thirdrootwriting

[thirdrootwriting]

thinking about how milk jugs are so perfectly designed; not a bit of wasted space. the handle is part of the container as well and you can clearly see how much of the liquid is left. genius. im thinking of eating the mushroom growing in my frontyard whole. if even one person is nice to me today i will kiss them on the lips

[thirdrootwriting]

Brother of my Brother (Infinite Crisis - Bad End) pt4

Tim in a rolly chair, what crimes against space-time and the natural order will he commit?

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4

Tim spins around in front of the Batcave's monitors not really looking at anything in particular and letting his head just float.

Nature vs nurture. Conner had been born and mostly grown in a test tube (metaphorically speaking at least, literally more like a multi-million life support tank), with most of his early social interactions being Tim, Cassie, Bart, Superman, and Gram and Gramps Kent. If he was re-cloned and exposed to that same stimulus (but better because they wouldn’t be blind-siding Supes this time) he'd basically be the same person right?

It would be like, -it would be like he'd just lost his memories, but he'd still be back and be Conner. A happier Conner even, knowing that he was born because he'd been wanted as a friend, comrade, brother, and  son rather than just a living, breathing monument to Luthor's Superman fetish as Conner himself had once bitterly put it.

Tim does another spin his head tilted back to look at the Cave's ceiling. Up in the darkness above, chittering bat eyes reflect back the harsh, artificial light of the Batcomputer's monitors. They probably had space for the lab set-up down here.

Tim spins again in his chair.

Cloning wouldn't work on Steph or Dick though.

Well, actually cloning them be a hell of a lot easier both in terms of getting a good DNA sample (Bruce definitely had those on file), and cause they were baseline humans not a lab-constructed mix of Kryptonian-human-whatever else Luthor'd needed to throw in to make it work DNA.

A human clone would grow up too slow though, and he had no way to perfectly replicate their original environments outside of some sort of Mad Hatter-esque dream machine. Tim wouldn’t even want to replicate their childhoods artificially; it would be straight up torture to make some poor innocent kid go through Steph's experience with her dad and Dick's witnessing his parents' murder - not to mention all the messed up stuff they'd had to deal with during their vigilante careers.

Tim wanted  his brother and Steph to come back, not to torture some little kid that shared their respective genetic sequences. Cloning was definitely a no-go for those two.

Tim lets his next spin in the chair leave him facing the computer's monitor and types in a couple of phrases to bring up everything they've got on the Lazarus Pits and any possibly related phenomenon.

Glowing green meteors that completely prevented aging like what had effected Vandal Savage. The immortality and resurrection potion that some say led to the birth of the Demon Nezha from the ancient general Li Jing's long-dead and much-beloved son. What they'd been able to dig up of Jason's case, and how his body had been awoken before he'd been dunked in those frothing green waters.

There's something here, something beyond the use of the Lazarus Pits as a method to prevent aging, heal severe injury, or bring back a near intact and recently deceased corpse. Taken together, there seems to be a way to activate their powers beyond how Ra's and the League of Assassins regularly use them. Tim chews on his tongue.

The thing was Tim was no expert on magic or mysticism, and didn't have a readily available team of experts through Wayne Enterprise on the subjects  like he did for anything related to biology or engineering. He'd need to somehow not only obtain sample of the Pit's waters but also locate masters in the schools of mysticism that had extensively studied that Lazarus Pits over centuries if Tim wanted to get anywhere with this, and that would be difficult. Anybody good guy enough to want to work with heroes would likely be against any attempts at raising the dead. Not to mention everyone knew how jealously Ra's guarded access to the Lazarus Pits, without Batman's help…

Tim bites harder on his tongue and considers alternatives. There had been other ways 'back from the dead', hadn't there? Ways that had more to do with messing with the multiverse - time travel, universe bending, and that sort of thing?

After all, they had two whole Kara's, with Super-girl and Power-girl running around. Also it was an open Justice League secret that the Flashes messed with the space-time continuum and the multiverse all the time. Heck, just look at Bart!

Of course, messing with the space-time continuum enough to bring back dead people, especially after the whole multi-verse crisis they'd just had was a pretty big ask - both in terms of needed power and in potential consequences. If things went wrong, they could go very, very wrong. Like erasing other people's existence or diverting history wrong.

Still, Tim could work around that sort of thing with enough effort. Calculate variables and rationalize cause-and-effect till he had the perfect plan. Change things just enough to save two people (Steph who was so, so wonderful, bright, and fiercely good despite everything life had thrown at her. Dick who was so much to Tim, to so many people, that his death by itself was massacre for all it had taken). Wally West was powerful enough for it, loved Dick enough that if Tim's plan was good enough he'd be able to convince him.

Okay, space-time-travel seemed more feasible than the Lazarus Pits, but Tim couldn't play this from just one angle. He'd send over snippets of the Cadamus documents they'd confiscated so long ago to their Waynetech people through Batman's usual channels to get started on building the machines needed to bring back Conner. In the meantime, he'd put out feelers to West and do more research into any phenomena that could lead him to an unguarded or unclaimed Lazarus Pit.

Plan in place and feeling more grounded and real than he has since Batman left, Tim starts pulling up the necessary files.

A call from Oracle  shows up on the Batcomputer. He sends back a quick 'Busy' response.

Tim was likely going to have to do some world-traveling to find the necessary resources and experts. Who'd watch Gotham while he's gone though? Batman's not here (might never come back) and it's already hard enough keeping the lid on that. The second the city calms down from their latest near world-ending crisis and realizes the Dark Knight's not just busy tidying things up with the JLA but well and truly absent from his post, it will be chaos.

Gotham needs Batman, Batman needs Robin, and the real one is dead. The house of cards they've built as the city's protectors tumbling down around their ears.

(Just for now though.

Tim can fix this.

 He'll bring back Conner and his team will be alright. He'll bring back Steph and Cass will return and stop isolating herself. He'll bring Dick back home, just like Tim had done to earn the right to be Robin, and his big brother will either fix Bruce or step back in as Batman again.

Tim can fix this.)

Oracle rings again, and Tim sends back another 'Busy'.

Who will be Batman and keep Gotham from burning down around their ears in the meantime though? Tim certainly can't. Not only will he be busy trying to get back Conner, Steph, and Dick,  but he can barely be Robin somedays. He saw how heavy the cowl weighed on Bruce and Dick, how Azrael couldn't handle it…

Oracle's green, glowing icon takes over his screen and her  voice rings out through the Batcave. "Robin, don't you dare ignore me! I have access to the Batcave's computer, and I can see you sitting there."

Tim releases the bite he'd had on his tongue swallowing down the sharp iron taste of blood. It's a challenge not to snap at Barbara, "Oracle, I was planning my next move. Is this an emergency?"

Tim can tell he wasn't successful at not sounding annoyed, as the Oracle icon on his screen takes on a harsh expression. With Bruce having left them saying he has to go think about if there even should be a Batman after this, and with her sometimes boyfriend but always friend dead, Barbara hasn't been in the best of moods either.

"Do you think I'd be over-riding your computer like this if it wasn't an emergency?" Oracle responds in a dangerous tone.

Tim shakes his head, "Sorry, no. Ready for report." He trusts Barbara. In many ways she's as much of a mentor to him as Dick. Whereas his brother had taught Tim fighting and balance and how to keep cool under pressure, Barbara had focused on passing on her technical knowledge and information gathering skills.

