Age Reversal AU (For Batfam)

[dfordangerous]

[ His father is dead, and he's still reeling from the shock. Alfred and Tim both know he's barely keeping it together, for all his standoffish composure. Years of preparing for this moment--

(steeling himself, to watch his father be laid to rest next to his grandparents)

--have done little to offset the grief. He wouldn't be seen at all if it weren't for his brother; if Tim hadn't coerced him out of his room in the hours following the funeral, hadn't confessed his worries for Cass (retreated, to the attic of all places), Jason (god, Jason, Damian's own cunning little húlí, he'd adored the man), and his father's newest stray, Richard. Dick. His father's Robin.

His Robin, now. As strange as the thought is. But the cowl is his, and so is Robin.

His Robin, who Alfred has informed him is currently making his roost up in the ballroom's chandeliers. Refusing to come down.

Damian, briefly, contemplates leaving him up there in favor of finishing reviewing this case file.

('He'll come down when he gets hungry,' he tells Alfred.

'He's in mourning, Master Damian,' Alfred points out, with all the dry chastisement his stiff upper lip can give.

'I'll get the broom.')

And here he is. He finds himself squinting in irritation up at the boy monkeying around on the fragile, expensive crystal. ]

Richard. [ Prim, clipped tones. Damian hardly raises his voice unless his fuse is blown; usually only when he's locked in a shouting match with Tim or with his father.

He doesn't know Richard that well. The boy is a relatively fresh arrival, and the past few months he's been here have seen Damian on longer missions; international and galactic trips alike. Before Bruce's death, they had maybe spent only a few hours in each other's company, and the boy was clearly not overly fond of him. ]

What are you doing?

Comments

[graysondive]

[Dick had been counting the weeks since he had left the circus. In the sparse amount of time since, his parents had been killing, he'd met Bruce Wayne, and his three sons and daughter and their butler. He'd caught a mobster that had sabotaged the rigging, and he had learned that the Wayne Family had become a team of crimefighting vigilantes, and Bruce had wanted him to be a part of it. He'd spent a lot of time training, and went to public school for the first time in his life.

It was a lot of change all at once. Then Mr. Wayne had died too.

Even if he'd just met the man, he had been kind helpful, and the loss was too fresh on the heels of losing his parents and the circus. He'd attended the funeral, but-- but Bruce had so many other people that he knew, and a lot of other family, and he had hardly known the man and had felt so out of place, and was sure the rest of the family didn't like him that much. Bruce, Alfred and Tim were the only ones that seemed to like him at all. And now that Bruce was gone, he was sure they only wanted to get rid of him. Maybe they'd send him away to an orphanage and he'd never get to be Robin. The thought of being alone scared him. He felt like he was falling without a safety net, just like he had a few months ago.

But high places were where he felt safe. He liked to climb, and since people rarely look up, it was a good place to hide (Bruce had commended him on that fact). He was clinging to the center of the chandelier and his knees bent up to support his chin, unaware of the costly materials that made up the hanging piece. Mr. Pennyworth had come to try and talk him down, but Dick had been blubbering and trying to hold back tears, and the man had departed the room before Dick had been able to tell what he was saying.

He sniffles loudly when he hears the tone of the eldest son now instead, using one hand to rub the corner of his eye.

(He didn't know Damian very well, he had mostly been gone whenever Dick was here, but the man always seemed to be angry and unhappy, and Dick didn't like him very much. He was serious like Bruce, but he was also scary and never smiled and wasn't very nice at all, and Dick was sure Damian disliked him the most.)]

G-- Go away!

[dfordangerous]

[ Damian does not go away. In fact, he does just the opposite, and stays exactly where he is, arms crossed like an immovable stone as he looks up at the boy. He can, faintly, make out the sound of sniffling.

It seems Alfred was right. As usual.

Damian is unused to dealing with children, much less crying ones. Tim, when he was younger, was easily cheered with food and games; Jason, street-tough and would rather cause mayhem when upset. Cass cried only rarely, but all she ever wanted was for him to stay and hold her a while; words were never necessary with her.

Richard is chatty. Everything is about words with him. And Damian is especially clumsy in that regard. He and his father were never big on speaking, although they managed to communicate much better after the first year or two. ]

Nope.

