Hope; To Weaponize Love In A Fight

by GracefulLeopard, PolynomialPandemic

Summary:

It’s been a long time since Dick has been sufficient backup in the field, but… maybe he’s wanted for more than that.

Maybe he always has been.

It feels stupid, now, that he’d doubted it. It feels almost like a betrayal of his brothers, even though he didn’t mean it that way. Of course they want him here. Of course it’s easier with him around, that’s the whole reason he does what he does.

----

OR: as Weapons truly become Brothers, Shrike's usefulness in the field continues to decrease. Struggling to stay afloat, what will Dick trade away to be able to stay?

He'd better be careful before he loses himself entirely. The Handler always keeps her winnings.

Notes:

WELCOME BACK TO THE SUNLIGHTVERSE!!!!!! WE ARE STOKED TO BE HERE

 

For newbies, this will really make a lot more sense if you start with the first fic (worldbuilding-wise,) but also im not telling u what to do

sorry this has taken so long!!! We discovered voice rp about 80% of the way through this story and uhhhhhhh yeah we kinda fell down that rabbit hole SERIOUSLY hard. but this is mostly finished!!! so for this fic we're gonna be updating every week :D (the next one, maybe a lil less frequently, but we shall see)

(this is where things get heavier, y'all. tags will update per chapter, chapters will have warnings if applicable, and the very heavy chapters will have summaries in the end notes. things get bad before they get worse. take care of yourselves -gleo)

WITHOUT FURTHER ADO WELCOME BACK ONE AND ALL

Chapter 1: Childhood Comforts [Yr. 2, Jan 4]

It’s been several hours of tense waiting before Dick sees movement outside of the door, and hurries over. Yep, finally, the guards have brought Jason back. 

He doesn’t look great–he’s very much leaning on one of the guards, for one thing–but he’s a lot better than when Dick last saw him (i.e. conscious and no longer covered in blood).

Dick takes Jay from the guards, struggling slightly to support him, and helps him over to the mattress in his cell.

Jay stumbles at the change in his crutch’s height, grunting wordlessly when he less sits and more flops down onto his mattress, the impact certainly hard enough that Dick knows Jason’s spine hit the ground through the thin material. “Wha–?”

“You’re okay,” Dick reassures, “you’re back in your cell. We’re all safe. You took a pretty bad hit, but you’ll heal up just fine.” Hopefully he isn’t lying–they didn’t exactly share any information, but Jay isn’t out for good, or they would’ve just… disposed of him. 

Absently, Jay raises a hand to his stomach where he was impaled not too long ago. He pokes at it, expression screwed up in annoyance, then looks up at Dick. “Who the hell’re you?”

Ah. Shit.

“I’m Shrike,” he says, hoping a simpler explanation will be easier for Jay to process. “I’m another Weapon. We were working together, remember? I got you to the getaway car.” He had. He tries not to think about it for longer than a second at a time.

“Right.” There’s recognition in Jason’s eyes as they flicker over Dick and then around the room. Wincing, Jay moves to push himself up, jaw clenched; Dick’s fingers flex with the urge to help him, but he isn’t sure it’ll be welcomed. “Th’ fuck they do t’ me?”

“Stitched you up,” Dick says, but Jay is really out of it, so he hazards a guess as well. “Maybe they gave you too much sedative, though.”

“Can’t fuckin’ think,” Jason says in what’s probably agreement, managing to prop himself against the wall. “Gonna…get killed like this.”

“No,” Dick reassures, “you’re safe. I’ve got the watch, okay? We’re back at base, and anyone who wants to kill you has to go through all those guards and me first.”

Jay scrutinizes him, like he wants to be suspicious but can’t manage the cognitive ability. “Y’ don’t look like much.” He holds a hand up towards Dick, obviously wanting something. Help standing up? Contact? Dick can’t tell.

For lack of a better option–hand holding might be too far, and he does not want Jay standing up right now–Dick gives him a very gentle high-five. Hopefully that won’t incite homicidal rage. 

The expression on Jason’s face could best be described as disappointed hopelessness. “Christ,” he says, the clearest speech he’s managed so far. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“So you’ve told me,” Dick responds amiably. 

“Y’ look like a drowned cat, how the hell’re you alive,” Jay mutters, which is a more creative insult than he’d normally put effort into. “Gimme your fuckin’ hand, Dick.”

Dick smiles at the (probable) use of his name, and offers his hand. Jay takes it in a firm grip that doesn’t surprise him, before proceeding to yank Dick down to sit next to him. Seriously, what did he eat growing up? Elephants?

A warm arm drapes over his shoulders, pulling Dick flush against Jay’s side. This much contact is unprecedented, but Dick isn’t complaining. “We should call the kids in here,” Jay mutters. “Make sure everyone’s secure.”

“Sure, Jay,” Dick says, completely unable to hide the affection in his voice. Jason is just so sweet sometimes. He raises his voice slightly. “Hey, Tim? Demon? C’mere, we’re hanging out in Jay’s cell. Cuddles are optional but encouraged.”

Tim wanders over, poking his head in to assess the situation before he gives the tiniest shrug and comes in to settle on Dick’s other side. As small as it is, the fact that Tim’s growing comfortable enough with the others to emote makes his heart feel light.

Maybe thirty seconds later, Demon stands in the threshold, arms crossed and his default look of disdain on. Without the mask, it’s easy to see how his lip curls–Dick would never say it out loud, but the kid looks more adorable than intimidating. “You look infantile and undignified,” Demon sneers, yet he doesn’t walk away.

“And we’re keeping Jay in place and calm, which will get him more rest and help him recover faster,” Dick counters. “He’s not gonna sleep if you’re out of sight.” Which might be untrue, but it’s a possibility Dick will exploit the hell out of.

Demon harrumphs, but he steps inside the cell and sits primly as far away as he can without leaving the mattress, which really isn’t that far. 

Jay stares at Demon like he’s calculating in his head. “I’m gonna kill the League for you,” he says out of nowhere

Dick raises his eyebrows, and carefully does not look at Demon’s face, while still monitoring in case Demon decides to spontaneously attack Jay for the insult or something. 

Demon bristles but doesn’t attack. Yet, at least. “Unnecessary,” he says. “The League has properly and efficiently allowed me to–”

“They turned y’ into a Weapon at the age of baby,” Jay interrupts. “Even for me that shit's low. They’re dyin’.”

“I’ll help,” Dick says, because even though he’s pretty sure they won’t be able to do enough damage to matter, he’s not letting Jay go against the entire League alone.

“There is nothing dishonorable about how I was created–” Demon starts, sharp and angry as he starts to rise, halting when Jay once again cuts him off.

“What’s your favorite song?” Jay asks. The seeming non-sequitur makes Demon pause, clearly confused at where this came from.

Demon blinks, the most expressive form of surprise Dick’s seen from him yet. “What?”

Jason turns to Dick, on a mission. “What’s your favorite song?”

“I don’t know its name, but my mom sang one to me a lot,” Dick says, feeling a little embarrassed that he doesn’t have a proper answer. “Our performance music was good, too.”

Satisfied, Jason nods before leaning forwards slightly to look at Tim. “What’s your favorite song?”

Tim doesn’t give a verbal answer, but he does hum a few bars of a lullaby Dick has sung to him before.

“I knew it!” Dick grins at him. “I was pretty sure you liked that one best. I’ll keep that in mind, Timmy.” 

