Pueri Confractum
Lyona
Summary:
The months wore on, a blur of cities and fake names, and Dahlia took a liking to Rome. Not surprising to Jason, they settled here for a year. They visited the colosseum one day. Learned of the slaves - their lives worthless - going to die at the will of their masters and she clung too tightly to him the rest of the tour, tight enough to bruise and he clutched back just as hard.
Notes:
(See the end of the work for notes.)
Work Text:
She showed up on his doorstep one night, drenched from the rain outside, her hair way longer than he remembered and her skin pale and ashy, clad in seemingly lifted clothes, all mens and all four or five sizes too big. Huge dark circles under those big blue eyes. She was a mess, but there was no doubt it was her. She had a white streak in her hair that matched his, and it was right around realizing that that Jason snapped out of it and pulled her inside by her massive coat. He didn't realize he was hugging her until he felt her shivering form against his chest. Quickly, he took her coat and threw it unceremoniously onto the floor before sitting her down on his couch and - ever trained with Bruce's paranoia - bolted the lock on the door of his glorified hell hole and drew the blinds closed, regardless of the pitch black night. He didn't address her for a few minutes, setting a coke down in front of her on the table before going to find her clean clothes. She held it with boney fingers until he returned with a pair of sweats and one of his favorite t-shirts. She took the clothes and he took back the soda, popping it open for her wordlessly. She undressed immediately, paying him no mind, he looked away none the less. She peeled off the too-large sweatshirt and it was then he noticed her new breasts, which would've been - in a different situation - awesome. However, coupled with the massive, offensive scar between them, all they did was shock Jason into realizing just how long Bruce's daughter had been…gone for. Six and a half years. Holy shit. She said nothing when he handed her back the soda.
The first week there were no words, Jason sometimes held one-sided conversations with her and would occasionally get a small response on a good day - widened eyes, a blink, a sigh - and others she would lie in his bed and gaze out at the city lights.
After the second week, Jason knew he couldn't keep her boarded up in Gotham, forever terrified the Big Man would come crashing through his window. He'd asked her if she wanted Bruce - thinking, she should be with her dad, he can afford therapists, doctors, she should be with him and Dickie and Alfred - she'd looked so horrified that Jason never suggested it again. Knew he should, but some sense of loyalty - some sense of understanding - forbade him from doing so. He'd gotten it all together quickly enough, fake passports with names that earned him a twitch of her lips, clothes that would help disguise her well enough. Enough money wired when they got there, a few hideouts ready. They'd go to Europe, he decided, first to London, then to Paris maybe, or Athens. Anywhere, really.
He was officially dropping of the map, he was going to make her better, like Talia had for him. Somedays he wondered if Talia was the one who sent her to his doorstep, but he never asked. Didn't plan to. It wouldn't make sense, because Talia fucking killed her own little girl in the first place. It wouldn't make sense, but Dahlia's here and so is he and they should be in the ground and they're not, and that doesn't make any goddamn sense because the last time Jason checked, the earth is two tiny caskets short. But nothing in their world has ever made sense. Jason doesn't believe in a lot of things, doesn't believe God sent her to him - because holy shit, what kind of God would send her back like this - but he truly, truly believes the littlest Robin was meant to find her way to him. Because in a world where little girls in bright yellow capes are getting killed by their mommies and brought back for a second shot, Jason doesn't think it's so crazy that a little pseudo-sister found her way to the one person who gets what it feels like to fucking die and get brought back to a life that's not even kind of how you left it.
The months wore on, a blur of cities and fake names, and Dahlia took a liking to Rome. Not surprising to Jason, they settled here for a year. They visited the colosseum one day. Learned of the slaves going to die at the will of their masters and she clung too tightly to him the rest of the tour, tight enough to bruise and he clutched back just as hard. On a mere whim, they'd meet their end. They fucked for the first time, after. On the terrace of their small apartment, underneath the night sky. He expected it to be rough, with screaming, but it was soft and tender, she pressed her face to his shoulder and after he kissed her hair and held her too close and pretended not to notice when she pressed her face to his neck to hide her angry tears.
