iphoenixrising:

@poison-basil did beautiful art for Fracture and I just!
Fangirl squealed like a BOSS, okay? Because it’s epic and I have so many feels. Here and here are the lovely things I will be adding when the next chapter is done. But, this little thing because my artist wants Dick forgets Tim’s birthday (maybe with a little Jason
Todd snark thrown in). And for such nice things, yes, babe, yesss.

**

The ensuing awkward fuckery is getting on his last
goddamned nerve, Dickie. Pull your shit together, man.

“I can’t believe I forgot,” because now the oldest
Robin is hitting the shock/denial phase. Hood sees where this train is
going—and he feverently says a short prayer for Baby Bird’s sanity.

Because Dick Grayson is about forty-five bemoaning minutes
away from making a plan and sticking right the hell to it (Jay had been
there for the great “Forgot the Day He Came to Wayne Manor” anniversary of ‘16.
B and Alf were ready ta murder him if he didn’t Shut. The. Fuck. Up).

From his usual leaning against the Batcomputer’s main
console while Dickie bitched and complained, pacing on his hands part of the
time—Jay has a few more regrets about this little sitch.

He shoulda just let it ride instead of coming here to
let the Bats have a piece of his goddamned mind. ‘Cause you better believe
he’d been pretty pissed off ta find Baby Bird alone in Titan’s Tower on his
fucking birthday, just going about his everyday usual.

“No super brats?” Had been his first clue.

“It’s Thursday,” had been Timmy’s comeback from behind that
dom, “everyone else has lives and stuff, you know.”

His, “what the shit, Timmy?” had been followed up
with a plainly wrapped box tossed in the kid’s lap, taking off the helmet so
Baby Bird could actually see him sneering.

“Oh,” had been faint, shocked, half-choked, and it made Jay just
pissed enough to plan on letting some motherfuckers know how goddamned disappointed
he is (at least Alf called ahead and made sure plenty of eats were sent
ahead for Master Tim. Today of all days, you mustn’t neglect yourself).

The night turned out s’all right anyhow.

The ensuing hangover Baby Bird was riding the next morning was not.

Jay made sure to have coffee, aspirin, and water ready
before he left the Tower for home, letting Timmy suffer in peace, still
snoozing on the couch in the Commons room.

Coming to Wayne Manor was the first shake-down, but Dickie
just has to take all the fun outta being an asshole, the miserable fuck. Seriously, he came here to give a right bitching and Dick’s just screwing it all up by being sorry.

Jay rolls his eyes (again), “shit happens, Dick. Kid
gets it, you feel me?”

“Not good enough, Jay,” the acrobat immediately decides and
flips back on his feet with determination. “He’s still not really even okay
with us yet, and this could be a real set-back.”

When Dickie gets that look on his face, Jay slowly
raises both hands, palm out in a placating slow your roll kind of way.

“Now hold on a minute. Don’t start making any plans—”
which would have been followed-up with you’ll scar him for life.
But the former Robin, former Batman, current Nightwing, just arches a brow at
the Red Hood and grins, wide and white, in the darkness of the Cave.

With an irritated sigh, Jay idly thinks about laying a little knowledge
down on Dickie (maybe ‘bout how Timmy told him the down and dirty deets
while he was piss-faced drunk, lookin’ at him with those dark eyes, admittin’
how much he wanted, needed without sayin’ it outright), just
letting him know maybe he oughta go apologize wearing a pair of skinny
jeans and tank top instead of as the usual “big brother” thing he’s got going on.

(But if he really can’t figure it out being a goddamned
detective and all, then it’s really his own fault anyhow).

Instead, Jay just shakes his head at the antics of
vigilantes and turns to start up into the Manor proper, mentally washing his
hands of the whole sitch entirely.

(Sorry Timmy, but this might be the most entertaining thing
ta watch.)

**

Red is about to lose his ever-loving mind.

For seven days—seven—he’s been thrown up against the
usual assortment of baddies and their ilk with the casual crime stomping, just
getting into the stride of his week and whatnot. It seems, however, that his
usuals are somehow more annoying than ever, like someone is helping them
with their nefarious evil plots. The Church of the Blood is up to their old
tricks, H.I.V.E is really trying his patience with a particle accelerator, and
even Bloody Mary seems to have suddenly stepped up her game to more
than the run-of-the-mill, power-sucking baddie.

Is there a full moon or something?

Just, what the fuck is happening?

Patched up as much as he can be while finally able to just sit
down after the week he’s had, Red pops two more ibuprofen in the fervent hopes
it might touch the all-over pain he’s got going on right now. Kon had come by a
few hours ago after he heard about The Church’s surprise attack with only Red
Robin to circumvent the obvious bad in the form of an organic bomb that
would probably do terrible damage to the population of regular people just
trying to get a cup of coffee or some shit at God o’clock in morning.

The slew of bruises and contusions on his upper body are
starting to be a little more owfuck than he realistically wants to deal
with at this juncture, but when Kon kept poking the angry bruise below
his shoulder blade enough is fucking enough.

“Don’t make me get out the kryptonite, dude,” he manages to
hiss out as yet another poke makes the spot throb.

“You didn’t even call us, douche bag, so I don’t want
to hear it.” The super snarks back without a flinch. “You’re lucky I’m not Cassie
right now.”

Both Titans pause, look at one another, and share a nod of
understanding. “It hurts like fuck, but I’m okay. Not dying this week, I
promise.”

Kon…hadn’t laughed at that oddly enough. “If there’s
another alarm, Call. Me. You. Ass. Hat. Got it?”

He almost says something inordinately stupid like not
while you’re in class, dude, finals are a bitch, but thinks better
of it once he gets the full look at Kon’s unhappy face and tense frame. In
twenty minutes, the guy is heading back to Kansas with those glasses on and his
whole I’m such a super nerd thing going on, leaving Red to hurt in
peace.

