#Elle meanwhile thinking about the Robin cape she has shoved in a closet in new york: B?

[flowerflamestars]

Migration Patterns snippet

Long before Elle was curious enough to go looking, old candle wax the strongest smell in the musty, airless space. Years of it populated the floor, spilled from broken votives, saints peeling faces newer and brighter the further you walked.

Elle breathed it in. Dust and the dead, grave dirt in her mouth just half a dream away.   People left all kinds of things. Notes and lights, messages written on the walls.   Until the very end of the tunnel, bricked over, where someone had painted a boy from Crime Alley, swinging up out of the gloom as though by magic.   “Hey baby Jay,” Elle whispered, palm pressed to edge of a lovingly rendered yellow cape. They’d gotten the shape wrong, but not the size. Too large, bright as traffic light, so heavy, in passing faded memory. “Anyone tell you lately that you grew up right?”   Jason’s kindness that felt so, so safe- nearly impossible to turn down- nearly goddamn impossible to turn away from, even when she knew it was the right thing to do.   For now.   She’d had years and years. To mourn this Jason, Gotham’s own and gone much too soon. Years to know he was alive, he was out there, that soulmates did not meet until it was time- what the fuck was the point of time if you’d already met?   Car keys in her hand. Jason, who’d disappeared without a word and would again, fear like the taste of blood polluting so much sugared heat in her mouth.   Jason, steadfastly trying to find a single offering she’d take- when all Elle had to really go on were the lines he’d drawn, and some strange hope for a someday that was so clearly not today.   “Warden.”   His voice came out of the dark, body to follow. Gotham’s original ghost, haunting his own past, stepping soundless out of the deep shadows to come up on Elle’s right.   She watched as he crouched. Bruce, head ducked, gently rearranging to offerings laid at his dead son’s feet, room left for the half-crushed marigold he pulled from his utility belt. An undented batarang. Three pocket Shakespeares.

Batman was the only one who left books at the wall for Robin, Elle had learned over the years.   It didn’t matter that the street kids stole them. It was, probably, half the reason he always came with more.   He relit every candle that had gone out, before standing.

“I wonder,” Bruce said, slowly, eyes forward, eerie in the flickering light, “If you might reconsider my offer.”

#Gotham mourned the shit out of a dead Robin! #I'm fully convinced of this #he was THEIRS #so much more than the others #Elle having a night #a time #Batman: hey so remember when I found you? #and asked you if you wanted TO BE A VIGILANTE? #the Bruce logic is like: #well Elle IS in danger #she is a part of this family #I can give her the tools to be safer #(I couldn't keep Jason safe. I will never fail another child. I will never fail him again) #Elle meanwhile thinking about the Robin cape she has shoved in a closet in new york: B? #B? Get fucked #it was correctly predicted this is the sad chapter #it had to be! #there was no way it was going to be easy #robin fic #Migration Patterns of Turdidae