bakerstreet | alternate universe

A little time, a little distance... all in all do very little to lessen the knot of shaking animosity in his stomach simply begging to be unwound and cinched around Tim Drake's neck. But it is somewhat easier to breathe after a few hours of fitful sleep, stepping outside into the crisp morning air with a small contingency, gathering at the gate with his back to the balcony he knows his grandfather will eventually emerge upon to bid them a silent farewell. It's cold, the sun barely creeping over the distant peaks they're to be scaling in a matter of hours, but Damian is comfortable in his furs, composed, staring at the mountain simply as the next obstacle to overcome, nothing more. And he stares at the snowcapped summit as if daring it to pose a challenge this time when the world sees fit to remind him that the greatest challenge today will be not murdering the insulting annoyance that is Tim Drake.

He hears him first, overly friendly small talk that has a muscle under his left eye twitching involuntarily. Is this a punishment? Is this a test? Below the disdainful look Damian briefly slides Tim's way is equal parts aggravation and masked distrust for the familiarity the other boy approached him with, especially when their last interaction had been held mostly at sword tip. It had to be a test. A brief glance over his shoulder, as if to catch sight of his grandfather and confirm, and dismissive brush off:

"He could have. Easily."

"And if it's not." Not that it isn't real, not that it isn't hurting him, playing him, but-- "If it's not...Bruce." His eyes water with what if it is, stop, stop, stop. Tim tugs his sleeve down past his wrist and daubs his eyes quickly. "Mm--if it's not, then we'll do something about that too."

A sniff, and he looks back at Damian determinedly, sitting up rod-straight. "So we have to find out what this thing is, and...how to tell if it's telling the truth. After sleep." He's not really sure what he's going to do here, but can think readily of what he would be told. "Sleep and food. Or food and sleep, you.

"Can sleep in here if it helps."

"Lucky he didn't, or you'd be--climbing alone?" Tim guesses after throwing a look around them. "Is it just us? Isn't Ra's coming or an instructor or something?"

"No, it's not--Damian." Tim is up a moment after him, and still (blessedly) a little longer and a little faster for the years he has on Damian. Blood and shit and all, he doesn't hesitate to grab his brother by the arm. "No, hang on, I wanna talk about this!"

[It is by far one of the saddest efforts to run that Steve's ever made. He half-stumbles his way through it and by the end he honestly has no clue which one of them won. He's laughing which in itself is something. That's really all that matters.]

See? Told you I could take you.

[Hey we are not here to judge how sad or not the running effort seems to be! We are here only to appreciate that even bruised, battered and bloody, two best friends can still find the energy to act like complete idiots together. As for who won?

Bucky. Bucky totally won. Maybe not the race — really he's not even paying attention to who got to the rock first; he's more interested in leaning on it because tired. But he's won something even better: Steve's laughter.]

You're such an ass. You know that right?

[It's not a complaint!]

And you love it. [Steve retorts with a pained laugh as he settles against the rock. He knows it's not a complaint. This is who they are together. They loved it enough that they stayed together since they were kids. The thought has him reaching out to grab Bucky's flesh arm and squeezing gently. God he's missed him so much it kind of hurts... No. It definitely hurts in a good way. His eyes water a little as he does something he rarely ever does: speak from the heart when it comes to personal matters.]

I love being here with you. You know that, right? This is where I want to be. [Even if everything is messed up. Even if they're messed up. This is still his best friend. He wants to be at his side regardless of the cost.]

I do. [He’s not even going to pretend otherwise. Steve would know it’s just a front anyway.

But Steve’s reaching out and it makes Bucky smile even as he’s still trying to get his breathing evened out. He leans into that touch just a little, listing toward Steve and remembering the days when he’d readily sling an arm around a much shorter man’s shoulders.]

I don’t need anything other than this. [He’d take on the entire world as long as Steve was at his side. Fortunately, the entire world isn’t coming at them right now else it would likely be sorely disappointed!] Just you and me pal, it’s all I need.

Stop talking like wh-- [ He starts, but Bucky plows through like words are so many raindrops against a moving window - there for only seconds before being swept off into the next phase of existence. Steve lets the words flow across and around him long enough to settle back into his own skin, filtering out most of the background noise. James Barnes was the better sniper, but between the two of them, he figures they can fend off a surprise attack long enough to neutralize it and make sure civilians are okay. ] That's what HYDRA does. Many-headed beast hiding in the shadows so you can't see them until it's too late.