[ Flat denial. If Dick is hoping for him to wander off so easily, those hopes are soon to be dashed. ]

Are you planning to make a nest up there, Robin?

[graysondive]

Yes.

[He projects his voice enough so he can be heard from the ground, but otherwise, the tone of it sounded like he was grumbling. And rather petulantly at that.

Maybe he couldn't bank on the man getting fed up and wandering off, but there was still absolutely no way he was coming down, even if he has to express it with whiny sarcasm.]

I'm staying up here forever. I jus'-- [Another sniffle.] I just need some hay and sawdust. Everything in this house is hard and old.

[dfordangerous]

[ He rolls his eyes. He knows that tone all too well.

(And, Alfred never fails to remind him, used that tone. Constantly. More so than Tim and Jason combined. He had been the crown prince of petulance.

Damian pointedly recalls none of this. Alfred's mind is clearly slipping in his old age.)

Unfortunately for Dick, the eldest son isn't all that moved by sullen fits. Especially when he knows that Alfred has done his best to make Richard feel welcome, to help him personalize his space to his comfort. The boy's bed is springy, the room chosen for its large, sunny windows; repainted and refurnished to feel less 'hard and old.'

There's a beat of silence as the older man stares up, downturned lips pursed in contemplation, before he says, casually, shifting his weight to the other side of his hip: ]

I suppose there's nothing for it, then. We will have to construct a pulley system to lift food to you.

[ He thumbs his chin, as if a thought has occurred to him, straight-faced as ever. ]

Looks like you won't be able to partake of Alfred's baking when it's fresh out of the oven, either. I hear he's trying his hand at a new dish tonight. A kind of noodle pudding called pirogo.

[ His tone is devoid of any hint of suggestion, although Damian is undoubtedly being sly. If there's one thing he excels at (with Tim's help), it is research. And someone may have hinted to Alfred that the Romani dessert would not go unappreciated. Damian may not interact directly with his siblings much of the time, but it doesn't mean he's not thinking of them. He, like Bruce, just shows it in small, often unrecognized gestures. ]

Operation: DEAD BRO RETRIEVAL

[dfordangerous]

[ He remembers that night with vivid, awful clarity. Remembers Bruce, curled over Jason's body, as Alfred quietly drew up the autopsy report that no one needed to hear, because Bruce knew it all already. And Damian, so well-versed in the art of killing, needed only a single glance.

The beating, the explosion; as white-hot as Damian's furious grief as he lashed out at anything and everything in the Batcave, finally taking off for the streets of Gotham with a squeal of burnt rubber.

'I won't let him live.'

His father had tried and failed to stop him. If there is one thing Damian has never tolerated, it is threats to his family. Morgan Ducard had to die, and so did the Joker. He only followed his father's creed so far before he would willingly, and gladly, break it.

The Joker suffered as Jason suffered, suffered worse, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

And now -- and now his mother has called. An empty grave, a silky promise, timelines and Lazarus Pits, and his heart is in his throat while his stomach has fallen out, holding the same breath for what seems like hours. Her terms are simple, and he vanishes on Bruce's watch without a word.

(He won't waste time arguing with him. Not when there's a chance.)

Only Timothy knows; Timothy, who catches his arm, squeezes it tight, and then lets him go.

Breaking in is laughably easy. Talia is squirreled away in one of her own private compounds, with only a few guards at the entrances. He remembers it, from his youth. The luxury, the peaceful surroundings, the open-air halls where they would walk, feeling the mist roll off the ocean cliffside in the mornings. His favorite place in the world, once.

So carefully chosen, to strike at his heartstrings like a pit viper. But he can't begrudge her for her nature. He just grits his teeth, striding into the inner chambers, eyes sweeping the room as he enters.

There she is, reclining upon the chais longue, a pleased, infinitely controlled expression on her face when her eyes alight upon him and she stands, gracefully, to greet him. Beautiful as ever. She thinks the ball is in her court, that he is cooperative, receptive to her machinations, so desperate to just see his younger brother hale and whole.

She is wrong. Their short conversation is the end of that (after he confirms Jason is here, Jason is alive, Jason is hidden out of sight ready to be brought forth once Damian has kneeled to his mother), and mere minutes later Damian is sprinting through the hallways, slamming every door he finds open, fighting off the waves of guards when they come, because he has to be nearby-- ]

Jason!