Jay nods again, and the motion seems to unbalance him a little. Dick wraps an arm around his torso to steady him, and when Jason doesn’t snap at him, he keeps it there. “I don’t have a favorite song, but I like Bon Jovi.” Then he turns back to Demon, raising a challenging eyebrow.

“I–” Demon starts, looking uncertain. “Music was unnecessary in the League of Assassins.”

“Okay,” Jay says, and Dick wonders if he’s going to leave it there, but, “What’s your favorite color?”

“This is ridiculous,” Demon snaps, obviously unbalanced in this conversation.

“Mine’s red,” Jay barrels on, chin jutted out in challenge and staring Demon down almost like he’s a target.

“Does shiny count as a color?” Dick asks, partially to lighten the mood and partially because he doesn’t want to pick a favorite. 

Jay narrows his eyes at Dick. “You’re on thin fuckin’ ice. Ghost?”

Tim reaches over and pokes at the blue of Dick’s shirt. “Good choice,” Jason compliments, followed by, “but legally we’re now mortal enemies.”

“Right, because we’re so good at following laws,” Dick says, hoping to stave off any resulting feuds. He’s not sure Tim knows how to have a joke rivalry. 

“Point. Brat, share with the class.”

Obviously thinking on the fly, Demon blurts out, “Black.”

Jay shuts him down immediately. “Not a real color. Choose a better one.”

“This is ridiculous!” Demon snaps, flustered enough to repeat himself. “You act as though Shrike did not answer with something vague but insist my answer isn’t valid?” He scowls. “Besides, I fail to see the point in this useless interrogation.”

“He’s getting there,” Dick reassures, because unlike the Demon, he’s pretty sure he knows where this is going.

That earns him a punch in the arm, which Dick chooses to believe is done out of friendly agreement. “Point is,” Jay announces, “you didn’t get real shit growing up. Kids have favorites, they got stupid shit they’re obsessed with, they get naps and snacks and stuff like that. I got it. Dick got it. Pretty sure Ghost got it too. Probably.”

“Sort of,” Dick says, trying to support Jason’s point without sharing too much about Tim’s past–Tim doesn’t like talking about before he got to the Reach.

“See? Even the fucked up mute kid got something.” Jay’s gained steam, now, bowling over any attempts Demon makes to interject. “League didn’t give you any of that. At least we got a chance to pretend to be people before it was beat outta us. Bet you never thought yourself anything but a Weapon, and that’s sad and I’m burning the League down for it.”

“You’re delusional from blood loss,” Demon counters. “Spouting nonsense and making Shrike cover for your irregularities. I refuse to indulge your insanity.”

He goes to stand up and leave, but Jason’s faster. Before Demon can get to his feet, Jay’s breaking out of Dick’s support and lunging forward, snagging the kid’s arm and pulling him similarly to how he took Dick to the ground. “For fuck’s sake just get in the hug, brat.”

They squabble. Dick looks on fondly. Sometimes, despite their surroundings, the boys seem to achieve something close to how Dick sees them when he’s Home. 

It means the world to him. And he thinks, watching Demon fight off Jay’s grasp but then claim pride of place half on top of Tim, it might be starting to mean something to Demon, too.

Chapter 2: Not Forever [Yr. 2, Feb 13]

Summary:

“Follow, Shrike,” the doctor orders, stepping through the door and down the halls without a single backwards glance. And Dick does. He walks in their wake as they move deeper into the medical facility, them muttering inaudibly under their breath the whole time. Eventually they stop in front of another door and open it, stepping through.

It closes behind him automatically, like many of the doors in Reach.

Inside appears to be some sort of operations room, with a rolling table and bolted chair as the main centerpieces. On the table are tools Dick doesn’t recognize, carefully laid out and organized.

Notes:

here have some somft (with some implied medical bad eye stuff at the start, but nothing more than them saying 'we are gonna do this procedure' and then a cut to recovery)

dick grayson you are so <33333

chapter warnings: misunderstanding (fear of termination), discussion of surgery, discussion of medical eye procedures, needles

Dick starts worrying when one of the doctors comes in alone.

Doctors work alone, sometimes, but generally one of them takes notes. A doctor alone means a decision, one big enough that they’re bothering to tell him about it. 

“When was your last meal?” they ask, not even looking up from their papers. 

“Lunch,” Dick answers truthfully. He has no idea why that matters, which is making him nervous. Well, more nervous. 

Turning their wrist, they glance at the watch there before humming and scratching something down. “Low risk enough,” they say quietly, to themselves because doctors rarely speak to him unless it’s to give an order or ask a question.

Low risk enough? What risk? What’s risky about when he ate lunch?

“You are aware that hiding physical injuries or afflictions that impede your performance is not allowed, Shrike.” For this they do look at him, staring him down like a bug under a microscope. “Either you’re losing your edge or you’re lying, and neither of those have a good outlook for you, Weapon.”

“I understand,” Dick says quietly. 

…Is this it? 

They wouldn’t bother reminding him about the rules right before disposing of him, right? 

The tremors in his hands. That’s probably what they found, although he’d been pretty sure his hands had been still for the inspection. They couldn’t have found anything else, right? The migraines weren’t bad enough that he was visibly affected, and he hasn’t collapsed on any missions.

“I suppose this is explanation for your poor performance,” they continue on as if he’d never spoken. “Your handler was frustrated with your decreasing accuracy.”

Was frustrated. Dick barely suppresses a shudder. Was. 

The sound of their pen on paper echoes in the room like a wailing siren. “Now.” The click of the pen sounds like a gunshot. “Anything else you would like to inform me of before the procedure?”

“Can I at least say goodbye?” Dick asks, because even now, all he can think about is his brothers. “Please?” 

It’s a stupid question, and a risk to the others to ask in the first place, but Dick can’t help it.

Silence. Dick doesn’t speak again, knowing the danger he placed already. Finally, the doctor sighs. “It seems you are slowing down cognitively as well. You are not being terminated, Shrike, though I will be putting in a recommendation to your handlers to recheck your training.”

Fuck. Fuck.

Dick hates that he’s relieved enough to not care about the rest. He’ll deal with it later, because there will be a later. 

After two breaths, though, the thought of retraining starts to creep past his defenses. He can’t keep doing it, every time he gets closer to breaking completely.

He’ll make it. He has to.

After… whatever they’re about to do to him.

Whatever inspection the doctor was making of his reaction, it seems like he failed. They shake their head with another sigh. “Regardless, it is not my place to do more than make recommendations on your training, so I will not be dealing with your insolence.” They click their pen again. “For the sake of the record, how long have you had difficulties seeing, Shrike?”

Oh. That… wasn’t what he expected. Sure, his vision has been a bit blurry during his migraines, but aside from that, it hasn’t been a problem. “Maybe a month? It’s been very minor, I didn’t want to bother any of the handlers about it.”

“It has affected your performance, Weapon,” the doctor snaps. “Whether or not you deem it important is not necessary. If you do not inform us, we cannot perform maintenance.” They slap their pen on the paper. “A month, truly,” they say under their breath. “Why we keep this thing when its problems outweigh its benefits…”

Dick just keeps fucking this up, apparently, so he stays silent. That’s probably what the doctor expects from him.

“Follow, Shrike,” the doctor orders, stepping through the door and down the halls without a single backwards glance. And Dick does. He walks in their wake as they move deeper into the medical facility, them muttering inaudibly under their breath the whole time. Eventually they stop in front of another door and open it, stepping through.

It closes behind him automatically, like many of the doors in Reach.

