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jasmines-library · 6 months

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Lazarus Rising

WHUMPTOBER DAY 27: Prompt ‘scars’

Fandom: Batfam

Summary: after an accident takes your life, your brothers manage to find a way to bring you back. But it leaves you with a set of prominent scars that you struggle to come to terms with. But your brothers are there to help you realise that you are beautiful just the way you are.

Warnings: Death, description of wounds and scars, self hate.

Word count: 1.6k

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

It was a nasty accident.

An accident that had cost you your life. Your brothers had raced towards you, trying to haul the debris from the exploded building off of your body, but they were too late. You were dead. Still chest, blank stare, stone cold dead.

For a while, no one dared to move as Bruce cradled your bloody body. Not one of the boys attempted to hide the tears that rolled down their cheeks as you lay there devoid life in a pool of your own blood. The shrapnel had embedded itself if your back, and had sliced into other parts of your skin. You could see from the gash on your hand and on your cheek where you had tried to protect your face in vain.

The sight made Damian queasy and so he was the first to turn away, trying to burry the thought that he would never see the way you smiled with your eyes or simply hear your voice again.

Jason was the last to move. Long After Bruce had hauled your body away and his older brother had tried to pull him away gently by wrapping a strong arm around him. But all he could do was stare blankly at the crimson that stained the ground. It should have been him. He was the one who was supposed to be on patrol that night. But he bunked off and you took his place instead. His stomach knotted, tightening around him like a noose. He promised himself that he was going to find a way to bring you back.

And he did.

He didn’t want to tell his brothers what he was trying to do at first. But they caught on quickly after Jason was unable to hide the dark bags under his eyes any longer and they threatened to tell Bruce if he didn’t let up.

They were hesitant at first, but soon the four of them spent their free time delving into books and research. For a short while, their efforts seemed in vain and there were more frustrated sighs drifting across the room than words. But in one glorious moment, the words finally floated into Jason’s ears.

“The Lazarus pit.” He read from the screen what illuminated his small face in the dark. He had managed to find it after getting in contact with his mother and wracking his brain for something she had accidentally mentioned in passing. Talia was reluctant at first, but with Damian’s charm she was quick to give in. “My mother knows where it is. We can bring y/n back but…”

Tim, who had crowded round his little brother squinted. “But what?”

“She’s not going to be the same. The pit it-

It messes with your mind. And it might not work at all… there’s a time frame.”

Jason shook his head and pulled on his coat. “It’s better than nothing.”

The four of them carried your body gently towards the swirling green liquid. The pit was hidden in some sort of cave that had been dug out into some sort of lab.

“So this is it, huh?” Dick asked as they lay you down gently next to the pit. He could hardly bring himself to look at you. Your beauty was still obscured by the nasty gash that still hadn’t closed. He was so gentle as he manoeuvred your fragile body, as though just his fingers grazing along your cold skin would hurt you.

“Yeah.” Tim sighed.

“Keep your guard up. We don’t know how she’s going to react when she wakes up. She might be scared and confused.” Headed Damian who had practically recited his mother's words after committing them to memory.

There was little else said as they eased your body into the green liquid, watching as you floated just below the surface. It didn’t take long for the chemicals to take effect, stitching your skin back together and bringing more structure back to your bones and more life back to your skin.

Suddenly, you sat up with a gasp, flailing and splashing the substance of the edge of the pool as you dragged yourself out of it. Your clothes clung sticky to your skin. Your eyes were wide and didn’t settle on anything long before they were darting to the next thing and the next after that.

When Tim reached out to you your instincts kicked in, and you gripped his hand to flung him over your shoulder which caused him to let out a grunt as he collided with the stone.

Your mind was racing at a million miles an hour. You were scared. You didn’t know where you were or why every inch of your body was drenched in a dull but persistent ache.

“Y/n?”

You froze calming down for just one brief moment. You knew that voice and its gentle lilt. It was a voice you could picture a face with. Dark haired with stern eyes, but behind the facade was really a gentle boy with a soft spot for his little sister. You turned, tilting your head at the boy.

“Jason?”

You couldn’t bear to glance in the mirror anymore because they were all your gaze could settle on. Pale and spidering the scars crawled up your back and along your neck to your cheek. The pit had worked to some extent and although your mind was seemingly recovering and readjusting, the pit had failed to completely heal your skin, leaving a scar in its wake. Damian said it was something to do with the time scale. Something to do with the fact that the Lazarus put worked better on the dead the shorter they had passed.

You still couldn’t quite come to terms with that word. Dead. It sat in your mind like a weed. No matter how many times you plucked it, it always wormed its way back through the cracks.

For the first few weeks of being back at the manor, you spent a lot of your time trying to cover up the angry lines. The ones on your back were easy enough. You had just resorted to wearing a hoodie. Usually one of the boys’. They gave you a sense of comfort. But after a while, you began to miss wearing your own clothes. You missed being able to express yourself without it feeling wrong. So, there you were, standing in front of your full length mirror in your favorite top, staring at the scar.

There was a soft knock on the door before it peeled open, whining on its hinges and Jason saw you standing there. He couldn’t help the small grin that ebbed onto his lips.

You immediately tried to cover yourself. “Get out.”

“I-“ Jason didn’t want to move. He often feared that it he took his eyes off of you for too long then you would vanish again. Which meant that he was checking in on you much to your dismay. He was so proud of how far you had come in just a few short weeks. “You look beautiful, y/n.”

You recoiled. What? “Jason. Don’t look at them.”

You were about to pull on a hoodie when Damian’s voice peeped round the corner. He had grown impatient and set off with Tim to drag you to movie night. Dick went with them too, unable to shake his worry. Since you came back the four of them were constantly on edge, even if they didn’t care to admit it. “Is she coming or- whoa.”

Tim nearly squealed at the sight of you. “I thought I’d never see that top again.”

Your skin flushed as you sank down onto you bed.

“All of you. Out.”

“Why?” Damian implored.

“Because…I don’t like people looking at them. They’re disgusting.”

“Why the hell would you think that?” Jason was practically outraged at your words.

You couldn’t help it when your eyes brimmed with tears and your voice wavered. “Look at them, Jay!”

“I don’t see anything wrong with them.” Dick shrugged coming to sit next to you. “Do you?”

The rest of your brothers shook their heads.

You gave him a look.

Dick rolled up his top to reveal a long scar along his solar plexus. “Do you see anything wrong with this one?” He asked. Jason then pulled up the hem of his red top and shifted round on the mattress to show you the ones that littered his back. They were pinkish and resembled various different shapes. Or those?”

You shook your head. “No…it’s just. They’re everywhere.”

“So? They’re beautiful y/n. You’re beautiful. Does having a scar make Jason any less of a person that he was before?” Tim asked. You shook your head meekly. “Your scars don’t define you. No matter how much you think they do. You’re still the same gentle girl you were before.”

“Besides,” Damian chimed, “I think they��re really cool. Like lightning.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that thought. Your brothers always had a way of bringing light to a dark situation. It was just something that they did; they helped without thinking no matter the cost. You were glad to have them by your side, even if they did get a little annoying at times.

Although it took a little while, and a bucket-load of tears, your slowly began to embrace the scars. You began to express yourself in new ways that you hadn’t done before. In ways that brought a beaming grin to your face. And to your brothers. They were unbelievably proud and their hearts swelled. But it was one thing that you had learnt that really stuck out to you. That they loved you, just the way you were.

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY 26 ⛤ DAY 28 ->

Taglist:

@deans-spinster-witch

@senjoritanana

@amaryllis23

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narenohate · 7 months

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yEAH BOY- i'm currently writing a bunch of whumptober fics and. also drawing a bunch of whumptober art pieces!

prompt from the day 27, "you drew stars around my scars, but now i'm bleeding" + scars

like. in general. scars.

you can read the fic associated/filling another day with the same au here: ao3 (not DIRECTLY filling in anything involving this piece - set wayy before it, actually!)

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insertsomthinawesome · 1 year

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WHUMPTOBER 2022 - DAY 27 - Magical Exhaustion

Whelp that can’t be good! :D

-NO ROMANCE INCLUDED-

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gierosajie-art · 6 months

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Whumptober 2023 Prompt List | No. 27: “You drew stars around my scars; But now I’m bleeding.” | Scars | “Let me see”

"No matter what, you are still my beautiful, beautiful child in my eyes."

