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𓅫𓅫
The thing about their arguments is that they always start the same way: with something small. Something that shouldn’t matter. But they’re both too stubborn, too alike in all the wrong ways, and before either of them knows it they’re saying things they don’t mean. Things calculated to hurt. Jason’s better at it, has had more practice being cruel and less self-control, but Dick knows exactly where to press to make it sting.
Tonight, Jason’s phone lights up with Dick’s name, and he watches it ring. Once. Twice. Three times. The screen goes dark.
A minute later: one new voicemail.
He could listen to it. Could press play and hear whatever carefully constructed guilt trip Dick’s prepared. Because that’s what it has to be, right? A follow-up to their fight from weeks ago, probably spurred by Jason’s empty chair at dinner tonight. Dick’s always been good at making Jason feel small without even trying.
The phone sits heavy in his palm. The notification blinks, patient. Waiting.
He’s tired. It’s his night off from patrol, and he’s tired, and he doesn’t want to deal with this right now. Doesn’t want to hear Dick’s voice saying his name in that way he has, that way that makes Jason feel fifteen again, always falling short.
Something twists in his gut. A warning, maybe. But Jason’s good at ignoring those.
He sets the phone face-down on his nightstand. Turns off the lamp. Closes his eyes.
Sleep comes slowly, reluctantly. The phone stays silent in the dark.
𓅫𓅫
They sit on the edge of Gotham, where the city bleeds into something softer. The concrete gives way to grass, to empty fields where streetlights can’t reach. Summer air hangs heavy, sweet with clover and distant rain.
Dick stretches out on his back, one arm behind his head. His suit catches starlight like water, and Jason thinks: this is how I want to remember you.
(There’s a question caught in his throat, years later, that he can’t voice.)
“Look,” Dick says, pointing up with his free hand. “You can actually see Rigel from here. The smog’s thin tonight.”
Jason follows his brother’s gesture. The stars swim above them, impossibly distant.
“Did you know,” Dick continues, voice soft with wonder, “that the biggest stars die alone?” His profile is sharp against the night sky, young and perfect. “The blue supergiants—they’re these massive stars, right? And the weird thing is, they’re always by themselves.”
The grass whispers beneath them as Jason shifts closer. Dick, kind as ever, pretends not to notice.
“Most big stars have companion stars. The bigger they are, the more likely they are to have someone with them. But not these ones.” Dick’s smile turns wistful. “They think it’s because the companions crashed into each other. Merged together into one big, lonely star.”
His hair falls in his eyes when he turns to look at Jason. “Isn’t that something? The brightest ones are just... remnants of a collision. Of two stars becoming one.”
Jason watches his brother’s face in the starlight. Memorizes the way his eyes catch the glow of distant worlds, the curve of his smile, the absolute certainty that he’ll always be there.
(The question stays trapped behind his teeth, metallic as blood.)
“You’re weird,” Jason says, because he’s fourteen and that’s what fourteen-year-olds say to their older brothers who talk about stars like they’re telling love stories.
Dick laughs, bright and clear in the summer night. Reaches over to ruffle Jason’s hair. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But you like me anyway.”
Jason does. He does.
𓅫𓅫
Jason’s apartment feels wrong. Too quiet. The silence presses against his ears like cotton wool. Somewhere, his phone is buzzing. Another message from Tim about flower arrangements, probably. As if anyone cares about fucking flowers when the world has stopped turning.
He gets up. Starts pulling open drawers at random. Old receipts, matchbooks, loose bullets. A Swiss Army knife Bruce gave him for his fourteenth birthday. More drawers. More memories he doesn’t want.
The box is under his bed, because of course it is. Because he’s a fucking cliché, keeping his heart in a shoebox like some lovesick teenager.
Pictures spill onto his lap. Most of them are from before. When he was still small enough to fit under Dick’s arm, still young enough to believe in happy endings.
He finds it at the bottom of the pile. The ski trip. Early January, probably. His face is flushed from the cold, hair sticking up where his hat used to be. Dick’s hand is steady on his shoulder, thumb hooked in the collar of Jason’s jacket like he’s afraid the wind might steal his little brother away.
