Fic: But The Game Needed Me: Part I
Title: But The Game Needed Me: Part I
Author: The_protagonist
Fandom: DCU, Tim Drake and Ensemble Cast; Jason’s POV.
Rating: Rated R - Cause Jason has a dirty mouth.
Word Count: ~1,600-ish
Summary: Bruce suffers from what is called Lacunar Amnesia.
Posted in honor ofiesika's birthday, because she loves angst, and I just happened to have some of that lying around.
Huge thanks to glymr for the amazing beta-job and correcting my tenses. :)
This fulfills the 'amnesia' box on my H/C bingo card.
There was no pretense -- the others totally knew he was there; loitering from far away, towards a back exit in the *bunker* and not the *bat-cave*. They knew and they merely allowed his presence there because, well, because this moment wasn’t about him or Dick-fucking-Grayson; or the Pretender... Or that stupid, sour-faced kid that got shot in the spine. No. It wasn’t about hatred and greed and what people fucking took.
It was about a… a miracle. Something Jason thought he didn’t believe in anymore.
It wasn’t a surprising group. Dick was standing there, Batsuit on minus a cowl, arms crossed and pacing… pacing dizzingly on cement floors in front of the wall of LCD monitors. The little kid - the one who had this look of absolute privilege on his face - the new Robin, was leaning against a bag that was chained to the floor and then ceiling, arms crossed in front of the his chest.
He looked annoyed and Jason wanted to cut a look of fear and humility into that face with his favorite knife.
And Alfred just looked tired and older then Jason had ever seen him look. And though his suit was tailored to perfection, like always, Jason could imagine him reaching up to the neck and unbuttoning several small white buttons to loosen the choking sensation around his neck. He could imagine the pressed sleeves rolled up to his forearms and see his hands wring together nervously. Alfred was staring unblinkingly at the entrance to the bunker, the one that led out of a tunnel on the far west side. It was already opened and the cold winter breeze was blowing in ruffling papers and causing chains to clank together in some sort of psalm.
The Pretender, *Drake*, was on a medical cot pushed not too far away from where Dick was pacing. An IV bag was hanging next to him and Jason could just barely make out the white of the tape holding the needle into an almost equally white wrist. Tim wasn’t looking at anything, just sitting there letting his legs swing back and forth over the side of the bed. His legs didn’t reach the floor and he looked smaller than when Jason had last seen him. He wondered what his face looked like… he hadn’t gotten close enough to inspect and Tim hadn’t lifted his head up since Jason sneaked in. It was as if Tim didn’t have the muscle strength to even move.
Oh. He was looking at his watch that was on his other wrist, so thin Jason could snap it without much pressure at all. His feet were swinging to what Jason could only assume perfect intervals of seconds, one swing back and forth, like a pendulum.
Back and forth and back and forth…
Until, Tim froze; tensed up like he was in pain.
And then Jason could see the not-quite flash, more blurred vector of Blue and Red and then Superman was in bunker with them. Not part of the fucking family, he looked too perfect. Shiny and smooth and *Super*. Jason hated him on principle alone, and for so much more than that.
And then he was unfurling his cape and… there. Just. There, Bruce was. Like a fucking Bat-shaped butterfly out of a red, polypropylene cape-cocoon.
*Bruce*.
It was really him. Large, strong back, and his hands clenched in fists at his sides. And Jason wasn’t really sure what the man was fucking wearing, because it was ridiculous, (were those fucking chaps?) but it was Bruce. Alive and breathing, albeit, a little more deeply and quickly than usual, but amendments will be made, because goddammit it was Bruce. And, sure, he was sporting a fucking monster beard, that was only *perfectly* streaked with grey hairs. And Jason wanted to leap out and fucking hug him like he was a teddy bear just as much as he wanted to walk up to him and break his stupid, perfect white teeth. He wondered what kissing the man would be like with that ridiculous beard and once he experienced it whether he would then demand that he shave it right. The fuck. Now. Because it was Bruce. *Alive*.