Inside appears to be some sort of operations room, with a rolling table and bolted chair as the main centerpieces. On the table are tools Dick doesn’t recognize, carefully laid out and organized.

“Sit,” the doctor orders, while they move to the side to presumably prepare something. Dick looks to the chair–upright, with a tall back and straps attached to multiple points. There’s a strange panel in the middle of the back, a sort of ridged piece that divides the steel into two. It looks uncomfortable, but not painful.

Dick sits.

Footsteps, as the doctor walks over. They nod once at his compliance and proceed to engage the straps–one on each ankle, one on each wrist, around his biceps, over his torso. The final strap they click onto the strange panel, which slides down until it rests over his forehead. Oh.

When they step away, Dick is firmly held in place, unable to move his limbs significantly and his head entirely.

Okay, he can do this. They’d mentioned his vision, so this has something to do with that. 

Dick can’t sustain the hope that this is just a checkup. He knows better. This is serious. 

He does his best to stay still and breathe.

“This is a simple surgery,” the doctor says, seeming to finally deem him worthy of an explanation. They clean their hands, put on gloves, and pick up a syringe. Dick focuses on counting his breaths. “I will numb your eyes and remove the disturbed lenses.”

Remove??

“You will be conscious for this procedure,” they continue, leaning over to swab at his face with alcohol. “Your vision will be limited to light and movement. Do not expect to see details. This is known, and you will not redundantly inform me of such happening.” A pinch of pain near his right eye, followed by a rush of coolness. The same happens to his left. “Your lenses will be replaced. Further instructions will be given after I am finished.” They pull up a stool. “Do not move. Understood?”

“Understood,” Dick repeats. He wants to close his eyes. He wants to close his eyes so badly, and he can’t. He can’t go to the House in his head either, because he needs to stay alert, he needs to keep his eyes open.

“Good.” They move their leg and the chair is reclining until Dick is flat on his back and there’s only the ceiling and blinding lights in his sight. He hears the wheels on the stool roll over the ground, and then they’re above him, bringing their tools right towards his eyes. “So long as you remain calm, this should not take more than an hour.”

Oh god.

 

---

 

Ghost has not seen Shrike in two weeks. It is not happy about this.

Shrike, last it saw, was being held back by Reach’s medical staff. The two (three, if Demon allows himself to be counted) remaining Weapons were…nervous. They have been largely successful at avoiding discovery of Shrike’s tremors. As far as it knew, the handlers should not know about it. Having Shrike kept aside worried it.

Hood assured it that whatever happened, they would wait and deal with whatever it was without hesitation. His confidence was reassuring, even despite the fact that Ghost was aware of how much it was forced.

Before Shrike returned, however, the handlers pulled it aside and sent it on another mission.

The Ghost has never declined a mission before; it has never felt a want to, before.

(Maybe the handlers will learn of its degradation when it reacts emotionally against an order. Maybe they will reprogram it like they did Shrike.)

Ghost accepted the mission, because it could do nothing else. Then it was gone, away from its brother for weeks. It was…difficult to keep from being Tim, because Tim was worried about his brother and wanted nothing more than to drop the mission and return to Shrike. Ghost did not want to be reprogrammed, or kept on a mission longer due to disobedience, so it powered through and finished as quickly as it could.

Now it has returned. Handlers escort it back to the Weapons room, and it is all it can do to remain in a controlled walk.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Ghost lurches towards Shrike’s cell. Hood stops him.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing the hand Ghost strikes at him automatically. “I know. Look, Shrike had cataracts. Do you–” Hood scrutinizes it, then shakes his head. “Nevermind. His eyes are a bit fucked, and they’re probably halfway healed, but he sometimes has trouble recognizing details. His migraines are worse, too; he’s lying down right now recovering. I’m not going to stop you–” A lie, because he doesn’t release his hold on Ghost when it tries to break and run, “-Shrike would kill me if I did. Just letting you know. Don’t do anything that could touch his eyes, okay?”

Ghost nods, impatient. He gets it, okay, let him see his brother!

Hood sighs. “Don’t make me regret this, kid,” he says, but he dropped Ghost’s arm at the beginning of his sentence and Ghost is already gone before he’s halfway through.

He rushes to Shrike’s cell, finding him on his mattress with strange clear covers over his eyes. Ghost swallows, feeling suddenly anxious, and knocks on the wall.

Shrike turns his head, squinting slightly at first before a huge smile dawns on his face. “Timmy! You’re back!” He pushes himself up with one arm, holding the other one out for an offered hug.

Barely restraining himself from a flying tackle, Ghost drops down to his brother’s side and buries his face against Shrike. Two weeks without his brother, and Ghost missed him so much. Heeding Hood’s warning, Ghost wraps his arms around Shrike and squeezes, because ribs are not close to the eyes at all and he can abuse Shrike’s as much as he wants.

Shrike makes a small oof noise, but hugs back just as tightly. “Hope the mission went well! I missed you, buddy.” He puts one hand on Ghost’s head, ruffling his short hair, and Ghost can hear the smile in his voice.

His brother is warm and safe and alive and Tim doesn’t bother trying to stop the flood of joy. “Missed you,” he whispers. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Dick says, “yeah, I’m good. Better now that you’re here, of course.” He emphasizes that last statement with another hair ruffle.

Tim takes a moment to revel in the feeling, soaking up the attention like a dry sponge in water. “What happened?”

He can feel Dick shrug slightly. “My eyesight was a little off, so they fixed it. Should be good for now, though.”

“They didn’t–?” Tim pulls back just enough to free a hand, emulating the shakiness that afflicts his brother. They’ve been good, right? They’ve managed to hide it?

“No, they didn’t,” Dick confirms, gently catching Tim’s hand and giving it a little squeeze. “I got a bit told off for not reporting the eye thing, but I really hadn’t noticed it was getting bad.”

Told off? Tim squeezes Dick’s hand back automatically, looking over his brother to try and find any other injuries. “Will they–reprogram?” he asks, worried. Shrike could take it, but Dick wouldn’t come out okay, and Tim needs his brother to be okay.

“Nothing that bad,” Dick reassures him. “They’re going to check some things, but not add anything new.” Dick uses his hold on Tim’s hand to gently pull him in close again, resting his chin on top of Tim’s head. “I missed you.”

Part of him wants to protest, but. Dick promised he’d do better, that he’d be honest. Tim has to believe he’s telling the truth. He might still ask the Jay later, though. Just to confirm. Right now though, he has a brother holding him who is alive and safe and happy. Happy because Tim is here. “Love you,” he hums, hugging Dick gentler now that he’s assured of his health.

“Aww,” Dick says, squeezing him gently, “I love you too, Timmy.” Tim can feel as his breaths slow and calm, and then Dick slowly tilts the two of them down onto the mattress, the tension relaxing from his muscles. 

Good. This is good. The two weeks of horrible fear and anxiety, of checking and double checking everything because he couldn’t focus, those are over now. Everything is okay, now. Everything is good.

Tim lays his head over Dick’s chest and listens to his heartbeat, a steady melody of life.

Notes:

As always, thanks for reading! Oneshot book to follow btw :D (featuring the naming of damian. Namian, if you will)

Kudos and comments loved as always, hope yall have a great day!

Chapter 3: Damian [Yr. 2, May 16]

Summary:

“What do you think, Damian?” Shrike asks, and the Demon holds back a sigh. He hadn’t bothered to register the prior comment, so the question is unclear.