…until the Batwing touches down on top the Tower, and he’s
gets yet another thing to deal with.

When N hops down out of the cockpit, Red seriously facepalms with an audible groan of oh God, why now and already feels his cheeks heating up with a little residual embarrassment at
what he could have possibly told the Red Hood the last time he visited the Tower.

Hopefully, there’s just a case in Gotham that needs his
brand of expertise. If not, he’s going to have an even worse day with
all the bumbling excuses and “Hood doesn’t know how to take a joke,
Dick. You’re always going to be my brother, okay?”

(But what if things don’t go that way? What if Dick
is here to—? Really, dumb ass? It’s Dick for fuck’s sake.)

So he heaves his hurting ass up out of his comfy computer
chair, still fully suited up, and meets Nightwing on the Communal Floor with a
wave and a pot of fresh coffee.

And even though he knows it’s coming, the octopus
hold that is truly inescapable, he still flinches, lets out a noise when
his injuries are jostled.

(Everyone has a bad week, right?)

The obvious reaction reaches N, who puts him right down with
eyes wide behind the dom. He catches an arm when Red starts to list to the
left, trying to blink away the gray edges distorting his vision.

He barely gets a word in before the mother-hen instincts are
on and Dick’s innate sixth sense kicks into overdrive.

But, after all the strain, he’s seriously running on fumes here and it’s just…really nice to be
a limp noodle in Nightwing’s arms, to lay back and let someone else take
charge.

“Timmy?!”

“S’okay. All of ‘em are wrapped up. Think I’m just tired,
been a long week.” And it’s a stupid thing how he can let his cheek rest on N’s
shoulder, lay against all that strength, allow himself to be taken care of for
once. So he completely doesn’t fight it when Nightwing picks him up with an arm under his knees, and carries him out of the Communal
Floor to the Perch. In his own bedroom, those hands are stripping off his harness and
utility belt, then the outer armor until the bodysuit is pushed down to his
hips and the bandages are carefully unwound, gauze pads gently removed.

“Baby Bird, you’ve had a rough one,” N has removed his
gloves, gauntlets, and domino, turning into Dick while he gently checks
each injury and gingerly rewraps them. “Dami, I’m so sorry.”

Still half-fuzzy with sleep dep, blood loss, and variable
layers of exhaustion, Red laughs a little from his prone position, stripped to
the skin above the waist. “Sorry? Bad guys are assholes, Dick. It’s not your
fault.”

The older vigilante sucks in a breath and leans closer to
him so he doesn’t have to lift his head from his pillow to look him in the eyes.

“Tim…I may have…I may have, um…helped your bad
guys a little?”

Wait, what now?  

“Wait, what now?” Yup, he’s awake. “You helped
my bad guys? You helped my bad guys. How… You know, just why… What
would fucking possess you to help the bad guys, Dick?””

But Dick catches him by the arms before he can be up and out
of bed, holding him still so the taller vigilante can lean down and put them
only a few inches apart, “because I missed your birthday, Tim, and I… I felt so
terrible about it. You turned twenty and I missed it.”

It takes a little effort to pick up his jaw where it
drops open. “Are you telling me, you helped my bad guys with terrible world-domination plans because you missed my birthday?
How does that even make sense?”

Maybe he lost more blood than he thought? Things are just not making sense.

Dick smiles a little and his nose crinkles, “Timmy. I know
you. You like a challenge in any mission you take on. I might have anonymously
helped out Brother Blood with the bomb schematics because I know you
would not only disarm it, but you’d have fun writing the code to takie it apart.”

His mouth opens, works soundlessly because, welp, that? Is
actually true. He kind of did enjoy breaking the encryption.

“And H.I.V.E. always has those chemical weapons you like
destroying so much, along with all the labs you get to take down—”

Fuck, also true.

“—and you still have a grudge against Bloody Mary for the
last fight she had with Cassie, so I thought you might want an opportunity to
get back at her. I mean, taking her down when she’s at her most powerful
is probably going to crush her ego into minor league super villain bits.”

Now he’s blinking at Dick’s hilariously genuine expression
because it’s all so true. He has no idea how Dick even knew
all of this.

“I was trying to have a contingency in case one or two of
them didn’t take the bait, but I guess I might have…overdone it a little? I just checked all the week’s reports and figured they all came for you at once. I’m sorry, Tim, I’m so sorry you got
hurt—”

But his chest is swelling with affection and gratitude, so
much that his hands move without forethought, coming up to wind around Dick’s
shoulders, and pull the older vigilante right against the front of his body tight,
regardless of the residual owfuck.

“Hey,” and his voice doesn’t sound like that, deep and
watery, “no hard feelings, okay? Total NBD. But that…Dick, that is so awesome.
Thank-you. Best. Present. Ever, seriously.”

And if there’s any other languages Dick is fluent in? It’s
the language of hugs.

Easy of the injuries, still firm and supportive, Dick wraps
him up tight, nuzzles the top of his head like he’s still that nosy kid who
found himself saying stupid shit (you know, like how Batman needs a
Robin?) to bad ass vigilantes.

“I should have come by sooner,” is the apologetic admission,
“to make sure you were okay. That’s a lot to handle, even for you.”

He waves a vague hand and gives absolutely no shits
about relaxing right backing into Dick’s shoulder and chest, his eyes sliding slowly
closer to comfortable and calm. He might mumble something about not being as bad
as his usual Wednesday to get a soft chuckle in reply.

(And if the ensuing night commences with a terrible Sci-Fi
marathon and mounds of junk food, of laughing and pjs, of being wallowed on and
coddled within an inch of his life, of having the closeness they used
to have, well, it might not have been what he really wanted, but still,
not bad at all).