Chapter Text
Jason resisted the urge to take a glance behind him, and kept his pace constant. He wanted to start running, ice-cold prickles trickling down his spine and jolting with every scuff of shoe on pavement.
They weren’t trying to hide themselves—footsteps loud and slightly off-balanced, far too close for comfort. Drunk on alcohol and power, and they’d seen the wad of cash Frank handed Jason.
He took a deep breath and brushed the edge of an alley, grabbing the exposed brick to take the corner quickly, and speeding up once he was out of sight. He ducked around a dumpster, his heart rate increasing as the loud footsteps—two distinct pairs, Crime Alley drawl, low sniggers—followed him.
He still had the tire iron in his hands, and he gripped it tightly. A couple of good swings—
The air crackled.
There was a loud screech, like fingernails scraping against the wall, and getting away was momentarily halted by the instinctive urge to cover his ears as the sound grated into his bones. The men shouted, and Jason heard a harsh, rattling gasp and the dull whine of electricity.
“Bat!” someone called out, and the alleyway cleared remarkably fast. Heavy footsteps receded into the distance as something crashed into the opposite side of the dumpster, and Jason stayed frozen in place, waiting for the rustling that always preceded Batman.
Nothing. Jason darted a quick look up, but no sign of a dark, fluttering cape. Nothing but the soft groans from the other side of the dumpster.
They were quiet—hitched breaths and soft, pained sounds—but Jason had learned to keep his ears sharp, and especially so in the last couple months. He edged forward slightly—keeping his grip on his tire iron, the small fold of bills burning a hole in his pocket—and slowly peered around the edge of the dumpster until he could see the unlucky stranger.
They blended into the shadows—Jason spent a full ten seconds trying to discern shape before realizing that they were clad in form-fitting black, the faintest hint of a blue design shimmering in the low light. The figure made another pained hiss, shifting up until they were reclined against brick.
Dark hair. Skin too tan to be white. And a familiar black outline over the eyes.
A mask? Jason frowned. Batman had that stupid pointy-eared cowl, and Robin wore a lot more colors than this. Who was this guy?
Jason tightened his grip on the tire iron as the masked figure pressed a hand to their side, panting soundlessly. He had made sure to keep still and silent, so he was taken aback when the masked figure froze, whiteout lenses suddenly fixed on him.
Jason stumbled back, his heart hammering, ducking back behind the dumpster.
“Hello?” the figure called out, low with a slight rasp, Gotham drawl with the faintest hint of a dock accent. “I don’t bite.”
Jason warily poked his head back around the dumpster. The masked figure was smiling slightly, still leaning against the brick wall. “Who are you?” Jason asked gruffly.
“Nightwing,” the figure volunteered easily, and Jason stepped a little further out of the shadows—that wasn’t the name of any Gotham villain. “And what’s your—Jay?” the figure broke off with a gasp.
Jason stepped back, raising the tire iron. “What did you call me?” Jason snarled, his heartbeat thundering—how had he—who told him—was someone after him—
The figure stared at him for a long moment, lenses widening as they scanned Jason from head to toe—Jason fidgeted under this scrutiny, trying to look taller and broader than he really was. Nightwing was still on the ground, though, and hurt—Jason bet he could take off if he got a good hit at their injured side.
“Sorry,” Nightwing said finally, their gaze sharpening, “You looked like someone else. What’s your name, kid?”
Jason hesitated, hovering in place—they were injured, and they didn’t look like a villain, so maybe they were a new vigilante—and they had scared off the guys following him. Jason could’ve probably outsmarted two drunk idiots, but if they’d caught him—well. “You can call me Jay,” Jason shrugged, “You some kind of vigilante?”
“Yeah,” Nightwing grimaced, “From Bludhaven.” That unnerving white-eyed gaze was fixed on him, and Jason tensed automatically.
“You’re a long way from home,” Jason said cautiously.
Nightwing made a short, unamused laugh. “You have no idea,” they said dryly, casting a look around the alleyway as though they were seeing it for the first time. They still hadn’t moved to get up, and Nightwing grimaced as they shifted position, their hand curled below the ribs, pressing above their right hip.
Jay swallowed—but if he left Nightwing here, they’d be found by the criminals or the cops, and neither were a good prospect. “Do you—do you want some help?” he asked quietly.
Nightwing’s gaze fixed on him for a long moment. “Yeah,” they said finally, “That would be great. Thanks, Jay.”
Jay edged all the way around the dumpster, and shifted to holding the tire iron one handed as he held the other out to Nightwing. The vigilante was heavy, and Jason had to brace himself against the dumpster as he pulled them upright.
For a vigilante, he seemed pretty short, but he was still half a foot taller than Jason and he edged back a wary step as Nightwing straightened, grimacing as the movement pulled at his side. Jason eyed the injury—he couldn’t see much in the semi-darkness, but the gloves looked suspiciously wet.
“Um,” Jason said, “I know someplace you can—”
“No hospitals,” Nightwing cut him off.
“But Dr. Thompkins doesn’t—”
“No hospitals,” Nightwing repeated, his firm tone undercut by the way he was sagging against the wall.
It had never really occurred to Jason that the capes could be injured. Batman was a night terror—the Dark Knight of Gotham, the nightmare waiting in the shadows, the boogeyman for criminal and civilian alike. Robin—well, half of Gotham didn’t believe Robin was human, and popular ideas included a trickster spirit that Batman had bound to his will.
Nightwing looked like a regular human who thought going out in a mask and spandex was a good idea, and had unfortunately run straight into the consequences of that decision.
“Are you going to be okay?” Jason asked—the vigilante was beginning to shiver.
“It’s just a graze,” Nightwing smiled at him, which was not an answer to Jason’s question.
Jason bit his lip, hovering near the vigilante as he limped to the end of the alley. “I,” Jason said slowly, “I have a first aid kit. I can get it for you.”
