Batman: Gold is just a trick of the light (Dick, Terry)
This is me, biting off more than I can chew again! 8D 8D Recommended listening for this fic: Underworld - Moaner, from the Batman and Robin soundtrack. Around about 2:32 is where I imagine Dick starting to run really fast and ajlsfkjaslkfj okay stopping here.
Companion drabble-arc other-side-of-the-AU thing to the Counting Down The Hours drabble-arc-thing. Titles stolen from Ted Leo once more, for even greater justice!
Gold is just a trick of the light
Fandom: Batman/Batman Beyond
Characters: Dick, Terry
Rating: PG
Warnings: Assumes comics!canon for Beyond!canon. Post-RotJ, in some fluffy canonspace.
Summary: You're not - allowed - to be a junkie when you - belong - to this - family, but -
1213 words and I have no idea where I am going with this except that there will be grief and a lot of terror and oh god, I am so sorry, DC.
Not allowed -- You're not - allowed - to be a junkie when you - belong - to this - family, but if you keep running fast enough - you - start to hit - a kind of terminal - velocity that brings you to this kind of - adrenaline high - pure enough to put - coke to shame - and -
(He's never going to tell anyone this, but anyone who knows him has probably already guessed by now.)
- it's the faith that - goes with - the leap and then - the crash of concrete onto the padded tips of his fingers, flex and roll with it so his palms come down next, grit nothing next to the feel of his hips rising hard over his head, and a push off that would've torn fingernails from cuticle were it not for the suit and then up again, a hundred feet in the air and the de-cel rope trailing after him like an errant leash.
Dick breathes in with the city, watches Gotham underneath him like an old friend and lover. Tim is to the southeast, heading for the Narrows and Arkham. Bruce is somewhere, anywhere. Babs is everywhere. The world's ending, and Dick feels fine - feels brilliant, feels like he has a right and reason to be back home, and to run like his nerves are alight, and to just keep running until they fix this. It should bother him how much he isn't really concerned what this is; it's one in a long line of Alexandrias burning to the ground. He's here on campaign, the good soldier in something that is and isn't a war.
That's all Bruce's terminology. Dick is here because he believes, and wants to help.
'B to N,' comes Batman in his ear. 'Singularity developing at P-54.'
That's Robinson Park, two hundred feet below and a moment's work to the left. 'I'm on it,' Dick says, and flings himself outwards and up and
He should really have learned by now. After every crisis and every occasion where physics has failed to hold up, and his friends who really fly, and his associates who don't die, and the Martian, the cyborg, the regularly naked alien princesses -- he should really have learned by now, or at least have been surprised that it's never happened up till now.
The energy hits him like a solid wave and Dick has to fight not to black out. It simply means that he's vaguely conscious enough to see the world shimmer, which he wants very badly to attribute to vertigo but knows enough to attribute to everything else.
When what should have been a forty foot drop turns into a cavernous dive down a new set of skyscrapers and are those cars, they are hovering, because they shouldn't be hovering - 'I hate time travel,' Dick says, and then shifts his concentration onto bigger issues.
His grapple is wasted; whatever happened took him mid-swing. If he plays it right, he might smash into one of those newfangled cars, and break only half the bones in his body. His commlink is a staticky flat line in his left ear.
'Damn,' Dick murmurs under his breath, considering his options as he begins to pick up speed.
He doesn't see so much as feel something grab him under the arms. The world starts dropping away again. Superman is his first thought, but Dick hears his benefactor say, 'New in town, are you?' Clark's never managed to pick up biting sarcasm, for the most part.
He cranes his head back and sees black. There are a lot of things he wants to say in very little time -and a lot of it is inappropriate, emotional and everything that Bruce hates about gut-level responses - but Dick settles for, 'Who are you?', which is the sanest thing he can think of given the circumstances.
The kid - it's a kid, has to be a kid - says, 'Batman,' like he finds the idea that Dick doesn't know who he is pretty funny. 'And now your joyride's over.' He makes to drop Dick off on ground level. Dick has other ideas.
'Not funny,' the kid says when Dick swings his legs up and twists in his hold, latching onto the new-and-very-much-improved suit's shoulders. Dick has to fight to maintain his grip when the kid slams one arm outwards - no way that that's just kevlar - but it shakes him off enough that he gets his balance thrown and the kid gets a good look at just exactly what he's wearing.