They didn’t know, then. About the warehouse. About Ethiopia. About how everything would shatter like ice under their feet, black water swallowing them alive. Dick is smiling at the camera. His nose is sunburned. There’s snow in his hair, gathered like constellations on a night sky.
He traces the edge of the photo with trembling fingers. Memories surge up, unwanted: Dick teaching him how to wax his skis. Hot chocolate with too many marshmallows. Dick’s laugh echoing off mountains, bright as the sun on snow.
The photo blurs. Jason blinks hard, but it doesn’t help. His chest feels like it’s caving in. Like someone reached inside and carved out his heart, squeezing it in their hands as it continues pulsing with life.
(A voicemail sits unheard on Jason’s phone.)
𓅫𓅫
The call comes at 6:47 AM.
Jason’s phone vibrates against wood, and his first thought is: Dick.
But it’s Alfred’s name on the screen.
Something cold settles in his chest. Alfred never calls this early unless—
Unless.
He answers. Listens. The words don’t make sense at first, filtering through static and morning haze.
The manor. As soon as possible, if you would. Important.
There’s something wrong with Alfred’s voice. Something that makes Jason’s hands shake as he pulls on his jacket, ignoring the unread voicemail that still blinks accusingly from his notifications.
Something ugly twists in his stomach.
He tries Dick’s number. Once. Twice. Three times.
Straight to voicemail.
𓅫𓅫
The kitchen tiles are cold against his bare feet. Steam rises from the saucepan in lazy curls, carrying the rich scent of melting chocolate. Outside, snow falls in gentle drifts, but here—here is warmth, here is light, here is his brother stirring chocolate.
This is a dance Dick must have learned long ago: vanilla extract (three drops, no more), a pinch of salt, heavy cream slowly stirred into dark chocolate. His hair falls across his forehead when he leans over the pot, and Jason thinks about how young he looks in the soft kitchen light. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two.
(There’s a question burning in his throat.)
“The secret,” Dick says, reaching for the cinnamon, “is to let it simmer. You can’t rush good chocolate.” His smile is gentle, fond, maybe a little sad. Nostalgic, perhaps. “It’s a French recipe. Makes everything better.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Jason says, but he’s watching the way Dick’s hands move over the spices, intrigued but still feigning disinterest. “It’s just hot chocolate.”
Dick laughs. “Just hot chocolate? Come on, Jay. You wound me.” He’s wearing a Hudson sweatshirt, worn soft at the edges. There’s a small tear in the sleeve that Alfred will mend next week, before Dick leaves for another adventure with the Titans. “Here—taste.”
The spoon is warm against Jason’s lips. The chocolate tastes dark and sweet, like love with nowhere to go.
His brother’s eyes are impossibly blue in the kitchen light. Perfect. Untouchable. Infallible.
“See?” Dick turns off the heat, moves to grab two mugs from the cupboard. “Makes everything better.”
(The question simmers, unasked. Unanswerable.)
Outside, snow continues to fall.
𓅫𓅫
Hey, this is—static crackles, a laugh caught in digital amber—leave a message and I’ll get back to you.
Jason’s thumb finds the number without looking. Three times before breakfast. Twice during patrol. Again at 3 AM when the city’s too quiet.
Hey, this is—
The voice sounds wrong through the phone’s tinny speaker. Too flat. Missing something vital, like listening to music underwater. But it’s better than silence.
—leave a message—
Sometimes he thinks he can hear other things in the background. The whir of a ceiling fan. Traffic from the street below. The soft rustle of movement, like someone shifting their weight, preparing to speak.
Hey, this—
The words blur together after a while. Static and syllables melting into white noise that fills the empty spaces in his chest. His phone grows warm against his ear.
—get back to you.
One morning, the message changes. A robotic voice informs him that the mailbox is full. Cannot accept new messages at this time. Please try again later.
The phone hits the wall before Jason realizes he’s thrown it. Plastic cracks. The screen spiders with thin lines, like ice breaking over deep water.
He immediately rushes over, picks it up. Still works. Still contains one final message, forever preserved in his inbox.
His finger hovers over the ‘play’ button, frozen.
He can’t.
(A voicemail sits unheard on Jason’s phone.)