(Sometimes, Tim thinks of his iteration of Robin as a hero born of Nightwing's kindness and grace, Oracle's skill and wit, Batman's justice and commitment. Goal posts set-up not just by those who've previously held the mantle but by seeing the best qualities of the people who've taught him. That's the sort of hero an inheritor of the title of Robin should be, and what he works towards.)

"Well brace yourself, because it isn't good." Oracle voice gets hard, like Joker-broke-out-of-Arkham hard. Whatever she's about to say is gonna be really bad. Tim braces himself, already flipping through memorized 'worst-case-scenario with Batman out of commission' plans Bruce had developed and drilled into him.

"We have reports from the police about sightings of a vigilante that appears to be Nightwing in the Narrows."

For one, single weightless second, Tim feels is so relieved he could cry. His big brother is back! Bruce will come home, everything will be -

It crashes, bleeding and bloody on the ground a second later, as reality and most likely probabilities work there way into his brain.

"Copycat? Illusion? Clayface?" Tim grits out, understanding the brittle nature of Oracle's tone better now. Those sorts of things are insulting to the extreme when the person being imitated is alive, like this, it tips over into desecration. Though given the nature of Gotham's rouges, it's not surprising they'd do this sort of thing, hit where it really, really hurts, if they’ve learned that Nightwing is gone.

Whoever it is must be relatively new or not afraid of the Bats though. Tim knows that Bruce left anybody who so much as breathed the word 'Robin' in the ICU and often permanently injured the first year after Jason's death.

Or worse, they know Batman isn't here to deliver a beatdown, and this is just to torture the remaining Bats. Oracle, all-knowing but now physically confined to her Clocktower, and the current Robin, clever and cautious but lacking the graceful skill of the first and reckless bravado of the second. Their current line-up is all the brains but lacking quite a bit of brawn without Bruce, Cass, or Dick.

"Too wet out right now for Clayface. It's actually affecting the environment so that discounts an illusion." Something deadly and low filters itself into Oracle's voice, "And if it's a copycat, then it's a bad one. Whoever it is, he's killing people."

Cold frustration sparks in Tim's chest, a match for the deadly frost of Oracle tone. He understands the concept of a mantle, that they become something more than themselves when they wear their uniforms. Batman was the Dark Knight that wielded fear and relentlessness to keep Gotham's own darkness at bay, whether it was Dick or Bruce wearing the cowl. Robin was hope and the promise that past the darkness of the night tomorrow would be a better day, whether it had been the original's fearless cheer or Tim's own stubbornness making that promise. Nightwing has only ever been Dick, but he's still made that identity larger than life, greater than just himself.

Oracle's green icon-face (her own digital mask) disappears from the screen and is replaced by grainy security footage showing an unfamiliar man in familiarly patterned black-and-blue fighting what looks to be gang activity in the Narrows. The bold deep-blue bird with wings spread across the costume's chest, the man's dark hair and the confident way he easily takes downs his opponents do at first all scream "Nightwing!", but it falls easily apart on closer look.

Whoever this pretender is, he looks wrong. His hair's a dark reddish-brown and curling where it catches the harsh-streetlights instead of true blue-black waves. His shoulders are too broad and he's too tall, built like a brawler not a aerialist, which is reflected in the way he fights. Effective, sure, but he's throwing punches more than kicks, blocks more than dodges, and he's using a single escrima stick like a baton or cudgel. Even the impostor's expression is off - smiling but not in a way that makes him seem happy, more likes he's bearing his teeth in a snarl than expressing glee.

It's obviously Nightwing, but not at all an attempt at pretending to be the real Nightwing.

Sort of like how Tim doesn't try to pretend to be the same Robin as Dick or, god forbid, as Jas-

"Is that -" the realization comes out of Tim as a hissed question. Surely, no matter how thoughtless, no matter how reckless, stupid, unthinking, ruining-everything again idiotic!

"So you thought so too." Oracle's voice is wry, almost exhausted in a way the indomitable Barbara Gordon never sounds, "Seems our prodigal son isn't done borrowing mantles just yet."

#infinite crisis bad end au #tim drake #presidental alert!! The girls (middle kids!!) are fighting!!! #where in the world is bruce wayne? #tim was 2 sec away from entering his red robin (2009) arc #barbara gordon is having a very trying week

[thirdrootwriting]

Brother of my Brother (Infinite Crisis - Bad End) pt3

Back to Jason POV. There is some gore, torture, and gun violence in this one.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

The thing about Lex Luthor was the man had an insatiable need to stick his fingers into every available pie, the greedy capitalistic little Jack Horner pig. If some serious shit went down, there was an absolute guarantee that Luthor had started that shit, worsened that shit, or offered some incredibly condescending ' help' with that shit that was -in reality- probably just a disguised ploy to fuck with Superman.

(And holy hell, Jason could admit that he personally had raging inferiority issues, both before and after his resurrection, but the way Luthor was with Superman made his relationship with the original Robin AND Robin 3.0  look like the model of mental health by comparison).

All this in mind, if you wanted to know something and didn’t feel like trying your luck snooping around Batman's shit, the next best thing was to hop a city over to the next autocratic billionaire. Armed with that knowledge, and with the street cred of being known as one of Gotham's rouges, it's not hard to growl and posture in front of the right seedy bar-owners, fixers, and middle-men to track down a villain that's been getting cash flow from Luthor.

 People in that sort of game might be hard enough to keep their composure and claim ignorance in front of the Big Bad Bat himself, but are always willing to spill the latest gossip to a guy with a rap-sheet, well-used guns, and blood under his nails. It's how they connect thugs and D-list villains to people Luthor or Talia for use as cannon fodder, and while it's annoying as fuck to be seen as nothing more than a gun for hire, it is useful.

So useful, that only three days after reading that stupid memorial page, the Red Hood's got his gun under the chin of some little mathlete, computer nerd called the Calculator (stupid name), the guy squealing about the Secret Society of Supervillains (stupider name) that Luthor had set up with Talia, who really could do better in terms of company, and that fucking creep Deathstroke.

Three fingers shot off at point blank and one knee crunched to bony, gritty pieces under his boot, and the Red Hood's heard way more than he cares to regarding this little fun-time club of murders, their plans for a world-wide prison break (like Arkham didn't have those regularly on its own), the JLA's nasty little foray into memory alteration (the good guys pulling, morally objectionable, authoritarian shit? Say it ain't so!), and how the Luthor leading them had actually been an alternative universe fake trying to pull some sort of multiverse ending evil scheme.

Fun times all around, and the Red Hood could not give less of a shit about any of it if he tried.

Hood readjusts his weight, putting more of it on his left leg that's bearing down on the Calculator's ruined knee. The man underneath him lets out a whimpering, scream. Hood lets his gun's aim wander slowly down the guy's body, he thinks about pointing it at the fucker's crotch just to see if he'll start crying again but decides to have a bit of class and lets the muzzle rest on the Calculator's other, intact knee instead.

"That'd all be real interesting if I gave a shit about what you were getting up to Noah, but I what I want to know is how things shook out. The world's still standing right? So whose dead now that the dust's settled, and how they'd get there? That's the real question."

Hood taps the gun muzzle twice against Calculator's knee. He won't actually shoot, too much chance of hitting a blood vessel and having the guy go unconscious and useless from blood loss, but he doubts this computer geek knows that.

Way too many villains get into this gig all excited about torture, extortion, and killing with absolutely no defenses on what too do if the tables are reserved. It's always hilarious watching them shit their pants and scramble when they suddenly weren't the meanest thing in the room.

