vindicated, he just feels empty.  

He should help Jon.  So Martin doesn’t lose even more sleep making sure Tim doesn’t follow the impulse to yell and kick and argue, or simply run away.  That won’t help anything.  He’s been fighting the impulse to hurt Jon for a while.  But… but he can’t muster that anger, not now.  

Not when Jon’s wearing a jumper that Tim left at Jon’s flat back in Research.  

Not when Jon looks small and tired and sick and beaten.  

And, Tim knows, he’s had his place in this.  Much as he wants to blame the circus…  

And that’s another thing, isn’t it?  

This should bind them together, right?  Even more so than the years of friendship before everything went to shit.  This shared trauma.  Even more so than the worms?  That was a one-and-done day, and yeah, there was stuff leading up to it.  Yeah, it left a hell of a mark.  But it didn’t really change Tim’s life the same way the Circus had.  Yeah, there was pain and pt and permanent scars, but the worms didn’t take Jon for a month, they didn’t kill Sasha and Danny.  

Fuck, he doesn’t know.  It all sucks.  

The Worm trauma should have brought the three of them together (four, if Sasha had made it out, but that wasn’t the worms, now was it?  Well, if not for the worms, maybe she wouldn’t have been taken.  HE DOESN’T KNOW.)  The more Tim thinks about this, the more half finished, nonsense bullshit he thinks up for himself.  

None of what he’s trying to tell himself makes sense, and the confusion and anger sit heavily in his gut as he just stands there, like a moron.  

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.  

He drags his hands through his hair.  Greasy and coated in days old gel.  He needs some sleep.  He needs a shower.  

He should get Jon something to eat.  

“I’m going to touch you, ‘kay?”  

Jon looks too tired to argue.  Good.  He doesn’t think he can deal with Jon’s waffling or guilt or any of that bullshit.  The ‘oh no I’m just grand why am I on the floor? no reason, let me just stalk you it’s fine.’  

Not now, Tim.  

Too tired for proper anger, and even if he wasn’t… Jon looks just pitiful, and the fight that he’s itching for won’t be satisfying if Jon passes out or cries on him.  

Jon mumbles out, “‘kay.”

Good.  

Tim scoops him up, just about effortlessly.  And Tim doesn’t know if that’s the months of pt and vigorous workouts, or that Jon has dropped maybe 5 kilos that he didn’t have to spare.  Or both.  

Tim’s gotten his muscle mass back, maybe even more than he had to start with… all that extra rage funneled into gym time.  Not particularly healthy, but better than drinking himself into a stupor every morning.  Just… you know, most mornings.  As you do.  

The change of position is enough to knock Jon out the rest of the way.  Head lolling against Tim’s chest.  

Something flickers deep in Tim’s chest.  His first impulse is to crush the feeling, but… he doesn’t.  Jon isn’t okay.  Tim isn’t okay.  

He wants his friend from Research back.  

Which… He doesn’t know if that’s possible.  Not with broken trust and hair-trigger tempers.  But, he’s just so tired.  

He dumps Jon on the couch.  Not too gently, but he props his feet up and goes to get him some lucozade and heat up a can of soup.  

Jon’s starting to come around again by the time he gets back.  The soup is… lukewarm at best.  They ought to harass Elias into getting them a better microwave…  In any case, it’s full of salt and it isn’t cold.  So… that’s something.  A little more substance than water and lucozade.  So.  It’s better than nothing.  Try to get Jon up to eating an actual meal, but Martin had pointed out that he isn’t sure when Jon last ate solid food, since he was kidnapped by plastic bastards who apparently don’t really know how humans-or vaguely nonhuman monster bosses work and how often to water or feed them, so they should take it easy on Jon’s system for now.  Which will make it easier on all of them.  

Jon struggles to sit up, and Tim doesn’t know if he wants to help.  Instead he holds the food and drink and …looms.  Jon sits up and tucks his feet up, so the blood doesn’t pool, Tim’s memory supplies.  Not particularly monstrous.  …It’s painfully familiar.  

“Small sips, then a little bit of soup.”

Jon nods, squinting up at him.  

Probably not a good sign that Jon, apparently, couldn’t find the glasses folded on the box next to the cot with another glass of water.  One Martin instructed Tim to keep constantly full.  Should he be worried that Jon is still so out of it?  Maybe?  

But he’s heard what the Circus can do to people, and he doesn’t have any clue what they did to Jon.  All he knows is, Jon is even more shy about touch than he has been.  Not that Tim really noticed.  But… he isn’t blind.  Jon’s been waking up screaming more often than not when someone touches him.  He seems okay when you go slow, or wakes up with Martin holding him, but an unexpected, or sudden, or moving at all hand, starts him into a panic attack.  

How much does Jon even remember of those?  How many has Martin talked him through?  How many did Jon lose consciousness during?  A lot of the last variety.  But he doesn’t know the numbers.  