𓅫𓅫
Morning fog clings to Gotham’s shoulders like a funeral shroud, thick enough to taste. Jason takes the curves too fast, anger and fear tangled in his throat like copper wire.
Alfred’s voice plays on loop in his head. The careful way he spoke. The slight tremor that shouldn’t have been there. Alfred doesn’t tremble. Alfred doesn’t call at dawn unless—
Unless.
𓅫𓅫
The gymnasium stretches endlessly above him, all gleaming metal and impossible heights, and Jason’s heart is a wild thing in his chest, desperate to escape.
(There’s a question lodged somewhere between his ribs.)
“This is unnecessary,” he says. “Bruce’s training is enough.”
Dick’s laugh echoes off the high beams, bright as morning. He’s half-shadow, half-light up there, balanced on nothing but air and trust. “Sure, but Bruce’s training isn’t like this. This is about joy.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Dick just quirks an eyebrow.
Sunlight catches in the rigging like spun gold, turns everything soft at the edges. Dick’s hands are steady when they check the safety lines, and Jason pretends his own aren’t trembling.
“The first rule,” Dick says, voice smooth and steady as water, “is to let go of fear. The second—” his smile turns mischievous, youthful, untouched by all the darkness that hasn’t happened yet, “—is to trust me.”
Higher and higher they climb. Jason’s mouth is dry. His hands leave sweaty prints on cold metal.
“I’ve got you,” Dick promises, and for one perfect moment, Jason believes him. “Always.”
The bar is cool against his palms. The world holds its breath.
They fly.
Time fractures, splinters like light through crystal. Jason is fourteen and fearless and loved. He is dead in Ethiopia. He is drowning in green. He is here, soaring, watching his brother’s silhouette cut through golden air like a prayer.
Dick’s hands find his at exactly the right moment.
(The question claws at Jason’s ribs, desperate to escape.)
Later, they’ll sit on the mats and drink water that tastes like plastic and victory. Dick will ruffle his hair and call him a natural, and Jason will pretend the warmth in his chest is just exertion.
But now—now they are weightless. Now they are infinite. Now they are brothers, learning each other’s gravity.
Now they are flying.
𓅫𓅫
The spine cracks like bone when he opens it. Pages whisper secrets in the half-dark, paper-thin confessions he’s not ready to hear. Familiar words blur and swim—something about guilt, about redemption. About being worthy of forgiveness.
He’s read this part a hundred times before. A thousand. The margins are crowded with his own thoughts, cramped annotations in faded ink. Different colors for different readings, different versions of himself trying to understand.
But there’s something new now. Something that makes his breath catch, makes his hands shake so bad he almost drops the book.
Blue ink. Not his.
The handwriting is achingly familiar. Loops a little messy, like the words couldn’t wait to spill out. Like they were written in stolen moments between everything else.
Small sticky notes flutter like autumn leaves. Thoughts scattered throughout the pages, conversations held in silence.
‘Your analysis about moral relativism here was interesting. Found myself thinking about it during patrol last night.’
‘This part reminded me of that conversation we had on the rooftop. Remember? About choices and consequences.’
‘You were right about the symbolism in chapter 4. I didn’t catch it first time around.’
He swallows, but his throat starts closing regardless. The room spins like a carnival ride he can’t get off.
There’s a note tucked between the last pages. The paper is soft at the edges, like it’s been handled multiple times before being left here. Like someone kept taking it out, reading it over, putting it back.
‘Thank you for letting me borrow this. Your insights helped me see it differently. Maybe we could talk about it sometime? Whenever you’re ready. No pressure. I’ll wait.’
The book hits the floor. Pages scatter like broken wings.
He doesn’t remember sliding down the wall. Doesn’t remember when his chest started feeling this tight, like all the air’s been sucked out of the room. Like he’s back in that coffin, dirt pressing in from all sides.
The sticky notes glow blue in the dim light. Little pieces of forever, scattered across his floor like stars.
(A voicemail sits unheard on Jason’s phone.)
𓅫𓅫
The manor looms, quiet and dark. Jason takes the front steps two at a time, heart hammering against his ribs. The door opens before he can reach for it.