Nightwing tilted his head to one side, like a curious bird, before he smiled. “Thanks, Jay,” he said, “That would be a great help.”
“Stay here,” Jason instructed, before running all the way home. He checked periodically over his shoulder, but no one seemed to be following him, and he didn’t see even a hint of blue.
He stuffed the cash underneath the mattress and found the first aid kit buried behind a small wall of painkiller bottles. He grabbed the kit and made sure to lock the door behind him before hurrying back down the stairs.
Nightwing hadn’t moved—he was slumped in the shadows, breathing heavily, and Jason had to call his name two times before the white lenses fixed on him. “Here,” Jason said, handing over the kit.
“Thanks, Jay,” Nightwing croaked out, rummaging through the kit before he picked out a tube of antiseptic and some gauze. His gaze swung back to Jason, “You should get back home. Your parents will be worried.”
“Yeah,” Jason said, feeling the hollow inside his chest ache anew, “I should be getting back.”
“Thanks for all your help!” Nightwing called back as Jason left the alley.
Jason didn’t know what had possessed him to go back to the alleyway the next afternoon, as the sunlight waned and the day shifted from the period when well-meaning bystanders would ask unattended children why they weren’t in school to the period when they were allowed to roam the streets with impunity.
Understanding people’s expectations was the first step in dodging them, and Jason had learned that well. School wasn’t an option, not now, not when they would ask too many questions—Jason had managed to keep the apartment with a collection of lies, and managed to avoid notice with a different, contrary collection of lies, but he was aware that it would just take one suspicious busybody to bring the whole thing crashing down.
Suspicious busybodies like the guys that ran around with masks and colorful costumes.
But Jason wasn’t going out of his way to check out the alley, and Nightwing had probably made it back to Bludhaven anyway, so, really, Jason was just checking to make sure he hadn’t dropped something in his run.
The alley was empty. Jason took a glance around, poked his head into the shadows, and turned to leave, satisfied.
Someone had moved the dumpster, though.
It was probably the garbage trucks. Or someone doing some dumpster diving. Or—the dumpster had been shoved closer to the fire escape. Close enough that someone with an injured side would have less difficulty reaching the ladder.
Jason eyed the fire escape, noting closed blinds all the way to the top.
It wasn’t his business. Nightwing had helped him, but he was a cape, and he’d start asking questions, and that was the last thing Jason needed right now.
Jason huffed out a frustrated breath, glanced around him, and took a running start to clamber on top of the dumpster.
The fire escape was half-rusted, and Jason made his way up warily, pausing at every screeching squeak. He checked every windowsill as he passed it, but found no trace of blood on any of them, and he finally poked his head over the edge of the roof.
It was a typical apartment roof—rooftop access door, a little shed for maintenance, the air conditioning vents—and showed no signs of any squatters. Admittedly, there was little space for anyone to hide—the maintenance shed was tiny and probably full of equipment, the edging along the roof wasn’t high enough to keep out the wind, and the space between the air conditioning vents was maybe wide enough to fit a small child.
Jason’s first step on the roof crunched gravel under his shoe, and the air suddenly stilled.
Looks like he was wrong about the squatter.
Jason warily edged forward, eyeing the shed and the door as he moved closer to the air conditioning vents. He tried to be quiet, but the soft shifting of gravel was very obvious in the still air, as was the increasing tension.
Jason swallowed before he reached the air conditioning vents. “Nightwing?” he called out, feeling a little foolish.
The silence stretched, the tension ratcheting up before—“Jay?” Nightwing replied hoarsely.
Jason edged around the vents and found Nightwing folded up in the empty space between them. He did not want to know how Nightwing managed to contort himself enough to fit, jeez, did the guy not have bones?
“Hi, Jay!” Nightwing beamed and, despite the sallow tint to his skin and the red sheen to the torn part of his costume, the smile felt like the sun had woken up. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. How are you doing?”
“Clearly better than you,” Jason said, crouching down to get a better look at Nightwing. His suit was thin and stretchy, the dark only broken by the blue design Jason had seen yesterday—it looked like some sort of bird, the wings stretching out to Nightwing’s shoulders and running down his arms to splay across his fingers. “Did you seriously sleep out here? In this weather? Wearing that?”
The suit was far too thin to offer any sort of protection against the cold—or against anything, Jason could see the edges of white gauze poking through the gash in the costume, dotted with red.
“I unfortunately didn’t have time to look for a place to stay,” Nightwing said, slowly pushing himself off the ground—he couldn’t entirely hide his wince, though, and Jason could see how fiercely he was clinging to the edge of the vent. “And all a bird really needs is a good nest!”
“You’re not a bird,” Jason scowled, stepping back at the sheer cheerfulness the man exuded, “And I thought you’d be back in Bludhaven by now.”
Nightwing gave a half-shrug. “There were some difficulties with my chosen method of transportation. I think I’m stuck here for a while.” He glanced at the dark watch wrapped around his left wrist and gave Jason a mock mournful look.
“You planning on sleeping here again?” Jason frowned at him, taking in the tightness of the man’s smile and the weight he was leaning against the vent.
The other homeless found shelters to stay in, or fires to huddle around, but Jason supposed wearing a mask ruled out both those opportunities. There weren’t many good hiding places in Crime Alley and, this close to winter, all of them would be taken.
“It isn’t that bad,” Nightwing laughed—and shivered when an icy breeze skimmed across the roof.
Jason would regret this. He knew he would regret this. He should’ve never even come looking for the guy—in Gotham, keeping your mouth shut and your eyes on the ground was the best way to survive. Messing around in other people’s business was just asking for trouble. Messing around with capes was asking for a bullet to the back, or fear gas to the face.
But Nightwing kept smiling, the joyfulness completely at odds with Gotham’s dour nature, and yet the smile never looked fake for a second.
“If you buy dinner,” Jason said before he could talk himself out of it, “You can stay at my place tonight.”