[ His voice ricochets down the hall, the barked call a demand for an answer in turn. ]

Jason!

GO GO GO

[waywardbird]

[ Jason is scared. Jason is also blindingly angry, confused, sad, and hurt. But he is notably afraid. Jason has faced fear every single day of his life; the fear of a father, the fear of losing a mother, the fear of a strangers touch, the fear of things he has forced himself to forget forget forget, the fear of disappointing a father, a brother, a mentor, and even the fear of death.

But now he is afraid because he’s back and he shouldn’t be. He is afraid because he is wrong.

(More wrong.)

Curled up in the cot he was given in the room he has destroyed in a fit of green anger, Jason is afraid of what comes next. He is afraid of the future because he is the past and they are supposed to be separate and not together.

“Jason!”

Jason’s eyes—once blue, now nearly green—fly open as he looks wildly towards the locked (solid, locked, with a glossy finish ruined by a chair, a lamp, and some fists). ]

D-- [ He swallows, voice small, fragile with hope and raspy from disuse. ] --Damian?

[ “Jason!” ]

Damian! [ This time, he practically screams it, rolling off the cot and running towards the door, clawing at it with ruined fingernails and banging on it with splintered hands. ]

[dfordangerous]

[ Hope gutters for a fragile, long moment, sprinting slowing to a jog as he reaches the end of the hall, only three sets of doors left. His mother -- was it all a ruse? She had sounded so confident, so smug in her claims. So willing to lord it over him, that she had come to acquire something precious to him that had been lost.

The grave had been empty. But he'd seen no proof. Nothing but that calm, superior satisfaction on her face.

There's blood stinging his eyes, the cut on his brow gained from some lucky swipe. And there's fury, a slow and steady burn, because if the Supers could come back, why not his brother? Why not his lively, devil-may-care bruiser of a boy?

(His father had argued the damage was too great to risk the Pit. Damian had hated that he was right, just as much as he hated himself for even thinking of putting Jason through that special hell.)

He wrathfully shoves open of the side doors, revealing another empty room, but he stops mid-step at the scream -- muffled, desperate, familiar -- that rises up from the heavy door behind him, banging echoing the yell.

His heart stops, time hanging, as he stares at it. Almost not daring to believe, despite the faith that had driven him here.

Jason.

Damian kicks into a flurry of motion then, striding across the hall. The door is locked, of course, but he's in no mind to give a damn, bringing up one heavily booted heel to kick next to the lock. The wood splinters, frame warping, and he kicks again, and again, until he's able to throw his shoulder against it and force it open.

He's not sure of what he'll find, but what it is is -- more. So much more than he expected, that he's brought to a halt in the doorway, because there, there he is, different, older, changed, but him. ]

Jason. [ His voice has gone rusty; fierce, rare gladness roughening his tone. ] I found you.

[waywardbird]

[ Damian. His head chants the name over and over again, halfway disbelieving as this all actually happens to him. His brother came for him. Talia—she had said that he’d been gone. Dead. No one knew he was here. No one would come.

But someone had and that—

That gave him hope. A small seedling, planted in ill-tended soil.

He backs away from the door, still scared, still hurting, but almost smiling in fragile joy. And once he sees him, that hope now brought to actual fruition, Jason can’t even manage actual words.

A whine crawls up his throat and his eyes cloud over with tears. ]

You came. [ The voice is small and broken, wet with emotion.

He resists the urge to latch on to Damian like a child. It takes every single ounce of his willpower to just stand there and cry instead. ]

Two Face is a Douche: a lesson in never making coin flip jokes

[graysondive]

[Everyone always said Dick talked too much.

He liked to talk.

Damian said he talked too much, but he'd. Always thought it was more in a playful way. Brothers ripping on each other, like when Dick said that Damian was a no fun party pooper.

The mission shouldn't have gone this bad. Two Face had-- he didn't even remember what Two Face had done. He'd broken out of Arkham, but that was totally normal. He'd gone after-- gone after someone's kids? He couldn't remember, but Batman had been preoccupied with fighting Two Face, so Robin went to save the kids and he-- hadn't listened when Batman told him it was a trap, and then everything was dark, and then he woke up and--

The logical part of his brain, the part that was supposed to be a detective, told him that he must have gotten a smaller dose of whatever they'd been gassed with because he'd woken up first. And Batman was tied up with the other guy and--

And Robin had been too confident and he thought he could beat Two Face at his own game. And he just kept talking because Robin was trying to win and

and he'd almost gotten Damian killed

(and he had gotten an innocent man killed)

(and Damian was going to be so mad at him he knew it he knew)

and then all he could remember was pain.

