bakerstreet | alternate universe

Good.

And that’s all he gets in return. No explanation, no reasoning, no further dawdling. Damian crosses the street with his hands in his pockets and head bent, somehow magically avoiding vulgar pedestrians and speeding taxi cabs at the same time. The benefit of being the son of Bruce Wayne — well, one of — was the pretty much automatic rollercoaster trip up the social ladder, rung after rung bypassed, the rest of Gotham elite still several levels down the food chain. They were princes, all of them, though Damian may have been the only one raised to think himself outright royalty. He’d been hailed the second coming of his zealot grandfather in a rather isolated compound, had disciples kneeling at his feet since he could walk. But here and now he skips the front doors, security, secretaries, business associates, just all of them, and slips in the building through the emergency exit haloed in cigarette butts.

Takes the stairs two at a time in a bid to remain unseen until that goal becomes unrealistic, and he ducks out on the next level to punch the button on an elevator. It is blessedly empty, and all in all, he does a rather good job getting to his fathers office without being waylaid by people. Casual sneaking isn’t exactly a priority once there however.

Damian slams open the door with the force of a miniature hurricane, stomping across the room without so much as a general ‘hello’ in Tim’s direction, and hurls his foul smelling shoulder pack onto the sofa along the wall like the furniture itself had done him a personal wrong. Himself he tosses onto the cushions a little more gently, arms crossed tightly over his chest. But the fire in his eyes relays to the observant that he won’t be stationary for long. A particularly violent storm is brewing.

So this was Tim Drake.

It’s immediately obvious. Damian had grown up within the confines of this palace, among the League; knew their faces, their voices, their stature, and aside from the occasional servant or particularly young indoctrinated member, very few were around his age. Still, his eyes scan the newcomer from dangling foot to dark haired head, assessing and finding him utterly lacking in the span of a few heartbeats.

He ought to lower his blade. Upon all technicality, the other boy was a guest here, a student to be trained. His grandfather, his mother, Bruce Wayne — someone would undoubtedly be upset if he killed him on his first day with such obvious bias. And yet for the heavy moment between Tim’s greeting and his eventual response, all Damian can focus on is how easy it would be the rush the closest support pillar and dispatch the object of his unjustly earned ire. He doesn’t lower his blade.

“You shouldn’t be here.” It comes out as a vague growl. Here as in the training room, the castle, Nanda Parbat, anywhere? Is it simple hostility, territoriality, or an outright threat? The beauty of being a cagey eleven year old is everything is open to interpretation.

[The smile he gives Dorian is one of those that says anything other than happiness. Regret, apology, sadness - and a hope to avoid pain. A little like a cringing dog, trying not to get hit again.]

Dorian - really, it's okay. I... I said too much. I got too personal, and we're... what, friends at best? And I started airing my past and ... let on a little too much.

[That he'd be more than happy to have Dorian spend the night wrapped up in his arms if he could just be sure he wouldn't hurt him - but that had been reason enough for Dorian to turn away and break the intimate moment that had hung between them for...

For long enough that Alistair had been fooled into thinking that maybe it was one he could hold on to. His own fault.

Dorian's hand on his arm really only made it worse. Like it was a mockery of what had been there before. Dorian trying to soothe hurt feelings. He really was a good person. A good friend, Alistair reminded himself, and he'd do well to keep that in mind. He'd keep the talk light from now on.

So he patted Dorian's hand in a way that said no harm done and started to stand.]

Go ahead and rest. I'll make sure nothing gets too close.

[After he said it, he realised the irony, and winced on his own behalf.]

...Not like that.

Edited (It's earlate and I flubbed a word.) 2018-02-12 10:39 (UTC)

( dorian knows he should let it go. he really, really does. because, there's no future here. there's nothing but heartache. and, he's had enough of that his entire life this far to not want anymore. but, something drives him to not let this go. stupidity, likely. dorian never said he was smart when it came to relationships. selfishness, because he's not as good of a person as alistair seems to think. he's going to have to do some fast talking to try and salvage this before it gets out of hand.

for a second his hand grips tighter against alistair's arm. soon after he thinks better of it. don't need further misunderstandings. a mage grabbing and holding on spells trouble to southerners. so, he lets it slowly fall away. )

Either you have misunderstood, or I have. Or both.

