#batfic
BatFam Week Theme: Vacation
“Ugh, I need a vacation after this,” Dick huffed.
“You all need vacations, but you never take one,” Babs pointed out. “The only time any of you leave the city is to go fight aliens in outer space.”
“That’s not fair. Sometimes B has business overseas.”
“Still not a vacation, Nightwing.”
Dick opened his mouth to argue, but shuddered instead, breath catching in the back of his throat.
“’Wing?” Babs asked, voice sharp. “You stay with me. They’re on their way, but you have to stay with me until they get there.”
“Y-Yeah.” The word was thready, shaky, like the wiggling feedback of a polygraph machine. Dick cleared his throat and tried again, clenching his teeth to keep his voice steady. “Yeah, of course. You know me, O. Why leave w-when I can make the party come to me, right?”
“Keep moving as best you can,” Babs coaxed.
If Dick closed his eyes, he could see her hunched over her keyboard, fingers flying as she guided the rest of the team to him, eyes fixed on her screen as if she could see through it straight to him. Though really, it didn’t matter if he closed his eyes or not, since he didn’t have so much as a glimmer of light to see by.
“I’ll start hopping again in a s-second,” Dick promised. “Just let me c-catch my breath.”
“Night—”
“Something in m-my leg is broken,” Dick cut her off. He sucked in another steadying breath, trying to keep his voice light even through clenched teeth. The bone-wracking shivers and the pain were making it hard to keep his voice steady. He had to keep it steady. For Babs. “I can’t put a-any weight on it. And even if I could hop around for m-more than a minute, there’s nowhere t’ g-go. I can’t see. I’m in a f-freezer the size of a walk-in closet. N-Not rich people walk-in, either.”
He leaned his head back against freezer wall and winced as the frost settled in his hair. “I n-need to catch my breath,” Dick repeated softly. But she was right. He needed to stay alert. “Talk to me?”
“About what?” Babs’s response was immediate, unhesitating. Good ol’ Babs.
For a moment, Dick’s mind was blank. He blinked against the darkness, making the squiggling flashes of phantom lights in his eyes dance. God, he was so tired.
He rallied. “V-Vacation. Where sh-should we go?”
“We?”
Dick, to his own delight, managed a chuckle. “S-Sure. You th-think we’re bad? W-When was the last time y-you left that tower, O? A-At least I leave the h-house every now and th-then.”
He sighed, thinking of Babs high above Gotham, locked in a dark room and lit by the glow of screens on all sides. “Rapunzel, R-Rapunzel, let d-down your hair.”
Dick didn’t realize he had breathed out that last thought until Babs snorted in his ear.
“Sure. A vacation sounds nice.” Her voice was warm and eased down his throat like a cup of Alfred’s honey tea. “Someplace far from Gotham. Out of the country. Preferably not reachable by phone, I think.”
“S-S-Someplace warm,” Dick added. His smile glinted in the dark as he was rewarded with a laugh from Babs.
“Definitely. Someplace warm.”
“A b-beach.” Dick was getting into the fantasy now. He kept his eyes closed, his busted leg stretched out against the ice-slicked floor, and tried to picture the perfect place. “Somep-place remote. Not deserted. B-But quiet. N-No crowds. Clear w-w-water. Warm s-sand. You in a-a-a bikini.”
Sun on his face, on his chest, on his hands. Wind in his hair. The scent of salt spray and coconut sunscreen in the air. If he concentrated hard enough, Dick could pretend he was there. The pain in his hands dulled, receded. He sighed again.
“Sand and wheelchairs don’t mix,” Babs was saying, warm laughter still rippling in her voice. “And my bikini days are long gone.”
“You’d l-look good in a poncho to me.” Dick was crossing a line somewhere, he knew. He and Babs weren’t… what they were wasn’t what they had been. He knew that. But keeping the words in his head was like trying to hold onto fistfuls of sand. They would slip and stream out before he could stop them.
Dick rubbed a hand against his chest, trying to push the pain out of a body that felt as tight and as brittle as an old rubber band. His breathing was too loud. He needed to keep Babs away from her worry and away from his careless words. She’d said something about… about… sand. Yeah. Sand and her wheels.
“W-We’ll hire a… a…” Dick shifted against the unyielding floor and gasped as pain shot bright as a lightning bolt up his nearly numbed leg.
“Dick?” Babs’s voice was hot and needling with concern, but it sounded further away. Easier to ignore. Dick knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t remember why exactly.
