#firstpartner

HAHAHA SMOL BIRBS I AM SCREAMING PAMMY IN THE BACK LIKE “STOP CODDLING THEM”

ivy: HARLEY PUT THAT BACK YOU DONT KNOW WHERE ITS BEEN ITS PROBABLY GOT ALL SORTS OF GERMS ON IT

valid point …. BP

quinn: 2

I RUN NVERHEARDOF

ROLLS AT YOU AGRESSIVELY LISTEN HERE

“Are you okay?” He takes a knee beside the other, his voice soft.

How do you tell someone who’s beaten you up a thousand times that your dad hurt your feelings a long time ago and you’re still crying over it? He’s told the idiots at Arkham before, told the Batman. Robin probably knew already, but the simplest way to explain present circumstance without becoming disgustingly vulnerable in the presence of another person is to skirt around that fact.

“I made a calculative error. No one died, no one’s hurt. I just... was wrong.”

The professionals at Arkham remember the procedure well for these particular instances. It’s written in bold lettering on his chart: dangerous when unstable. He’s hiding his face with the surface of the desk and refuses to give the lad eye contact.

Robin’s taken to popping in when he’s not welcome. It’s a blessing in and of itself, though, in that he’s never told Batman where exactly he can find the Riddler at any given moment – or, at least when he’s not underground or in the middle of a heist. The boy’s voice from behind reminds him to put bars on the windows of his flat. It’s a wonder he hasn’t yet, given his paranoia. At first it’s a start – a quick hiss as breath rushes in through his nostrils in a moment of panic. Who he thinks is watching him is unclear and inconsequential. It always feels like his father, bent over his shoulder like a proctor during an exam, silently marking every mistake with a raised brow and a look of judgmental condescension. 

He clambers for his firearm before realizing that it’s just the usual heroic pain in the ass. His throat is too dry to fake charm, so he forces his shoulders to loosen before wilting back into his chair and giving the boy his back.

“You’re too young to understand.”

△: my muse’s reaction to holding your dying muse

Hell is empty and all the devils are in Gotham.

Edward doesn’t occupy himself with murder. It’s more just a facet of the job – he’s no killer by trade. Blood, spit, urine, these things terrify him, cause his heart to leap into his throat so he has something to choke on besides just the fear. Presently, his greens are soaked red. Working with other rogues never ends well, and this time, they’d pay with their lives – because this? This was well worth a breakage of the Bat’s One Rule.

Fuchsia men’s dress shoes echo loudly through the system of blackened allies through which Edward runs, a boy in his arms bleeding and fading more and more with each passing moment. Black Mask is less sentimental than Edward. Less respectful toward human life in the sense that children deserve a bit more leeway. Though the rogues stopped seeing Robin as a child a long time ago, it seems as though Edward is the only one who remembers that he’s just a boy. Hell, he’s not even tall enough to hit forehead to shoulder.

His little knees are scraped to hell. His face is blue, swollen so that his right eye cannot open and his lips are split so that one can see the teeth through the tears. His ribs are broken. His skull is fractured, and, if Edward is half as good at deduction as he boasts, this little boy is going to die because one of his lungs is punctured with a splinter of bone.

He’s so tiny, now, when he’s not giving an exchange of banter. With his eyes glazed with agony and his lips stilled due to the beating, he’s just helpless. Just a child.

So, when the sounds of Black Mask’s thugs are drowned out by the ambiance of the city, the escape is over and what little time Edward wasted with the illusion that he could fix this is up.

Kneeling with the lad in his lap, he does his damnedest to give him a smile.

“You’re one tough kid, Robin.” He murmurs, pushing hair out of his brutalized face. “Your mom and dad would be proud. Anyone would be.”

The boy can’t speak. Breathing is impossible because his lungs are now filled with blood. He coughs and Edward claws desperately for another few minutes without tearing up. Don’t cry in front of frightened children: be strong.

He wants to say that he considered them friends. Wants to say that he’ll miss the little shit and that, maybe, they’ll meet again by some strange twist of destiny. But Robin is gone. He exhales a pink froth and with that final rattle, he’s utterly still, and suddenly Edward’s tears can’t come at all.