Their second year, she'd gotten better and worse in different ways. She talked now, more than she did even before it'd happened. Her skin was darkened by the sun and now she looked so much like Talia it frightened him. But the way she rolled her eyes made him laugh at how 'Bruce' it was. But he tried not to think about them, focusing on this girl that his whole world gravitated around without his consent.
She was beautiful - a woman - he couldn't call her a girl anymore. Her good days were great, full of laughter and Bruce-like eye rolls and bright smiles or small, dry smirks. Her bad days were erratic, at times he'd find her silently marveling at the massive scar in the juncture between her breasts until Jason shook her out of it, distracted her - kissed her, hit her, fucked her anything to bring the light back into her eyes - other days she'd leave their apartment to fight petty criminals in a tightly drawn scarf covering her face. She'd laugh at the blood on her clothes and kiss him roughly with a too-bright smile on her face, her eyes too wide and too dark. It aroused something dark in him, and remembers when Bruce came to him, asking for this dark miracle.
This is what he got, a beautiful, dark miracle. With more laughter, yes, but more darkness than what she'd left them with. She's not Pit mad, he swears, he promises. Because if she is, so is he. He might not remember how he's here, but he hasn't ruled out that yet. And maybe that's why they work, why they're happier than they've ever been because maybe they're both crazy and together is the only time the rage stops.
The days when she'd leave, she'd laugh into the night, the criminals would ask who she was. She'd scream and laugh into the night as she listed off the names "the Joker" she'd say when she was angry with him, "Catwoman," sometimes, she only ever said "Nightwing" or "Batman" when she was feeling especially dangerous, only to people who wouldn't be believed. Never did she say "Robin" not ever. They never talked about Bruce, or Dick or Tim or Alfred. They don't talk about the red-headed girl in the Robin costume running around Gotham. That part of them, now, was as dead and buried as they should've been. They were happy here, their own form of happiness. Their own world, away from everything else just the two of them gravitating around each other like there was nothing else. Reality only slipped in those nights when they remembered that no, there were other things out there.
A year later, they found themselves growing restless. They found themselves unconsciously gravitating back to Gotham, like a signal calling them home. Not that they considered Gotham home, not anymore at least. Jason wasn't sure if he thought of Italy as home, he didn't think so. And he found himself thinking, a little love drunk after a long, sex-filled night with her, that she probably was his home now. He had a feeling she felt the same, when her gaze lingered on him a second too long or when she traced a long-familiarized pattern into his bare skin.
They lingered in Germany for several months, then London for a month and change, Dahlia didn't like the rain. Jason would be lying if he said they hadn't domesticated a little. A little 'married', he might've even asked her if the idea wasn't so fucking insane.
Dahlia had brought home a kitten whilst in Rome, instantly taking to the little creature and maybe missing the one she'd left behind before. She brought the kitten back with them to Amsterdam, the only possession she wouldn't leave from their time there. Amsterdam wasn't the same as it had been the first time, with Dahlia - she'd only been sixteen then - in the adjoining room, the night filled with her screams and moans and nameless strangers. He tried to stay out of the hotel room as much as possible, going on long, random runs whenever she stumbled in with some boy or girl. She's changed since then. It warms him to think he did that. There are pieces missing, like him, but he likes to think she kept her important bits. Even gained new things, she smiles, she laughs and he doesn't remember her doing that before.
In Amsterdam again, under silken sheets one night, Dahlia's lithe body draped over his, on arm drawing her close against him, his other hand unconsciously playing with her long, dark strands of hair, he asks the inevitable question,
"Do you want me to bring you home?" Dahlia stilled, but didn't stiffen, still molded against him,
"When I'm better." She murmured into his chest. Jason didn't say a word when she began tracing one of his larger scars on his chest, the source of which he can't remember.