( he shifts into a more comfortable sitting position, but finds he can't really look at alistair. his heart is beating wild, and he feels as if he'll be sick any minute. a deep breath to straighten his posture. he stares at the fire, and feels a heat not from that warming his cheeks. )

If friendship is all you seek from me, so be it. I will give it unquestionably.

( this feels so stupid to say out loud. he feels stupid, and it shows in the way his voice gets lower. )

If there is more...you need to speak plainly. I'll not assume otherwise. Ever.

Sam would be faster without him, stand a better chance.
But Harry isn't one to give up easily either. They'll press on for now. "That might work with the right access point. Numbers won't matter down there if we can block off a few tunnels and keep them bottlenecked."

They also don't have a schematic of the network of tunnels below. "We're going to need more batteries. Lighters. Something until we can rig up a more reliable power source."

Neither should you, Tim pointedly doesn't say. He eyes the sword calmly, one kicking foot sliding back up onto the deck, then the next. "Yeah. I didn't think it would shake out like this either, but..."

Quick and light and careful, he rappels down the nearest support pillar--no need to rush it--and pauses at the base. "...I mean, I'm excited for the opportunity." Put the blade down, he suggests with a few steps forward, right hand coming out for a shake. "You know this, but I'm Tim. I guess we're brothers."

It’s probably a little like approaching a violent animal. The muscles in Damian’s face contort an infinitesimal amount, the corner of his lip twitching up into an outright sneer before he rememberes he’s better than that; better than perceptible expressions of anger and displeasure, stronger than showing weakness in the face of his enemies, and watches Tim slide from the balcony like a hawk, with a poor mask of impassivity smoothed over white hot anger. Watched him as he approaches, resolves to crush all that “excitement” from his bones over the course of his stay. Doesn’t lower his stance.

Doesn’t move at a all until Drake alludes to the two of them being anything close to brothers, to family. And then he lashes out. Swings his sword in a tight arc to stab directly at Tim’s face, only dropping an elbow at the last second to narrowly avoid clipping the other boy’s nose with the sharp edge of the katana; keeps the blade level and firm and close, nature’s clearest stay the fuck back.

“You’re mistaken. I don’t have any brothers.”

He thought about getting to a good pause point on his review, but there are only about three hundred entries left to review. Either Damian was going to call and he could talk while working, or it would take him long enough to get up here that Tim could finish this task. At least. Hopefully.

Damian busts in about fifty entries from the bottom of this section, and Tim (don't reward bad behavior, don't give into his fits) doesn't even glance in greeting. Honestly, he doesn't have to see to exactly where Damian's going. "Jesus, you stink. What happened to your stuff?"

Twenty five entries. "Give me a second." Five entries. "I'm guessing you...cheated and took the elevator?" Cut into his work time, is what happened, but Tim wraps as fast as he can and finally looks across the room--

And stands abruptly, gawping. "Damian! What happened to your face, are you kidding me?"

Somehow, for all the barely contained anger behind his eyes, in the face of Tim’s eventual shock and alarm, a measure of cool composure manages to work its way into his voice when he responds. An unflinching, flat deadpan: “I’m in serious danger of committing a homicide.”

The contents of his backpack are all smeared with a homogenous mixture of mud, mulch, and dog shit. Everything — textbooks, tablet, pencils, sketchbook — all utterly ruined. There are some questionable dark stains on his pant legs as well, and although the blood around his mouth is mostly dry, if Damian licks along the inside of his teeth he can still taste the tang of copper.

"I'll get them. Just tell me how long to take." That'll tell him how far he can scout these things out. The best way to measure food intake and all of that, no doubt.

He handles Damian's things coarsely, quickly, and still comes away feeling like he needs a napkin. Tim sputters, a little dumbfounded. Not that they've ever been terribly close, but anger swells in his chest at the sight of Damian's belongings, at the closer look at his ruined uniform and mouth. "What happened?" Tim growls softly. "Who did this?"

Tim was left in charge. This is pretty much his problem to take care of--this being Damian.

