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Dick Grayson doesn’t remember when he got cut.
That probably says more about the night than anything else.
By the time he drops from the fire escape outside his apartment building in Blüdhaven, the adrenaline from patrol is already wearing thin and the ache in his side is starting to settle into something deeper. He lands harder than he means to, exhales through his teeth, and rolls his shoulder once before straightening.
Patrol had been long—endlessly long.
Two muggings from idiotic street thugs. One domestic dispute that turned into three grown men swinging varying sizes of pipes at each other. A runaway who swore she was fine and then proceeded to pull a gun on Dick. A dealer who tried slipped away before he could grab him causing the man to trip and split his forehead open on concrete.
Nothing catastrophic but everything exhausting.
He reaches his building door and pulls off one glove with his teeth. His knuckles are split. There’s a sticky warmth low on his side that he’s choosing not to think about right now,
Before he can try and rack his brain about the injury the phone in his pocket vibrates—because of course it is. Dicks head tips against the building while he fishes out his phone. The screen illuminates in an unflattering picture of Tim’s face pressed against the glass of a manor window.
Usually it would make Dick laugh, but instead he just answers it with a gruff.
His brother doesn’t bother with a hello once the line connects.
“Bruce changed the parameters of the case without telling me!”
Dick presses his forehead further into the cool metal door before he sighs and pushes inside.
So it is going to be one of those calls then.
“Okay?” He prods.
“I had an entire pattern mapped,” TIm continues, fast and sharp, “and he just—pivoted. Because he thinks it’s about money laundering and—by the way—it is not. But he won’t listen to me!”
Dick starts up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. Habit keeps him quiet as he steps.
“Did you tell him that?”
“Yes—obviously.”
“And?”
“And he said I’m just letting confirmation bias get in my way, but that logic doesn’t make sense ‘cause the same applies to him.”
Dick hums softly. Choosing to stay quiet.
These calls are not uncommon. Tim butts heads with Bruce in a way he and Jason never did. Where they challenged physical boundaries on most occasions, Tim was smarter than all of them. Causing more than a few squabbles between the two that usually ended with Dick having to play the mediator.
“He’s not wrong to challenge,” he says carefully.
Tim scoffs on the other end like he had been expecting something different. “You sound like him.”
“Tim—” Dick sighs, “That’s not the point.”
His younger brother exhales sharply into the phone. There’s a steady beeping in the background,he imagines Tim pacing in front of the batcomputer or maybe in his room. Arms flailing around like he tends to do when he is worked up.
“Bruce listens to you,” Tim says finally voice tight. “Can you just talk to him? Get him to—I don’t know—ease up?”
Dick reaches his floors landing as the hallway light flickers.
“Tim,” he says, gentle but firm, “you two need to talk to each other. Not through me.”
There is a pause and the beeping holds before a long one follows.
“You know that’s not going to happen right now.”
Dick sighs for the umpteenth time, unlocking his apartment door but not going in yet.
“Can you just call him? Please?” The please lands heavier than the rant, and Dick is so used to having to deal with it it’s almost second nature to agree.
“I’ll give him a call tomorrow,” he says finally, rubbing his temple with his index finger. He’s had a splitting headache all day. From dealing with screaming gymnastics students all day to patrol all night what he really needs is some pain killers and a nap.
Tim exhales a relieved breath, “Great thanks!”
The line clicks dead, finally allowing Dick to enter his apartment. It’s dark and blissfully quiet unlike the last twenty-four hours.
Until—his phone vibrates again, and when he checks the screen Damian's name pops up accompanied with a rare photo of the teenager smiling.
“Richard.” Damian's voice is flat.
Dick’s lips twitch despite himself. Damian ironically is usually his favorite call of the day. “Hey, bud.”
There’s a faint sound of something being set down too hard on the other end.
“Father and Drake are behaving irrationally.”
And… there it was, Dicks hopeful feeling is dashed. Instead he drops his duffle bag and kicks the front door closed with a thud, Dick fights a wince at the pain in his side as he does.
Damian mutters something under his breath in Arabic before speaking, “I attempted to de-escalate the conflict.”
“You did?”
Dick pauses halfway to his kitchen. He’d been tutoring Damian on understanding social cues. The kid still struggles pretty badly in normal one-on-one conversations especially with kids his age. Being raised by assassins did little to help him socially mature. Still it was brave of him to try and settle a dispute between those two.
“Yes. I applied the framework you instructed me on. Neutral phrasing. Clarifying statements. Redirecting the emotional escalation.”
Dick feels warmth bloom in his chest despite the irritation of being pulled back into another TIm and Bruce squabbles. Though small mercies Jason was currently being left out of it even though it would probably be merely hours before Tim called him to take his side. Which would lead to Jason taking it just to piss off Bruce and—it was an entire thing—a thing Dick would very much like to not deal with right now..
Instead he asks, “So what happened?”
“They ignored me.”
Dick clicks his tongue, lips pressing into a thin line.
Of course they did. He wonders if he needs to put Bruce and Tim into conflict de-escalation practice with Damian. Maybe Alfred would help teach them.
“I was not being inflammatory,” Damian continues, voice tight. Dick can tell he’s hurt from not being successful. Failure is still something they were working on being okay with.
“I stated that their inability to communicate was impacting operational efficiency.”
Dick huffs a small laugh, “I’m guessing that didn’t go over well.”
“No. Drake accused me of ‘parroting therapy speak.’ Father told me not to insert myself in their business.”
For all his families desire to have better communication they all well and truly suck at it.
“You did the right thing, Damian.” Dick says quietly.
“I am aware, and yet it was still ineffective.”
Dick softens his voice more, “Doesn’t mean it was wrong.”
A beat passes he can hear Damian's dog Titus whining for attention.
“Will you speak with them? Sooner would be preferable.” Damian asks finally.
Dick sighs into his empty apartment, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Damian huffs a goodnight and hangs up without another word.
The humming quiet of the apartment settles back over quickly. Dick stands there a moment, phone in hand, staring at the black screen like he expects it to light back up.
It doesn’t—and he hopes it stays that way. Thankfully Cass and Steph are on a recon mission in Bialiya—some favor for Wondergirl that Steph refused to elaborate on. Babs is out of town visiting family and most of the other bat-ajacents are doing their own shit.
He exhales into the silence and finally shucks off the hoodie he hastily pulled on to cover his suit on the way home. His armor came next, the chestplate comes loose with a dull click, and he peels it away carefully, jaw tightening when the fabric beneath tugs against something tender.
Dck pulls the suit down over his ribs, it sticks and he hisses through his teeth forcing it off anyway.
There’s a fresh cut slashed just above his hip bone. Not terrible nor hospital-worthy. Just deep enough to be annoying. The skin around it is already swelling, bruises mottling purple and blue around the edges where a knife cut earlier.