Alfred’s face is gray in the dawn light. Wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
Words spill from Jason’s mouth—what’s happening, why did you call—but Alfred just places a steady hand on his shoulder. Guides him through familiar halls that suddenly feel too long, too narrow. The touch is meant to be comforting. It isn’t.
𓅫𓅫
Heavy footfalls on fire escapes. Metal groaning under weight. His ribs scream with each impact, but he keeps moving. Has to keep moving. Blood trickles warm down his side—knife wound, probably. Nothing vital. Probably.
The world tilts sideways. His feet stumble on rusted steel. Ground rushes up, then stops—someone’s caught him. Strong hands, familiar grip. Wrong, wrong, so wrong.
“What the fuck are you doing in Gotham?” He tries to pull away, but his body won’t listen. Never does, in these moments.
Dick’s face swims into focus. Backlit by Gotham’s perpetual haze, expression sharp with something that might be anger or concern or both. “You’re bleeding.”
“No shit.” Jason’s mouth moves without permission. “Fuck off.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening.” Dick’s voice is tight, controlled. Professional. Like they’re strangers. Like Jason didn’t steal his identity, didn’t paint death across his city wearing his colors. “Let me see.”
The med kit appears from somewhere. Bandages white as bone in the dim light. Jason wants to fight, wants to run, but his legs are lead and his hands are shaking and Dick’s fingers are surprisingly gentle as they probe the wound.
“Stop.” It comes out weaker than intended. “I don’t want your help.”
“No.” Simple. Final. Dick’s hands don’t pause in their work. “I told you I’ve always got you, didn’t I?”
Something sharp twists in Jason’s chest. “That was before.”
“Before what?” Dick’s voice is carefully neutral. Too neutral. “Before you wore my suit? Before you killed people in my name?”
(There’s a question he needs to ask.)
“You said—” Dick’s hands falter, just for a moment. “You said you wanted to see if we could be family again.”
Jason’s laugh sounds wrong. It comes out more like a wheeze, pathetic and weak. “Yeah, well. I say a lot of stupid shit, Dickiebird.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
The bandage pulls tight. Dick’s hands are back to being steady now. How many times has he done this? How many nights spent patching up brothers who keep bleeding?
“Done.” Dick sits back on his heels. “Try not to tear the stitches.”
The city breathes around them, exhaling neon and exhaust. Somewhere, sirens wail. Dick’s silhouette starts to blur.
“Why are you here?” Jason asks again, softer this time. More tired.
Dick’s smile is crooked, sad. Like he knows something Jason doesn’t. “Because I care. Even when you’re being an absolute dick.”
The joke falls flat between them. Old habits dying hard.
(The question weighs heavy on his tongue.)
“I should go.” Dick stands, slowly. Hesitant.
Blood seeps through fresh bandages. The city spins. Dick’s hand is warm on his shoulder, anchoring him to a moment that’s already slipping away.
“Stay alive, Little Wing.”
𓅫𓅫
The bell chimes softly when he pushes the door open. Incense and fish sauce mingle in the air, sweet-sharp, familiar as heartbreak.
He doesn’t mean to come here. His feet just carry him. Muscle memory is a cruel thing. The tiles are the same faded yellow. The calendar on the wall still shows last month’s lunar phases.
Mrs. Nguyen looks up from behind the counter.
Con ơi, she says, eyes soft with recognition. How are you?
I’m fine, he wants to say. Everything is fine.
But Mrs. Nguyen’s eyes are kind, too kind, and suddenly he can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Can’t exist in a world where—
Where.
Con ơi, she says again, softer now. You look tired. Her hands move quickly, wrapping shrimp chips in familiar pink paper. Extra, always extra for him. For them.
Tired. What a stupid, inadequate word. Like trying to describe a supernova as ‘bright’ or an earthquake as ‘loud.’ He wants to laugh. Wants to scream. Wants to tear the whole fucking world apart with his bare hands until it makes sense again.
Instead, he forces a smile. Fine. I’m fine.
She doesn’t believe him, but she lets him have it. The usual?
He nods because his body remembers how, because some things are written into bone and sinew. The familiar motions feel like betrayal.
Steam rises from the kitchen. The air tastes like salt and memory.
She calls out his order in Vietnamese. Then—
And your friend? The tall one, with the nice smile? The handsome one—người đẹp trai?