"I-, I-, the Luthor we were working with, the one from Earth-3, he ran so the heroes didn't get him, but he's dead already. He made the mistake of trying to go to ground in Gotham, and the Joker got him. Apparently the fucking clown was pissy he didn't invited to festivities, as if anyone half-way sane is willing to team up with his crazy ass." The Calculator grunts out, eyes wide and desperate as they track the gun that's poised over his one remaining knee.

Ugh, what a fool-ass rookie mistake. You only tried going to ground in Gotham if were unhinged and bloodthirsty enough to be too much of a pain in the ass to attack or you were homegrown on its cursed soil and knew how to avoid the city's resident cast of horrors. Hood's willing to guess any version of Luthor's a dangerous genius, but unless this version liked peeling people's faces off and eating them for a midday snack, he'd undoubtedly instead got eaten alive himself by Gotham's hungry jaws.

A least if the Joker got him, the guy definitely didn’t die a nice, easy death. Jason knows that with a painful certainty.

"Mmh, closer to having something actually useful to say. But hey, you went to ground in Gotham too, huh Noah, and it seems that's working out a bit better for you!"

Hood grinds his left heel down again. His boots are too thick to feel the grit of shattered bone, but he can hear the mess of tendons, viscera, and bone shards underneath the Calculator's latest, warbling scream. The guy pissed his pants right around the time Hood shot off his second finger, and the whole air would likely have the sharp mixed stinks of urine and blood if he removed his helmet.

"Was working out for you, I should say. You must be a local boy, huh?" Hood pauses, till the Calculator's eyes have refocused enough to show he's paying attention to Hood instead of his own pain.

"So, from one Gotham boy to another, how'd it shake out for our Bats? I hear our latest little Robin got out fine, and god only fucking knows that we ain't lucky enough to hope Batman got offed, but how'd birdy number 1 fare?" It's hard to resist the temptation to grind down on the man's shattered bones again, to resist pulling the trigger and making him bleed. Jason can feel himself losing control of the urge to send this piece of trash to hell where he belongs.

"How's Nightwing doing these days?"

"Nightwing and Superboy took down the machine-tower Earth-3 Luthor was using to rewrite the multiverse. I didn't see in person, but I hacked communications, and from Wonder Woman's report Luthor killed Nightwing in rage as reve-"

Hood yanks the aim of the gun up from Noah Kuttler's knee to his skull and blows his fucking brains out close range. The left side of the Calculator's face explodes into a mess of brain tissue and blood.

He gives the body a final kick, then lets himself out of the apartment that piece of trash had set up as a his hideout. It's Gotham, and the few cops not corrupt enough to ignore this are too overworked to give a shit about some villain's death, so no need to waste his time taking out the trash.

Hood slams the door of the run down apartment complex behind him, and stomps out onto the chilly streets. It's not raining, just damp and cold as Gotham usually is in the fall, so there might still be people, but Jason doesn't really give a fuck right now. Between his now-infamous helmet, his more obvious guns, and the wide shoulders he grew into, nobody's gonna mess with him as he prowls the streets.

And if they do, well, actually smashing some drug dealer or rapist shit's head against ground still it cracks like a bloody egg sounds like a good time with the mood he's in.

Hood makes it four blocks, not thinking about where's he going and not lucky enough to pass someone dumb enough to try starting shit with him, before he can even think above the cold, angry, itching boiling beneath his skin.

He needs a plan, he needs to do something, do anything. Jason will boil himself alive in his own itching skin with his rage if he has to just sit on it. He'd planned to kill whoever had murdered Nightwing, figured it would be some hot-shot that got a lucky hit in the chaos of battle, or some too clever for their own good smarmy loser who'd gotten an advantage by holding a little side-kick hostage.

Jason could have worked off his rage on giving them a death that was almost as slow they'd deserved for taking someone like his brother from him and Gotham, and finally proved, that at least in this respect, he was better than Rob-, than Nightwing. He might not be so nice, so naturally talented, so charismatic, but he could have proved himself better in this and given Dick's death the closure a good person like him deserved.

He realizes his loud, angry walk has taken him close to the warehouses of the harbor, the drafty old buildings three times as likely to be housing some sort of illegal goings-on as they are to be housing shipping containers.

His- his- second time heading out as Robin with Nightwing, had been around here.

Jason had jumped into a drug-processing scheme too early, nearly ruined the bust. Nightwing had to swoop in and rescue him - though instead of cracking heads, the annoying prick had just flashed a fake, movie-star smile and sweet-talked the guards and drug processors into letting them walk out.

He'd scolded Jason a bit afterwards, but taken the sting out of it by inviting him along on the real bust later that night. Afterwards he'd shot Robin a much gentler, beaming real smile and told him 'good job'. Then he'd ruined that soft, tingly feeling of pride at being treated like an equal by Nightwing, by prodding and whining until Jason had reluctantly let Dick buy him ice-cream.

Dick had flavor palate of a little kid in regards to sweets, and he'd gotten whipped cream and sprinkles on his. Jason had made fun of him for being 17 and eating like a 7 year old, and-

Jason's nearly twenty now, older than Dick had been when they first met. He's right near the age Dick was when Jason had died, a funny sort of parallelism.

Hey, with the way he's getting on with the family right now, chances are Jason will also miss his brother's funeral. How fuckin' hilarious is that?

He leans his head against one of the warehouse's outer walls and laughs. It comes out monstrous and distorted through his helmet's speakers. His gloved hands can't find purchase on his jacket's shoulders to rip up his own skin and let out some of the anger inside.

Anger and maybe not anger. His face feels wet and he's still laughing a bit. Whatever Jason's feeling it's bad, and he wants it gone. Needs to do something, anything for this feeling to be gone.

He doesn't know what to do though, and the unbearable tide of it swells and suddenly and desperately Jason can't help himself from thinking he wants to be 13 years old again getting painlessly snatched out of the air by Nightwing with a trapeze artist's instincts for a fall about to go wrong. He wants to be 14, half-asleep on a mountain-lodge couch on his first ever family vacation as his brother quietly tells his father Jason's a good kid, with the softest tone he's ever heard Dick aim at Bruce.

He wants to be 15 with this same unbearable angerfeargrief that is drowning him now swelling and calling his brother, his Robin, Bruce's first son, the only person in the world that might understand how he's feeling. The phone won't pick up, and he'd known that, known that the Titans were in space all distant and unreachable, but he'd still called.

Jason had still had a brother to call, and the promise that maybe someday it would connect.

He dials Dick Grayson's current civilian number on numbs fingers.

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

Jason hits redial. He can't say why, the call's not magically gonna go through this time.

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

He redials the number manually, staring hard at the screen to make sure each button press is pulling up the correct number.

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

Once more, repeating the phone number out loud to make sure he's remembering it correctly.

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

#infinite crisis bad end au #jason todd #dick grayson #tw: guns #batfam #i do love villain jason actually and his tendency to lash out at everything #doesn't matter what he's doing or feeling as long as he's doing something method of grief/anger managment #there really is a batman villain whose thing is he likes to eat face btw #and one who likes peeling a wearing other peoples face and one who likes welding on doll faces and #panp7

[thirdrootwriting]

Brother of my Brother (Infinite Crisis - Bad End) pt2

Tim Pov, and Prodigal flashback this chapter, because I love Prodigal Tim and Dick.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

Dick's body is still, cold and perfect on the autopsy table of the Batcave.