#whumptober2023 #no.27 #scars #'let me see'#genshin impact #fanart #art #the art drawer #venti #genshin dvalin

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aprocessionofthoughts · 6 months

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He's a Phantom

whumptober23 day 27- let me see fandom- dp x dc TW- brief injury summary- Jason encounters the GIW

ao3 whumptober23 masterlist part 6 of DLM

They had been searching for an hour when Jason heard a commotion. He approached the noise and saw three men in white suits on the neighboring rooftop.

His first thought was that they must be out of towners and that they were stupid to be wearing all white. His second thought was, oh shoot, they’re carrying weapons. Specifically they had weird, glowing green weapons.

He was about to call it in when all three men turned to him, raised their weapons and fired.

Jason rolled out of the way and took out his own guns as he continued to dodge their shots.

He fires off a few shots of his own and manages to hit one of the agent’s legs. But he doesn’t have time to celebrate this victory since immediately after one of the glowing green beams hits him in the shoulder.

It burns. Jason stumbles back trying to avoid the rest of the shots, but another clips his side and another his leg. He crumples to the ground. It feels like acid eating away at him. His mind is going fuzzy with pain.

He needs to call for help.

He can faintly hear them discussing how best to get to where he is. He can’t let them do that.

Shakily, he activates his comm. “O.”

“What is it, Hood?”

“I think— I think I found our bad guys…” he slurs.

“Hood, what do you mean?”

Jason can’t bring himself to answer. HIs whole body feels like it’s burning.

“Hood! I’m sending Nightwing to your location.”

Jason can’t acknowledge her. He hopes his brother gets here soon. He can hear the agents walking up the fire escape.

He tries to get up again, but he can barely move his arms.

Then he hears a shout and the sound of the weapons being fired again. There’s a buzzing in the air, the faint hum of electricity, and the cold bite of winter wind.

There’s the sound of more fighting, and he can hear the agents cursing. There’s what sounds like crackling ice followed by silence. Jason tries to move his head to see what’s happening, but all he sees is smoggy Gotham sky.

Then there's a face above him, ethereal in quality with glowing white hair and eyes that remind Jason of the Lazarus pit but brighter.

“What are you doing here?” The voice sounds familiar, but Jason can’t quite place why. He should know this person, but he knows he’s never seen anyone quite like this.

The kid, because now that Jason looks at him a little closer this person clearly looks young, sighs, and goes to place his hands on Jason.

Jason makes a noise of protest and tries to shift away.

“Calm down, let me see.” his hands settle on Jason’s torso.

Immediately, a cool feeling begins to spread, easing the worst of the pain.

“Who…” he manages before.

The kid gives him a strange look then focuses back on whatever he’s doing to Jason. “It’s me. Danny.”

Jason’s mind blue screens for a moment. This looks nothing like Danny. But then, Jason looks a little closer, looks past the glow and white hair and green eyes, and he sees that the face is the same. Huh.

“I’m going to take you back to your apartment. There’s not much I can do for your injuries in the middle of a rooftop.”

Jason can’t do anything to resist as the kid scoops him up as if Jason weighed almost nothing. Then a tingling sensation passed over him, and then they were flying.

--------------------------

A few minutes later, Nightwing arrives on an empty roof. “O, I don’t see him.”

There’s silence for a moment before she speaks. “His tracker is on the move, but it’s moving strangely. Almost as if… It’s almost as if he’s flying.”

“What?” Dick asks and then he hears a grunt from beside the building. He walks over to the edge and stares.

There on the fire escape are three men dressed in white suits carrying strange weapons. But even stranger is that they’re all frozen in a thick layer of ice to the escape stairs, with the ice encasing them to their elbow and a thin layer over their mouths.

“I think we’ve got a bigger situation. I just found some men dressed in white suits frozen to the fire escape. And they've got some strange weapons.”

“Do you think they’re the agents after Hood’s kid?” Tim asks.

“Might be.” Dick answers.

“This might be good news.” Oracle says. “Nightwing, Hood’s tracker stopped at his apartment. I want you to head over there. Red Robin, head to the possible agent’s location. Try to figure out what you can and see if we need to call the police. I’ll send a message to B. His meeting at the watchtower should be almost over by now anyway.”

“Will do,” Dick and Tim answer.

Hopefully, they can find Jason and the kid, and this situation won’t escalate any further. But Dick has a bad feeling that things will only get more complicated.

#whumptober #whumptober 2023 #no.27 #Danny fenton #Jason todd #Tim drake #dick gayson #barbara gordon #jason is liminal #giw #dp x dc #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp crossover #fanfic #let me see

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whumpshots · 6 months

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Whumptober #27

Trope of the day: “Let me see.”

When caretaker walks out of their bedroom to check where the noises come from, they are more than surprised to see whumpee in their office, sitting on the ground and rumaging through bandages.

Small drops and puddles of blood are on the floor, so caretaker snaps out of their sleepiness and hurry to whumpee's side, who tenses up when they see them.

"Sorry, I- I didn't want to wake you up," they mutter, their own eyes tired, but face pale from pain. Caretaker crouches down next to them and cocks their head.

"I'd prefer it, if you woke me up," they reassure them and nod at the arm whumpee has wrapped in makeshift bandages. “Let me see,” they say softly and patiently wait for whumpee to nod and stretch out their arm.

Caretaker won't ask where the injury comes from, it's enough that whumpee didn't flee when caretaker walked in. Small steps are better than none, they remind themself and sit down to take a better look.

#whumptober 2023 #whumptober2023 #whumptober #trope of the day #“Let me see”#no.27 #whump writing #whumpee #caretaker #injured whumpee #hurt/comfort #reassuring caretaker #whumpshots

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whumpypepsigal · 6 months

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Whumptober 2023 | No. 27

Scars

Willow s01e04: “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

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celtic-crossbow · 6 months

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Whumptober 2023

No. 9 Polaroid | No. 27 “Let me see.”

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Alexandria/Sanctuary

Warnings: Self-harm, mentions of character death

You thought it would be a no-brainer that you’d accompany Daryl to run Sanctuary. The man had been tortured and humiliated within those walls by the very people he was meant to now help. Still, Rick had balked at the idea of losing your aid in Alexandria. Daryl had, of course, sided with the leader and encouraged you to remain behind. It was by his persuasion that you agreed for a time.

That is, until a visit to the thrice cursed compound.

You entered with Rick, hearing his praises being sung as per usual. When he stopped to converse with and reassure the people, you continued onward, in search of the only person that mattered to you.

Daryl was not in his room. You let yourself linger for a few minutes though, sitting upon his bed— unmade, of course — and lifting his pillow to your face to inhale the scent he’d left behind. You’d be able to indulge in that later, though, so you lowered it to your lap and leaned forward to take in his lodgings.

Things were tidier than you’d ever expect from the archer. Maybe someone would keep things cleaned up for him as you would do when he was home with you. He had a few things pinned on the wall: maps and plans and a single photo. Of you. It wasn’t the best by your standards. Glenn had taken it at the prison. Your hair was a mess. You had one eye pinched shut, having just woken up. Your hand was reaching toward the camera and there was a smile on your face. You remembered the moment well, though you didn’t know that photo had made its way to Daryl’s possession. Regardless, the fact that the archer had only that, his crossbow, and the clothes on his back from home made your heart swell.

You replaced his pillow and made his bed before you stepped back into the hallway and pulled the door shut. Outside was the next option. There were a few men out there but no sign of your partner.

“You seen Daryl?” You queried. They seemed friendly enough. Not former Saviors but workers, you surmised.

“I saw him over toward the old cells a while ago.” An older gentleman answered. He offered you a kind smile that you saw no reason to not return before you entered the door across the way.

The former cells were being converted into more rooms for the people that still resided in the compound. Today, though, it seemed no one was working on that project. The halls were dark aside from the tiniest bit of light filtering underneath one of the doors.

“Daryl?” You kept your voice low, suddenly fearing what the shadows could hide. The compound had been cleared of the dead but in the days you were living, fear was almost always justified.

You reached the door and stared at the space underneath. The light was unsteady, almost vibrating. So, a candle or a match, maybe.

