It seems like all i'm doing is waiting for Bruce to die. I know that sounds terrible but there isn't anything else in my life worth waiting for right now. It's not that I want Bruce to die-- maybe i just want Batman to die so I can grieve and take over. At least that'd give me something to do. They're all gone, you see. Barbara's... well... Barbara. She doesn't speak to me like we were ever lovers (though we technically weren't), not that she ever would've anyway. She's a machine. she's partially broken. she's the Oracle-- nothing else to say. Kory's a million miles away-- literally. Tempest's in the deep dark blue somewhere, and Arsenal's probably off shooting up heroin. Okay that was a bit harsh, I take it back. Not a Titan, not an Outsider, not a Leaguer. For the first time in a long time, i have nobody. Even he's gone. He's been gone for months. No goodbye, no suicide note, not anything. I should've expected that. The iron burns my fingertips as i wedge the hot metal into my shirt, alieviating it of folds. I wish I could take the iron to my head and smooth out the creases in my forehead. What am I preparing for? I have no plans for the night other than a date with the scum of Bludhaven. They don't care what I'm wearing, some of them still refer to me as Batman. That always puts a sneer upon my lips and an extra hard roundhouse to their faces. These days there's little more to me than Nightwing. Dick Grayson--Dick who? Gone, consumed by a pupil-less mask, surrendered to the shadows.
It's quiet tonight. Perhaps that's just because the buzzing in my skull has subsided. I am blank, motionless, thoughtless. Bruce'd be proud. Barb—I mean Oracle told me Tim had gotten back a few days ago. A few days? He hadn't told me, hadn't called, yet Barbara knew. I didn't ask her if he'd told her or if she simply knew. Barbara knew everything. Oracle. Oracle, I mean. Tim and I used to be brothers but I don't know what we are now. Estranged cousins? My mind wanders back to that night, to the "incident" and how he'd slept in my arms so comfortably, filling every crevice up so nicely and with such warmth I was moved almost to tears. Then the cold sensation of waking up alone. He'd gotten the Batman exit down nicely, I should tell him that whenever I see him again.
Of course her information was reliable, I chided myself. If Barbara says he's back, then it must be true. I didn't have to see for myself, but the stubborn curiosity within me urged me to hop from rooftop to rooftop. I sneered when I saw him, seeing the mask plastered upon his regardlessly emotionless face, knowing he'd resumed his position here as though nothing had changed. As though months were days. And still I trailed him, careful to cloak myself, staying out of sight yet lingering close to him the entire route to his apartment. Then I should've just turned around and swung back but I didn't. I stayed to watch the soft rise and fall of his breath as he slept, seeing the dragon of his spine curve and muscle clench as he twisted in sleep. I'm thrown from my thoughts by the irritating buzzing that is my phone on vibrate. I looked around for a moment, bewildered, wondering what it was. Phone. It kept ringing, once, twice, three times, and I just stared. When the phone rings, you are supposed to answer it. IT means somebody's on the other line. Somebody took the time to pick up the hunk of plastic and metal and called /me/ thought of me, taken the risk of getting a tumor from the radio waves to hear my scratchy voice. It's been so long since I've had a conversation with somebody that I'd forgotten what it sounded like. I pick it up, not bothering to screen the call.
"Hello?" my voice is uncertain.
"Hey, is this a bad time?" I froze. My breath got caught in my throat as neurotransmitters flooded my brain and identified the voice on the other end as one hidden within the recesses of my mind. I hadn't heard from him in two months, two days. Tim. I realize my right hand has started quivering, something that hasn't happened since my parent's funeral. What do I say? Suddenly my shirt is very itchy and it's hot in this room. I tug at my collar uncomfortably, feeling suddenly as though I can't breathe and panic floods my body, momentarily breaking through the dam that is my logic. I fear that I'll suffocate for a half a second and just as suddenly the feeling is gone. We haven't even gotten into a conversation yet, I remind myself.
"N-no. of course not." My dry voice cracks a bit and I clear my throat. "What's going on?" stupid question.
"I've been gone so long I was beginning to think I'd never get back!" He let out a small animalistic noise that almost pulled a smile from my crumbling face. Cheeriness was never his strong point, what was he trying to pull here?
"Yeah, neither did I." My voice was tainted with bitterness and the sullen emptiness I'd felt for so long.