The kid's other arm comes right up onto Dick's shoulder, and he's practically growling when he demands, 'Is this your idea of a sick joke?' He looks down at the blue stripe across Dick's chest like it's an ugly scar. His lenses are down and whited out, but if Dick can hear enough anger in his voice to know (feel, believe) that everything's wrong (right). (You don't sound like that unless you have people to protect; you don't sound like that unless you have your back up against a glass memorial case and you're torn between terror and rage and prayer.)
The bat on the kid's chest is red.
'I was thinking the same thing, coincidentally enough,' Dick replies evenly, and then he nervestrikes Batman and is surprised when the hit actually connects.
The kid doesn't crumple - looks like the suit's saved him from major damage - but it stuns him long enough that Dick regains the advantage of speed: he puts a hand on the back of the kid's neck and gropes until he feels the gap between the cowl and the rest of the costume. It's a game of chance to yank hard on it while activating the Nightwing suit's single-charge surge, but Dick shudders through the electricity and the kid doesn't smell like anything roasted --
'Oh god,' Dick swears quietly when he sees the kid's face. And his black hair, and his blue eyes. And god knows what else; god knows. 'Bruce.'
The kid blinks up at him, and then he narrows his eyes. 'I'm not -'
'Sorry,' Dick says.
'Well,' the kid replies, shortly.
'For this,' Dick amends, and slams his fist hard against his temple.
He foists the kid over his shoulder and starts off for the first alley. If one thing hasn't changed, then it looks like Gotham's supply of the dark and dank is one of them. The cowl's on the ground next to them. Dick picks it up, looks straight down at it, and the quiet crackle that's been going Terry! peters out. When he pulls it up close to his ear, Dick hears a voice that is fifty years older than it should be, and ageless. Dick.
Dick stops right there, slightly stupid and vulnerable in all the ways his training's taught him not to be, until a whirring noise makes him look up. A sleek, black, beautiful toy. Just like every other one Bruce has ever designed. The cockpit slides open to admit him before Dick can pat the kid down for a remote.
He gets in, and wonders where he's going, other than - just maybe - straight to hell.
Companion drabble-arc other-side-of-the-AU thing to the Counting Down The Hours drabble-arc-thing. Titles stolen from Ted Leo once more, for even greater justice!
Gold is just a trick of the light
Fandom: Batman/Batman Beyond
Characters: Dick, Terry
Rating: PG
Warnings: Assumes comics!canon for Beyond!canon. Post-RotJ, in some fluffy canonspace.
Summary: You're not - allowed - to be a junkie when you - belong - to this - family, but -
1213 words and I have no idea where I am going with this except that there will be grief and a lot of terror and oh god, I am so sorry, DC.
Not allowed -- You're not - allowed - to be a junkie when you - belong - to this - family, but if you keep running fast enough - you - start to hit - a kind of terminal - velocity that brings you to this kind of - adrenaline high - pure enough to put - coke to shame - and -
(He's never going to tell anyone this, but anyone who knows him has probably already guessed by now.)
- it's the faith that - goes with - the leap and then - the crash of concrete onto the padded tips of his fingers, flex and roll with it so his palms come down next, grit nothing next to the feel of his hips rising hard over his head, and a push off that would've torn fingernails from cuticle were it not for the suit and then up again, a hundred feet in the air and the de-cel rope trailing after him like an errant leash.
Dick breathes in with the city, watches Gotham underneath him like an old friend and lover. Tim is to the southeast, heading for the Narrows and Arkham. Bruce is somewhere, anywhere. Babs is everywhere. The world's ending, and Dick feels fine - feels brilliant, feels like he has a right and reason to be back home, and to run like his nerves are alight, and to just keep running until they fix this. It should bother him how much he isn't really concerned what this is; it's one in a long line of Alexandrias burning to the ground. He's here on campaign, the good soldier in something that is and isn't a war.
That's all Bruce's terminology. Dick is here because he believes, and wants to help.
'B to N,' comes Batman in his ear. 'Singularity developing at P-54.'