Jon’s looking dizzy again by the time Martin rushes in.  Tim had just helped ease Jon back down.  Martin is trailing the blanket that Tim had been pretty sure Jon had been draped in last time Tim had actually been in the room and not playing on his phone.  That besotted fool, Jon, must have put it over Martin before getting up.  

“Where is he, Tim!”

“Martin, Martin.  Stay calm, would you?  Keep your voice down.”  Tim is not used to being the one trying to deescalate.  But Jon looks about half asleep.  Barely registers the shouting.  “Relax.  I didn’t hurt him.  Think he got up for the loo or for something, nearly fainted in here.  Got him some soup and everything.”

Martin drops heavily into the nearest chair, with what Tim figures must be a hell of an adrenaline crash.  

“He’s okay, Martin.  Didn’t hurt him.  I… I don’t think I want to hurt him.  Not sure if I did in the past…I sure wasn’t helping.  But I don’t think I do now.”

Martin doesn’t respond.  

“He… he looks so… fragile.  I… miss him.  And I miss you.”  

Tim looks down at Jon, and almost wants to tuck his hair back.  That frizzy and tangled hair that Jon usually keeps… well not neat.  But clean.  It’s been scrubbed within an inch of its life.  It’s dry and sad, and Tim almost …almost wants to fix it.   But he isn’t ready for that.  

Christ, he’s tired.  

He joins Martin at the table, not quite ready to meet Martin’s eye.  Not ready to see what Martin might say in return.  

“I miss you too.”

[karliahs]

please leave a light on when you go

oneshot - jontim - 2k words

written for @jontim-week day 2, prompts: night out / touch / secret

 “I...might go out for a smoke,” Jon murmurs eventually.

 And here’s where Tim could say sure, wave him off and go back to moping, buy everyone an obligatory round, flex his meaningless chat muscles and be home by half 9. “Mind if I join you?” he asks instead, and to his surprise Jon nods immediately, as if he’d been hoping Tim would say that.

read on ao3! or below the cut:

There’s no reason for Tim to be here. The Institute has some weird policies, including a truly esoteric dress code, but it doesn’t have mandatory team-building night-outs. Tim has no reason to get to know his coworkers, no need to ingratiate himself to them beyond what he can get by smiling, making bland comments about his weekend plans and never microwaving fish in the breakroom. 

The pub they’re in, somehow identical to every workplace-night-out pub he’s ever been to, seems to be having some sort of throwback night. Early-nineties hits play just loud enough to grate, and Tim eyes his new coworkers, trying to muster up some enthusiasm for striking up a conversation. He imagines what they might say if he told the truth. <i>Hi, I’m Timothy. I left behind a career in publishing to be a junior researcher so that I can hunt monsters like fucking Scooby Doo. If you need me, I’ll be chasing answers I’ll never find, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about them even if I did! Another round?</i>

Maybe that’s why he came tonight. To have these thoughts somewhere other than his flat. His little studio can only hold so much brooding. 

He’s interrupted from his current round of brooding, first by an unsteady grab at his shoulder, then by a cascade of beer, then by a glass clattering onto the floor followed by a hush in the surrounding buzz of conversation. A quiet, posh voice swears, and Tim recognises one of his coworkers bending down to try and clean up the mess, though it takes him a moment to place the name.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, glancing up at Tim before sheepishly looking back at the mess on the floor. Off to the side, a few tables give a sarcastic cheer and a round of applause. Tim worked food service long enough to instinctively dislike anyone who does this. He grabs some napkins and bends down to help Jon.

“Hey, no harm done,” Tim says, trying to remember how to sound friendly. He scoops up the somehow still-intact glass. “They’re wise enough to make them sturdy around here.”

Jon huffs, somewhat ineffectually blotting at the spreading puddle on the ground. “Did - your clothes, I didn’t, ah-”

“Only a glancing blow,” Tim answers, brushing at the damp spots by his hip. “And after I went to all this trouble to dress up for the occasion.”

Jon looks up in alarm, before registering that Tim hadn’t even bothered to change out of his work clothes. He gives a small, reluctant smile; one of the first expressions Tim’s seen from him that wasn’t some variant of thoughtful frown. 

He’s seen Jon around a bit, in his few weeks at the Institute - about Tim’s age, relatively nondescript, tonight clad in a surprisingly lush leather jacket. Tim had made the mistake of asking him a couple of questions on his first day, when the person actually training him was on lunch. Jon had blustered and prevaricated for a few minutes before admitting it was only his second week in the job, so he didn’t actually know.

That was about the only time they’d interacted, though Tim had noticed a few other things. There were a few loose groups of friendships in Research, and Jon didn’t seem to be a part of any of them. He never seemed that steady on his feet, and he tended to avoid eating in public. He rarely asked for help, unless he needed something that would require him to use one of the library ladders, which he seemed determined to avoid. Tim had wondered idly about vertigo, or mobility issues, before reminding himself these weren’t the questions he was here to answer. 