“One ‘those chairs,” he breathed, waiting until the pain pulled back again and left his body feeling numb and empty once more. “W’ll hire g-guys t’lift it. Y’ll b-b-be a… princess.”
God, he was so tired. Dick wanted to sleep. He wanted it more than anything in the entire world. But Babs kept saying his name. Why wouldn’t she let him sleep?
Blurry visions of an empty beach shimmered in his head again, and he felt a heat spread through his body. It was too much, too hot. Dick whined low in his throat and tugged at the neck of his suit with clumsy, unbending fingers. After a few seconds of struggling, he tired himself out and let his hand fall back into his lap.
Babs was still talking, he realized. She sounded upset. He didn’t like Babs upset. “B’s almost there, Nightwing. You stay with me. You promised you’d stay with me.”
“S’kay,” Dick whispered. His teeth had stopped chattering, but he hadn’t noticed. “S’kay, Babs. ‘m j’s g’na sleep f’r bit.”
Babs was yelling now, but that was okay. He didn’t mind. It wouldn’t keep him awake.
A/N: Now on AO3 if you feel moved to give some love: https://archiveofourown. org/works/15476685
A compilation of 10 Of the batclans best snapchats
1.[the video is shakey as it zooms in on the top of Wayne Tower. Riddler comes into focus first, then Robin. Riddler is holding Robin by the ankle off the roof]
Batman: PUT HIM DOWN ED OR I SWEAR TO GOD—
Red Robin and Red Hood: DO A FLIP
2.[a video of Nightwing taken by Batgirl. They’re in a red light district, and you can faintly hear the cha-cha slide coming from the building they’re next to. Nightwing is dancing along perfectly]
3.[a picture of Robin, holding a baby robin. The caption reads “he’s trying to figure out how to sneak it into the bat cave”]
3.5.[a second picture posted shortly after. It is blurry, but you can vaguely make out the shapes of Robin and Batman. The caption reads “he found out”]
4.[a video of Red Hood and Blackbat signing frantically in ASL. The camera flips to Red Robin]
Red Robin: they’re arguing about which pizza rolls are the best
Batman, from off Camera: where the hell do they even get pizza rolls? Agent A sure as hell doesn’t let them in the house—
5.Nightwing: I dare you to jump off the roof without your grapple
[Red Hood starts sprinting to the edge of the roof. They are on one of the tallest buildings in Gotham. The camera shakes as Nightwing runs after Red Hood]
Nightwing: No wait I diDNT FUCKING MEAN IT HOOD—
5.5[a super bad candid of Batman and Red Hood and Nightwing. The camera is tilted as if someone is trying to hide it. The caption reads “this has been going on for 20 min”]
Batman: —ell would you think that’s a good idea—
Red Hood: —if you should be yelling at anyone it should be nightwing—
Nightwing: —don’t drag me into this!
[snickers are heard off camera]
Batman: Im dragging both of you into this! Why on earth would you dare your brother to jump off the roof when you know damn well he’ll do it?!
Red Hood: yeah—
Batman: oh don’t you even start Hood—
6.[a picture of Red Robin and Superboy mid fall. It is unclear where they fell from. The caption reads “they were watching buzzfeed unsolved and got scared by a pigeon”]
7.[the camera opens and quickly zooms in on Batman. He looks annoyed. There is a low chanting of “money in the jar” coming from off camera]
Batman: ‘crap’ is not a fucking swear word—
8.[a picture of Robin curled up against Black Bat. She looks surprisingly fond. The caption reads “he fell asleep durning the stake out”]
9:[a shakey Video of Red Hood. He’s fighting off at least six people while singing in a rather nice sounding baritone range. The caption reads “once a theater kid always a theater kid”]
Red Hood: IVE GOT NO STRINGS—
[red hood fires a gun]
Red Hood: —TO HOLD ME DOWN
10:[a video of Red Robin and Signal. They’re sitting on a roof, sharing several tacos.]
Signal: why do you call yourself Red Robin? Robins are technically Red already, aren’t they? They’ve got that little red patch on their chest
Red Robin: it’s for the aesthetic
Signal: well your aesthetic sucks.
This is a short inspired by @laquilasse, and @jerseydevious. They were talking about Dick riding piggyback on Bruce’s back while he’s Batman and I had to write it.
Dick closed his eyes for a moment as the chilly Gotham air tickled his face. He could almost feel it through his mask, chilling the material then the skin underneath. Teasing its way past spirit glue and twisting under it to brush at his eyes under the lenses. It didn’t, but it was fun to imagine.
