Title: To Dream, perchance to Sleep?
Fandom: DCU- Batman.
Rating: R for blood and sexual situations.
Genre: Romance, Angst, Suspense, perhaps?
Wordcount: 4948 (I scare myself sometimes).
Characters/Pairings: Jason Todd/Tim Drake, Alfred, Nightwing, Batman.
Warnings: Self-betaed, Jason ( ), slash, mentions of blood, sexual situations (something very soft, though), subtext like woah.
Summary: Too Damn Early o' clock in the morning, he was fresh from a nightmare, and the Batman was in his bedroom, prowling.
Notes: Sixth instalment in the "(love) Until We Bleed" 'verse. In this 'verse, Tim's on the prowl for his very own Jaybird, but Jay's got a very bad cause of the denial.
The first one to come to him, predictably, was Batman.
Too Damn Early o' clock in the morning, startled out from a nightmare by a noise that could've been imagined, it was so soft. So eerie. Familiar? Jason bolted upright in his bed, sweat flicking from his forehead as his body reared backwards, smacking against the headboard in a defensive stance. His heart pounded, the sheet felt sticky, coiled around his legs. A quick sweep of his eyes across the room revealed shadows, shadows and more shadows, a sea of them. There was no sound. No movement.
Jason's hands dropped, as realization settled like a weight in the middle of his chest: Batman was there. Was in his bedroom, prowling.
As if summoned by the thought, the Bat emerged from a shadowed corner, cape trailing behind him, woven of the darkness itself. His shoulders were tense, his mouth drawn into a tight, unforgiving line. The lenses of his cowl were pools of white, capturing and reflecting all the light in the room. Like coals, they burned as they raked down Jason's face.
"Your strategy skills make me proud," he said. But his voice was a growl, contrasting sharply with the words coming from his mouth. "You hurt him, in order to save him. You preferred to break his heart now, rather than later, in order to minimize the damage. Such a thoughtful, mature decision. You make me proud."
Jason sneered, scrubbing a hand through his sleep-mussled hair. And if his fingers gripped at the sweaty strands in some odd blend of rage and guilt, no one was the wiser.
"Well, fuck you too, Bruce," he said. "Unlike someone? At least I'm trying to stop the metaphorical fuckin' crowbar before it kills Robin."
The Batman had no outward reaction. He stood still like death, and if it weren't for his breath raising in silvery glyphs before his mouth, he could've been a figure cut out of dark paper.
"You want what's good for him. That's commendable."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm a perfect little angel. Hadn't you heard?"
"But," Batman's eyes slitted. His voice lowered into a hiss. "Good intentions are not what he requires from you."
"Again with the cryptic bullshit, Bruce?" Jason rubbed his eyes, tired in more ways than just the physical. "What's today's pearl of wisdom?"
"There is no hidden meaning to my words, Jason. You can take them at face value."
"Which means?"
"...it means that you made a mess, Little Wing. As usual."
The new voice was light and faintly bemused, as though it had been contrived only for cajoling and telling jokes. The note of disapproval vibrating beneath the apparent casualness felt like it didn't belong. It didn't just make the voice darker or deeper; it made it wrong, like the sound of an instrument played underwater, its tones distorted and drowned by the water's pressure.
Jason rounded on Nightwing like a panther, issuing a low, warning growl from deep within his throat.
"Oh, don't sound so pleased with my failure, Dickiebird. One might think you care."
Nightwing arranged himself against the opposite wall, arms flexed across his chest, head cocked so that the long hair fell away from his eyes. His face was hidden from view, just like Batman's; and just like Batman, his eyes were white and luminous, and narrowed into slits.
"Pleased? Hardly. Do I care? You bet. Tim is a mess, Jason. All thanks to you."
"I didn't-"
Nightwing's right hand rose sharply, cutting through the air like a blade and commanding silence.