“Fantastic,” he mutters under his breath.
The rest of his suit falls away in a heap and he walks to the cabinet for the first aid kit. Dicks steps feel heavier now that he’s not running on adrenaline and caffeine. He sets the kit on the counter and flips it open with a click.
But before he has the chance to even look inside the kit his phone rings again.
Dick doesn’t look at it at first—hoping it is a figment of his imagination, but then it keeps ringing. Once—twice—then the fear of what if’s wins over the desire to decline.
He snatches it up without waiting for the fourth ring.
“Yes?”
“Master Richard.” Alfred's voice fills the phone speaker, and what would usually be a relief at hearing his voice Dick fights back yet another irritated sigh and closes his eyes briefly.
“Yes, Alfred.”
“I was just inquiring as to whether or not you have heard from Master Jason this evening?”
Dicks brow furrows, the grip on his phone tightening. There’s pots clanking in the background letting off yet another reminder that he has yet to actually eat dinner—or lunch—or breakfast for that matter. He honestly isn’t even sure what time it is.
“No, why?”
“He just seemed… irritated when I last spoke with him last. I was under the impression he intended to contact you.”
Dick chest tightens. Of course he did. Cause who else has yet to contact me this evening? He thinks, leaning his weight against the counter. The edge presses lightly into his side.
“I haven’t spoken with him.” Dick grits out, searching for a way out of the current conversation.
“I see. Well I merely thought you could call—”
“Seriously?” Dick snaps, voice thin but sharp, “Tim wants me to talk to Bruce. Damian wants me to talk to Tim and Bruce. Now Jason’s irritated about something—which when he is not—so suddenly I’m meant to check on him too?”
The words fly out faster then Dick means for them too, “Look, I just got back from patrol. I haven’t slept since last night—or morning—or whatever time it is right now and—fuck!”
The corner of the counter catches his stitches before he even realized he’s moved—slamming directly into the slash on his side. Pain detonates through his abdomen and up his chest.
“Fucking—” he sucks in a breath, doubling slightly, the phone slipping from his grip before he can catch it.
“Master Richard?” Alfred's tone sharpens concern pitching the words. “Are you injured?”
“I’m fine.” Dick barks back, before straightening, palm pressed to his side. It comes back slick with blood. “I just—” He hisses through his teeth, “I can’t do it tonight, Alfred. I can’t.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“I’ve got enough crap on my plate,” his voice is quieter now. Exhaustion seeping through.
“My apologies,” Alfred says gently. “That was not my intention.”
Dick swallows suddenly feeling like the world biggest asshole. He stares down at the scattered contents of the first aid kit on the counter.
“Look—i’ll call them all tomorrow—or today—whatever after I sleep. I’ll call Bruce. And Tim. And Damian. And Jason. I’ll check on the girls. I’ll… handle it.”
The words feel automatic more than genuine.
“Very well,” Alfred replies.
Dick doesn’t trust himself to say anything else. He just picks up the phone and ends the call abruptly, tossinghis phone against the counter.
The apartment falls still again. Four names heavy in his mind.
Jason. Bruce. Tim. Damian.
Jason is irritated, probably dealing with bullshit in Crime Alley. Bruce is being unreasonable. Tim is being unreasonable. Damian is hurt because they are both being unreasonable. Cass and Steph are due for check-in’s tomorrow—today?
Jason. Bruce. Tim. Damian. Cass and Steph.
Dick lets out a breath, before picking up the needle and sutures. He threads it carefully with steady hands. Years of practice guide his movements.
The first stitch bites like it always does. He inhales through his nose through the pain.
Watching Bruce suture his first cut at twelve surfaces in his mind. He’d cried even with the anesthetic. The sight of blood having been an irritating phobia to get over.
Now he couldn’t count how many times he’s stitched himself or others since then.
The next thread stings unforgivingly—sharp and clean. Dick recites the stuff on his plate to keep his mind busy.
Call Bruce to listen to Tim. Call Tim to update on the call with Bruce.
Dick hisses through the next stitch.
Pull. Tie. Cut.
Call Damian after Bruce and Tim's situation is resolved. Call Jason to ask if he is doing okay.
Pull. Tie. Cut.
Check in with Cass and Steph. Work on the next gymnastics session for the kids.
Pull. Tie. Cut.
Contact Blüdhaven pd with new evidence on the hotel murders. See if there’s any new leads on the bomber from the movie theater last week.
Pull. Tie. Cut.
Jason. Bruce. Tim. Damian. Cass and Steph. Gymnastics lesson. Hotel murders. Movie theater bomber.
The thread tugs at the bruising reddening skin around it.
Sweat beads along Dicks hairline. He should have numbed it; he knows that, but there was a part of him that was welcoming the sting. Besides there’s no one here to tell him to stop. No one to take over. No one to say that he should let someone else do it.
Pull. Tie. Cut.
Jason. Bruce. Tim. Damian. Cass and Steph. Gymnastics lesson. Hotel murders. Movie theater bomber.
By the time he finishes, his shoulders ache from the tension of being bent over. His side cramping from the awkward angle. Dick presses gauze over the line of stitches and medical tape along the sides to keep it down.
Then he just stands there a moment. Alone in his kitchen. It wasn’t that he didn’t mind being alone. That’s what Blüdhaven was to him. It started with an itch to prove himself better than Batman. Now he did it so well he hardly needed help from anyone.
Nightwing handled most things alone. He was a different symbol than Batman would ever be, and Blüdhaven was benefiting. Yet, some days when everything piled on and Dick had nothing else to give, sometimes he wished for that little extra help that he often gave.
The apartment stays dim and quiet despite the war raging inside his head.
The gauze pulls slightly under the stray shirt he threw on that was left on the counter as he lowers himself onto the couch. Glowing streetlights flood his otherwise dark apartment, bleeding through the blinds in dull gold stripes.
Dick leans his head back against the armrest—just for a second.
His phone is somewhere next to him, always within reach.
Jason. Bruce. Tim. Damian. Cass and Steph. Gymnastics lesson. Hotel murders. Movie theater bomber.
He should get a headstart and call one of them. Maybe Jason, but his limbs feel heavier than they should. Like his suit never really came off. Like it’s still pressing down on his lungs.
The city hums outside the window as Dicks eyes flutter close. Distant traffic. A siren somewhere far enough away to not be his problem.
His breathing evens out without him noticing, tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he slowly falls under.
Then—
The phone vibrates violently against the wood of the table.
Dick jerks away, eyes unfocused. His hands shoots out instinctively, side stinging at the movement as he knocks the edge of the table before grabbing the phone.
His heart is already racing like he’s mid-chase—an unfamiliar anger races through his veins hot and fast, vibrations like a jackhammer inside his skull. The screen reads 3:47 a.m and for a second Dick doesn’t recognize the number, his eyes still refusing to process the screen.