Nightwing looked at him—still smiling, but clearly as wary of the offer as Jason was giving it. Good. If he’d jumped for it—if a strange man in Gotham had eagerly followed a little boy home, Jason would’ve kicked him between the legs.
It was okay. Nightwing was injured, and Jason still had his tire iron.
“Are your parents going to be okay with that?” Nightwing asked slowly.
Jason chewed his lip, but Nightwing would find out soon anyway. “Dad’s in jail,” he said casually, “Mom’s in the hospital. No one will mind.”
“If you’re sure,” Nightwing said, a thread of doubt winding into his tone.
Once they started moving, it was clear the Nightwing was nowhere near fine. He was woozy on his feet, and Jason’s plan to go down the fire escape had to be shelved in favor of picking the lock on the rooftop access door and using the actual stairs, because half of Nightwing’s weight was on his shoulder and the man looked frighteningly pale under the mask.
“Are you sure you don’t want to—”
“No hospitals,” Nightwing repeated firmly. Jason glowered at him as they exited the building. Nightwing took the opportunity to lean against the wall and fished around in the pockets of his belt before withdrawing a crumpled twenty dollar bill. “Here,” he offered it to Jason, “Get some chili dogs for us?”
That was an offer Jason wasn’t going to decline. He snatched the bill and headed for the closest chili dog stand.
When he came back with a warm bag oozing out delicious smells, Nightwing was still upright, but breathing heavily. He didn’t ask for the change back, and Jason didn’t mention it, instead helping the vigilante hobble through the shadows and back to his apartment.
Jason had a momentary flicker of fear when he let Nightwing inside, but all the vigilante did was stumble the three steps to the couch and sink into it with a pained moan.
“Um,” Jason said, fidgeting, “Can I get you anything?”
“Water,” Nightwing croaked out, “Please.”
Jason hurried to the kitchen, grateful for something to do. By the time he unwrapped the chili dogs and brought out the water, Nightwing had gone from sitting to lying down, folded up on their ratty couch and staring up at the ceiling.
“Here,” Jason said, handing over the glass of water—and froze, because Nightwing had removed his mask, revealing an irritated red line around tired blue eyes.
He was younger than Jason had been expecting—he couldn’t be more than twenty-five.
“Hey,” Nightwing smiled softly, and extended his hand, “I’m Dick. Nice to meet you.”
Jason shook the hand before the words caught all the way up. “Wait, what? What kind of parents name their kid Dick?”
“It’s short for Richard,” Nightwing—Dick answered him cheerfully, taking the glass. He gulped it down like he hadn’t had water in days, and when he was done, he slumped back with a groan.
“It’s stupid, that’s what it is,” Jason grumbled.
“I’ve heard all the jokes, trust me, kid,” Dick laughed, “All of them.”
Jason was pretty sure that hadn’t been intended as a challenge, but Dick’s eyes were glittering and Jason’s competitiveness had been piqued.
He took a bite of the chili dog as he tried to think of some good ones, and nudged the other foil wrapper to Dick. “Eat,” Jason instructed.
“In a bit,” Dick rasped, his eyes fluttering closed, his face stuck in a pained grimace. Jason could only see the one wound, but the way Dick was curled up hinted at broken ribs.
“It’ll get cold,” Jason pressed, something icy settling in his stomach.
“I’m not hungry,” Dick said softly, eyes still squeezed shut, and the picture—sweaty skin, bags under eyes, chewed-red lips, soft, pained gasps—matched Jason’s nightmares.
Jason slowly finished chewing his bite and swallowed it, hoping his stomach wouldn’t rebel. “You need to eat,” he said, the same half-pleading, half-stern tone he’d used for so long, “You need to get your strength up.”
Dick’s eyes fluttered open, and he watched Jason silently.
“Eat,” Jason repeated, “Please. Just one bite.”
“Jay,” Dick said quietly, “If I eat something right now, it’s just going to come back up.”
How many nights had he listened to his mother retching in the bathroom, coming out with tears in her eyes and blood dripping from her nose? How many times had she foregone food—not for his benefit, but because she couldn’t muster up the will to eat? How much had she wasted away before the end, till where Jason could count every bone in her body as it jutted against sallow skin?
Jason set down his food and hurried to the bathroom. There was a small collection of painkillers back there—different prescriptions his mother had tried before she got hooked onto heroin and didn’t stop—and Jason scanned each one until he found a couple that didn’t have loss of appetite as a side effect.
He’d been planning to sell them—rent didn’t come cheap, no one would offer a full-time job to a ten-year-old, and he knew the dealers that would give fair prices for pills—but a few pills wasn’t any great loss.
“I have painkillers,” Jason shoved the bottles at a surprised Dick, who attempted to catch them all before they hit the ground, “One of these should help.”
Dick looked at the bottles, and blinked at him.
“They’re my mom’s,” Jason answered the unasked question, “You’re hurt. You need them.”
Dick’s face crinkled. “Thanks, Jay,” Dick smiled, “But I shouldn’t take your mother’s pills.” He tried to hand the bottles back, but Jason refused to take them, scowling.
“She won’t mind,” Jason said, “You’re hurt. She’ll understand.”
“I’m fine,” Dick said, face bright, “I don’t need them.”
“You’re hurt,” Jason repeated, his voice rising, “You’re hurt and bleeding and you spent a whole day on a roof and I bet you haven’t eaten anything all day. Just take the stupid pill!”
Dick carefully stacked each bottle on the floor. “Jay,” he said slowly, “I can’t take someone else’s medication. They—”
“She’s in the hospital,” Jason said, aware that his voice was climbing pitches, “They’ll just give her a new prescription! She doesn’t need these pills anymore.”