“Hey, B?” Dick said, opening his eyes to focus on the black kevlar in front of him, “Why do you think there aren’t any air or wind themed villains in Gotham?”
Bruce didn’t answer, so Dick did it for him. He did that a lot, filled in the spaces in conversation. Completed his own thoughts and answered his own questions. He liked making sure there was little between he and Bruce, and he did it with words. If he left everything up to his new guardian they’d be silent all the time. He didn’t care for silence. He was used to the air being filled with the chatter of people and the hum of life. Animals and shifting bodies. Dick was pretty sure silence was the only thing worse than his current sprained ankle.
“I think it’s because they think about it and go, ‘What am I gonna do with air? Knock the Batman over like the big bad wolf?’”
BatFam Week is starting on Sunday and I am so beyond ready for my dash to be filled with Quality™ fics.
I wanted to write a warm up hug last night, and instead ended up writing this till 4 am. It’s set during Dick’s Batman run, somewhere before Bruce get’s back and after Talia and Damian’s falling out.
There’s some sad, and some cuddles. I hope you enjoy it
Words: 3,563
Rating: Gen
Characters: Damian and Dick
~
It was Mother’s birthday.
It was well past noon when Damian realized it, carrying his sketchbook from his room to the elevator so he could work on the roof in the fresh air, looking out on the city. Richard was talking on the phone with someone, laughing at them that they had forgotten the day’s date.
“How could you forget?” he’d chuckled, “You’ve had it on your calendar forever.”
His grip on the pencil was so tight he heard it creak with menace. Even directed at a mystery person, the words were like daggers to Damian’s chest. It was Mother’s birthday and he had forgotten. He had allowed the date to slip to the back of his mind and disappear as if his whole life with her had been nothing but nightmares that pounced at night, threatening to drown him.
It had not been all that bad. It had not. Damian had good memories of that time. Like Mother’s birthday. It had been celebrated differently than Damian’s. She did not have a shadow for a father she battled to meet year to year.
No, she was daughter of the Demon’s Head, and her birth was celebrated as such. It was a day Damian was released from lessons early. A day he was allowed to spend close to her side, enjoying foods and most of all her presence.
Damian wondered who would sit by her now that he had been disowned. Had she completed the clone replacement of him? Or had she plucked another lost battle scarred child like Todd to dote on? Perhaps she was alone, gazing out at her kingdom.
“Dames? You alright?” his brother had finished his phone call, and was looking at Damian, brows knit.
Stephanie jogged away from the riverbank and towards the city, into the crowds and the concrete. Her headphones drowned out most of the noise and replaced it with loud music; she hummed along as she ran down the sidewalk.
A hand reached out from the an alley as she went past. Without thinking, Stephanie yanked down her headphones and turned into a kick as hard as she could make it. Her heel slammed into the stomach of a man lurking in the mouth of the alleyway. He gasped and doubled over, swearing.
At that point, Stephanie recognized her attacker.
“Jesus!” said Jason Todd. “Shit. Alright, yeah, that’s my fault. I should have let you know I was coming.”
Stephanie scanned him warily. Looking closely, she could see several weapons hidden in his clothing: jeans and a leather jacket over a tshirt— not his uniform. She stepped into the alley to talk.
“Coming why?”
“I could use a hand.”
“With what?”
“Bomb mission.”
Stephanie glared at him. “You set a bomb?”
“No, I’m looking for one.”
“Why?”
“To stop it from blowing up?” Jason stuck his head out of the alleyway and flashed a quick look in both directions. “Why else would I be looking for a bomb?”
“I don’t know! You’re the crime lord. You tell me.”
He sighed. “This may have been a mistake.”
“Why me?”
“I don’t hate you,” he said, “but honestly? This conversation is a really good start.”
Stephanie surveyed him again. He did look serious. She pushed down the voice in her head that told her this was a very bad idea and nodded instead. “Fine. What do you need?”
“A second man.”
“Batgirl or Stephanie?”
“Stephanie. We need to blend into the crowd.”
“We aren’t doing anything until you explain what’s going on.”
Jason sighed again. “There’s not much to explain. There’s a bomb somewhere in this area, but I don’t know exactly where. We find it before it explodes. I defuse it. End of mission.”
“Right.” Simple enough, Stephanie thought. End of mission. What could go wrong?
A lot, and she knew it. “Sure. Let’s go find a bomb.”
