#optimisticrobin

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"What did I do to make you think you can't trust me?"

Questioning Sentences

    🦇—-;; Bruce's hand pauses in it's current action at the question, it's a bit unexpected because trust had nothing to do with this. Sure, he's aware he's been more secretive of late, but that's not out of lack of trust, though Bruce isn't quite prepared to admit the reasons for it out loud. Instead he settles Dick with a look. "You didn't do anything."

Call it nerves or anxiety, but for whatever reason, Damian found himself more antsy than usual as he watched Grayson diffuse the bomb. The components were unlike anything he had seen before, but that wasn't really what got to Damian. What got to him was the ticking of the clock, and how it kept going down, and down, and down.

By the time the clock was down to single digit seconds, the boy had enough and moved to shove Grayson out of the way. The explosion rings in his ears, and he uses his cape to cover his mouth, lest the dust get in. But the pair are still alive, and no one is dead. That has to count for something.

There was never going to be anything remotely approaching normal for the Wayne Family. Not when they all chose to lead nocturnal lives, putting them in the line of fire night after night. Each member of the family has spent too many nights holding a needle and thread steady to stitch close a wound.

"Hrm." He acknowledges the comment, wrapping the bandage around his son's arm. He knows Dick can handle it. After all, Bruce was the one who trained Dick to handle it. But the Court of Owls went after his son. One of his family. They always find ways to make it personal.

Even at their most impartial, Bruce still thinks about William Cobb, and how he said he loved to kill Waynes. The Court made it personal long before he knew that they would have made Dick into one of their Talons. They made it personal when Cobb said that.

@optimisticrobin

He waits just long enough for the boy to reach his side before he begins to walk.

"Your concern is noted.” He says, curiously mild. He’s amused—why shouldn't he be? The idea of some ordinary, straight-laced law official coming to him demanding his surrender was almost adorable.

Not that there haven’t been a select few over the years, but it’s never made a difference. Most weren’t eager to draw his attention, and for them, plausible deniability no matter how flimsy is a pleasant alternative to the truth. While Jump City is nowhere near as vulnerable as her neighbors, many learn to value their lives over the technicalities of their occupation. All it takes is a few pulled strings, and he’s freer than any little bird would dream of.

Not that he’s going to discuss that little grey area with his apprentice—at least not yet. Timing will be important from now on.

This base is rather large. Immense, looming cogs; metal doors mixed with clean, almost unnaturally well-kept halls that seem to go on forever, maze-like. He leads them easily, never quite seeming to make a wrong turn or hesitate before selecting a direction. Occasionally they pass under what appear to be scanners of some kind, small lights flickering a dutiful green before the doors slide open. Most are automatic—the main doors that lead to other paths, for example—unlike the labeled rooms that won’t open without an access code or keycard. Slade built that into his armor years ago; far safer than having a seperate card someone could steal. He knew that danger better than most.

“I do think you’ve gotten the wrong idea about all of this, Robin.” He tilts his head, but instead of looking back he fiddles with the metal of his cuff. Somehow the motion doesn’t break his stride. “I have much I would like to teach you. None of which benefits from your death.”

“But by all means, keep looking over your shoulder if you truly think that will put you at ease. I won’t begrudge you your caution.”

He stops at last before a somewhat familiar door, though it’s distinguishable only by its number—Robin’s assigned quarters. When it doesn’t immediately slide open, he pauses, glancing at the keycard reader with a displeased hum. A brief moment passes, but the console indicator continues to apathetically glow a dull red.

… Slade steps aside. His eye narrows as he speaks, sounding contemplative.

@optimisticrobin sent:

2. for one muse to hold the other after a nightmare // Bruce and bby Dick not long after his parent died?

protective prompts

       🦇—-;;  Bruce sat up quickly in his own bed, woken by a sound coming from within the manor and not immediately aware of what it was at first, he had waited only a moment to be sure it wasn't his own sleeping mind manifesting the sound. No that was definitely Dick screaming that he heard. He threw the covers off himself and reached to pick up his robe to put on as he made his way out of his room and down the hall to the boy's bedroom. Rushing to comfort him and put an end to the terror.

Opening the door, he came in and over to bed. "Dick, I'm here." He says, finding him awake when he knelt down by the bed to be level with the young boy. "It's okay." He soothes. Reaching out to help better ground him in reality and not whatever nightmare he'd just escaped. "I'm here." He repeats, his own worry evident at that moment, brows furrowed a little.

This is certainly an interesting task he has been given by the Court. One the Doctor had hastily agreed to. Who wouldn't relish in being handed one of Gotham's finest vigilantes and told to break them?

Dr. Green stands by his newest patients side. Having strapped the younger man down to an operation chair. His arms and legs bound to the seat, and a strap keeping his chest held in place. The Doctor flicks through the file that the Court provided him with.

Dick Grayson. It seems the Court of Owls was able to identify him after his capture. The Doctor had insisted on keeping the vigilante sedated until he was ready for him.

And now as he thumbs through the file, he waits for the effects of the sedative to wear off. He wants to gauge the Vigilantes behaviour and personality.

Not to mention his pain tolerance.

🔪 // Dammit John. || @optimisticrobin

“Look, yer cute but I’m gonna choose t’ believe yer not dumb enough to honestly believe there was an option B here.”

Who the hell was he kidding? They all did, every last one of them. Preach about the dangers and yet none of them tried to understand precisely what made it dangerous. At least he had saved the guy’s diary, already tossing it over—and maybe resisting a cruel joke about it being as enlightening as the fire he had started to burn the body.

Dream hadn't thought anyone would find him perched precariously on the side of the building. He'd assumed - falsely so, that his dark clothing would keep him hidden while he mulled over his runaway nightmare. A part of him did not want to confront the Corinthian. His heart, stubborn as it were, still considered the Corinthian to be his masterpiece.

"𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞." Dream reassured the young man, slightly amused at the thought. "𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬, 𝐈 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰." Fondness briefly warmed his gaze.