always with the Dick jokes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
irrelevant) wrote2011-05-23 04:55 pm
irrelevant) wrote2011-05-23 04:55 pm
Entry tags:
[fic] lines in sand (DCU)
lines in sand
DCU | Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd | G | ~1250 words
notes: A follow-up to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saavikam77’s Above Ground, written with her permission. Tim and Bruce have a conversation.
There’s still dirt under his fingernails, thin dark half-moons that look wrong against his otherwise clean skin.
He already washed his hands in the ground floor bathroom. Had to scrub and rinse four times to get them as clean as they are now, the stuff under his nails is just too deeply embedded to come loose with soft soap and water.
He wants to dig it out. Use his nails and pick away at it until it’s gone, and he most likely would if not for the man standing across the room.
Mr. Wayne has been over there, looking out the window since Tim entered the room. He still hasn’t spoken, but a few seconds ago Tim heard him move.
Then, Tim was looking down at his dirty nails, at his hands and the camera in them. He still is. He hasn’t yet dared to look up, but he thinks Mr. Wayne just turned around. He thinks the prickle on his skin is Mr. Wayne’s stare.
Tim stares at his camera and thinks about what would have happened – what wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t gone out tonight.
He thinks about Jason’s hands, Jason’s nails, already bloody and torn when he broke open the coffin. And his skin is turning white beneath his fingernails and the graveyard dirt, because if he doesn’t hold on as tightly as he can to his camera he’s going to dig and dig until the dirt is gone and he bleeds clean.
“Tim Drake,” Mr. Wayne says, the right voice for his evening clothes, and the wrong voice for Tim.
The clothes and the event they belong to – the same event Tim’s parents are attending this evening – are the reason Tim had to do this alone. If Batman had been there—
“I’m told you brought my…” This pause lasts longer than the last. Tim can hear Mr. Wayne’s breathing, deep and even. He grips his camera in both hands and breathes with him, and finally, finally his head feels light enough to lift.
“My son,” Bruce Wayne says, and he’s looking at Tim as though Tim is all that exists for him at this time, in this space. “You got him here quickly enough that the damage will in all likelihood be… reversible.”
Tim remembers, suddenly, Alfred Pennyworth telling him a little over five hours ago that Master Wayne was out for the evening. He’d been relieved without knowing why. He thinks he knows, now.
Instinct, a small, coldly functional corner of his mind suggests. Geek instinct, insists the chorus of kids’ voices Tim’s been on the other end of for most of his life.
He’s willing to bet no one’s ever called the man by the window a geek, not without paying for it, one way or another.
The thought is distracting enough that Tim doesn’t notice Mr. Wayne moving until he’s standing in front of Tim in his tuxedo, his scarred hands resting on Tim’s shoulders, his smile vacant and undirected.
Batman’s eyes are looking down at Tim out of Bruce Wayne’s face, examining him. Bruce Wayne’s voice says, “Do your parents know you photograph graveyards at night?”
“I—” Tim swallows. He makes himself let go of his camera, lets it dangle loose from the strap. And he starts over, as over as he can get at this point. “Not graveyards,” he says. “And no.” He forces himself to look past Bruce Wayne’s bland smile into Batman’s eyes. “They don’t know. Nobody knows. I’ve never told anyone.”
The hospital director loaned his private office to Mr. Wayne, but for this, it might as well be public. They could be standing in the middle of the ballroom Mr. Wayne just left, the ballroom where Tim’s parents are laughing with everyone but each other. Tim already knows that. He sees understanding and – and something he wants to believe is approval in Mr. Wayne’s face.
Wants to, but doesn’t. “Have I thanked you?” Mr. Wayne asks.
“No.” Barely even a whisper. Not sure enough. Not good enough. Tim clears his throat. “You don’t need to, sir,” he says. “If someone else… couldn’t. Be there.” He swallows again. “I’m glad I could.”
Bruce Wayne’s mouth curves. Batman’s hands tighten on Tim’s shoulders, but his eyes are distant, looking away over the top of Tim’s head—
There’s a soft knock on the door. Tim is sure his shoulders are going to come apart under the weight, the pressure of ten fingers even without the gauntlets. They squeeze one more time, an agony of seconds, and then they’re loosening, falling away…
Tim feels like he only starts breathing again when Mr. Wayne says, “Come in.”
The door opens, closes behind a tired looking woman in a surgical uniform. “He’s out of surgery,” she says without preamble. “Serious condition, but his vitals are stable. For now he’s in ICU, and yes,” she says before Mr. Wayne can ask, “you can see him.” She pulls the door open again and stands there, holding it.