He could feel fists and a baseball bat and his face and his skin tearing under every blow that felt ten thousand times worse than being dropped on the floor of the Batcave during training and he could hear bones breaking and he could feel and smell his own blood and he couldn't feel anything because everything hurt.

He'd probably started crying at some point. He was pretty sure he had.

He just wanted it to stop.]

[dfordangerous]

[ Two minutes. He needs two minutes to Houdini his binds, without Two-Face noticing and putting a stop to it. There's a dead man at his back, and he supposes he should be grateful it's not Robin's body leaning against him, but--

Two minutes of listening to every blow, every wet, slick crack, as Two-Face breaks his youngest sibling. He can hear it even over the rush of blood pounding in his ears. Two-Face's special treatment leaves his body slow to respond, or it would take much less time.

Even thirty seconds is too long. One minute is agonizing. Two minutes is a special kind of hell. And god knows it had been going on long before he'd clawed his way back to consciousness.

(Two-Face never thought to account for his training, his resistance. He won't have the chance to make that mistake twice.)

Damian has never, ever been able to deal with his younger siblings crying. Timothy always chuckled at him for it, for his inability to say no to anything they needed when they were truly upset. Called him the most protective, most possessive, of older brothers. Crocodile tears he could scoff at, had no trouble ignoring, but when it matters? He would kill a man, if they asked. End of story. Nothing, not even his own life or his father's creed, came before them.

Two. Minutes. And he can hear the boy cry out with every blow. Unacceptable.

Damian puts a stop to it.

The minute he is free he's up and lunging at Two-Face before the man even realizes what's happening. He's had time to plan this, to plan his precise attack. Less than five moves, an exercise in brutal efficiency. A sharp, two-fingered jab to the unprotected nervous tissue between the eyes (a move learned courtesy of Ducard, to paralyze); a series of cracks, as Damian's other hand crushes with pitiless force the finger joints of the hand holding the bat; a jab of the knee to his back, dropping him to the ground. From there it's a calculated snap of his heel to Dent's head.

Coma, or vegetation. He doesn't care which, but one of them will be the result. The man is lucky to be alive considering Damian's mood, and if Robin -- if Robin dies, he won't live.

He drops to his knees next to his partner, his brother, eyes darting across him to appraise the damage, hands soon following to provide both comfort and to inspect potential breaks, careful and light but purposeful as he starts in on field dressings; his hands skirt around Dick's face, and Damian's eyes narrow. At some point he has the presence of mind to call the Batmobile to their location, but that'll be a wait. ]

I've got you, Robin. I need you to hold on and stay with me for just a little longer.

[graysondive]

[One of the swings had stopped. He was waiting for it, knew that it was supposed to be coming, trying to brace himself again and again and again--

He could hear the sound of impact, but didn't feel anything new. Maybe he'd gone so numb he didn't feel it anymore. Maybe Dent was just waiting, winding up, so that the next one would hurt worse. The anticipation is almost as painful as the rest of it.

And something touches him again, and he sucks in a breath on reflex, curling away, waiting for more pain to course through his nerves, but-- but it's not forceful, it's not cruel. It's-- it's gentle and mindful and.

Dick tries to crack his eyes open, at least one was swollen and throbbing and everything was blurry from tears trapped in his eyes but. But it was Damian. Batman, who was awake, and he was OK and he was here and oh god thank god he was here.

He lets out a breath, almost a relief but it felt sore and painful and wet. He knows ribs are broken, and his inside felt sharp and torn, and he's not even sure if it's from legitimate internal injury or not. And one arm he can't move and the other it hurts to move, and he's almost certain he can feel some bone sticking out somewhere and the pain is unbearable but he's hardly even sure what part.

But on some parts there's pressure now, not the kind from impact but a constant force. The kind that's trying to hold in everything that wants to fall apart, and that kind of makes it feel better. He's not entirely sure what 'better' is at this point. His memory must be awfully short, he tells himself.