“That’s not how it works, Jay—”
Jason picked all the bottles up, and shoved them back into Dick’s arms. He couldn’t watch the man’s pained face. Not without remembering his mother. Not without remembering—they ran out, Jason couldn’t get any more, and his mother was shaking and crying and Jason couldn’t even hug her without her screaming and—
And he’d gone to the streets and found any way he could to get her the stuff—
And then—
And—
“Just take it!” Jason almost screamed, “You’re hurting, just—stop it, stop pretending you’re some stupid hero and take a goddamn pill!” His eyes were blurring, and he didn’t even know why—he didn’t know Nightwing, he didn’t care about Dick, he didn’t care about the pinched furrow on his face or the rigidity of his jaw or the hundred different tells that taught him about concealing pain.
“Kiddo, these are your mom’s, I can’t—”
“They can’t help her anymore,” Jason cut off hoarsely, withdrawing further into his hoodie and hoping that the tears wouldn’t fall.
Dick’s face was concerned, blue eyes wide and forehead furrowed and when he spoke, his voice was soft and hesitant. “Jay?” he asked slowly, “Is your mom really in the hospital?”
Jason snapped his head up, choking on a gasp, and burning washed over his eyes.
Dick looked worried, anxious, like the teachers who wanted to talk to his parents or the volunteers that eyed him when he walked past the shelter and he knew that someone would figure it out eventually—and Dick was in his home and he’d lose this too, he’d lose the last thing he had of his mother and—
Jason bolted for the door.
He got three blocks away before he stumbled to a halt, hot tears curving down his cheeks, and pressed his back to the coarse brick of an alley as he shook.
Dick knew. And Jason didn’t know much about capes, but he knew they worked with the cops, so Dick had probably already called CPS. They would be at his home, and they’d find out that Mom was dead and Dad was in jail and—and they’d take Jason away, and Jason knew what happened to kids in the system.
Living in Crime Alley was rough. But he’d had a Mom and Dad that protected him, and every gang knew that messing with a kid that had parents was not a good idea. Especially not when there were so many unattached ones out there.
He wished he could’ve gotten his stuff. Some clothes. Food. His money. The picture of his mom and him at a fair. The last Mother’s Day card he’d made her, the one she cried over and stuck to the refrigerator. The tire iron, at least.
But he needed a head start more than all those things.
Jason roughly wiped at his face and headed for the mouth of the alley—he needed to find a place to hole up for the night, and bawling like a baby wouldn’t help.
Unfortunately, the moment he stepped back onto the street, he was spotted by the same two idiots that had been following him yesterday.
Jason cursed and spun on his heel, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid the shout of recognition. “Hey,” one of them called out, “It’s that kid with the cash!”
Shit. Jason ran, but heavy, pounding footsteps followed behind him, and a hand closed around his arm before he managed to take an alley shortcut. Jason allowed himself to be pulled with the movement, and used his momentum to ram an elbow in the guy’s gut.
The guy left go, coughing, and Jason twisted back—the other guy tried to grab him, and Jason kicked out at his kneecap and the guy howled in pain. Jason turned to flee—
And was halted by the click of a gun.
“Move,” Thug No. 1 said, raspy, “And I’ll blow your brains out.”
Jason swallowed, and let the guy fist a hand in the collar of his hoodie and slam him back against the brick wall.
“Where’s the money, brat?” Thug No. 2 said as the gun pressed painfully against his head.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cut the crap, kid,” Trigger Happy snarled, trying to use the gun as a drill, “We know you got some cash. Tell us where it is, or we’ll take it out your hide.”
Jason flitted his gaze between the two of them. “At—at home,” he said, working a stutter into his voice—the cops were probably already at the apartment, and besides, Jason wasn’t lying. “I—I don’t—”
A finger closed around the gun’s trigger. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe that?” the guy scoffed, “A kid like you is always carrying some cash around.”
Thug No. 2 was looking at Jason in the kind of speculation that made him want to take five showers. “We can always search him,” he suggested, quiet and dark.
Trigger Happy looked like he was seriously considering the idea.
“Fuck you!” Jason snarled, bucking against the grip. He’d done a lot of things to get money to help his mother, but there was one thing he swore he wouldn’t do. “Get off me! I don’t have any fucking money, you—”
Jason broke off as something moved in the shadows. Darkness. A flicker of blue. A mask.
The thugs followed his gaze and turned, blinking at the newcomer. “You’re not the Bat,” the stupider of the two said, frowning at the sleek costume, the blue bird symbol, and the long…batons?
The batons crackled with blue sparks of electricity. “No,” Nightwing smiled, “I’m not.”
Trigger Happy was smart enough to turn the gun on the greater threat, but not smart enough to shoot immediately. The baton hit his hand so hard that several things cracked, and dull whine of electricity after sent the guy into gurgled screams.
The second one had clearly decided to abandon his friend—Bat-honed instincts serving them well—and Jason watched in no small amount of awe as Nightwing, injured and wobbly and in significant pain, managed to take down his adversary so fluidly it felt choreographed.
Nightwing still looked like the sun. But the sun was also a flaming ball of gas in the middle of space, hot enough to disintegrate, and every ounce of that threat was laced into that smile.
Nightwing turned towards him, and the smile softened to something less…terrifying. “Jay,” he said quietly, taking a hobbling step towards him, “Are you okay?”
Jason hadn’t heard someone sound so concerned about him since his mother died.
Jason hadn’t heard someone sound so concerned about him since before his mother got lost in the haze of drugs.
He couldn’t stop the tears slipping down his face, and Nightwing’s expression shifted to sudden alarm. “Are you hurt?” Nightwing said worriedly, holstering his batons and stepping closer to Jason, “Did they—”
The moment Nightwing was close enough to reach, Jason lunged forward and buried his head in the man’s costume, wrapping his arms around him. He heard Nightwing’s startled, harsh wheeze and then realized that that was probably not the brightest idea. “I’m sorry,” Jason said through hitched breaths, “I—I forgot you were hurt, I’m sorry—”
“Shh, it’s okay,” Nightwing said, his voice slightly strained, and he tugged Jason down until they were both crouching on the ground. Jason flung his arms around Nightwing’s neck this time, burying his face into his shoulder, and cried even harder when Nightwing’s arms slowly wrapped around his back. “It’s okay, Jay,” Nightwing murmured, “They won’t hurt you again.”