Shrike has been adamant about giving him a name, similar to how he refers to Ghost as Tim and Hood as Jason. The Demon requires no name, it is unnecessary for him to adequately do his job, and the fact that Shrike insists on this charade is vexing.

Notes:

this is a double update! (because both chaps are short) have some fluff -gleo

 the calm before the storm.... >:33333

chapter warnings: dissociation/derealization (dick)

Shrike is…indisposed.

Hood refers to it as ‘playing house,’ because whenever Shrike has one of these episodes it is apparently similar to a children’s game of the same name. The Demon finds this to be more proof of Shrike’s juvenile behavior, improper for a Weapon.

Generally, Ghost and Hood will deal with Shrike when he is like this, allowing the Demon to abstain; both are aware of his opinion of this charade and don’t often attempt to include him.

Unfortunately, neither Hood nor Ghost are present right now, and Shrike is firmly in an episode. The Demon stands stiffly by the door to the training room, watching the Weapon putter around the main area talking to himself about inane topics such as ‘school’ and ‘skateboarding.’

“What do you think, Damian?” Shrike asks, and the Demon holds back a sigh. He hadn’t bothered to register the prior comment, so the question is unclear.

Shrike has been adamant about giving him a name, similar to how he refers to Ghost as Tim and Hood as Jason. The Demon requires no name, it is unnecessary for him to adequately do his job, and the fact that Shrike insists on this charade is vexing. Every time in the past he has ignored Shrike’s efforts, and he does the same now, not even looking fully at the other.

“Damian?” Shrike asks again, pausing in his useless circuits around the room.

The Demon holds back another undignified sigh. Why must he be the only one here to hold Shrike’s focus? Ghost is always happy to play pretend, and even Hood has given in to these pathetic endeavors. Either of them would be preferred in this situation, to deal with Shrike.

The other Weapon slowly walks closer, frowning slightly. “Damian, are you okay?”

He scoffs, crossing his arms and turning to the training room. The only thing keeping him here watching Shrike is some sense of responsibility over the other Weapon, but truly his supervision is unnecessary. Shrike cannot leave, and there is little here he can hurt himself with. The Demon’s time would be better spent improving his skills.

“Oh,” Shrike whispers, and there’s an odd smile growing on his face. “I understand.”

That…is concerning enough to make the Demon pause. Not that he cares, of course, but if the others learn that the Demon upset Shrike somehow, they’ll be inconsolable. 

“He can’t see me,” Shrike says, ostensibly to himself. “I’m fading.” He’s still smiling, but it’s not a happy expression.

He is not qualified for this, nor does he want to be. Shrike’s psyche is not his prerogative, or his responsibility, or his problem.

Nonetheless, there is something twisting in the Demon’s stomach. Guilt, a voice that sounds like Hood whispers. Annoyance, the Demon snaps back. Guilt implies that he cares about the other Weapon, and he certainly does not.

Having Shrike deteriorate would be…inconvenient, however.

Shrike’s gaze is drifting slightly. “I wish I could’ve said goodbye…”

“Unnecessary,” the Demon snaps, tired of Shrike’s continuous comments. “You remain present. Such dramatic measures are unneeded.”

“Oh.” It looks like Shrike doesn’t know what to say. He’s stalled, just staring at the Demon uncertainly. 

“What could you possibly need now?” the Demon asks. Was his acknowledgement not sufficient? Must he interact with the other more?

Shrike smiles, and it’s altogether too fond. “I’m okay, Dami, don’t worry.” He drifts towards the lockers, muttering something about snacks.

Worried? “I am not worried," the Demon retorts. “Your behavior means nothing to me–Ghost and Hood are the ones who coddle you.”

“Okay, I believe you,” Shrike says absentmindedly. “Thanks for visiting me, though, I really appreciate it.”

There is something incredibly frustrating about Shrike’s inability to grasp simple concepts. “There is no visiting, Shrike. You have forgotten that I live here.”

And then Shrike raises a hand to his face, and it looks like he’s about to cry. “You moved in? Dami, I’m… I’m honored.”

The Demon…does not know how to react to that. Shrike is nonsensical on a good day, and this is anything but. It is as if he is hearing a conversation entirely separate from what the Demon is saying. “Don’t look so discomposed,” he says, tone harsh. “It’s unbecoming of you.”

“Okay,” Shrike says, wiping his eyes and looking distinctly soft, “I won’t bother you about it. But I need you to know that we are so happy to have you.”

He is starting to understand why Hood plays along with this charade: it’s far less headache-inducing to nod and agree with whatever nonsense Shrike is saying than to try and impose reality upon him. Forget Shrike’s psyche, the Demon’s own sanity is fraying away the longer he attempts to make sense of this.

What is that one phrase? In for a penny, in for a pound? “Yes, well, it isn’t something to make a fuss about, Shrike.”

Shrike is still smiling at him. “Got it. I’ll try not to bother you about it, then.” He goes back to sporadically circling the room and muttering to himself, but his posture has changed completely. He looks confident. 

He looks like he feels safe.

The sight is as confusing as it is…humbling. Merely a few sentences spoken yet it appears as though Shrike’s whole world changed. The Demon doesn’t quite know what to make of it, but. Perhaps humoring Shrike during his episodes is not as terrible as he once thought.

Notes:

Thanks as always for reading, commenting, and kudos-ing!

Chapter 4: If it brings you back alive [Yr. 2, Jun 22]

Summary:

Finally, he starts. “When I was twelve years old,” Jason begins slowly, “I died.”

Notes:

[drops jason lore and runs] -gleo

this is a double update! if you haven't read the previous chapter, go do that now!

 

chapter warnings: referenced past character death

Dick makes sure Jason is thoroughly trapped before asking his question.

He’s mostly joking, of course-Jason could absolutely throw Damian off of his legs, headbutt Dick, and toss Tim to the side, but it’s the principle of the thing. If Jay feels threatened, then he’ll leave no matter what, and Dick respects that. This just… lowers the possibility of him leaving because he’s grumpy about the question.

“So,” Dick starts, “Jay. I have a question for you. You don’t have to answer it, but I’d like it if you did.”

Jason hums wordlessly, eyes closed as Dick’s fingers run through his hair. He’s rarely ever this relaxed, but it’s starting to happen more often, now.

“You can also tell me if you don’t want to talk about it right now,” Dick adds, feeling guilty about disturbing Jason’s clear happiness with a tough subject.

“Either get to it or shut up, Dickwing,” Jason grumbles without any bite. “‘m comfy.”

“When you get… angry,” Dick says carefully, “like, really angry, is there any way for us to help you better? Or, things we should know?”

Slowly, Jason’s eyes slip open. He stares at Dick, then looks down at Tim’s head on his chest and Damian sprawled over his legs. “Oh, you fucking bastard,” he growls. “You planned this, didn’t you.” But, notably, he doesn’t make an effort to move.

“Maybe,” Dick admits, “but I also thought it might be okay for me to ask at this point.” He gives Jay a small smile. “Thanks for not running away immediately. Or punching me.”

“I’ll have plenty of chances,” Jay mutters. “Not like I’m short on opportunities.” Then he sighs, closing his eyes and leaning back into Dick’s hands. He’s silent for a long while, though Dick can tell it isn’t out of avoidance, merely collecting his thoughts.

Finally, he starts. “When I was twelve years old,” Jason begins slowly, “I died.”