Damian's talking and the roar of blood and nothingness in his ears is almost deafening. But he wants Damian to keep talking, he wants to be able to listen he wants to be able to say something but his tongue feels heavy and everything tastes metallic. His chest feels worse than congested and his throat and most of his face doesn't even feel like it exists.]

I-I-- [A cough, a hiccup, some kind of involuntary reaction and everything feels more red. He still reaches out, desperately, clumsily, with the arm that he can at least move with some pain to grip the material of Batman's coat as tight as he can.

'Hold on.' Had to stay awake. Had to-- even if he couldn't form a sentence right now, had to say something.]

B-Batman... you're... [You're OK thank god you're OK] b-b--... D-Dent-- [What happened to Two Face please stop him please stop him.]

[dfordangerous]

Hush. [ It's a gentler chastisement than the usual snap, paired with his free hand dropping down to coerce Dick into yielding his death-grip on Damian's coat in favor of cupping the battered hand in his own, thumb rubbing reassuring circles against the boy's palm. ] I'm alright, and Dent is down.

[ There's sharp steel in his voice; Dick hadn't been here for the Joker incident, but it's with the same tone that he announced that Jason's death had been avenged, right to the face of his father. Cold, merciless, and confident; and viciously protective. ]

He won't be getting up.

[ He can hear the Batmobile pull up nearby, engine revving. There's no easy way to do this next bit, but Damian is going to try and make it as comfortable on Dick as possible. He yanks his other glove off with his teeth, tucking it into his belt, and sets Dick's hands upon his chest (infinitely careful to not jostle the breaks). He can't give Dick any strong painkillers because he doesn't know if the boy will wake up--

(Unease, jagged in his own chest. His panic's held at bay by training and sheer determination, but there's a running train of thought in the background of his mental processes: Dick's coughing is wet, too, he has to have internal injuries, god, what if he bleeds out in the car, Damian will be able to do nothing--not again, not again--)

--but the topical anesthetic he applied to some of the worst areas should help ease the transition home. He leans forward to slip his arms beneath Dick's neck and knees, making sure everything is in place as his fingers curl around his brother's shoulder. ]

We're going home, Robin. I'm going to lift you now, alright?

A Refresher Course in Crime-Fighting

[dfordangerous]

You're going to wear a hole in the concrete.

[ Redbird's voice is knowing and exasperated, murmuring in his ear as Timothy handles communications and surveillance from the Batcave. He has video feeds from all their masks, and is privy to Damian's sharp, methodical pacing.

He'd be annoyed, if he wasn't sure that Tim was saying much the same to Bruce as well, out in a nearby sector with Dick. ]

It's his first time back out, and it's solo patrol.

He's got you on stand-by, 'Hawk. He'll be fine. And he needs the space.

[ Nevermind, Damian's annoyed. Timothy, ever reasonable, ever in cool self-control, understands Jason's needs on a level Damian, for all his frustration and his protective concern, can't reach. He'd argued for this compromise with both Waynes for weeks.

It had been Timothy who'd convinced them that Jason needed a new environment that was both safe and empty of triggering memories (too volatile for someone who'd taken a dip in the Pit), and had moved with him to a penthouse suite in the Watchtower, where Jason had never been.

And it had been Timothy who warded the both of them away, limiting their too-frequent visits, because Jason had needed room to breathe, to be, without a Wayne shadowing his every footstep, and who had coached the both of them on how to handle and react to Jason's mercurial moods (Bruce being more of the concern there - their reunion had been rough and an emotional minefield, and exceedingly fragile).

Timothy, who arranged for Jason to meet with Dinah for therapy. Who had handled Jason's reintroduction to education, co-teaming with Alfred in home-schooling him to start with before eventually bringing him back into public high school at Gotham Academy. Who nurtured Jason's strengths and interest in language, while tutoring him through the harder material.

The only help Damian seems to be is in drawing Jason's aggressions out on the training floor, and waiting as Batman, Incorporated's powerhouse back-up nearby in case Jason needs a fast bail-out.

('You and Bruce always feel like you have to fix things. But Jason's not broken, Dami. You of all people understand that much.') ]

I know. I just-- [ Damian just wants him safe, and happy, and sort of maybe seriously considered wrapping Jason up in a blanket and never letting him leave the house. But it was only for like two minutes. ]

--can't protect him forever. Locking him up in a padded room is out of the question, too.