[ He falls silent, catching movement from the corner of his eye, and waits with a steady gaze while a waitress brings over the next round of requested drinks, watching while she sets both glasses down with a flirty comment. Then fades away when he doesn't respond to it the way a normal man probably would. Steve hasn't been normal in a long time, though. Maybe not ever. There was always something wrong with him. Illnesses stacked on illnesses, a stubborn streak too wide to be hidden properly. A mouth too big for his britches? That doesn't sound quite right. Not modern slang, then. Something from his past. He tucks it away to ask Bucky about later, when there aren't dozens of inebriated strangers around. This business of reassembling himself from fractured pieces is a bit like putting together a puzzle. In the dark. ]

I'm not asking anyone to get involved, [ he starts, after a long moment to make sure Bucky is finished talking, and then takes a sip of his new drink. ] because I don't want innoce-- civilians hurt. There's enough of their blood on my hands.

[ There's also no sense in refuting his friend's opinion. Steve's read enough biographies on himself to realize the man he used to be had a real knack for finding trouble and jumping straight in, regardless of the consequences. Especially if bullies were involved. And HYDRA is pretty much the biggest bully on the block. There's also no sense in denying his brand of quitting the job is a little extreme. They deserve it, though. So many lives destroyed, it makes him literally sick to his stomach some days. ]

Alright. Say, for some reason, you come with me. [ Do ignore the skepticism, Buck. Depending on anyone but himself these days is still a touchy subject. What's the plan then? Do we fight together or will you just be an observer for Fury?

[ Steve suspects the guy might still be alive, judging from the activities of Agent Romanoff and Agent Hill. He just hasn't gotten around to pursuing an in-depth investigation yet. ]

(ooc: this is like three months late. no worries if too late. life got crazy for a while, but i wanted to reply to this.)

[ The waitress is sent away with a wink, a smile, and a once-over. Don't worry, doll, we'll tip.

Maybe 'that's what HYDRA does' but there was a time when what Buck did was search out those fuckers' hidey-holes and blow them to smithereens. There was a time when his life's mission was to snuff them out, and he'd thought he'd succeeded. He should've known better. He should've protected Steve's and Carter's legacy, better. Instead, he helped burn it to the ground, one dumbass joke to Rumlow at a time. One idiotic deferral to Fury's all too familiar utilitarianism at a time.

It's a damn shame that he tries not to dwell on, when he can help it. Now, there's ample distraction in Steve.

The way he says 'there's enough blood on my hands' puts a knot in Buck's throat that's hard to swallow, but he does it with a swig of burning scotch and a smile, and he thinks you crafty bastard. Rogers is as sharp as ever. Anyone else would say it's brash, disclosing Fury's secret, but Bucky's never doubted Steve for a second, and isn't about to start. ]

An observer for--? You gotta be kidding me.[ Slow, exaggerated, all Brooklyn. ] I didn't listen to Fury when I worked for him. What makes you think I'd play guide dog for him, now?

[ He sobers, quirks a brow, and points at his oldest friend come back from the dead. The moment's surreal, but he seizes it. ] I've said it before; I'll say it again. End of the line. We fight together.

Edited (oops) 2018-05-10 23:57 (UTC)

[ Steve lowers his head, staring down at the floor while his eyes swim for a couple of seconds. When he isn't in danger of actual tears, the assassin looks back up, determined and uncomfortable and maybe a little scared. Not an emotion he's thrilled about, or ready to admit to, but it's there all the same. This faith Bucky has in him is humbling. And also unwarranted, but still. Humbling. He's never quite sure what to do with it. ]

Yeah, okay. Not the end of the line.

[ It's one of the things Bucky said that drove enough cracks into his conditioning to help him regain. Himself. If his voice is a little rough, well. It's hard to hear in a place this crowded, which is why he took a chance on confirmation of Fury's actual status, and probably no one is going to look twice at two rough looking men anyway. Or one rough looking man and one who might still be putting goop in his hair. ]

And I don't think anything like that, pal. What I think is he's marginally on the same side I am. We are. [ It's a small correction, but true nonetheless. Nick Fury is a ruthless sonofabitch, but he's gunning for HYDRA's destruction. Steve doesn't relish going against the man unless he has to. So maybe pooling information isn't out of the question, down the line. ] He might be helpful.

[ That is, if he's gotten over Steve's attempted assassinations. Just because the guy gives an impression of reasonableness doesn't always means it's true. ]

How much warning time do you need? To get ready.

