#batfamcontentwar

ao3 | ff.net

Day 3: Monsters

It loosely fits, so. Yeah. This is for @caramelmachete, who asked for some Dick and Wally bromance. Thanks for donating!!!

Summary: The puzzle pieces aren’t fitting. Dick doesn’t know what’s happening. But one thing that he does know is that he has to get to Bruce. He has to.

Dick doesn’t know where he is.

Well, that’s not completely true. He’s sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, somewhere in the middle of Gotham. There’s not a lot of people, but the weak sun is still occasionally breaking through the clouds, so Dick thinks it must be before rush hour. The people around him give him a wide berth, but Dick hardly notices. He keeps getting distracted by the shadows in the corner of his eye. He could have sworn he saw—

No. Batman doesn’t come out during the day. Not unless there’s an emergency. And Dick can’t think of anything that’d be classified an emergency when it seems so calm. Actually, Dick’s having trouble thinking at all.

But he knows for sure that it’s not Batman. Can’t be. He wouldn’t be scared of it if it was, right?

There’s—something. Something he’s supposed to remember. Something to do with Bruce. He thinks that maybe he should find Bruce. Or call him. Maybe it’ll help him remember, think. He’s supposed to tell Bruce about—about—

Something to do with water. Other than that, he can’t grasp it. He can’t make his thoughts form anything coherent.

There’s another—it’s not a flash. It’s more a growing embodiment of fear and darkness on the edge of his vision, creating a dark mass that catches his attention. But when he turns his head to look at it, it’s gone. Nothing there. Poof.

As much as I love Hogwarts AUs within this fandom, there are a ton of misconceptions out there about which Hogwarts Houses the members of the Batfamily would be sorted into. Most sortings I’ve seen follow these lines:

Dick - Ravenclaw Jason - Gryffindor or Slytherin Tim - Ravenclaw Damian - Slytherin Barbara - Ravenclaw Stephanie - Hufflepuff Cass - Hufflepuff Bruce - Ravenclaw

While I respect these, I think most if not all of them are taking the characters at face value. They all live with masks - literal and metaphorical - and they might not even acknowledge some of these deeper truths to themselves, but we as readers have a much bigger picture of their actions and their motivations.

I’m not going to get into Tim Drake because I already have written extensively on my brilliant boy and where he would actually be sorted. If you haven’t read The Mis-Sorting of Tim Drake yet, I’d recommend reading it now because I’ll be referencing it later in this piece.

Dick Grayson is brilliant and smart, yes, but the reasons he keeps doing vigilante work are primarily Hufflepuff in nature: “I will save as many people as possible, no matter the heartbreak. If I can save one person an awful fate, then I have saved one person.” Or as a certain musical puts it, “Have I done enough?” Hufflepuffs are some of the scariest people on the planet because you will never see them coming. They are not the couch potatoes of the world - they are the treads on the tank, the pistons in the engine. They are capable of greater nobility than the rest of the world combined, and if their death will save one, two, a hundred people, they will die without hesitation. And who embodies that more than Dick “Self Sacrifice” Grayson?

Jason Todd is depicted in the fandom as the impulsive, abrasive hotshot, but one thing everyone passes over is how little he cares for the rules. You don’t steal the Batmobile’s hubcaps? Tough luck. You have to pretend to be a kind of person you’re not when around the Gotham elite? Not a chance. We don’t use guns, and we don’t kill our enemies? Make me. And that, guys, gals, and non-binary pals, is a Ravenclaw trait. For a Ravenclaw, rules are for the sheep not intelligent to find a way around them: “They don’t have a plan, they just hate mine.” Jason is capable of asking if maybe it is okay to kill dangerous criminals rather than have them live out the rest of their corrupt lives comfortable and well-fed in prison. Putting criminals away in jail is doing nothing for their victims, so Jason will go outside of the rules to do what must be done.

For Stephanie Brown, I debated between Hufflepuff and Slytherin with Gryffindor-ish traits. Steph knows what she wants - to be Robin, to work with Cass, to finish her degree - and good luck to you if you get in her way. Unlike most Slytherins, she bulldozes through her problems, but her driving force is her ambition, her desire to be more. As a certain musical says, “I am either gonna die on the battlefield in glory or rise up.” Gryffindors maybe care a little for glory and instant gratification, but the fuel in their souls’ engines is to see justice done. They care about humanity as a whole but have a difficult time caring about small injustices they themselves commit in their quest for Justice, and put simply that’s not Steph. She cares too much for people - real people - to choose fighting Injustice over injustices. She’s a difficult sorting to pin down, and that’s the best I’ve got.