[ How does he fucking do that? ]

Like the thought ever crossed my mind.

Of course not.

[ten year old pest intensifies]

[graysondive]

[School was already out for the day, which was an hour Dick was always glad for. While everyone else was off doing their-- business-y stuff, and Jason got to go to public high school, Dick was still stuck in the stupid stuffy private school he'd first been committed to. He hadn't even known what a private school was until he had to stay in Gotham.

He'd neglected, however, to meet Alfred for the usual ride home in one of the Waynes' ~fancy~ cars. He'd actually left a bit early, ditching class and venturing into the city on his own like a boy on a mission, making a beeline straight or Tim's Penthouse, which was a trip and a location that was strictly not allowed for him.

So, it was really nothing more than a whim, and it wasn't some kind of high scale invasion task, but Dick decided to go anyway. He liked hanging out with Tim, but Tim was always busy and rarely had time for anything besides work, and the 'nightshift,' and taking care of Jason, and probably some other adult sort of thing. And-- he never really actually got to talk to Jason that much, but he'd heard so much about him, and he seemed so cool-- and Damian said they were all brothers, right? So wasn't it weird that they'd never really gotten to hang out together? Tim said that Jason needed 'time,' but it'd already been a long time from Dick's point of you. Like, forever.

No one batted an eye at least, when Dick made his way up to the penthouse, and he made short work of the lock thanks to the key he'd nicked off of Tim the last time he'd seen him in civilian mode (pickpocketing was not exactly a skill he felt confident in broadcasting among a family of crimefighters).]

Helloooooooo? [He's at least courteous enough to not go rushing right into the room, and simply starts with peaking his head in through the door like he's come to call someone for dinner.] Anybody home?

what did jason do to deserve this fate

[waywardbird]

[ In his time back in the land of the living, Jason had idly begun to wonder if all this shit was worth it. Because really; it was exhausting. The stress of returning to school alone was doing a real number on him, and he wasn't allowed to patrol, and his family, god, his family-- that was a trip he never needed ever. He wasn't suicidal. He didn't want to be dead. But it made him wonder, nonetheless.

...Maybe he should talk to Dinah about this.

Maybe.

Laying on his bed, nursing the beginnings of a headache with a book over his head, Jason immediately jolts up as a familiar voice rings through the apartment. Shit. Shit. This is the opposite of what he wanted to deal with right now.

Hesitantly, he lays back down. Maybe if he just-- doesn't say anything, the kid won't come looking back here. He wouldn't walk into his room, right?

...Right? ]

steal the tires off the batmobile it's one long karmic payback

[graysondive]

[No answer. Huh.

Well, it was kind of the middle of the day, so Tim was probably. Doing work or something, maybe. Maybe he and Bruce were stuck in one of those meetings. But Jason was probably out of school by now too, wasn't he?

He pushes the door open wider, taking a step inside and cupping his hands around his mouth.] Helloooooooooooooo?

[Well, he remembered to close the door behind him, because he's definitely venturing further inside, poking around every corner and doorway for signs of a presence. Maybe if the guys weren't here he could at least snoop around their stuff while they were gone.]

Hello? [No, this one was a bathroom--] Anyone here? [This closet was almost as big as some of the ones in Wayne Manor--

Eventually he makes it to Jason's door, though it looks like every other door in here to him. He hooks his hands on the door handle, leaning back in his boredom of the repetitive search and using his weight to pull it down and try and push the door open.] Where is everyone...?

will no one just let that go already

[waywardbird]

[ Ugh. As it would be super fucking lame to roll under the bed, Jason props himself up on his elbows, letting the book fall off his face, and scowls at the tiny intruder. Though he doesn't know Dick and he's assured that the kid isn't nearly as bad as he's making him out to be, Jason kind of hates him. It's as simple as that.

The kid replaced him. What is there to like?

(Every time he sees a picture of Robin in the paper, something ugly and green coils up in his throat and it almost makes him scream. It usually just makes him punch something instead.) ]

What do you want.

[ The tone is brisk and blank. The sooner this is over, the sooner he can go back to laying in his dark room and letting his headache go away before it becomes a full blown migraine.

