ライフだよ

…

slothchild:

They’re in their suits. The pungent smell of kevlar and nomex hang around their bodies like an old perfume. It’s a reassuring scent. Familiar. It’s something that keeps them from forgetting who they are, who they’ve become.

Who they’ll stop being.

The masks, on the other hand, are for something different.

Protection.

But Dick knows even Batman’s cowl can’t shield him from this.

“I hate you, Grayson.” It’s a small sound that slithers past a familiar pair of frowning lips.

They’re standing across from each other in a cold, white hallway. Countless people in all shades of black and gray suits and smart casual ensembles weave past them indifferently. As if seeing Batman and Robin facing each other in the hallway were a regular, everyday occurrence.

A man with a bald head pauses from his trek to the Little Writer’s room and spares them a glance, then frowns thoughtfully before moving on.

Damian glares at him, “You’re not supposed to let this happen.”

“Damian,” He tries patiently, struggling to hold back the despair seeping into his voice, “I can’t do anything about this.”

It comes out more of a complaint than a statement.

“You’re Batman. You can do anything.” And for a moment the boy’s face softens. It’s caught somewhere between a reassurance and a plea. It makes Dick’s heart sink and twist and break all at once.

“No. I’m not.”

Dick feels something bitter taint his tongue and the way Damian’s shoulders drop make him want to crumple his heart and set it on fire.

He wants to do other things too. He wants to take a pair of scissors and cut the strings wrapped around him and everyone else he’s ever known. He wants to take his personal fortune and donate all to this goddamn company to make them stop. He wants to cry. But he can’t.

They won’t even let him cry about this.

And it’s the least he can do for the little kid staring at him, clenching his fists and silently hoping—expecting— that Big Brother Dick will save the day.

“Damian…”

A man in a black suit walks up to them and clears his throat. “It’s time.”

Damian peels off his mask effortlessly. A part of Dick’s mind wonders how he doesn’t need the solvent but then he remembers where he is and how it doesn’t matter.

Bruce’s blue eyes stare at him, fierce and clear.

“Don’t forget me.” He orders with false conviction.

Dick takes in a sharp breath and pulls off his cowl to look at him and hopes for tears.

There are none.

“Don’t you dare forget me, Dick.” 

With a twirl of his cape Damian follows the editor in black and disappears into the storyboarding room.

Dick knows by the time he’ll be able to cry, he won’t remember why.

(Source: slothesaurus, via kanracakes)