After the sixth buzzing he realizes it’s Jason's face staring down at him. Soaked after being pushed in the pool in full gear white and black hair plastered to his head, but a smile nonetheless.
Any other time Dick would smile in fondness at seeing his younger brother so happy, but right now? Dick would like to punch that smile more than anything.
“What do you want?” He snaps into the receiver.
There’s a brief pause before Jason's raspy laugh fills his too tired brain.
“Well damn. You always that cheerful when someone calls you at fuck o’clock?”
Dick squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Jason,” he deadpans.
“Yup. That’s me. Charming as always.”
Dick pushes himself upright, his side and head both protest immediately. “Look, I can't play mediator right now,” he says flatly. “If you’ve got a problem with Bruce or Tim or Damian or anyone else in the world right now, go be a man and fix it yourself.”
There’s another pause and the cocking of a gun on Jason's side before he snorts, “Wow. Didn’t realize I called the family therapist hotline.” Jason laughs before deepening his voice playfully. “Can I speak with your manager? I’d like to file a complaint.”
“What. Do. You. Want.” Dick grounds out. His patience is already thin; the last thing he wants is more of his younger brother's taunting.
Jason’s laughter tapers off before let’s out a breath. “There’s a new guy setting up shop in Crime Alley. He’s trying to flood the streets with fentanyl laced weed and selling it to kids. I thought I’d clean house before he gets too eager.”
His brother's amusement dies off. Dick knows what’s underneath. Yet again someone asked him to help.
His anger hits an all time high of the night, even though he knows Jason doesn’t deserve it. That’s the funny part about pent-up anger: it usually explodes at the wrong people. It just sits simmering in his chest quiet and pressurized. His to-do list bounces around in his head like a trapped bird.
Jason. Bruce. Tim. Damian. Cass and Steph. Gymnastics lesson. Hotel murders. Movie theater bomber.
“Look Dick—I don’t really need your help.” Jason starts, and Dick knows it’s a lie. “I was just offering the free therapy of cracking skulls.”
He swings his legs off the couch, fingers gripping his phone. He bites back the pain as he stands. Part of Dick is about to tell Jason to f-off, but then the reality of it all settles in.
Bottom line is… he’s pissed. The amount of frustration and bullshit swirling in his head is going to make it impossible to sleep soundly anyway and if Dick’s being honest with himself—cracking skulls sounds kinda nice. Even if Jason means it as a joke.
“You know what…” Dick exhales slowly, already making way to his heap of a suit in the corner of his apartment. “Fuck it. Sure. Where?”
You could practically hear the fictional record scratch on the other end of the line. Jason’s tone shifts quickly from teasing to something with more concern.
“Um… you good?”
“Peachy. Where?” DIck asks again, pulling his chest plate up from the ground.
“Roof top of the old Ridge apartments.”
Dick manages to shimmy his compression shirt over his neck one handed.
“Give me an hour.”
This time he hangs up before Jason can say anything else. The apartment feels less homey than it had a few hours ago.
He pulls the rest of his suit on next, the fabric drags over fresh stitches and he clenches his jaw, forcing it down into place. Underlayer. Amor. Gloves. Mask. Escrima sticks.
The mirror on the other side of his apartment catches him briefly. Nightwing stares back. Composed and controlled. He clicks his grabble onto his waist—if he can’t sleep he might as well burn the anger and annoyance out of his system. Maybe take a page out of Jason’s book for once.
The fire escape rattles as he drops down and takes off towards where he stashes his bike.
Next stop, Crime Alley.
----------------
An hour later Dick crosses into Crime Alley, the stench of rot and cigarette smoke fill the air.
The Ridge apartment building looms above a narrow street, windows dark except for one or two flickering across the floors. He parks his bike at one of Jason's safe houses before grappling the rest of the way.
The rooftop gravel crunches faintly under Dick’s boots as he lands.
His brother is already there, helmet off—domino on—leaning against the rusted ventilation unit like he’s been waiting awhile.
His head snaps up when Dick lands, a smile dragging across his scarred face. “You look like shit.”
The tease is evident but Dick is finding a hard time quipping back. Instead he mutters a quiet ‘thanks.’
Jason studies him a second longer than usual, “You sure about this? I mean I don’t really need your help.”
“Yep,” Dick doesn’t hesitate.
Jason nods slowly. “Okay—well target is two floors down. Corner apartment. They’re stockpiling the product before moving it. We need to confirm that the drugs are here and trash ‘em.” His voice is clipped, angry in a way it always is when kids are involved.
“Then let’s go.” Dick’s foot is tapping against the gravel as he speaks, his arms crossed over his chest.
Jason's brow twitches as he slides his helmet on. “No firefight, there are people in these apartments just trying to get by.”
Dick clenches his jaw and bites back the snarky remark before nodding his understanding. He came here because Jason’s ops tend to be full of firefights, now he was regretting not just trying to sleep off the anger.
Together they move through the roof access door. It opens with a soft creak. Instantly, the building smells like mildew and chemical rot. Cheap detergent trying and failing to mask something sour. They descend two floors and creep out the stairwell before pausing at the intersection of the hall.
Dick peers around the corner, two armed guards stand outside the apartment door at the end of the hallway.
One leans against the wall, scrolling on his phone looking impossibly bored. The other stands closer to the door, rifle slung low, just as bored but alert.
Jason lifts two fingers.
Dick nods, they move at the same time.
Jason crosses the hallways in three silent strides, arm snaking around the distracted guards throat. He clamps a hand over the man’s mouth and drops his weight back, cutting off airflow clean and controlled.
At the same time Dick takes the second, coming in low. One hand traps the rifle before it can rise the other slams into the man’s solar plexus. Air leaves his lungs in a sharp gasp and Dick follows through with a sharp elbow to the jaw—too sharp.
There’s a crack as the man’s head whips sideways into the wall and crumples instantly—knocked out cold.
Dick watches as Jason drops his own guard softly before glancing over, “Little heavy-handed—”
“I’ve got it,” Dick mutters, shaking out his fist.
He knows his words are tight. He can hear them cutting short. Jason knows it too but to his credit says nothing and reaches for the door instead.
It opens with a soft creak somehow smelling worse than the building itself. Adding rancid on top of everything else. The place is dim, lit only by a single lamp in the living room and the fluorescent light humming over the kitchen. The layout opens immediately—living right in front of the kitchen island, a worn couch against the far left wall. A card table in front of it with beer littered across the floor.
What pulls Dick’s attention immediately aside from the lack of people is the kitchen island. Plastic-wrapped bricks are stacked across it like someone was just unloading groceries—groceries that come wrapped and sealed in clear polymer at least.