———————–
Chapter One: lurkinglurkerwholurks.tumblr. com/post/185293293554/much-that-once-was-is-lost
Chapter Two: lurkinglurkerwholurks.tumblr. com/post/185450418502/mtowil-chapter-two
Chapter Three: lurkinglurkerwholurks.tumblr. com/post/185608593907/mtowil-chapter-three
Chapter Four: lurkinglurkerwholurks.tumblr. com/post/185777913642/mtowil-chapter-four
AO3: archiveofourown. org/works/14322486
Wanting things he couldn’t get was a reoccurring theme of Tim Drake’s life. One might argue that it was a part of everyone’s life, but Tim believed that it repeated itself often enough in his life to be elevated to that of motif or possibly even TV Trope entry.
When he was a boy, Tim had wanted siblings, a brother or sister be friends with. He had wanted a pet to fill the emptiness of the house. He had wanted parents who acknowledged his existence. He had wanted someone around to just give him a hug every now and then.
Then he had grown and had wanted nothing more than to be a part of the mysterious family next door. To swing across rooftops with them. To make a difference with them. To help relieve some of the reckless, self-destructive pain he saw. And those wants had been granted for a time, only to now be ripped away again, and Tim found himself wanting fiercely to stay stay stay stay stay let me stay. That seemed about as likely as Jack and Janet Drake rising from their graves and scooping him up into a warm group hug. So, ever the pragmatist, Tim had wrapped that wish up and tucked it deep with all of his other deferred hopes and dreams.
But that didn’t mean that he stopped wishing entirely. Even when his big dreams faltered and collapsed, Tim kept himself buoyed with little desires, like narrow sandbars that lifted him just enough above the current to save him from being dragged under. He never stopped hoping. Never stoped dreaming. Never stopped wanting even though his life was nothing more than an unbroken string of denials and setbacks.
Over the past week and a half, Tim had kept himself afloat by daydreaming about pushing Charles Drake out a window. Or maybe stamping “I support industrialized logging” onto his forehead and dropping him off on Pamela Isley’s doorstep. Tim did his best not to be picky.
He had done his best to avoid his uncle over the past week and a half, a difficult task since Charles was ostensibly in town for him. Not that Charles was at all interested in being a supportive, caring uncle. He kept in nearly constant contact with Tim, but there were no words of condolence, no apologies for being absent for literally Tim’s entire life, no gestures of comfort. No, Charles Drake didn’t seem capable of that sort of emotional labor. What he was very capable at was giving orders.
Timothy, you’ll be sitting with me at the service. Timothy, we’ll see to getting your father a proper headstone. Timothy, you will return to my hotel after the burial; no need to impose on Mr. Wayne any longer. Timothy, send my secretary your vital statistics for the custody arrangement. Timothy, Timothy, Timothy—
It was enough to make Tim consider changing his own name. Not that that would completely help. Charles had called him Tom the first time they had met inside the church, and Tim could only thank the stars that none of the team had been in earshot. He was used to being insignificant, but to be so insignificant that your closest living relative didn’t even know your own name? Pathetic.
Well, Charles was more than making up for the name swap now. Timothy, Timothy, Timothy…
A few years ago, Tim might have immediately folded under the barrage of orders. But after a few years withstanding the gauntlet of Bruce, Dick, and Damian, he at least managed to sink at a slow enough speed that it looked like his own choice. Rather than abandoning Wayne Manor entirely, for example, Tim moved back into his own house to devote his full attention to cataloguing its contents for the estate sale. He had resisted the little commands Charles gave as best he could when he thought they were wrong or unhelpful. He had avoided all talk of custody and had “forgotten” to contact Charles’s secretary.
But he was so tired, and every time Tim resisted Charles’s domineering ways, he had a little less to give. Now, after eleven days of text and phone calls, Charles had bestirred himself to come to the Drake family home. Tim still wasn’t sure why. Between his inability to concentrate and Charles’s propensity to drone on, he had only caught every third word.
Tim leaned against the edge of the dining table and fiddled with a teaspoon, watching mesmerized as the sunlight flashed off the silver. For kicks, he made it flash out SOS, which tempted a tiny smile to his lips, but the expression was gone almost as soon as it appeared. The part of his brain that was monitoring his uncle relayed that Charles was telling some unnecessary anecdote about a horse race and a dog-faced woman. Or a dog race and a horse-faced woman? Whatever.