"Okay, D." While she traced his scars, he counted the freckles that decorated her cheekbones, a gift from the summer spent in Greece. He almost didn't want to give her up, it was a selfish thought, but he found himself liking - maybe loving - the idea of the two of them - the broken little dead kids that should've stayed dead, b
Pueri ConfractumLyonaสรุป:เดือนสวมบน เบลอของเมืองและชื่อปลอม และ Dahlia เอาความชื่นชอบสู่โรม ไม่น่าแปลกใจกับ Jason พวกเขาแล้วที่นี่สำหรับปี ผู้เข้าชมโคลอสเซียมวันหนึ่ง เรียนรู้ของทาส - ชีวิตสามหาว - ไปตายที่ของ ต้นแบบของพวกเขาและเธอพืชแน่นเกินไปเขาส่วนเหลือของทัวร์ แน่นพอที่จะถลอก และเขาคลัตช์กลับยากเป็นเพียงหมายเหตุ:(ดูตอนท้ายของงานบันทึก)ข้อความที่ทำงาน:She showed up on his doorstep one night, drenched from the rain outside, her hair way longer than he remembered and her skin pale and ashy, clad in seemingly lifted clothes, all mens and all four or five sizes too big. Huge dark circles under those big blue eyes. She was a mess, but there was no doubt it was her. She had a white streak in her hair that matched his, and it was right around realizing that that Jason snapped out of it and pulled her inside by her massive coat. He didn't realize he was hugging her until he felt her shivering form against his chest. Quickly, he took her coat and threw it unceremoniously onto the floor before sitting her down on his couch and - ever trained with Bruce's paranoia - bolted the lock on the door of his glorified hell hole and drew the blinds closed, regardless of the pitch black night. He didn't address her for a few minutes, setting a coke down in front of her on the table before going to find her clean clothes. She held it with boney fingers until he returned with a pair of sweats and one of his favorite t-shirts. She took the clothes and he took back the soda, popping it open for her wordlessly. She undressed immediately, paying him no mind, he looked away none the less. She peeled off the too-large sweatshirt and it was then he noticed her new breasts, which would've been - in a different situation - awesome. However, coupled with the massive, offensive scar between them, all they did was shock Jason into realizing just how long Bruce's daughter had been…gone for. Six and a half years. Holy shit. She said nothing when he handed her back the soda.The first week there were no words, Jason sometimes held one-sided conversations with her and would occasionally get a small response on a good day - widened eyes, a blink, a sigh - and others she would lie in his bed and gaze out at the city lights.After the second week, Jason knew he couldn't keep her boarded up in Gotham, forever terrified the Big Man would come crashing through his window. He'd asked her if she wanted Bruce - thinking, she should be with her dad, he can afford therapists, doctors, she should be with him and Dickie and Alfred - she'd looked so horrified that Jason never suggested it again. Knew he should, but some sense of loyalty - some sense of understanding - forbade him from doing so. He'd gotten it all together quickly enough, fake passports with names that earned him a twitch of her lips, clothes that would help disguise her well enough. Enough money wired when they got there, a few hideouts ready. They'd go to Europe, he decided, first to London, then to Paris maybe, or Athens. Anywhere, really.He was officially dropping of the map, he was going to make her better, like Talia had for him. Somedays he wondered if Talia was the one who sent her to his doorstep, but he never asked. Didn't plan to. It wouldn't make sense, because Talia fucking killed her own little girl in the first place. It wouldn't make sense, but Dahlia's here and so is he and they should be in the ground and they're not, and that doesn't make any goddamn sense because the last time Jason checked, the earth is two tiny caskets short. But nothing in their world has ever made sense. Jason doesn't believe in a lot of things, doesn't believe God sent her to him - because holy shit, what kind of God would send her back like this - but he truly, truly believes the littlest Robin was meant to find her way to him. Because in a world where little girls in bright yellow capes are getting killed by their mommies and brought back for a second shot, Jason doesn't think it's so crazy that a little pseudo-sister found her way to the one person who gets what it feels like to fucking die and get brought back to a life that's not even kind of how you left it.
The months wore on, a blur of cities and fake names, and Dahlia took a liking to Rome. Not surprising to Jason, they settled here for a year. They visited the colosseum one day. Learned of the slaves going to die at the will of their masters and she clung too tightly to him the rest of the tour, tight enough to bruise and he clutched back just as hard. On a mere whim, they'd meet their end. They fucked for the first time, after. On the terrace of their small apartment, underneath the night sky. He expected it to be rough, with screaming, but it was soft and tender, she pressed her face to his shoulder and after he kissed her hair and held her too close and pretended not to notice when she pressed her face to his neck to hide her angry tears.