Jason steps in behind him quietly shutting the door—the smell hits next.
Weed—sharp, chemical, and very very wrong.
Dick steps closer there are a dozen bricks on the counter—easily twelve pounds worth. Each brick sealed tight in thick plastic. A few are split open, green buds exposed and dusted just lightly with a pale powder
Jason swallows thickly behind him, “Keep your gloves on and don’t get too close.”
Instinctively, Dick takes a step back putting him shoulder to shoulder with his brother. Fentanyl was not something to play with and he had no interest in overdosing from just being around it. .
He glances around the room again, while Jason remains somewhat fixed in place. He was definitely right on it being a stash. There were two more duffle bags on the floor near the island, a digital scale, a heat sealer, and little bags.
Jason gestures toward the card table, “Probably a prep station.”
Dick follows his gaze landed back roughly on the duffles and the stack of bricks.
“How much do you think?”
His brother’s fists clench at his sides, “Too much—and to fucking kids man.”
For the first time the entire night Dick feels more sympathy. Jason may have been right that he could handle something this simple on his own, but he’s starting to think there was a different reason he was invited along.
Jason grew up with addicts. Watching friends, foster parents, classmates—even at Gotham Prep get hooked—then overdose. Dick honestly lost count of how many funerals his brother had attended before… well before his own.
“Are you oka—”
Dick’s question is interrupted by a creak in the apartment—both men freeze. The sound didn’t come from either of them.
Someone was moving back there. A floorboard shifts next and immediately Jason's pistol is drawn. Dick twirls his escrima sticks into hand.
Then the overhead light flicks on.
A man dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with a vest and a rifle steps out of the left room. Stopping dead when he sees them standing in the kitchen.
For a half a second everyone just stares at each other.
Then the man's eyes widen.
“We’ve got company!”
Gunfire erupts before either of the two vigilantes can do anything to counter.
Jason grabs Dick by the shoulder and yanks him sideways just as the first burst tears through the kitchen cabinets. Wood and tile explode where Dick had been standing a heartbeat earlier.
They crash behind the kitchen island. The butcher-block counter shudders as bullets slam into it. Wood splinters burst across and pepper the floor stained linoleum floor.
DIck pushes himself against the cabinet, breathing hard. His pulse spikes instantly—adrenaline flooding through the fatigue and worry that had been weighing him down seconds ago.
Another round of guns hammer into the island—it sounds like there are three or four. The enclosed space turns every shot into a crack that rattles through Dicks ribs.
Jason slides his magazine out—checks his bullets—then racks the gun back.
“Three,” Jason mutters after a quick glance around the corner.
A shot punches through the island above Dick’s shoulder—he flinches instinctively even though the bullet doesn’t hit. Right now he’s thankful for old apartment buildings and real wood.
“They probably heard their guy go down outside—pulled back into the bedroom for an ambush.” Jason explains bitterly.
Dicks is wedged between the counter and the island. Jason is the only one with any hint of visibility but he doesn’t check again. Instead—as another round and the sound of fabric follows the splintering of wood—his brother inclines his head down, his fingers twitching against the handle of his guns.
At first Dick is confused before understanding dawns on him.
He’s counting—bullets probably. He must know what they are using.
It’s the only explanation Dick can think of. His chest rises and falls faster as Jason counts. Not from fear. From something sharper.
One string of bullets ends—Jason raises three fingers, “On my—”
Dick vaults the counter before his brother can even finish whatever he was saying.
“Motherfucker—Nightwing!” Jason swears from behind the island.
He lands in front of the island three men stand right in front of him clutching rifles, the other leaning out of the bedroom doorway. The one on the right fires again just as Dick dodges—but this close it’s not enough—he feels the hot metal slice across the muscle in his bicep.
A necessary hit to get close and he closes the distance before the man can fire again—his escrima stick cracking across the metal rifle barrel.
As the weapon jerks sideways and Dick drives his shoulder into the mans chest, slamming him into the doorframe of the bedroom hard enough it rattles the hinges.
The man slumps down.
Two shots ring out behind Dick—Jason, controlled and precise—as Dick pivots and punches one of the remaining men straight in the jaw. He knows it’s too hard the moment it lands, the man’s head snapping sideways just as violently as the guard from the hallway.
The third man stumbles backward toward the left bedroom. Dick hears Jason tell him to slow down, but he pushes forward anyway.
Movement flashes just behind the door as he crosses the threshold.
The glint of a metal bat is all the warning he gets before white-hot pain detonates in his core, turning the stingy ache of his stitches into pure agony. He can feel them split on his abdomen.
His breath leaves him in a strangled gasp. For a second the world narrows to white noise and the copper taste of blood in his mouth.
Instinct drags him upright as the man swings again.
Dick catches the bat this time before it can connect with his head.
His grip tightens.
Something inside his chest snaps loose.
Dick rips the weapon free and drives it into the man’s ribs with the wide end.
Once.
The impact shudders up his arms.
Twice.
His hands are shaking now, breath ragged in his throat, but he barely feels the bat in them.
Three times.
Harder each strike like he’s trying to break something inside his own chest.
Gunfire erupts behind him.
A body drops in front of Dick—the third shooter collapsing into the bedroom carpet.
Dick barely registers it. He’s already bringing the bat down again.
Four.
Five.
Six—
The bat is suddenly ripped from his hands. Dick stumbles backward as a hard yank drives him out of the hallway and into the living room.
His boots slide against scattered beer cans and broken glass.
The dealer he’d been hitting groans weakly somewhere on the floor.
Dick only realizes now that Jason is standing in front of him—chest heaving slightly from the fight. His brother’s height and armor make him loom in the dim light of the apartment.
For a moment neither of them speaks.
The apartment is suddenly quiet except for ragged breathing and the distant hum of the kitchen light.
Jason gestures vaguely to the scene around them.
Four bodies.
One barely breathing.
Then his eyes snap back to Dick.
“What the hell was that?” Jason’s voice is low, but it cuts through the room harder than the gunshots had.
Dick’s chest is still heaving. His knuckles ache. His bicep stings as rivulets of blood drip down his arm. The pulse in his stomach throbs in time with his heartbeat where the bat connected.
“Finishing the fight,” Dick mutters unceremoniously.
Jason stares at him for a long moment like he’s decided whether or not to start another one.
Then another groan from the bedroom reminds them they still aren’t done yet. Jason exhales sharply and steps past Dick.
“Yeah? Try finishing it without getting yourself ventilated next time.”
Dick doesn’t answer. Anger is still burning his skin, but the pain from his wounds are drawing him blissfully out of the cloud he’d been in.
The other dealers are still where they left them—knocked out and sprawled across the living room.
Jason holsters his pistols and moves straight back to the kitchen island. He pulls on a pair of thicker gloves from a pocket on his cargo pants and tugs them on before touching anything.