Tim carefully placed the teaspoon in the box next to him and rubbed at his eyes. Moving back to the mansion had been a mistake. Wayne Manor was no party central, but its veins still thrummed with living, breathing people. The Drake estate was nothing more than a shrouded corpse, Tim a virus clinging to a life source that had gone dark. He spent his days packing and cataloguing and trying not to run face first into the memories that crowded the halls. He spent his nights clinging unabashedly to the stuffed bear he had brought from Cass’s pile and trying not to suffocate under the layer of ghosts and dust entombing his bed.
“I still don’t understand why you insist on doing this unnecessary work yourself.”
Tim choked back a sigh. What was unnecessary about saying goodbye to the last pieces of his entire life? The house needed to be sold. He and Charles both agreed on that. What did the man care if Tim was the one to prepare it?
“This is my house,” Tim explained for what felt like the tenth time. “These are my parents’ things. I want to do it.”
Mine. MY house. MY parents. I have so few things left to me, so let me do with them what I want.
Tim’s brow creased as Charles picked up the teapot he had been polishing, scraping its foot against the lacquered tabletop in the process. For a moment, he pictured… No. He was too tired to even summon up a satisfying fantasy scenario. All he could enjoy was a momentary homicidal fizzle, and then he was left with the cold hunk of ice in his chest.
“As long as this mess is wrapped up quickly,” Charles drawled as he checked his teeth in the reflection of the teapot.
Another fizzle of rage, and Tim’s jaw clenched. Maybe this was the moment when he would finally put his foot down, tell Charles to clear out and go home, that rats weren’t welcome under this roof.
“We have tickets on the 10 AM flight back to the West Coast on Sunday. Anything you haven’t finished by then can be taken care of by someone else. I have a board meeting Monday morning that I will not miss.”
We?
Had Charles managed to wrangle custody from a judge, then? Even as Tim wondered, he knew what a foolish question that was. Charles Drake didn’t need Tim’s permission or cooperation to take over. He was a close relative, didn’t have an egregious criminal record, and he had the means to take in a stray. What judge would say no?
Tim’s hand gripped the edge of the table as his knees quivered. Leave Gotham? Leave the Waynes? Even though he had told Damian that was the most likely outcome, he had thought… he had hoped…
“I can’t leave.” Even to his own ears, Tim’s voice sounded strained and so very young. “My… my life is here. I live here. In Gotham.”
My home is here. My family is here. EVERYTHING is HERE.
“Don’t be silly,” came Charles’s immediate reply. “There’s nothing for you here. Your parents are dead. Your belongings are being sold. I’ve arranged a buyer for the house, and your father’s assets will be liquidated and held in trust for you until you come of age, with me as your legal trustee and guardian. What could you possibly have to keep you in this dismal little city?”
Batman! Batman needs me! HE was the one who had saved Bruce from himself after Jason had died. HE was the one who had pulled Bruce from the time vortex. Tim had spent the last few years doing everything he could to be indispensable to Bruce, and if he had to have faith in anything, he would have faith in that.
In his anger and panic, Tim only barely managed to catch himself from saying just that to Charles. Instead, he choked back Batman’s name and instead countered, “What about Bruce and the Waynes?”
Tim knew Charles hated Bruce the way a tall man hates a taller man. He wasn’t used to being cast in someone else’s shadow. But he also knew Charles knew to fear Bruce in Bruce’s own city. So Tim expected some consideration at best, annoyance at worst.
Tim hadn’t expected Charles to laugh right in his face.
“Don’t be silly.” Charles waved the teapot dismissively, then set it down on the table. Tim immediately snatched it back up and placed it in the box where it belonged. “Your internship can be transferred to my company. I’m sure we can find a place for you at Drake Holdings.”
Tim tried to explain that he couldn’t just leave. He owed them more than that. Surely Charles would understand the concept of that debt? They were his family. Family wasn’t supposed to just leave.
“They’ll be happy to be rid of you, I’m sure.”
Tim’s breath stuttered as his uncle spoke into the dust-flecked air the words that had wallpapered his nightmares for as long as he could remember. It almost would have been easier to take if Charles had spoken angrily, but he didn’t even look at Tim. His gaze was off somewhere over Tim’s shoulder, as if Tim wasn’t worth the effort of eye contact. As if they were two awkward acquaintances at a dinner party neither had wanted to attend.
“Bruce Wayne is a powerful and busy man, and as one myself, you can take my word that he will not mind in the slightest. Do you honestly think he’ll be sorry to no longer have you underfoot? You were a nuisance that he took in—well, come to think of it, I don’t know why. Charity, perhaps. Or a rich man’s whim. Whatever the case, he will be pleased to have his home free of interlopers.”