Tim had always noticed people, collected little details about them in his head whether he intended to or not, but he thinks his observations used to be about happier things, though it’s hard to remember exactly how he was, how he felt, before - it wasn’t the kind of thing he ever tried to memorise, the kind of thing he ever thought he could lose. Now he finds himself taking note of the coworker who comes back from their lunch break with faint puffy red marks around their eyes, or the older guy who checks his phone with something like dread in his eyes. Danny would have called it his older brother instincts (but what good did those instincts do him?).

Tim blinks back to the present, realising he’s been pushing a napkin over the same spot of floor for a while now. Jon offers him a hand up, though he braces himself on the bar with his other hand before he does. Tim takes care not to let Jon take too much of his weight as he’s hauled back up. 

“Ah, thank you. And apologies, again,” Jon murmurs, gesturing awkwardly at Tim’s lightly-beered clothes. 

“Happens to everyone,” Tim says easily. Jon still looks lightly anguished, and Tim silently wishes this could have happened to someone else, someone with the confidence to laugh it off. “I’m always convinced I’m going to drop something when I go in the silent study bit of the library,” Tim offers. 

“Ah...that worry hadn’t actually occurred to me,” Jon replies, solemn enough that Tim can’t really tell if he’s joking. 

Tim finger-guns. “Any other anxieties I can stir up while you’re over here?”

“I’m quite capable of stoking my own neuroses, thank you.”

Jon glances over his shoulder at the tables the rest of the department are occupying, perhaps doing the same thing as Tim and trying to psyche himself up for some more hollow smalltalk. Tim notes that his jacket seems slightly large on him, but in a way that kind of works. The collar of his shirt is slightly out of place beneath it. There’s a lump forming in Tim’s throat, even though nothing is happening - nothing but standing close to someone, noticing the little signs that they’re real and alive entirely independent from him. He’s aware, as he always is, of the hollow pit in his stomach, pain ebbing and flowing but never gone, new flares thrown off from a familiar wound, now pulsing with a kind of loneliness. All this, just from standing close to someone and trying to make them feel better about a mistake that didn’t matter.  

“I...might go out for a smoke,” Jon murmurs eventually.

And here’s where Tim could say sure, wave him off and go back to moping, buy everyone an obligatory round, flex his meaningless chat muscles and be home by half 9. “Mind if I join you?” he asks instead, and to his surprise Jon nods immediately, as if he’d been hoping Tim would say that. 

They duck outside to find dark clouds have given way to an anticlimactic drizzle. They stay close to the pub, shielded from the rain by the slight overhang of the roof. Jon fumbles with a lighter and Tim finds his gaze drifting over the rain-slick streets. It’s been a while since he’s been...anywhere, really, other than work and his flat. Longer than he can remember since he was outside in the never-quite-dark of the city. 

Despite himself, Tim finds himself admiring the buildings across the way, modern painted shop-fronts on the ground floor giving way to weathered brick and occasional stone carvings above. It was the first thing he’d loved about London, how you only had to look up to catch a glimpse of its history, and it almost wounds him all over again, that that love isn’t gone too. It would be easier if he was just one thing, all the way lost. It would be easier if he didn’t still love the world that killed Danny.

Jon lights his cigarette, and silently holds the lighter out to Tim. Tim shakes his head, and Jon doesn’t question him about why he’s come out here if he doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t press about the way Tim must be looking; he knows he’s never had much of a poker face. Danny tried to teach him poker, on a visit home from uni; Tim left for six weeks and came back to playing cards and strategy guides everywhere - his brother, who never sit still even in his own head -

“Where were you, before this?” Jon asks. Tim wouldn’t have pegged him for a smoker, but he looks immediately more relaxed with a cigarette in his hands. Nice hands, too. It would be easier, if he didn’t-

“Publishing,” Tim answers, before he can drift again. He wants to say more, to make sure this undemanding presence isn’t going to leave his side, but his throat is still tight. “You?” 

Jon frowns, as if debating something to himself, then gives a tiny rueful smile. “Tesco.”

Tim grins. “Was it a haunted Tesco?”

“Only by customers,” Jon replies, dry as bone. 

The rain is picking up slightly, and both of them silently tuck further into their little alcove, bringing them shoulder to shoulder. The air tastes of smoke. Tim is watching moths in the streetlights above, partly out of fear that if he looks directly at Jon, he’ll realise how close they are and pull back. 

“You don’t mind, do you?” Jon asks, voice hushed. He gestures and Tim follows the point of light with his eyes. “The smell, I mean?”

“Always kind of liked it,” Tim answers, matching Jon’s tone. Jon scoffs in disbelief. “What? You’re the one who inhales the things.”

“Exactly,” Jon says. “I have a biochemical justification for finding the smell tolerable. What’s your excuse?”

Tim spreads his hands, little spots of rain landing on his sleeve. “I never claimed to make sense.”