The hall outside looks dark and narrow (grave-like) and Tim doesn’t think he could move if he… if they…
Mr. Wayne passes by him, so close he can smell… something. Cologne and – something that isn’t anyone’s idea of cologne who doesn’t practice martial arts. Mr. Wayne turns in the doorway and looks back. “Are you coming, Tim? They’ll let two family members in.”
Oh.
“I—”
“Come with me,” says Batman.
Tim goes.
--
Jason’s hands are thick bundles of white tape, stiff and still, and Tim stares at them because—
Because if he doesn’t look at Jason’s hands he’ll have to look somewhere else.
Jason isn’t moving. Well, his chest is, but the rest of him… isn’t. And it’s not that he’s supposed to be, but—
He was moving. Tim felt him, helped him stand, heard him say—
But his eyes are closed and his face is, it’s white except for the bruising, and his head is… his head…
It makes Tim’s head hurt if he thinks too hard about it. Mr. Wayne’s hand is resting lightly against back of his neck, and that’s… head-hurting in a whole different way. Tim wonders what Mr. Wayne would do if Tim were Jason, or – or Dick?
None of them would be standing here if it was Tim in the bed, though. Nobody would be, and Mr. Wayne’s hand is light and heavy at the same time, and Tim doesn’t know what that means.
“Your parents,” Mr. Wayne says. “They’ll be home by now.”
“Yes,” says Tim. The hand on his nape does… something. Squeezes.
The shiver goes through Tim before he can stop it.
“Will you come with me?” Mr. Wayne asks, and it’s – it’s not really a question?
Jason’s bandages don’t feel as rough as they look. Tim pulls his hand back, touches the camera around his neck. “Yes,” he says.
And he backs up and turns his back so he can’t see what Mr. Wayne does then.
He follows Mr. Wayne out of the hospital, he sits next to him in the limo and watches the lights go by, and he knows—
“How long,” says Bruce Wayne, “have you known?”
The lights on the Sprang Bridge hit the camera oddly, throwing bits and glinting pieces of light up on the driver’s transom. “I’ve always known,” Tim says, not precisely true, but close enough that it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t try to look at Bruce Wayne, not even in the glass.
He counts the bumps in the road, the lights going by overhead, and holds onto his camera.
DCU | Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd | G | ~1250 words
notes: A follow-up to
saavikam77’s Above Ground, written with her permission. Tim and Bruce have a conversation. There’s still dirt under his fingernails, thin dark half-moons that look wrong against his otherwise clean skin.
He already washed his hands in the ground floor bathroom. Had to scrub and rinse four times to get them as clean as they are now, the stuff under his nails is just too deeply embedded to come loose with soft soap and water.
He wants to dig it out. Use his nails and pick away at it until it’s gone, and he most likely would if not for the man standing across the room.
Mr. Wayne has been over there, looking out the window since Tim entered the room. He still hasn’t spoken, but a few seconds ago Tim heard him move.
Then, Tim was looking down at his dirty nails, at his hands and the camera in them. He still is. He hasn’t yet dared to look up, but he thinks Mr. Wayne just turned around. He thinks the prickle on his skin is Mr. Wayne’s stare.
Tim stares at his camera and thinks about what would have happened – what wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t gone out tonight.
He thinks about Jason’s hands, Jason’s nails, already bloody and torn when he broke open the coffin. And his skin is turning white beneath his fingernails and the graveyard dirt, because if he doesn’t hold on as tightly as he can to his camera he’s going to dig and dig until the dirt is gone and he bleeds clean.
“Tim Drake,” Mr. Wayne says, the right voice for his evening clothes, and the wrong voice for Tim.
The clothes and the event they belong to – the same event Tim’s parents are attending this evening – are the reason Tim had to do this alone. If Batman had been there—
“I’m told you brought my…” This pause lasts longer than the last. Tim can hear Mr. Wayne’s breathing, deep and even. He grips his camera in both hands and breathes with him, and finally, finally his head feels light enough to lift.
“My son,” Bruce Wayne says, and he’s looking at Tim as though Tim is all that exists for him at this time, in this space. “You got him here quickly enough that the damage will in all likelihood be… reversible.”
Tim remembers, suddenly, Alfred Pennyworth telling him a little over five hours ago that Master Wayne was out for the evening. He’d been relieved without knowing why. He thinks he knows, now.