Once, on patrol, Tim had gotten separated from the other birds in a fight. It had gone pretty well, considering how badly he’d been outnumbered, until his foot had hit some loose asphalt chunks and he’d gone sprawling. The breath had been knocked out of him, and before he could struggle back to his feet, he’d been encircled by three thugs who then proceeded to kick the living snot out of him. It had been terrifying and painful. He’d been bedridden for days. Had had nightmares for weeks.
This was a hundred times worse, each of Charles’s words more painful than any steel-toed boot to the ribs. At least then he had known he just had to hold out for Batman to rescue him. Now, he was alone.
Bruce Wayne won’t mind.
Would he? Would Bruce mind? Or would Tim’s disappearance cause not so much as a ripple on the surface of Wayne Manor?
Underfoot… a nuisance… a charity case… a rich man’s whim…
Tim’s shoulders curled in under the verbal blows, and he pressed his palm against his rib cage. He pictured the team sprawled on the couch in the den for movie night, happily taking up the extra space he’d left behind. He pictured Bruce’s sigh of relief at the peace his absence left. No more fights with Damian. No more tension with Dick. No more surprise attacks from Jason. He pictured his room at Wayne Manor empty. Or worse, filled by another boy. Someone smarter, funnier, stronger, better.
Tim’s chest heaved with panic. He was down and he was trapped and no one was coming for him and no one would miss him and Charles was calling him an interloper and hearing someone else use Damian’s pet slur was like taking an uppercut when he already couldn’t breathe and—
“I had no idea we were so close that you could presume to know my wishes, Charlie.” Both Charles and Tim jumped as Bruce’s well-cultured voice spoke from the previously empty space near the kitchen.
Charles turned to answer, his embarrassment already smoothed over by a phony smile, and Tim tried to use the moment to regain his composure. How much had Bruce heard? Enough, by the low growl under his words, but what did he object to? What Charles had said or that he had been crass enough to say it? Tim swallowed hard against the rising sick in the back of his throat, only to nearly startle again when Bruce stepped around Charles and placed a tray on the table next to Tim.
“Alfred sent me with lunch and instructions to extract a promise that you’ll be over at five for dinner. He wants your opinion on the sauce for the pasta puttanesca.” The words were gentle, not pitying, but kind, but Tim couldn’t meet Bruce’s eyes.
Tim nodded, gaze on his feet, then froze as a large hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed. He could count on one hand the number of times Bruce had touched him in a non-emergency situation, and half of those had happened since Jack’s initial illness. Bruce Wayne did not do physical affection. Sitting with Tim on his dead father’s bed or holding his hand as he cried himself to sleep was one thing. But Tim wasn’t crying. Charles was here watching. And Bruce was two days shy of being free of Tim for good.
Bruce kept his hand on Tim’s shoulder even as he pivoted to talk to Charles. Tim was deaf to their argument, his focus on the warmth spreading through his shoulder by that inexplicable hand. Or, not entirely deaf. He heard what they were saying—what Bruce was saying—but the words didn’t make sense.
Brightened my home… a comfort… happy to keep… never been in my way… leave him…
Was he dreaming? Or dead? Had he died instead of Jack? Because that was the only explanation for those words coming out of Bruce Wayne’s mouth about anyone, but especially about Tim. But Tim could still feel Bruce’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him away from Charles and behind Bruce’s broad back, sheltering him from view. Then Bruce let go to step toward Charles, and the sudden absence snapped Tim back into focus.
“What’s Tim’s favorite brand of coffee?”
What? Tim thought even as Charles echoed the question aloud.
“Coffee,” Bruce snapped. “Favorite brand. Come on, that’s an easy one. Something any family of Tim’s would know. No? What about his favorite movie?”
“Bruce?” Tim took a small step forward, ready to reel Bruce back in. But Bruce was just getting started, and for every question he asked, he took another step forward, driving Charles back and away from Tim.
“What does he want to do with his life? Where does he want to go to college? What’s his favorite flavor Skittle? Come on!”
Bruce’s shoulders were tight with rage, making Tim’s eyes go wide. What was this? Bruce didn’t lose control. It wasn’t part of his persona. Heck, he hadn’t seen Batman lose control since Jason, and that was only because Bruce had thought he’d lost his son.
“Bruce?” Tim tried again, louder this time, only to jerk backward as Bruce drove one powerful forearm against Charles’s chest and pinned the other man to the wall.