In the corner of his eye, Tim catches Jon hiding a smile with his next drag. It’s a good smile, one he wants to get a proper look at sometime. It’s as if now that he’s noticed one beautiful thing, he can’t stop seeing them: the buildings; the rain; the passing pair of drunk students across the way, walking arm in arm, holding each other up. There’s a curl of anger in his chest, that these things still get to exist, but for the moment it coexists with a kind of quiet warmth.

“You want to know a secret?” Tim asks, finally turning to look directly at Jon. Jon doesn’t speak, doesn’t nod, but he stares and waits, lights reflecting in his dark eyes, and for a moment Tim feels as though he must already know what Tim is going to say, that he can look into Tim’s eyes and learn everything he’s ever tried to hide. He can’t decide if it’s peaceful or terrifying. 

Then Jon blinks and the feeling is gone, as quickly as it had come. “I like this party better,” Tim finishes, gesturing to the two of them. The things he could have said hang in the air between them.

Jon doesn’t quite manage to hide his smile this time, and yeah, that’s something Tim needs to see more of, all slow and crooked. 

“Well,” Jon says, still in the same hushed voice, as if they’re sharing secrets. “If you ever need to borrow my smoking habit, get you out of an unpleasant social situation…”

“Knew that was why people smoked,” Tim says, nudging Jon’s shoulder with his own. “I’m not normally…” He trails off, unsure how to explain himself. Normally I’d care at least a bit, about all those people in there. Normally I’d at least have the energy to pretend.

Jon considers this half-finished thought for a long moment. “Abnormality is...rather the Institute’s specialty,” he offers eventually. Tim feels a kind of gratitude he can’t name or voice, so he doesn’t, just stands there listening to the rain while Jon finishes his cigarette, and for a long time after.

Not a bad night out, after all. 

[nightwingmyboi]

Dick Grayson and Temper

For whatever reason, Dick’s temper has become one of the main traits that people focus on when looking at Dick’s character. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, since he does have quite the temper, but since it has become one of those essential aspects of his personality for a lot of people, I just wanted to clarify a few things I think get misconstrued? 

Certain people take Dick having a temper and equate it with him having anger issues or thin skin. It’s bled into art, text posts, fics...where Dick is described/shown essentially as a petty asshole, someone who has a tendency to overreact and lash out at family and friends, someone who is whiny and always complaining (@bigskydreaming​ goes a little more into this perception here). I don’t think this is a fair interpretation of Dick’s character at all. There are two main things I feel like people need to keep in mind when thinking about Dick’s temper. 

1.) Dick’s infamous temper is, 9 times out of 10, directed at criminals. 

Nightwing (1996) #65

When Dick mentions struggling with his temper, he is almost always talking about the anger he feels towards criminals, not loved ones. When he sees people hurt or in danger, especially those closest to him, he gets pissed and can go too far. He often gets angry in defense of his family and those he protects. 

Titans Vol. 2 #29

Batman and Robin #12

In fact, one of the biggest examples of his temper is him beating the Joker to death, as a result of the Joker killing Jason and Tim. Like many heroes, Dick struggles with not crossing the line when faced with crime; this doesn’t mean that he is the same way with those he loves. 

2.) In most circumstances, Dick has demonstrated excellent control of his anger. So, Dick may have a bad temper...but it usually doesn’t make an appearance unless he is under an immense amount of pressure (and sometimes not even then). 

Injustice Gods Among Us #16

Dick’s not a doormat and he can be confrontational if that’s what is needed to get the job done, but he is also known for keeping a cool head under immense pressure and stress. He’s known in the superhero community for resolving conflict and has often been called “the glue” that keeps various teams together. That wouldn’t mesh with the idea that he is constantly losing his temper. In fact, his middle name might as well be de-escalation, because that’s pretty consistently what he does. Look at how he acts in various arguments: 

Example #1: While Nightwing is off-world with the Titans, Jason dies. Likely struggling with grief, Bruce doesn’t attempt to contact Dick while he is off world or when he returns. Dick is left to find out through a teammate, Danny Chase. Despite being left in the dark, Dick still goes to the cave to try to support Bruce. He puts his feelings to the side, and doesn’t even bring up the fact that he was hurt by Bruce’s exclusion. Unfortunately, the conversation derails regardless, and Bruce ends up hitting Dick and telling him that it was a mistake to invite Dick into his life. 

The New Teen Titans #55

Look at how Dick reacts. Even when Batman hits him and yells extremely harsh things at him, he doesn’t lash out in turn or yell back. He keeps calm and continues to talk to Batman; he likely understands that this is a product of Bruce’s grief and as a result allows his feelings/hurts to go unaddressed. 

Example #2 (inspired by @hood-ex​ post here): Garth loses his temper when he learns that the Titans won’t help him with a problem he’s having. When Robin tries to stop the fight, Garth punches him. 

Teen Titans (1966) #28

After he takes the hit, Dick continues to try to keep people from fighting, and in the end, Dick once again puts his bruised feelings to the side and doesn’t say a word of complaint to keep team unity. He still goes and helps Garth with his problem. 