Their second year, she'd gotten better and worse in different ways. She talked now, more than she did even before it'd happened. Her skin was darkened by the sun and now she looked so much like Talia it frightened him. But the way she rolled her eyes made him laugh at how 'Bruce' it was. But he tried not to think about them, focusing on this girl that his whole world gravitated around without his consent.
She was beautiful - a woman - he couldn't call her a girl anymore. Her good days were great, full of laughter and Bruce-like eye rolls and bright smiles or small, dry smirks. Her bad days were erratic, at times he'd find her silently marveling at the massive scar in the juncture between her breasts until Jason shook her out of it, distracted her - kissed her, hit her, fucked her anything to bring the light back into her eyes - other days she'd leave their apartment to fight petty criminals in a tightly drawn scarf covering her face. She'd laugh at the blood on her clothes and kiss him roughly with a too-bright smile on her face, her eyes too wide and too dark. It aroused something dark in him, and remembers when Bruce came to him, asking for this dark miracle.
This is what he got, a beautiful, dark miracle. With more laughter, yes, but more darkness than what she'd left them with. She's not Pit mad, he swears, he promises. Because if she is, so is he. He might not remember how he's here, but he hasn't ruled out that yet. And maybe that's why they work, why they're happier than they've ever been because maybe they're both crazy and together is the only time the rage stops.
The days when she'd leave, she'd laugh into the night, the criminals would ask who she was. She'd scream and laugh into the night as she listed off the names "the Joker" she'd say when she was angry with him, "Catwoman," sometimes, she only ever said "Nightwing" or "Batman" when she was feeling especially dangerous, only to people who wouldn't be believed. Never did she say "Robin" not ever. They never talked about Bruce, or Dick or Tim or Alfred. They don't talk about the red-headed girl in the Robin costume running around Gotham. That part of them, now, was as dead and buried as they should've been. They were happy here, their own form of happiness. Their own world, away from everything else just the two of them gravitating around each other like there was nothing else. Reality only slipped in those nights when they remembered that no, there were other things out there.
A year later, they found themselves growing restless. They found themselves unconsciously gravitating back to Gotham, like a signal calling them home. Not that they considered Gotham home, not anymore at least. Jason wasn't sure if he thought of Italy as home, he didn't think so. And he found himself thinking, a little love drunk after a long, sex-filled night with her, that she probably was his home now. He had a feeling she felt the same, when her gaze lingered on him a second too long or when she traced a long-familiarized pattern into his bare skin.
They lingered in Germany for several months, then London for a month and change, Dahlia didn't like the rain. Jason would be lying if he said they hadn't domesticated a little. A little 'married', he might've even asked her if the idea wasn't so fucking insane.
Dahlia had brought home a kitten whilst in Rome, instantly taking to the little creature and maybe missing the one she'd left behind before. She brought the kitten back with them to Amsterdam, the only possession she wouldn't leave from their time there. Amsterdam wasn't the same as it had been the first time, with Dahlia - she'd only been sixteen then - in the adjoining room, the night filled with her screams and moans and nameless strangers. He tried to stay out of the hotel room as much as possible, going on long, random runs whenever she stumbled in with some boy or girl. She's changed since then. It warms him to think he did that. There are pieces missing, like him, but he likes to think she kept her important bits. Even gained new things, she smiles, she laughs and he doesn't remember her doing that before.
In Amsterdam again, under silken sheets one night, Dahlia's lithe body draped over his, on arm drawing her close against him, his other hand unconsciously playing with her long, dark strands of hair, he asks the inevitable question,
"Do you want me to bring you home?" Dahlia stilled, but didn't stiffen, still molded against him,
"When I'm better." She murmured into his chest. Jason didn't say a word when she began tracing one of his larger scars on his chest, the source of which he can't remember.
"Okay, D." While she traced his scars, he counted the freckles that decorated her cheekbones, a gift from the summer spent in Greece. He almost didn't want to give her up, it was a selfish thought, but he found himself liking - maybe loving - the idea of the two of them - the broken little dead kids that should've stayed dead, b
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