“Help me bag it,” he says bitterly, without looking up.
Dick swallows around the lump in his chest. Usually this would be where Jason would crack a joke about the fight or make a snarky comment about Dick not paying attention.
The silence is worse than the injuries in Dick’s opinion.
Instead of probing though he grabs one of the duffle bags from the floor. The zipper teeth rasp loudly in the quiet apartment. Even through the plastic he can smell the chemical sharpness riding underneath the weed like gasoline fumes.
Together they work in silence over the next several minutes. Brick after brick disappears into the duffles. Jason double-bags the open ones first, sealing them inside spare packaging before tossing them in.
He’s methodical about it—unusually careful—Dick’s not surprised. He can see the way his brothers jaw feathers every time he picks up a brick.
When they've finished Jason hauls one of the more conscious men upright and slams him into a wall near the front door.
The man groans weakly, but when his eyes settle on the Red Hood in front of him they shoot wide immediately.
“Who’s your supplier? Who’s moving this shit?” Jason orders slamming the man back into the wall by the collar of his shirt.
He just shakes his head, bottom lip trembling.
“Fucking kids are smoking this garbage!” He exclaims fists tightening, earning a pathetic whimper.
In an instance like this Dick would tell Jason to calm down, take a breath and be reasonable, but right now he couldn’t care less what his brother does.
It’s a scary feeling—apathy. He knows he should care, but he just can’t bring himself to.
“If I find out that this stuff gets sold to another kid—you’re dead.” Jason jeers, he doesn't wait for acknowledgment before dropping the man to the ground.
“Let’s go,” his brother mutters.
They haul the duffle bags up the stairwell and out onto the roof.
Cool night air hits Dick’s face like a splash of water. He hadn’t realized how hot and stuffy the apartment had been until now when clean-ish air hits his lungs.
Jason drops the bags beside the ventilation unit while Dick sets the others down a few feet away and rolls his shoulder again. His arm stings where the bullet grazed him. His abdomen is still pulsing under the stitches.
For a moment the only sound between them is the wind pushing across the gravel rooftop.
Out of nowhere, Jason turns from the ventilation unit and shoves him hard enough Dick stumbles several steps back.
“What the fuck is up with you tonight?” Jason demands.
Dick scowls, settling on his feet.
“Nothing.”
In truth he wanted to scream. Shout from the rooftop in crime alley that he was fucking tried. He was tired of being the person that everybody else needed and having no one else to do that for him.
Jason seems to pick up on it though and barks out a short laugh.
“Bullshit.”
He takes a step forward, “You’re charging into gunfire, hitting people like you’re trying to prove something, and you almost let that guy cave your stomach in.”
Dick can’t hold back his scoff, that seems a bit dramatic. He got hit once. The only reason that it hurt so bad was because it was on top of another injury, but he’s not stupid enough to say that outloud.
“Still breathing, aren’t I?” Dick quips instead, attempting to deflect with humor but is only met with yet another shove from Jason.
“No you didn’t!”
Alright that’s enough, he thinks bitterly after almost tripping over. He moves ready to shove back but Jason beats him to it hitting him again but this time grazing the cut on his bicep.
Pain flares sharp and Dick’s fury snaps with it.
“You wanted help!” He shouts finally, shoving Jason back with whatever force he has left after twenty-four hours nonstop. “You got it!”
“That wasn’t help!” Jason barks back, “That was you being angry and sloppy.”
The words hang in the air between them. Dick is stuck with the fact that those exact words are what Batman used to tell him as a kid. When he’d first become Robin. When he’d had so much anger raging through him at the death of his parents.
Dick takes in a ragged breath to calm his rising heart rate. His fists curl at his sides as he stares his brother down—as much as you can for a guy wearing a helmet.
Jason doesn’t move until his head tilts down and his posture stiffens. Dick follows his gaze, to the blood seeping through the side of his suit both old and now fresh.
Fuck that bat must have ripped all the stiches. Dick thinks as Jason shucks off his helmet, tossing it aside.
“You’re… bleeding.”
Dick shrugs, “Yeah?”
“There’s no way this is from the bat?”
Jason steps closer again, grabbing Dicks good arm and forcing him to turn. “Hang on—did you come here injured?”
Dick jerks his arm free, “Drop it, Hood.”
Jason's gaze drops back to his abdomen where the suit is increasingly darker than the rest—then to the blood from his shoulder.
“What the hell is going on with you? You never act like this.”
Dick wishes he could stop the laugh before it bubbled through his mouth, but there’s no joy behind it. If anything he probably looks insane.
“Nightwing, what is going on?” Jason repeats, teal eyes wide with an unfamiliar worry.
Dick lets out an exasperated sigh raking his hands roughly through his hair.
“Fuckin—fine!” He exclaims before throwing his arms out despite the twinge of pain that followed. “Tim wants me to talk to Bruce. Damian wants me to talk to Tim and Bruce. Alfred’s worried about you. I’ve got to check in with Cass and Steph.
“I’ve got to make lesson plans for the gymnastics kids. I’ve got a bombing and a murder case open that I’m completely stuck on. My own city is falling apart and somehow I’m still the one everyone calls to fix their shit!”
The words start flooding faster now, Dick completely useless to stop them.
“Everyone treats me like I’m the stable one. Like I’ve got infinite patience for everything going on—” he gestures vaguely toward the city around him, “—and to be fair most of the time I do—or at least I’d think I do. But I've got shit piling up in Blüdhaven because I’m too busy playing mediator for people who are perfectly capable of having their own damn conversations!”
Dick’s voice cracks into the cold air before he can catch it. Jason stares at him like a deer in headlights.
“I’m tired, Hood.” He finally admits voice low.
The wind rips through the rooftop again whistling past the two men. Dick looks down at his side, the pain is coming back in full force now that he’s stopped trying to fight it.
“I just want to sleep,” he adds quietly. “Get some actual medical care for once instead of stitching everything on my own. Eat a cheeseburger and drink coffee like a normal freakin’ person.”
Dick can’t stop himself exhaling a laugh at the simplicity of his request, his hands trembling at his sides. “But I can’t. Because someone always needs something from me.”
The anger that’s been stewing beneath his ribs drains out of him as fast as it had come. Leaving him standing there on the rooftop feeling more exhausted than furious.
“I love you guys,” he admits more so to himself, than to Jason. His chest constricting despite his steady breathing visible against the dim sodium lights of the roof. “But I’m only one person.”
The words hang there between them.
Dick can hear his own breathing, rough and uneven in the cold air. Somewhere below a car horn blares and fades into the distance, the city continuing on like nothing just cracked open on the rooftop above it.
Jason doesn't answer right away.