Never — never — let it be said an existential crisis got in the way of a longstanding rivalry. It may take a second for that offer tacked on at the end to register, Damian's distractedly doing a mental once-over to see if food is something worth considering, but once it does...

"With you."

Flat, emotionless deadpan; a question with zero inflection, he already knows the answer. And then a swell of indignance, the closest Damian has come to looking his cocky, superior self since the funeral as he raises his chin and immediately moves to escape the smothering confines of the borrowed blanket. To seek assistance from a long-sworn enemy-turned-distant-annoyance with a taxing problem is one thing — Drake's arguably the most intelligent asset at his disposal; if there was anyone to map the bridge between life and death, it might as well be one of the smartest — but to accept such obvious coddling... No.

"I am not that weak yet."

The talking portion of Damian Wayne's Terrible No Good Very Bad Day And Subsequent Meltdown Temper Tantrum is over. Anger can only manifest in words and violent ideas for so long before it folds in on itself, works its way into bone and muscle, temper flared and ready to explode. What could have been a simple storm off after being denied his moodily silent ride home is circumvented by a firm grip just above the elbow, the tactile straw breaking the dam after far too much manhandling in the school courtyard.

Damian yanks halfheartedly at Tim's grasp, but he's spoiling for conflict, not escape. Throwing an abrupt gut-punch is way more cathartic anyway, even if it's sloppy and the voice in the back of his head that so often sounds like his father is shouting for him to stop.

Tim laughs, too wet and too thick. Annoying, he has to be so goddamn annoying, but it feels right (better) to roll his eyes at the reaction. "Whatever. I just thought it would--help."

Reaching over to grab the blanket before it falls on his books, Tim shoves it over the bed edge, moves his notebook onto his pillow. "I want to eat. Who's awake downstairs?"

It’s not as if Tim dodged schoolyard roughing up himself, even if their reasons for being targeted were very, very different. He knows he’s about the lose the wind out of him about a split second before Damian catches him in the stomach. In high school, that would have been it, but he’s got the size advantage now—plus the hindsight of years since he was last folded into a locker to think about what he would have rather done.

Windless, he forces himself the last few steps to get Damian into a headlock and wrestle him to the ground.

[Whatever tension is left in his body slips away. It feels good to know they're in together. He believed Bucky completely when he said they'd be together until the end of the line. Hasn't the line ended more than once already? He'd get it if maybe he was taking this too far. Maybe he was obsessed. He'd seen it take over his teammates more than once.

But, no this is the real deal. He's so relieved it hurts... or maybe everything hurts come to think of it.] I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page. Whatever happens tomorrow is fine by me as long as we stick together.

You're all I need.

[A reiteration of what he's already said, but it's that important. Bucky doesn't need anything, anyone other than Steve. He can live pretty simply, and he's not tied to any one place anymore. The skills Hydra gave him ensure that the place doesn't even really matter that much, not anymore; he's a survivor. But it's with Steve at his side that Bucky really thrives.]

Hopefully a happy ending, at least to this chapter. But if not, we'll deal with it.

The problem with this hold is that Damian fights it too early; feels the intrusive pressure of an arm under his jaw and rages forward in an attempt to escape. He ought to have taken them to the floor first, jammed a foot against the doorframe and thrown himself back to make Tim the cushion between hardwood and his own spine, then slithered out. But instead, they twist and fall together awkwardly. and Damian's only recourse for escape is gagging and throwing haphazard elbows back at Tim's ribcage.

And it's not playful or defensive, these are elbows thrown to hurt; absolutely zero remorse would be shown if he managed to break bone, in fact it would be a nice contrast to the earlier tussle. "Get. Off. Me."

The carefully intuned audience around them works wonders for Damian's composure. There's enough people around that the weight of his birthright plays a factor in overall respectability, and no matter how much turmoil broils beneath the surface, it's not allowed to shine through too brightly. All the distaste and barely concealed ill-will is still present, but his tone is terse and chin held high. There's hardly even a hint of derisive animosity, just cold superiority.

"Do you require a babysitter?"

God what are you Tim, like, four?

The idea of sitting down to a late night snack at the kitchen island is also a bit smothering. Damian can picture sitting on a stool, tired head in tired hands while Tim flits around the cupboards with the same energy he'd composed into swaddling the younger and taking notes on his paranormal experiences — all in an effort to help that felt too comforting, bordering on the line of motherly. Damian wants to shake off all inclinations that he needs to be comforted, despite the reality that he could probably use a hug. Wants to stop and draw a line in the sand, make it clear that he only came in search of assistance, and now that he's obtained Tim's interest, they can go their separate ways and follow separate leads.