You tapped a knuckle against the metal door and waited, only to be met with silence. The hinges groaned when you opened the thing, the smell of cigarette smoke and…something else wafting into your face almost instantly.

You wanted to be relieved that you had found Daryl, but the sight you were met with was anything but relieving. He was sitting against the wall of the cell that you knew without asking had been his. He had shown you before. His lighter was open and burning on the floor, a polaroid lying beside it. But distressing were the obvious tear tracks on his cheeks and the burning end of the cigarette he was pulling away from the top of his hand.

It was with clear understanding that you moved slowly whilst he repeated the process, burning another deep circle just below his knuckles. He didn't even seem to notice you were there, even when you were sitting on your knees directly in front of him. His vacant gaze wasn’t on you or even on the wounds he was inflicting upon himself. It was settled solemnly on the photo beside the flame. You leaned to see what it was, and your stomach lurched violently.

Glenn. It was a grizzly photo of Glenn after—

Daryl had told you about this photo, how they had used it to try and break him. How it had nearly worked.

But…why did he have it? You were sure it had been destroyed.

Unless—

You closed your eyes, allowing a single tear to cascade down your cheek and fall to the floor. This wasn’t about you.

“Daryl?” You kept your voice calm and even, gently taking the cigarette from his grasp and putting it out on the concrete floor. His hand and wrist were a mess of circular burns but that could be dealt with later. “Hey, can you look at me?”

His eyes lingered on the photo for a moment before sliding toward you, his head turning slowly. His gaze was still eerily blank. You took that moment to reach, without looking away from him, and flip over the picture. If you could coax him back to you, you didn’t want to risk him drifting away again by accidentally seeing it.

“That’s it. Hi.” You cooed softly, caressing his face and brushing back his unruly hair. Recognition was slowly seeping into those gorgeous blue pools. You smiled gently when you felt his hand come to rest on your forearm.

“Y/N?” His voice was quiet and rough. How long had he been in here?

“I’m here.” You soothed, continuing to offer small, comforting touches while not invading his space. “Want to tell me where you were just now?” He stared at you for a moment before his carefully placed expression crumbled. Shit. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” You pulled him forward gently, his face in the crook of your neck before his shoulders began to shake with silent sobs. You shouldn’t have asked, not yet. Should have given him more time to fully gather himself in the present and out of this cage.

So you held him in silence and let him cry, rubbing his back in slow circles. His uninjured hand had released your arm to grip at your open flannel, fingers flexing in the material. You weren’t sure how much time passed and didn’t really care, your full attention on providing grounding and comfort for the man in your arms. He eventually calmed enough to pull away, attempting to turn his head in order to hide the wetness below his eyes but your hand tenderly caught his jaw. You shushed him softly while using both thumbs to wipe away the moisture.

“What can I do for you, baby?” It was a loaded question. You knew this was more guilt than he was capable of ridding himself of all at once. His talk with Maggie had been a start, but far from the end. Daryl carried things for years before eventually allowing himself to come to terms with the emotions that certain events left for him. Daryl and feelings had never been friends.

He didn’t answer, not out loud. His eyes moved to the polaroid and remained there, managing to remain dry but no less haunted. Still, you understood.

Your hand came to rest atop his, lifting it and placing it on the back of the picture. He pinched the edge between his thumb and index finger, and you did the same just beside his, not allowing him to flip it over. You helped guide him the small distance to the lighter, releasing the photo to clasp his wrist in a loose grip as the corner of the polaroid caught fire. Your eyes were on him as he watched the thing burn. For a moment, you thought you’d have to shake his wrist for him to release his hold but he dropped the photo mere seconds before the flames could reach his fingertips.

Only a small pile of ashes remained when Daryl reached for the zippo and closed the lid, sending you both into complete darkness. Your hand was still on his wrist, holding the connection until he was ready to move.

“Le’s go.” His voice was quiet and he pulled away from you but you could hear him getting to his feet. You had a split second to worry for him before you felt his fingers lace through your own. He guided you to the door and down the hall, the simple act leaving a bad taste in your mouth. How many times had he come here in the dark to navigate without an ounce of light?

The door opened and your eyes were assaulted with the afternoon sun, forcing you to shield them under your hand. With a squinted glance, you saw Daryl doing the same. You both seemed frozen to the spot while your eyes adjusted. It didn’t take long for people to approach, riddling the archer with questions and concerns of every caliber. He tensed almost violently beside you, his hold on your hand tightening.

“Hey!” You stepped in front of Daryl and held your hands up placatingly. “I can promise you that Daryl is very adamant in hearing each of your questions and concerns. However, we are fortunate enough to have Rick Grimes in tow today! You’ll find him in the worker’s hall and can direct everything to him in Daryl’s stead today!”

The people seemed more than happy to adhere to your suggestion, shuffling off as one unit to find the former sheriff. You watched them leave and felt your bowman’s arms encircle your midsection.

“Rick ain’t gon’ like tha’.” He warned from behind your shoulder.

“Whatever. He loves me. He’ll get over it. Come on.” You took his uninjured hand and pulled him along toward his quarters. Luckily, you ran into no one else on your journey and let out a sigh of relief once the door closed behind you. You leaned against the cool surface and watched Daryl slowly sit down on his bed.

“Ya already been in here.” It wasn’t a question but you gave a shrug anyway while toeing off your boots.

“Couldn’t find you. Had to start somewhere.” Disappearing into the small attached bathroom, you grabbed a roll of gauze, a small bowl of cool water, a cloth, and stopped in the kitchen on your way back, hoping to find what you needed. Luck seemed to be on your side. Snatching the back of one of the dinette chairs, you dragged it along with you and placed it in front of Daryl. With your supplies at the ready on the bedside table, you presented your palm and wiggled your fingers expectantly. “Let me see.”

He held out his left hand without argument, wincing when he heard you hiss at the extent of what he had done. “S’not tha’ bad.” He whispered, feeling shame start to nibble away at him.

“Hey.” You reached to hook a finger under his chin and guide his gaze toward yours. “Don’t do that. You were dealing with your pain. Alone. Maybe we can find some healthier outlets for you together but don’t beat yourself up about this.” The space between you closed for a moment, your lips pressing gingerly to his. “I was only reacting to how much they probably hurt.”

“Okay.” He still sounded doubtful but you could help him work through that a little at a time.

You set about wetting the cloth and pressing it against the burns as gently as possible. His fingers twitched but he showed no other signs of discomfort. There were at least a dozen new burns but with something to compare it to, there were a few scars already littering the area. How could you have missed this?

Once you were satisfied that they were clean and the skin cooled, you grabbed the half bottle of organic honey. It was definitely outdated but you had all learned to work with what you had.

“S’that fer?”

“I am so glad you asked, Mr. Dixon!” You beamed while squeezing small amounts onto your fingertips. “Honey has natural antibacterial properties, as well as a level of hydrogen peroxide, low ph, and high viscosity.” You dabbed a little onto each irritated circle before grinning up at him.

“Ya sound like a infomercial.” He gave a soft snort and if that was as close to a laugh as you got from him today, you’d take it. You wouldn’t dare let him catch you staring, but he looked truly awful. Dark circles were beginning to form underneath his eyes, and he had lost a little weight. Not much, but enough to be noticeable. He appeared to have aged a decade since the last time you had seen him.

And that simply would not do.

“Okay! All done! Oh, wait!!” You secured the gauze with a bit of tape and pulled his hand to your lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the bandage. “Can’t forget the most important treatment.”

“We kissin’ each other’s boo-boos now?” There was a hint of amusement to his tone that made it clear he didn’t mind. With another quick peck against his lips, you gathered up the mess and walked away.

“Damn straight, we are. Things are just that serious between us, Dixon.”

On your way back into the room, you paused by the door and engaged the lock, flipping off the lights so that only the natural light from the small windows could filter in.

“Whatcha doin’? Gotta get back out there—”

Your finger pressed against his lips to effectively silence him. “Nope.” You snatched the radio from his belt and switched it on. “Get cozy. You’re not leaving for the rest of the day.” Before he could protest, you had pressed the call button on the radio. “Rick, it’s Y/N.”

“Y/N! I’ve been trying to reach Daryl. Have you seen him?”

