Fanfic: Continuum l PG-13 l Jason Todd and Damian Wayne l DC Comics
Title: Continuum
Word Count: 743
Rating: PG-13 for talk of violence and blood.
Original/Fandom: DC Comics; Batman comics.
Pairings (if any): There are none. the characters are Jason Todd (Red Hood) and Damian Wayne (Robin), though.
Warnings (Non-Con/Dub-Con/RPF etc): Mentions of blood, near death of a minor, shameless Alfred fangirling, and I think that’s it.
Summary: Jason saves Damian’s life.
It takes four hours and thirteen minutes for Damian to fall asleep. He’s sucked down in the midst of your pillows and, buried beneath a blanket you stole from Dick’s apartment, because you think if you hear that fatal sentence - ‘I’m so cold’ - you might scream.
There is an unsettling stillness to his body that hadn’t been there before. The entire time he’d been muttering hateful hostility because he thinks the same way you do; that hate will easily mask your vulnerability. The tension slips out of his shoulders. His face slackens. He doesn’t seem to be rigged for detonation at any second anymore.
You sit, tucked into a corner, watching the even rise and fall of his tiny chest. You figure you could probably fit your entire hand - from palm to finger tips - across that chest and still not run out of hand before you run out of chest. You were never that small, that fragile. You died at fourteen and still you were never that young. You hate Bruce for a second, for using this kid, this ten year old baby. You hate Bruce for turning this child into a weapon, and you know how stupid that is. You know he was born a weapon and Bruce only had to light the fuse. You know it’s not Bruce’s fault but you still hate him for it.
The Joker had tried to put a smile on the kid, starting at his throat. You imagine he probably told Damian a story attached to that knife, about how he had been a comedian, except nobody ever laughed at him, and he never really laughed himself. So one day he took a knife and carved a permanent smile on his face, because that was the real joke of the matter. He always had stupid stories like that to tell, stupid stories that weren’t ever real.
You’ve already wondered how long Damian listened before he started punching. The kid had already almost bled out completely by the time you had torn through every single room in that goddamn building in your search for him. You found him in the basement.
He had been sprawled across the dirty concrete, fingers clenching and unclenching around his throat. Like they knew they should apply pressure but finding themselves without the strength to do so. The blood kept slipping and melting through his tiny fingers, turning his hands, his shirt, the floor red.
His pale face creased with panic when you clasped your hands around his, holding them still, tight enough to choke him. It took every strength in every bone in your body to loosen that hold of yours, and then you nearly collapse when you lifted him in your arms; when he didn’t fight you.
You called Batman as soon as you got Damian to your place. Then, frantic, you called Alfred. Told him where he could find the brat, shouted at him to move his ass because the kid couldn’t stay awake forever. His eyelids kept sinking shut like they had anchors attached to them. Alfred didn’t come to take the kid; he came with equipment. He came with blood and bandages and anesthetics and ushered you away with stares and hands, chiding you for not taking the kid to the manor.
You don’t leave the room. You can’t leave the room. You feel glued to the kid, but the stones pressing down on your chest feels like they’ve loosened up a bit and you can finally breathe again. You feel safer with Alfred here. Alfred is a guy who knows what he’s doing. He knows more than everyone and you’ve always known that. He’ll fix this. He always fixes it.
He’s gone now. He didn’t take the kid with him. He didn’t drag the boy back to the cave with him, to wait for Batman - for Bruce - who isn’t even in the country. He left him with you, like Alfred trusts you, and it still leaves you reeling in confusion and anger. How dare he trust you! How dare he put that weight back onto you!
The boy is still in your bed, molding the beaten second-hand mattress to his tiny body. The boy is still there, chest rising and falling. His heart is beating so solidly you think if you hold your breath you might be able to hear it, and for a second there, you hate him too.
Word Count: 743
Rating: PG-13 for talk of violence and blood.
Original/Fandom: DC Comics; Batman comics.
Pairings (if any): There are none. the characters are Jason Todd (Red Hood) and Damian Wayne (Robin), though.
Warnings (Non-Con/Dub-Con/RPF etc): Mentions of blood, near death of a minor, shameless Alfred fangirling, and I think that’s it.
Summary: Jason saves Damian’s life.
It takes four hours and thirteen minutes for Damian to fall asleep. He’s sucked down in the midst of your pillows and, buried beneath a blanket you stole from Dick’s apartment, because you think if you hear that fatal sentence - ‘I’m so cold’ - you might scream.
There is an unsettling stillness to his body that hadn’t been there before. The entire time he’d been muttering hateful hostility because he thinks the same way you do; that hate will easily mask your vulnerability. The tension slips out of his shoulders. His face slackens. He doesn’t seem to be rigged for detonation at any second anymore.
You sit, tucked into a corner, watching the even rise and fall of his tiny chest. You figure you could probably fit your entire hand - from palm to finger tips - across that chest and still not run out of hand before you run out of chest. You were never that small, that fragile. You died at fourteen and still you were never that young. You hate Bruce for a second, for using this kid, this ten year old baby. You hate Bruce for turning this child into a weapon, and you know how stupid that is. You know he was born a weapon and Bruce only had to light the fuse. You know it’s not Bruce’s fault but you still hate him for it.
The Joker had tried to put a smile on the kid, starting at his throat. You imagine he probably told Damian a story attached to that knife, about how he had been a comedian, except nobody ever laughed at him, and he never really laughed himself. So one day he took a knife and carved a permanent smile on his face, because that was the real joke of the matter. He always had stupid stories like that to tell, stupid stories that weren’t ever real.
You’ve already wondered how long Damian listened before he started punching. The kid had already almost bled out completely by the time you had torn through every single room in that goddamn building in your search for him. You found him in the basement.
He had been sprawled across the dirty concrete, fingers clenching and unclenching around his throat. Like they knew they should apply pressure but finding themselves without the strength to do so. The blood kept slipping and melting through his tiny fingers, turning his hands, his shirt, the floor red.
His pale face creased with panic when you clasped your hands around his, holding them still, tight enough to choke him. It took every strength in every bone in your body to loosen that hold of yours, and then you nearly collapse when you lifted him in your arms; when he didn’t fight you.
You called Batman as soon as you got Damian to your place. Then, frantic, you called Alfred. Told him where he could find the brat, shouted at him to move his ass because the kid couldn’t stay awake forever. His eyelids kept sinking shut like they had anchors attached to them. Alfred didn’t come to take the kid; he came with equipment. He came with blood and bandages and anesthetics and ushered you away with stares and hands, chiding you for not taking the kid to the manor.
You don’t leave the room. You can’t leave the room. You feel glued to the kid, but the stones pressing down on your chest feels like they’ve loosened up a bit and you can finally breathe again. You feel safer with Alfred here. Alfred is a guy who knows what he’s doing. He knows more than everyone and you’ve always known that. He’ll fix this. He always fixes it.
He’s gone now. He didn’t take the kid with him. He didn’t drag the boy back to the cave with him, to wait for Batman - for Bruce - who isn’t even in the country. He left him with you, like Alfred trusts you, and it still leaves you reeling in confusion and anger. How dare he trust you! How dare he put that weight back onto you!
The boy is still in your bed, molding the beaten second-hand mattress to his tiny body. The boy is still there, chest rising and falling. His heart is beating so solidly you think if you hold your breath you might be able to hear it, and for a second there, you hate him too.