Work Text:
“We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it.”
― Richard Siken, Snow and Dirty Rain
None of the family could figure out what it was that brought this about. It wasn't as if
like attracted like; one of them armed with as many quips as bullets, too fluid to
even pick a gender preference- the other rigid and brittle with glass shard edges.
And yet, the both of them had the same flavor of tension, bottling up some kind
terrifying force behind masks and brutal force. By all accounts, they should have
killed each other.
(And maybe, the one person who knew them both the best kept quiet,
knowing that neither of them would take such a painless way out.)
Most people didn't see it until it was cemented in stone too deep and hard to
budge, twin pairs of predatory eyes daring observers to comment as the pair
coiled together in each other's spaces. It was sudden, alarming, and caused a
great deal of noise in protest- none of which budged either former Robin.
Their ages were all wrong, they weren't even technically on the same side,
they were legally something like brothers, and shouldn't they be old
enough to know better than to spite their father with each other?
The glares got hotter, the hands gripped tighter;
the arguments got messier.
"You know, robbing the cradle to get back at Bruce is going a little far, don't you
think?"
"You've sure got a high opinion of me, Dick. But at least I'm showing the kid a
good time while I use him for petty revenge schemes, right?"
Punches got thrown. A window broken.
Bruce finally had to put his foot down by simply ordering the topic off the table
inside the Manor, then retreating to the Cave to otherwise ignore it. Crime and
bloodshed and anarchy he could handle; there was no decoding these ugly,
uncertain matters and he knew better than to try. Was not sure if he dared hope
this would somehow do either of his sons some good.
With all the fighting it caused, all the bared teeth and bloody knuckles and well-
aimed darts at tender places, their relationship formed a sort of reputation. It
was muttered about between rogues, between heroes, on rooftops and on
training mats. Red Hood and Black Shadow were the talk of the town.
"First couple I ever saw that revenge-fucked each other to get back at
the same guy until they started going steady."
"It's not natural, the way they look at people. What do they even have in
common except for having too many weapons in their rooms?"
"Has anyone thought to check the baby bat for hypnosis? Make sure he's
even in this willingly?"
"The mini-Bat? I'm more worried for Hood dealing with him; that kid's not right in
the head, there's no way this can turn out good."
It was no secret, the doubt and bitterness directed at how they must have
gotten together and why. Each theory a little more outlandish than the rest, but
most centering on the idea that it was just a sex thing, that it was to get back at
Bruce, that it wasn't even real and the two of them were pulling a big ugly joke
on Gotham in general.
The younger of them considered it idly, coiled close in rumpled bedclothes as
familiar fingers moved on his body. Tracing the lines of ink over his ribs where
words were scribed; atashe del am. Words he repeated to the dark head pressed
close to his stomach; brushing Jason's hair back as light kisses were left on the
vicious scarring over Damian's stomach.
For all their theories and wild ideas, none of them would believe their ears if
told the story. That it hadn't begun with sex or vengeance or even boredom, but
loneliness. A wounded teenager crawling into a safehouse window to tend his
wounds and calloused hands taking the supplies from him. Hands most people
thought only good for dealing death, carefully stitching the edges of his skin
closed. No jabbing barbs in the middle of the night, for once, just tired, docile
understanding. Sometimes it hurt too much to walk back in the Cave with blood
on your suit; sometimes on the wrong night, even an admission of injury was a
potential point of failure. The wound tended and bandaged, Damian gone before
the sun rose, and no one spoke of it. A small, hidden moment, strangely
peaceful in the back of his mind. A childhood of assassins and shadows hadn't
given him any precedent for how to handle a touch that felt.... safe.
One visit became more. Brief moments of mopped-up blood turning into longer,
lingering quiet. The smell of tea in mismatched, themed mugs. The scratch of
wool in the blanket over the back of Jason's couch, because this safehouse was
small and warm, and the smell of books and gunpowder was more comforting
than a huge, empty manor full of ghosts. Each visit stretched a handful of
moments longer, some unspoken tug strengthening in the space between them
as they passed. A shared misery weighed their quiet glances and unlikely
conversations, and Damian learned to debate the content of twentieth century
poetry while reading the small lines at the corners of unnaturally green-blue
eyes.
For all the rumors of their violence, it started as peace. A quiet sense in the
lining of the chest that promised you are my safe place. Woven tighter in the
accidental closeness that was never pulled away from quite fast enough. The
careful trust in their bodies slumping asleep on the same couch, curling into
nearby warmth until neither bothered to pretend it was an accident any longer.
It continued with nightmares, thrashing ugly things that came to wheezing gasps
while arms held tight, bracing a straining rib cage as reassurances were
whispered in the dark.
