Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jaye misses Dick. She sighs, her breath floating out and up into the chilly night. 

She misses him. Misses waking up next to him, his arms thrown out to touch her and his breath tickling over her throat. Misses watching him, intense blue eyes reading his case files, twirling a pen in between his calloused fingers, and the way he tugs a hand through his hair, biting his lip.

Her hand twitches against her thigh at the thought—the way she dragged her own fingers through his hair, the way the wind tousled it flying around Gotham, the way she tugged at it when he-

Jaye inhales through her nose, the exhale blowing past her lips, heavy and shaky. 

She misses him. 

That’s all she’ll be allowed at this point. No use thinking about anything else.

She sighs again, tilting her head back against the bricks. The night sky glitters above her, free of smog and smoke. Baltimore is nothing like Gotham’s darkened alleys and gothic high rises.

Jaye slides her left leg up, getting her boot flat on the pavement before bracing her uninjured arm against the wall. With a painful grunt, she gets her feet back under her but stays crouched in the shadows stretching across the alley.

Wincing, she slowly straightens up. The wound on her side pulls at her skin uncomfortably. She peeks down at it and curses.

Her armor shines in the streetlights, her blood darkening the shredded kevlar and spandex. Standing now, it’s not hard to notice her pants sticking to her upper thighs or the way her belt feels like it’s digging into her skin. 

“Fuck.” Her hand balls into a fist against the bricks, head bent as she closes her eyes and breathes. 

This was not how her night was supposed to go. 

But no one could ever say that Jaye Todd had good luck. 

She takes a short step out, barely bracing against the wall and putting her full weight back where it should be. Her next breath is a bit shaky but not unmanageable. She doesn’t feel lightheaded, so she must not have lost too much blood. Yet.

Parkouring over rooftops back to her safe house might not be as manageable.

She’s made it a few blocks over—slowly, cautiously making her way over air units, underneath water towers and clothes lines, and vaulting low rises—when her comm goes off.

“What?” Jaye growls out, lowering her voice. She doesn’t have her helmet, meaning her voice is very much unhindered by a voice modulator that could hide the fact that she’s bleeding out and in immense pain. 

“Hood,” Oracle greets, mechanized voice crackling over her comm. “Quick question, the Yakuza was involved in that incident at the Cape, right?”

She blinks, frowning to herself and staring at the next gap she needs to cross. “Yes?”

“What the hell?”

She jerks at the sound of Stephanie’s voice bursting in her ear, and hisses, the movement pulling at her wound again. 

“If he was involved at the Cape fight, why is he at the Lounge?” Tim’s voice, questioning and analytical as always, slips into the conversation.

“O,” Jaye hisses, pressing down harder on her side. 

“Sorry Hood,” Oracle starts. “We need any information you have on the Yakuza’s recent movements, they’re getting too involved with Nightwing and Red Robin’s op.”

She doesn’t say anything. Her and the Bats haven’t exactly been on good terms lately—good enough to talk intel and casework, but not good enough to be personal and friendly. They didn’t take her going dark on them all, without explanation or reason, for almost two months very well. 

She didn’t take the break-up with Dick very well. 

“Please Hood,” Barbara asks, her voice a bit softer, a bit more human than computer.

But she can’t contemplate Barbara’s tone too much because standing still for more than 30 seconds is making her realize her vision is fucking shit. Black dots flicker in her peripheral in a worrying amount.

She should…probably sit down and call for a pick-up. 

Limping over to the air vent she slipped by earlier, she slowly lowers herself down, leaving a bloody handprint against its gray exterior.

“Agent A will make those brownies you like?” Steph chimes in. “And we can deliver ‘em for you?”

Jaye grunts but stays quiet. Instead, she fumbles around her pouches looking for another emergency bandage. Not that it would do her any good now. She needs stitches and a bag of blood, not another soaked bandage.

“Hood-...” She stills, listening to Nightwing…Dick stall out. 

“Is fucking everyone on this call?” She grumbles out, ripping open her bandage with her teeth.

“Unfortunately,” Damian sneers.

“Robin, enough.” Bruce’s voice is less Batman, more exasperated father-figure, his baritone voice filling the remaining space on the line. 

His voice reminds her of…it just reminds her. 

“I should have warned you, Hood. Apologies but we really need the information,” Barbara says. There’s the familiar click-click-tap-tap of her keyboard and mouse in the background. It’s almost soothing, a hypnotic rhythm against the white noise of the city. 

“I don’t-” She grunts, tearing the old bandage off and replacing it with the new one. “I can’t really help you now.” 

Steph groans and she hears multiple sighs on the line. She’d roll her eyes if she could. Jaye is not as unhelpfully pugnacious as they think she is, she isn’t.   

“I told you it would be useless to ask,” Damian huffs, haughtily. He sounds a little too much like Talia sometimes.

“Shut up Robin,” Tim snipes.

“You-!” 

“If you two don’t stop, I will mute you both,” Barbara interrupts icily.

“Hood, we really, really need this info, okay?” Steph asks again. “Do you need time to get to your files or something? What’s up?”

“She clearly does not care or wants to give up her own target,” Damian starts. 

“Shush,” Cass states, just a tad menacingly. Cass’ low voice comes out of nowhere, reminding her there’s a worse spook on the comms than her or Tim. 

“Can I throw him off a roof?” 

“No.” Bruce and Dick answer Tim’s grumbled question in eerie unison.

“Hood?” Steph cuts through the rambling arguments of the others. And Barbara’s rhythmic typing echoes over her line, hidden below the chirping of the birds and the big ole bat. She tilts her head back against the air vent, breathing in. 

The sky really is different from Gotham.

She kind of hates it.

“Sorry,” Jaye starts, a smile curling on her lips. “Bit busy bleeding out to death, maybe next time.”

“Hood!” Steph exclaims. Her loud worry bleeds over the line. It makes her feel a bit warm and gooey, knowing despite her shitty personality and isolation, Steph (at least) isn’t taking it to heart.

“Please tell me you’re joking, please,” Tim sputters out. 

“Why are you in Baltimore?” Barbara hisses out. She ignores the blatant lack of boundaries from Oracle once again—this time, she’ll give her a pass.

“What? I’m not allowed to die somewhere besides Gotham?” She mutters, crumpling her bandage wrapper in her fist.

Steph curses, loudly. 

“En route.” 

She shudders at Dick’s voice echoing over the comm. His voice is hard, a hint of a snarl in his throat. She’s not sure what to make of his tone, or the way it cuts into her, gut churning with a pavloved-instinct of panic and excitement.

“Same,” Cass declares. 

“Heading for the Batplane now,” Bruce informs the group. “Robin, head to the Clocktower.”

“What-”

“Now, Robin.”

“Jaye, give me a sitrep,” Barbara asks over the chatter and curses. 

“Don’t know,” She responds, head rolling against the vent. Her memories are fuzzy, filled with Gotham’s smog and smoke and curses and none of the city she’s presently in. It shouldn’t be this hard to conjure up the fight, but it is. It’s not a good sign.

“Jaye,” Barbara says, stone-cold. “Stop being obtuse and let us help.”

“I’m not trying to be,” She huffs, wincing as pain shoots through her abdomen with every deep breath she takes. 

The bandage is soaking up more blood than it can take. She knows she needs to keep pressure on it, but her arms are so heavy. 

“I was…fighting something?” She narrows her eyes like it will help her remember. “Got stabbed. Woke up in an alley.”

“Do you have a head wound?” Bruce asks, soft but stern. “Any vision loss? Dizziness?”

She mechanically reaches up, gently prodding at her skull. Pain fizzles and spikes against her head. Her fingers come back bloody. 

“Oh,” She whispers, looking down at the blood coating the grooves of her fingertips. That would explain the vision shit.

“Jaye? Do you have a head wound?” Barbara repeats the question. She hums, too exhausted to truly speak, too tired to move. 

“It’s going to take us too long,” Dick growls out. “Call Clark or Bizzaro.”

“I don’t-” Barbara starts.

“Call them!”

Frowning, her one hand laying limp in her lap and the other on her stab wound, she ignores the rest of the conversation of Barbara’s directions, Tim’s comments, and Dick’s demands. Jaye thought they were done with this whole caring-for-each-other bit. 

The entire family gets overbearing and overprotective every time she gets hurt, but Dick’s protectiveness was just too much, leaning too far into possessive rather than supportive. It always felt different than Bruce’s shielding or Barbara’s safe-guarding, and she never realized why until they tumbled into bed. 