“I have but he’s taking the night off.”

“Is he alright?”

You smiled softly at the archer from behind the device. “He will be. You got things under control, right, Grimes?”

“Could I talk to him for a second? There’s a situation with—”

You shut off the radio and placed it on the dinette. Daryl was watching you, looking a little nervous.

“He really ain’t gon’ like tha’.” He drawled.

“Tough shit. I thought I told you to get cozy?” You shrugged off your flannel, pulled your shirt over your head, and shucked off your jeans. Standing there in your bra and panties, you crossed your arms and cocked an eyebrow until he finally gave in with a tired roll of his eyes.

Both stripped down to your underthings, you crawled under the blankets first and held them up for him.

“Ain’t even dark yet.”

“Something tells me you need the extra rest. Now get in here and cuddle me like a man.”

“Yer somethin’ else.” He mused, following the order. You pulled at him until his head was on your chest and an arm draped over your middle. Once your fingers began to run through his long hair, you heard him sigh and felt the tension draining out of him. You couldn’t fix everything in a day but it was a start. Tomorrow, you’d talk to Carol about taking over there so Daryl could come home with you. Then you’d ensure Rick gave him some time off, even if it meant you had to toss the archer into the trunk of a car and steal him away to a remote cabin somewhere.

“I sure am. You chose this. No refunds, buddy.” This was stone number one, and together, you’d build on it.

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cyberwhumper · 6 months

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Vina's slender frame trembles as the cold air of the examination room hits his bare skin. Every day after the experiments is the same ritual of taking pictures and cataloging every inch of his body, and despite the years spent at the research lab he still finds it unsettling and shameful to be put on display like that. At least they allow him the small dignity of undressing himself now.

Colorful panels with words he doesn't understand are displayed throughout the room, denoting whatever markers the researchers must have been looking for in the experiments they were conducting. With an array of tools to poke, prod, and measure in their hands, the researchers wait for him to finish undressing so they can take stock of the various wounds in different stages of healing that decorate his body from top to bottom.

He knows they see him the same as every other lab rat, a collection of data waiting to be recorded and analyzed, numbers to be crunched to squeeze out another inch of productivity for the corporate pharmaceutical machine. To them, he is not Vina, but rather just a number on a file and a certain amount of years on a contract.

Silent tears slide down his cheeks as they begin changing wound dressings and cataloging their respective developments and progress, talking amidst themselves as though he was just an object. He's not sure why he's even crying at this point. It has been years, why does it still hurt? Why does he still feel humiliated? Shouldn't he be used to it already?

They take samples of his tears as well.

Tag list: @whumpsday // @demondamage // @squidlife-crisis // @whumpedydump // @cyborg0109 // @whumpfish // @astrowhump // @the-scrapegoat // @whatwhumpcomments // @dustbunnywhump // @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question // @dokidokisadness // @moss-tombstone // @kinderlamb //

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#whumptober2023 #no.27 #scars #OC #art #blood #bruises #human experimentation #lab whump #whump #whumpblr #whumpee #whump art #original character #original story #tokimeki art #Vina

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whumpetywhump · 6 months

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Whumptober Day 27 - Scars

Avalanche - Ep. 1

Bloodhounds - Ep. 8

Island 2 - Ep. 6

Itaewon Class - Ep. 7

The Mystic Nine - Ep. 15

#whumptober 2023 #no.27 #scars #avalanche #bloodhounds #island 2 #itaewon class #the mystic nine #whump #kwhump #cwhump #jwhump #asian whump #gifs

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aceofwhump · 1 year

Text

No. 27 PUSHED TO THE LIMIT: Magical Exhaustion

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

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arecaceae175 · 5 months

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Whumptober Day 27: Matches, Scars

AO3 link. I'm still working my way through whumptober :D.

AND!!!! THIS IS MY 50TH WORK POSTED ON AO3!!!!!! :DDDDD

Summary: The chain relaxes in a hot spring, and Wild notices Sky has a scar that matches one of his. 1052 words. Sky & Wild.

Warnings: scars, discussion of scars, lightning scars, Sky starts to feel very uncomfortable because of discussion of scars (not graphic, doesn't reach panic attack stage)

Whump rating: 1/5. Very light-hearted vibes

Sky lowered himself into the hot spring with a long, content sigh. The heat immediately soothed his aching muscles, and the pressure of the water felt incredible. Sky sighed happily again, letting his eyes slide shut and his head fall back to rest on the rocks. The angle made the pain in his neck more pronounced, Sky realized with a wince, but he didn’t have the energy to hold his head up.

“Sky, here,” Wild said.

“Hm?”

“Lift your head for me?” Wild asked.

Sky lifted his head without opening his eyes. He heard Wild shuffling behind him.

“Okay, good,” Wild said.

Sky dropped his head again and made a surprised noise when it landed on something soft. It kept his head raised enough that the angle didn’t put pressure on his neck. Sky smiled widely as he reached up to adjust the fabric into the perfect position. He opened his eyes to meet Wild’s above him.

“Thanks, champion,” Sky said. Wild beamed.

Sky finished adjusting the fabric then let his arms splash back into the water. He let them float on top, making small waves with careful motions.

On the other side of the spring, Wind and Hyrule were taking turns being thrown into the spring by Twilight. Their laughter was like music to Sky, and he relished in the sound. Sky could see Four watching closely, and Sky hoped he would set aside his maturity for long enough to play, too.

A comfortable distance away from the splashing, Time, Warriors, and Legend were reclined comfortably in the water. Warriors and Legend were playfully arguing about something. Although Sky couldn’t hear, he suspected Time was antagonizing them on purpose, based on the man’s mischievous smirk.

Sky chuckled softly to himself. It was a perfect day.

There was a small splash as Wild flopped into the spring. The water lapped up against Sky’s chest. The heat stung comfortably.

“This was a great idea,” Sky said. “The heat feels so nice.”

“It has healing properties, too,” Wild said.

“Oh, really?” Sky asked.

Wild nodded as he pulled his hair tie out and began combing his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. The science is pretty cool, actually. Yunobo explained it to me once. The water here is connected to the great fairies springs, but there’s also a reaction that happens with some chemical I don’t remember the name of because of the heat.”

“Cool,” Sky said. They fell into comfortable silence as Wild worked on his hair and Sky worked on relaxing.

“Hey, Sky?” Wild asked. His voice was soft and hesitant. Sky looked at him in surprise.

“Yeah?” Sky asked.

“Those lines,” Wild said.

Sky followed his gaze. The bright lightning scars started on his hand and branched up his arm, then down the right side of his torso and all the way down his right leg.

“They’re from lightning, right?” Wild asked.

“They are,” Sky pushed the words out through tight throat. The nerves in his hand tingled. He kept his gaze on the water.

“Look, I have some too! We’re matching!” Wild said. Sky blinked in surprise at the change in his tone.

Wild jumped up in the water and pointed to his hip. The same marks arched across Wild’s hip and down his leg. Sky had never noticed them before. Wild’s body was a mosaic of scar tissue more so than the rest of them. It all blended in Sky’s mind. That was what Wild looked like, and he had never paid any more attention to it than that.

“It’s from Thunderblight,” Wild said. “Made it through rubber armor and a shock resistant elixir.”

Sky didn’t know what rubber was. He decided to focus on that, rather than the shock of the lightning coursing through his body, and the blood-boiling anxiety of I have to get this shot right- have I held onto this one for too long- is this going to fry my heart- am I going to win.

“What’s rubber?” Sky asked. He thought his voice sounded remarkably steady, considering.

Wild paused, blinking blankly at him. “I… don’t actually know.”

And just like that, Sky felt the tension in him break. He huffed a laugh and tried to force his muscles to relax, his heartbeat to slow.

“You used it even though you don’t know what it is?” Sky asked.

“Course I did. I didn’t know what anything was, at first,” Wild said with a grin. Sky nodded in acquiescence. He supposed that was true.

Wild looked at Sky’s scars again, and his expression made Sky think he was going to ask another question.

“Can, um,” Sky asked, swallowing thickly. “Can we change the subject?”

Wild’s eyes went wide. “Of course! I’m sorry, Sky, yeah. Of course. Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I was just- we matched, and-”

“Hey,” Sky said. He put his hands over Wild’s to still their rapid movements.