Wounded, wild things knew each other better than the men who watched from
the other side of iron cages. Wolves and serpents bled the same when bitten
down on and in the end, neither cared much about the difference between
scales and fur. Loneliness was a thin, shaken base but trust was an oddly elastic
bond, lighter and warmer than the cold stones that began it. They hesitated,
circled each other, tested the new tie with wary tugs. Kindness was a novelty in
their world, an unknown that could mean greater pain if protective walls dared
come down. The tie shivered but held, eye contact meeting more often and
lingering. Simple things often taken for granted in other people meant
everything here; the brush of Jason's wrist across the side of Damian's hand as
they reached for the same cup. One of the stray cats near Jason's building
rubbing their ankles for attention, and the sinuous twine of fingers curling
together when both reached to pet her.
No inch of skin or sinew in their bodies was untouched by a life of learning to
destroy. Yet, somehow, something good existed in the space between their
bodies. A precious thing, strange and soft and new, something they didn't know
how to hold but feared to drop; an infant in the arms of child soldiers grown old
too fast. Damian knew there was a dichotomy here, a contrast he would paint in
black and white charcoal if he knew how to pin it to paper. How strange was it
that either of them could put a blade in someone's spine more comfortably than
to accept that they could be loved.
The first press of mouths was unsteady, awkward and aimed wrong by a half-
inch, as Damian leaned to put away a roll of gauze and Jason bent to intercept
him. Simple, nothing spectacular by the standards of most great romances,
more breath than lips and noses bumping awkwardly; Damian remembered
having his internal organs replaced as a child with less impact than those stolen,
unsteady moments of touch. It stayed tied in his mind afterward to the smell of
Jason's hair falling in his face, the shaky grip of gun-calloused hands on the edge
of his arm and hip, as if afraid he'd slip away. He didn't; held tighter, instead, and
swallowed the shaky sigh of Jason's breath like it might keep him alive.
Maybe it could.
It doesn't get easier to figure out what they're doing. They stagger, flail in
uncertain directions, avoiding each other until the ache pulls too tight and
breath just won't come. They meet like water flowing together and curl up in a
miserable ball on the battered couch of Jason's safehouse. It's terrifying
and strange, this thing. It pries open secret places in their rib cages, and the light
burns where it touches what's exposed. Even still, there's a reverence as they
carefully trade broken dreams and bullet holes. A respect in the fingers that
count each messy, lingering scar. It's too much, and not enough, and there isn't
enough of them to make a whole person between them. But, there is enough to
weave themselves into the cracks like sutures for a slow-healing wound. It is
enough to keep moving and keep breathing each other in.
Neither of them can pinpoint the moment they stop trying to hide. It comes as a
wordless certainty, that what they have is theirs and other people don't get to
take it away. Soft words and gestures are hidden in their private spaces;
protected behind a wall of raised hackles and bared teeth. The others bicker and
harp behind their backs, only occasionally bothering to be subtle about it. It
doesn't matter. Both of them are used to being called worse; what difference is
one more sharply thrown insult, after all this time? As Jason takes the new
insults with that same barbed smile, as Damian calls up arrogance and ice to
wreath his sneers, until all the vulnerable places are buried.
It shouldn't still matter. It does.
Damian holds certain memories sacred in his mind, pulled up like a child's safety
blanket when his pulse thumps rapid and bitter, acid up his throat. Snapshots of
warm blankets and well-worn paperbacks, the rasp of Jason's voice as he reads
aloud, "Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us." Snapshots of playing
tag on rooftops when the night is too glaringly quiet, of the startling warmth
and flash of the real, bright smile Jason keeps hidden away. Moments of seeing a
boy he never knew and recognizing the ghost of the Manor halls; moments of
stepping forward and making him real, solidifying the mix of sad songs and scar
tissue into warm arms and unsteady laughter kissed between their mouths.
Their shared breath tastes like magic; these are the only prayers that matter.
Atashe del am, burned in deep black cursive over the jut of a rib for his
lover's mouth to trace. Fire of my heart. The world is cruel and bites on the
softest exposed places, but sometimes soft things are stronger than scar tissue.
Maybe this is what it feels like to be a human being, for once. Maybe he's
learning. Maybe love is as wonderful as it is terrible and both of them are
blindfolded on a tightrope, balancing each other before the inevitable crash.
The people who claim to know them best classify them in blood and buckshot.
The laughter of their patrols and the rasp of their turned pages stay a carefully-
kept secret. Damian takes the well-remembered pain of being seen as a weapon
and pushes it into a familiar corner. It shouldn't matter- so he won't let it.
His days are painted sunset red under the curve of Jason's hands,
reverent down his spine. Damian counts his breaths,
buries the calculations of today and tomorrow and always in the warmth of
Jason's mouth.
The bookmark of their bedsheets reads in prose.
We are all going forward.
None of us are going back.