But Dick…he sounds the same as he did when they were together, worried and scared, a dangerous storm bubbling and raging in his chest, his fists, his eyes. 

There’s a sudden hiss and she snaps her head up. Her eyesight is spotty at best, but it’s not hard to miss the bumbling black mass stretched across her field of vision, making its way across the roof.

She remembers what she was fighting. 

“The Batplane will be there in less than 10, Nightwing,” Bruce explains. 

“We’re not risking her,” Dick snarls. 

Jaye takes a deep breath, not taking her eyes off the shadowy mass. Skin pulling at her open wound and pain roiling through her with each short breath, she won’t be able to handle another round of fighting.

“Dick, we’re not saying that-” Tim interrupts.

“Jaye, your tracker has you at 15th St., is that still accurate?” Barbara cuts through Dick and Bruce’s argument.

She takes another deep breath. It rattles in her lungs, making a windchime out of her bruised and broken ribs.

“Jaye…Penelope Todd. Heir to the…All-Caste,” The black mass gurgles.

It’s voice is both nerve-wracking and enthralling all at once. The whispered promise of death and peace wrapped in one swirling mass of untamable shadows and chaos. A creature of the Untitled. 

“Jaye? Jaye, I need you to respond,” Barbara implores, voice tinged with wavering doubt.

“She could be unconscious by now, especially if she has a head wound,” Tim comments.

“Not helpful, Red!”

“If you won’t call Clark-” Dick barks out, aiming his words at Bruce.

“If she doesn’t have her helmet or tracker, she couldn’t have gone far from the tracked location-”

“She has a safehouse on Evans Avenue, it’s about seven blocks from her tracker location,” Barbara supplies. 

“The Untitled…send their regards.” The mass looms, twisting around and metamorphosing before her eyes. It’s an ugly, deformed thing, but there’s a hint of beauty in its chaotic form. She always appreciated the hard truth of the Untitled, and hated the power and lurking darkness within.

“Orange juice.” 

The chatter over the comms dies out. Even the Untitled creature pauses at her soft spoken words. She continues to stare it down, knowing she won’t be able to defend herself against its impending attack. It’s here to kill her, and it won’t stop until it does.

“What? Orange juice?” Tim mutters to himself.

“Jaye?” Barbara asks. 

“She must have hit her head hard enough to knock any form of intelligence-” Damian begins to grumble. 

“Stop,” Cass snipes back.

“Call Clark. Now!” Dick cuts through them all, tinged with panic. 

She exhales, almost a sigh of relief. Her and Dick aren’t dating, aren’t…in love anymore. But he still knows her code words, and still responds to them, despite those facts.

Bruce grunts, before the resounding click of his comm being muted sounds over the line. 

“Dick? What’s-?” Barbara pushes, the frantic click-clacking of her keyboard in the background. 

“It’s code, our code,” He says, breathlessly. 

“What’s it mean?” Steph asks, bulldozing straight to the point. 

The shadowy mass perks up and her eyes follow every minute movement, every painstakingly slow step it takes forward as some amalgamation of animal and human.

“Enemy close, need extract.” Dick’s voice goes quiet, filled with worry and a rage she hasn’t heard in months.

“Shit,” Steph curses. Tim follows closely with his own.

“Rest well…knowing you have carried the Untitled forward,” The mass speaks, voice distorted and resonant. Its arm—or maybe it’s a blade, it’s hard to tell with the black dots in her vision—strikes forward. 

Jaye grunts, which quickly turns to a pained cry as she rolls away from the air unit. She barely misses being stabbed again, but she can’t avoid the painful aggravation of her ribs. Scrambling to her knees, she rolls away again when the swirling blade stabs downward at her. 

“Jaye!” Multiple voices rebound against each other, a cacophony of terrified worry.

“I can’t get a hold of Bizzaro,” Steph interjects frantically. 

“Dammit!” Dick hisses. 

“B! Do you have an ETA on Superman?” Barbara demands. 

Barbara’s voice is drowned out by a sudden, piercing gush of air. She drags her head up from the rooftop, only to be met with a dark blob. Cursing, she flinches back and prepares for another attack.

“Hood-Jaye! Jaye, it’s me.” She blinks a few times, trying to rid the black dots and blurriness from her vision—black gauntlets hover near her. Familiar gauntlets.

Bruce . She slumps back to the rooftop, the tension draining from her body, leaving her loose-limbed and exhausted. 

Bruce is here. She’s good now, she’s okay. He can handle the rest. (Sort of).

“I’ve got her,” Bruce states, and she hears the echo of it over her comm piece. “Superman is handling the enemy. Oracle, I need you to pilot the Batplane the rest of the way.”

“On it.”

“Is Hood alright?” Damian demands, his words overlapping with the twin sighs of relief from Stephanie and Cass. 

“Sitrep, B,” Dick orders, a shaky snarl of a command. 

“Head wound, one stab wound to the lower abdomen. At least some bruised ribs, possibly broken,” Bruce lists off, patting her down gently.

Jaye hums in agreement, taking the time to just breathe. The rooftop is cool against her forehead, alleviating some of the scorching pain rattling around her skull.

Bruce maneuvers her onto her back slowly, gloved hands gentle against her ribs and shoulders. She grunts, sucking in a breath through her teeth. The pain isn’t the worst she’s been through, as she always says, but it’s still uncomfortable.

She fumbles with her earpiece as Steph, Tim, and Dick talk over each other, asking questions and for updates. A crescendo of noise that only adds to the pounding in her head. She lets it fall to the ground, rolling away from her. 

“ETA on the Batplane, Oracle?” Bruce asks quietly. He turns her comm off, placing it into one of his pouches. 

She reaches out, tapping his knee. 

“Jaye?” His attention falls back to her in an instant, squeezing her hand gently.

“Supes.” Her eyes flicker past him, trying to focus on the blurred blobs of what she hopefully assumes is Superman and the Untitled. She can barely make out what’s happening but she needs to know. She needs to be sure the Untitled is gone or injured enough to back off. 

“He’s fine,” Bruce takes a quick glance back before squeezing her hand again. “The..thing took off. It’s gone.”

She hums, hand going limp against him and head rolling against the rooftop. That’s good, at least. She won’t have to get back up and save Clark from the freakishness of the Untitled.

“Jaye, the Batplane is less than a minute out,” Bruce’s voice grows softer, hushed and muffled, his hand shaking against her shoulder. Or maybe it’s more of the fact that she’s losing focus, falling further and further under. 

“Jaye? Jaye! Stay with me, I need you to stay awake-”

Consciousness comes in the span of a heartbeat. She’s asleep one second and the next she’s awake and alert. Or, well, as alert as Jaye can be, given the heaviness clinging to her head and limbs. The air reeks of pure grade cleaning supplies and the fabric wrapped around her feels soft but scratchy. 

She’s definitely in an infirmary. Who’s infirmary, exactly, she’ll have to figure out. The air isn’t quite soggy in her lungs, and she doesn’t hear water dripping from stalagmites or the rustling of bat wings. Not the Batcave, at least. Leaving only two options. 

Opening her eyes, she immediately sighs. Leslie’s. She’s at the Thompkins Clinic, given the bland walls, wooden framed windows, and the distinct, overpowering smell of disinfectant. 

She rolls her head, taking in the slightly empty room and herself. Stephanie sits next to her, tucked into what she can only assume is a very uncomfortable chair. She looks tired, bags under her eyes and her blonde hair in disarray. Her bangs are tucked behind her ears, but the rest barely holds the messy form of a braid.

Steph blinks owlishly at her, leaning forward in the chair. “Jaye? You with me?” 

She grunts, before pushing herself into a sitting position. The movement jostles her ribs, but she only feels a twinge of pain. 

Shit, they must have put her on painkillers. No wonder she feels so off. 

“Jaye?” Steph stands, hovering over her. 

“Mm, fine,” She mutters, getting her other arm under her and straightening up.

The Untitled she fought isn’t dead and she doesn’t know how long she’s been out. She needs to warn the All-Caste about the sighting. Fuck, she needs to track this one down and actually kill it. 

Swinging her legs over the edge of her bed, her feet touch the cold tiles of the clinic room. She holds back the shiver that wants to crawl down her spine, and leans forward tugging at her gown. 

“Wait, wait, Jaye-Jaye! What are you doing?” Steph exclaims, rushing forward to gently push her back. 