Jason freezes.
His chest feels like a crime scene. Yellow tape around the heart. Do not cross. Evidence of violence.
Fine, he manages. He’s fine.
She beams, wrapping extra spring rolls in wax paper. Good, good. You take this to him, yes? Tell him I add more chili sauce, just how he likes.
Jason nods mechanically, jaw clenched, teeth grinding. His eyes sting.
When the food is ready, she waves away his money. On the house, she says, eyes crinkling. You boys come back soon, okay?
Thank you, he says, hands trembling as he accepts the takeaway bag. We will.
The alley welcomes him like an old friend. Brick scrapes his palms as he stumbles, heaves, empties his stomach of promises he can’t keep.
(A voicemail sits unheard on Jason’s phone.)
𓅫𓅫
The library is too quiet. The air feels thin, stretched. Like everyone’s holding their breath without knowing why.
Bruce looks as if someone has stolen his soul, torn it right out of his grasp. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. No words come.
Alfred clears his throat.
Jason’s hands are shaking. He doesn’t notice. The bad feeling has grown teeth, has begun feasting on his insides.
Master Dick, Alfred begins, and Jason’s entire body rebels against what’s coming next. His legs want to run. His lungs want to stop working. His heart wants to crawl out of his chest and die on the expensive carpet.
𓅫𓅫
They’re perched on the edge of some forgotten building, takeout containers balanced precariously between them.
Dick’s chopsticks click against plastic. “You’re using the new grapple wrong.”
“Am not,” Jason protests, mouth full of lo mein.
“Are too. You’re releasing too early. That’s why you keep overshooting.”
(There’s something burning in Jason’s throat. A question he can’t voice.)
The night air smells like takeaway from the place near Gate Street, and possibilities. Like second chances wrapped in third chances wrapped in whatever number they’re on now. Jason’s lost count.
He wants to scoff, reply with something bitter. Wants to say he doesn’t need Dick’s advice, doesn’t need his critique, doesn’t need anything at all.
“Show me then,” he says instead.
Dick’s smile is quicksilver in the dark. “Thought you’d never ask.”
They move across rooftops like falling stars, like echoes of what they used to be. Dick’s form is perfect. Poetry in motion. Jason follows, matching his rhythm, finding his flow.
It’s easier than it should be, considering all that’s happened.
They stop on a water tower. Dick’s breathing isn’t even slightly labored. Show-off.
“See?” Dick gestures with his grapple. “It’s all in the timing. You just need to—”
“Trust the equipment?” Jason asks, dryly.
“Trust yourself.”
They look at each other. The words hang between them like smoke signals. Like white flags.
(Ask him now. Ask him while the night feels soft around the edges.)
Jason snorts. “That was bad, even for you. You been practicing those fortune cookie wisdom drops?”
“Hey, I’m trying to have a moment here.”
“Try harder.”
Dick laughs—his real laugh, the one Jason hasn’t heard since… before. It echoes off steel and concrete, bounces between buildings like a ricochet. The sound settles somewhere under Jason’s ribs, warm and familiar.
They sit in comfortable silence, watching the city breathe below. Their shoulders almost touch. Almost.
Somewhere, sirens wail. They should probably check it out.
Neither of them moves.
“We should do this more often,” Dick says, casual as a knife to the heart.
Jason watches a helicopter circle downtown. “What, correct my apparently terrible grappling technique?”
“No, just... this.” Dick waves his hand vaguely. “Patrol. Food. Whatever.”
Something warm unfurls in Jason’s chest. Something dangerous. Something like hope.
“Whatever,” he echoes, but they both hear what he means.
Dick’s smile is soft. Content. Like he’s exactly where he wants to be.
(The question beats against his ribs like trapped birds.)
Sirens get louder. Time to move.
They stand in sync, muscles loose, ready. The night spreads before them like an invitation.
“Race you?” Dick grins.
Jason rolls his eyes. “You’re such a child.”
“That’s not a no.”
“... Loser buys breakfast?”
Dick laughs again—bright, warm, alive. “You’re on.”
They leap together into the waiting dark.
(He never asks.)