It looks so horribly wrong, like a puzzle piece crammed into the wrong place or an egregious bit of nonsense code in a command string. A blip of the universe.

Tim still remembers how Mary and John Grayson had looked as corpses. It had been a horrific, gory nightmare with hot blood pumping from their shattered bodies and their white bones visible in the air. Their son, warm and kind Dick Grayson, who just an hour or so earlier had pulled Tim into a hug that smelled of stage makeup and chalk dust and promised to do a quadruple somersault just for him, looking down at the sight that would haunt Tim's nightmares for years to come with empty, disbelieving eyes.

The first coherent thought Tim ever remembers having is, 'He was supposed to fall too', and a close second was this, "I won't let him fall too."

Staring at the near perfect corpse on the table, that used to be his- well, there wasn't really a word for it. Brother, hero, idol, and mentor all seemed trite and underwhelming for the person that was Tim's first memory, his reason for becoming a vigilante, his safety net; the person who had taught him how to fold laundry and talked Tim through everything from his teenage relationship drama to his struggles with being Robin.

Staring the corpse of a person who had made up so much of him, Tim feels hollowed out and unable to bear the heavy weight of his failure.

His mother, his father, Stephanie, and now Connor,

 . . . and now Dick.

. . .

. . .

No. No, Tim has to think. He's not a civilian, Dick's not a civilian. He's Nightwing, leader of the Titans and protector of Bludhaven, the prince regent of Gotham's night as the only other person who has done justice to Batman's cowl. He's been fighting crime longer than more than half the JLA, been to different dimensions and space and …

He's Robin. Dick's Robin, he can't be dead for good. What type of world would it be if fucking Jason Todd can come back, but Dick Grayson would stay dead?

Tim bites his tongue and steps closer to the table holding Nightwing's corpse and closer to Batman, still cowled and staring at his first son's cold body. The darkness of the cave and Batman's stillness make him even more inhuman appearing than usual, like he's a natural feature of the dank cave, a demon of shadows only visible out of the corner of your eye.

Neither of them, nor Alfred, have worked themselves up to removing Nightwing's mask.

Tim clears his throat, forces his voice to come out above a whisper, "The Lazarus Pits." He swallows, "I'm sure there are a couple the League of Assassins doesn't have control over that we can search out."

Nightwing in an unthinking rage would be terrifying, but between Crane's fear gas, Joker's venom, Ivy's pollen, and occasionally Bane's stuff they'd all been dosed up and compromised before. Not to mention, Nightwing's always been best out of all of them at staying calm and rational when dosed or altered like that.

A trained acrobat since birth, his fear response is to assess and rationally respond, and luckily his anger response to curl up and only lash out if prodded, it takes lot to get him to really attack.

(Not the heads in a duffel bag and midnight ambushes to write messages in blood type, unlike some people).

Tim looks down, more critically now. Nightwing's suit is torn and dusty and there is some faint visible bruising, but no large gaping wounds or grossly deformed bony structures. He mentally catalogues the damage, reaching out a hand to remove Dick's mask, "We should put him in one of the cryo freezers till then to prevent decomp-"

Batman's hand shoots out, grabbing Tim's wrist with a bruising strength, "The ray Alexander Luthor shot him with was a type of modified sonar. All his hollow internal organs and many of his blood vessels burst when he was hit. Despite the lack of outside damage, he's completely broken inside."

The grip on Tim's wrist gets harder and harder as Batman continues to speak, toneless, his face inhuman and unreadable behind the cowl.

"A Lazarus Pit can only revive someone from death with a near intact corpse, and whether it brings back the soul is still a matter of debate."

Tim feels something in wrist crack slightly, but the pain is secondary to the emptiness he feels as Batman shoots down his plans,

"Rob-, Dick Grayson is dead. He's not coming back. He's gone. We failed."

Batman lets go of him, He takes the hand that probably just cracked Tim's wrist and gently runs it through Dick's hair before carefully peeling the mask off of his son's face. Then with that same hand pulls off his own cowl. The expression on his face is . .

Tim steps back, his right wrist aching and his heart pounding with something, Maybe heartbreak, maybe fear.

He doesn't think Bruce notices. There is nothing in his eyes except the corpse, as if Batman and death are the only things in this cavern, as if Bruce wants nothing more to protectively cradle this dead body and his own grief till the very end of the world. It's the same way he stares at the bloody Robin uniform in the memorial case or his parents' portrait in the Manor, but so much worse.

Normally, Tim would try to stop him, because that's what Robin is. The light to Batman's darkness, the person that reminded him that they did this for the living as well as the dead. Normally, Tim would pull Batman back, and if he failed he'd run to Bludhaven to …

Robin is dead, there is no stopping Batman.

Tim leaves the Cave. All he can do now is search for the answer to his own grief.

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

Three years ago

Tim knows the situation, with Bruce and Alfred being gone from Gotham, and trust in Batman at an all-time low cause of all the stuff Azrael did in the cowl, is bad but there is still a sort of guilty, giddy excitement he feels in chest when Dick comes back with him to the manor to be his Batman.

Like yeah, the situation is really bad, but Dick Grayson is going to be his Batman, and Tim gets to be his Robin!

It has him near bouncing in place, even though Dick seemed gloomy, especially as he took in the state of the Alfred-less Manor all boarded up and dusty. Still he'd gotten straight to tidying the Manor up, as if Dick was determined to do the work of both Alfred and Bruce while the usual inhabitants were gone. He'd even let Tim help, tossing him a broom, and then later teaching him how to fold sheets.

Tim is concentrating, trying to get the fitted sheet he's pulled out of their latest laundry load into some sort of shape that not just a wrinkly ball when Dick strikes.

Too fast for Tim to see, he steps close and hooks his foot around Tim's right ankle. As Tim falls back, he must duck down because instead of hitting the ground Tim finds himself hoisted across Dick's back in a hold that feels like something between a fireman's carry and a pro-wrestler's move. The whole maneuver is so fast and fluid it barely even jars Tim, like this was something they'd choreographed and practiced a million times instead of an impromptu grab.

"Time for a break." Dick sing-songs, walking towards the door. "To the kitchen we go." His mood improved once they actually started working and there's a smile in his voice now that wasn’t there this morning.

Tim wiggles in the hold. It's not painful, not even uncomfortable like some of the pins he'd been subject to training with Bruce. Honestly, the gentle but firm grip (an acrobat's grip, someone who knew how to catch their flier) was far more reminiscent of the warm, chalk-dust scented hug Dick had given him during their first meeting as children. Tim is acutely aware of the feeling of being held, every spot of gentle pressure, each of his own muscles that want to relax into it.

Tim tries kicking his feet and twisting to break away, "Let me down! I can walk, you know." Both his movement and his words are ineffective, and Dick barely seems to notice as he continues on to the kitchen.

"Mmm, don’t think so. Think of it as training, just like you busting into my apartment to check on the security. I'm letting you know you need more practice guarding against sneak attacks."

From where his head is, Tim can just make out the corner of Dick's smile, a small comfortable curl of his lips, neither showy nor sharp. He looks so much happier than the bitterness and worry of this morning, and Tim fills up with a rush of pride.

He attempts kicking out again, putting more force into it, but Dick just readjusts his hold, "Not letting you go, Tim."