He just stands there stunned—Dick can see it in the way his brother’s shoulders have gone still, eyes wide, like his brain is trying to catch up with the crap that came spewing out all at once.
Jason Todd—who has been dead, came back to life, fought monsters, alien invasions, Lazarus pits—genuinely looks like someone just dropped a piano on him.
Dick lets out a tired breath already regretting his little childish outburst. “Look… just forget it.”
Jason blinks a few times.
“I shouldn’t have unloaded like that. You didn’t call me out here to listen to me bitch about our family.” Dick says, rubbing the back of his neck. Jason already has enough of a tumultuous relationship with them the last thing he needs is his older brother making it worse.
And yet, Jason still hasn’t moved. Dick shifts his weight, wincing slightly when his side pulls.
Awkwardness has settled over the anger. “Don’t worry about it,” he adds again, trying for casual and failing miserably. Truth is, he might be hurt that Jason doesn’t have more of a reaction, but Dick doesn’t have the mental capacity to unpack that at the moment.
He turns toward the fire escape more than ready to forget this night ever happened.
“Pause.”
Dick freezes with one hand on the metal, “What?”
“I said pause.”
“I’m not a TV, Hood.” Dick chastises as he turns back.
Jason gives him a look that clearly says are-you-serious-right-now?
“You’re not going home like that.” He gestures vaguely to Dicks body. “You’re bleeding through your suit, you stitched yourself up like a drunk field medic, and you just admitted you’re one bad day away from snapping someone’s spine.”
“I’m fine.” Dick says with a heavy sigh.
Jason’s eyes roll so hard Dick can practically hear it, “Yeah… you keep saying that.” He jerks his head toward the street. “Safe house is three blocks over. Move.”
He cannot be serious, Dick thinks, crossing his arms.
“Hood—”
“Nope.”
Jason grabs his and Dicks duffles and slings them over his shoulders. “You already dumped your emotional baggage on me. The least you can do is let me patch the physical damage.”
Dick snorts, fighting a smile. It’d be stupid to refuse mostly because it’ll just be more irritating when his brother drags him along than if he goes willingly.
“...Fine.”
----------------
They walk in silence. Jason refuses to let Dick grapple so it takes a good twenty minutes or so in the bitter early morning cold to reach Jason’s safe house.
It isn’t much once they arrive.
Second floor of an abandoned apartment building with reinforced doors and blackout curtains. Inside it's mostly concrete, an old couch, a folding table covered in gear, and a fridge humming loudly in the corner.
Dick drops onto the couch while Jason sets the duffle bags aside.
His brother rifles around the kitchen for a while before tossing a med kit on the folding table.
“Shirt off.”
Dick groans, “Buy me dinner first jerk.”
Genuinely all he wants to do is sleep. Can they just wait a while before redoing the stitches? It’s not like he’s going to die from a couple grazes.
Jason gives him a flat look over the table. “Shirt. Off.”
Dick rolls his eyes and stands, peeling the top half of his suit off and letting it drop to the floor in a heap of sweat and blood. The gauze across his stomach is already soaked through.
His brother whistles low as he peels it back, “Jesus, Dick.”
“It’s not that bad—seriously? We’ve both been injured far worse than this. It was just a knife graze.”
“You stitched this?” Jason asks, ignoring Dick’s comment entirely.
“Yes.”
Jason leans in closer, inspecting the line of uneven sutures.
“...you ever considered a second career as a butcher?”
Dick huffs a weak laugh, “Shut up—I’ve stitched more injuries then you’ve ever done. Plus the bat dislodged them.”
Jason rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue instead he grabs a disinfectant and a fresh needle.
“This is gonna suck.”
What hasn’t sucked about this entire night? Dick thinks bitterly as his brother starts cutting the old stitches free and starting over. Dick has to grip the edge of the folding table while the needle bites into his skin again. He’d complain but honestly it felt nice not to have to twist and bend to get the needle in again.
Jason works in silence for a few minutes before moving to the graze on Dick’s shoulder. A few stitches and more gauze later he takes a step back.
“Try not to get hit there again tonight—please? Or you’ll ruin my workmanship.”
Dick rolls his eyes, “I’ll do my best.”
His brother disappears for a few minutes into the bedroom down the hall before chucking shirts and sweats at Dick from across the room.
After Dicks removed the rest of his suit and is now promptly drowning in Jason’s oversized clothes his brother enters from the small kitchen area and with two beers in tow.
They both collapse on the couch, drinks in hand, and for a while neither of them says anything. Just the sound of the distant traffic outside and people shouting from a near by apartment fill the air.
Finally, Jason exhales.
“I suck at this part.”
Dick glances over at his brother's profile; the scar that traces the whole left of his face is more prominent in the low light of the living room.
“What part?” He asks, tipping his beer back. Jason just gestures between the two of them.
“The talking part.”
Dick can’t help the light laugh, even as it stings his side. “Yeah… you’re not great at it.”
Jason rolls his eyes and nudges his socked foot with his own.
“Most of our family isn’t,” he admits leaning back against the back of the couch. “You’re the only one who’s good at that empathy crap. Babs isn’t bad but she’s too blunt.”
Dick raises a brow, “Empathy crap?” He questions swirling his finger in the condensation of the bottle.
“You know what I mean jackass,” Jason quips. “You're good at reading people. De-escalating. Being… nice.”
He grimaces like the word ‘nice’ tastes weird coming out of his mouth. “I guess the rest of us just leaned on it..”
Dick shrugs, rolling the cold bottle against his palms. “Tim isn’t bad at it.”
That earns a snort from his younger brother, “Yeah—but he’s too stubborn. On a good day, sure, but not usually.”
“He is pretty bullheaded.”
“No shit.”
They sit in silence again for a moment before Dick finally sighs, setting the bottle down on the ground in front of him. “Sorry I dumped all that on you.”
Jason turns to him, “Don’t be.”
Dick opens his mouth to protest but Jason shakes his head, “I’m glad you did.”
Am I dreaming? Dick thinks he must be if Jason Todd just said that. He hates being overrun with other people's issues. Dick knows it makes his own anxiety spike even before the pit and the lack of control that followed. Overwhelming emotions were hard enough as it was for him.
Jason tilts his head, “Everyone holds you up like this—I don’t know—ideal version of what we’re supposed to be. You were the first of Batman's side kicks. The original Robin. You’re a different symbol than any of us will ever be.”
Dicks lip twists in disgust. He wouldn’t call himself the ‘ideal’ version of a vigilante. He just—did what was right. Wasn’t that what most people did everyday? Put one foot in front of the other and try to make the world marginally better than how it was when they woke up.
Some people do it by teaching, others punch people in the face, some people build legacies, start fundraisers, or donate. It’s not like Dick was… special.
