Prompt Post - Part Seven [CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS]
THIS PART IS NOW CLOSED. YOU CAN CONTINUE POSTING FILLS, BUT PLEASE PROMPT ALL NEW THINGS HERE.
Part one here!
Part two here!
Part three here!
Part four here!
Part five here!
Part six here!
Feel free to reprompt posts from parts one, two, three or four in part five once. If you do so, I'd recommend leaving a link to your fill on the original prompt, in ( Read more... )
As it turned out, the .Zip file had been sent to all three, so Clark had read through pages of research and followed the instructions in the body of the e-mail itself, telling him to pass the information along to the team and assign them the task of putting a stop to the villainy detailed therein. Something about Weather Wizard and Wotan and crop failure and ransom-the details were already becoming sketchy in his memory, now that he no longer needed to explain it, and the fact that Robin had also skipped the meeting caused concern. As soon as he’d managed to convince the kids that they’d be able to pull off the mission without him, he’d flown off for Gotham City, and was now hovering silently above stately Wayne Manor.
Coincidences that weren’t coincidences were always a cause for concern, and while Robin skipping a mission was one thing-perhaps Batman thought his skills better utilized elsewhere-Batman skipping the task of assigning it was unheard of.
Superman didn’t bother trying to call again, just focused his senses to zero in on the manor, listening for any of the four voices that now occupied the house. He did have to suppress a smile at the thought of the newest one, the child Talia al Ghul had kept secret and Batman and Robin had forcefully reclaimed the instant they knew of him. Neither Bruce nor Dick talked much about him, which was their way, Clark knew, but the silence seemed tenser than usual, and with the two of them shirking League and team responsibilities, his curiosity was gaining strength equal to his own.
He supposed it was stress; having to fit a new person into their carefully ordered lives, lives that barely had time for their own selves, would be stressful to anyone, and while Superman admired Batman’s compassion for children, the care that left him unable to do anything but his very best to correct whatever troubled them, a good knock to the ego probably served him right. He couldn’t fix everything, he couldn’t make everything right, and he couldn’t please everyone. He couldn’t force a relationship where one did not exist, and Superman would not have been the slightest bit surprised if the boy rebelled at having been forcefully separated from his mother, villainess or not.
He craned his neck, suddenly, as a whispery sigh caught his ear. Concentrating, he flew in that general direction, hoping to pick up-
“-ll bleeding?” he heard Bruce ask, in the less-harsh voice he saved for Dick when they were off duty. Superman squinted, activating his X-ray vision, and followed the voice to the Batcave.
Dick was slumped against the side of the staircase, wearing sweatpants and no shirt, with what looked like a child-sized Superman pillowcase (and in spite of the use it was being called to, Superman couldn’t help feeling flattered) pressed against his bicep. Dick looked up-he’d been the one to sigh-when Bruce spoke, and half-smiled, half-grimaced.
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“I don’t care about your sleeves. I’m about to get Alfred down here to give you stitches.”
“Alfred was about to suggest that himself,” the butler affirmed, coming down the stairs with a covered dish and a pitcher of milk on a tray. “While my assessment of your bedroom suggests that you have not lost enough blood to be in any danger for your life, I find it hard to believe you’re as all right as you say you are.”
“Oh my God,” Dick muttered. “You guys are acting like I’ve never been stabbed before.”
Bruce was pacing around the staircase, stalking like a tiger, and Dick and Alfred’s eyes followed him warily. His hands were folded tensely behind his back, fisted there as if he was afraid of what he’d do with them.
After a long moment, he brought one fist around to knead his forehead.
“You’ll understand,” he began, tone drier than most Saharan summers, “if I’m a little more on-edge about this particular stabbing.”
The Boy Wonder shrugged his good shoulder. “It was my own fault,” he said calmly. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”
The crash of Bruce’s fist into the solid rock wall caused Dick to jump and Alfred to steady the pitcher, while Clark winced at the sound of the bats shrieking in protest. A swarm of them took off into the Gotham night, while Bruce paused to assess the damage he’d done and see if he’d compromised the structural integrity of his lair.
With a frustrated growl, he turned back to Dick’s wide-eyed look, and Alfred’s carefully neutral gaze.
“Think about how that sounds, for just a second,” Bruce said, low and quiet. “You shouldn’t have fallen asleep, in your own home, in your own room, in your own bed, because my son was never taught how to deal with a conflict without stabbing someone.” He bit out a sharp, unhappy laugh. “It’s ridiculous.”