Cass Cain, like Dick Grayson, is a Hufflepuff. When Hufflepuffs snap, they will mow through anything in their path to protect the people they love and get back at those who hurt their loved ones. It takes a lot of passion, conviction, and evidence for Hufflepuffs to rise up, but when they do, the war is as good as over. Cass cares about people, about righting wrongs, but not at the kind of cost a Gryffindor or Ravenclaw is willing to accrue. She aspires to be better, and she will save people until she keels over, and still she will ask, “Have I done enough?”

Damian Wayne, like Stephanie Brown, is tricky. The fandom sorts him into Slytherin because he’s a “bad guy” and he’s sarcastic. Segue: By the way, it ticks me off when people say sarcasm is a Slytherin aesthetic, because sarcasm is mean - it is cruel and ultimately lifting yourself up by putting your listener down. Irony on the other hand requires actual skill, putting the speaker and the listener on the same level and creating a bond instead of a rift - “I’m in on the joke, you’re in on the joke, we’re in it together.” Sure some Slytherins are cruel, but a true Slytherin’s sense of humor centers around irony rather than sarcasm. End Segue. Damian might grump and grouch around most of the time, but he has come a long way from where he was when he first came to the Manor when he was using sarcasm. It takes a lot to get him to care for and open up to people, partly because he’s young, partly because he shares half his genetic code with Bruce "No-Feelings-Only-Justice” Wayne, and partly because he idolizes his father and attempts to be like him in every facet of his life. Damian follows Bruce’s rules - adhering to a code - and his driving force is to excel, to be known, to be remembered. That is why he is a Slytherin, not just because he’s a grouchy little shit.

Barbara Gordon is similar enough to Tim to sort decisively into Slytherin. Again, read The Mis-Sorting of Tim Drake for clarity on this. 

And as for Bruce? Ah, Bruce Wayne...the freaking Poster Boy™ for Slytherin House. Gotham is his city to defend, and anyone who stands against that will be taken down both brutally and efficiently. The little flock of vigilantes he’s gathered like chicks under his wing are also his, and he will protect them more fiercely than a mama grizzly. Anyone who hurts his children, be they supervillain, common criminal, or mere scum who broke his child’s heart, will pay the price. Bruce’ll stay within the bounds he’s set for himself (i.e. no killing), but all that means is that he needs to be more creative with his takedowns.

In summary:

Dick - Hufflepuff Jason - Ravenclaw Tim - Slytherin Stephanie - Hufflepuff or Slytherin Cass - Hufflepuff Damian - Slytherin Barbara - Slytherin Bruce - Slytherin

Jason comes up with nicknames in his head for all his siblings. He only uses a couple of them on occasion, but he’s somehow come up with a lot of them. Did he spend a drunk night with Roy or Arty brainstorming them? We may never know.

Dick is ‘Dickie Bird’ ‘Dickie’ ‘Big bird’ ‘dickface’ ‘dickwing’ ‘nightjerk’ and ‘wing’

Tim is ‘Baby bird’ or ‘Red’ when he’s seeing him as a little brother or when he’s talking about him to one of the others. ‘Replacement’ when he’s pissed about something or when he wants to be difficult (#often) or when he’s bantering with him.  ‘Tim-bo’ coz his name is tim and he uses a bo staff. ‘Timmybird’ said sardonically and tauntingly at first, but developed into an actual affectionate nickname that tim hates but jay enjoys - jason will sometimes ruffle his hair when he calls him it because Tim’s usually too tired to try and dodge.

Damian is ‘bat brat’ ‘demon spawn’ ‘demon child’ or ‘baby bat’

Steph is ‘eggplant princess’ she’s the only one who actually got to choose her own nickname, but sometimes jay will just call her ‘princess’ which she is surprisingly okay with.

Cass is ‘sis’ or ‘Cassie’.

Barbara is ‘Steel on wheels’ ‘Babs’ ‘Barbie’ or ‘Bat-lady’ as in ‘whatever you say Bat-Lady’.