His voice dropped to something lower, something fiercer, “I promise.”
Nightwing held Jason until he’d exhausted all his tears, and rubbed his back as Jason tried to regain control of his hitched breaths. The two thugs were left groaning and twitching in the alley, and Jason didn’t protest as Nightwing gently steered them back to his apartment.
To his surprise, no cops or social workers were waiting for them, and Dick merely made a muted groan as he sank back onto the couch and peeled off his mask.
Jason peered into the bedroom, but there was no one waiting to ambush him. He drifted back towards the couch, and squinted at Dick.
Dick noticed after a solid ten seconds of staring, and raised an eyebrow, his expression twisting into a half-scowl to do so.
“You didn’t call the cops,” Jason said finally.
“I don’t have a phone,” Dick yawned, “You don’t have a phone. And besides, I’m tired. Those two guys can learn their lesson with some broken bones this time.”
“No,” Jason frowned, “I meant for me.” Dick looked confused. “That—that my mom’s dead. You didn’t call them.”
Dick’s face brightened in comprehension, and then fell in sorrow. “I know what Gotham’s foster care system is like,” he said, and there was a bite in his voice that was all too real, “I’m not going to send you into its jaws.”
Oh. Jason had the sudden urge to fling himself into Dick’s arms to get another one of those hugs, shaky in sudden relief, but Dick’s face was pinched and wan and Jason slowly shuffled back to the pill bottles. He held them up wordlessly, and Dick made a face.
“Please,” Jason said softly, “You’re hurt.”
Dick sighed, and Jason pressed his advantage. He dumped all the bottles in Dick’s lap, and Dick sorted through each of them, carefully reading the labels before keeping it or placing it aside. Finally, he settled on over-the-counter ibuprofen.
“You’re not supposed to take that on an empty stomach,” Jason said, trying to cover up the tiny curl of relief. Dick was in a not-inconsiderable amount of pain, and while one of the prescription painkillers would’ve definitely helped more, Jason knew where that road led.
Dick sighed again, but he reached for the now-cold chili dog and carefully broke it into half, offering Jason the other piece. Jason took the compromise, accepting the chili dog and sitting on the couch. He gave it a few seconds before he shifted, curling against Dick’s uninjured side.
Dick smiled at him, and rested a casual arm around his shoulders.
Somewhere in the midst of eating and taking the pill and washing it down with water, Dick’s fingers had migrated to his hair, running through it and gently tugging on the ends, and the repetitive motion lulled Jason to sleep. His head drooped against Nightwing’s shoulder and, when there was no complaint, he decided it was too heavy to lift up again.
The fingers were soft and soothing, and they were joined by a low, lilting song in a language Jason didn’t recognize, and before he realized it, darkness had cocooned him in a warm embrace.
Jason woke up with his head resting on someone’s lap. Mom, he thought drowsily, before remembering that his mother’s legs had been far bonier. Before remembering that his mother was dead.
That jolted him the rest of the way awake, and Jason scrambled up to meet Dick’s teasing smile. “Have a good night’s sleep, Jay?” Dick laughed softly, and the sound was so much brighter with some of the pain lines on his forehead relaxed.
Jason’s cheeks burned—he’d prided himself on his survival instincts, and he fell asleep on a stranger.
A stranger who had saved him twice.
A stranger who’d hugged him and sung him a song.
A stranger who was giving Jason a twinkling smile, soft and amused—almost like his mother on one of her good days, when she would nudge a grouchy Jason out of bed with kisses and tickles and have waffles waiting on the counter once he brushed his teeth.
“Do you want waffles?” Jason asked abruptly.
Dick’s eyebrows raised, but he nodded, still amused. Jason got off the couch and headed to the kitchen to get everything ready, Dick following at a slower pace.
“Do you like waffles?” Jason asked as he got out the flour. Dick had taken a seat at the kitchen table and was watching him with idle curiosity.
“They’re okay,” Dick said, tilting his head to one side, “My little sister loves them, so she makes them a lot.”
Jason’s heart sank. He busied himself with the batter, cracking eggs with ease and adding them in.
“Do you have a big family?” he asked, still turned away from Dick.
Dick laughed, though Jason didn’t know what was so funny. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I have my fair share of siblings.”
“I suppose they’re missing you,” he said to the batter.
“Probably,” Dick said, his chuckles dying, “I don’t know how long it’ll take me to go home, though.” When Jason turned, he caught Dick staring at his watch, his face drawn into a frown.
Jason cast around for something to change the topic. “When you met me, you said I reminded you of someone,” Jason said, casting a curious glance at Dick, “Who?”
Dick had gone tense, but looked like he was doing his best to pretend that he wasn’t. “Jay,” he said softly, “My little brother.”
Christ on a cracker, how many siblings did the guy have?
“Oh,” Jason said, mixing the batter perhaps more thoroughly than required, “How is he doing?”
“Good,” Dick hummed, “He was ranting about book-to-movie adaptations the last time I saw him.”
“Book-to-movie adaptations suck all the fun out of the book,” Jason replied automatically. Something spasmed across Dick’s face before he drew out a wavering smile and raised his hands in surrender.
“How many waffles do you want?” Jason asked roughly—Dick had a whole family waiting for him, and he wasn’t even from Gotham. Dick would leave, like everyone else left, and Jason had to be grateful for what he had—Dick had saved him, and hadn’t called the cops, which meant that Jason had a roof over his head for a little while longer.
“Two?” Dick said, and Jason plated the first one before sliding it over. Dick dug in with gusto and numerous appreciative noises.
“So,” Jason said as he poured in the batter for the second waffle, “How long are you staying in Gotham?”
Dick scowled at his watch again. “I’m not sure,” he sighed, “My transport needs to be arranged.”
Jason didn’t know why the guy couldn’t just take off his mask, put on a coat, and take the train to Bludhaven. Capes were weird.