She snarls at the touch, nerves alight. She’s always...touchy after a fight with the Untitled. They make her skin crawl, nerves numbed to the pain and any feeling beyond pure fucking rage. She loves-hates it. Add on the unwanted haziness of the painkillers they gave her, Jaye is not in a good fucking mood. 

“Go away,” She growls, shoving Steph’s hand off. Reaching to the back of her neck, she tugs at the laces of the gown. 

“Leslie and Alfred said you need to stay on bed-rest. We haven’t figured out what poisoned you yet and can’t risk-” Steph explains.

“Poison?” 

“Yes, dumbass,” She rolls her eyes and gently pushes her back again. “Poison, because you were poisoned. Leslie said it was from your stab wound.”

“Poison,” Jaye repeats, slowly. 

Poison…? Jaye couldn’t have been poisoned. That would actually require the Untitled to be smart. They may be tricky bastards but intelligence has never been their strong suit.

“Okay, maybe your head wound did, actually, do some damage,” Steph frowns, biting at her lip. “You were stabbed by something, we haven’t figured out who yet.”

She shakes her head at Steph’s words. Her head feels fine, meaning the head wound was more superficial than anything. If anything, the lingering effects of the painkillers they gave her are impeding her and her cognizance. She hates painkillers.  

“I know who stabbed me, but poison? I haven’t been poisoned,” She says, taking Steph’s confused silence to shimmy the rest of the gown top off. 

Her sports bra is still intact, if not gross with sweat and whatever they cleaned her up with. Her abdomen is covered in bandages, hiding the stitches she can barely feel threaded through her skin. The skin around the stark white bandages is bright red and hurts when she pokes and prods at it. 

The Untitled did some damage—she will admit that to herself and no one else—but not enough to keep her down for more than say 12 or 24 hours. 

“Wait, what? Wait, no, Jaye. Alfred and Bruce specifically told me to keep you on bed-rest,” Steph repeats her orders again, placing her hands on her hips.

“Not happening.” She glares up at her, before leaning over the side of the bed.

Ignoring the way the blood rushes to her head in a painful, migraine-inducing way, she ducks down to look under the bed for her other clothes. Usually Leslie will dump their clothes and whatever they came with into a box and shove it under the bed for later. 

There’s no box, but there is a duffle bag. One of Alfred’s post-surgery duffle bags, no doubt. She hauls it out.

“Jaye,” Steph starts, glancing at the bag and back to her. 

“No.”

“You have a head injury, broken ribs, and a stab wound! That’s been poisoned, are we just ignoring that part? Poisoned.”

“Not poisoned,” Jaye retorts, digging around for the spandex and pants in the bag.

“Explain that for me.” Steph crosses her arms. She’s clearly frustrated and not hiding it well, brow furrowed and nose scrunched up before she tries to wipe it off her face. Not that Jaye can blame her. 

Okay, maybe she is a bit pugnacious, she thinks to herself. But she earned that right and privilege. 

“I don’t have time for this,” She states.

She plants her feet on the ground and hauls herself off the bed. It’s…uncomfortable to put her full weight down and stand straight. Her ribs screech and creak at her, but she works on tugging the spandex and sweatpants on anyway.

Standing, she can see the bandages better. Her exposed skin is mottled in blue, green and yellows, hints of red brushed across it all. Pain pulsates through her with every small movement, her injuries demanding more attention with the painkillers wearing off. She can’t help but poke at it. 

“Stop doing that, you’re going to make it worse,” Steph hisses, reaching out and swatting at her hand.

“Shut up.”

“Oh my god, you are such a child sometimes,” Steph groans, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Go away, Stephanie,” She sneers, moving the duffle closer and rummaging around for the t-shirt inside.

“No, not until you tell me why you don’t think you’ve been poisoned.” 

This time, she rolls her eyes at the insistent ask. “I just know. Now, go away.”

“Seriously?” Steph grumbles. She sighs loudly, clearing hoping the resigned frustration will move Jaye to speak. 

She doesn’t respond, instead maneuvering herself slowly into the gray t-shirt in hand. It’s thankfully baggy, making it easier to pull over her head, but the movement still upsets her ribs and stomach.

“Would you at least wait until the others get back? They were really worried about you,” Steph suggests, moving to the bargaining stage of her denial. “Dick was worried.”

“Yeah, really getting that vibe seeing as how they’re not here,” She huffs and ignores the emotional knife to the gut. 

“They went to go find out who stabbed you,” Steph bites back. “Leslie didn’t even think you’d wake up until the morning. Because of the poison.”

“Not poisoned!”

“She said you were literally bleeding black goo. Poison.” 

“Wait, what?” She snaps her head back towards Steph. The metamorphosing substance that makes the creatures of the Untitled had been in her? 

“Really?” Steph throws her hands in the air. “That’s what gets you to stop, the black goo part? And not the whole you’ve been poisoned?”

“Shut up. But really? Black goo? Was it slimy goo or metamorphosing goo like Clayface?” She asks. 

Steph narrows her eyes, crossing her arms again. “No, you can lay back down and let Leslie or Bruce explain it.”

“Again, not happening.” Jaye raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not saying anything else until you lay back down,” Steph asserts, standing her ground.

Jaye shrugs, dropping the duffle back under the bed. No matter what type of goo it was, she can’t feel the presence of the Untitled around nor its darkness seeping into her bloodstream and soul. Their presence is gone, if it was even in her to begin with.

“Tell Alfred I said thanks for the clothes,” She quips back, before heading for the door.

“What? No, no Jaye, I mean it!”

“I’d like to see you try and stop me, blondie.” She rolls her eyes, ducking under Steph’s outstretched arms. 

“Bet!” And with those final words, Steph pounces.

“I think I have a concussion,” Jaye mumbles from the floor. 

“Shut up,” Steph hisses, laying a few feet across from her. Her floor companion rolls onto her back, groaning.

“Are you two done now?” Leslie glares down at the two of them, arms crossed and eyes alight with absolute fury. It’s a bit terrifying to be honest, almost as bad as Alfred’s own glare. Maybe the two of them compared notes when they dealt with teenage Bruce, she thinks to herself, hysterically.

“Yes ma’am,” She mutters, laying her arm across her eyes to avoid the glaring lights. She’s not moving anytime soon, if her ribs and pounding head have anything to say about it.

“Leslie? What-Steph! Jaye?” Tim’s voice echoes from down the hall, getting closer and closer. His question is followed by more thundering footsteps. The soft but hurried steps of familiar sneakers and the quiet clack of dress shoes echo over the hall, causing her to inwardly sigh.

“What happened?” Dick asks.

“What do you think?” Leslie rolls her eyes, before sighing. “Jaye attempted to leave, after multiple requests not to, and Stephanie, in her infinite glory, decided to stop her.”

“I didn’t think she’d actually be able to fight,” Steph groans out. Tim snorts, before he kneels between the two of them.

“Idiot,” He mumbles fondly. He pokes and prods Steph, not so subtly checking her over for injuries. 

“Rude,” She snipes back. The sound of her voice has her wincing, pain sparkling over her skull again. She hides her face into the crook of her elbow, hoping for some reprieve against the bright lights and noises. 

“Thank you for calling,” Alfred sighs, stopping next to Leslie. 

“Just get her back to bed, alright? Too much movement and she’ll rip her stitches.” Leslie nods, before taking back off down the hall with incoherent muttering. Probably, and hopefully, cursing the day she ever agreed to be Bruce’s guardian. 

“Let me see.” Dick keeps his voice low, but there’s a stubborn determination in his tone that means she’s going to listen. His fingers tap against her forearm before gently maneuvering it back down.

She blinks rapidly at the lights glaring down at her. Dick is kneeling down next to her, Alfred standing vigil behind him. It does not paint a very good picture for her escape. Dick and Alfred on the same page is never a good sign.  

Dick frowns, face scrunched up as if he was watching those terrible crime documentaries he always puts on for background noise. His fingers tilt her head towards him. He’s got that look in his eyes though, a look she didn’t think she’d see so soon. She grumbles but relents to the gentle coaxing. 

“Stephanie,” Dick states. 

“I know, I know.” Steph waves a hand in the air, wincing at his tone. 

Jaye would be wincing too if she thought she could move without being in pain—Dick’s tone was too close to night terror than concerned family member. Everyone always forgets he’s got a mean streak a mile wider than hers. She’s glad she’s not on the other side of it this time. 

“Miss Stephanie.” Alfred radiates disappointment above the both of them.

“Aw man, I know. I’m sorry Alfie,” Steph mumbles, apologetic and cowed.

“Sucker,” She grumbles. 