"I'll get you next time." Comes out of Tim's mouth, without him really meaning to say it. The warmth in his chest given vocal form. He's sorta means trying playful sneak attack of his own, but also sorta means he's not letting go in the other way, either. Never has since he was three and never will in a million years.

They finally reach the kitchen, and Dick sets him down with that same grin, "Sure, sure. Catch me if you can, Timmy."

#Infinite crisis bad end au #tim drake #dick grayson #every day i think of dick and tim in prodigal #tw: child abuse #anyway polls out now on tim's next attempt the raising the dead since bruce shot down the laz pits

[thirdrootwriting]

Brother of my Brother (Infinite Crisis - Bad End) pt1

I am sorry if the timeline events of Infinite Crisis here are a bit wonky. Also we are going with Nightwing run version of Jason and Dick's first meeting, bc that one's my favorite.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

The world nearly ended, it does that sometimes. A great, physics-defying colliding of universes and cosmic god-beings that required every sucker that's ever donned spandex -and occasionally some semi-willing, saner rouges- to put their noses to the grindstone , kick some ass, and maybe fart out a few inspirational speeches if you were the friendly paragon type like Superman, the Flashes, or darling Nightwing.

Jason's involvement in the whole thing had been minimal. He'd busted up some of the weird-ass robot things that preceded the main event, spared a whole goddamn sympathetic wince for the poor bastards that had to fight Superman's evil alt-universe son, and knocked around a couple of wannabe thugs that thought Bludhaven getting nuked was a chance to start getting cute with some profiteering or trafficking on his turf in nearby Gotham.

Not too helpful, cause Jason wasn't one of those fools wearing spandex anymore. (He had actual pants now, imagine that!). Not too unhelpful, cause he was a fool choosing to live in Gotham, and he'd prefer his city to not be a radioactive wasteland trashed by robots and mad Kryptonians and his universe not to be melted or unwritten or whatever cosmic bullshit the villain de jour had planned.

Eventually, the dust had settled. Heroes had run back to their claimed cities, the JLA fucked off back to space, and the various tech whizzes had actually started bothering to lock down or shut off the emergency channels they'd thrown together to call out the all hands on deck situation, making it a lot harder for those that weren't exactly invited to the party to listen in.

Leaning back onto his ratty but comfortable couch, in an apartment that edges closer to housing rather than a safehouse, Jason is now instead idly trawling through the official responses published by the JLA, the Titans, and a couple of the more put-together, public facing heroes.

He's not a bad hacker, far better than most, but Jason really only gives a fuck about information relating to Gotham and its vigilantes. (And well, formerly Bludhaven. Sucks to suck, circus boy, looks like even the great Nightwing fails sometimes). There's no way Oracle doesn't have anything Bat-related on lockdown already, and Jason's not fool enough to tangle with her in her home court like that.

He scratches his neck.

Nah, he'd rather not have cop-girl turned surveillance-woman rat out his location or get in his systems cause he'd gotten curious and poked his digital nose into whatever terse, control freak communications Batman was sending to the League and his little solider boys. Jason could just paint a general picture reading between the lines of official, publicly available reports, and then investigate through other, more in-person means after. Shake some people down, break into government offices that sort of thing.

Well, first off, it seemed his snobby little replacement was going to be in Gotham for a while. There's a short, despondent little announcement from knock-off Robin's knock-off Titans that due to the tragic loss of Superboy in the recent crisis, Young Justice would be suspending activity.

It's followed by a short but clumsily sincere little memorial piece about Kon-El, like that's supposed to make up for the fact he's dead, like just posting a couple of cheesy pictures of cook-outs and daylight missions and blubbering out a few sentimental sentences about how kind and heroic the deceased was enough to make up for his violent death.

Jason scratches his neck again. His nails are cut almost to the quick so they don’t catch his skin, don't draw blood, don’t really get rid of the itch.

Batman's more of a problem, as always. He'd never deign to give anything as mundane as a public statement, of course, but the JLA has an actual PR team and a constant need to maintain an image of transparency in front of the general public and its many trigger-happy governments. They've put out a handy list of various commendations being given, memorials being held, and ongoing efforts of various heroes to help with the after effects of the tragedy

Jason idly opens the memorials tab for some rubber-necking after he's finished investigating. He doesn't even bother glancing at the award ceremonies page (no Bat would fucking ever).

Little mention of Batman in any of the rebuilding projects or various JLA committees on preventing this horrible tragedy from ever occurring again . (Even though they all knew something similar would happen in another couple of years, cause the universe  tries to off itself on damn schedule these days).

Jason sighs. Nary a sign of the Bat on anything from the JLA, and the various social pages and gossip rags of Gotham were mostly empty of their favorite drunken fool, Bruce Wayne.

If Jason was lucky (and he never was), the Bat was on some short, international mission that would be finished up before the Red Hood's even had time to finish shaking down air traffic control for their records of Batplane sightings.  If he's unlucky, the old man's on one of his long-term out of the city projects or stupid self-discovery journeys that seemed to mostly involve screwing morally grey spies and assassins.

If he's supremely unlucky, though, Batman's fucked off to space or some alternate dimension to do this this, that, and the other cause he's similar to Jason in at least one regard. Occasionally they had to give a shit about the stability of the universe and the fate of the world, cause that's what Gotham is sitting on.

Uggh, it better not be that last one. Shaking down or threatening a Flash or Lantern would be a goddamn pain and require a fuck-ton of planning (steal some shit from Freeze? Lure the space cop into a sulphur mine? Might just be easier breaking into the Batcave.)

Jason rolls his shoulders face twitching into a grimace. He hasn't decided what he wants to do or say or whatever the next time he sees Batman, but he does know he wants it on his fucking terms. He's never gonna have a moment's peace if he doesn’t' figure out where Batman's lurking.

Shit, worst comes to worst he'll beat the Bat's location out of his shiny new Robin or prod it outta Nightwing who's almost certainly an emotional wreck now that Shithaven's radioactive rubble.

…. Maybe the Red Hood will even buy Nightwing a beer instead of greeting him with a gunshot outta consideration for his loss next they meet. Might be worth it so that Jason can see pretty, perfect Dick Grayson floundering in failure like the rest of the mortal world regularly had too, the prick.

Feeling a bit calmer, Jason settles back into a sprawl and starts casually perusing the JLA's page of memorial announcements for people he might've met with Batman or Dick. He idly scrolls down the page, stopping once in a while to search engine a name that rings absolutely no bells on the off chance it’s a rebranding instead of new-blood or a  total no-name. After all he very much doubts any mid-to-late twenties men are going around calling themselves Aqualad, or fucking Speedy.

Near the bottom of the alphabetically organized page is a blue hyperlink that reads 'Nightwing'.

Jason blinks. Clenches and unclenches his left hand. That's … a weird fucking way to list a memorial for the city of Bludhaven.

He knows a lot of the old core Leaguers like to fawn over Robin Number 1, Superman especially, and that Nightwing's probably the only non-exploded, halfway decent person left willing to admit association  with Shithaven, Gotham's poorer, dirtier little sister-city, but still. Not super tactful.

Jason stares at electric blue of the hyperlink for another couple of seconds, then clicks on it.