“It’s alright. You didn’t know,” Sky said. “But we’re here to relax, and I’d like to do that.”

“Yeah, totally. Sorry. We’ll do that,” Wild said. Sky smiled again, and leaned back on the fabric below his head.

“Sky!”

Legend’s yell came from across the spring. Sky groaned light-heartedly and reluctantly raised his head. Legend and Warriors were both rushing towards him in the water. They looked ridiculous, Sky thought, trying to move quickly through the spring. He stifled a laugh.

“You need to settle this for us. The old man can’t have a serious discussion for more than two seconds at a time,” Legend said, shooting a glare in Time’s direction. “You’ll be impartial.”

“There’s no way you’re winning this one,” Warriors said.

“Shut it, pretty boy. Here’s the thing. I’m obviously the most fashionable hero, here-”

“Bullshit.”

“I said shut it! And since I’m obviously the most fashionable, I-”

“How are we deciding that? I think I should be in the running,” Wild said.

“What? There’s no running, I’m just trying to make a point-”

“I dunno, I think I could give you a run for your rupees,” Wild said, complete with a shrug and a shit-eating grin to match Time’s.

Sky stroked his chin in an imitation of deep thought. “Wild makes a good point, Vet. What’s the criteria here?”

Legend let out a strangled, frustrated noise and splashed backwards into the water.

#whumptober 2023 #no.27 #matches #scars #ace writes #linked universe #lu sky #lu wild #lu legend #lu warriors #in which everyone is a little shit (affectionnate)#and wild tries his absolute best #tw:#scar #lightning #lightning scars #discussion of scars #tw: scars

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adrift-in-thyme · 6 months

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Whumptober Day 27: Matches + Scars

Read it on Ao3

- Twilight & Time

- Summary: Twilight gets trapped in a burning building

CW for blood and injury, burn wounds, panic, and brief mentions of death

---------------------

He hates fire. Absolutely hates it, with every fiber of his being, every bone in his body.

It recalls memories of torches lighting the night, of his friends, his family, scowling at him, shouting.

“It’s one of those cursed beasts!”

“Monster! It took our children!”

“Drive it off! Kill it if you must!”

Twilight yanks at his chains again, a choked sob rising within him. He can’t breathe and it has nothing to do with the smoke beginning to billow from every corner of the room. Though, dragging in ragged, panicked gasps of it certainly isn’t helping matters.

It sears his throat and lungs, burns his eyes. Everything is drenched in scalding heat. Everywhere are hues of furious, flaming crimsons and burning oranges and searing, golden yellows.

A flame licks at his tunic sleeve and he jerks away from it. His hands are shaking, thoughts racing. Sweat and blood trickle in rivulets down his face.

Getoutgetoutgetoutgetout, his mind screams. But he can’t move. The shackles that encase his wrists and ankles, though old and rusted, are strong. They don’t yield even when he thrashes and pulls and tears at them until his nails are torn and bleeding.

Tears stream down his face, mixing with the soot. They dry almost as quickly as they appear, lapped up by the ravenous fire.

A ceiling beam cracks mere inches from where he sits and comes crashing down. Twilight’s heart climbs into his throat.

He’s going to die here. The realization hits him heavily, pressing the air out of his lungs. He’s going to die here alone and terrified. All because he let some monsters get the jump on him.

Claws piercing his arms and legs and torso. Arrows skimming his limbs…some embedding themselves there. Deafening screeches filling his ears. Blood in his mouth, vision blurring as they drag him away. Drifting in a feverish haze as they chain him up and leave him there.

Leave him to burn.

Their master will be pleased, they had said, in their gurgling, bestial tones that he shouldn’t understand but now does. So very pleased to know that the hero that managed to fight off his influence is dead.

Twilight suspects that that is true (though he does have some doubts about whether the Shadow will be happy about not having had a direct hand in the murder). But either way, it doesn’t make it any more pleasant.

He has people to protect, to save, to come back to; a mystery of vengeance and darkness to solve; a land counting on him to help improve it. He doesn’t have time to die.

And he certainly doesn’t have time to panic.

He didn’t before, so long ago in Kakariko, when he had had to set the bomb shed on fire to get the job done. But that had been before…that had been before he had slipped up. Before he showed his beastly face once more in Ordon and this time received far worse than a few gashes from the angry talons of an attacking hawk.

Now…now he can’t face it – the bite of open flame. He can’t endure it. Not again.

He chokes on smoke and terror and sorrow. Still fighting even as he suffocates on the smoke that now surrounds him. Even as the inescapable heat begins to sear him like meat on a spit.

His vision is going hazy, darkness crowding the edges. It won’t be long now…it won’t be long. Soon, he will pass out. And then how can he fight?

The flames crawl across the ground toward him. They catch on his pant leg, hungrily eating away at the fabric. And then they’re at his skin and Twilight is gritting his teeth in an attempt not to cry out.

It’s fruitless. It hurts. Everything hurts. The sickening scent of burning hair and flesh mingles with that of smoldering old wood. He gags, tasting blood and cinders.

The chains are agonizingly hot now. Not enough to melt, of course. No, just enough to brand his wrists and turn his boots to ash. Just enough to draw out a harsh, agonizing scream.

“Help.” It comes out before he can stop it, desperate, weak, whispered on the tail end of his cry. “Someone help me. Please.”

There is no reply. Save, of course, for the sounds of his oncoming demise. Save for the crackling and popping of the house that is about to collapse atop him.

What will come first? He wonders, distantly. Will the smoke smother him and the flames burn his body? Or will he be buried alive, choking on the remains of the smoldering fire, unable to budge the heavy planks atop him?

He coughs a hacking, painful cough. Blood splatters onto his tunic sleeve. Gasping, he collapses sideways, chains clanking tauntingly. The room swims and he shuts his eyes to block it out.

Suddenly, there is a crash, far louder than the ones before it. It breaks through the incessant whir of nonexistent wind in his ears. Twilight curls in on himself, waiting for the inevitable.

There is the sound of metal slicing through metal instead. The chains slide off of him and hit the ground. Twilight drags open bloodshot eyes, squinting to try and see past the blur of light and dark. A familiar figure leans over him.

“T-time?”

It can’t be. It just can’t.

And yet, it looks like him, tall form silhouetted against the flames. It sounds like him when he speaks.

“I’m here, pup. I’ve got you.”

Twilight coughs again. Breathing is harder than ever now. Every gasp is agony. But Time reaches down and draws him to his chest and he sags against him.

“You came,” he breathes.

He almost doesn’t want to believe it. Death had seemed so terribly certain…

Sparks and wood clatter downward and Time lets out a sharp hiss.

“Yes, I came,” he says in a strained tone. He lifts Twilight, murmuring an apology when a low, agonized whine escapes the hero. “I’ll always come for you.”

The words ring in Twilight’s ears as they leave the burning building. The flames still climb to the sky, twining with the plumes of smoke in a mockery to the sun. The ceiling falls in completely just as Time shoves his way out of what was once a door. His hold tightens and Twilight clings to him in return.

“Rancher!”

“Is he alive? Is he okay?”

“I swear, old man, going into that place by yourself. You could have at least waited for us.”

The voices of the others tumble over one another in their race to be heard.

“He’s alright,” Twilight hears Time call, and then in a more hushed voice, “it appears you were missed.”

Twilight is too weak to laugh, though he wants to. But he manages a shaky grin instead. And as the heroes rush forward with potions and chastises and advice, he closes his eyes and relaxes in Time’s steady embrace.

#whumptober 2023 #no.27 #matches #scars #blood tw #injury tw #burn wounds tw #panic tw #mentions of death #trin writes #lu twilight #lu time #hurt/comfort #whump #angst

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lurkinglurkerwholurks · 2 years

Link

Whumptober prompts 8 (everything hurts and I'm dying), 17 (breaking point), 22 (pick your poison), 27 (stumbling), alt3 (dazed and confused), alt12 (carried to safety), alt15 (tears)

Bruce fumbled for his phone, only partially awake but more so by the moment. It was still dark in his room, the only light coming from the screen.

Dick, his heart stuttered. Tragedy out in Bludhaven. Or the League, some threat that couldn’t wait until morning.