“What’s his middle name?” Bruce demanded, nearly shouting now. “WHAT’S YOUR NEPHEW’S MIDDLE NAME, CHARLES?”
Tim couldn’t let him hurt Charles. Not because he cared about Charles, but because he cared about Bruce, and attacking another person was not something Bruce Wayne did out of the cowl.
“Bruce!” Tim cried, springing forward. “Bruce, stop! Let him go! Bruce! BRUCE!”
He managed to get ahold of Bruce’s other arm and used his full body weight to yank the older man backward. Geez, Bruce was shaking. Tim pulled him back to the table, as far away as he could from Charles, letting go only when Bruce’s broad shoulders deflated and slumped.
“I’m sorry, Tim,” Bruce said, his voice no louder than a whisper now. “I told myself that this had to be your decision and no one else’s. I don’t want to make it for you.”
Tim held perfectly still as Bruce reached out and cradled the side of his face with his hand. One large, calloused thumb rubbed against Tim’s cheekbone gently, as if wiping away tears that weren’t there. Not now, anyways.
Bruce, don’t. Don’t be nice to me then send me away. I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I—
“I’d fight for you.”
Tim’s eyes flew up to meet Bruce’s. Bruce’s blue gaze was steady and clear and… Soft. Almost sad, the way he looked sometimes when Dick would fall asleep in the living room after a long night of patrol. If he thought no one was looking, Bruce would stand at the end of the couch and gaze down at his eldest like he thought Dick would disappear at any moment. Or had disappeared, only to come back as someone new. Like he was proud and resigned all at the same time. But that made sense. That was Dick, a boy Bruce loved more than his own life, a boy he had watch grow up from a gap-toothed circus orphan to a full-grown man. Tim… wasn’t. He was just Tim. Why would Bruce look at him that way?
“If you wanted to stay, I’d fight for you, and I promise you that I’d win. But this is your life and your choice. And he is your uncle.”
He’s your family, Tim’s brain supplied. That’s what Bruce meant. But also, I could be your family, too.
Tim could have basked in that moment for a lifetime, but Charles had found his tongue, so Tim cut him off before he could draw Bruce’s attention away again.
“He’s a douchebag.” Tim’s voice wobbled, but he swallowed and kept going. Look at me, Bruce. Pay attention to me.
“My dad didn’t even like him. Always said he was an opportunistic parasite with bad taste in opera and worse taste in wives. They hadn’t even talked in years.”
Tim bit out each word with spiteful glee, deepening his voice just enough to echo Jack’s disdain, and then delighting in the whisper of a smile on Bruce’s lips.
Bruce’s hand was still on his face, so Tim reached up and placed his own hand atop Bruce’s. Don’t go. Don’t let me go.
He wasn’t too proud to beg. “Can I really stay, Bruce? I want to stay. I never wanted to go, but I thought I had to. Please let me stay.”
Please don’t let me be alone. I want to stay. I need to stay. You’re my family, please please please, Bruce, don’t leave me, too.
Tim choked back a sob as Bruce moved his hand, but instead of releasing him as Tim had feared, instead Bruce pulled Tim into a tight hug. “Of course you can. You will always have a home with me.”
Entire body shaking with silent tears, Tim threw his arms around Bruce and buried his face in Bruce’s chest. Bruce’s arms enveloped him, and Tim sobbed in earnest. His nose filled with Bruce’s subtle aftershave, the laundry detergent Alfred used to make everything feel soft and clean, the faint hint of diesel fuel and leather. This was right. This was home.
Tim had thought finding his place would feel different somehow. Like in the moment he took Bruce’s hand and they strode out of the Drake estate toward the Manor, there would be this great rending of reality, forever hewing his life into Before and After.
And he was right. Because no matter what happened now, he knew Bruce would never let him go. He had a family. A place to belong. A home. He was not alone.
——-
Thanks for reading! Please see the AO3 version’s end notes for the little Jason snippet I couldn’t make fit into the final fic.
I wanted to do a post of the first great fics I read when I got into fandom. Still might. But I made the mistake of starting with Neatoh, and half way through her archive I have 9 fic open that I HAVE to talk about. Obviously, I’m not getting to anyone else right now. So, here’s my favorite fics by @incogneat-oh. There are far too many.
(Note: Neat-oh’s fics are sweet and full of hugs. But there is an undercurrent of bittersweet sadness and old pain lurking in the background. Sometimes, NOTHING in the story is sad, yet you still leave a little melancholy. It builds. Be aware before going in.)
Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go - Tim comes and checks on Dick, reasonably early in his Robin career. Dick is sleepy, but happy to have his brother there. Tim nearly sets on fire from awkward embarrassment. One of the best Tim and Dick fics out there. It is SO GOOD.
With A Whimper - Bruce tires of Tim and Damian’s fighting. Tim takes advantage of this to conclusively score a point against his brother. His gloating is AMAZING. Bruce being a dad is amazing. So great.
Tiny Tim - more early Tim and Dick. Nightwing embarrasses Robin in front of Commissioner Gordon. The man is nice enough to respect Robin’s input anyway. Dick is enjoying himself immensely.
(One) Step Closer - A sequel to Tell-Tale, but I like this one better. Jason made a stupid comment in the first fic, and sends Bruce to deal with the aftermath. Bruce tries to love and support Tim despite both of them being emotionally constipated and afraid of overstepping the other’s boundaries. Therefore, I don’t think anyone manages to hug.
The Good Life - Bruce IS able to show affection when the other party is asleep, though! And asleep Tim is very approving!
The Mechanics Of A Hug - Dick gets hit by ‘cuddle pollen.’ It’s pretty much weaponized depression. Tim and Damian allow themselves to be cuddled, and attempt to show their deep love for their brother through the cuddling. Actual words would probably work better, but Dick appreciates the actions. Bruce also appreciates the actions, because he is completely unable to engage in cuddles.
The Sleeping Habits of Birds - Bruce asks Dick for parenting advice. He wants to know why Tim keeps awkwardly falling asleep half on Bruce’s bed. Bruce then ACCEPTS the advice and almost says he loves Dick! His son is proud of him.
(Something Like) An Anniversary - It’s Death Day! It falls on Jason to try to make this less uncomfortable for everyone, which is a bit backwards. It was HIS death. Still, he rises to the occasion, and everyone is thankful. A good Death Day all around.
Night Owls And Other Birds - Each of the 4 Batboys (this was long before Duke) go to bed. Just a comparison of how they go about it, on a not great night.
Maybe This Time (The Last Time) - Tim has quit being Robin. His dad is still angry. Bruce stops by to quietly say goodbye. All the things unsaid hang in the air and make you want to scream.
Just Like You - Tim almost kills a guy on patrol. Bruce responds REALLY BADLY. Dick does his best to pick up the slack. Probably crosses the line into Bad Parent Bruce. Still fascinating and wonderful. Dick is such a good brother!
Interlude (A Second to [Re]Collect Myself) - Bruce is alive and at home. He manages to catch Tim long enough to give the young man a moment to say ‘welcome back.’
IknowyouarebutwhatamI - Alvin and Bart go skateboarding and talk about names.
I Couldn’t Remember the Pattern Of Your Duvet-Cover - Dick and Jason have a stupid game.
How We Do - Bruce and Tim talk in an elevator. It is a good experience. (I relate to Tim so hard in this one!)
A Break In Tradition - Commissioner Gordon coaxes an injured Robin into getting treated by the paramedics. This gives him a chance to listen to Batman be a dad.
AND THE BEST FOR LAST:
Slipping- Tim is hit by a new Ivy pollen. The affects are really subtle. Where the earlier fic uses weaponized depression, this one is weaponized anxiety. My whole body vibrates in sympathy with his whenever I read this story. It’s awful and accurate and today was probably my dozenth time rereading. Perfection.
❤️
Hello all! The world is a disaster and a lot of you are probably in self-isolation/quarantine. I wrote a short fic in the hope that it can provide brief entertainment or distraction from the Everything that is happening. Is the fic dumb? Yes! So is literally everything else at the moment!!
Please, stay safe. Keep others safe. Wash your goddamn hands.
Characters: Jason, Tim, Dick, Bruce (references to Alfred and Damian)
For teens and up, for coarse language and smoking themes.
—-
now on ao3!
(i also posted a few old fics I’d forgotten to cross post)
(Omg you guys, actual content.)
Characters: Jason Todd, Tim Drake
A brief fic in which Tim is not exactly a guest at Jason’s place. Also on AO3.
title: baby wonder
words: ~24k
summary: (baby!damian AU) bruce dies, dick becomes batman. but the damian that talia leaves in his care isn’t a ten-year-old warrior, he’s a ten-month-old baby.
a/n: haha just a super self-indulgent baby!damian AU feat. surrogate daddy dick grayson :) dick graydad. :)) dad grayson. :)))