Instinct, a small, coldly functional corner of his mind suggests. Geek instinct, insists the chorus of kids’ voices Tim’s been on the other end of for most of his life.
He’s willing to bet no one’s ever called the man by the window a geek, not without paying for it, one way or another.
The thought is distracting enough that Tim doesn’t notice Mr. Wayne moving until he’s standing in front of Tim in his tuxedo, his scarred hands resting on Tim’s shoulders, his smile vacant and undirected.
Batman’s eyes are looking down at Tim out of Bruce Wayne’s face, examining him. Bruce Wayne’s voice says, “Do your parents know you photograph graveyards at night?”
“I—” Tim swallows. He makes himself let go of his camera, lets it dangle loose from the strap. And he starts over, as over as he can get at this point. “Not graveyards,” he says. “And no.” He forces himself to look past Bruce Wayne’s bland smile into Batman’s eyes. “They don’t know. Nobody knows. I’ve never told anyone.”
The hospital director loaned his private office to Mr. Wayne, but for this, it might as well be public. They could be standing in the middle of the ballroom Mr. Wayne just left, the ballroom where Tim’s parents are laughing with everyone but each other. Tim already knows that. He sees understanding and – and something he wants to believe is approval in Mr. Wayne’s face.
Wants to, but doesn’t. “Have I thanked you?” Mr. Wayne asks.
“No.” Barely even a whisper. Not sure enough. Not good enough. Tim clears his throat. “You don’t need to, sir,” he says. “If someone else… couldn’t. Be there.” He swallows again. “I’m glad I could.”
Bruce Wayne’s mouth curves. Batman’s hands tighten on Tim’s shoulders, but his eyes are distant, looking away over the top of Tim’s head—
There’s a soft knock on the door. Tim is sure his shoulders are going to come apart under the weight, the pressure of ten fingers even without the gauntlets. They squeeze one more time, an agony of seconds, and then they’re loosening, falling away…
Tim feels like he only starts breathing again when Mr. Wayne says, “Come in.”
The door opens, closes behind a tired looking woman in a surgical uniform. “He’s out of surgery,” she says without preamble. “Serious condition, but his vitals are stable. For now he’s in ICU, and yes,” she says before Mr. Wayne can ask, “you can see him.” She pulls the door open again and stands there, holding it.
The hall outside looks dark and narrow (grave-like) and Tim doesn’t think he could move if he… if they…
Mr. Wayne passes by him, so close he can smell… something. Cologne and – something that isn’t anyone’s idea of cologne who doesn’t practice martial arts. Mr. Wayne turns in the doorway and looks back. “Are you coming, Tim? They’ll let two family members in.”
Oh.
“I—”
“Come with me,” says Batman.
Tim goes.
--
Jason’s hands are thick bundles of white tape, stiff and still, and Tim stares at them because—
Because if he doesn’t look at Jason’s hands he’ll have to look somewhere else.
Jason isn’t moving. Well, his chest is, but the rest of him… isn’t. And it’s not that he’s supposed to be, but—
He was moving. Tim felt him, helped him stand, heard him say—
But his eyes are closed and his face is, it’s white except for the bruising, and his head is… his head…
It makes Tim’s head hurt if he thinks too hard about it. Mr. Wayne’s hand is resting lightly against back of his neck, and that’s… head-hurting in a whole different way. Tim wonders what Mr. Wayne would do if Tim were Jason, or – or Dick?
None of them would be standing here if it was Tim in the bed, though. Nobody would be, and Mr. Wayne’s hand is light and heavy at the same time, and Tim doesn’t know what that means.
“Your parents,” Mr. Wayne says. “They’ll be home by now.”
“Yes,” says Tim. The hand on his nape does… something. Squeezes.
The shiver goes through Tim before he can stop it.
“Will you come with me?” Mr. Wayne asks, and it’s – it’s not really a question?
Jason’s bandages don’t feel as rough as they look. Tim pulls his hand back, touches the camera around his neck. “Yes,” he says.
And he backs up and turns his back so he can’t see what Mr. Wayne does then.
He follows Mr. Wayne out of the hospital, he sits next to him in the limo and watches the lights go by, and he knows—
“How long,” says Bruce Wayne, “have you known?”
The lights on the Sprang Bridge hit the camera oddly, throwing bits and glinting pieces of light up on the driver’s transom. “I’ve always known,” Tim says, not precisely true, but close enough that it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t try to look at Bruce Wayne, not even in the glass.
He counts the bumps in the road, the lights going by overhead, and holds onto his camera.