“And you don’t have anywhere to stay?” Jason checked.
“Nope,” Dick exhaled.
Jason chewed his lip. He was having trouble making this month’s rent, and Dick hadn’t done anything to him—sure, he was injured, but capes were supposed to be the good guys, right? His mom had always told him that Batman would protect him, even if he got caught running drugs, because Batman didn’t hurt kids.
“You can stay here if you want,” Jason shrugged, overly casual, busying himself with the wafflemaker, “You can pay half-rent.”
Silence greeted him, and Jason resisted the urge to raise his shoulders. He turned—had Dick already left?—and met the older man’s level gaze.
He was staring at Jason like he was a puzzle, face blank but eyes focused, and Jason fought the urge to shiver. Finally, Dick smiled—like the sun peeking out of the clouds. “That sounds great, Jay, thank you,” he said.
“You need to pay half-rent, though,” Jason warned. Scrounging up only half the rent would be much easier than the full thing, and then Jason could pay the gas bill this time.
“Absolutely,” Dick said, smiling bright.
It was temporary, and Jason just needed the grace period before he looked old enough that restaurants and mechanic shops would agree to hire him off the books. He had the space, and he needed the money. If he sold the rest of the pills and hid the valuables, Dick would have nothing to steal, either. It was a win-win.
Jason found that he couldn’t resist returning the smile with a quiet one of his own.
Jason finished his work a little early, and walked inside the apartment to see Dick pacing, his hair sticking up like he’d run his fingers through it several times, and a half-crazed look in his eyes—a gaze he immediately turned on Jason when he stepped inside.
“Everything okay?” Jason asked warily, scanning the room. Nothing seemed to be out of place.
“It’s fine,” Dick said, his smile strained, “I didn’t realize you’d be back so late. I was just worried.” He darted a quick look at his watch, and winced.
“Oh,” Jason frowned, “Sorry.” He fell back on the couch and let himself bounce. “Anything interesting happen?”
Another look at the watch.
“No,” Dick said, and then immediately followed that up with, “Maybe.” He winced. “Potentially?” he tried.
“Okay, what’s up?”
Dick took a deep breath and let it out, equally slowly. He glanced at his watch, and made a face. “Okay,” Dick said levelly, “You’re good at removing tires, right?”
Jason half-shrugged. “I’m practicing,” he said, “I could be better.”
“Okay,” Dick said, clearly ignoring his answer, “I…might’ve found us a car. The tires will rake in a lot of cash.”
Jason, very slowly, raised an eyebrow. “You want me to steal tires?” Jason asked incredulously, “I thought you were supposed to be a vigilante.”
“I am,” Dick said solemnly, “This is for the greater good.”
Jason wasn’t sure how stealing tires was in anyway good, but maybe they were mob tires or something. Which was a problem of its own, Jason didn’t want some gang chasing after him.
“What’s the car?” Jason asked, wondering what kind of tires fetched ‘a lot of cash’. He’d managed to get paid at pretty standard rates so far, considering he brought in a tire at a time.
With an accomplice, he could get more than one tire. And Dick was too injured to double-cross him, so maybe—
“The Batmobile.”
Jason choked.
“Excuse me?” he spluttered once he finally managed to regain his breath, “You want to steal tires from Batman? Are you out of your fucking mind? He’ll murder us—”
“He doesn’t hurt kids,” Dick said firmly. Ah, so that was what he was after—Jason was supposed to play human shield.
Jason ignored the curl of betrayal in his gut and stepped forward, narrowing his eyes, “He’s Batman. He’ll find us anywhere.”
“Not if we get rid of the tires quickly,” Dick shrugged, unconcerned.
“He will! He’ll be furious! He’ll tear the city apart trying to—”
“He won’t,” Dick rolled his eyes, “The guy’s rich, he won’t care about a couple of tires.”
Jason stared at him, his heart pounding. “Tell me,” he said, his words tasting like fury and fear and disappointment, “That this isn’t some stupid cape vendetta.”
Dick immediately looked mournful. “No, Jay, it’s nothing like that,” he said softly, “I just—I wanted to find a way to cover the expenses.” He knelt down until he could look Jason in the eyes. “Trust me?” he asked, wide-eyed.
Jason scowled. “I don’t trust you,” he snapped, and Dick’s expression cracked. Jason tried to tell himself that he didn’t feel guilt, and hardened his heart—if Dick thought the offer of being roommates meant Jason would allow him to push him around, then he was going to discover how else Jason could use a tire iron.
“Okay,” Dick said quietly, “I’m sorry. I’ll find a different way to get money.” He looked at his watch, and his whole face sort of crumpled.
Jason had effectively trapped him, hadn’t he—there was no way Dick could find a legal way to make money, not without revealing his identity, and he was too injured to go find some minimum-wage labor that didn’t ask too many questions, and Dick had found Jason an opportunity all wrapped up in a bow, and Jason shot him down entirely.
“No,” Jason muttered gruffly, “We’ll go after the goddamn Batmobile.”
Dick blinked at him, “Really?”
“Even if I get beat up, I would’ve still managed to steal Batman’s tires,” Jason shrugged, and went to go get ready, “How many people can say that?”
Dick made an odd, half-choked laugh, but accompanied Jason with a smile.
“Jay,” Nightwing said suddenly. Jason gave him a quizzical look—they were passing through the East End on their hunt for the Batmobile, and Nightwing had surprisingly kept up the pace. “Can you remember something for me?”
“Uh, sure?”
“Okay,” Nightwing said, and took a deep breath, “Just—just don’t forget, okay?” He glanced at his watch again.
“I won’t,” Jason said, frowning.
Nightwing took another deep breath and exhaled quickly. “Sheila Haywood is working for the Joker,” he said quietly.
Jason waited, but that was apparently the whole message.