𓅫𓅫
He looks perfect. That’s the first thought that slams into Jason’s ribs, steals his breath. Perfect and untouched, like he’s just sleeping off another late patrol. Someone’s styled his hair the way he wore it at galas. Brushed it back from his forehead, tamed those wild pieces that used to fall in his eyes when he laughed. It’s longer than it was when Jason last saw him, raven strands curling in the nape of his neck. It makes him look younger, so much younger.
His hands rest at his sides, too still. Someone’s taken off his rings—the silver band from his first graduation, the black titanium from Bruce, that gaudy thing Wally got him in Vegas, even the little gold hoop that was his mother’s, once upon a time. It barely fit on his pinkie, but he never took it off.
Jason’s throat closes. He tears his eyes away when they start burning.
Alfred’s having the eulogy. His voice carries through the room, clear despite the way his hands keep shaking where they grip the paper. Jason’s straining his ears, trying to listen, but he can’t hear it. Can’t hear anything over the sound of his heart trying to tear itself free from his chest, desperate to crawl across the floor and climb into the casket where it belongs.
Later, some guests leave and some don’t. Murmured conversations drift like smoke. Bruce speaking in that careful voice he uses when he’s holding himself together with willpower alone. Donna’s quiet sobs from somewhere near the window, Roy’s hand on her shoulder.
None of them knew him. Not completely. Not the way he was with the Titans versus the way he was with his other family. Not the difference between his real laugh and his press laugh. Not how he could name every star visible from the manor’s roof.
Jason didn’t know all of him either. Impossible to capture stardust in a jar. Impossible to hold every facet of someone who belonged to so many people in so many ways.
(A voicemail sits unheard on Jason’s phone.)
𓅫𓅫
That’s not possible, someone says. He was just here. Last night.
Jason watches Bruce’s face, searching for the lie. For the punchline. For anything but this terrible, endless silence.
But Bruce just stands there. Stone-still. Statue-still.
Alfred continues, explaining things that can’t be true. Impossible things. A motorcycle in the rain. A truck losing control. Harbor water.
Jason’s mind catches on details, desperate for something to hold onto. The bike—he’d helped restore it last summer, hands covered in grease, music playing from a beaten-up radio. Explaining the engineering behind the new suspension system to patient blue eyes that already knew every word he was saying.
(You're such a nerd, those eyes had said, fond and teasing. Keep talking.)
Voices overlap, break apart, reform into something ugly and raw. The words don’t matter. Only the sounds: high, desperate things that ricochet off leather-bound spines and polished wood. Someone’s shouting about liars, about impossible things. Someone else is talking about identifying and running tests and are you sure?
Alfred’s voice cuts through the chaos, each word precise and terrible. Nine minutes for the ambulance. Unconscious when they pulled him from the harbor. CPR on scene, desperate hands trying to push life back into a body that had already decided to let go. Fifteen minutes to the hospital. Too much water. Too late.
(Family dinner next week, the last text had said. Come home?)
Jason had left it on read.
His stomach lurches.
He should shout. Do something. Break the crystal. Shatter the windows. Set fire to all these pristine novels that will never again be borrowed by careful hands, never again be returned with dog-eared pages and margin notes that never fail to make Alfred sigh, even as his lips quirk minutely at the familiar scrawl.
Instead, Jason stands still, fists clenching and unclenching.
(You coming tonight? Tim had asked yesterday. He really wants you there.)
No.
No, this can’t be real, because Jason wasn’t at family dinner last night. He hadn’t gone because he didn’t want—
Didn’t want him to think that showing up meant forgiveness.
(Even though Jason had forgiven him weeks ago, had forgiven him before the warehouse door had even shut behind him. He just didn’t know how to say it. Was terrified of seeing the hurt he’d put in those impossible blue eyes. Was more terrified that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t find forgiveness reflected back.)
So this can’t be real. The last time they saw each other can’t have been that fight. It can’t have been Jason walking away first (always walking away first, always running away, always the one who—)
No. Jason refuses to accept this reality where their last moment was anger. Where avoiding family dinner means avoiding goodbye.
Dead but not dead, Jason says. We’ve done this before. He’ll be back. He always comes back.
Jason, Bruce says, soft and terrible, like a prayer without hope. Like giving up.