(A new problem, one he hadn't told Tim about yet. He-- He thinks he might have gotten hit in the head too hard or something. A problem the Lazarus pit hadn't quite gotten to before he crawled his way out of it.) ]

[dfordangerous]

[ Why is it, he wonders, that his only purpose in life has become 'save the siblings?'

Timothy was troublesome. Jason was, and still is, a handful (not that he's complaining -- he's grateful enough that Jason is alive to be a handful).

Richard, however, is the bane of his existence. Ever since Bruce returned to being Gotham's Batman, and let Robin off the metaphorical leash, the young teenager has consistently tumbled and flipped his way into an extraordinary amount of trouble.

He blames that team of Richard's. They are terrible influences. ]

Apokolips?

[ His growl doesn't break into a yell at the communicator, but it's a close thing. Blackhawk expects the usual: a tussle with King Shark, some weird Kobra cult activity, maybe some dubious tag-along with Catwoman. He doesn't expect to hear that the so-called Teen Titans are trapped on Apokolips.

Father must be joking. ]

---

[ Father is never joking. ]

Remind me, again, what motivated your decision to send your team through while volunteering yourself to remain behind, trapped?

[ Blackhawk sounds pretty pissed over the sound of shots fired. He's picking off the enemy creatures -- starved, pathetic, cannibalistic little monsters -- and the press of his other arm to Dick's back keeps the boy low and moving as quickly as possible.

Maybe now isn't the time to argue about this, but then again, Damian can argue anytime, anywhere. Now's as good a time as any, in his book. ]

[graysondive]

[One day (probably next week), Dick will look back on this and claim it as a boasting point for being one of the most ludicrous accomplishments in rescue danger. Or for being the biggest pain in Damian's ass.]

I was thinkin' Apokolips had some nice tropical weather this time of year and I wanted some alone time!

[He jokes, but he's still arguing, his jokes and teasing grown much more sarcastic and biting ever since Bruce had returned to Gotham. Not that he'd been particularly compliant before, but Robin's independent streak had somehow grown in even more, and he made a flap of his hand to shoo Damian's arm away from him while still keeping low and obeying the tacit order, because he knew what he was doing and he could do it himself, thank you very much.]

What was I supposed to do?! Kid Flash hurt his ankle and Aqualad was getting dehydrated! [He stopped only for a moment to swing his remaining escrima stick (seems the other one had gotten lost or stolen through this whole escapade) straight into the nose of one of the monsters obstructing their path.] If someone hadn't stayed they would've just followed and hurt someone else! Or worse

[He didn't know what the big deal was; he was thinking like a leader. He was doing what Bruce and Damian and Tim had taught him to do.]

[dfordangerous]

You weren't supposed to be here in the first place!

[ He growls back, snapping a new cartridge into the gun. It's dubious whether Bruce gave him the go-ahead for exercising lethal force for this mission or not, but Damian's not going to take risks with his now off-and-on partner. Not here, not on this hellish planet, with them outnumbered and outgunned and the Justice League still hours away from getting back in time to do anything. An enemy goes down, and he wants them to stay down. ]

Why not ask the one who can fly to stay behind? You know, the one who could've just avoided this goddamn mess.

[ Blackhawk is definitely pissed. The cussing doesn't come out until he's well and truly exasperated. ]

Wait -- I know why. Because you like her.

[ The sneer is no partner, all brother. He's had plenty of opportunity to turn his nose up at Dick's romantic endeavors, and this is just another mark on the board in his personal opinion of 'love is stupid and makes people stupid.' ]

WHAT OH I BET YOU DIDN'T SEE THIS COMING and entirely playing off the original setup so nyah

[volving]

[ After their father died, Cassandra hid in the attic.

That's what Tim told the rest of the family, anyway, but an examination of the attic would really only show an empty attic with one open window. You could, of course look out the window.

...and use the edge of the roof to pull yourself up onto the top of Wayne Manor, which is where Cass actually is. She likes it up high, away from the house noises, with the wind catching at her hair and clothes. Death is... hard, for her. It would be untrue to say she's unfamiliar with it, but she does her best to never be the cause of death (not since the first time), so it doesn't actually become part of her world very often.

And she's never lost someone she loves. She's never lost family.