But. He couldn’t move, and no one else moved, until Bruce was just standing there. Staring at the bunker with predatory eyes that Jason *remembered*. Until, Bruce saw Alfred. And He was striding over to the man and just then Bruce’s strong arms were wrapped around a less strong Alfred and Bruce hid his head into the older man’s shoulder and they were both shaking and Alfred was rocking slowly.
And it felt like Jason should probably look *away*, but he couldn’t. Because Bruce was alive and if he looked away right now, blinked right now, Bruce might be gone again. Dead again.
Jason was having trouble hearing… the bunker didn’t carry sound quite like the cave and he'd stepped into the open. Just in time to see Dick walking up to Bruce and another... absolutely bone crushing hug was given. And this hug just had Dick burying himself in Bruce and the older man held on, rubbing circles into his oldest son's back and being strong. Being Bruce. Which may as well be synonymous for strong.
Dick pulled away, tears on his face, but he was swiping them away and grinning, laugh lines crinkling up at the corners of his eyes. And Bruce, Bruce held him at arms length and then reached forward to trace the bat crest on Dick's chest, let a hand rest over his heart.
And Jason had to look down. Look down and away and clench his fists in frustration because... that could have been him. Should have been him.
When he looked up, he caught Bruce's sharp, blue eyes. And the knot that had been in his throat was swallowed down and he... couldn't stop himself from gulping a breath. He felt like he was knocked back and knocked down with that stare. Jason had to shudder and shake himself alive again. And some perverse, sycophantic part of himself wanted to know how many chances Bruce would give him. How many times he'd forgive.
Just half a moment later, Bruce was nodding at him and turning away, giving Jason his back, which is far more telling then is should be. And Jason felt the thick heat of shame. Something he hadn't felt in... years.
And Bruce was now in front of Damian, the child. And. Damian's eyes were like his father’s. Cold, cold blue; calculating and changing like the seasons. Bruce's eyes as warm as summer, Damian's cool like the last few weeks of fall. And Bruce touched the mask on the boy's eyes and he saw Damian shiver and uncross and recross his arms as Bruce squeezed the kid’s small shoulders and rubbed down his arm.
There had been only a few sentences of words exchanged during these greetings, but Jason couldn't *hear* and he had been creeping closer and closer like one of Ivy's plants, trying to hear - oh, just the rumble of Bruce's voice. He tried reading their lips... the words that got swallowed by the air in the bunker. Lost in the hum of the computer equipment. And he had to get closer. Because Bruce was focused on Dick again. And Dick was still just several feet from Tim, whose eyes were wide and scarred, speaking more clearly than the words that he still couldn't hear.
And he crept closer, now standing in the middle of the room. But no one was paying attention to him. All eyes were on Bruce. As eyes should always always be. As he commanded that attention with just... a shift of his body.
Except the air had turned chilly because Bruce was staring like... a hungry tiger stares at a gazelle. A look of potential violence. The look was absolutely predator. And it wasn’t aimed at him. It was... aimed at Tim.
And the first words that he heard Bruce command out were punctuated in the air, "Dick. Who the hell is that?"
And he watched Tim wilt. Watched as the color drained from his face and his shoulders curled in and slumped down. He saw Tim's big eyes track back and forth over nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
And it was even worse when no one said anything for a pause that ate up time and space. "Bruce. Bruce -- that's *Tim*."
"I don't know a 'Tim', Dick. Why is he here?" Bruce sounded like he was going to *punish* something.
And a... cry? A whimper? Something that sounds like and feels like a punch in the gut, cut through the silence and Tim was off of the cot, retreating back and out of the cave, not giving the family his back, but not making eye contact, either. Just... nearly tripping over himself and running into things as he made his retreat, out of the bunker like a wounded animal.
Dick looked shocked. Alfred and Damian were... sharing some sort of look that communicates confusion and Bruce's eyes were floating past all of them, including his.
And. And Tim might have had the right idea. It was time to make an exit. There was nothing more for him to see here. Nothing at all.
He followed the small trail of blood that The Pretender had made from where he had ripped out the IV needle from his wrist.