“You know,” Jason croaks hoarsely, his throat tight with pain and his chest burning from the effort of speaking, “in our line of work, no one expects to live forever.” He pauses to gulp for air that burns as it goes down, and he clenches his eyes shut at the pain the effort causes him–and at how his headache is being exacerbated by Bruce banging against the bars of the cage they’re locked in, roaring threats at their captors. He doesn’t seem to be hearing anything Jason’s saying–he just keeps slamming his hands against the metal frame surrounding them. Jason’s not even sure if he’s speaking English. His posture is wound tight, and anyone even half-sane who saw him this way would turn and run the other direction as quickly as possible.

Jason’s never been sane, though. Plus, there is the small matter of the shrapnel embedded in his chest and stomach–and, more pressingly, the holes the shrapnel left. He’s been trying to put pressure on them since a few minutes after he got them–the first few heartbeats after the rocket launcher fired were nothing but white noise and terror and painpainpain–but his hands are shaking and it doesn’t seem to be doing much good. There’s slippery, sticky blood all over his hands, drenching his uniform, and the few times he’s chanced glancing down at his body he’s only been able to scan the shredded skin, flapping muscle, and the slight darker color of an organ before he’s looked away. He licks his lips, swallows blood and grimaces. But he clears his throat slightly and goes on. “And look, I know I’ve never been a safety-first kinda guy–” A spasm in his stomach makes him clench his eyes shut, keen deep in his throat. “–but I kinda…” he pants, breathless, gives a half-hysterical laugh through his teeth. “…I thought I’d at least make it to thirty.”

It occurs to him, after a long moment of just trying to catch his breath after speaking, that it’s quiet. He chances a glance at Bruce, and blinks when he sees the man just standing there. He’s still clasping the bars, shoulders hunched and so tight Jason can practically feel the rage wafting off him.

Though on second thought, maybe it’s not rage. There’s blood welling up in Jason’s throat, and he can’t stifle a whimper at the sensation. He gags, and then goes into a coughing fit that has him lurching up off the floor slightly, his whole body burning from the inside out and blood everywhere and—

“Shhh.” Something strokes his hair, comforting and gentle. “Breathe, Jay.” There’s another hand on his back, holding him up and rubbing smooth circles. The voice is tense but soothing and reassuring, and Jason finds his gasps growing slower, easier–though he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. His vision comes back slowly, colors bursting into his view in painful light. Bruce’s face, cowl still firmly in place, is above him, the man’s jaw tense in worry. He gently eases Jason’s head down into his lap, cups his face with a gloved hand and carefully wipes the blood from his cheek, his mouth. Jason sighs, leans into the touch and closes his eyes, and Bruce’s hand freezes on his cheek.

“You’re not going to miss out on thirty,” Bruce says, and Jason almost smiles, because Bruce’s voice is as firm as ever and the guy has a desperate need to deny reality.

“I…” he gulps. “I missed you, you know.”

Bruce stiffens further, if that’s even possible.

“Even when I was so angry, even when I hated you, I missed you so, so much, a-and it hurt so damn bad–”

“Jay.” Bruce sounds desperate.

“I just.” Jason’s eyes are burning viciously, almost as badly as his lungs, and he sobs once, the sound choked and odd-sounding from lack of air. “I just want you to know that I did hate you…but I still loved you, too. I…I still…”

“Oh, Jason,” Bruce says, fast and hoarse. His hand slides carefully but fiercely into Jason’s hair, pushing the tangled curls back behind his ear. “I love you too. You know that.”

Jason swallows blood. He does know, and he can hear the pain in Bruce’s tone that reveals how much his doubt hurts, but he can’t help it. He’s always been a cynical son of a bitch. Dying hadn’t changed that before, and it wouldn’t again.

He’s really starting to not feel good. Well, he’s been feeling pretty awful for a good long while now, but now he feels really bad. The pain in his torso—and especially in his stomach—feels deep-seated and intense and pulsing. It throbs in time with his faltering heartbeat, and he feels dizzy and lightheaded, like he’s going to fall over even though he’s lying still. Like he’s going to float up out of his head at any second. Though that might partly be because of the heat—he’s sticky and sweaty and yeah it makes sense that he would be feverish. Puncture wounds and intestines didn’t go well together. He’s probably screwed even if the others get here. Which they probably won’t. He wishes he could accept that fact with a little less desperation. He really doesn’t want to die without getting to say goodbye…and maybe even having them just be there, where he could see them. He imagines it must be awful to watch someone you love die right in front of you, but he reserves the right to think that dying alone is worse. He’d never been so utterly petrified in his life as when he’d died. As utterly weak. All he could do was lay there and cry as he slowly suffocated and wished that Bruce was there.