Shit, okay. Dick blinks in surprise, but manages to keep his expression mostly neutral. “I’m sorry. That sounds like it sucks.”

Jason hums, idly waving one hand. It ends up landing on top of Tim’s head, where he seems to mindlessly start carding through his hair. “Old news,” he says dismissively. “But my trainers found something, dunno how or why, but they called it the Lazarus Pit.”

“That doesn’t sound great,” Dick says cautiously. He doesn’t want to jump in too much, but he wants Jay to know he’s listening.

“Yeah, no, it fucking sucked.” Jason takes a breath and turns further into Dick’s ministrations. “I don’t know the details, really, but apparently they chucked my body in there and let it boil for like, a year. Brought me back.”

Dick nods. He doesn’t like this, doesn’t like the implications or the fact that Jason apparently died, but there are a lot of things about their lives he doesn’t like. All he can do is be there now.

“Turns out, in addition to bringing me back, it…augmented me. Boosted my strength, speed, senses. Shit like that.”

Damian, apparently ignorant or entirely dismissive of social cues, cuts in. “That is why you are unreasonably strong? I had assumed it was the result of training. Mystical augmentations are cheating, Hood.”

“Nothing’s cheating if it brings you all back alive,” Dick says firmly. 

Jason snorts. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t recommend it. Turns out, the cheating comes with a cost.” Dick watches as his eyebrows furrow and his mouth twists into a frown. “...when I came out of the Pit, the first thing I did was kill a handler.”

Dick nods. He shouldn’t verbally show support of that- sometimes guards do check in on them, or review the audio from their room- but he so badly wants to say that Jay earned it. 

“Thing is? I wasn’t trying. Or driving, technically.” One eye cracks open, and Dick swears he sees green swirling where there should be blue. Jason takes several measured breaths, visibly forcing tension that crept into his shoulders down. “The Pit…is like a living thing, almost.”

Oh, fuck. That’s not good. But, Dick reminds himself, whatever it is hasn’t killed them or Jason yet. He can wait for an explanation.

“I’m not really alone in my head anymore. Not like–it’s not like there’s another person, but it has a presence. And it’s always angry.”

Jason pulls his hand from Tim’s head, tapping his thumb on his fingertips rhythmically. His other hand is clenched into a fist, tight enough to turn his knuckles white. “It feeds into me, sort of. My temper is…short. I’m easier to set off. Things that didn’t bother me before piss me off now.”

“And that’s why sometimes you’re so affected by it,” Dick concludes. 

“Why I’m prissier than the Demon with a heavier penchant for violence, yeah,” Jason agrees, and despite how uncomfortable he clearly is he still laughs at Damian’s offended exclamation. “Usually I’ve got a hold on it. Trained for years to keep a handle on it, really. But I fuck up, sometimes, or I’m just in a bad mood, or I’ll wake up and it’s decided to buddy-buddy up next to my head. And I…” He trails off, shoulders shifting like he wants to turn away.

“And it’s a strong magical entity-thing that lives in your brain and hijacks your emotional response level, so it’s hard to control.” Dick does not want Jason blaming himself for this at all. 

“I was gonna say that I go batshit insane, but that’s a nicer way to put it, yeah.” It seems some of what Dick was trying to emphasize reaches him, though, because he goes back to leaning into the contact. “It takes over, and I’m pushed to the backseat. People aren’t people anymore, and nothing is familiar. I just see things that don’t move and things that do, and anything that moves is something for me to fight.”

“Okay,” Dick says, “thank you for telling us.” He keeps petting Jason’s hair, like nothing has changed. Because nothing has, really–he just knows a bit more about why reasoning with Jason doesn’t always work when he’s too angry.

Jason huffs, hands stilling. “Yeah. You deserved to know, after all the shit I’ve done. I’ve just been a coward. Never been able to work in a team before, y’know? Didn’t want to lose it.” He shakes his head, almost dislodging Dick’s hand. “Stupid.”

“Hey,” Dick says, shifting slightly to hold Jason’s head in both hands and look down at him, “you are not stupid or a coward. You had no reason to believe we wouldn’t use that knowledge against you.”

Dick watches as Jason opens his mouth, then closes it and purses his lips, clearly considering something. “Yeah, I guess.” He sighs. “Anyways. It’s usually easy to tell when things are going wrong.” He picks up a hand and gestures vaguely at his face. “Eyes get all green and glowy and shit. Creepy as all hell.”

“Got it.” Dick nods. 

There’s not a lot he can say to this–he’s proud that Jason trusts them enough to be honest, and he’s glad that Jason feels safe with them–because, well. What do you say when your brother admits to having died and been revived by a mystical entity that has made itself an angry roommate in said brother’s head?

Jason stares at him for a long moment before sighing, reaching up and gently pulling Dick’s hands away from his head. Slowly, he sits up, carefully shifting Tim off his torso, then does the same with Damian. Dick watches him move away until he’s leaning against the wall furthest from them, one hand scrubbing down his face.

Without taking his hand away from his eyes, Jason mumbles, “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Dick says, automatic but not insincere. Is Jason crying? What’s going on? But this is a hard topic, and he knows better than to push. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I know that,” Jason grumbles. “Obviously I don’t have to apologize. But you guys are acting weird now, and it’s my shit that brought the mood down, so.” He waves his free hand. “Trying to, I dunno, fix the weird air going on here.”

”I know what’ll fix it,” Dick announces with a grin. 

That makes Jason drop the hand from his eyes to narrow them at Dick. It doesn’t look like he was crying, just pinched with stress. “I don’t like that tone of yours,” he says playfully. Off to the side, Damian is half-propped up, also staring at Dick suspiciously. Tim just stays lying down, used to Dick’s antics.

“Cuddles?” Dick offers, but his voice comes out a lot more hesitant than he meant it to. Shit.

He just wants to hold his brother. He just wants to reassure himself that Jason is alive.

Jason relaxes, letting out a quiet huff. “Yeah, okay, you fucking octopus. Scratch my hair and I’ll kill for you, y’know.” He shifts closer, flopping down all of his upper body onto Dick’s legs once he’s in reach, and tugs Tim back up onto his chest. Tim goes willingly, which makes Dick feel warm. Even Damian settles in his previous spot, albeit with a bit of grumbling.

It’s good, to be warm like this. Warm inside and out.But it’s almost better to be trusted. And today, they definitely have been.

Notes:

yep, there you go. the pit isn't a league thing for once! and it works a bit differently, here, but the concept is still the same :] -gleo

Chapter 5: Found Out [Year 2, Aug 2]

Summary:

Dick should probably just be happy he lasted this long.

The hostage he freed is yelling at him, at the guards, at the Handler, even, and Dick knows in his heart that it’s over. This is it. 

He just hopes the others won’t get in trouble. If the Handler suspects them of helping him hide his failings… well. Dick doesn’t want to take any of his brothers down with him. 

Notes:

WELCOME TO HANDLER TIME BABEYYYY sorry this is late i (ppan) had a Moment Tee Em (cat illness) and crashed out hard.

Warnings for talk of character death, offscreen death (nobody important), allusions to passive suicide (minor), manipulation, a bunch of negative self thoughts

Dick should probably just be happy he lasted this long.

The hostage he freed is yelling at him, at the guards, at the Handler, even, and Dick knows in his heart that it’s over. This is it. 

He just hopes the others won’t get in trouble. If the Handler suspects them of helping him hide his failings… well. Dick doesn’t want to take any of his brothers down with him. 