Bruce’s grasping hand missed, knocked the phone to the rug where it landed face up with a muffled clatter. He noticed the time first, a mere hour after he had gone to bed. He noticed the caller second, the name in white across his default ocean coast background: T.

Tim?

Tim was supposed to be home, asleep—Bruce squinted one-eyed again at the time even as he snatched up the phone—yes, definitely home asleep. Jack had come home yesterday, so Robin was off-call for the weekend.

Bruce tapped open the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

Silence.

No, not silence. Faintly, Bruce could make out the sound of someone crying.

“Hello?” he asked again, still half-stretched out of bed, one hand braced against the floor.

A wet, hiccuping noise, louder this time, closer to the phone. It still took Bruce a moment to recognize Tim’s voice. Gooseflesh rose up his arms. He had never heard Tim cry before.

“Tim?” Bruce pushed himself fully upright but sat frozen in bed.

He saw death. He saw blood. He saw Joker with a knife to Tim’s throat, Riddler with a bomb duct-tapped to Tim’s chest. He saw more heartbreak than he could survive.

“Bruce?” It was definitely Tim, even with his voice warped by tears.

Bruce, not Batman, some detached corner of Bruce’s brain noticed. This was Tim talking, not Robin. Tim, calling Bruce, in tears.

At least he’s still breathing.

“What’s wrong?” It was a fight not to dip into Batman’s register, low and with bands of steel to bind back his emotions.

Bruce was on his feet now, reaching for clothes, for shoes, phone pinched between his cheek and shoulder.

“Uh’need he-elp.” Tim wasn’t just crying. He was sobbing. Sobbing so quietly that Bruce hadn’t noticed until he spoke, words slurred and hiccuping with each breath.

“Where are you?” It could be anything. An accident at home, a tragedy in the city. What if Tim had gone patrolling on his own? What if he and Jack had been out somewhere? He needed more information, but Tim was crying too hard.

Bruce put the phone on speaker so he could pull on sweatpants and scoop the fob from the end table into his other hand. Tim’s wheezing echoed tinnily, and Bruce found his own chest catching.

He stopped, hand splayed against the dresser, knuckles white, and forced himself to take a breath before picking up the phone. “Tim, listen to me. I need you to breathe with me, can you do that?”

Tim mumbled something indistinct. It could have been an agreement or not meant for Bruce at all. Was he drugged? Fear-gassed? In some kind of medical crisis?

“Tim.” Bruce let a little of Batman’s command thread into his voice. “Take a deep breath right now. With me, ready?”

In.

Out.

He could hear the exhalation from Tim, sooner than Bruce’s own, and still too shaky and shallow, but he was doing it.

“Good. Again.” Bruce breathed again as he yanked open his bedroom door and sprinted for the stairs. “Again.”

Bruce took the stairs three at a time, thundering down in a way he hadn’t since his youth. He needed to get to the Cave. There was no time to wake Alfred, and Bruce worried that shouting for him would distract Tim. They repeated the process as Bruce tore through the back hallways. Tim was still crying, but he wasn’t gasping for air any longer. That was good.

Or is it because he’s dying? He’s not breathing at all, that’s why you can’t hear it.

No. No, Bruce could hear breathing, voiced exhalations like teary moans.

“You’re doing great,” Bruce lied. “I need to know what’s going on. Are you hurt?”

“Hurt,” Tim echoed in little more than a croak. “Hurt.”

“Okay. Okay, tell me what hurts.”

“Heeeeeaaaaad,” Tim groaned. “M’st’m’ch.” As if to underline his point, the sound of retching echoed over the line. Poison?

There was a garbled noise like a stumble or a fall, and a cry from Tim.

“Tim?”

No answer. The silence made Bruce’s skin crawl.

“Tim, talk to me,” Bruce ordered. “What happened? Are you bleeding?”

“Bleeding?” Tim’s voice was high with panic, nearly a squeak. “‘m I bleeding??”

Okay, bad question, though not having the answer made Bruce want to curl up and have a little panic attack of his own. He was in the Cave now, sprinting full-tilt to the computer, praying to anyone who would listen that Tim had the GPS on his phone turned on.

“Where are you?” he tried again.

“Dunno. Don’t know,” Tim wailed, and he sounded more like a lost little boy than Bruce had ever heard him be before.

Please, he’s just a kid. He’s not even mine, but he’s just a boy.

“Okay, sweetheart, okay, just breathe,” Bruce soothed. “I’ll find you. Stay right where you are and I’ll find you.”

There was the sound of retching again and quiet weeping. Bruce could have drowned in it, but he tried to listen beyond to background noises, any clue to where Tim was being held.

“What do you see?”

The BatComputer was waking up. He just needed a minute more.

“Dark.” Tim’s voice was muffled. “Trees.”

Trees?

“Tim, are you outside?” Trees in Gotham? A park? Or was he not in Gotham at all?

“Nn-hnn.”

Outside with trees, but dark. It was a waxing moon that night, not full but nearly so, and even at this hour, there still should be some light to see by.

“Can you see the moon?”

“No-o. Just trees. Hurt, hurt my leg, I—” Tim coughed, then groaned.

Woods? Bruce knew every block of Gotham, every patch of scraggly brown grass and crooked branch, but his mind was blank with panic. All he could picture was cracked asphalt and crumbling brick. Nowhere with enough trees to block out the moon.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” he asked, desperate to keep a coherent line of dialogue flowing and to have some picture of what was happening.

“Fell off,” Tim said, blunt in a way that made Bruce’s brain stutter. “Can’t—m’stuck. Bruce, m’stuck, help me. Help me.”

Tim had his GPS on. Bruce stared at the screen, disbelieving, but only for a moment. In the next heartbeat, he was gone, sprinting back upstairs.

“I’m coming,” he promised, putting every drop of conviction into his voice, as if he could reach through the phone and clasp Tim’s hand through force of will alone. “I’m coming, Tim, just keep talking to me.”

Nothing made sense. Not the blinking red light on the map Bruce had thrown to his phone. Not the mumbled, weeping replies from Tim. Not the way Bruce felt like he couldn’t breathe, broken from the inside out at the thought of anything happening to this child.

It took too long to reach the thick patch of trees that delineated the property line between the Waynes and the Drakes. Bruce had Tim on speaker again, looking from the screen to the dark and silent wood in front of him. He didn’t pause at the edge, instead plunging in even as he flicked on the flashlight function. He wanted searchlights, floodlights, but had to content himself with sweeping the narrow beam in enough of an arc to see by.

“Tim!” Bruce bellowed into the open air. “Tim, can you hear me? Timothy!”

The return cry was more echo than noise, but Bruce heard it. He crashed through the bushes, leaping over scrub and fallen branches, until he reached the ditch where a black-haired boy lay sprawled half in, half out, limbs tangled among the thick shrubs.

“Tim.” Bruce knelt and lifted his phone to get a better view.

“Bru-usssse.” Tim’s face was smeared with tears, snot, and dirt, a red scratch across his cheek, likely from stumbling through the woods. He tried to reach for Bruce, but the sleeve of his t-shirt had snagged on the bush he had fallen through.

“Hold still,” Bruce ordered, checking quickly for broken bones, impalement, or any other danger that would prevent Tim from moving.

When he found nothing, he looked back to the still-weeping boy in the ditch. With Bruce in sight, Tim had stifled his own hiccuping sobs and subsided back into near-silent tears. He looked miserable, which Bruce tried to keep in mind as his cresting panic warred against the reek of alcohol that wafted off Tim like smog.

“Timothy,” Bruce began, relief and crashing adrenaline quickly shifting into growing anger, but Tim had flinched back from the light and was cringing with his face buried in his own shoulder. He looked pathetic. Pathetic and so very young.

“Hurts,” Tim croaked again. Bruce sighed, relented.

“Okay, he murmured. “Okay, hold still, I’ll get you out.”

Bruce began the painstaking process of disentangling boy from debris. Tim’s stumbling path through the woods was clear enough, even by flashlight. Just out of sight would be piles of vomit where alcohol and fear had forced their way up. Bruce could see where Tim had tripped and fallen into the ditch. A better examination later would likely show a twisted ankle.

Tim was still crying as Bruce lifted him out of the ditch and into his arms.