She isn't sure how she's supposed to react. Tears, obviously, and sadness, and that's all well and good - she feels sad, at any rate. But she feels like there must be something else. Should it be different because she's his daughter? Should it be different from a blood daughter because he adopted her? What should she say to the people who come and say things that are clearly meant to be comforting but get muddled up into a jumble of nonsense every time they say anything?

It's all... a lot to manage. Too much, when added to the weight of losing the only father she's ever had that she considers a father (complicated emotions about David Cain notwithstanding).

So she's staying away from everything and everyone, perched on the roof with her legs tugged up against her chest, her chin resting on her knees, the wind whipping her hair back from her face and trying to shake her balance. It won't. She wonders what would happen if it did. ]

s u r p r i s e

[graysondive]

[The highest places were Dick's favorites; usually he was content with simply the highest point in the room, but in the first few weeks when he'd arrived at Wayne Manor, he'd ended up on the roof at least twice. The house was simultaneously too empty and too full of... stuff. The family's inclination towards quiet and solitude didn't help matters, so Dick retreated to the roof once more.

He didn't realize when he set out upon his mini get-to-the-roof-quest that someone was already here-- and he lets out an 'oh!' of surprise before he's even pulled himself onto the roof yet, clinging to the edge of it as he kept one foot on the sill of the window below.

That was Cass; Bruce's daughter, crazy good fighter, and couldn't speak very well, and that was pretty much as far as Dick knew. He'd barely been here a few months, and things were changing so fast it was amazing he was even able to remember names.

He bites the corner of his lip, tightening his grip on the edge of the roof.]

Sorry.... I didn't mean to bother you. [Especially given how sad she looked.]

*GASP*

[volving]

[ Cass is having her own issues. Cass has... a lot to think about. A lot to figure out. Sure, talking to Steph or Tim or even Damian might help, but it's more than she can manage right now.

But when her baby brother that she's had so little chance to really interact with shows up, she can't help but smile. Not a bit smile, not for long, and there's still sadness under it, but it is a real smile.

She doesn't say anything just yet, but waves Dick up - come join her on the roof, baby bird - maybe you can finally get to know each other. ]

/nobody expects the batfam inquisition/ jk everyone expects it here comes big bro

[dfordangerous]

[ Prying at the attic window, he considers the merits of leaving his younger siblings to roost. Perhaps it is just evolution, a natural progression from child to bird or bat. Who was he to interrupt Darwinian Law?

The paint unsticks, and the window is shoved open with a squeal.

Then again, if he didn't retrieve them, Timothy would nag. More than he already does. He's already blackmailed Richard down from the chandelier, and now it's time to prod at Cassandra. They have... things to discuss, anyway. Matters of the cowl.

(Everyone knows Bruce intended for her to inherit -- but then again, he didn't plan on dying so soon. And maybe he's rolling in his grave now, to see Damian now standing in as interim Batman. Their relationship as father and son, as strong as it'd grown, had never been strong enough to convince Bruce that Damian was anything but an ill fit for the mantle.

The little known secret is that Damian agrees.)

Stepping out onto the rooftop, he hikes across the slanted shingles to where she perches on the ledge, picking his way sure-footed and casual despite the drop below. His weight drops next to her without much more than a grunt of greeting, and she probably shouldn't wonder about the wind shaking her balance when it's the eldest son's elbow insistently nudging at her side in an unspoken, imperious demand that she shove over and make space for him -- much the same as he does during movie nights. ]

You missed dinner and a show. [ He signs like he speaks, like he moves: brusque, confident, and controlled. ] Richard took up residence in Martha's favorite chandelier. I had to knock him down with a broom.

[ Well, he had to threaten as much, anyway. ]

isn't inquisiting basically all they DO?

[volving]

[ Cass scoots over without complaint - it's such an ingrained interaction that at this point she doesn't even think of it. She wonders if Damian came to try to talk to her, or wanted some company, or was just coming up here to get some air himself.

(She doesn't expect to discuss the cowl. It never came up with Bruce, really, and she always assumed it would go to Damian. Whether or not Damian was a good fit for it was another matter, but isn't that how these things work?)

She turns her head slightly when he starts talking so she can follow the trails of his hands, and lets out a soft huff of a laugh. Her own response is signed, but not spoken. She can practice speaking with Dick, and when she's not grieving. ]

You didn't. Is he all right?