Author: The_protagonist
Fandom: DCU, Tim Drake and Ensemble Cast; Jason’s POV.
Rating: Rated R - Cause Jason has a dirty mouth.
Word Count: ~1,600-ish
Summary: Bruce suffers from what is called Lacunar Amnesia.
Posted in honor ofiesika's birthday, because she loves angst, and I just happened to have some of that lying around.
Huge thanks to glymr for the amazing beta-job and correcting my tenses. :)
This fulfills the 'amnesia' box on my H/C bingo card.
There was no pretense -- the others totally knew he was there; loitering from far away, towards a back exit in the *bunker* and not the *bat-cave*. They knew and they merely allowed his presence there because, well, because this moment wasn’t about him or Dick-fucking-Grayson; or the Pretender... Or that stupid, sour-faced kid that got shot in the spine. No. It wasn’t about hatred and greed and what people fucking took.
It was about a… a miracle. Something Jason thought he didn’t believe in anymore.
It wasn’t a surprising group. Dick was standing there, Batsuit on minus a cowl, arms crossed and pacing… pacing dizzingly on cement floors in front of the wall of LCD monitors. The little kid - the one who had this look of absolute privilege on his face - the new Robin, was leaning against a bag that was chained to the floor and then ceiling, arms crossed in front of the his chest.
He looked annoyed and Jason wanted to cut a look of fear and humility into that face with his favorite knife.
And Alfred just looked tired and older then Jason had ever seen him look. And though his suit was tailored to perfection, like always, Jason could imagine him reaching up to the neck and unbuttoning several small white buttons to loosen the choking sensation around his neck. He could imagine the pressed sleeves rolled up to his forearms and see his hands wring together nervously. Alfred was staring unblinkingly at the entrance to the bunker, the one that led out of a tunnel on the far west side. It was already opened and the cold winter breeze was blowing in ruffling papers and causing chains to clank together in some sort of psalm.
The Pretender, *Drake*, was on a medical cot pushed not too far away from where Dick was pacing. An IV bag was hanging next to him and Jason could just barely make out the white of the tape holding the needle into an almost equally white wrist. Tim wasn’t looking at anything, just sitting there letting his legs swing back and forth over the side of the bed. His legs didn’t reach the floor and he looked smaller than when Jason had last seen him. He wondered what his face looked like… he hadn’t gotten close enough to inspect and Tim hadn’t lifted his head up since Jason sneaked in. It was as if Tim didn’t have the muscle strength to even move.
Oh. He was looking at his watch that was on his other wrist, so thin Jason could snap it without much pressure at all. His feet were swinging to what Jason could only assume perfect intervals of seconds, one swing back and forth, like a pendulum.
Back and forth and back and forth…
Until, Tim froze; tensed up like he was in pain.
And then Jason could see the not-quite flash, more blurred vector of Blue and Red and then Superman was in bunker with them. Not part of the fucking family, he looked too perfect. Shiny and smooth and *Super*. Jason hated him on principle alone, and for so much more than that.
And then he was unfurling his cape and… there. Just. There, Bruce was. Like a fucking Bat-shaped butterfly out of a red, polypropylene cape-cocoon.
*Bruce*.
It was really him. Large, strong back, and his hands clenched in fists at his sides. And Jason wasn’t really sure what the man was fucking wearing, because it was ridiculous, (were those fucking chaps?) but it was Bruce. Alive and breathing, albeit, a little more deeply and quickly than usual, but amendments will be made, because goddammit it was Bruce. And, sure, he was sporting a fucking monster beard, that was only *perfectly* streaked with grey hairs. And Jason wanted to leap out and fucking hug him like he was a teddy bear just as much as he wanted to walk up to him and break his stupid, perfect white teeth. He wondered what kissing the man would be like with that ridiculous beard and once he experienced it whether he would then demand that he shave it right. The fuck. Now. Because it was Bruce. *Alive*.