Bruce is here, now—and probably getting more than a little panicked that he’s spaced out, if the faint pressure on Jason’s face is anything to go by. And Jason’s grateful, he really is. But sue him if he wants the others, too. Even if he hates seeing Dick cry. It always makes him want to cry, too. He doesn’t know if Tim would cry. Maybe. Damian, who the hell knows. Cass would be upset. He thinks maybe she would be the worst.

He faintly feels like he’s being manhandled, and at first he thinks this is it; not in small part because he feels like he’s moving far more than he would be in reality from just being rolled over and tugged upwards. But then his chest hits Bruce’s and the breath leaves him from the pain. Huh. He wasn’t sure he was actually breathing. He supposes that’s a good sign.

“—You can’t do this again, Jason,” Bruce’s voice fades back in as the ringing in Jason’s ears eases off a bit. He rocks back a bit, dragging Jason along. Jason can feel Bruce’s arms around him, supporting him with a tension he knows all too well. “I don’t…” Bruce’s voice breaks, and Jason winces at the first of his hitched sobs. “I just got you back. I don’t want to say goodbye again.” I didn’t want to the first time, Jason hears. “I don’t want you to go.”

Jason takes that in, limp in Bruce’s lap, stuck staring at the collar of Bruce’s suit from where he’s lying, cheek is pressed against Bruce’s collarbone, held there by his dad’s gloved hand cupping his face. Bruce does know that changing position would only help if his lungs were full of blood, not his stomach, right? Jason doesn’t particularly want to go now, either, but…. “Y-You do know that isn’t,” he has to stop to gulp for air, half-laughing a bit at himself and the awkwardness of this situation, “exactly up to me, right, Dad?”

Bruce buries his face in the top of Jason’s head as a response, and Jason just lies there and breathes, listening to Bruce’s shuddering breaths as his tears wet Jason’s hair.

Jason winces. He can’t really move—no strength to—and he can barely feel his face, let alone his limbs. His whole body feels oddly numb…except for his stomach, of course, which is still throbbing with burning pain. He swallows. “…Dad?” He whispers.

Bruce freezes, and only a split-second later Jason’s eased down a bit, his head against Bruce’s forearm so that Bruce can look at him. Jason’s heart seizes a bit; Bruce’s face is streaked with tears. He wets his lips. Bruce probably won’t take this well, either. “Promise me you’ll cremate me. A-As soon as I’m dead. Promise me you won’t bring me back.”

Bruce’s whole body shudders faintly. “What….what are you talking about–”

“You can’t,” Jason wheezes, starting to cry. He doesn’t know why the thought suddenly occurred to him, but now it’s all he can think about, a pressing, real fear that’s a vice around his failing heart. He can’t do it. He can’t be pulled away from his dad’s arms to drift off into emptiness again, only to wake up screaming as his body is torn apart to put it back together. He can’t have his mind like that again. He can’t do it. He just can’t. “I don’t want to do it again, B, please. Promise me you won’t try to get me back, please, please just let–” he chokes on blood and snot. His stomach is probably in shreds now, based off how it feels, and more tears spill out at the thought of it. “Just let me go.”

A gloved hand on his cheek. “Shhh, Jason, calm down, please hold still–”

“Promise, B!”

Bruce hefts him back up again, and Jason feels a big hand cradling the back of his head. “I–” Bruce swallows, crying too. “I p-promise, Jason. I–I won’t.”

Bruce is crying too hard to speak, and so’s Jason, but he still tries to flop his numb arm up towards Bruce. Bruce catches it, pulls Jason’s hand in against his chestplate, to his heart.

Bruce lifts his head, and Jason thinks he hears something. Maybe the dull boom of an explosion. The others, maybe. Hopefully.

“Please,” Bruce whispers, into Jason’s ear. “Please wait.”

It kind of seems like Bruce said that uncertain of whether Jason could still actually hear him or not. It’s okay. He heard it. And he’ll try. It didn’t make a difference last time. But he’ll still do it. Bruce orders most of the time, and Jason still tried to obey, when it made sense. When Bruce asks…Jason tries.