"Ah. Don't even try that," he warned. "I get that you didn't want to hurt him, but see how well that went. Literally ripping his heart out would've hurt less, I bet."
"What the fuck did you want me to do, asshole? Stand back and watch as he ruined his life? He'll be okay in the long run."
"What, when he's done picking up the tiny little pieces you broke his heart into, you mean?" Nightwing flipped casually over the back of a chair, landed on the seat in an elegant perch, head tilted sideways like a huge, dark bird. "You know how heartbreak works, Jay. How long do you think it'll take him to recover? A million years from now?"
"However long it takes, at least he'll have his family helping him along, because his hands are still clean!" He lashed out, swept the lamp off the bedside table with a crash. "It hurt Tim when I shot that man. I could tell, it hurt him. And what did he do about it? Nothing! Because he fucking wants me, so he was willing to let it go and forgive me!"
"And Robin isn't allowed to make choices Batman wouldn't approve of," Batman supplied in a gravelly murmur. Jason rounded on him, all but snarling.
"You can fucking bet he's not! You'd reject him if he all but breathed the same air as me, and that'd fucking destroy him!"
Nightwing rolled his eyes. "Oh, and your rejection didn't do any damage, mh? Right."
Jason focused on him once more, his voice low and dangerously cool, honed by anger into a knife's edge.
"Listen, you asshole. I know I fucked up. I know I hurt him. I hurt him big time. But I'm trying to do the right thing here, so fuck. Off."
"But you want him," Batman murmured behind him, his voice like gravel, like tombstones and moonlight. Jason glanced at him over his shoulder, at the black figure standing like a nightmare at the edge of his vision.
"When ever has it mattered what the fuck I want? I'm bad for him, and you know it. I made sure he'll never want anything to do with me again – the last thing I expected you to do was bitch about it."
"You want him," Nightwing echoed.
Jason whipped towards him, breathing hard. Nightwing's eyes were not just white but glowing through all that fuckin' darkness.
"He wanted me, for whatever fuckin' reason, and I made sure he damn well stopped!" Jason snapped. "Now you will all be a happy family again. You are the winners here. What the hell are you complaining about?"
Batman moved closer, his cape hissing in the encroaching silence, hissing and slithering like a living thing. He shook his head once, twice, an air of condolence about him.
"You want him," he remarked a third time, gravelly, as if it was the thing that mattered most, the thing that hurt the most, and Jason wanted to lash out at him too, but was rooted on the spot, glued to it, and if his insides had turned into lead, and the darkness clogged his nostrils, filled his throat, suffocating him.
"What I want," Jason snarled, "is to return the little bird to its nest before something in the Big Bad World out here gets to it!"
"You want a lot of things, Little Wing. You wanted to avenge him," Nightwing murmured, in a voice like distant waters, "and failed. You wanted to protect him, and failed. You wanted him to stay away from you and not be corrupted; and look at that, you failed."
"Don't get started, asshole. I know I fucked up, but you have no right to stand there and act like this isn't your fault, too."
A ghost-smile played across Nightwing's lips, a moon's sliver gleaming in the dark, eerie and entirely kissable.
"My fault?"
"You, yes, your fault." Jason jabbed a finger towards Nightwing, both wishing he was close enough to get him straight in the chest; and knowing that if he were that close, harmless poking wouldn't be enough to assuage his anger. He felt trapped. Cornered, like a beast; hurt and ready to lash out.
"He's supposed to love you, you fucking piece of shit. You are the golden child. His perfect hero. His precious Robin," he spat. "But look at that, the kid went and chose me. Me. The family's black sheep. The failure. The psycho. Tell me, what does that say of you, if Tim would rather have the one that's not right in the head- the blood-thirsty fucking Demon- than you?"
"Why do you always have to pick on yourself?" Tim's voice was sudden, like thunder. And like thunder, it filled the air around them, it echoed through Jason's chest as if it were hollow, and it was odd, because that voice was anything but powerful; rather, it was small and almost threadbare, suspended in the dark like a ghost of itself, flickering lying dying candlelight.