And the hostage is right- he is a liability in the field. He fully dropped his gun because his hands were shaking too badly to hold onto it, and if he hadn’t been both lucky and good at hand-to-hand, they might have lost the hostage entirely. 

The guards are trying to reassure the freed hostage, who is claiming that being assigned such a damaged Weapon is a sign of Reach’s distrust, who is still yelling, and who still has Dick by the arm in a hold that is probably bruising by now.

One that he could break, technically, but Dick knows better than to make things even worse for himself. 

“I demand it be disposed of!” The hostage yells, and Dick sees no disagreement in the faces of the guards. One of them has taken his mask and is reviewing footage-something they don’t do very often, or Dick would have been caught a long time ago. 

“We will certainly take its errors into account,” one of the guards says, but the hostage cuts them off. 

“Unless you want all my support for the Reach immediately taken away, you will eliminate this weapon, and you will do it now!”

More than just Dick’s hands are trembling now. He can’t make himself say anything-not that it would help. 

He’s going to die. He’s going to die, and all he can do is desperately hope that won’t kill Tim too. Surely by now, he’s bonded with at least Jay enough that he’ll feel comfortable sticking around, right?

Dick doesn’t know. Dick will probably never get to find out. 

The guard closest to him is staring with cold eyes, idly fiddling with their pistol. Dick is certain he can hear its safety click.

Shot like a sick dog in the middle of a mission. At least the boys can’t see this. Hopefully the guards will have disposed of the body before they come back.

Except–movement draws his attention. Please, let it not be what he thinks it is.

He is not so lucky, because jogging up to the crowd are his boys. He never wanted this, not for them. They always deserved better.

Dick feels the cold press of a barrel against his temple. He thinks he hears Tim scream.

I’m sorry.

“Halt.”

Everything grinds to a screeching halt, just as ordered. Not daring to move his head, Dick watches with only moving his eyes how the Handler slowly walks into view, hands behind their back. They stop in front of the hostage–who had dropped his arm when the gun came up and flinched back at the command–and loom without using an inch of their height.

“Quite presumptuous of you,” they say, calm and unruffled, “to assume you can order the termination of my weapons. Ally of Reach you may be, but a handler? A Weapon handler?” They don’t sneer, not a single twitch of their expression, but they don’t have to with how it exudes from their presence. “I wonder,” they ask, beginning to slowly walk around the hostage, still with hands clasped and measured steps, “how much a fool you must be, thinking yourself above me.”

There are tears quietly streaming down Dick’s face. He knows that will make everything worse-it’ll show just how broken he is to the Handler, and it will show how scared he is to his brothers-but he can’t help it. 

He’s still shaking, and it’s definitely visible. He’d thought he was prepared, he’d thought he was prepared years ago, but he’s not. He doesn’t want to go. He just wants to hold his boys one last time. 

“It–it’s defective,” the hostage says, much quieter than they were before. “Everyone knows defective Weapons are disposed of!” They laugh, but their eyes are wild, darting around like they want to turn to follow the Handler’s path but refuse to show weakness.

“Of course,” the Handler agrees, voice like smooth velvet. “Weapons who outlive their uses are no longer needed. This is a universal truth.” She stops behind the hostage, perpendicular like they aren’t even worth the Handler’s full attention. “However, you do not command my men, or order my Weapons. Shrike!” She suddenly calls, voice firm and commanding.

Dick immediately snaps into the proper posture, turning smoothly to face her. Despite his tears and tremors, he isn’t making any noise. He isn’t sure it will matter in the end.

“Who commands you?” the Handler asks, calm as the veneer of ice above a raging river.

“You do, sir,” Dick says, and although his voice wavers, it does not break.

“Hood,” she continues. “Ghost. Demon. Who commands you?”

Off to the side, barely visible now that Dick has done an about face, his boys chorus, “You do, sir.”

He can’t look over at them. He can’t, and it feels like it’s killing him. The best thing he can do for them now is be calm at the end.

“Correct,” their Handler purrs, and the hostage has gone pale, chest barely moving. “Do you listen to commands that intercede with mine, Shrike?”

“No, sir.” Why are they dragging this out? It’s making him sick. It’s giving him hope, and that’s even worse.

“Have I made my point quite clear, Mr. Jackson?” The Handler still doesn’t smile, but they sound smug.

“Y–yes, sir,” Mr. Jackson stutters. 

“Good,” the Handler says, like she’s praising a dog. “Your opinion has no influence on what I do with my tools. Besides,” she straightens and walks towards Dick, resting her fingertips on his shoulder. “It would be quite a hassle, leaving a Weapon dead in the field.”

Dick is still shaking. Fuck, Dick is still shaking. He keeps his eyes lowered, tries his damndest not to move any more than his trembling body already makes him.

At least if they take him back to Reach first, they won’t kill him in front of his brothers, right?

“Load up!” the Handler orders, sending the area into a flurry of motion. “We will be back at base in an hour. Someone bring around the holding van!” Her featherlight touch becomes something firmer, though not a grip. Merely a push to impress upon him to stay.

The holding van stops in front of them, an armored, mobile cell. “Load up,” the Handler repeats, and Dick can do nothing but obey.

Behind him, right before the soundproof doors close, Dick swears he hears, “Hood, dispose of him,” and a ringing gunshot.

---

Ghost–Tim–Ghost stands in its assigned spot next to Demon and stares at the Handler.

Dick–Shrike, Shrike had a gun to his head when they arrived at the rendezvous point. A handler held their pistol against his temple and Shrike had tears uncontrollably rushing down his cheeks.

Tim had, Tim had broken through, then. He’d screamed, wordless and pleading and full of rage and denial and terror. It was a glaring display of weakness, yet Tim did not, does not regret it.

If Shrike were to die, Ghost would tear down Reach with his bare hands.

Not now. It can’t, now, because the Handler is there and Shrike is alive and if it wants to keep him that way it must be obedient and loyal and clever.

It can’t think of anything clever right now. Nothing that could save Tim’s brother. How useless, that in the time needed most its intelligence fails it. The smart one, Shrike calls it, yet it is nothing but a powerless, pathetic fool.

Tim’s brother will die, and Ghost can’t do anything to stop it.

The sound of a throat clearing draws the Ghost from its spiraling thoughts. “Sir,” comes the voice next to him, smooth and without intonation. “If I may be bold enough to offer a suggestion.”

The Handler hums, looking up from their work to stare into their corner. “Granted, Demon.”

“Thank you, sir.” Demon straightens his back, as if trying to make himself taller. “I would not dare be disrespectful enough to assume the incident we arrived upon or any decisions you will make in the future. However, I believe Shrike still offers a potential use, despite any…errors he may have gained.”

Ghost is–Ghost can’t speak, it never can, never when it matters. Shame curls in its stomach. Here the Demon, arguably the most unfriendly member, speaks up to defend Shrike when the Ghost cannot manage a single sound, and guilt threatens to rise up and drown it.

“Oh?” Now the Handler looks interested, amused. Better than upset. An amused Handler will not punish them on a whim. “By all means, enlighten me.” 

“With the exception of Shrike and Ghost together, none of us are specifically trained or experienced when it comes to partner or group work. Myself and Hood were created to work in isolation, or with temporary allied Weapons.” Ghost doesn’t know where Demon is going with this, but it hopes it will be enough. “A year under Reach does not easily modify such conditioning. Truthfully, we would not be as successful without Shrike.”