“Okay,” he said, “I got it. Sheila Haywood is working for the Joker.” Jason wondered if it was supposed to be Nightwing’s get-out-of-jail card, everyone knew that Batman always appreciated info on the Joker’s movements.
Nightwing exhaled so heavily he nearly slumped. “Thanks, Jay,” he smiled, looking like a weight was off his back, “Now onto the Batmobile!”
Jason shushed him, but couldn’t keep the smile off his face as they crept through the streets. True to Nightwing’s word, the Batmobile was sitting in an alley near a nice apartment complex. Jason eyed the building, but this was Gotham—anyone with any sense kept their mouths shut and their blinds closed. Especially if it was Bat business.
“How are we doing this?” Jason asked, eyeing the car and eyeing Nightwing—the walk had taken a lot out of him, he was breathing shallowly again. “One on each side?”
“Sounds good,” Nightwing said hoarsely, and Jason went to jack up the car.
Jason still had to kick at the tire iron to get the bolts to unstick, and it took a sweaty, cursing five minutes before it loosened up enough for him to get to work. A few minutes later, he finally had the tire off.
No alarms, electric shocks, or looming capes. This could actually work.
Which was, of course, when Jason realized that he hadn’t heard anything from Nightwing in a while.
“Nightwing?” Jason hissed, cautiously peering around the car, behind him, and up for good measure. No rustling cape in sight. He edged to the other side of the car. “Nightwing?”
Nightwing was on the ground, his breaths low and shallow, curled up in a small ball.
“Nightwing!”
Nightwing made a small, choked sound and Jason frantically pulled him onto his back, searching for injuries and checking to make sure his wound hadn’t reopened. “Nightwing,” Jason hissed, “What happened? Are you okay? We need to get you to a hospital—”
“No,” Nightwing shook his head weakly, “No hospitals.”
Jason wanted to shake the man. Jason wanted to cry. “You might die if you don’t, you stubborn fool!” Jason snarled, “We don’t—you can’t—you need actual help—you need to—”
Nightwing raised his hand to check his watch, and Jason wanted to grab his shoulders and scream. “Not much time left,” he said quietly.
Jason felt a chill run through him at the words.
“No,” Jason said, clutching his shoulders, “No—no, you’re not leaving—you can’t go—you have to fight—”
Nightwing raised a wavering hand and brushed a lock of hair out of his face, smiling softly. “Thank you for everything, Jay,” he said, and Jason’s eyes started burning.
“No,” Jason said, his voice cracking, “You’re not dying—” Jason couldn’t do this again, he couldn’t, stupid Nightwing, stupid Dick, stupid Jason for getting fucking attached—he knew everyone always left him, he knew it, and Dick had to literally appear out of nowhere and—
“Remember what I told you,” Nightwing murmured, his hand slipping off of Jason’s face, “And stay out of trouble.”
“Nightwing—Dick—no—please—”
A loud, screeching noise, so awful it tore into Jason’s head and he had to clasp his hands over his ears, his eyes watering as he saw Dick’s fractured smile and—
And nothing.
Nightwing had disappeared into thin air.
Jason stared at the empty spot for a long moment, stunned, before reality trickled in.
Nightwing was gone.
“No,” Jason murmured, and then again, louder, “No!” His cry rose to a scream, “No!” Tears slipped down his face, and he didn’t even care about them anymore, he scrabbled at the asphalt, but there was no trace of the man, no sign that he hadn’t been a figment of Jason’s imagination.
Nothing around him but the half-stripped car, no hint of black-and-blue lurking in the shadows, nothing to indicate that Dick had ever been there.
“Come back,” Jason whispered, “Please, please come back—” he should’ve taken Dick to a hospital that first night, he was so stupid—“You can’t leave me, you—you said you’d stay, you can’t—”
His voice broke into furious sobs and Jason pressed his fingers against empty ground and cried—this was even worse than his mother, because he still had the chance to hold her, to curl fingers into her cold hand and pet her hair before the ambulance had arrived, and now he was left with nothing—and maybe it had just been a cruel dream the whole time, maybe his mind was torturing him—and he didn’t know because no one had seen Nightwing except him.
Jason wiped his face but the tears kept falling, hot and thick and choking, and he wanted to curl up and cry and remember that warm, encompassing hug and—
A rustling sound.
And no Nightwing to protect him. Jason scrambled upright, his fingers searching for the tire iron, as he turned, ready to swing, looking up—
And up.
And up.
Jason made a small whimper. He’d been crying next to the Batmobile.
Batman stared down at him, every inch the dark, silent terror. And that was a lot of inches. Jason backed up, nearly banging his head against the fancy car, and gripped the tire iron tightly. He couldn’t take on Batman and win—but Nightwing had said that Batman didn’t hurt kids, so maybe—
Wait a minute.
“What did you do to him?” Jason demanded, pushing himself off the ground, “Give him back!”
“Who?” Batman growled, and Jason set his face into a snarl.
He swung the tire iron—Batman caught the movement, and tore the weapon from Jason’s hands, but Jason just fell back to using his fists. “Give him back!” Jason shouted, flailing as Batman picked him up by the hoodie, “You stole him, I know you did, it’s just a stupid tire, give him back!”
“Calm down,” Batman growled, “Who are you talking about?” Like he didn’t know, the bastard.
Jason kicked out, and inhaled sharply when Batman used the movement to grab his shoulders, forcing his arms to his side.
Batman didn’t hurt kids.
But looking up at a six foot monster made of shadows and darkness, Jason wasn’t willing to put his faith in a rumor.
“B, you’re scaring him,” a higher voice chirped from above him, and Jason couldn’t manage to pause his high, fluttering breaths to see who the newcomer was. But the steel bands around his arms let go, and Jason’s knees had turned to jelly somewhere in the interval, because he promptly fell back onto the ground.
Jason scrambled back, only stopping when his back hit the car, and curled up into a small ball. If he tucked his face in and protected his stomach, it wouldn’t hurt so much. “Give him back,” Jason pleaded, his words stuttering. He had to try.