Jason felt a tug on his hand. Once, twice. He whipped his head down and sideways, and there stood Tim, a tiny child, decked with Jason's own Robin costume. The vest dwarfed him, and it was shredded and bloodied and coated with ashes. The trailing cape was torn, gauntlets and boots were caked with fluids.
Tim's little chin was trembling tearfully, the domino mask held askance, ripped in such a way that a wide blue eye showed through, bright and teary, a pool of blue light in the dark.
"Why do you have to be so mean, Jason?" he whispered. And then, as if it could somehow redeem Jason in Jason's own eyes: "I love you."
If Jason had had any doubt this was a dream, it was gone now. A whine tore itself from his throat, and he fell onto his knees, clasped Tim to his own chest, clung on tight, big palms spread on the trembling back, feeling the little heart beat like a caged bird through the ruined fabric.
Tim burrowed into him, warm and soft, his plump arms circling Jason's neck. His breath fanned hot and shy against Jason's skin as he tucked his face under Jason's chin, trembling little fists grasping tightly onto the hair at the back of his nape.
"I love you," Tim said again, like a plea. "Why can't you love me, too?"
His scent was warm and sweet, baby-scent and coffee and lemon and Alfred's scones and night-breeze when Jason burrowed right back onto him.
"Because it's wrong, baby." Jason rocked him, crooned low and soft, swaying to and fro. "I'm wrong."
Tim pulled back, and he was not a child anymore, but a young man, naked and pliant against Jason's chest, scars and skin stretched over sinewy muscle, budding nipples pebbling as they chafed against Jason's shirt. His eyes were dark and determined, glinting like onyx. His mouth was a down-turned bow of the palest pink.
"But I want you," Tim whispered, low and sultry. "And you want me." Hands slid under Jason's shirt, "You want me," they chased shivers against his bare skin, as Tim declared a third time, like a charm, like a curse: "You want me."
Jason cupped Tim's cheek, leaned close to breath him in, breath the scent of lemon and sweets (home) and Kevlar and sweat (the mission) and soap and salt and sex (Tim).
"I do," he admitted at last. "Want you. Need you."
"Then have me."
The unspoken words from the warehouse, and just like that, flickering firelight was around them, smoke burning down his throat, his nostrils, and a multitude of eyes were needling them, spearing them, nasty eyes, beast eyes, judgemental and terrified, and the shadow of the Bat loomed upon them, and Nightwing was perched like a bird of prey on his right shoulder and Jason had no fear for himself, but Robin – Tim – Robin was his own to protect, he'd always been, so Jason shook his head, slowly and deliberately, and said: "No," like a sentence.
The sensuous thing that looked like Tim licked his lips, stretched against Jason's chest, needy for him.
"Why?"
"Because now matter how you may wish to, you can't change me."
Tim's chest heaved quicker and quicker still, the flush of arousal spreading across his face, down his neck, where the scar stretched white like a sliver of glass.
"Jason..."
"And no matter how wrong I came back from the grave... I don't want to change you."
He caught the flash of surprise across Tim's wounded gaze. Realization, perhaps. That Jason's love was as real as his own, but belonged to the odious sort that kills itself just to keep the beloved safe, and knows no other comfort than its own, cold self-sacrifice.
The surprised frown on Tim's lips was slipping, and a different kind of expression was dawning in its place, a tremulous smile, a Tim smile, insecure but warm with hope. Yet, before it could form, before the hurt and challenge and lust could shift into hopeful joy in those wide blue eyes, the body in Jason's arms was changing again, turning into a pillar of salt, a pillar that creaked through and splintered and fell, piece by piece, crumbling into fine dust, until Jason's arms were holding nothing but himself. Himself and a tattered yellow cape and the hint of tears and blood and a heart he was not worthy to touch, but belonged to him, anyway.
Jason woke up screaming.