'The public memorial for the hero known as Nightwing will be held at 5pm on October 24th on the public access field in front of Titian's Tower. A beloved figure of the hero community, founding member of the Titians, and known associate of Batman, Superman, and many other long time Justice League members …'

The word 'Robin' does not appear once on the entire page, Jason notes hysterically. Like every two-bit thug with half a brain cell left after Batman's regular beatings and Gothamite still sane enough to parse a newspaper don't know that the little, grinning dare-devil child mad enough to take on the night in Gotham armed with nothing but pixie boots and a smile, good enough to not just fucking survive that but stay laughing and kind, like they don't all know he grew up into their migratory bluebird who would swoop between the brighter, outside world and their resident shithole city, returning to the nest to help beat down their rouges, remind Batman to act like a freaking human being, and teasingly rescue little Robins that got in over their heads. Perfect, lucky, Dick Grayson, Gotham's little songbird that got to grow up and stretch his wings.

Jason numbly realizes he's started to chuckle, an ugly smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

A hideous cackling monologue that never really shuts up in the back of his memories laughs and laughs about dead birds, about Batman's failures. The sentences are impossible to fully parse, every other word punctuated by a crack of pain or an ugly giggle.

A soft, sharp, croon in his recently resurrected ears, as Talia-of-his-memory whispers, "Family and love are just pretty, useless words until they've been proven in blood and sacrifice."

Jason hurls the laptop across the room, shattering the bright screen displaying its memorial message against the wall then stalks off to grab his helmet. He needs to see for himself if this is, if Nightwing is . . .

. . . If it is true, he needs to know who. Needs to know badly, insistently, itchingly cause Jason really fucking doubts whatever JLA fuck that wrote the page, or Titan hanger-on that organized that memorial actually loved Richard Grayson that way his brother deserved.

He sure as hell knows their father won't.

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

Six years ago

The first time Jason met his predecessor? (maybe his brother?) went  . . . . alright.

Sure Jason's flubbed the gauntlet test thing that Bruce'd set up, Nightwing dancing circles about him with his fancy flips. Then that had been followed by the older teen basically dragging him about the whole city like a scruffed kitten as they'd raced through the streets to save Alfred dressed as Two-Face.

 On the other hand, they'd basically raced the length of the whole city, bus-surfing and peeping into warehouses, and ended up fighting with some sewer-croc monster to save Alfred dressed as Two-Face cause Batman had flubbed his whole secret test thing worse. Jason had come out of that whole mess not looking too bad in comparison and gotten the official go-ahead to be Robin from both Batman and the original.

He'd parted ways with Dick kinda amicably. Dick had given him his original Robin suit (which was actually pretty cool) and his phone number to call in case Batman was being a 'stoic, immovable, grump' (actually a bit tempting to use cause  Bruce had been snit over his car crash injuries). Jason in turn had passed over the new Nightwing suit Alfred had sewn up and repeated his challenge that he was gonna be even better as Robin so Dick'd better watch out (he'd gotten a raised eyebrow  and a sigh again).

Not bad or anything. No hitting, no screaming (at him anyway, he's fairly certain Nightwing and Batman had it out behind his back at some point). No angry demands about who let a grubby, homeless kid have Robin's costume.

Still, Jason felt like Nightwing was just humoring him, and it rankled. Worse, was he knew why. In contrast to Jason's rather lackluster first night as Robin, Batman had shown him clips of Nightwing's Gotham debut right before he sent him out to catch him, and really those said it all.

A smiling young man in midnight blue and bright gold on a playful rampage through Gotham's darkness, a grinning Batgirl in tow. He knocks out street thugs with a showy, graceful kick on one screen, raids the Iceburg Lounge and talks down to Pengiun with an grinning, effusive, confidence on another, and on the final screen on the bottom right breaks into Arkham to play a prank on the fucking Joker, the clown's angry threats near drowned out by his fearless, undaunted laughter as he slips away.

"This is Nightwing" says Batman. "He'll be your test."

"That's Robin." Realizes Jason. "He's what I've got to live up to."

#infinite crisis bad end au #dick grayson #jason todd #dick dies during infinite crisis and everyone has a bad time #not yet but there will be severe middle child drama #right now here's jason in his villain phase having a bad time

[thirdrootwriting]

dying bc i want to read the fic i've been daydreaming about instead of actually writing it

#i like writing i like it #but sometimes when u get a cool idea #its like #wow i wish someone with a greater skill level would write this instead #so i could just read it #bc i like reading better

[thirdrootwriting]

East Blue Blues

(Gen, no pairings)

Summary: What's a pirate like Shanks doing in a place like the East Blue?

When people -the newer members of his crew, Mihawk, the occasional bewildered ship of unprepared Marines- ask Shanks why a New World pirate takes a couple of months every few years to bum around the East Blue of all places, he'll usually laugh it off as vacation time. Sure, sure they are Grandline pirates and he's a man that grew up cutting his teeth on the New World, but if you were going to relax, you ought to do it right, yeah?

The straight-forward, honest waves, the temperate land -as if the entire sea was a spring island-, Marines and pirates that (with a few noticeable D. named exceptions) were so weak that they didn't even qualify as a fight, it was the perfect place to spend some drunken, lazy days singing sea shanties, appreciating the ocean breeze, and feasting on the spicy-sweet dishes of the region.

"Wasn't that all reason enough?" Shanks will answer, followed by a teasing threat that nobody better get any ideas about crashing his vacation time.

The few times they've met up over the years, Whitebeard never asks about these trips to the East Blue, he doesn't have to. Shanks is the type to return the favor - he's a good guy like that - so in addition to always bringing good booze when goes to see the old alcoholic, he doesn't mention how Whitebeard's eyes trace the horizon in the direction of Wano.

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

Dawn Island's a bad place to dock a pirate ship - what with it being the home of the Goa Kingdom that most of the smaller islands in this region swear their allegiance and tax dollars to. Even worse, the nation is one of the Founding Twenty and is therefore subject to the dubious honor of World Nobles occasionally stopping by to check on their ancestors' old homeland. All of which means, it has a sizeable Marine presence nearby and enough political importance to call over someone with actual power if shit hits the fan.

All of this makes Foosha Village, on the opposite side of the mountain a great place for a pirate ship to dock, yes, really Benn, just think? What wet-behind-the-ears Marine, or over-dedicated challenger from the New World would think to look for the Red-Haired Pirates here?

Benn also never asks about their regular trips to the East Blue, which is probably good because Shanks has yet to successfully bullshit his first-mate once, in his entire life. (He'd never been able to bullshit Rayleigh either, perhaps it was the true mark of an excellent first-mate.) He's pretty sure, Benn knows because Benn probably knows everything, but his first mate never asks. Seems to make point of it even.

Whatever, whatever. Benn could pointedly not ask all he wanted. They'd picked up some great treasure on their trips to the East Blue each time anyway.

Some of the honest-to-sea-and-sun best goddam food Shanks has ever eaten at a restaurant shaped like a fish, the world's best and most chatty sniper in Yassop, and more than one case of excellent booze for Shanks to drink and to use as a bribe from when he wanted something from Whitebeard.

And it is with the scent-memory of that beer and grub lingering in his mind that Shanks strolls into the lone bar of Foosha village; Benn, Roo, Yassop and the rest busy restocking and exploring solo or in pairs, the better to not scare the sleepy village by presenting them with a pirate mob.

It is clean and well-kept on the inside - the floorboards scratched, but not tacky with unwashed alcohol and blood like more pirate orientated taverns. It's wall and shelves are adorned with bottles and old fishermen's knick-nacks. The only decoration that stands out is a framed poster of the East Blue's hometown hero, Garp the Fist, (the old loud-mouthed, Marine bastard).