“Demon has a point.” And now Hood jumps in, Ghost barely refraining from snapping its head around to stare at him. Did they collude without Ghost noticing? “From the beginning, Shrike is the one that emphasized working together well. He keeps us from clashing.” Hood shrugs, lackadaisical.

The Handler smiles, looking between Demon and Hood. “It seems you are…attached to Shrike, aren’t you?”

Demon scoffs. “Hardly. He is merely the most tolerable.”

“We’d probably kill each other without him,” Hood adds.

Their smile only widens. “I see.” They lean back, flicking a hand dismissively. “I will take your insight under consideration.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hood and Demon chorus. Ghost barely stops itself from echoing them. It’d be too late, too slow, doing nothing but draw attention to itself.

None dare to break the ensuing silence. Demon and Hood keep staring at each other, sharing in a conversation that Ghost can see but not understand. It frustrates it enough to consume its thoughts for the remainder of the trip to Reach, which it will take over the cloying guilt.

Once the vehicle stops moving, the Handler stands and gestures for them to follow. Ghost steps into their wake automatically, Demon and Hood following after a moment.

“Have someone bring Shrike to debrief,” the Handler says, gaining a handful of salutes and nods in return.

Ghost is nervous. It does not like being nervous, of having all its memory running on maximum and just waiting to crash. They travel behind the Handler, who leads them to the debrief room–the location where they always report to after missions, since it’s right next to the medical wing and not far from their quarters.

The Handler enters the room and takes a seat at a table, saying nothing. Ghost moves to the side and stands at the ready.

No one and nothing speaks, simply waiting as the air grows thicker. Finally, the door opens, Shrike entering with one guard leading and another trailing him.

Shrike looks better than he did. Which means he is concerningly discomposed and visibly emotional, but he is no longer shaking or crying. 

Flicking a hand in dismissal, the Handler sends the guards from the room. Then they fold their hands under their chin, staring down Shrike and growing more amused with every nervous twitch Shrike makes. Ghost thinks it might crack by the time the Handler finally speaks.

“Tell me, Shrike,” they say with a smirk. “How long have you had this defect?”

Unfortunately, Shrike’s hands are shaking again. His eyes dart around the room, but he avoids eye contact, even with Ghost. “A- at least eight months, sir.”

Ghost watches the Handler’s gaze sharpen. “My, my. That’s quite a long time to hide this…issue. Tell me, are the other Weapons aware of your damage?”

“No!” Shrike twitches like he wants to step forward, and the fear is clear on his face. “No, they didn’t know, I didn’t want them to know!” In his panic, Shrike’s attempts to help are only hurting their situation.

The Handler tilts their head. “So you say.” Their lips twitch upwards. “And if I were to ask them, they would agree with your statement?”

“I-” Dick stammers, almost frantic now, “They- they might have figured it out somehow, but they weren’t supposed to know.”

“Ghost.” It snaps to attention, locking eyes with the Handler for an instant to show they had its full awareness. “You are the closest with Shrike. Were you aware of this?”

It can’t show hesitation. It can’t. Not now, not when the Handler is sitting on the edge, pondering their decision. It nods.

“Why did you not inform the guards, Ghost?” They pin him down with eyes as empty as its own. This is important. Answer incorrectly and it won’t be able to save Shrike.

Ghost quietly taps Demon on the shoulder, signing to him when he turns his head.

“It did not appear significant,” Demon recites for it. “As Shrike was completing his missions and successful in support assignments, informing the handlers would have been received with accusations of redundancy.”

Please let that be enough. Please.

The Handler hums, moving to rest their cheek on one hand. “The guards assigned to you are vastly ignorant in matters they should know of, this is true.” The weight of their attention slides away from Ghost and back to Shrike. “Now, Shrike,” they say, saccharine and with an edge Ghost struggles to identify. “What would you say you are capable of, now that you’re an invalid in the field?”

Ghost takes the advantage and glares at Shrike. He promised it, he promised Tim that he wouldn’t give up, that he’d do his best to live. If he gives up, after they have pushed so hard to save him–!

If he gives up, Tim will never forgive him.

“...Team management?” Shrike says, and it sounds more like a guess, but it’s there. “Tactical observations and long-distance coordination?”

The Handler’s eyes are laughing. Ghost hopes it is in amusement and not derision. “Where did your confidence go, little bird?”

Shrike lowers his head. “You took it,” he whispers, and Ghost wants to slap him. Judging by the quiet breath Demon takes and the sound of Hood’s gloves creaking with his clenched fists, his fellows feel the same.

With the soft sound of wood on stone, the Handler stands, walking around the desk to stand in front of Shrike. They lift their hand and cup Shrike’s face in their hold. “Oh, little bird,” they say quietly, with audible fondness that Ghost tries desperately to keep from fanning the flames of hope. “It was always mine to begin with.”

A tear traces down the curve of Shrike’s cheek and makes its way down the side of the Handler’s palm. His eyes are closed, and all his efforts to be still are failing.

This time, when the Handler smiles, it’s broad across their face. “From now on,” they say with a near-inaudible croon, “you will remain in Reach. You will work as a strategic operator and manager of cooperation for your fellow Weapons. It’s not flight, little bird, but with a broken wing it’s all I will offer you.”

“Yes, sir,” Shrike whispers, “thank you.” He looks thoroughly sick, and he’s only barely stopping himself from pulling away from their hand.

The Handler wipes their thumb under Shrike’s eye. “Good boy,” they praise, and pat his cheek once before they leave the room without a backward glance.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Shrike collapses silently to the ground. He kneels there, staring up at the ceiling and shaking, tears pouring down his cheeks.

Ghost may or may not snarl at Demon and Hood when they look as if they’ll outpace it to Shrike. They look surprised but draw back, allowing Ghost to be the first to drop to its knees beside him. Immediately it gathers him in its arms, pulling his head to its shoulder and running a hand over his hair. Tremulously, it begins to hum Tim’s favorite lullaby because it can’t speak words of reassurance.

“We’ve got you,” Hood murmurs, pulling Shrike in his lap so its brother is sandwiched on both sides. “It’s okay, you’re okay, we’ve got you. You’re safe.” Demon nods, reaching out to take one of Shrike’s hands and squeezing it gently.

Shrike’s tears are soaking into Ghost’s shirt. He still shakes, but doesn’t move.

“I’m keeping watch,” Demon says quietly. “Don’t be concerned with anyone approaching unannounced.”

Frustration makes it want to clench its hands, but it keeps its fingers loose and gentle as it combs through Shrike’s hair, still humming softly. Ghost’s big brother has been so strong, trying his hardest even when his body was failing him. He stood firm until the Handler left, he did everything he could and so did they and it worked. Shrike will live, and he will stay.

“Hey,” Hood speaks up. “Ghost, I’m gonna carry him back to our rooms, but it’ll be safer if it’s just him I’m holding.”

No, it doesn’t want to, he can’t make it–

“Come on,” Demon adds, taking its hand and gently pulling its hold apart. “We’ll keep an eye out, lead the way.” Ghost smacks at him but Demon dodges, refusing to let go of it. “You could get all the mattresses together, and the blankets, so he’s not alone tonight.”

That. Yeah. Yeah, okay, Ghost can do that. Shrike is always happiest when the four of them are cuddled together, it can set everything up for that. First, though, it turns to Hood and stretches on its toes, pressing a kiss to Shrike’s head. I’ll be right back, it thinks. I’m not leaving you.

Shrike looks small, curled up in Hood’s arms. 