And that’s when he sees it—really sees it. The way Bruce’s shoulders carry grief like a familiar coat. The way Alfred’s hands continue to shake. The hollow echo in their eyes that speaks of finality.
This is real.
This is fucking real.
𓅫𓅫
The dream is all wrong.
Not the details—those are perfect, preserved in amber like a prehistoric insect. The warehouse. The flickering fluorescents. The way his boots echo on concrete. But there’s something off. Colors keep bleeding into each other. Time moves slow, like molasses, thick and viscous.
(There’s a question he needs to ask.)
“I had it handled,” he says, and his voice sounds distant, dreamlike.
Dick’s already shaking his head, that insufferable big-brother expression firmly in place. “The intel was bad. You needed backup.”
“I didn’t need shit,” Jason spits. “Especially not from you.”
The fluorescents flicker faster. Shadows dance across Dick’s face like ink in water. “Jason—”
“Stop.” Jason’s hands are shaking. They weren’t shaking that night. “Fucking stop. Stop trying to fix me. Stop showing up uninvited. Stop acting like you know what’s best for everyone.”
“Someone has to,” Dick says, and Jason can feel the anger building in the pit of his stomach, hot and vicious. “I just want to help.”
“I don’t need your help,” Jason snarls. “I don’t need your fucking savior complex. I don’t need your pity.”
Dick’s mouth twists. “Stop. This is getting old, Jason. So old.”
Time stutters. Skips like a scratched record. The shadows lengthen, stretch into impossible shapes.
(The question nags at him, begging to be voiced.)
“You keep doing this. Push and push and push until everyone leaves,” Dick continues, voice echoing strangely, bouncing off the walls. “You’re acting just like Bruce.”
“That’s fucking rich, coming from you. Bringing up Bruce when you’re him in all the worst ways. Overbearing. Self-righteous.” Jason’s hands curl into fists. “Abandoning.”
Dick’s face does something complicated. “I’m trying to be here now—”
“You’re trying to save me.”
“Well, if you don’t want saving, stop acting like someone who needs to be saved.”
“Oh, I’m fine with being saved,” Jason scoffs. “Just not by you. Your track record kind of sucks, doesn’t it? Couldn’t save your parents. Couldn’t save Blockbuster. Couldn’t save—”
“Wanna talk about track records?” Dick cuts him off, voice sharp. “Let’s talk about yours. You’ve got a tendency to steal, don’t you? Robin. Red Hood. Nightwing.” He counts on his fingers, mockingly. “What’s next, Jason? Thinking about trying out for the cowl again?”
Something dark and ugly coils in Jason’s chest. “Fuck you.”
“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” Dick tilts his head. “Is it too much for you, bringing up your identity crisis?”
“That’s funny,” Jason says. “Coming from someone who can’t decide if he’s Nightwing or Batman or a goddamn spy.”
Dick’s expression twists into something that doesn’t belong on his face. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” Jason spits. “You’re just too scared to make the hard ones.”
The warehouse walls start blurring and warping, reality bleeding into dream bleeding into memory.
“Every day,” Dick says, through gritted teeth. “I make hard choices every single day.”
(Ask him now, before the scene plays out like it always does.)
“Oh?” The word drips like acid from Jason’s tongue. “What ones?”
“Loving you,” Dick says, and Jason feels something crack wide open within his chest. “Being your brother. After everything you’ve done to our family. To me. After all the blood on your hands.”
Jason’s jaw clenches so hard his teeth start to groan.
A terrible, unspeakable thought builds in his head.
He shouldn’t.
But Dick is looking at him in that way he has, and Jason’s never been one to back down when there’s an opportunity to burn it all down.
“One hundred thousand,” Jason says, slowly, “and sixty-eight. That’s the body count for Blüdhaven, right?”
Dick goes very, very still.
“The blood on my hands?” Jason continues, even as something in the back of his head nags at him, telling him to stop and back off and let it go, “it’s nothing compared to yours, brother.”
The satisfaction burns hollow in his chest when Dick makes that sound—soft and wounded, like Jason’s reached past skin and bone to tear something vital. Because Jason knows, has always known, exactly where to sink his teeth to make it hurt. Knows the weight of one hundred thousand and sixty-eight souls sits heavy on his brother’s shoulders, an atlas of guilt.
