#snipples

“This is all your fault,” Dick snaps at Jason, dodging yet another blast of number stream shit he doesn’t care to experiment with. He’s sure it’ll be painfully boring, just like everything else about the so-called supervillain Clockwork. So far, the only thing he’s doing is wasting Dick’s time (ba dum tiss). “Why the hell couldn’t you listen to me?”

He’s not in the mood for B’s little knothead to fuck up his flawless record of no injuries in two weeks. Donna promised him sweaters for his next heat if he can manage to abstain from “reckless endangerment and fancy flips that will break your neck” and Donna’s scent is one of the most soothing he’s encountered. Like olives and sea spray and moonlight (if moonlight had a scent). He’d given Kori back all of her sweaters and clothes he’s used in his nests, because the scent had soured. It no longer calms him like it had before, the tart-sweet citrus and sunshine more anxiety-inducing than no scent.

As for Roy, as much as he loves Roy’s smoky cinnamon and whiskey scent outside of his heats, when in heat they tended to make his stupid inner-omega territorial. You win some you lose some, he guesses. But he’s about to lose it if he can’t get those sweaters because of some little runt.

“Like I’m the one making dumb jokes to piss him off! Sounds smart when there’s a meta who has fuck knows what power!”

Dick glares at Jason. Honestly, what was Bruce thinking taking this kid in? No appreciation for the high art of punning and distracting.

“It is a time-honored tactic, that I will have you know works eight times out of ten.”

Jason rolls his eyes behind the mask.

“Sure thing, Dickhead.”

“No names in the field, Robin,” Nightwing says, the word bitter as it falls off his tongue.

He still really wants to hit Bruce again for that one. He’s such a fucking bastard.

“Discowing, then.”

My friends: ...snitties?

“We honor him,” the other Lanterns echo, and the room is silent, heads bowed as if in prayer.

It is here, that Damian’s anger reaches a peak, anger at his father for not saving Dick. Anger at the heroes assembled for not being quite fast enough. Anger at Slade Wilson for taking the only real family he’s ever known to love him. It’s the kind of anger that blinds, the kind of anger that goes beyond logic and pain and right and wrong. He doesn’t want to be here in a room full of people that could’ve saved Dick Grayson but hadn’t, and he doesn’t want to hear any more sappy speeches from collections of people who had failed him.

Faster than a speeding bullet, some of them may be, but they hadn’t been faster than Deathstroke’s blade. They hadn’t been faster than the shredded internal organs leaking priceless liquid life onto an uncaring ground, for an unworthy soul. The Prodigal Son for the Damned Prince. The Acrobat for the Street Rat. The one who’d taught Damian love and the value of human life, for a murderer. They’d saved Slade Wilson from Damian’s blade and Jason Todd’s bullets, but they hadn’t saved Dick Grayson.

He hates them, he thinks. He can feel it coiling in his heart, like a poisonous snake waiting to strike. The hatred whispers to him, and it’s more than he can take. More than he can bear. Not alone. Not without Richard. Not without his Batman. Because fuck the Batman still living.

Not for the first time, Damian wishes his father had remained lost to time, far away from the safe haven and place in the world Damian and Grayson had carved in the Penthouse with Pennyworth. Not for the first time, he wishes Grayson had never left, wishes he’d gone with Grayson when he had left.

“I hate you,” Steph groans, forehead thumping against the bar counter.

“Get in line,” Dick mutters, trying and failing to not be obvious about his staring and Jason’s scan nearing their side of the bar. “I’m first.”

“Self-depreciation is not the new sexy, and I’m not letting you drag this lovely banter any further from our topic. Dick, it’s been six months and you and Jason still haven’t actually talked about the whole destined-to-be thing. You know, soulmates? Soulbonds? The hit that never was? Am I ringing some bells here?”

“All the wrong ones, as per norm.”

“Well, I wasn’t hired as Robin for my stunning conversational abilities and sensitivity,” she snarks.

“No,” Dick agrees, “but that miiight be why you were fired.”

“And your bad jokes are probably why Luthor shut you up. Only God can help you now.”

Dick snorts.

“Funny is the new sexy, so no wonder you aren’t getting laid.”

“Morbidity is the new sexy, actually, and not that it’s any of your business, ex-boyfriend’s brother of mine, but I am getting laid plenty. Wondergirl is certainly a wonder in bed.”

“I thought we agreed puns are my thing.”

“No, we agreed your sweetheart of a son-brother is horrible at them and stopped making them to spare his oh-so delicate feelings,” Steph replies, hands clasped and eyelashes fluttering for effect.

“I punned before punning was cool.”

It starts against a brick wall, heavy-breathing and red cheeks, stripped of the broken red helmet and tossed-aside cowl. Dick’s fingers curl around Jason’s bicep and Jason’s hand is tight around his throat. He leans into the warmth, azure locked on glowing green, pressing past the discomfort and capturing the mouth just above his in a kiss that feels like another battle. Dick can taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, can taste the nicotine on Jason’s breath as their hearts beat together. One swipe of his tongue and Jason opens up for him, fingers moving from Dick’s throat to his hair to pull him closer.

It’s so wrong that it’s right, because Bruce is dead and Tim’s gone, because Jason hates him and Dick’s getting to the point where he’s done caring, because Dick’s lonely and Jason must be too.