Instead, he surveys the closed bedroom door, squints like he can see beyond solid wood to the entire layout of the house. "No one." Except the ghosts.

"Pennyworth retired to his rooms around midnight. Richard returned to his residence this morning."

Everyone else is still grieving, none moved to action to reverse the most recent tragedy in the family. But it isn't their fault, not everyone has cold breath at the back of their necks spurning them forward.

"There are finger sandwiches in the fridge."

"No," Tim bristles, eyes back on Damian sharply, "I just--no."

He just thought they'd have someone along with. Like someone Damian respected, someone to put them both in a student kind of perspective--just--someone. It's not charitable to think that he wants someone along with to make sure Damian doesn't "slip" and "accidentally" send Tim down a ravine, so--

So he doesn't think it. Tim frowns and shakes his head and moves through the gate with all kinds of inflated confidence. "I mean, whenever you're ready then, I guess. Unless you need to piss or something."

“Damian—christ—“ Jesus christ, he’s a ferocious son of a bitch, how did anyone manage to do so much damage to start with? Tim hisses, shoves between Damian’s shoulder blades and he scampers up. “Stop—just stop!” He trips over the couch end and an end table on his way, but Tim gets to the door first. In true shitty sibling fashion, he drops against the door knob and holds it with both hands behind his back. “Stop, or I’m gonna call security. Then Bruce. So stop.”

“Call them! Call him too! Call anyone — I don’t care!”

Only... Maybe he kind of does. Because as much as Damian doubts the private security force would lay so much as a finger on him, the threat of his father learning just how unbecoming his actions were, or the torment in the schoolyard that would ultimately demand a heart-to-heart is enough to root his feet against the carpet. Still standing, fists clenched and shaking; still seeing red and itching to hurl the mesh trash can to his far left through the one way glass walls. But stationary.

Damian’s breathing heavily from the tussle, inhaled a few times to absolutely zero calming effect before snapping, “Get out of my way, Drake. I’m going home.”

Home not so much meaning the Wayne Manor, however, and more the al Ghul compound he’d been removed from by means of a court order three years ago.

Drake’s tense rebuttle doesn’t even merit a response so far as he’s concerned, save for a brief huff through the nose that curls up in the chilly bite of the morning. There’s a slight twitch of the hand too, an unspoken lead the way despite Tim having already breezed past him and out the front gate. Damian can feel eyes on the back of his head but knows better than to turn around and catch the careful gaze of his grandfather or any of his watchful commanders. He’s firmly decided this is a test, though exactly what he’s being evaluated on is still up for debate: his patience, his ability to make a murder look like an accident, or his dedication to keeping the tenuous alliance between the League and the Bat in balance and thus keep Tim Drake alive despite every instinct urging to eliminate the chatty threat to his birthrights. The instructions are unclear, but the mountains had a way of making what must be done to survive painfully apparent in a matter of hours.

And so they climb. More accurately, they descend.

The path outside the walls of the fortress twists downward first, bringing the pair as close to sea level as the terrain got and arching to the left. It’s a well enough traveled road, distant villages used it to cart supplies between the mountain ranges once every few months, though they all knew to steer clear of the castle high above in the clouds. From there, it’s a decent half-day walk to the base of the mountain they’re to be scaling, and Damian does his part to make the walk silent. He must steel his nerves for this hike; a battle of man vs man could be decided upon skill, but man vs nature’s elements always boiled down to knowledge and a willingness to survive. Any and all questions or comments thrown his way are met with terse, one-word replies or stony silence.

It isn’t until his boots leave behind loose stone and begin crunching into moderate size snow drifts that he pauses, takes a moment to turn and address Tim with more than two words and point at an outcropping of dark rock amidst the snow several stories above them. “We will camp there for the night.”

"Why did they jump you?" He pushes, not moving an inch. The deep breath Tim takes does help him loosen up, even if he doesn't give any way for Damian to escape. Being relaxed puts him in charge. Being an adult means having a level head. Take control, chill your tone a little, try again: "Did they have some kind of grudge? Were you just in the wrong place at the wrong time--you're Bruce Wayne's son, did they have any idea?"

alternate universe

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LISTEN, I LOVE THEM

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99 years late but still kickin

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orzzzz

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