If the boy hadn't pulled back, his training would have been over in short order. Tim's eyes open wide (no mask, no night to hide behind), heart rate jumping in that instant. He hands jerk up defensively, but stop short. He's already too late to have done anything.

This is insane.

"Okay." His stuttering hands open up in surrender, head bowing carefully. He's from Gotham. He can deal with insane. "Fine. You don't. We can agree. Ah--

"I bet you've completed the training I'm supposed to go through?"

It’s counterintuitive, being here but defiantly not wanting to talk about why. Taking refuse in his fathers office, but not offering any straight forward explanation about the events that lead to this, literally, shitty circumstance. Damian watches Tim deal with his pack unmoved, and meets his gaze when the other starts growling low and defensive. But he’s stubborn and still debating he ethics behind justifiable homicide. Yeah, a court would totally take his side...

“Would you help me hide the bodies, or no?”

They are as distant as two legally bound brothers can be; there is very little love lost between them, and any measure of support was strictly professional. Robin and Red Robin could take down a threat of any size in a few minutes flat, Damian and Tim picked at each other’s patience for sport, or else liked to pretend the other didn’t exist. But he’s too tired, too beaten down to put on airs of loathing and confrontation. Doesn’t even spare a second thought for making a beeline across the floor when Tim beckons, and only belatedly stops short of climbing into the bed. Stuck. Suffocating the voice that quietly begs for that special level of tactile comfort only Dick Grayson ever seemed to be able to provide, but sacrificing that option in order to hopefully be believed and validated. So Damian hesitates, hovering at the edge of the mattress, both hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt and shoulders hunched. He stares for some, chewing on the words and trying to find some arrangement that doesn’t sound certifiably insane —

We aren’t alone.

I may be possessed.

Something not of this world is following me.

— and failing.

A combination of poorly handled anxiety and lack of sleep twists in his stomach. There’s the urge to retch for the sheer impossibility if communicating exactly what was happening. He just can’t —

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Damian finally grits.

"Well, that depends entirely on the bodies." Tim huffs, going under the desk for the recycling bin and the plastic bag inside it. He drops the carboard and paper into the bin, fluffs up the freshly empty bag. "Are we talking King Kong-sized football players here, or were you set upon by the Rugrats again?"

Trick or treat: he holds the bag open for Damian to drop his school things into.

Tim breathes back, hands fisted over his knees, bowed close to Damian under the safety of his canopy, "But something's with you."

There is an undeniable, slightly sick rush of pleasure that comes from scaring people. Pride blooms inside Damian’s rib cage as Tim’s eyes bug; slots itself right alongside contempt and anger, all three mingling to create a snide sort of superiority. A temporary bandaid over the sting of being denied leave. In this moment tormenting Tim Drake feels downright righteous, and he isn’t thinking about the negative impact this may have on interpersonal relationships between the League and Batman down the line. Right now it doesn’t matter.

“I completed the course you’re set to learn by the time I was seven.”

Because Tim hadn’t been born here, hadn’t been molded since his first breath to thrive within their ranks, to lead them. Because they were handling him with kid gloves, and starting him off slowly. Nonlethal. Drawling confidence overtakes spitting fury and Damian drops the blade tip to bounce off Tim’s chest; benign, not even cutting through the cloth of his shirt, but continually present and sharp.

“Is it true you don’t kill?”

Edited (whoops) 2018-02-12 19:18 (UTC)

“They aren’t real,” he insists, voice creeping a desperate octave higher like perhaps if he speaks with enough conviction, he’d be unflappably correct. “I’ve died, there’s nothing past it but blackness and —“

And yet, he feels it. The cold sweat collecting along his spine, a chilly presence close at hand making him all the colder. The air isn’t outright sucked from his lungs but Damian suddenly can’t draw a full breath. He expects it before it happens. Behind him, the open bedroom door starts to inch closed, untouched. One long continuous squeal of ancient hinges, then the slip of the latch. It’s considerate, really; they’re obviously having a private conversation, but Damian’s knees are jelly all of a sudden, and he leans forward to plant both palms on the bedspread. Stares directly at Tim’s face and hisses imploringly through his teeth: “It’s not real.”