“I think—sometimes we forget that you’re just as human as the rest of us.” Jason finishes, polishing off his beer.
Dick leans his head back against the couch cushions. This was… a lot for almost seven in the morning on a random Tuesday in the middle of October.
For a moment though, Dick lets the words sink in, watching the ceiling fan above them spin slowly overhead.
“You know,” he admits quietly, “sometimes I miss the early days.”
He can feel rather than see Jason glance over.
“Circus?”
Dick shakes his head, “No—well yes but… no after that.”
A smile spreads on his face before he can help himself. “When it was just me, Alfred, and Bruce.”
Jason doesn’t speak.
“No Justice League,” Dick continues. “No alien invasions. No ten-person war room meetings.”
“Just crime?” Jason asks with a chuckle.
“Just crime,” Dick agrees, taking a long drag of his beer, the taste is both hoppy and sweet. “I love you guys. I just—I’m only one person.”
Jason watches him for a few moments, the edge of his empty bottle resting against his lower lip. For once he doesn’t have some smart comment ready. The city noise filters faintly through the boarded window behind them—a motorcycle somewhere down the block, the restless hum Gotham never really loses its edge.
Finally his brother nods once, “I’m sorry—for any part I may have played in this.”
A small smile that spreads across Dicks face. Jason Todd apologizing? He must look worse for wear than originally thought. The idea makes Dick huff a laugh as he closes his eyes for a moment.
The adrenaline from the fight is wearing off now, leaving behind the heavy, bone-deep exhaustion he’d been running on all night.
“You’re not going home tonight.” Jason says after a while.
Dick cracks one eye open, “I’m fine.”
His brother immediately snorts, “You stitched yourself up like a medieval field surgeon and then sprinted into a gunfight.”
Dick can only shrug as Jason gestures lazily toward the hallway where he had come from earlier.
“Bedroom is down there.”
“I’m not kicking you out of your bed, Jay.”
“You’re not kicking me out,” Jason says. “I’m telling you to take it.”
Dick shakes his head, already shifting to stay exactly where he is.
“The couch is fine.”
Jason stares at him for a long second. Then he reaches over and jabs a finger directly into Dick’s side. Not the injured one, thankfully.
Still the action jerks Dick back into an upright position, “Hey—”
His brother raises a singular eyebrow, "I'll poke the stitched side instead if you don’t get your ass up.”
“You’re an asshole.” Dick says with a scowl, just as Jason jerks his thumb back down the hall again.
“You’re bleeding and you look like you’re about five minutes away from face-planting into that coffee table. Go sleep.”
Dick opens his mouth to protest again but Jason simply raises his hand to stop him.
Sighing, he eventually pushes himself off the couch, his side pulling painfully causing him to hiss through his teeth.
Jason leads him slowly to the back room, a hand hovering like Dick would fall over before he got there. The bedroom is small and bare—just a mattress on a metal frame, a nightstand with a lamp, and a stack of spare ammunition crates shoved against the wall. Dick pauses in the doorway.
“You live like a raccoon.”
Jason leans against the frame beside him.
“Low overhead,” he says with a smirk.
Dick shakes his head clamoring under the covers. His entire body sinks into the mattress like gravity suddenly doubled and he realizes just as quickly that Jason was right—not that he’d ever say that out loud.
A moment later he rolls to his good side carefully just as Jason drags an extra blanket from the closet and throws it over him. He lingers slightly like he’s making sure Dick is actually going to stay before flicking the lamp off and stepping away.
“Hey,” Dick mutters, eyelids already pulling shut.
Jason glances back over his shoulder.
“Thanks.”
His brother shrugs. “Don’t get used to it dickhead,” he says as he shuts the door behind him with a soft click.
Asshole. Dick thinks fondly, listening to the faint sounds of his brother moving around—fridge opening, a cabinet shutting, the creak of the couch when Jason drops onto it. The quiet that settles afterward is different from the silence of Dick’s apartment earlier that night.
It feels… warmer.
His eyes close before he realizes he’s drifting.
----------------
The next time Dick becomes aware of anything, it’s to pressure against his shoulder and a low raspy voice saying.
“Hey.”
Dick groans at the intrusion and buries his face deeper into the pillow his head is pressed against.
“Dick—”
The pressure intensifies—a hand—Dick realizes and it’s started shaking him back and forth.
He cracks one eye open. The room is dim but no longer dark, gray afternoon light slipping through the slats of the blinds and striping the opposite wall.
When his eyes focus he sees Jason standing beside the bed staring down at him in mild humor.
Dick squints up at him, “What time is it?”
Jason snorts, “Two.”
“...pm?” Dick questions adrenaline starting to overtake the fog of sleepiness.
Jason nods once, “You slept almost eight hours. A novelty in our line of work, honestly.”
Dick for the life of him cannot remember the last time that had happened without the interruption of alarms, patrols, or someone kicking his door in—both literally and metaphorically.
Before he can attempt to dig further his stomach interrupts the train of that with a loud, hollow growl.
“Yeah that’s one of the reasons I woke you up.” Jason says with a laugh.
Scrubbing his hands over his face, Dick slowly pushes himself upright and against the headboard. The bandage across his stomach pulls tight causing him to wince against the pain.
Jason’s eyes trail to the bandages before he fishes an orange pill bottle from his pocket tossing them into Dick’s lap along with a water bottle that somehow ended up on the nightstand at one point.
“Painkillers.” Is all he says. Dick picks up the bottle, eyeing the suspiciously unlabeled orange plastic.
“What are these?” He asks with a raised brow.
Jason shrugs, “Normal ones—I’m not trying to knock you out.”
If the pain hadn’t doubled overnight he might have refused them, but with the throbbing radiating from what he knows is both the stitches and nasty bruising, he takes them without much further hesitation.
His brother watches until he’s finished half the bottle of water before stepping closer, his eyes narrow at the fraying edges of tape on the bandages.
“Hold still.” He orders while Dick pushes himself up as much as he can go. Jason peels the edge of the dressing back just enough to inspect the stitches.
“Still closed,” he mutters more himself. “Your swelling and bruising but it’s not horrible.”
He presses the tape back down and gives Dick’s shoulder a brief pat like he’s confirming the patient survived the night.
Then in true Jason fashion he states flatly, “Congrats. You’re not dead.”
Dick laughs as much as he can before the pain in his side cuts it short.
When he looks back up Jason was disappearing back into the kitchen area. He could hear cabinets opening and the fridge humming louder after the door was swung open.
He stretches carefully on the bed, shoulders popping as the stiffness from sleep works its way out of his muscles, but the time he’s comfortable again Dick’s stomach has decided it’s had enough and growls loudly in the empty room.
Jason returns a moment later tossing something toward him from the door frame. Dick barely catches the wrapped bundle before it lands in his lap—it’s warm and smells like grease—his mouth waters despite himself.