Example #3: After Donna’s death, Dick was devastated. He spiraled into depression. In the aftermath, he was stricter and quicker to anger than he would normally be. Even his leadership of the Outsiders was effected, and as a result, Anissa, Black Lightning’s daughter, was seriously hurt. Black Lightning is not pleased; he slams Nightwing against a wall and yells at him. 

Outsiders (2003) #16

Even when Dick is emotionally compromised and short tempered, he still isn’t looking for a fight. He doesn’t retaliate when Black Lightning slams him against the wall, and he doesn’t interrupt when Pierce tears into him (for a whole page of the comic). It’s not like Pierce goes easy with his criticism; yet, Dick remains stoic and takes it. He doesn’t say a word of complaint or defense, and he doesn’t lash out. He keeps his temper under control. (Just an fyi for those wondering, but this is definitely one of those times Dick deserved a harsh talking to, lmao, support you Black Lightning!!)

Example #4: The Batfam is fighting a villain known as Mother, who is known for brainwashing people. Anyone could be in her control, so when Tim is acting suspiciously, Dick decides to investigate to ensure that Tim is not a double agent. Dick finds out that Tim secretly kept his family in a hidden location to protect them, and unintentionally brings trouble to their door. On the flip side, Tim gets angry at Dick for sneaking around behind his back and putting his family in danger. Though Dick tries to explain his actions, Tim won’t hear it and instead throws a punch. 

Batman and Robin Eternal #5

Even when Tim punches him out of the blue, ironically because he can’t control his temper, Dick just takes the hit and lets him walk away. He doesn’t ever push Tim for an apology, and Tim never gives one. The rest of the series, people give Dick crap for betraying Tim’s trust, and despite Dick’s reasonable concerns being the impetus for his actions, Dick accepts the other’s criticism without complaint. 

Examples #5-57: Just think of all the times that Damian insulted Dick and told him he couldn’t cut it and generally was acting like a little shit, when Dick was struggling with Batman’s death and with taking on the cowl and with running Bruce’s life, and Dick still never gave up on Damian and gave him Robin. Very patient, very thick skin. 

And I could add even more moments! I don’t mean to go overboard, but the idea is that, over pretty much his entire history, from Robin to Nightwing to Batman and back, there are more times that Dick puts his feelings to the side and lets people yell at him (and basically physically assault him RIP) for the greater good, then times he flies off the handle and loses his temper, especially when compared to other characters in the Batfam. Seeing people say that Dick is secretly an angry asshole when pushed a little or is always blowing things out of proportion and being whiny is just annoying, especially when Dick canonically has worked very hard to keep his cool and mediate in various tense situations, even when he has reason to get offended and retaliate. 

And this isn’t me saying that Dick can’t lash out, cause duh he’s a human being and he’s not perfect. He does have a temper and sometimes can say harsh things to those he loves. But, he doesn’t usually lose his cool, and when he does it is usually a surprise. The rarity of Nightwing giving into his temper is part of the reason it is so impactful when he does fly off the handle. 

A lot of the panels you see floating around about Dick’s temper are 1) from times he was brainwashed or mentally influenced (Dick yelling at Donna, Alfred, and Joey are all from a single time when he was brainwashed by Brotherblood for example), 2) from times he was in great emotional/mental distress from the deaths of those close to him, or 3) examples of times that Dick is standing up for himself, that I don’t really see as him having a temper? And a lot of those fights/arguments that are shown are not as one sided as tumblr makes them seem, lmao. Either way, most of these times aren’t really representative of his normal behavior or attitude.

In conclusion, Dick isn’t some petty jerk with anger management issues; he’s a human being, who sometimes gets angry and upset like every other human being in the world. He has a temper, but I don’t feel like it should define him in the way and to the extent that it currently does. 

P.S. This isn’t me trying to excuse the times that Dick has been nasty and let his temper run away from him, obviously. Like I said, he’s human and he’s made mistakes. But he doesn’t lash out normally or often. I’m just trying to put things in perspective. 

[river-bottom-nightmare]

headcanon that damian’s eyes change color.

and no, not like “his eyes darkened with anger” or “they were a fresh spring color in the sunlight” no i mean his eyes actually change color.