Dick brushes her bangs out of the way, stealing her attention. She does her best to avoid his eyes but can’t help scrunching her nose up at the tender touch. 

“Miss Jaye.” Alfred’s life-altering disappointment is now aimed at her. 

“I didn’t even do anything,” She whines, smacking her arm against Dick’s thigh.

Alfred merely raises an eyebrow down at her.

Dick huffs besides her, lips twitching with a smile. She tries to ignore the way Dick’s quick quirk of a smile makes her warm, wanting to preen at the fact.

“You’re supposed to be on bedrest,” Tim points out.

“I’m not poisoned,” She retorts. Dick and Alfred still at her words, faces quickly morphing to concern. 

“What?” 

“See? She said that as soon as I told her why she’s to stay put!” Steph says, waving a hand in her general direction. 

“Why do you think that, Miss Jaye?” Alfred asks, kneeling down on the other side of her. His brow is furrowed, concern lingering in the lines of his face. He’s trying to make her focus on him and hope his worry will make her cave to his questions.

It will not work on her. It won’t.

“Just do.”

“Oh my god,” Steph mutters, flopping back to the floor with an overly-exaggerated sigh. Tim merely raises an eyebrow at her antics before glancing back to them.

“Jaye,” Dick frowns, brushing her hair back again. She hisses in pain when he brushes too close to the bruise forming on her forehead.

“Sorry,” He murmurs, fingers rubbing soothingly around the bruise. “Why do you think it’s not poison?”

“Because I know, alright?” She growls out, swatting his hand off. Cursing under her breath, aimed at them and this whole situation, she tries to sit up but her ribs vehemently scream in protest.

Both Dick and Alfred’s arms come to help her up. Unable to hide the pain flickering across her face, she acquiesces and throws a few more colorful curses out. 

“You really shouldn’t be out of bed yet,” Dick comments, worry written all over his face. 

“No one asked for your opinion, Dickface,” She hisses. 

His fingers twitch against her shoulder blade before they retreat to his sides. He buries the hurt in his eyes quickly, but she still catches it. She tries not to think too deeply about it. 

“Miss Jaye,” Alfred interrupts, gently squeezing her shoulder for attention. She glares at him too, but lets him talk.

“Why don’t we start at the top?” He suggests, nodding to the group gathered. “Then we can work our way through what occurred and how to proceed.” 

“No.”

“Jaye,” Dick says. “We had to call Clark in.”

“My case, my rules,” She bites back.

Normally, at this stage, she would ask for back-up. She’s not stupidly suicidal. Not anymore, at least. But the case involves the Untitled, there’s no way the Bats could handle it. She can’t let them get involved.

“I think this stopped being just your case when we all tapped in,” Steph remarks blandly from the other side of Dick and Tim.

She opens her mouth to retort back, harsh venomous words on the tip of her tongue—she never asked for their help and she doesn’t need it nor want it—but Tim interrupts them.

“Before we start another argument, why don’t we get Jaye back to bed? She’s bleeding,” He points out, gaze dipping to her abdomen. 

“What?” She states, before looking down. A small circle of blood is expanding over her t-shirt, darkly stark against the fabric. 

“Shit,” Dick curses, quickly reaching out. He puts pressure down on her stitched wound and she can’t help but flinch, hissing at the pain. 

“You more than likely popped a stitch tussling with Miss Stephanie,” Alfred theorizes, before nodding to Dick and standing. 

Dick’s arms slip under her knees and around her back, and lifts. She glares at nothing and everything as Dick hauls her upward and back to the clinic bed. 

“I’ll get Leslie,” Tim says, taking off down the hall. 

“Miss Stephanie?” Alfred holds her room door open, turned towards the hall expectantly.

“I’ll call Bruce and Barbara,” Steph answers. 

She misses the rest of Alfred and Steph’s conversation, attention stolen by Dick and the looming prison of a clinic bed she’s about to be subjected to. 

“I’m fine. I don’t need to be here,” She argues, once more, glaring at the bed. Dick ignores her and sets her back down on it anyways. 

“Haven’t exactly given me a plausible explanation for your injuries and...not-poison,” He replies, pushing her back gently and reaching for the hem of her shirt. 

“Oh, so we’re back to the-not-trusting-each-other stage, awesome, great.” Jaye rolls her eyes, and turns her glare to him. 

He stills, before blurting out, “What?”

“Fuck you,” She hisses, pushing his hand away from her. 

“Jaye,” He says incredulously, before shaking his head. “You’re bleeding, I need to check-”

“It’s fine,” She repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. 

“It’s not fine.” Dick reaches out again and she snarls, smacking his arm. 

“Jaye,” He states, looking down at her. His gaze has gone from soft concern to nightmarish guardian, but she won’t be so easily cowed.

She raises her chin up in defiance, “No.” 

“I’m trying to help-”

“I don’t want your help,” She hurls back.

His shoulders ripple with a smothered flinch, jaw clenched tightly. He takes a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut before meeting her gaze again. 

“Please,” He asks softly.

“No.” 

“Jaye, either you let me help you or Alfred’s going to sedate you to keep you on bedrest,” He argues quietly. “And trust me, he will. He’s done it to Bruce a number of times.”

“You too probably,” She snaps back, and crosses her arms. “Still no.”

“I trust that you’re...fine, okay? But I need to check your stitches. Please,” He asks again. 

“If you trust me, then you’ll leave it the fuck alone,” She says, harshly. 

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. The lull in conversation gives her a few seconds to observe him up close without the glaring lights and watchful eyes of the others. Dick looks just as tired as Stephanie, the bags under his eyes even more prominent than usual. She has to remind herself not to reach out to him, that she can't reach out and chase the distress and exhaustion away.

“What is it that you want me to say? What do you want me to do here?” Dick inquires, a desperate frustration laced in his tone.

“You could leave,” She remarks. “You’re an expert at that, aren’t you?”

Dick flinches back at her words, hands flexing at his sides. Hurt and frustration flicker in his eyes, before his expression shutters completely.

Digging her nails into her arm, she swallows the apology on the tip of her tongue.

“Have the stitches come undone, Master Dick?” Alfred breaks the silence, re-appearing as quietly as a ghost and coming to stand next to Dick. He quickly glances between the two of them before sighing. 

“Miss Jaye, please remove your shirt so that I may inspect your bandages,” Alfred orders, moving to grab gloves.

“I’m fine,” She groans, rubbing at her forehead.

“Now, Miss Jaye.” Alfred doesn’t even bother to look back at her, but she gets the message through his tone. She groans again, flopping back against the bed.

“I have this handled, Master Dick. Would you please go check on Miss Stephanie? She may have an update on the attack from the others,” Alfred requests, nodding to him.

“Yeah, sure.” Dick’s voice is faint and lifeless, and she has to turn away. He walks out quietly, the door clicking shut behind him.  

She doesn’t like hurting Dick, she doesn’t. But he broke her heart.

Hurting him doesn’t make her feel better.

Jaye exhales slowly, barely a hitch in her breathing pattern as she switches from asleep to alert in one breath. The clinic window continues to slide open, the wooden frame and glass quiet despite the movement. She keeps her limbs loose, doesn’t make a sound as a body shifts through and lands softly on the tiles—it sounds like spandex and kevlar.

One of the Bats. Must be time for her nightly check-up, to make sure she hadn’t disappeared into the night without a word again. She audibly sighs, rolling to face her late-night visitor.

Nightwing’s white lenses blink and he slowly rises out of his crouch. He reaches behind him and shuts the window without taking his eyes off her. The streetlights illuminate this side of the room, painting streaks of yellow over his black-and-blue. Dick looks ethereal standing here in her room, the slivers of gold light cutting across his chest, so close to tracing the V-shaped symbol of his mantle. He’s always been…beautiful and she aches with it, the bittersweetness that fills her up when she looks at him and wants.  

“What?” She murmurs, glancing at Alfred resting on the room’s couch before turning back to him. 

“Just checking in,” He says, stepping forward.

Jaye rolls her eyes, propping herself up. “I’m fine.”

“The stab wound?” Dick moves closer, hovering at the edge of her bed. His fingers twitch against the sheet, barely touching it. He takes a long glance down at her abdomen.

“Fine.”

“And the…not-poison?”

“Really?” She glares up at him, unamused by his questions. Dick will leave her but he actually won’t at the same time. She doesn’t know whether to throw her pillow or hurl curses at him.