That's Robinson Park, two hundred feet below and a moment's work to the left. 'I'm on it,' Dick says, and flings himself outwards and up and
He should really have learned by now. After every crisis and every occasion where physics has failed to hold up, and his friends who really fly, and his associates who don't die, and the Martian, the cyborg, the regularly naked alien princesses -- he should really have learned by now, or at least have been surprised that it's never happened up till now.
The energy hits him like a solid wave and Dick has to fight not to black out. It simply means that he's vaguely conscious enough to see the world shimmer, which he wants very badly to attribute to vertigo but knows enough to attribute to everything else.
When what should have been a forty foot drop turns into a cavernous dive down a new set of skyscrapers and are those cars, they are hovering, because they shouldn't be hovering - 'I hate time travel,' Dick says, and then shifts his concentration onto bigger issues.
His grapple is wasted; whatever happened took him mid-swing. If he plays it right, he might smash into one of those newfangled cars, and break only half the bones in his body. His commlink is a staticky flat line in his left ear.
'Damn,' Dick murmurs under his breath, considering his options as he begins to pick up speed.
He doesn't see so much as feel something grab him under the arms. The world starts dropping away again. Superman is his first thought, but Dick hears his benefactor say, 'New in town, are you?' Clark's never managed to pick up biting sarcasm, for the most part.
He cranes his head back and sees black. There are a lot of things he wants to say in very little time -and a lot of it is inappropriate, emotional and everything that Bruce hates about gut-level responses - but Dick settles for, 'Who are you?', which is the sanest thing he can think of given the circumstances.
The kid - it's a kid, has to be a kid - says, 'Batman,' like he finds the idea that Dick doesn't know who he is pretty funny. 'And now your joyride's over.' He makes to drop Dick off on ground level. Dick has other ideas.
'Not funny,' the kid says when Dick swings his legs up and twists in his hold, latching onto the new-and-very-much-improved suit's shoulders. Dick has to fight to maintain his grip when the kid slams one arm outwards - no way that that's just kevlar - but it shakes him off enough that he gets his balance thrown and the kid gets a good look at just exactly what he's wearing.
The kid's other arm comes right up onto Dick's shoulder, and he's practically growling when he demands, 'Is this your idea of a sick joke?' He looks down at the blue stripe across Dick's chest like it's an ugly scar. His lenses are down and whited out, but if Dick can hear enough anger in his voice to know (feel, believe) that everything's wrong (right). (You don't sound like that unless you have people to protect; you don't sound like that unless you have your back up against a glass memorial case and you're torn between terror and rage and prayer.)
The bat on the kid's chest is red.
'I was thinking the same thing, coincidentally enough,' Dick replies evenly, and then he nervestrikes Batman and is surprised when the hit actually connects.
The kid doesn't crumple - looks like the suit's saved him from major damage - but it stuns him long enough that Dick regains the advantage of speed: he puts a hand on the back of the kid's neck and gropes until he feels the gap between the cowl and the rest of the costume. It's a game of chance to yank hard on it while activating the Nightwing suit's single-charge surge, but Dick shudders through the electricity and the kid doesn't smell like anything roasted --
'Oh god,' Dick swears quietly when he sees the kid's face. And his black hair, and his blue eyes. And god knows what else; god knows. 'Bruce.'
The kid blinks up at him, and then he narrows his eyes. 'I'm not -'
'Sorry,' Dick says.
'Well,' the kid replies, shortly.
'For this,' Dick amends, and slams his fist hard against his temple.
He foists the kid over his shoulder and starts off for the first alley. If one thing hasn't changed, then it looks like Gotham's supply of the dark and dank is one of them. The cowl's on the ground next to them. Dick picks it up, looks straight down at it, and the quiet crackle that's been going Terry! peters out. When he pulls it up close to his ear, Dick hears a voice that is fifty years older than it should be, and ageless. Dick.
Dick stops right there, slightly stupid and vulnerable in all the ways his training's taught him not to be, until a whirring noise makes him look up. A sleek, black, beautiful toy. Just like every other one Bruce has ever designed. The cockpit slides open to admit him before Dick can pat the kid down for a remote.
He gets in, and wonders where he's going, other than - just maybe - straight to hell.