His brother settles on the edge of the bed near Dick’s feet with his own greasy wrapped cheeseburger. And for the first time in what feels like a while Dick actually looks at him.
There’s no armor, or helmet, or belt bristling with weapons.
Just Jason—sweats, a worn t-shirt, hair sticking out. Usually his hair is pushed back now it’s fallen in loose uneven waves, dark strands sticking out in several directions like he chose not to deal with it today.
The white streak on the top catches the light from the windows, bright against the rest of the black.
He looks softer like this—less Red Hood—more the fifteen year old kid Dick only really saw in memories and pictures saved in his phone that Jason doesn’t know exist. If he did he’d probably wipe the phone just to get rid of them.
There’s also a faint line of shadows under his eyes too, the kind that show up like a badge of honor for all vigilantes.
“What are you staring at dickhead?” Jason taunts gesturing to the unwrapped cheeseburger still sitting warmly in Dicks grasp. “Eat your fucking food.”
Dick shakes his head, biting back a smile.
“Nothing—you just look tired.”
Admittedly Dick wants to say that he feels like they’re kids again. When Jason used to beg him to come to the manor when he’d been injured on patrol or benched by Bruce. They’d eat junk food and watch trashy movies in the living room making messes until Alfred ordered them to clean up.
Except the caveat is; what Jason hates more than anything is being reminded of who he ‘used’ to be.
Dick refuses to believe that his little brother is as completely gone as he emphasizes. He can see it—especially last night—that somewhere the same fifteen year old punk kid who’d finally got a shot at being more than what people told him he could be. Before life dealt him a terrible hand.
“Yeah, well I slept three hours on a couch that’s older than both of us.” Jason’s quiet chuckle pulls Dick from his memories.
He hides the words he wants to say behind a bite of food.
“You could’ve taken the bed.” He adds, mouth full which would probably give Alfred a heart attack.
Jason scoffs, “And listen to you complain about your stitches all night?”
Dick huffs and leans back, because Jason was right—he absolutely would have complained maybe even whined about it.
For several minutes, the only sound that follows in the room is the quiet rustle of burger wrappers and the low hum of the AC unit in the other room. Dick takes another bite, slower this time, his stomach finally catching up to the fact that it’s being fed.
Halfway through the burger his mental to-do list comes back in full force—he freezes mid-chew.
“Shit.”
Jason glances sideways at his brow raised. Dick doesn’t give him an explanation, just starts reaching blindly around for his phone and—wait, where is his phone?
“Where’s my phone? I gotta call the girls. I was supposed to check in with them this morning.”
Jason doesn’t even bat an eye, just swallows his bite and tilts his head. “No you don’t.”
Dick levels a glare, the last thing he wants is more snide comments he’s already overdue and he needs to know if he needs to mobilize the titans for an extractions.
If they need an extraction Dick will have to power through the pain—maybe Bruce as some adrenaline or something that can get him—
“Wow you think so damn loud.” Jason says, taking another bite of his burger before continuing like he’s discussing the weather. “I already checked in with them.”
The tension in Dick’s shoulders dissipates fractionally just as quickly as confusion settles over his mind, “You did?”
Jason nods once bundling up his now finished burger wrapped. “Cass and Steph wrapped their mission this morning with Wondergirl.” He shrugs. “They’re heading back now.”
Dick blinks half-eaten burger still resting in his hands. “You… talked to them? Like words and everything, not just a text?”
Jason nods, “I know the rules dumbass. Cass picked up, said they’re going to meet Babs in Paris before all flying back together.”
The ‘rules’ were implemented after a rather unfortunate abduction that almost got Tim killed because no one thought to physically hear him speak instead of just text. Since then all checks in are by call only—no exceptions.
With the knowledge the girls are at least safe another thought bullies through.
“Wait—I still need my phone. Bruce and Tim—”
“Also handled.”
Dick pauses Jason gesturing to the rest of his uneaten burger.
“I had some choice words for them—long story short they sorted their shit out.”
Well that was… unexpected. Usually Jason just makes arguments worse by picking any side that isn’t Bruce’s. Dick sits stunned for what feels like minutes before part of him is ready to give up and just relax, but as always there’s something else.
“...I’ve still got a few cases I should—”
“Nope—nada. Stop. I looked at those too. Now will you for once stop worrying?”
Dick squeezes his eyes shut a few times to hopefully wake up from whatever weird nightmareish heaven he’s stepped foot into.
Jason doesn't even seem phased by the existential crisis Dick is having in his mind. “That bombing case you’ve been chasing? I called the Blüdhaven PD and got an update.”
“And?” Dick props finally taking another bite of his burger.
“They’ve got a suspect vehicle now,” Jason says. “Partial plate. They’re pulling traffic cams. Said they’d reach out to you with a match.”
No words come to him as he sits there racking his brain for anything else. There’s always something else. To his bewilderment Jason just keeps going, “And the hotel murder thing you mentioned? I forwarded the files to Babs this morning. Figured she’d be able to help get some leads.”
Dick stares at him like he didn’t just rearrange the laws of physics.
“Wow—you didn’t have to do that.”
Jason snorts and a genuine laugh pulls from his lips. One Dick isn’t sure that last time he heard.
“You’ve been putting up with my bullshit for how many years now?”
Dick smirks faintly, “Many.”
“Exactly.” Jason gestures vaguely in Dick’s direction. “Figured I could cover you for one afternoon.”
The tension in his body finally bleeds out, the worry dissipates allowing him to finally finish the food that’s been sitting in his lap for the better part of fifteen minutes.
After he’s chugged some more water and bundled up his trash Jason stands and throws it away tapping Dick’s knee as he comes up to his side of the bed.
“This wasn’t free,” he starts, teal eyes narrowing and suddenly the warmth that Dick had been feeling starts to chill. Only to be replaced with irritation when Jason cracks a shit eating grin, “Damn I could see your face change. I’m kidding… mostly. I just want you to promise me something.”
Dick lets out a shaky breath—his brother will be the death of him one day he swears it.
“What do you want, Jay?”
A real smile tugs at Jason's lips, “Next time you get that overwhelmed?”
Dick narrows his eyes, rolling his hand over to force his brother to continue.
“Be an asshole for once.”
“...what?”
“Stop trying to solve everyone’s problems,” Jason says plainly. “Tell people to deal with their own shit sometimes. You don’t have to be the damn adult every time.”
Without another word Jason turns and leaves, fishing Dick’s phone from his pocket and tossing it onto the bed next to him. He shuts the door again letting the quiet settle back in the small room. It occurs to Dick that Jason may be the only person in his entire family who would ever say any of that outloud.
Dick’s phone stays face down on the mattress beside him the rest of the day—even when it buzzes.