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“He doesn’t think it should be my home, I guess.”
“This is your home as long as you want it to be,” Bruce said, permitting no room for argument. “I’m not going back on that. Either Damian accepts it or he doesn’t, but like hell am I letting him run you out. That just isn’t-“ He sounded exasperated. “What have Talia and Ra’s been doing to him?”
“My-sincerest apologies, sir,” Alfred said slowly, uncovering the dish he’d brought in. It was a cereal bowl, Clark realized, with a linen-wrapped spoon next to it and filled with Dick’s favorite sugar-saturated nightmare. The one Alfred and Bruce categorically refused to buy, unless his birthday was less than a month away, because there was enough refined sugar there to choke a horse. He set it down on the step nearest Dick’s good hand and poured the milk before continuing.
“I was the one who mentioned to Master Damian, late last week, that your room had been Master Bruce’s before he moved to the master suite.” He turned back to Bruce, as he took the pillowcase from Dick and handed him the spoon. “I hadn’t realized you’d used the fact that his bedroom is closer to yours as leverage.”
“Crocky Crunch at quarter to eleven,” Dick observed, taking a bite. “You really do feel guilty.”
“Enjoy it, sir; I told myself I’d only do this if you were ill or dying, and even then, only once.”
Bruce massaged his forehead again. “It’s all right. I should have mentioned that to you both. We’re going to need to lay down an actual strategy for this, aren’t we?”
“If you’ll forgive me, sir, I’m not sure there is a strategy for curing sociopaths,” Alfred said witheringly.
“Except,” Dick interjected, “as we all know, children can’t be diagnosed as sociopaths according to the American Psychiatric Association. He’s eight, and barely just. Whatever’s wrong with him, I think it’s learned. I mean, Talia and Bruce just so happen to have a sociopath?” He shook his head. “I think this is nurture-or lack of-not nature. Children are cruel. Empathy and morality are things your parents teach you, and even if he’s never been told as much, observing Talia and Ra’s has taught him that it is totally acceptable to dispose of a rival by murdering them in their sleep.”
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Thanks for this awesome fill!
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Sick was a good word to describe what he was feeling, though frustratingly vague. He’d wanted Bruce to get knocked off his high horse, yes, but he’d never wanted anyone actually hurt. He’d wanted Bruce to be wrong for once, he’d wanted to be the moral paragon counterpoint to the Dark Knight that everyone thought he was, and while Superman was not stupid enough to believe that just wanting those things had caused them to become warped, and then, suddenly, real-well, coincidences that are not coincidences are never good news.
It wasn’t like Robin had never been stabbed before-that much was true. But he was usually Robin at the time, on the streets, doing his job. Wayne Manor was one of the most secured homes in the country; Bruce was rich enough to afford the best protection money could buy, and he’d bought it. Improved upon it, even. Home should have been the single safest place for an orphaned boy, and even if it wasn’t, Dick was probably among the top fifty martial artists on the planet. Certainly among the top five in the city. Should have been able to protect himself, but what, really, could you do against a child without breaking every superhero’s moral code? Harming children was a particularly grave sin in Batman and Robin’s eyes, and while it was normal to be infuriated by that, the deeper anger it invoked in the two of them was something Superman chalked up to the fact that they’d both been young children at the critical juncture of their lives-the deaths of their parents.
Very nearly his entirely family, in Dick’s case.
Unstoppable force hit not just an immovable object here. It was flat-out an entire brick wall. Superman could imagine the mental anguish the situation would have caused Bruce; he was very glad not to be a Martian then, and have to block Bruce’s thoughts from his mind. The terse message from earlier sounded even harsher in his memory. How had Bruce found the time to zip the documents and send the e-mails when he might not have known whether or not Dick-the child he’d raised since the age of nine-was bleeding to death?
Killed, no less, by the son he never knew he had? It was Cain and Abel between a seven-year-old and a sixteen-year-old. It was ridiculous.
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“Whatever. I have this thing that takes up a lot of my time, y’know?”
“A life?” Bruce deadpanned, cutting him off. “No points for repeat jokes. You’re losing your touch.”
He was kneeling next to Dick now, holding the pillowcase to the wound while Alfred continued his duties elsewhere in the house. And also, presumably, kept an eye on the child sleeping in Dick’s room.