They almost lost him today.

But they didn’t. 

The group makes it safely through the hallways, and the guard at their door unlocks it without comment. Ghost rushes ahead, grabbing its mattress and dragging it into Shrike’s cell. Then he goes and retrieves the other two, and with how small the cell is the whole floor is cushioned by the time he’s getting the blankets.

Hood steps carefully into the cell, kneeling to let Shrike down where Ghost sits and makes demanding arm motions.

Shrike relaxes into Ghost’s embrace, and this time, his eyes closing feels more like relief than despair. The trembling has died down, and slowly, Shrike starts to raise his hands to hug back. 

Demon steps in next, sitting down with his back against the wall and throwing socked feet over Dick’s legs. Hood grunts, crossing his legs and leaning against Ghost’s side. “Well,” Hood says, “we did it.”

And Dick smiles. The tears start up again, but this time he’s breathing through them, letting himself feel instead of staying still at the risk of his life. He clutches on to the back of Ghost’s shirt, lifting his other hand to cup the back of Ghost’s head and pull him in. A familiar position, with Ghost’s head against Dick’s shoulder, sitting mostly in his lap. 

What does it say that holding Tim is helping Dick feel safe right now?

Maybe, Tim realizes, it means that Dick doesn’t feel responsible for him anymore. Maybe, it means that Tim makes Dick feel just as safe as his brother does him.

Damian is grumbling off to the side, arranging pillows and tucking blankets over each of them. Jay laughs quietly, teasing the youngest as he remains a sturdy, warm brace against Tim’s side. And Dick is holding Tim, and letting Tim hold him, and despite the horrors of today all Tim can feel is happy.

Turning his head to get closer to his brother, Tim squeezes, feeling the rush of home and family soothe his worries.

“Thank you,” Tim whispers, for only his brother’s ears, “for not giving up.”

Notes:

Thanks as always for reading, and welcome on down this spiraling path!!!! Comments and kudos very appreciated!!!!

(the Handler uses she/they pronouns -gleo)

Chapter 6: It's not an ending [Yr 2, Aug 9]

Summary:

Dick cannot cry right now.

His help means something. His reassurance is significant to Damian, to a kid who refuses to show vulnerability or care for fear of punishment or rejection, significant enough that he’s saying it out loud.

Notes:

short chapter this week, but that's because next week's is both longer and the start of things getting Much Worse. in the meantime have some h/c -gleo

HAVE FUN YALL <3333 dick won't be, soon (he's already having a rough time but.... as gleo said, ehehehehe.....)

Dick can’t sleep. 

He’s mostly present now, at least. It took him a while to start thinking again after… everything that happened.

He’s grounded.

He isn’t dead.

That’s the most surprising thing, actually-that he’s still alive. He’s practically useless now, despite what he said to the Handler. In that moment, he almost admitted the truth, but then he remembered his promise. 

He remembered to try, for his brothers if not for himself.

So here he is, half-scooted out of the pile of limbs and leaning against the wall, just… watching over his boys. While he still can. 

They look comfortable, he thinks. Compared to how they all started, those first few months? Dick never thought they'd get to this point, of supporting each other without question and happily sleeping in the same room together. 

Or, well…they were. The bundled form of Damian is twitching, the blanket shifting and tenting like he's striking out with his limbs. The kid is silent–he always is, with his nightmares. Only Dick and Jason make noise, really.

Damian's struggles increase, and Dick is contemplating how to wake him up without immediate violence when the youngest shoots up, eyes wide and breathing on the heavier side.

“Hey, Dami,” Dick says quietly, “you’re in the cell with all of us. There’s no danger.”

Usually Dick would  say ‘you’re safe,’ but… that doesn’t exactly feel true, so he can’t get the words out right now. This will have to do. He’ll have to do, because he doesn’t have anything else to give. 

“I'm well aware of my surroundings,” Damian hisses quietly. His arms raise underneath the blanket, presumably to cross over his chest but with the fabric covering him it just makes him look like he's hugging himself. “I'm not so unprofessional as to forget myself like Hood does.”

Oh, Damian. 

Dick carefully does not sigh. “He’s been through a lot,” he points out, “just like you. It’s not unprofessional, he can’t help it. And,” he emphasizes, “it would be okay if you forgot too, sometimes. We’d help you, the way you help us.”

Damian looks as though he's about to snap back something caustic, but settles down. 

‘Forget myself, the way Hood does.’ 

The way I do, Dick thinks.

Damian hadn’t said it outright, but Dick knows that he is by far the worst about forgetting where he is, so much that it’s not even a competition. So much that it’s a liability, something the others have to deal with more and more frequently, something they have to manage, because he can’t manage himself. 

Dick knows better than to ask about what Damian saw in his nightmare. Knows that offering the kid comfort is a delicate operation at the best of times, and he has to try, but he just knows he’ll fuck it up. That seems to be a pattern, today. Maybe longer than just today. 

“...I know,” Damian finally says quietly. “You are kinder than you should be.” And–an admittance like that, without anything biting on it, that's heartfelt. Damian doesn't do compliments, only backhanded ones, usually with a sneer. This…this has meaning.

The fact that Damian even started by saying kind instead of foolish shows how important this is.

“You deserve kindness,” Dick answers, hoping it’s not the wrong thing to say. “You all do. I wish more people gave it to you, that it was the rule and not the exception.”

This time the kid does scoff. “None but yourself would be genuine about it. That you are is significant as much as it is foolish.”

Dick cannot cry right now. 

His help means something. His reassurance is significant to Damian, to a kid who refuses to show vulnerability or care for fear of punishment or rejection, significant enough that he’s saying it out loud. 

“Thanks, Dames,” Dick says quietly, and he means it with his whole heart. 

Maybe… maybe he can do this. Keep doing this. 

He can be there when they’re at base, he can comfort them after their missions end and prepare them before the next ones. 

It’s been a long time since he’s been sufficient backup in the field, but… maybe he’s wanted for more than that. 

Maybe he always has been.

It feels stupid, now, that he’d doubted it. It feels almost like a betrayal of his brothers, even though he didn’t mean it that way. Of course they want him here. Of course it’s easier with him around, that’s the whole reason he does what he does. 

It’s working. 

Damian, speaking between the lines, confirmed that it’s working, however slightly, and that’s enough. More than enough, it’s everything Dick has ever wanted.

“Thanks is unnecessary,” Damian says. “We are a team,” he adds, then pauses. “This is what…what teams do, Dick.”

This is what families do. What brothers do.

Dick doesn’t dare say it. But he hopes Damian can read it in his smile. 

“It still means something,” he says, “that you’re helping me. It means so much. Thank you, Damian.”

“Have some respect for yourself,” the kid shoots back, but there's a tilt in his head that holds volumes of meaning. “Nothing has changed.”

Nothing has changed. This care is not new.

“Not everything has changed,” Dick agrees, because today, his whole life shifted. But Damian’s right.

Dick can still help them, in the way he does best.

They still need him. They still want him.

His boys saved him, and Dick will do anything to return the favor.

Notes:

[hyper youtuber voice] thaaaaanks as always for reading, don't forget to like and subscribe-

 

srsly though, thanks so much yall. <33333 onwards and downwards we dig!

Notes:

THANKS SO MUCH FOR READING!!!!!! hope that you enjoyed!!!!! <3333333

comments and kudos are appreciated as always <3 Y'all are the best, we'll be updating next friday most likely!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of A World Without Sunlight (Hope)