The only people in the bar are its apparent owner, a pretty lady either ending her teens or starting her twenties, and what looks to be her only patron, a scrawny little brat swinging his legs back-and-forth under the bar stool. The rounded vowels and quick pace of the East Blue's spoken accent bounces to Shank's ears as the two banter fondly.

"Dinner was great, but Makino I'm still hungry. I need more meat!"

"Hmm, but I still see some vegetables left on that plate, so you can't be that hungry."

Shanks smiles.

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

Sea Kings may hunt and breed throughout the ocean, but they always returned to their home water of the Calm Belt to give birth and die.

Likewise, a man could sail a thousand seas and become the ocean's king, but he'd always carry the salt of his hometown.

Roger, his captain, might have conquered the Grandline but he'd still liked his food spicy-sweet, still sang shanties about peaceful waves and clear skies, still rounded his vowels and spoke quick.

That wayward Shogun Whitebeard took as a brother won't come back, not matter how much the old man stares at the horizon.

Likewise, no matter how often Shanks comes back to the East Blue, he won't find his captain, won't find his captain's hidden child if Roger and Rouge had any sense (they really didn't, but they'd had Rayleigh so close enough).

Still, the water here hooks beneath Shank's heart and above his stomach and pulls him back to the East Blue, like if perhaps he sails these specific waves enough it will quell the longing that rots in his gut to hear his Captain's laugh just once more, and for just a single cherished second longer to once again be chasing Roger's crazy dream all together with his family on the Oro Jackson.

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

Miss Bar Owner turns out to be named Miss Makino, and on top of a very pretty face turns out to be an absolute hoot in her ability to gently and politely smile through every tall-tale and crazy stunt a New World pirate crew can pull. In another life she'd have made a damn fine first-mate or ship's doctor with that nerve, though in this one, she's happy to live a peaceful life in a sleepy town, which Shanks can't begrudge her. Everybody's got their own dreams, after all.

The little runt is Luffy - a cute name for a cute little spitfire of a brat -, and he's great too. A fearless, mouthy child with more energy than anybody in Foosha knows what to do with, and eyes that sparkle like black diamonds when Shanks or any of his crew talk about their adventures, about their freedom.

A little pirate-to-be if Shanks ever saw one, and when the crew sets sail for their next bit of wandering then promptly sails right back to Foosha when it comes time for a resupply, his crew takes to calling little Luffy their Anchor and singing love songs about sailor's wives when Shanks so much as glances at Makino's place.

Assholes the lot of the them, right though they are.

Whatever, Shanks has found his treasure this trip in two new friends and lucky for his crew, he's the sharing sort.

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

Anchor's a fun kid to tease, quick to anger and even quicker to forgive. He'll spend dinner at the bar arguing and shouting that he is 'definitively tough enough to be a pirate, you jerk', till Makino puts him to bed huffing, then excitedly shake Shanks awake an hour before sunrise and drag him giddily by the hand up a nearby cliff to show his friend the rising sun.

Luffy promises it's the coolest and prettiest sight on the whole island, and that he's only showing Shanks, just Shanks, cause he's his friend.

("Whipped", Roo mouths with glee as he watches the kid drag Shank's hung-over ass out of the door from where he's eating his breakfast, and Shanks would've flipped him off but Makino was watching.)

Waking up that early does suck, there are a million and one reasons Shanks could never be a Marine and one is definitely his desire to drink later into the night and sleep till lunchtime, but he'd got enough honor to respect Luffy sharing something he treasures with him.

The dawn's light really is stunning from the cliff side Anchor dragged them to. It paints the sky with an untameable riot of yellows and countless shades of fierce reds, all against a backdrop of brilliant blue, and Luffy laughs with unrestrained pride at the impressed look on Shank's face.

That horrific subtle riptide that always drags Shanks back to these waters still sits in his chest, but he's got good food in his stomach, a friend's laugh in his ear, and the rising sun in a clear sky, so -

... so for the first time in quite while, Shanks manages to ask, "What is your dream?"

Luffy turns to face him, a large-grin nearly splitting his cheeks.

"My dream - " he says, so excited to share, his dark hair standing out against the brightness of the dawn sun.

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

"My dream - " says Captain Roger, the sun behind him mimicking the old straw hat he's just plopped onto Shank's head, so excited to share like he's the kid, not Shanks

And, hearing this silly, impossible, ridiculous dream, Shank's can't help but throw back his head and -

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

-laugh, and laugh, and laugh, free for the first time in more than a decade of the gut-rot of grief.

#one piece #red haired shanks #monkey d. luffy #lays down thinks about how much shanks loved his captain and cries #then thinks about how much shanks loves luffy and cries some more

[thirdrootwriting]

Staring at the Sun

The absolute worst thing - the thing Nicholas can't bring himself to even think about unless he's so drunk he can't even stand - is that Vash isn't actually naïve.

Of course he isn't. For all that fucker likes to whine and cry and put on a show of acting like the dumbass 20-something fool he looks like on the outside, Vash the Stampede has spent a hundred and fifty years on this hell-like dust hole of a planet with people trying to kill him on the regular. The guy is well aware what pieces of shit most humans are.

(Vash has even seen worse that what humans will do to each other. He's seen what humans would do to him.)

So no, despite what Nicholas, every gun-slinger, bounty hunter, and even Million Knives himself liked to spit at Vash in accusation, the guy isn't some naïve, sheltered little brat. It's just easier to think that than to acknowledge a guy could get filled with lead and greeted with betrayal near daily and still think all  lives were worth saving.

Nicholas gives a drunken, uncoordinated roll on the dirty floor of their motel room so that he's staring at Vash, who might be equally drunk. Even after several instances of them getting sloshed liked this, he still can't tell if Vash is really good at faking being drunk or really good at faking being sober, given how he'll seemingly snaps out of his woozy cheer the second it becomes convenient.  

Nicholas really hopes it's the first one, just for his own piece of mind.

"Hey, Spikey, you still awake?" His own voice is rough and quiet. Nicholas knows he's usually a pretty happy drunk, though he's got a tendency to get maudlin and dreary as the party winds down and the alcohol relaxes him enough to start thinking thoughts he usually knows better than to consider.

Vash, also laid out on the dirty floor, gives a little hum of acknowledgement, strangely melodic. He actually hums a lot, usually under his breath so quiet Nicholas - with his enhanced ears - is probably the only one that can hear. Sometimes it's something incomplete sounding, like a harmony missing its melody, sometimes it's a haunting but simple swooping, up-and-down rhythm, and sometimes just whatever crap they've been hearing over the radio lately.

He's never asked about that either, mostly cause Nicholas doesn’t want Vash to stop. Not so much a problem for tonight's alcohol fueled question, which is, "Why do you bother with all this crap anyway?"

He doesn't specify what crap exactly he means, cause Nicholas gives Vash  enough shit for all the stupid stunts he pulls that the guy oughta know what he's getting at - getting himself beat half to death to save some stranger, standing up to his terrifying brother, playing at being buddies with a spy and a traitor. It's a conversation they pick up and put down often, whittling away at each other trying to reach an understanding.

Vash actually sits up for  to stare at Nicholas for this question. His dumb sunglasses are who-knows-were, and his eyes are doing that stupid, faintly glowing thing in the badly lit room. Too bright, just like his teeth are too sharp and the way he moves is justly slightly wrong. Idiot.

Seeing that he's just being stared at, Nicholas clarifies, "You could just stop. You know most humans are awful if given half a chance, and we'll likely run out of resources and die in a couple more generations anyway."