“No, I’m losing blood,” Dick retorted, pushing the last few pieces of soggy cereal around the bowl. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”
“So long as it isn’t your life,” Bruce said wryly. “Might need that later.”
Dick was grinning, and it was so, so out of place. While the fact that he’d been stabbed, apparently with lethal intent, by a seven-year-old was currently the most terrifying and sickening concept Clark could conceive of, his calmness, even cheerfulness, in the face of it was a close second.
“I dunno, you do okay without one.”
Bruce cracked a smile at that, and gently, very gently, rapped Dick on the head with his free hand. “If it wasn’t funny the first time, what makes you think now would be any different?”
Dick leaned into Bruce’s hand when it steadied. “Dude, no one asked you. No one in their right mind would.”
Wisely choosing not to dignify that with a response, Bruce pulled away the pillowcase to inspect the wound. Stretching his telescopic vision to the limit, Clark could see that the long, thin thread of bright-red tracked from Dick’s shoulder, roughly parallel to his clavicle, down halfway to his elbow.
“It’s stopped,” Bruce said unnecessarily. “So long as you don’t strain it, I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”
“Yay.”
“Which means,” he went on, as if Dick had never spoken, “First thing tomorrow morning, I’m calling Leslie. I’ll let her make the final call, but I know for a fact that you can’t go a week without hanging from something.”
Dick snorted. “I still can’t strain the stitches. And it’s already been three nights since we’ve hit the town, so to speak. Artemis and Catwoman have been picking up the slack, but Cat’s not got the… silhouette for intimidation, not like Batman.”
“I know,” he sighed. It was alarming how tired Bruce sounded. “After this, though, I’m even more worried about leaving him alone with Alfred.”
Dick’s nose crinkled in thought, and he leaned more towards Bruce.
“He’s not gonna kill the help,” Dick said slowly. “I mean, first of all, the butler’s the perfect fall guy--”
“Dick.”
“Second of all, and more importantly, though-servants are beneath his notice. I mean, we might treat Alfred like family. But he won’t see that, and Alfred still maintains the professional protocol, he won’t address either one of us without the ‘Master’ on the front, not even at gunpoint.”
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I really like your take on Superman--exactly what I was looking for. I also like the repetition of "coincidences that aren't coincidences." And Alfred with the cereal! I LOVE it. I also love how Robin is the one coming to Dami's defense, even though he was the one that got stabbed. Can't help but wonder, where is the little hellion in all of this?
Great work! I look forward to the next part!
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I will say, though, that Rob's not coming to Damian's defense so much as he's rationalizing his behavior. I think Dick ultimately has it in his heart to forgive this, because Damian's pretty much been raised on brainwashing with a side of propaganda, but his main motive so far is keeping Bruce from being consumed with guilt. Because this situation is seriously the best thing ever from Bruce's POV-- the son he adopted to give a safe haven to is nearly killed by the biological son he's trying to rescue from that kind of darkness. Pretty much any logical action (like, you know, saving his life) is going to be interpreted by Damian as favoritism towards Dick.
The little hellion is sleeping in Dick's room, which Bruce is going to deal with before the night ends.
I'm so glad you're enjoying the fill, and I only hope the rest of it remains worthy! Sorry for the babble here >D
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And I totally see what you're saying about Dick. And I like how you say that "Pretty much any logical action (like, you know, saving his life) is going to be interpreted by Damian as favoritism towards Dick." It's funny, because it's true. (Also tragic, because it's true.)
I find it odd that he's sleeping and that he's sleeping in Dick's room. I will put my faith in you, Writer!Anon and see how you proceed :D!
Will now go read the next bit and comment accordingly! Cheerio!
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The cheerfulness cracked slightly, when Dick tried to grin for Bruce again. “Maybe I should go stay with Uncle Richie for a bit. I mean, he’s always after me about how little time we spend together, and lately he’s actually been kinda right.” Gaining steam, he kept going, straying dangerously close to babbling: “Or if that doesn’t work, Mr. Haly’ll hire me back for the summer. Miranda told me they’re touring the East coast ‘til school starts again, so with the zeta beams, I’ll still be super convenient for home and the Cave. I kinda miss having an audience, y’know? Nothing like getting paid for positive attention.”