He is so infuriating and it hurts. She doesn’t know if it’s intentional or not, but it makes her second-guess everything. Thinking over and over if he meant what he said when he broke up with her, if he even wanted to, or if maybe it was for a mission or a case. Jaye can’t handle second-guessing herself. And with every late night visit and check-in, every possessive, protective snarl he gives over the comm line in her defense, she doubts. She doubts everything. 

“Go home, Dick,” She sighs, leaning back. 

“I just-” He starts.

“Wanted to check-in to make sure I wasn’t lying? Make sure I’m not dying again?” She mocks.

“Jaye,” He hisses quietly, hands clenched at his sides. 

She sits up, the sheet pooling to her lap as she hisses back, “You’ve checked in, assailed your guilt or whatever bullshit you needed.”

“Checking on you isn’t bullshit,” He says, a growl underlying his tone.

“Bullshit it isn't-”

“Is it really that difficult to think I actually care about you?” He interrupts her again, leaning down and caging her back against the bed with his arm. 

He gets close, almost too close, but she doesn’t flinch or push him away. She’s not the one who always walks away. And she sure as hell never backs down from a fight. 

“Yes,” She snarls, rage and frustration and hurt crawling over her skin.

Jerking back at her words, his movement sings with the pain she’s caused. The same hurt cuts into her with each argument they have, a double-edged blade she can’t help but grasp and indulge in. His mouth twists, a grimace and frown bundled together. 

“I do,” Dick insists, hands flexing at his sides. 

Jaye doesn’t want to get into this again. She doesn’t want to think about the hows and whys of their break-up. It’s a wound they keep pulling and pushing at it, keep ripping up the scab before it can fully heal. 

He takes a deep breath, continuing, “I do care about you.”

“I don’t believe you,” She states, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from screaming out more. 

Dick tenses, a minuscule flinch rippling over his shoulders. 

She loves Dick. It was the one thing that (unfortunately) survived her limbo of death, her resurrection through dirt and worms, and her revival in the green pits of hell. Out of all the things to survive, her pre-teen crush on her predecessor was not what she thought would live on. 

But it did. And she lived with it for a time. Ignored it for most. 

Then Dick was flying with her, working cases with her, tucked into her couch and watching stupid soap operas with her. She had a drawer at his Bludhaven apartment. He had a specific coffee maker on her kitchen counter. She had a shelf of books in his living room. He had knick-knacks scattered across her bedroom. 

She thought he felt the same.

But he didn’t. 

“I’m sorry I woke you,” He mumbles. 

Jaye doesn’t say anything, looking away. He doesn’t deserve to see the heartbreak, the painful longing in her eyes. She doesn’t look back until she hears the click of the window. There’s no shadow in the corners or flying in the air, just streetlights and smog. 

The choked anger curdles in her stomach, squeezing her heart until it’s agonizing, until it’s painful instead of resentful. He didn’t even try to fight her, didn’t even try to justify himself. And despite everything, despite this widening valley between them, she still loves him.

She’s pathetic. 

“Is everything alright, Miss Jaye?” The soft voice of Alfred jerks her from her spiraling thoughts. He’s sitting up on the couch, a worried gaze aimed at her. 

“I’m fine,” She repeats again tonight. 

Alfred holds her gaze, brow furrowed as he takes her in. She wonders what he sees, the all-seeing, all-knowing guardian of the family.

“I do not wish to pry,” He hums, swinging his feet to the floor. “But if you wish to talk about what has happened between you and Master Dick, I am all ears.”

She shakes her head. “It’s fine, Alfred.”  

“Miss Jaye,” He gently rebukes.

“It’s fine,” She hisses, fingers tangled in the sheet. She repeats herself over and over, I’m fine-I’m fine-I’m fine, and she’s not. She hasn’t been since Dick left and she hates to admit that. Admit how much he meant to her, admit how much her heart aches, admit how empty her life feels without him, admit how worried she is, heart still tender with the thoughts of Dick and her. 

It’s sad and pathetic. She’s Red Hood, scourge of the underworld and champion of Crime Alley. She’s the heir to the All-Caste and second in line to inherit Ma Gunn’s criminal empire. She can’t be moping around over-….over the one man who made her feel safe and loved. She can’t be stuck on the one man who cared enough to get to know her inside and out, who listened to her instead of waving her off as hysterical or stuck in the past. She can’t linger on the man who loved her unconditionally and still broke her heart.  

“It was never meant to last, I knew that,” She continues, blurting the words out before she can stop herself. She needs to purge this wound, hollow out her heart and cut the string connecting them for good. She needs to pick herself up and move on, like she’s always done before. 

“Contrary to popular belief, Miss Jaye, everyone was surprised when it didn’t,” Alfred admits. 

“What?” She stops, the words slowly processing though her hazy frustration.

“I could sit here, perhaps, and list out all the ways Master Bruce or Miss Barbara, or I thought why the two of you would last,” Alfred sighs, closing his eyes briefly. “But do our opinions matter in the end?” 

She has no answer for him. 

The Bats took a…hands-off approach to her and Dick dating. They didn’t care, but not in an ‘ignorance is bliss’ way, but rather a ‘not a big deal’ way. And she never wanted to poke that bear.

Jaye did care, just a tiny bit, of what they thought. How could she not? Her entire life was almost always defined by what the others thought of her and her choices. Not that she would ever say it out loud, but she wanted them-she wanted Bruce to approve of her and Dick.

Of course, the approval she wanted so badly comes after Dick breaks up with her.

“Why do you believe it would not work out between the two of you?” He asks, patiently. 

“I-…” She stalls out, mouth parted as her voice fails her.

Why? Why does she think it was never going to work out? Jaye loves Dick, loved being with him and feeling safe and loved. She loved challenging him and growing together, whether it was in training or in taking better care of herself. She loved annoying him and their inside jokes, and she loved loving him. There was never a painful, memorable moment where she thought they couldn't figure things out.

“I don’t know,” Jaye murmurs. She droops, falling back against the pillow with a low groan and a wince as it jostles her ribs. 

Alfred gives her a pointed look and stays silent. 

“I just…I don’t know, Alfie,” She says, sliding a hand down her face. “I thought we were okay and then he just…”

She throws her hands in the air with another groan. Yeah, they fought sometimes but it was over how to handle cases or what they wanted for dinner or the fact that Dick keeps being dragged to space for missions and he knows she hates that. There was the occasional fight over Bruce’s bullshit, but that is completely normal for them. She truly thought they were doing okay. 

“May I ask what he said exactly, when he…ended things?” Alfred prods. 

“Just that he wanted to end things,” She grumbles, glaring up at the ceiling. “And that stupid bullshit, ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’”

Barely able to contain the snarl in her throat, the anger swells back up in her chest. She remembers hearing those damned words and just the utter shock and contempt she felt at them. For a fleeting moment, she thought that maybe she didn’t know Dick as well as she thought she did. 

Alfred hums, his give-me-a-moment-I’m-thinking hum Bruce inherited, and turns to glance out the window. She sighs quietly, expelling her leftover anger with her exhale and follows his gaze.

The skyline is clear of any vigilantes that she can see at least. She’s betting one of them is perched on the clinic rooftop for guard duty. Bruce is a paranoid fucker like that. She tries not to imagine that there’s a bluebird sitting up there, still watching over her despite their fighting.

“In previous relationships,” Alfred stops, sighing abruptly before turning back to her. “Master Dick mourned the fact that, often, the reason why they failed was almost always placed at his feet.”

Alfred has her full, undivided attention, and she wiggles up on her pillow to get a better look at him. His words aren’t truly new to her. She’s heard stories from Kori, Roy, and Barbara, all the complicated feelings and unfinished, abrupt endings. 

“While I do love and cherish you all, I also know that all of you are not the most open regarding your emotions,” He continues. 

She makes an indigent sound, frowning. Alfred merely raises an eyebrow, perfectly encapsulating the exasperation he must feel. 

“You are almost always waiting for the other shoe to drop. A habit, I’m afraid, we failed to break when you were younger,” He remarks. 

A habit that’s been proven right at every twist and turn of her miserable life. She turns away, biting the inside of her cheek. Catherine and Willis, Bruce, Sheila, Talia, Dick, the list goes on and on. It’s a habit she can’t let go of, a habit she refuses to. 

It’s an instinct she trusts, and yet, it never screamed and screeched in her head when she was with Dick.

“And Master Dick has a bad habit of throwing himself into casework or distancing himself when things become…tense,” He explains, brows furrowed. “Except, as I mentioned, many of us were surprised that he did distance himself from you.” 

