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“I can’t control the gas, Jason.”
“I can’t control the gas, Jason,” he mocks, fuming from where he’s glaring out at the washed-out shape of the Shell building and its bright fluorescent lights.
It’s an ugly ass gas station. The illuminated letters on top are flickering in intervals, hanging onto the awning by a thread, and the large glass front is shedding a sickly shade of greenish yellow onto the pavement. Advertising big sales and small prices and everything one could possibly need for the upkeep of their beloved vehicle.
The kind of station respectable people drive right past to try their luck with the next one.
“If you’d just listened-”
Calvin groans, flicking a—peanut? Really? At him with deadly precision. Jason catches it clean out of the air and munches on it audibly.
“For the last time, I’m not modifying a car we’ll be ditching a few towns over.”
“Why, you got better things to do?”
“Yeah, getting food on the table, you leech.”
Jason sticks his tongue out, disgusting peanut-mesh and all. It’s not his fault the guy decided to take in a stray cat. Finders, keepers.
Calvin rolls his eyes and gets out of the car, grumbling something uncharitable as he wrestles the seatbelt back into the socket, “I liked you better when you talked gibberish.”
Jason stretches once, wincing when the movement pulls on his scars, and follows Calvin with one last glance at the otherwise empty parking lot. Both their doors falling shut with a little more force than necessary.
“A crowbar and a coffin and you’ll have me right back to the original.”
Calvin pushes him from the sidewalk and into a dirty puddle, “Jesus, I’ll get second-hand trauma from you one of these days kid.”
Jason grins, pulling the hood of the ridiculously oversized hoodie over his head against the light evening drizzle, “You started it.”
“Stop giving me shit already. I’m sorry, okay? I’ll listen next time, o’wise one.”
Jason huffs, burying his hands deep into the hoodie’s pouch to stave off the aggressive chill. He gets cold so easily, these days. It’s real fucking annoying.
“You better. And I’m picking the music for the next week.”
“No, nope, nah-uh, absolutely not. I’m not going through that again. This does not warrant a week. You’ll get six hours.”
“Five days.”
“One day.”
“Four.”
“Two, last offer.”
“Deal.”
Calvin sighs and holds out his pinky finger to hook around Jason’s, smoothing a wet lock of hair out of his eyes with the other hand. It makes him look like a drenched dog, bedraggled but with its tail still wagging. It’s kind of stupid. Especially because Jason had filched a baseball hat down in North Carolina for this exact reason, silly Superman logo and all. But Calvin is a heathen who’d rather wear a shirt and jeans and a mousy sweat jacket no matter the weather.
“Come on,” the man walks around the car to flip open the tank cap and pull down the hose from the gas pump, fiddling with the seemingly centuries old mechanism, “I’ll get us ready to go while you pick out something to eat. We’ll be out of here in no time, promise.”
Jason scrunches his nose, eyes drifting to the from Calvin to the merry “Open” sign flashing in bright red over the entrance to the store, then to the empty spaces by the rest of the gas pumps.
He is hungry. And as much as Jason had been complaining he knows he’s being paranoid. This is all hinterland. The few miles between Gotham and Blüdhaven city limits marking them as sisters instead of one giant fucked up town. And while the proximity is making Jason’s skin crawl, the likelihood of running into anybody he knows are slim to none.
And Calvin’s right. This is ten-to-fifteen-minutes stop. This time tomorrow they’ll be well on their way through the Appalachians and heading towards Detroit, leaving the cesspit that is Gotham City far behind them.
“Fine. I’m getting chips. You want your raspberry chocolate again? “
“Yeah. And some granola bars.”
Jason turns and begins walking towards the building, “‘Kay, I’ll meet you at the register.”
“And bring a Fanta!” Calvin yells over the roar of a motorcycle pulling into the parking lot.
“Strawberry?”
“And regular!”
The automatic doors swish open to admit him into the store with a chime, the smell of cheap cleaning chemicals and processed food wafting out to greet him. The cashier looks up from her magazine to scan him over for a second, then seems to decide he’s no one to be worried about and goes right back to flipping through the pages with a bored, “Snacks are aisle three and four.”
Jason mumbles a thanks and shuffles down the rows of windshield wipers, coolant, and other various supplies. From the inside the little store seems much larger than it did from the outside, and he slides his hood off absentmindedly when a shelf stacked with books proudly declaring themselves to be bestsellers catches his eye.
He glances back at the cashier and her magazine, weighing the merits— and then keeps walking just as the doors slide open to admit a man dressed in black biker getup and a sleek helmet tucked under one arm, coming up to the registry with something that sounds obnoxiously cheerful but makes the cashier giggle like a little schoolgirl.
Jason rolls his eyes and ducks into aisle three, resuming his hunt for Cheetos and raspberry chocolate.
He could have taken one of the books no problem, but there’s something undeniably screwed with his attention span since Calvin grabbed him off the streets. Focusing too long and too hard on something makes his head hurt, and if he keeps pushing regardless there will invariably be the phantom sensation of crawling heat pushing its way into the bubble of tranquility.