There was a long as silence as Bruce looked down at the pillowcase. He looked like an aging Atlas; if Clark concentrated, he could pick out a few fine lines forming between his eyes. Bruce had already spent most of his life courting serious forehead wrinkles, but the sheer depth and magnitude of the frown he gave Dick when he finally looked up was enough that Clark doubted his ability to turn it off.
This was the coolest customer in the superhero business, Clark thought. Batman was normally difficult to read. Clark was good at it, Diana was slightly better, and Dick didn’t have to read him; he tended to just know. Batman was an enigma, a mystery, a force of justice and the hammer of God striking swift and silent from the deepest umbra. It was all a carefully constructed image, one Clark had never known to waver. Oh, he’d seen windows open, here and there, but windows didn’t open of their own accord. The castle walls weren’t any less thick just because the occupant needed a bit of light and fresh air.
It was strange and compelling to watch now, and troubling, too, because Clark was distinctly aware that Bruce and Dick had no idea he was there. This was the worst sort of abuse of his powers-intrusive, invasive, and voyeuristic-his intentions were altruistic, admittedly. That was maybe half a point in Clark’s favor. He’d been worried about his friends, but this was exactly the reason Batman and Robin would disdain superpowers even they could have them. Humans were not supposed to be able to do this, to wait outside, unseen, undetected, listening and watching like a family’s inner workings were simple entertainment. Even the government generally needed peer approval and a court order to do this.
Clark could console himself with the fact that he wasn’t a Martian (yet again), that he was still plainly visible if only you looked up, and that he was still not privy to what exactly was passing within the two agile minds. He could, if he tried, focus his X-ray and microscopic vision on the firing synapses and the bright-red blood cells that ferried fresh oxygen from the heart and lungs back into the gray matter, but the thoughts themselves were invisible.
This was only the coldest of comforts when one remembered that Dick and Alfred were the two people that Bruce felt safest with, the two people he’d be most likely to confide in. Clark could tell himself that he wasn’t reading Bruce’s mind, and that made it okay-but nothing could change the fact that he was spying and eavesdropping on a conversation with one of the few people Bruce wasn’t afraid to share his inner thoughts with-indeed, one of the few people who didn’t really need him to share those thoughts; Dick’s peculiar gift was to get Bruce.
“Thank you,” Bruce said, voice low enough that Clark had to strain to catch it, “for mentioning your uncle and Jack Haly, instead of one of your friends or something. It makes me feel a little less terrible about you not feeling welcome at home.”
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(Discounting, of course, the times where he was simply refusing to understand his older son, stifling, old-fashioned, and all the other things teenagers said about their parents.)
“Well, head’s up that I’ll probably still crash with Artemis for a week.” He nodded towards his injury. “Her I can explain a stab would to. Uncle R., not so much.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” Bruce began, to which Dick’s eyes flashed a protest. Clark remembered that look from one of his earliest conversations with the young Robin. He’d given it alongside an impassioned and absolute declaration that joining the fight had been his own desire.
“And I mean this particular stab wound, before you start telling me off for doubting you. The one my son inflicted.”
“It isn’t your fault,” Dick said, drawing out the final vowels in a kind of singsong that suggested he’d been saying as much for quite a while now and was desperate to break up the monotony.
“Should never have believed Talia when she told me she’d miscarried,” he continued, and Clark’s chest constricted, because Bruce’s voice shook the slightest bit on that final word. It was barely perceptible to one who wasn’t on high alert for mood shifts, but it was clear as day to Clark and sharp as a gunshot to Dick, if the speed with which he reached out and grabbed his father’s wrist was any indication.
He squeezed. “You couldn’t exactly call her a liar to her face, either. Too much of a risk, especially if she had gone through something like that. It just would have been cruel, and that’s not who you are.”
“I didn’t see Talia for over a year afterwards,” Bruce argued. “Nearly two. I found out around the sixth week, and she told me it had ended right at the start of the tenth. Why else would Ra’s hide her, if he wasn’t letting her rest, recover, and take care of the baby? She’s one of the greatest advantages over me that he has, especially if I’m overwhelmed by the fact that she’d just lost my child. I should have realized then that she’d lied and that something was wrong.”
“So you’re going to beat yourself up because the World’s Greatest Detective isn’t the World’s Most Perfect, Nearly Psychic, and Hyperaware Knower-of-All-Things?” Dick demanded. “Give me a break, Bruce.”
“’Knower’ isn’t a word.”
“Yeah, I put that in there so you’d have something negative and not related to the topic at hand to say afterwards.”
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