Jaye meant what she said earlier—she thought they were okay. Dick told her they were good, that he loved her, but he needed space and time to work on a few cases in Bludhaven. It was fine because they were good. He must have reassured her at least a hundred times before he went dark. They were fine.

Until they weren’t.

“I..I don’t understand why, Alfie. He said we were okay,” She whispers. 

She swallows roughly, looking up to the ceiling and tries to keep the tears at bay. She’s probably gone over the whole thing a million times, the scene bouncing around in her head for hours, for days, trying to understand. She tore apart every conversation, every look, every touch, every case, anything and everything trying to figure out what went wrong, or where she fucked up.

“I cannot explain the exact reasoning for Master Dick’s decision, but I do know he has an unfortunate tendency for cutting people off to protect them,” Alfred confides.

“Protect them from what? We’re vigilantes-!” She cuts herself off, voice tilting too close to a cry. 

Alfred hesitates, a pained frown flickering across his face and his hands clasped together in his lap. “Himself, mostly.”

She attempts to smother the sob in her throat, but it slips past her lips anyways. Falling back, she hides her face into the crook of her elbow.

If anyone is fucked up in this relationship, it’s her. She’s the one who came back from the dead. She’s the one who toes the line. She drags her trauma around like a noose around her neck, waiting for the hangman to call her back to the stage. 

But maybe that was the problem. Jaye was never afraid to yell and bite and scream about the pain and suffering she endured. Dick was always silent.

Her hand clenching to a fist, she bites down on her lip hard, in hopes that pain will distract herself from the fact that she’s ripped up this wound between her and Dick, again. She can’t help herself, can’t help but hope.

“I know it may be asking too much, Miss Jaye, but please do not give up on yourself and Master Dick,” Alfred urges, gently. 

She chokes out a laugh, wiping away the tears. Sniffling, she peeks out from under her arm at Alfred.

She got her answer, she thinks, on what their all-seeing guardian perceives in the night. It just wasn’t an answer she wanted to hear.

“I died loving him,” She says, quietly. “I’ll go to my second grave loving him too.”

Jaye never knows when to quit, never knows when to stop even when the pain is too much and she's bleeding out. The gut instinct she refuses to kill can scream all it wants, but she still tries, she still comes back like a stray dog.

She doesn’t know any other way to love.

Half-past two o’clock in the afternoon, Jaye stops, quietly setting her phone back down on her tray-table. Alfred is downstairs with Leslie making a late lunch, and Stephanie and Damian won’t be on guard duty until three. She’s alone.

Inhaling quietly, she listens for the creaking and the slithering of a black mass. The hairs on her arm are raised and goosebumps follow closely, littered across her skin. She feels it, a pulsating, all-encompassing shadow she can taste in the air. It saturates her taste buds, engulfing her mouth and throat with its tainted taste, a woodsy smoke and sickeningly sweet rot. 

The Untitled is back.

Quickly slipping from bed, her feet are silent against the tiles. Jaye figured it would be back, but so soon? Creeping across the room, she expands her senses, reaching for the pit of darkness the Untitled will have left behind while it moves. 

She’s suddenly glad that the others aren’t here to interfere, or to be used against her. 

Opening her room door just a crack, she slips through and observes the hall. It’s empty besides her, a bench and a few chairs closely scattered down against the walls. She takes a small step out, keeping her head on a swivel.

The trail of darkness it left behind is smudged against the wall, one door down from hers, before it abruptly disappears. There you are, she thinks, lips curling. 

“Come back to finish me off?” She asks quietly, holding herself perfectly still.

“We were so rudely interrupted before,” The Untitled giggles, high and grating on her ears. 

The hallway of the clinic blurs, tilts into abstract obscurity. The bland white walls swirl with their powers choking reality out. Her eyes twitch, glossing over as her focus shatters. Fighting this Untitled is always a nightmare—a fucky, acid-trip nightmare, but a nightmare nonetheless.

She huffs a short laugh, exasperated and amused all at once. They may have gotten the jump on her yesterday, but they won’t again. She won’t allow it.

“Alright then,” She rolls her shoulder, hand flexing at her side. “Let’s get this over with then.”

Jaye closes her eyes and feels the tendrils of power-destruction-fear hook into her. Heat tingles at her fingertips before engulfing her hands in a single heartbeat, molten lava drenching her palms. The All-Blades sing in her hands, a harmony of power-protection-magic and she bears her teeth, bloody and sharp as ever.

It’s a quick fight. 

She slumps against the unbroken wall of the clinic, sighing and letting her legs drop to the tiles. Wincing, she wraps an arm around her chest, ribs twinging in pain and blood seeping through her shirt.

The bastard ripped her stitches out with their goddamn teeth. Now it’s definitely infected. 

Jaye exhales, shakily. She may be getting a bit complacent with her All-Caste training. This Untitled is low on the ladder, yet she’s tripped over their illusions twice now. She’s off balance, off-tune, getting fucking injured by this thing. It pisses her off. 

“Jaye!” 

Someone is yelling her name, but it’s smothered, an echo too far away. Ah, yeah, she tries to straighten up, the fucker did throw her through a wall. She’s probably got a concussion for real this time.

“You have gotten complacent in your training,” A familiar voice chides. She tilts her head up, wincing at the pain streaking across her skull.

The short and unyielding stature of her mentor stands before her. Ducra hasn’t changed since they last spoke, still the old white-haired woman with a gnarled cane waiting to smack her or Essence at any given moment. 

“Yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don’t know,” She grunts. 

“Do you?” Ducra asks, gaze moving to glance further down. She stops, twisting to look. 

Oh. 

Her body is lying on the floor, limp and her eyes vacant, with blood pooling underneath. Yet, here she is, sitting up and talking. 

“I glitched again,” She groans, tugging a hand through her hair. Ducra simply laughs in her face. 

“Take a closer look, idiot-child,” She rasps. 

Take a closer…she glances back again and realizes. 

The sounds rush over her then. 

Leslie is yelling down the hall, grab the defib, grab the crash cart. Alfred is muttering next to her, his hands pressed down against her wound, stay with us Miss Jaye, stay with us. Damian is speaking into his comm, she’s not breathing.

She blinks, turning back to Ducra in confusion. “I know they didn’t get me that good.”

“No, they did not,” She huffs, rolling her eyes. “But you have been refusing my calls.”

“Your calls? What calls?” Jaye scrunches her nose up. 

Ducra reaches out and smacks her with the cane. She yelps in pain, opening her mouth to hiss at her, but her mentor shushes her again. 

“I left you plenty of messages, and you seem to let them pass you by like an air-headed bimbo.” Ducra clicks her tongue, shaking her head. 

“How do you even know the word bimbo?” She mutters, rubbing at her thigh. That is definitely going to be bruised by morning. That wooden, overrated walking stick is no joke. 

“I didn’t train you to ignore things,” Ducra scolds, her cane snapping against the tiles. It echoes over her, just as the smack of heavy-duty boots do. 

The hulking shadow of Batman whirls around the corner, followed by Spoiler with the crash cart.

“You haven’t actually told me what messages you sent,” She grumbles. 

Nightwing crashes through her room’s door.

“The AED, now, now!” Leslie orders, cutting her shirt open and placing the electrodes on her chest.

“What happened?” Batman growls out. 

“A pressure bandage, Master Bruce. Now,” Alfred demands, holding his hand out. Bruce pulls one out quickly and Alfred wastes no time in ripping it open and sticking it over her torn stitches. 

“We found her like this,” Damian explains. 

“Jaye?” Dick calls out.

“The messages,” Ducra explains with a judgmental raise of an eyebrow. “The spirit messages? The other plane of existence messages specifically designated for you?” 

“Wait,” She pauses, thinking back to the past few weeks.

The birds. She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose as the thoughts connect. She noticed—and immediately dismissed—the redstarts months ago. They look like robins from a distance, same coloring, similar sizes and plumage, so she must have ignored them. 

“You’ve been too busy brooding over a boy to notice my messages. You’re as bad as my daughter,” Ducra criticizes, giving her a sharp, toothy grin.

“Oh, so now I’m not allowed to live.” She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. Ducra smacks her for the comment. 

“Ouch! Would you stop,” She hisses, rubbing at her thigh again. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Your apology is unwanted.”

“Clear!” 

She chokes as the shock shoots through her chest. Jaw snapping shut, she sucks in a deep breath through her teeth. 

“If you had listened to my messages, you would not be in this predicament,” Ducra continues. 