Songs work, though. Listening isn’t as strenuous, and the lull of voices tends to quiet the omnipresent buzz in his ears. And remembering lyrics is a little like reading poetry, at least.
The bar of raspberry chocolate is easy to find, and whereas the book had escaped his grasp, the sweet vanishes unseen into the depths of Jason’s hoodie. A souvenir that’s going to make Calvin’s eye twitch in that funny way when he doesn’t know whether to compliment his skills, or reprimand him like social norms dictate. Because he’s taking his role as the “responsible adult” a little too seriously in Jason’s humble opinion.
Which, kinda redundant, considering they’ve been driving in stolen cars from the very beginning. And Jason’s pretty sure Calvin’s just as much on the run from something—or someone—as he is. Because who else would pick up a teenager from the side of the road, soaked and bloody and a little screwed in the head, and have their first instinct be to take them on a friggin’ road trip?
Not that Jason’s complaining.
God knows what would have happened to him otherwise.
He rubs at his chest, grimacing at the feeling of raised skin underneath the fabric. The scars are persistent in that they itch almost constantly. Calvin is on his ass about it all day sometimes, telling him to press something cool to it instead of scratching. That “itching means it’s healing”.
Jason calls bullshit. He may not remember much from those first few months Calvin dragged him through the states, but he sure as fuck remembers whining like a baby in some decrepit motel room while Calvin redressed the ugly ass incisions again and again because they kept reopening and weeping fresh blood, even though all the other shit continued healing just fine. Even his fucking fingernails came back faster than the time it took for scabs to start forming.
He eyes the two kinds of Cheetos on the shelf, lips pursed, and decides that, yes, he’s allowed to make Calvin’s life hard, and grabs the hot ones.
And, because he’s a saint, he also grabs a smaller bag of regular ones. Because he’s not a monster. And he doesn’t actually want the guy to go into cardiac arrest.
Jason wonders sometimes what it is about Calvin that allows the man to dangle from bridges without a safety line like an acrobat to work the odd job but has him unable to stomach strong spices. He’s seen him shake off several hundred volts better than a single hot Cheeto. It’s ridiculous.
It’s unnerving.
He’s trained. Trained in a way even Jason hadn’t been. Trained in a way that might rival Batman.
Calvin hides it well, but for someone who spent years being trained by a paranoid asshole it’s not too hard to notice. Especially living in close quarters the way they do.
There’s just no hiding the assortment of gold lined knives at the bottom of the worn travel bag, or the instant of cutting lethality in his eyes when something startles him.
But that train of investigation would inevitably lead someplace Jason doesn’t want to go, so he lets all the strange little things he notices drift away every time.
And likewise, Calvin doesn’t press him about his own past. Even though he must have some sort of theory as to Jason’s origins considering people don’t pop up with fresh autopsy scars every other day. Not even in Gotham.
It’s a fragile symbiosis borne of willful ignorance, and they’re happy that way.
He plucks a can of Fanta from the next aisle and frowns at the assortment of flavors, looking for that telltale shape of a stylized strawberry-
“Jason?”
It’s instinct to turn to the sound of his name. Stupid, idiotic instinct. A dog trained to the commands of its owner.
The Fanta hits the floor with a dull thud, rolling toward where the biker is standing at the other end of the aisle, wide blue eyes matching Jason’s own.
Fuck. Fuck.
“No,” Dick stumbles, swaying in place as he can’t seem to decide whether to come closer or back away. “No, you’re not- this can’t-”
Jason’s heart feels about ready to burst from his rib cage and take the initiative to run, but his feet are rooted to the spot. Keeping him frozen even as every single thought in his brain turns to static, urging him to flee. To run. To find Calvin, because Calvin means safety and Dick means-
Means-
The static grows louder, the sound of laughter and the faint beep-beep-beep of a countdown falling toward zero glitching in and out of existence.
“Jason,” Dick chokes out, one arm lifting into the space between them as if to reach for him, legs steadying to step forward- toward Jason-
No. No. He needs to- He needs to leave. He can’t go back, he can’t go back.
They’re just going to- they’ll make him-
Jason knows his breaths are coming too quickly, his head is pounding, and all he can see are purples and greens and a bright, bright flash.
He can’t go back.
None of them had been there to help him.
None of them had even cared.
He can’t go back.
“Jay,” there’s something frantic to Dick’s tone now as he approaches, something on the threshold of crossing into Nightwing’s intensity. “Little Wing, god, we- we need to go. We have to tell-”
No. Please, where is-
“Is that guy bothering you?”
A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, pulling him sideways into the shadow of a familiar body, and Jason wants to cry.
“You know, it’s not a good look for an adult to chat up a kid in a candy aisle.”
Dick stops dead, expression dropping from surprise straight into hostile as he eyes Calvin.
“Who are you?” He demands, gaze flicking between the hand on Jason’s shoulder and the other man. And Jason doesn’t fucking want any of this to be happening right now, and his head feels like it’s going to split itself open, and he just-
He presses himself further into Calvin’s side, pathetically grateful when he’s pulled ever closer into the shield of his body, avoiding Dick’s piercing gaze.