He should cry, Bruce thought bitterly, then regretted the bitterness and the approval alike. He never wanted to hear a child cry, no matter the reason. Especially not this child.

“Okay,” Bruce mumbled and shifted Tim to hold the boy a little closer. “Okay. It’s alright.”

The journey was a slow one, hindered by the lack of light on the return and Bruce’s need to be careful with his back. It was silent except for the crunch of Bruce’s carefully placed steps in the dirt and the distant chirping of crickets. Tim’s tears soaked Bruce’s shirt but didn’t make a sound. Bruce was careful to think only about what would happen next and not about what could have been, nor about the disorienting muscle memory of cradling a half-grown boy he had never held before.

Alfred was waiting at the side door when they arrived. They exchanged looks over Tim’s head—Alfred’s concerned, Bruce’s dour and bewildered all at once. As they passed by, Alfred caught whiff of Tim and his expression changed. Bruce’s stayed the same.

He didn’t understand. This was Tim. Quiet, responsible, meticulous Tim. Tim, who bullied Bruce into going to bed and eating dinners outside of the Cave. Tim who had never once shown any signs of addiction or even interest—who had, in fact, ratted Bruce out a time or two to Alfred or Dick.

Tim, who didn’t ask for help.

Tim, who didn’t cry.

Bruce carried Tim into the kitchen and poured the boy into a chair. In the light, Tim managed to look even worse than he had outside. Though less hauntingly pale, he was still several shades below his normal color, a difference only heightened by the high pink in his cheeks and nose. Bruce kept him braced upright with one hand as the other pulled a second chair close. As he sat, Alfred placed a damp washcloth on the table with a cup of water and then disappeared after a nod of thanks from Bruce.

“Tim,” Bruce began, then stopped, not sure how to proceed.

Dick had gotten drunk once that Bruce knew of. He had been given a bottle of wine by a grateful citizen who had ignored the teen in Teen Titans, and he and Wally had made short work of it. As far as Bruce knew, Wally had been fine, but Dick had staggered home, peed in a vase, and then woken the next morning with a hangover powerful enough to make Bruce almost pity him. Almost.

Bruce had been at a loss then, too, not sure how to navigate the already unsteady ground of brother-father figure that was further in flux as Dick became more independent. The illegality of underage drinking he could deal with, though he knew it was hypocritical of him. The rest… He had fumbled through it, as he often did, with one eye to Alfred’s example. Their relationship had survived, and as far as Bruce knew, Dick had waited until 21 to drink again.

But Tim… This was different. Tim was different, but so was Bruce’s role in his life. Right?

Anger, a white-hot flareup from a fire never fully extinguished, roared in Bruce’s chest before being banked again. Where was Jack Drake? Why didn’t he care that his son was wandering through the woods, drunk, upset, and alone? Or maybe Jack was also drunk, passed out safely in the shelter of his own home.

Bruce couldn’t think about that right now without wanting to break something, and Tim already looked like he was on the far side of fragile. Instead, Bruce pressed the water into Tim’s hand and forced him to drink as he did another inspection under the sconced kitchen lights. Only when Bruce was sure that there was no damage other than some scrapes, bruises, and a mildly twisted ankle did he let himself breathe more fully.

Tim had stopped crying for the moment, his attention and concentration fixated on lifting the cup of water to his lips. Bruce took advantage of the moment to pick up the washcloth and begin to wipe away the dirt, snot, and tears that caked Tim’s face.

“Tim,” he began again, and swallowed a grunt as Tim’s head jerked toward his voice. “Do you know where you are?”

Tim blinked, then looked around slowly as if realizing he was somewhere new for the first time. “Inside.”

Bruce made sure his sigh wasn’t vocalized. “Yes. Do you know inside where?”

Tim hummed. “Th’ Manor.” As soon as he said it, his already slouched body relaxed further, as if some tensely strung cord inside of him had been released.

“That’s right,” Bruce agreed. “You’re in Wayne Manor with me and Alfred.”

He dragged the washcloth across Tim’s cheek and was both bemused and amused when Tim physically leaned into the sensation. Bruce was struck again by how very young this Robin was. He wanted to strangle Jack Drake. The man was only in town for the weekend after three weeks abroad. The least he could do was be aware that his underage son was drunk in the woods in the dead of night.

Bruce cleared his throat and made sure his tone was neutral before asking, “Tim, where’s Jack?”

Tim burst into tears. Bruce froze, washcloth still lifted. He stayed completely still as Tim—sobbing, nearly incoherent, and still very drunk—confessed that Jack Drake had not come home after all. Instead of arriving the night before, he had texted, saying he would see Tim next week instead. Tim, hurt, angry, and bewildered, had helped himself to Jack’s fully stocked bar. Because it was there, and Jack was not.

“Why didn’t you just come here?”

Alfred would have been thrilled to have company, and Bruce had thought Tim knew by now that he was welcome any time. But Tim shook his head and tearily refused to answer, and Bruce understood. No child should have to protect their parents the way Tim did.

Bruce relented. “Okay,” he murmured as he wiped the fresh tears from Tim’s face. “Okay. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

“M’sorry,” Tim mumbled. “M’sorry.”

Bruce bent down, ducking his head until he could catch Tim’s gaze. “Tim. I’m glad you knew it was safe to come here. Next time…” He hoped there was never a next time. “Call me. I’ll come get you. And don’t ever drink alone.”

Tomorrow, they would address the legal concerns, the danger Tim had put himself in, the what-ifs, and the consequences. But not tonight.

If Tim were Dick or… If Tim were his child, Bruce would have kissed his forehead and pulled him into a hug. Tim was not. Instead, he squeezed Tim’s narrow shoulder and then straightened with a pop of his spine.

He could hear Alfred setting up an IV pole in the living room. They would need to check Tim’s BAC and monitor him for the night, so Bruce mentally bid farewell to his bed. Knowing Alfred, there was likely a toothbrush and spit bowl waiting as well, so no need to detour. Rather than lifting Tim back into his arms, he helped the boy to his feet and guided him into the waiting gloom.

“Baseball or talk shows?” he asked as they sat on the couch.

Tim wrinkled his nose. “Ugh.”

Bruce grunted, as close as he would get to a laugh tonight. They would get Tim cleaned up and settled. Alfred would return to bed. Tim would get to doze lightly, letting rest burn away the alcohol and sharpen the edge of his first hangover. And Bruce would stay awake, blinking gritty eyes at a bright screen, another man’s son heavy against his shoulder.

———

The phone vibrated by his elbow, the accompanying flash pulling Bruce’s focus away from the paperwork spread across the desktop in front of him. It was still relatively early in the night, at least for his family, and as he pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and lifted the phone to see the caller, he mentally calculated the odds of whose name would appear.

TIMOTHY DRAKE WAYNE the screen read. Tim’s face looked back at him, a nervous little half-smile captured at Bruce’s request a few months after his adoption. He had looked so young even then, but younger now, several years onward.

It was Dick and Damian’s week at the Manor, a routine that continued to chafe but also eased many of the tensions still bubbling after Bruce’s presumed death and return. Tim would be at his own apartment, most likely, or maybe at one of Jason’s safehouses. Bruce didn’t know the full shape of their relationship and he was reluctant to take its measure without invitation. Whatever peace they had brokered in his absence, he was glad of it.

Bruce set down his pen and leaned back in his chair before answering. “Hello?”

He expected a question, perhaps a tricky case Tim was fiddling with in his spare time, or a random thought Tim would then use to segue into a casual chat to help fill the time until it was his week at the Manor. Bruce enjoyed both of these, when they happened. Tim was more inclined to text, but Bruce liked to hear his voice.

Instead, there was no greeting, just the sound of breathing.

Bruce sat up a little straighter. “Tim?”

“Broke my promise.” That was Tim’s voice, but not the Tim Bruce knew. This Tim was flat, as dead-toned as a hostage reading from a script.

Bruce had to remind himself to keep breathing. “What promise did you break?” he asked, careful to keep his tone light and open.

Tim hadn’t made many promises to Bruce. He had a way of going quiet when pressed, implying agreement without actually agreeing, then slipping off to do whatever he had planned in the first place, conscience clear and mind set. The few Bruce could recollect pinning him down on all had to do with his own well-being.