“C’mon Jaye,” Steph mumbles, stepping closer to their incorporeal forms. She chews at her lip, tearing at the skin. 

The heart monitor on the AED screeches, a thin straight line moving across its tiny screen. 

“Again,” Leslie states, continuing compressions on her chest.

A tense silence settles over the group, all of them watching Leslie and Alfred work. It’s unnerving to see them like this, to watch as they try to drag her back from the edge of death again. Their worry is so palpable, she could bite into it and taste the cloying, protective love of each and every one of them, followed by the distinct aftertaste of their guilt.

“Jaye,” Dick pleads, stepping closer. His hands tremble at his sides but his voice has her flinching. 

“Keep him back.” Alfred motions towards him, words aimed at the others. Steph and Damian both quickly step towards Dick, crowding him back away from her. 

“I’m fine, don’t-” He hisses, side-stepping and twisting out of reach. 

“Dick, c’mon,” Steph says, gently. She holds her hands up, palms out, like he’s some kind of spooked animal.

“Grayson, we need to let them work,” Damian adds, going to slyly trip him backwards. 

“No-!”

“Clear!”

“The Untitled are making moves again, is what I’m assuming,” She stutters out, electricity sizzling across her skin. 

“Yes,” Ducra sighs, filled with a weary but familiar exhaustion. It makes her frown deeply, dread clogging her throat. Her mentor dips her head, eyes closed before she speaks again.

“An Untitled bearing the ouroboros was found in Siberia five months ago. I believe that they’re trying to unleash one of my brothers, and are gathering their forces to do so,” Ducra explains with a certain heaviness. 

“Shit.” She winces, letting the information and pain wash over her.

The brothers are bad, very very bad. It’s not the worst thing…but it is for the All-Caste who are recovering from their annihilation four years ago. One of them could mean complete extinction. 

The brothers are also something the heir should be handling, personally.

“Move,” Dick barks, and twists out of Steph’s reach again.

“Dick, enough,” Bruce croaks out, pulling down his cowl and turning towards the three vigilantes. 

“Shit-” Steph curses, gasping when Dick gets a nasty hit in. 

“Grayson!” Damian growls, swiping at him. 

Bruce steps towards them, but keeps his eye on her, still lying prone on the ground. “Dick, please.”

Dick sends Damian careening into Steph, the two smacking into each other with matching yelps. He turns to Bruce with terrified fury in his eyes.

“Don’t. I told you to keep someone on her at all times!” Dick snarls, glaring up at Bruce. 

“Alfred and Damian were here,” Bruce responds gently. His voice doesn’t shake or stutter, nor roar or rage, but she doesn’t miss the flicker of guilt in his eyes. 

“You should have been here!” 

“Okay, I am truly sorry I ignored the messages,” She starts, rubbing at her chest. “This Untitled is definitely dead. I’ll get started on the others once they stitch me back up.” 

“You wouldn’t need to be stitched and resurrected if you had listened,” Ducra maintains, but she catches the tell-tale sign of her amused smile. Her mentor may think Jaye’s too much trouble most of the time, but she’s still the favorite for a reason. 

“I know, I know, okay?”

“Essence will meet you in New York in a few days,” She continues, looking down at her expectedly. “Do not be late.”

“I won’t be,” She promises, nodding. 

Ducra huffs, eyeing her thoughtfully. “And do not bring your boy-toy or shadows, they’ll only be gruesomely murdered if they tag along.”

“Clear!”

She yelps, her body shaking with the energy spent trying to bring her back. Leslie and the others are not giving up. It warms her heart a bit, though it is a bit redundant. She hopes they’ll forgive her for the scare. 

“What does that mean?” She mutters, wincing at the pain radiating from her chest. Her body is going to be feeling this for weeks. 

Ducra simply cackles, before smacking her with the cane. Again.

“Stop!” She whines, leaning away from her. 

“Goodbye Jaye.”

“Wait-!” She blinks, calling out. But it’s too late and she’s thrown back, side-ways, forward, until her incorporeal form wriggles back into her physical body, dead and prone on the floor.

She gasps, lungs burning as she finally settles and her heart kickstarts back on. For a few blissful seconds, all she can hear is her own labored breathing. The air is cool in her lungs and she inhales-holds for five-and exhales, chest heaving with the effort.

“Oh thank god,” Leslie mutters. The relief ripples off the doctor, somewhere to the left of her. The world’s still a bit wonky, off-kilter as her body gets used to being alive again. She can barely tell up from down at this point.

“We need to get her back to bed,” Alfred interjects. “Her wound is open again.”

“Right, right, let’s-”

She ignores the two of them and tries to focus on her surroundings. Ducra forcibly pulling her from her body is always disorientating. No matter how many times she’s done it, Jaye still isn’t used to it.

“Is she okay?” Steph’s voice rings out, but she can’t see her. 

“Jaye? Jaye, baby,” Dick whispers, crashing to his knees above her head. He takes her cheeks in his hands, and his fingers shake and tremble against her jaw, desperate to feel her pulse. 

She blinks, groggily, focusing on the somewhat familiar blobs in view of her. Bruce is staring down at her besides Leslie, the cowl pushed back to reveal the unhidden worry and relief on his face. She frowns, head rolling against the tile before her gaze meets Dick’s. 

His eyes are clouded with fear, but there’s a growing sliver of relief in the storm as she stares up at him. The more her chest moves with each breath she takes, the quicker the storm in his eyes dissipates. There’s a soft, wet harrowing sound clawing up his throat and it sends her reeling, heart breaking at the noise.

“B?” She gurgles out.

“I’m here, Jaye. I’m here, just hold on, we’re going to move you back to bed.” His voice is gentle and quiet. The crack of her father’s voice cuts deeply, making her remember their matching scars, the deep wells of grief and tragedy in their veins with every close call.

It’s a very clear sign she might have fucked up. AKA they were—and still are—very much worried when they didn’t have to be. 

Aw, yeah, she winces internally. She’s going to have to apologize. She needs to apologize.

“Stupid spirits,” She mutters to herself, trying to clear her vision. 

“Jaye?”

“Mm, sorry,” She mumbles, her mouth filled with cotton and regret. She squints up at who she hopes is still Bruce and reaches to squeeze one of Dick’s hands. 

Dick makes a noise above her, half-choked, half-smothered, and squeezes right back. 

“You-..you don’t have to apologize, sweetheart,” Bruce murmurs above her. 

Jaye doesn’t get a chance to explain that yes, she does actually, before there are hands on her arms and legs. They lift her with ease and she breathes through the twinges of pain in her sides. 

She’s out between her next breaths, Dick’s hand still in hers.

When Jaye wakes up, she’s alone. The sun is setting over the skyline, rays of orange-red light falling over the sheets and the empty chair next to her. 

She exhales quietly, looking over the room and herself. Her stab wound has been re-stitched and re-bandaged, more stark white gauze and wrappings tightly wound around her abdomen. She doesn’t feel any sharp pain, but her ribs still twinge when she lifts herself up. 

It’s either been a full day since she fought the Untitled or just a few hours. She can’t really tell from the room nor the sky, and her phone is missing.  

Either way, she needs to get her shit together and make her way to New York. 

She makes quick work of the IV in her arm—and the others clearly did not learn from before, seeing as how there is another post-surgery duffle under the bed—and replaces the gown with another pair of sweats and t-shirt. 

Slipping socks and her beat-up converse on, she mutters a quick thank you to the gods for Alfred’s preparedness and makes her way towards the clinic window. She pushes down the throbbing pain and guilt with each step she takes, ignores the way her ribs scream with each deep inhale, and shoves the window up. 

Jaye maneuvers herself half-way through the window, hands gripping the frame tightly and one foot knocking against the bricks, and thinks. 

She’s…not in good shape, despite her best efforts. Honestly, she’d probably only make it to her safehouse before she crashed again. Let alone the fact that she needs to apologize to Bruce and the others about her flatlining. It’s not that they deserve an explanation, but the guilt prickles across her skin, an unbearable feeling she doesn’t want hanging around.  

Her options are limited though. She can either stay and attempt to explain the All-Caste and why she needs to leave for New York to the Bats, or she can just leave and call them later to apologize. 

God, she can feel Alfred’s disappointed and unamused glare and he’s not even in the room. 

She groans softly, uncurling her leg from the window sill. Ducking her head back under the frame, she goes to hop onto the floor when she notices the door is open and stills. 

“What are you doing?” Dick is paused in the doorway, hand still on the knob with his mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“Um,” She clears her throat. “Getting some fresh air?”