When he was a baby, he was born with brown eyes, inherited from talia. they’re normal. unassuming. there’s not much hidden depth to them, people look at them and assume they’re a normal person’s eyes. ra’s was angry, predictably, because his grandson, the one whose body he was going to occupy, had eyes as dull as a common civilian. but talia stepped up and said “you fool. can you not see how this will help us all?” and it does. because people never expect damian to be as dangerous as he is. from birth to the end of his toddler years, people see an average child, which makes them all the more easier for him to slaughter.

then, damian was tossed in the lazarus pit. it was part of his training, mandated by ra’s. talia put him in there without a second argument, though gentler than she usually would be. the pain wracks his tiny body, and when he comes out, he feels dizzy and jumbled and angry. he doesn’t even what happened to his eyes until a couple days later. they’re a bright, acid green. like, danny phantom green. they radiate the unnatural. one look at those eyes and people instantly know something is not right with that child. it makes his ruthless grin even more terrifying. ra’s is pleased. talia tries to be pleased, and succeeds, somewhat. somewhere deep inside her, though, she’s terrified of her son, because while her viciousness as a child had stemmed from the constant training and need for approval from her father, damian seems to be this absolutely brutal on his own, because he liked it. she never did figure out his savageness stemmed from love for her.

when damian meets, then loses his father, his eyes are the same eerie bright green, though dulled, somewhat. bruce could never look him in the eyes. when dick becomes batman and makes damian his robin, he takes one look at damian’s eyes and declares that’s plain creepy. tim agrees. they’re straight up unsettling. at first, damian wears this as a badge of pride, showcasing how different he is from his siblings, how superior. over time, though, his eyes become just another thing separating him from them, another reminder of his heritage. dick still flinched ever time he looked damian in the eyes, and that cut damian deeper than he ever expected. over time, though, dick stopped flinching, and damian assumed he’d just grown used to it. it wasn’t until damian took a good look in the mirror that he realized his eyes had changed color. they no longer were the acid green pools of miniature lazarus pits, two seconds away from actually glowing. they had faded into a duller, almost brownish green. the same color as alfred’s tea leaves. and damian was happy, happy because now his eyes held a warmth to them, the same warmth that alfred left in everybody else. tim came back, with proof that bruce was alive, saw damian’s eyes, and sagged in relief. later that night, making sure damian couldn’t overhear, he went to dick and said “you did it. i don’t know how, but you broke his connection to the league.” and dick shook his head. “i didn’t break his connection to the league. i just made sure his connection to us was stronger.” (and if bruce now looked damian in the eyes while holding a conversation almost constantly, well, that was something damian would never admit to loving.)

and then came jon kent. damian knew from the moment he met him that jon kent was going to be somebody important. people called him stubborn? clearly they’d never met this one particular ten year old. on the outside, he seemed a picture perfect happy-go-lucky kid. damian wondered how nobody else saw the sheer determination behind his eyes, the blue being taken over by violet with rage. you would have to be a fool not to see the desire to prove himself, and how jon would do almost anything to accomplish that. and after kid amazo, after jon had cleared it with his parents after the move to go patrol with damian, they would sit on a roof and eat fast food during stakeouts and jon would talk about everything and nothing at all and damian could almost feel his eyes changing color.

but it didn’t happen until he was 22. there was a battle, a big one, and it had passed in a blur of days. of fighting and stitching up wounds and being constantly on edge. on the last day, damian had gotten hurt. there was a kryptonite spear. jon was busy helping another wounded hero off the ground. the answer was pretty simple. though, jon’s anguished scream when the blade lodged itself in damian’s torso hit a little harder than home. luckily that day the league was able to take out the bad guys for good, and jon stayed by damian’s side until it was certain he could pull through. and angry punch on the arm and a don’t ever do that to me again turned into a quiet i can’t see you get hurt like that turned into i couldn’t let you get hurt turned into damian ducking in and pressing his lips, once, softly and firmly against jon’s. afterwards, pulling back from jon, damian’s voice was unsteady, saying “this, jon, this is why i can’t let you get hurt.” jon stared at him for a minute, impassive (and boy did that scare damian because jon was rarely ever impassive) before saying “i get it. i understand. so i bet you can understand why i can’t let you get hurt” and dragged damain in for a kiss that was deep and passionate and sucked the soul right out of damian’s body. the next day, when damian was cleaning some of the cuts on his face, he spotted his eyes in the mirror. they had changed color again. from an earthy green-brown to a deep emerald. just like his second eye color, they were unnatural, unearthly. but these, these had hidden depths that damian loved. they were dark and mysterious and shone with hidden emotion. they danced the edge between mortal and not, between ordinary and captivating. and, if damian squinted at the mirror hard enough, he could see love woven through those emerald stones, as sure as the love in dick’s eyes, in jon’s.

and damian smiled. because he was pretty sure these eyes were going to stay a while.

[celosiaa]

enough for now

A gift for @taylortut​ who I love so very much!! She didn’t ask for it but I did the dang thing anyway based on things that you’ve said you like! I hope this brings some little bit of extra good to your day, my dear <3 even if it is a lil angsty lol

CW flashback, panic attack

Focus. Focus.

You’re wasting your time.

You’ve already wasted enough.

Hunched over his desk, Tim squints against the dim light of his lamp scattering across the stacks of files and books and blueprints littered across it. He had been nursing a migraine all day—all week, really—and had no real choice at this point but to get used to it, carry on, shove it all down. Since no one had bothered to tell him that the Circus was what they were after, he has a lot of catching up to do, research that Martin should have known he himself would not be capable of.