"Listen, I can tell it's a bad time. I should get going." He is a deer in headlights and for a moment I relish having control once more. I weigh the options: ask him to stay, tell him to leave. Tell him I'm going to leave and be alone once more. But I had my pride. It wasn't as prominent or as troublesome and Tim or Bruce's pride, but it reared its scaled head every now and then. My mind screamed: He doesn't care about you! Friends inform each other of such drastic movements. Brothers are aware when one leaves, brothers worry. Lovers… well I won't go there. Lovers. I scoff and the scorn of my own tongue sears the inside of my mouth. "Dick, I love you…" But you left me, Timmy. Is that how to treat the people you love? Or do you think it's okay because they all end up dead anyway? I scoff again. Love? Do I love you? Of course I do, I always have. You're the spitting image of the Devil and I, of Bruce and your father, of youth and regret. Love… love means you care. You don't care, Tim! I still didn't know what to say.
"Yes, okay, as you wish. I'll speak to you later then." My voice barely registers as my own.
"A lot happened to me. Sometimes I wonder if anybody can understand what it's like to be the teen-wonder—having people try to hit you and your partner for cold cash, your cowled boss finding out you've been lying to him, then getting drafted into the military—jeez it's like my life is just so hectic I don't get time for the important things." Angry creeps into his voice. It was unusual for him to lose control like that. But he hadn't left yet—that was a good sign. I stagger slightly, hurt, glad he can't see me. Sarcasm ran from his veins to mine.
"If anybody can understand, it's me." Keep your cool, Dick. This doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things where we all end up dead anyway. "I'm glad you're alright." Genuine emotion. Truth. Neutrality. I bite my lip to keep the emotions pressing threateningly against my tongue from spilling out.
"Tell me why you're not all right." His voice is soft with concern he's trying to keep from creeping into his voice. Despite all its cracks and rough edges, there was honey to the way he sounded and I let myself bathe in it for a moment before snapping back to reality from that warm pool of blackness.
"Who said I wasn't alright?" Cheery chirpy Dick. We can forget anything ever happened… before and after he left. Up to this point. It wasn't my business anyway. He'd prefer it that way, I'm sure. What was he trying to protect me from with that soft voice of his? Tim is deceptive. He hides his softness between his angular bones and his sharp, clinical words but I know its there and I long to reach out for it. "I'm fine, little brother."
"Dick, have you ever considered counseling?" Frown lines write themselves upon my forehead like an Etch-A-Sketch. What was he implying? Wounded and insulted, my words hobbled to my lips.
"Excuse me?"
"Oh crap. Dick, my kitchen is on fire! I'll have to call you back." Then the sound of the dial tone. Beep. Flat line. The line is dead; boy no longer wishes to speak to you. Boy came up with lamest excuse on planet. I laugh bitterly. Maybe his kitchen really was on fire… I reluctantly fight the screaming from my gut and give him the benefit of the doubt. Counseling.. The boy thought I was insane. He didn't understand me at all. My heart sank to my stomach. I have been disowned by the bat family. None of them understand me. Maybe Stephanie could've—she was silly and unsubstantial but at least she had feelings. I know Tim has feelings but he chooses to repress them. Counseling… I am not insane. Am I? I jump and dart to the mirror, making sure my eyes were both there, both the same color. Pale, melancholy blue. My irises looked starved, pupils wont for light. I ignored them and put on my suit, right down to the escrima sticks on my back and headed out into the night, letting the cold biting air rush past me as I fell free, the dark spot of the sky erasing any bitter memories as blood pounded in my ears, drowning out my thoughts.
I am a stag. No, I'm the ghost of a stag floating gracefully from rooftop to rooftop, surveying the streets below for trouble. Quiet, dirty alleys and lovers on park benches meet my whitened eyes. There are two men on the docks harassing a petite brunette. She is so slight and slender that I wonder for a moment if she will blow away in the breeze and the man grabbing her arm is just grounding her. I shake my head and jump down to the salt-soaked wood, concern and disgust written upon my features. The two men sneered and saw me, mistaking me for Batman once more. They were rewarded with two swift blows to the gut and large stinging slaps across the face from the escrimas. Everything was in slow motion as I relished the sound of bone crunching, yielding to metal and wood, and the mixture of horror and gratefulness on the woman's face as I delivered a final kick to the assailants' chests and sailed back up onto my former watchful perch. Again I moved along the city, keenly aware that somebody was trailing me and had been for a while. I was biding my time, waiting for them to make a move, longing to crush their windpipe. I was in the mood for confrontation.