Did it really matter if Knives killed them all in the next decade or so, or if humanity offed itself as they ran the Plants into the ground then starved on this planet that wasn't meant for them?

Did it really matter if Vash took his constant pitstops on their journey to save every murder, fool, and bystander that he happened to cross paths with? They'd all die someday, and the vast majority would deserve it.

Instead of answering right away, Vash scooches slightly across the floor then leans over so he's got his long lanky arms on either side of Nicholas's head.

There's a little voice in Nicholas's drunken head that whispers the best way to kill someone at close range like this is with his bare hands, to snatch one of the empty bottles from their early drinking and smash it against his target’s temple. It's easier than usual to ignore that urge, cause the person leaning over him is Vash. No need to kill him, and something like that probably wouldn’t do the job on what he is anyway. Twin comforts.

Far more pressing is whether Vash is about the kiss him. Nicholas would let him. Putting aside his own want, Nicholas would let Vash do just about anything he wants to him.

More than let actually, sometimes he'll look a Vash and the words, "What do you want? Can I give it to you",  will sit heavy behind his teeth. Nicholas's not sure if that urge is guilt, love, or a kind of pathetic thankfulness for the way Vash says, "Wolfwood”, like he's a person and a friend, even knowing what Nicholas is and how every moment of their acquaintance has been the lead-up to a betrayal.

So, no Nicholas would not mind being kissed right now. In fact, he thinks he's guessed right as Vash leans further over him, his eyes still too bright and everything about him just slightly to the left of human except for the scent of cheap alcohol they already share on their breaths.

Vash leans over and blows a raspberry on his neck, like a little kid trying to get a rise out of playmate. It sounds ridiculous in the heavy, expectant silence, and it makes Nicholas jolt with a ungraceful snort because it is goddamn ticklish.

Nicholas shoves Vash off him, and he falls back onto the motel floor with a quiet laugh. Seeing his pleased expression, Nicholas can't help thwacking him on the head, "Answer my question, don't play around, dumbass."

Still snickering softly, Vash responds, "I just did."

"Your answer is tat you bother with this pacifism crap because you like messing around?" Nicholas grumbles. He's too drunk to get angry, so the words come out more petulant than he meant them too stained by his disappointment Vash apparently won’t give him an answer -or a kiss- tonight.

Nicholas glances to his side at Vash, and instantly regrets it. Instead of snickering, he's relaxed his face into one of those devastatingly gentle smiles that he gets when he's truly happy. Being the sole focus is even worse than it felt to have Vash leaning over him, cocooning him from the rest of the world.

"I got to drink with you and hear you laugh, why wouldn’t I bother?"

Vash says with that with the same gut-deep sincerity he has that makes what should be cheesy platitudes sound like gospel truth on his lips, like several lifetimes of suffering are worth it to end up spending what is probably right near the end of his life drinking bottom shelf booze he probably can't actually get drunk on and hearing Nicholas laugh.

"Shut up and go to sleep."

Nicholas isn't drunk enough for this.

#trigun #vashwood #writing #this is somehow simutaneously set in trimax and tristamp #'i don't even really ship vashwood' i say like a liar as i write this

[thirdrootwriting]

Is Xie Lian Worth the Hype? Fic Outline

#tgcf #my post #fic outline #i guess #long post #anyway #i think he xuan and yin yu should be work friends

[thirdrootwriting]

Fics I want to Write - FFVII edition

Babysitting AU

Cloud and Aerith time-travel back into their 6/7 year old selves, WITH the caveat that though they have their adult memories, they have the planning skills, abilities, and emotional regulation of a 6/7 year old. (i.e. not great)

Note: still willing and able to cause SO many problems, but unable to actually fix anything with their short arms and baby brains.

Should feature: Vincent (no memories) actually solving all plot points in the bg by going off what the these weird babies and Chaos are saying

Tseng freaking out, bc he think aerith has been kidnapped. Possibly teaming up with Vince, recognizing him, and freaking out more.

Genesis freaking out bc a DEMON dropped off BABIES in Wutai, told him and his friends to babysit, and now Angeal is getting bossed around by the tiny brunnette while Sephiroth refuses to put down the tiny blonde that keeps threatening to stab him.

-

Here’s how Healthy Polyamory Representation Could Have Saved the Timeline

Fudging Crisis Core timeline a bit, but Zack starts dating Cloud and Aerith back b4 shit hits the fan re: Crisis Core. Obviously bc, he loves and looks up to Angeal, he introduces his new bf and gf to his mentor. Zack also mentions how nice it was to have, like, a good role model also in a poly relationship.

Angeal (aware on some level that his personal relationships are trash fire disaster): haha, thanks.

Later, that day angeal bursts into his apartment ready to drag his husband and boyfriend to couple’s therapy by the roots of their over-producted hair if he must.

Genesis: we don’t need that. We have a perfectly healthy relationship with great communication

Sephiroth (genuinely surprised): We’re dating?

Genesis: .... fine, we might need it a little.

IDK, these three idiots get kicked out of a LOT of therapists’ offices. but they do eventually communicate and problem solve. meanwhile zakurith(?) are cute in the bg.

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Time Travel for the Temporally Orientated

Sephiroth, time travels back to pre-Crisis Core; he is too busy dealing with severe mental whiplash (can’t decide if Jenova’d him was right or if now-him was right; really disorientating to be un-hiveminded and not kinda-dead) to solve or cause any problems. Fortunately(?) he is acting so goddamn weird anyway that he accidentally makes the timeline better whilst navel-gazing. A comedy of errors featuring:

Picks up cloud as an apprentice, but makes zack train him because 1 of the few things Seph can make up his mind about is that he respects/misses older cloud and thier fights. To literally everyone else though, it looks like Seph picked an apprentice he dislikes? why? thoughts vary

Genesis is DETERMINED to get to the bottom of this. he does not. But he does (1) make friends with cloud, (2) become Intense Magic Rivals with Aerith, (3) become frenemies with Zack, much to Angeal’s displeasure

Tifa and Zack become frenemies too, via being pseudo pen-pals to best friends in law. This version has Tension though, bc they kinda want to smooch each other’s SO

Side note, Aerith is having a great (and very bi) time; she is constantly texting Cloud pics of Zack and Tifa’s latest arm-wrestling/lifting/pull-up battles with heart emojis and thirst captions

Zack is putting off having a bisexual crisis, bc he dislikes Genesis too much to admit he’s hot and Cloud is busy being taken. He’s. putting. it. off.

The great saga of what seph’s phone background should be

Who is more Tired (TM) at any given time?: angeal vs. cloud

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My take on Remake Fic

Sephiroth and Aerith argue from the lifestream / great-beyond via changes to the timeline.

Zack chapters: Saving a soul via compassion / Dying alone bc you couldn’t save anyone

Genesis chapters: Almost a good person, after a knock on the head (ft. cloud does in fact bite) / So much rage, I’m burning the world down around me

Tifa Chapters: Courage to Believe in Promises / Fear to Lies to Hatred

Cloud Chapters: Let me fully elaborate on my 2 am thoughts that Aerith and Seph mean parallel things to Cloud on an X axis and Tifa and Zack mean parallel things to Cloud on a Y axis

#ffvii #nowhere close to finishing any of these but #whatever #my post #ideas

[thirdrootwriting]

Links:

AO3: divisiblebyfour

#pinned