Added to the fact of his most recent attempt to escape this hellhole making him sick and weak. Again. So here he was, drinking in the sustenance of whatever godforsaken thing that keeps him here, hour after hour making him stronger. All because he let his anger rule again. Ran away.

Just keep on running then, Tim.

Coward.

Christ. One fight with Danny, and it still stings.

Because it’s true.

You left him you left him you left him there with that thing—

Blood—torch—stage—lights—clown—Danny Danny Danny Danny—

Stop stop stop

Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, he can’t help the small noise that escapes him—though he does not hear it over the fading static in his own ears.

Stop thinking stop thinking stop thinking

Breathe in; breathe out. One moment to the next. What his therapist taught him after…after. After nothing. There’s nothing, there never was, there’s only now. There’s only the Circus. There’s only his migraine, pounding pounding pounding against his skull, the fury, the bitterness, the knowledge that he’s caught in a trap he’ll never crawl out of—

THUD.

Easily startled these days, Tim jumps bodily at the sound, snapping his head around toward its source. He had not thought anyone would still be here at this hour, as he’d seen Martin go home hours ago for some desperately-needed sleep, and the others had gone out to the pub that night. They couldn’t be here, could they? Surely the archive has protections against those creatures since…

Since nothing.

Nothing happened.

Nothing is happening.

The crash had come from Jon’s office, he’s sure of that. It reminds him of other days; other times when that sound would send him fetching a sports drink from the break room, checking to make sure Jon hadn’t hit his head on anything whenever his POTS flared badly. When they had been friends; brothers, even. Near enough to it anyway.

No, nothing else could have made that sound. Jon was back.

Standing on his own somewhat-shaky legs, Tim gives himself a moment for his vision to clear before striding toward the darkened office door, fury already rising in him at the idea that he was being watched again, distrusted again, betrayed again. He swings the door open.

“Finally decided to show u—oh god.”

Lying on his back on the floor is Jon, beard fuller than he’s ever seen it, painfully thin and grey as a ghost. His clothes hang off him as if three sizes too large, the ones Tim knew had once fitted him snugly, not even a few months prior. What in god’s name had happened to him that he was this emaciated? This ashen?

What had he done this time?

Anger bubbles even stronger now, tingling at the back of his spine.

But something…something feels off about this. Enough for him to bury the resentment, if only for a moment. Just to make sure.

Why do you care?

Stop thinking stop thinking stop thinking

“Jon,” Tim says loudly, crouching down beside him, shaking his shoulder in the process. “Hey, up and at ‘em.”

But there’s nothing—not the usual small gasp as he comes around from the faints caused by POTS, no twitching, only stillness. Tim’s stomach does a turn as he checks Jon’s head for bleeding, any sign of injury, but nothing. Nothing at all.

What the hell happened?

Glancing around him for anything to do, he spots a file box within arms reach that he drags over towards them, propping Jon’s feet upon it. He rolls up his sleeve a bit then, to feel his pulse—and finds himself distracted by the bone-dry nature of  his skin beneath his fingers; the slight shuddering of his limbs. But his face has almost a sheen to it, unnatural, unnerving.

“Jon,” Tim repeats, a bit louder, patting at his exposed bit of arm. “Come on, you’re alright.”

A bit of a moan this time, a deeper breath—and Tim lets out a breath of his own, one he had not realized he had been holding.

“Mmm.”

“Wake up, Jon,” he says loudly, shaking his shoulder for a second time.

At this, Jon’s entire frame tenses under his hand, eyes flying wide open to scan feverishly around the room.

“Woah, easy,” Tim barks, a bit alarmed. “Easy. Just stay down.”

It seems that Jon had either not heard him, or had chosen to ignore—as he sits up rather abruptly against Tim’s hand on his shoulder, this time locking eyes with him. But before Tim can recover from his surprise enough to speak, Jon’s eyelids begin to flutter again. He’s about to go down.

“Lie down, Jon. Lie back down.”

He’s sure Jon didn’t have much of a choice anyway, but Tim finds himself glad that he happened to be there to prevent him smacking his head against the industrial carpeting all the same. Something is wrong wrong wrong, and it sends away all his rage for the time being—and he is filled with that instinct to protect Jon, from himself or from something else. He cannot even bring himself to care which at the moment.

“Wh—Tim,” Jon slurs with effort, some recognition in his expression at last.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

With a pang in his chest, Tim realizes he does not know whether or not that will bring him comfort.

“I’m gonna get you some water, alright?”

No reply—merely a distant look in his eyes as he brings a hand up to press against his own cheek, shaking with the effort of it. Bad, this is bad. He’s never this out of it when he comes back around; not even after they had woken up quarantined together in the hospital, dozens of deep wounds covering both of them in the wake of the Prentiss attack.

Focus. Water, food, then questions.

“Just—just stay there, for god’s sake.”