“Give who back?” the softer voice asked, and Jason warily uncurled, just enough to see the new speaker.
Red, green, and yellow was pretty distinctive. “R-Robin,” Jason said through a hiccupping breath.
“Hey, kid,” Robin smiled—there was something familiar about that smile. “Did someone go missing? Were you looking for us?”
“One and a half tires off,” Batman’s growl floated from somewhere.
“He—he disappeared,” Jason said, glancing at the road again, like it contained some clue to Nightwing’s whereabouts. “There was a loud sound, like nails on a chalkboard, and he was gone.”
Batman appeared in his periphery again, some weird device in his hand.
“We’ll try to find him,” Robin soothed, “Is he your dad? Are your parents around?”
Jason’s lip wobbled. “He’s my brother,” he said, the words spilling out, “My parents aren’t around—he’s my older brother—he just vanished—”
“Evidence of time magic,” Batman said roughly.
Time magic? What the hell?
Though, Jason supposed that if aliens and fish people were real, magic wasn’t that crazy.
“Okay, can you describe him for me? What’s his name?” Robin asked, gentle and cheerful.
“Nightwing,” Jason said, “I mean, Dick.” If the choice was between a revealed identity and being lost in time, Jason knew what he’d pick. “He’s…twenty-four?” Jason estimated.
In front of him, Robin had gone very, very still.
Batman went from hovering in his periphery to looming behind Robin, his presence dark and wrathful. “What did you say?” he growled.
“His name is Dick,” Jason repeated, his voice wavering, “He’s a vigilante who goes by Nightwing. He’s twenty-four.”
There was a long, stretching period of silence.
“Time magic,” Robin said softly. Abruptly, he leapt up, jumping on top of the Batmobile to get to the other side, leaving Jason alone with a brooding Batman.
Jason shrank back against the car, huddling into his hoodie. Robin was back before he could count to twenty, holding a small sketchbook, which he immediately pressed into Jason’s hands. “Tell me if you recognize any of those,” he said.
Jason shot him a wary glance, but flipped through the book—they seemed to be doodles of costume designs, and Jason dutifully glanced at each one before turning the page, and—
A bird, shaded lighter than the dark costume around it.
“That’s it!” Jason said, shoving the sketch at Robin, “That’s the design on Nightwing’s suit! Do you know him? Do you know where he is?”
Robin looked at the design, and then back at him, staring at him with an intensity that was unnerving through the whiteout lenses.
“Robin,” Batman said, in what was definitely a warning tone, but Robin didn’t acknowledge him.
“This is a book of my costume ideas,” Robin said quietly, “Sometimes bright colors don’t work for everything.”
Okay, but what did this have to do with Nightwing? Was Robin taking inspiration from him? Would someone just tell him where Nightwing was?
“Nightwing is a bird from Kryptonian legend,” Robin continued, “Uncle Clark told me the story.” Batman made an abortive growl. “It’s a cool name, right?”
Jason stared at him. The tension was so thick it was beginning to chafe.
Robin reached up…and peeled off his domino mask. He smiled, blue eyes lighting up, and Jason’s breath caught in his throat.
“Hi,” Robin said, holding out his hand, “I’m Dick Grayson. It’s nice to meet you.”
Jason stared at him. At a face that was years younger than when he saw it last, but still very, very familiar. At the uncommon name—and he knew that name, wasn’t that the circus kid Bruce Wayne had adopted?
He’d called him Jay.
He’d bought him chili dogs.
He’d known about his mom.
He’d placed Jason deliberately in the path of Batman and Robin.
He said Jason reminded him of his little brother.
He said he didn’t know how to get home.
He said he was running out of time.
“Dick?” Jason asked weakly. Robin nodded, still smiling.
That meant—that meant that Nightwing hadn’t disappeared. That meant that Dick wasn’t gone.
Jason could feel something crack inside of him, splintering through the wall he’d forced up after his mom’s death, and it was too thin, too weak, too brittle to hold up to the fissures.
He lunged forward—and it was the same exact hug, warm without being suffocating, tight and firm and protective, and Jason buried his head into Robin’s costume and shook as the tears dripped down his face.
“Please,” Jason choked on the sob, “Please don’t leave me, please—” he couldn’t go back to the cold apartment after this, not after seeing what could’ve been—“Please don’t make me go—” oh no, what if Batman called CPS? What if Robin let him take Jason away—even though Dick knew what the system was like, Jason had seen it in his eyes, what if Robin would leave Jason there because why would he want to be brothers with some random kid from Crime Alley—
“Never,” Robin—Dick said, murmuring the words into his hair, “We’re not leaving you. You’re my brother now, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Jason shuddered, and the tears fell faster, but this time they tasted like relief.
Dick rocked him gently, a gloved hand softly stroking through his hair, and started singing a quiet melody. Jason still couldn’t understand the words, but he memorized the sounds of them as he held onto his new big brother.
There was a rustle of the cape and Jason darted a glance up, his stomach twisting—Robin wanted him, but Batman could still send him away, could still—
A heavy cape dropped around his shoulders, draping him in warmth, and Jason felt his limbs relax as he curled closer to Dick.
In another dimension…
“Did you just con me into getting adopted?!”
“You know there were, like, a hundred ways you could’ve alerted Bruce without having Jason steal the tires.”
“I was feeling sentimental, sue me!”
“You were injured, Richard, you should not have exerted yourself.”
“And isn’t Bruce always warning us of the consequences of meddling in other dimensions?”
“I couldn’t just leave poor little Jaybird all alone!”
“You call me poor little Jaybird one more time, and I’ll cut your vocal cords. And if you liked the little brat so much, you should’ve stayed with him!”
“Somebody’s jealous.”
“Being envious of your own younger self is pitiful and illogical.”
“Aww, Little Wing, no, I wanted to help out the kid but you’re my little brother!”
“Get off me—I don’t want a hug—Dick, you asshole—”