I land on a rooftop, silently, as Bruce had taught me, and consider going home for the night, but I know I can't abandon my patrol. The previous encounter had gotten my blood pumping sweet and thick through my veins. I could still smell the putrid stench of the two men and I growled. The mysterious shadow had decided to join me on the rooftop then. I tensed and waited. He crept closer, I could hear him breathing. Just a step further… My hand darted out and seized him by the throat, each delicate bone circling his trachea, threatening to rout it. He let out a small startled noise. I faltered a bit and let go, moonlight illuminating his form. Tim? I squinted.
"Nightwing, let me apologize for my previous mistakes." He stumbled back and found his voice. In the glow of the sky, I could see his soft skin, the dent of his cupid's bow before it gave rise to his slightly chapped lips. I looked him over, checking briefly for any new scars that may've been visible but thankfully there weren't any. His apology was so… unfamiliar. Robotic. I fought the urge to laugh.
"Tim...?" My voice was soft, barely audible, small and questioning. My hand reached out slowly toward his erect form, touching the air where he'd been moments ago before pulling back. I just wanted to make sure he was really there. To my complete shock, he didn't say anything but seemed to fall forward. I was afraid he'd been shot from behind until his arms blasted out and snaked themselves around my waist, pressing me against the warmth of him. The wind caught his cape and it wrapped itself around the both of us. It felt almost as though he were trying to suck some small fragment or life or forgiveness or… something from me as he held on as though he really were bleeding to death. My hands went instinctively and helplessly to his back, caressing the smooth strong muscle that twisted beneath his skin, my face in his hair. I grew almost dizzy from his scent, muttering a small "Oh" of content and pleasure and warmth.
"I-I missed you, brother." His lips were parted and I peered inside, hoping to gain insight somehow to his insides. All I saw was the cavernous depth of his smooth throat and I could feel his breath on my mouth, warm and eager. My eyebrows drooped in a question: what did he want? His grip around my waist tightened and I smiled despite myself.
"I missed you too, Timothy." I tried to keep pull him even closer if that was possible, pulling the tangle of our bodies to tightly together that we almost seemed to fuse and that was what I wanted, to be part of somebody and breathe a sigh of relief and content. To be part of Tim. Our arms are the same arms, our blood is the same blood, our hair is the same down to the roots. Brother. My face was inches from his, searching, cursing the white mask that made it impossible to read his actions or thoughts. I worried that he was in some sort of pain. His mouth pressed questioningly and softly to mine, and it was all I could do to keep my knees from buckling. I could feel his lips parting, working themselves over mine as small quick exhales floated from his lungs to mine. I felt the salty trickle of a tear come running into our fused lips. Tim kissing. Tim crying. Tim… And I. Again? My mind couldn't seem to form coherent thoughts as all of my emotions were in sentence fragments. The warmth of his mouth melted from mine and I craved it again. His nose jabbed my shoulder painfully as he hid his face. The gesture was so innocent, so childlike, I bit back a smile. My hands tapered to his chin, pulling him to face me once more. My thumb wiped the streaks of fluid from his cheeks gently, slowly, cautiously, the rough pads of my fingers working their way over the intense smoothness of his skin. I allowed my lips to brush his once more, in just the barest of gestures, hoping he would understand the sign of approval. I felt the tingle as our bodies collided at that one pressure point, his flesh shivering to me. I wonder if it's due to the cold. His hands collide with my hair and I groan slightly at the loveliness of the sensation.
"The rooftop!" Nightwing—" He called me Nightwing. How… very Tim-esque "We can't do this out here. Someone, something might see know something. Some edge. Some—" I smiled at his paranoia and leaned down to kiss him again, enjoying the feeling of his body melting to mine, and the delicate control I had over him. No, I lied to myself. The illusion of control. This boy could do anything he wanted to me and it'd be okay. My lips brushed his bruisingly, urgently, fire spilling from my veins. My hands remained firmly clasped about him, holding him close, determined to protect him from the whipping wind.