But. He couldn’t move, and no one else moved, until Bruce was just standing there. Staring at the bunker with predatory eyes that Jason *remembered*. Until, Bruce saw Alfred. And He was striding over to the man and just then Bruce’s strong arms were wrapped around a less strong Alfred and Bruce hid his head into the older man’s shoulder and they were both shaking and Alfred was rocking slowly.
And it felt like Jason should probably look *away*, but he couldn’t. Because Bruce was alive and if he looked away right now, blinked right now, Bruce might be gone again. Dead again.
Jason was having trouble hearing… the bunker didn’t carry sound quite like the cave and he'd stepped into the open. Just in time to see Dick walking up to Bruce and another... absolutely bone crushing hug was given. And this hug just had Dick burying himself in Bruce and the older man held on, rubbing circles into his oldest son's back and being strong. Being Bruce. Which may as well be synonymous for strong.
Dick pulled away, tears on his face, but he was swiping them away and grinning, laugh lines crinkling up at the corners of his eyes. And Bruce, Bruce held him at arms length and then reached forward to trace the bat crest on Dick's chest, let a hand rest over his heart.
And Jason had to look down. Look down and away and clench his fists in frustration because... that could have been him. Should have been him.
When he looked up, he caught Bruce's sharp, blue eyes. And the knot that had been in his throat was swallowed down and he... couldn't stop himself from gulping a breath. He felt like he was knocked back and knocked down with that stare. Jason had to shudder and shake himself alive again. And some perverse, sycophantic part of himself wanted to know how many chances Bruce would give him. How many times he'd forgive.
Just half a moment later, Bruce was nodding at him and turning away, giving Jason his back, which is far more telling then is should be. And Jason felt the thick heat of shame. Something he hadn't felt in... years.
And Bruce was now in front of Damian, the child. And. Damian's eyes were like his father’s. Cold, cold blue; calculating and changing like the seasons. Bruce's eyes as warm as summer, Damian's cool like the last few weeks of fall. And Bruce touched the mask on the boy's eyes and he saw Damian shiver and uncross and recross his arms as Bruce squeezed the kid’s small shoulders and rubbed down his arm.
There had been only a few sentences of words exchanged during these greetings, but Jason couldn't *hear* and he had been creeping closer and closer like one of Ivy's plants, trying to hear - oh, just the rumble of Bruce's voice. He tried reading their lips... the words that got swallowed by the air in the bunker. Lost in the hum of the computer equipment. And he had to get closer. Because Bruce was focused on Dick again. And Dick was still just several feet from Tim, whose eyes were wide and scarred, speaking more clearly than the words that he still couldn't hear.
And he crept closer, now standing in the middle of the room. But no one was paying attention to him. All eyes were on Bruce. As eyes should always always be. As he commanded that attention with just... a shift of his body.
Except the air had turned chilly because Bruce was staring like... a hungry tiger stares at a gazelle. A look of potential violence. The look was absolutely predator. And it wasn’t aimed at him. It was... aimed at Tim.
And the first words that he heard Bruce command out were punctuated in the air, "Dick. Who the hell is that?"
And he watched Tim wilt. Watched as the color drained from his face and his shoulders curled in and slumped down. He saw Tim's big eyes track back and forth over nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
And it was even worse when no one said anything for a pause that ate up time and space. "Bruce. Bruce -- that's *Tim*."
"I don't know a 'Tim', Dick. Why is he here?" Bruce sounded like he was going to *punish* something.
And a... cry? A whimper? Something that sounds like and feels like a punch in the gut, cut through the silence and Tim was off of the cot, retreating back and out of the cave, not giving the family his back, but not making eye contact, either. Just... nearly tripping over himself and running into things as he made his retreat, out of the bunker like a wounded animal.
Dick looked shocked. Alfred and Damian were... sharing some sort of look that communicates confusion and Bruce's eyes were floating past all of them, including his.
And. And Tim might have had the right idea. It was time to make an exit. There was nothing more for him to see here. Nothing at all.
He followed the small trail of blood that The Pretender had made from where he had ripped out the IV needle from his wrist.