I mostly write Batboys.Prompts CLOSED.
writing decisions are so hard;;
jason todd accidentally wearing muscle-shirts all the time because he keeps underestimating his size
stroodlenoodles asked: 4 - sick!fic with Bruce and Dick? :)
Bruce Wayne is not a man to give up without a fight.
Not as Batman, not in his personal life, and, to be frank, he’d do an awful lot to avoid the polite, cutting remarks of an angry Alfred Pennyworth.
In spite of his best efforts, he’d found himself bedridden by an almighty cold. And it’s been two days. Red-rimmed eyes, sunken cheeks, lethargy, pulsing headache, scratchy throat. A constantly dripping nose. The whole shebang.
He consoles himself with the fact that this cold, this cold, could bring the goddamned Superman to his knees. And then he sneezes again, his ribcage and his sinuses on fire, and is beyond consolation.
It is dark and he is… not sulking. He is something manlier than sulking. Brooding, maybe. Alfred says sulking, but he doesn’t know anything about keeping a city safe by himself. Alfred thinks the whole crusade is stupid. But it’s not his business, and Bruce can do what he wants.
He rolls over, in his stifling, sweat-soaked sheets, and his everything aches. He wonders if he can survive the trip down to the kitchen’s medicine cabinet, for another dose of those terrible cold suppressors. If the night air doesn’t kill him, it’ll probably be Alfred’s shotgun.
He grumbles, a little, and rolls onto his other side–
–and comes face-to-face with a tiny, tear-streaked boy.
“Dick?” he rasps, and the eight (“and a half,”) year old boy nods, scrubbing at one of his cheeks with his pyjama sleeve. “Nightmare?”
“Yuh-huh,” he mumbles, tearful, and holds his arms out entreatingly to Bruce.
“Okay, chum,” Bruce sighs, and manages to get himself upright. He carefully stands, waits for the world to right itself, and takes a few steps toward the bathroom. He remembers, just barely, to stop. Hold out his hand.
And one of the things Alfred hadn’t warned him about, when he decided Dick would be his ward, was that children are always sticky. At this point it’s not so much a surprise, when Dick slides his tiny, sticky hand into Bruce’s much larger one, but it was a very rude shock in the beginning.
Bruce had barely managed to stop himself from demanding, of the tiny boy, what on earth he was doing, to be so consistently, inconceivably sticky. But he’d refrained.
Half-trotting behind him, almost at his side, Dick clings and follows him to the master en suite. He flips the light on, too-bright for the middle of the night, and winces at his reflection in the mirror. He looks like a corpse.
Ignoring that, he runs the faucet, waiting for it to warm up. Then he wets a face-towel, half-wrings it out, and, leaning on the doorframe, squats down to Dick’s level. Balanced precariously on the balls of his feet.
“You know you’re safe,” he murmurs, gently mopping up tear-tracks and snot.
“I know,” Dick agrees, waveringly, reflexively leaning away from the cloth.
“And you’ll always have a home here.”
“Mhm,” he says, nodding, while a few fresh tears fall. But he already seems better, his pink face already returning to its usual colour. “You look scary,” he tells Bruce, with the sincerity only someone under ten can offer.
“I do,” he concedes. “I’ll shave tomorrow.” And then, starting to smile to himself, he pokes Dick once in the stomach; “You aren’t scared though, right?”
“Nope,” Dick says, actually starting to giggle a little.
Bruce wipes over his face once more to be sure, then tosses the face-towel into the sink. He stands back up, legs already shaky, and rests one hand on Dick’s messy hair. Dick grips the hem of his pyjama shirt, and lets Bruce lead them back to the bedroom proper.
He leaves the bathroom light on, though, because be can recall very clearly the feeling of being small and afraid and in the dark. And he knows what a difference a single rectangle of light can mean.
Ruffling the hair under his fingers, Bruce says, “You ready to go back to your room?”
In the faint light from the bathroom, he sees blue eyes look up at him, full of reproach. And fear. “Can’t I– can I stay, for a bit? Please?”
Bruce sighs, throat raw, and rubs his thumb over Dick’s temple. “You know I normally don’t mind, Dickie, but Alfred will kill me if you get sick too.”
Earnest, the boy says, “But I ate so many vegetables at dinner so I don’t get sick, B. Honest. If you shake me, vegetables’re gonna fall out!”
“As promising as that sounds–“ Bruce starts, laughing a little, “I don’t think–“
“Just a few minutes,” Dick pleads, tugging at his shirt. “I’ll go back to my room really quick, I swear.”
And Bruce, already feeling very unsteady on his feet, exhausted and ill, can just sigh. Half-sitting, half-falling back onto the bed. He tugs at his covers, trying to drag them into some rough semblance of order. “A few minutes, Dick. That’s all. You can’t fall asleep in here.”
“I won’t,” he agrees, clambering up onto the bed. Then, wriggling under the covers, he lies down carefully on Bruce’s chest.
His chest was already so heavy, but somehow, the warm weight of his ward… helps. It’s a better kind of heavy. Even though breathing is still a challenge.
But after a moment, discontent, the boy grunts, dragging Bruce’s arms up to wrap around him manually. Then, apparently happy, he gives a deep sigh and settles further against him, pressing his ear to Bruce’s heartbeat. His eyes are closed.
“You can’t fall asleep in here,” Bruce warns, again, but he’s half-asleep himself.
“I won’,” Dick promises, in a slur. Squeezes him gently.
And Bruce just sighs. Praying the vegetables do the trick.
do you think Jason’s ever introduced Tim as “Timothy Dork-Wayne”
okay guys i’ve turned off asks for a bit
sorry to my nice anons u_u
supernova2395 asked: May I ask for Dick, Tim and Stealth please?
Dick, due to his many years of Batman-training, manages not to sigh.
He does shift his weight though. And checks his watch.
Forty-five minutes. His target’s behind schedule. But he knows, this mission’s going to be worth the trouble. Worth the intensive planning, the careful stalking. It will even be worth missing lunch.
He presses his back against the wall, closing his eyes. Straining his ears, in case his target’s going to get the drop on him.
But there was never any risk of that.
And if Dick’s missed lunch, he knows his target hasn’t eaten in even longer. After this, he thinks, he’ll hit the diner down the road. He could murder a burger.
This, though, is more important. He wonders if Bruce would agree, and then decides it doesn’t matter. Because he’s a grown-ass vigilante, and he can make his own decisions. Allocate his own missions. He’s mentally filed this one under highest priority.
Besides which, it’s a matter of pride now.
And finally, finally, he hears the faint sound of very familiar footsteps headed down the hall, just around the corner from where he’s standing. He closes his eyes, adjusts his weight on the balls of his feet, and leaves his arms outstretched.
Then, his unsuspecting quarry turns the corner–
–and walks straight into a hug.
“Sneak attack,” Dick whispers, into Tim’s ear, squeezing him tight.
He has to adjust his grip a little, firstly so Tim’s reflexive flailing doesn’t give him a bloody nose, and secondly, so he doesn’t accidentally choke his beloved baby brother.
After a second, Tim stops flailing, and starts laughing. Even hugs back.
“You dumbass, Dick Grayson,” the teen says, too fond, grinning widely. “How long’ve you been waiting here?”
“Forever,” Dick whines pathetically, pulling him closer. Letting his weight sag, to emphasise his point. Then, “The least you can do is buy me a late lunch.”