“Family,” Calvin returns pleasantly, his hold on Jason’s shoulder maneuvering him gently but insistently behind him, “And you are?”
He sounds calm, collected, but Jason can feel the way his spine is curved lightly in preparation of a fight. There’s none of the usual slouch Jason’s come to associate him with. None of the easygoing smiles.
Only cold calculation.
“I don’t know what you’ve done to him,” Dick growls, “But I promise you’re going to regret it.”
“Spicy,” Calvin cocks his head, “I like it. You sure you can come through on that though?”
Dick’s eyes dart towards where the cashier is still boredly flipping through her magazine, not yet having noticed the standoff going down a few aisles down. Or perhaps she simply doesn’t care.
Regardless, Dick isn’t stupid. Years of vigilantism have taught him to calculate someone’s threat level accurately enough to survive where Jason hadn’t, and it’s not difficult to see that Calvin’s got enough training to rule out an easy takedown that could be explained away with some meager self-defense classes. Even the cashier would have to take note of that.
If they fight, he will risk blowing his cover.
Jason doesn’t want that to happen. Not really. But he wants to go back to Gotham and the cave and the cackling laughter and magic that no longer belongs to him even less.
They might- Jason knows he’s not supposed to be here. Calvin probably knows, too. But Jason can’t go back. If he goes back-
He swallows, the taste of dirt stuck to the back of his throat.
If he goes back, they might bring him back to that place. He can’t do that. He’s not- he’s not dead anymore. He has a heartbeat.
They can’t make him go back.
A short pause is all it takes for Dick to come to a decision, hands balling into fists at his side, and Jason abandons the bags of Cheetos to clutch at Calvin’s jacket like his life depends on it because- because it actually might.
“Let go of him. Last chance.”
Calvin hums, widening his stance, “Sorry, man. No chance.”
Dick narrows his eyes, turning his attention to Jason, softly saying, “It’ll be okay, Little Wing.”
And then launches himself at Calvin with all the quiet, ferocious grace Nightwing is known for.
Calvin moves.
Everything blurs.
And then, as quickly as it started, it’s over.
Dick stands there, frozen mid-motion, and Jason has to blink a few times until he registers the warm hand under his jaw, holding him in place.
And the cold edge of a knife at his throat, resting over the fluttering pulse point.
“Sorry, but he’s mine. I don’t share.”
Dick’s face spasms, hate and despair and pure, unadulterated rage there and gone again in a flash before he raises his hands placatingly, expression smoothing into something a little more neutral.
“Now, that’s hardly fair. How about we renegotiate-”
“Gladly,” Calvin hums, tapping his index finger lightly against Jason’s neck. “We’re walking out of here, and you’ll be a good boy and stay right there. Unless you want to test how quickly someone can be bled dry, though I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Jason grunts, trying to kick Calvin in the shin. This absolute fucking moron.
Calvin tuts, pressing the knife in further, and Jason is going to put itching powder in all his pants-
“Jay, Jason, stop-”
Jason stops only long enough to glare at Dick, grabbing stubbornly at the hand holding the knife, squeezing hard in retribution until he can feel the bones grind together.
The hand on his jaw tilts his head up, the blade’s angle changing ever so slightly-
“Okay!”
Jason stops struggling, irritation forgotten in light of such easy acquiescence. Because there’s no way Dick would agree so quickly just because there’s a knife at his throat, right? Calvin’s bluff is way too fucking obvious for that. No way would Dick fucking Grayson, the Golden Boy, fall for that shit. Calvin isn’t even holding him properly, for fuck’s sake.
“Okay,” Dick repeats, looking frantic, eyes wild and fixed on the knife pressing into Jason’s skin, “I’m staying right here. Doing absolutely nothing. Just like you asked.”
“Good.”
Calvin has the audacity to sound pleased. Like someone just handed him the answer to the toughest question on the calculus exam.
Fuck their two-day deal. Jason is going to choose what songs to play for the next fucking year. He told himnothing good’s gonna come out of stopping in a fifty-mile radius of Gotham City.
Calvin edges them around the aisle, past the cashier who must be deliberately ignoring them at this point, and towards the door.
Dick’s eyes don’t leave Jason for the entirety of it all, his face stuck somewhere between painful resignation and steely resolve. There’s no doubt that he’ll contact the cave as soon as they’re out of sight, telling everyone about his discovery. About Jason. And about how he’s no longer where he’s supposed to be.
But by that point they’ll already have a new car, and Calvin will make them vanish back into the anonymity of three hundred million people like he’s wont to do.
Just before they’re through the door, in close reach of freedom, Dick sends him a brittle smile, “It will be okay, Little Wing. I promise.”
And then Calvin pulls him the rest of the way outside and to the car, shoving him into the passenger seat to slide behind the wheel and turn the ignition.
A few seconds later they’re tearing out of the parking lot, tires squealing, and in the rearview mirror Jason only just catches Dick’s silhouette racing out the door to watch them drive off, no doubt to note down the license plate.
This sucks so bad. Jason liked this car.
Calvin exhales, throwing the knife carelessly onto the backseat as the highway opens before them, swallowing them up between countless other cars.
“I think we need to talk.”