Wobbling a bit against the disorientation of his migraine, Tim brushes a hand all along the walls to the break room, crossing his fingers that Jon (or perhaps Martin) had restocked Jon’s Lucozade supply. As luck would have it, there are a few left over from whenever Jon had last shown up to work in the archives. Tim had not taken care to keep track.

He doesn’t deserve it.

Not anymore.

Stop; he has to stop—more thinking like that, and he knows he will leave Jon stranded on the floor of his office, only to be found by a newly-infuriated Martin in the morning. And in what condition…Tim could not say. Where had he been all this time? And why did he look so awful?

He grabs a cereal bar from the counter top on the way out of the room.

When he returns to Jon’s office, his stomach drops at the empty space on the floor where Jon had been—until he spots him, sitting with his back pressed up against the back wall of the room, between the bookshelf and the filing cabinet.

“Thought I told you to stay put,” Tim mutters irritably. Though he has to admit, he feels something tight unraveling a bit in his chest at seeing him able to sit up. No matter how ill he looks.

“Tim,” he says in a voice of gravel and salt, as if to reassure himself of its truth.

“Yeah, bad luck.”

Tim takes the cue of the fearful look in Jon’s eyes as he stares up at him, and sits at a bit of a distance on the floor within his eyeline.

“Drink this,” he orders, opening the cap of the Lucozade before holding it out toward him. “Slowly. You look like shit.”

He had been hoping that Jon would simply roll his eyes and respond with a sardonic “thank you,” but…nothing. Instead, he can barely keep hold of the bottle, watching it shaking in his own hand before tentatively bringing it up to his lips. Just a sip—and it’s enough to rattle something in him, seeming to bring him around to the present a bit. He downs the next sips with more confidence, less hesitance. With a great deal of satisfaction, Tim starts unwrapping the cereal bar, ready to hand it to him whenever he was ready.

“M’sorry for this,” he murmurs after a few minutes have passed in silence, no longer meeting Tim’s eyes.

“What the hell happened, Jon?” Tim asks in desperation, needing to know where to put his anger. Shutting down the part of himself that hoped could be placed on Jon again.

Silence greets him. No indication that Jon had even heard him.

Until the shaking begins.

The bottle drops to the floor as shuddering overwhelms his grip—and both hands fly into his hair, clutching hard at it, pressing balled fists into the sides of his newly-ashen face. As his breath picks up speed, so does Tim’s heart, and he wants so badly to reach for him. More than anything, he wants his touch to be the comfort it once had been, anything to stop this from happening. But he had burned that bridge ages ago now.

So did he, he reminds himself. So did he.

“What happened?” he repeats, a little softer all the same.

“Nothing,” Jon whispers, offering just the faintest hint of a smile, a flash, before it fades. “Nothing ha—happened.”

A knife.

A knife in Tim’s chest.

Stop thinking stop thinking stop thinking

“Where have you been, then?”

Even as he keeps his voice low, the shuddering picks up speed and intensity, taking Jon’s breath up to something approaching hyperventilation.

“It’s f-fine,” he stammers between gasps. “Fine, don’—ha—don’t.”

“Whatever this is, it’s not fine.”

A small bit of laughter, then—choked, cut off by his own desperation for air. He tips his head back against the wall behind him, drawing his legs up even tighter as he tries to find his breath.

“The—Cir—ha—Circus.”

Tim’s body is flooded with ice; pins and needles pricking at his scalp, the tips of his fingers.

“Breathe, Jon,” he murmurs through his own lightheadedness, has to push through. “What do you mean, the Circus?”

“Got—got me,” comes the awful reply. The one he had been dreading.

What had they done to him?

How long was he there?

Why was he allowed to escape, and not Danny?

Shut it down shut it down shut it down

Be here. Be now.

“Breathe, Jon.” A little closer, still not touching. Wouldn’t dare. “Just breathe, alright?”

“S’fine.” Another laugh, a small, panicked smile. It makes Tim sick.

“No—ha—nothing. Ha-happened.”

You’re lying you’re lying you’re lying

Danny’s gone, and you’re here, and you’re lying.

“Ah—ha—Tim.”

Even so, something in Jon’s voice, his panic, his absolute terror over whatever is happening in his head right now breaks through the bubbling wall of fury rising around Tim’s heart. It may be back tomorrow, or the next hour, or the next minute. But Jon needs him.

Jon needs him, and that’s enough for now.

“Breathe, Jon,” he murmurs softly, moving slowly to take his hand in both of his own. Not even a flinch from him—just squeezing tight enough to bruise, tight enough to anchor himself here, tight enough to remind Tim of better days, better times. Times when this would never have been a burden. When his presence would be enough of a comfort to bring him back down.

“You’re safe. You’re safe now, and I’m here.”

For the moment, it’s the truth. Tim will take this moment and bury it later, deep deep deep, where the other memories of their friendship now live. Easy to forget; easy to look past in anger.

But, for now.

“Breathe, Jon. I’m here. I’m right here.”