“Should’ve gone down with your city, Dickiebird. Would’ve been poetic, don’t you think? That’s what I told Bruce, watching it all go down from Gotham.” Jason spreads his hands wide, head tilted tauntingly. “The prodigal son’s final sacrifice.”
“Jason.” Just that. Just his name. But it’s the way Dick says it—soft and sad and aching, like a prayer, like forgiveness Jason doesn’t deserve.
(Ask him. Ask him now.)
Jason crosses the space between them, jabs a finger into Dick’s chest hard enough to hurt.
“Stay away from me.” His voice sounds wrong, distorted, like he’s speaking through layers of grave dirt. “I don’t want your advice. I don’t want your help. I want you to stay the fuck out of my life.”
Dick looks like Jason’s put a bullet in his chest. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Says nothing at all.
(Ask it. Please.)
Jason turns. Walks away. He’s always the one who walks away first, isn’t he? Always the one who—
He glances back.
(Did you forgive me?)
Dick’s already gone.
𓅫
Six days.
Rain drums against the windows. His suit jacket is crumpled on the floor where he dropped it. He should hang it up.
He doesn’t.
(A voicemail sits unheard on Jason’s phone.)
His reflection watches him from the dark window. There’s something wrong with his face. Something hollow, something haunted. Something that looks too much like the way Bruce looked in the library, six days and an eternity ago.
Six days.
The words stumble through his mind, trip over each other until they lose meaning. Become just sounds.
Gotham continues to live and breathe. People walk through the streets, laughing and talking and listening to music.
He wonders how they haven’t noticed. He wants to throw open his windows, scream at the souls walking below, hurl his accusations at them.
Can’t they see it? Can’t they feel it? Can’t they tell that the world has ended, that the sun has died?
His phone weighs heavy in his pocket. An anchor. A burden. A choice.
Rain keeps falling. Fitting, all things considered. Gotham has always known when to mourn her heroes.
His hands shake when he reaches for the phone.
(And somewhere, in a reality that doesn’t exist anymore, his brother is making hot chocolate in a kitchen that still feels like home, saying something about French recipes and the proper way to melt chocolate, and his eyes are impossibly blue in the soft light, and Jason hasn’t yet learned what it means to lose someone twice.)
(In this reality, his brother’s soul is lost to the depth of dark water, while his own heart keeps beating, a traitor till the very end.)
𓅫
(Static crackles. Rain hitting metal and leather.)
“Hey. Sorry for calling. Again. I know you told me to… you know.”
(Wind whistles past. Engine purrs underneath.)
“Alfred made your favorite tonight. That stupid chili mac thing with the obscene amount of cheese. Tim complained about heartburn just looking at it. Then helped himself to three servings.” A chuckle. “Bruce smiled. It was terrifying.”
(A pause. Tires on wet asphalt.)
“Saved you a plate. It’s in the fridge, your usual spot. Third shelf, blue container. In case you drop by, or whatever.”
(Thunder rumbles somewhere distant.)
“Listen, I—we’re not good at this part, are we? The part where we…” Traffic sounds fade in, fade out. “I forgive you. You probably know that already. And I hope... I mean, I think you forgive me too. We’re both really good at knowing exactly what to say to make it hurt. Family trait, I guess.”
(Rain intensifies.)
“We don’t usually say it though. The forgiveness thing. It just... happens. But I felt like saying it. Supposed to be the mature one and all that bullshit.” Another laugh, softer. “And I’ve been thinking about what you said. About the hovering. About not always needing my help or advice. And... yeah. You’re right. I’ll try to—I mean, you know how I get, but I’ll try. Okay?”
(A car horn blares in the background. Muffled cursing.)
“The point is… well, the point is that I love you, Jason. That’s the one constant in all of this. I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t... I wasn’t thinking. And I’m sorry for not listening. I’ll do better, I promise.”
(Signal clicking. Turn. The engine note changes.)
“Call me back when you can. Or don’t. No pressure. Just... take care of yourself, okay?”
(Click.)
(End of message.)
(Message status: SAVED)
𓅫