There was a noise like the gurgle of water and a clink.

“Tim?” Bruce asked again. “Everything alright?”

He braced, waiting for the family code, the signal that Tim wasn’t alone, that he was under duress, that he needed Batman to crash through his window.

Instead, Tim asked, “Can you come?”

Bruce was already pushing away from his desk. “Yes. Where am I going?”

“My place.” Another sloshing sound, which Bruce finally recognized as a glass bottle being tipped up.

“I’m coming,” Bruce promised. “Stay on the phone with me.”

Tim left the phone on but didn’t speak again. Any attempt at conversation was met with a grunt or silence. Bruce drove with an iron grip on the steering wheel, keeping track of each audible sip.

He knew Tim’s address but had never been before. He had asked, more than once, and Tim had demurred, citing conflicting schedules, messy bedrooms, or later times that would be better. And it was true, the current shape of their lives meant it was difficult to make schedules align. If it was Tim’s week at the Manor, he didn’t want to be at his apartment, and if it wasn’t, then Bruce was expected to spend his time with Dick and Damian. Bruce had always expected to find a way, someday, or just wait out the clock until Tim was able to move back permanently. This was not how he expected to visit.

Bruce took the stairs, phone off speaker and held to his ear now as he hiked up narrow stairs to Tim’s apartment. He had a key. Tim’s emancipation was still a touchy subject, but after his collapse earlier that year, Bruce had required a backup set. So Bruce didn’t have to wait to be let in, but instead gave a perfunctory knock and then stepped inside.

Tim was not in the living room. At least, Bruce thought this was the living room. The front door opened onto a small room, carpeted, with a couch, beanbag chair, and end table. A small television sat on the floor against one wall, a gaming console with two controllers in a pile next to it. The walls were white. The carpet was vaguely beige. A Mario poster taped to one wall was the only thing with color. It was all so un-Tim that Bruce could only stare.

The kitchenette was a narrow strip of linoleum and one half-wall of cabinets with a small square of laminate countertop. There, at least, was some sign of life—a sink full of dishes, a roll of paper towels without a holder, a wilting geranium in a plastic pot. But still no Tim.

“Tim?” Bruce called.

He heard his own voice echo from a hall just off the living room. Cautiously, Bruce followed it down, until he was standing in the doorway of the bedroom. The room had no overhead light, just a small bedside lamp. Tim was caught in the edge of its glow, profile limned in gold as he sat slumped on the bed, back against the wall, a bottle resting against his leg.

The lighting obscured most details. Bruce tried to look for injuries but saw none. Then again, his children were far, far too good at hiding all but the worst. He was afraid, studying Tim’s profile in silhouette, that this was one of those times.

“Tim?” Bruce said again, low and gentle.

Tim twitched, not quite turning to look at Bruce, but jerking his chin enough to acknowledge the sound. “Hey. I…” He licked his lips, pausing to chew on the top one a moment. “Sorry. Broke m’promise.”

“Promise?” Bruce echoed, aware of the reverberating deja vu from earlier. “What promise is that?”

Tim made to lift the bottle, but only managed to waggle it a few inches off the bed before letting it fall again. There was a good portion gone. “Not t’drink alone. Sorry.”

Bruce hadn’t thought about that horrible night in ages. There had been other horrible nights since—with Tim, with Dick or Jason or Cass or Damian, or with Bruce himself—and new traumas took precedence over old. And Tim, as far as Bruce knew, had stayed away from alcohol since, the combination of his resulting hangover and Bruce and Alfred’s joint disappointment a powerful enough deterrent.

But Bruce had been gone a long time, and there was no accounting for what else he might have missed.

Bruce edged into the room, careful to keep his posture loose and nonthreatening. All of his children were sensitive to his disapproval, his perceived anger, and Tim was no exception.

“Where’d you get that?” he asked, not sure where to start but knowing he must. A full bottle of alcohol supplied to his still very underage son was at least a place to begin, if not the best.

“Don’ worry ‘bout it,” was Tim’s slurred reply. As Bruce watched, he brought the bottle to his lips and took another drink, grimacing at the bite. He looked no less miserable as he lowered the bottle to the mattress again.

“Jack,” Tim began, and Bruce went still. Tim rarely brought up either of his parents freely. “Jack always said a good negroni was the mark of a ‘proper Drake man.’”

Tim’s voice deepened in mocking approximation of his dead father. He snorted, rolling his eyes at his own air quotes. “Only, only he never taught me.” Tim sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his wrist. “Thought I c’ld figure it out. YouTube.”

He shook his head. “Nope. So I…” He lifted the bottle again, wordlessly displaying the result of his failure.

Bruce didn’t know what to say. He never did, when it came to Jack. The man was dead. There was no healing to come from excoriating him, no matter how badly Bruce wished he could. Nor did the story explain why Bruce’s straightlaced son felt the need to get drunk in the first place.

“Rough day?” Bruce asked.

Tim shrugged, shoulders rising and falling the way a marionette’s might, all string and no muscle. Even as he brushed away the question, his expression rippled, collapsing into something nearing tears before righting itself again. He closed his eyes and let his head rest back against the wall.

It had taken Bruce too long to notice how skilled Tim was at hiding his own hurts. At how quick he was to bury the first sign of need or want. And too often Bruce had let him. They were both trying to be better now, but some patterns were hard to break. But Bruce knew, for Tim’s sake, he had to be better. And it turned out he knew where to start after all.

Instead of waiting for an invitation, Bruce took the two steps needed to reach the bed and sat next to his son.

“C’mere,” he murmured and caught Tim as he collapsed into his side.

It was a unique kind of pain, listening to his children cry. If Bruce could snap his fingers and change the world for them, he would. But there was nothing to fix here, not really. All he could do was listen and wait.

Bruce pressed his lips to Tim’s scalp and held him close as Tim sobbed, then decided that an arm around him wasn’t close enough and pulled Tim onto his lap instead. Tim, small though he was, was too big. Bruce didn’t care. He had allowed Tim his space early on, assuming that Tim didn’t want or need physical affection, that he was too independent, that he didn’t look to Bruce for that sort of thing. It had taken dying to find out he was wrong.

Tim clung to him, face pressed into his shirt, body shaking with sobs.

“Talk to me,” Bruce encouraged gently, one hand rubbing circles between his son’s shoulder blades.

“Hurts,” Tim gasped. “Hurts.”

“What does?”

“Ev’rything.” Tim pressed a hand to his own chest, over his heart, and pushed as if he could rub the pain out of himself.

Bruce caught that hand and brought the knuckles to his lips. “I’m sorry, love. I wish… I could fix it for you.” He would have moved earth itself, crossed universes, thrown himself back into the clutches of time, if it meant his children never needing to cry again.

Tim made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh, and Bruce rested his cheek atop Tim’s head. There would be time later to find out what, if anything had happened. It could have been an event, a memory, a trigger. Or it could have been nothing at all. They all bore their own scars, and some ran deep enough to be lifelong. They could talk about medication, about a change to Tim’s therapy, about consequences for underage drinking. But all of that could wait for the new day.

Bruce rocked his son until the shaking sobs subsided into sniffles. The combination of booze and tears had left Tim boneless and nauseated, so Bruce lifted his boy as if he were fourteen again and carried him into the living room.

There was no Alfred this time, so Bruce had to fetch the water and the washcloth himself, but the rest was an echo, reverberating and distorting. The face he cleaned now was leaner, older, its nose crookedly reset after a break, but it was his boy’s face. Bruce was getting better at leaning into impulse, so he did now, pressing his lips to the spot on Tim’s cheek that the cloth had just cleaned.

Tim gave a wet little snort. It was a nicer sound than tears.

“I’m glad you called,” Bruce murmured. “Thank you.”

Tim hummed, and Bruce pressed the glass of water into his hands as they settled back on the couch.

“Baseball or talk shows?” Bruce asked as he reached for the remote.

“Only got subscriptions,” Tim said, this side shy of smug, though his voice still wobbled. “Cartoons or cooking shows.” He gave a little urp, then amended, “Cartoons.”

Bruce chuckled and reached for his phone.

At Tim’s, he pecked out with one thumb. Done for night.

A pause, and then a thumbs up on the other end.

Bruce turned off his phone.

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