You might not like me either.

[once he's past the pretty face, the sad look that brought sungmin over to his table and into his life. but then he's reminded that the other isn't human either, and maybe...well maybe that's where minsu's been going wrong.]

I guess sirens and reapers don't have that sharp sense of smell. [he takes his first bite of noodles, tilting his head thoughtfully, studying him across the table.] I should've asked this before, but are you here for my life?

"Wow. So you finished just in time to start learning ballet, right?" That's too far, the prod of the blade. He sweeps his hand over to push it away, head tilting warningly. Don't do that. "We don't. Not willfully, and not out of neglect. No one dies if we can help it."

Damian allows his taunting stabs to be brushed away, and drops the the tip of the katana out and toward the ground; still in hand, still easily swung back into conflict, but momentarily of little use when he could just sneer at the boy and his well practiced monologue. It’s funny, like he actually believes it.

“Tt. I don’t know what you expect to learn here then.”

Wow, the actual worst Halloween ever.

“Neither,” Damian scoffs, obediently hauling his entire pack into the trash bag by a relatively clean strap. He’s equal parts relieved to no longer be hauling around literal animal excrement and dirt, but resolutely bitter that his personal belongings have been so thoroughly disrespected they may not even been salvageable from the garbage. They ought to just burn it all.

“Simple private school pricks, a year older than me at most.” So taller, bigger, and outnumbering him 5:1. Which are perfectably manageable odds when you’ve been raised as an assassin, but without a solid ten years of training under his belt the best Damian had given in return were two broken noses. At the cost of thoroughly busted knuckles.

[For a few moments, it's all Alistair can do to stand still and think through what he's been told. Misunderstood? Maker knows it's possible. He's misunderstood a thousand things through his living years, and will misunderstand a million more, he's sure. But now he has to wonder if this is actually possible. If this, if Dorian... liking him is actually something that can happen in the blunder that makes up his life.

It's a time that feels like ages but is only a few heartbeats before, so carefully, he sits again, his back to the fire so he can look at Dorian without having to turn his head so far. So he can see firelight on olive skin and grey eyes.

And so he can watch Dorian's expression when he speaks.]

I like you.

[Simple words for a feeling so heavy.]

Probably too much.

When I look at you, there's nothing I want more than to wrap my arms around you and hold you for the rest of my days. I want to protect you from anyone who would even think about harming you. And, yes, I...

[His cheeks grow redder by the moment and, though it's hard, though his gaze slips away again and again, he keeps trying to meet Dorian's eyes.]

I do think you're beautiful. I'd love to kiss you and-- And learn about how we could fit together. But more than anything, I just... don't want to hurt you, or lose you, and I'm afraid that I've already done both.

Weeks since they've seen each other, and this close Damian is like another person. Pallid, weak at the seams, sounding as anemic as the uncanny whine in the door that shuts slowly and steadily on its own. It may be the exhaustion turning Tim's hope bitter, or maybe Damian's obvious distress. He doesn't remember being this sick over realizing Bruce was alive before.

"It's real." He affirms lowly, voice stronger after swallowing the bile in his throat. "It's real, so maybe it's not a ghost. Come here. Come all the way up, come here."

Damian came here; he's going to have to acquiesce to being pulled up on the bed wholly, swaddled in the throw blanket that had been wadded at the foot of the mattress. It's all Tim knows to do to feel a little better: get warmer, get a weight over you, cover your ears. He sits directly in front of Damian, still up on his knees. Make it real. Make it less ambiguous and suck the fear out of it. "Inventory your experiences. I'll transcribe."

"Oh cool, so no one anybody will miss, huh?" He yanks the knot at the top of the bag tight. Where do you get a backpack cleaned? "So what's the plan? Slip a razor blade into their juice boxes? Discreetly replace their jacks with firecrackers?"

alternate universe

i thrive off short responses tbh AND I WILL TRY NOT TO MAKE THIS BORING

yes i did it!!!!!

Sorry for the delay; this weekend's been busy.

don't worry about it! it's all good! :)

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Re: LAAAAAAAAAA

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Yay!

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