His face goes blank—a look that shoots warning trills down her spine. It’s cold, the type of look he gives before deciding whether he’s going to bare his teeth and gut someone verbally or simply attack. It’s not a look she ever liked being on the receiving end of. It’s not a look she’s been given since her anti-Bat days.

“Want to try that again?” He closes the door behind him and steps into the room. 

“Nope.” She shakes her head, letting her feet drop. She guides the window back shut and faces Dick with a hint of trepidation. Jaye doesn’t back down from fights, especially with the other Bats, but her and Dick have done nothing but fight these last 36? 48? hours. Even she can admit she’s tired of the same routine, the same arguments, the same cycle of actions and reactions.

“Jaye,” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks exhausted, even from this short distance, with dark circles under his eyes and limp hair. 

She desperately wants to reach out and sooth the worry and frustration from his face. But she can’t. She shouldn’t. Her fingers still twitch against her thighs with the thoughts.

“I didn’t do anything,” She retorts.

“You were going to leave,” He growls, stormy blue eyes boring into hers. “Take off without saying anything. After what happened? Are you insane?”

“But I didn’t,” She shoots back. 

“You thought about it.”

“Like you haven’t done the same exact thing.” She rolls her eyes. 

“Those times were different,” He mutters, before shaking his head. “Where were you going to go?”

“Look, just drop it, alright? I’m not leaving…yet,” She grumbles, heading back for the bed. 

He sighs, heavily. It fills the room and she hates it. She hates it and it confuses her, and she hates how it confuses her, how it makes her worry and fills her head with doubts and fears. She feels unmoored in the stormy sea of Dick fucking Grayson, barely able to keep her head afloat. 

“Why are you even here?” She blurts out, tearing the sheet back down. She doesn’t look at him, glaring down at the clinic bed she’s going to be chained down to for the next day or two. 

“Watching over you,” Dick replies.

“Sure you are,” She huffs, moving to the other side and fixing the blanket.

“What does that mean?” He snaps, suddenly. 

“Exactly what I said.”

“That’s-” He cuts himself off, tugging a hand through his hair harshly. He sighs, again, and it almost makes her feel bad. 

“Jaye,” He says, softly. His hand falls to his side and he looks at her and—he looks so lost. 

Her shoulders droop, letting her own hands fall back. She hates fighting Dick like this, fighting to the point of exhaustion, fighting until they’re both disorientated and frustrated, fighting until they’re falling, waiting for the ground to hit. 

“I don’t want to argue with you, not after today,” He admits, quietly. 

She sighs, exhaling her frustration and sadness, and stares down at her hands. 

But now, fighting is all they're good at. 

“I don’t like arguing with you either, ya know? But it’s not like you're exactly forthcoming about anything,” She grumbles.

“Says the woman fighting some disappearing meta and won’t tell us anything,” Dick hurls back. “How can we help you if we don’t know what we’re dealing with?”

“I don’t need your help on this! I have it handled,” She hisses, twisting to glare at him.

“If you had it handled, you wouldn’t have almost died.” Dick’s voice cracks, despite the concealed fury and terror in his eyes.

“I had it handled,” She states, cold and unyielding. “I wasn’t going to die because of some stupid stab wound and not-poison.”

“Leslie had to use a defibrillator on you, don’t tell me you had it handled,” Dick says, icily. 

She groans, throwing her arms in the air. “And here we are again. You just can’t trust me, can you?” 

“That’s not what this is about,” He protests. “I never said I didn’t trust you, but you’re not telling me everything.”

“I’m not telling you everything?” She repeats, incredulously. “You’re the one who doesn’t trust me! You won’t tell me what’s wrong, and you’re only here to make sure I don’t run off.”

“I’m not here to-Jaye, I’m here because you almost died,” He insists, taking a step closer. 

“And I don’t have to tell you shit,” She continues over him. “You’re the one who’s keeping secrets, you’re the one who won’t say what you mean.” 

“I-what? What are you talking about?” Dick genuinely looks confused, which only makes her angrier. 

“You are such an asshole. I can’t believe we ever dated.”

“If this is about us,” He questions, warily. 

“What else would it be about?” 

“Look, Jaye,” Dick sighs, exhaustion lingering in his voice. “Us, the way things ended, it..it had nothing to do with you.”

“If you spout that fucking bullshit at me one more time,” She snarls, lips curling. “I will leave just to spite you.”

“Jaye-”

“No! If you are going to stand there and tell me, ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ again, when it is quite clearly me-”

“It’s not you!”  

“You are such a liar,” She curses at him, half-heartedly. But her voice tilts too close to a cry, anger still present but the grief drowning it out. Dick clearly notices, grimacing.

Jaye can’t do this again. They can’t keep going around in circles, fighting and arguing but unable to let each other go. She knows Dick loves her, that he cares for her. She sees it, here in this room, in the hallway when she flat-lined, over the comms, in the persistent need to check on her.

But if he truly loved her, he’d be honest with her.

“I’m sorry,” He says. He hesitates, unsure whether to reach out or to back away from her. 

Dick always believed in taking the leap, in belief and love and trust. He is the one constant in all of their lives, the persistent, unending and relentless hope. He taught her to fly, how to trust, how to believe again. She was always going to be there to catch him, if and when he needed her.

She doesn’t know when he stopped believing her, when he stopped trusting her to catch him. 

“I love you,” She says, if only to stop him from doubting, if only to warn him from jumping and  hitting the ground. 

“I don’t think there has ever been a time where I didn’t,” She continues, words halted and broken, but true and honest. “I loved you before I recognized it, realized it was love. Before I could find the words that could even come close to conveying how much I felt about you.”

“Jaye-” Dick chokes out, moving closer to try and touch her. 

She scrambles backwards, out of reach. The words are spilling from her lips, unhindered by the fear and rage and she won’t let him stop her. She needs to say this. She needs him to know.

“I loved you when you were angry and mean and twenty-one and you dog-eared the book I lent you, you bastard,” She laughs wetly and bulldozes over Dick’s attempt at interrupting her. “And I love you now, even when you spill orange juice all over the table and you’re an emotional constipated idiot who won’t ever say what he means-”

But she doesn’t get to finish the vomit of words mashed together, that still comes nowhere near close to articulating how deeply she loves Dick, because he takes her head in his hands, calloused fingers splayed across her cheeks, and kisses her. 

The kiss is tender, soft and desperate at the same time. He tastes like cheap coffee and blood and tears. Dick tugs her closer, fingers tangling in her knotted curls, the gesture fraught with the idea that she doesn’t know-understand he loves her too. 

“Dick,” She whispers against his lips, hands curled in his shirt and the lingering taste of his insomnia on her tongue. 

“It’s not you, it was never you,” He starts, pressing their foreheads together. 

“Dick, stop,” She cries.

“Jaye, it’s not you,” Dick repeats, holding her head back so he can look at her. 

“Stop lying to me.” Her voice cracks, and she’s unable to stop herself from banging her fist against his chest. 

“It was never you,” He repeats, harsh and intense. “You were perfect, you are, okay? You are amazing and smart and clever, and filled with such compassion it makes my heart burst just thinking about it.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head. She tries to pull away, to put space between them, to breathe. But Dick doesn’t let her go and it forces her to open her eyes, to face him and this mess they made together. 

“It’s terrifying how much I care about you, and Jaye, I’m always going to mess it up and I don’t want-I’m tired of messing up with you,” He stumbles and trips his way through his thoughts, but he doesn’t stop either. “And I worry so much, and I always will, about you and about us. I can’t stop and it got too much and I couldn’t-”

“Then you tell me that,” She demands, tugging at his shirt. “You think I don’t worry about us? Or worry you’ll just change your mind one day and leave?”

“I wouldn’t-”

“You did.” She drags him down, not-so-lightly smashing their foreheads together. He winces, and she hopes it’s to both her words and actions. 

“A random day with a bullshit explanation that came out of nowhere,” She continues. “All those worries? All those doubts and fears came true.”

“It wasn’t you, Jaye.” Dick pulls back to meet her eyes, hands tightening around her.

“Stop telling me that!” 

“It’s the truth!” He bites back. “It’s me, okay? I’m the problem here because after everything that’s happened, I can’t lose you again. And if that means keeping you at arm’s length, if that means you’re safe-”

“What are you even talking about?” She swears, leaning back. 

“I need you safe,” He barrels on over her.

“You can’t make that decision for me!” 

“We can’t be-”

“We’re vigilantes, Dick,” She stresses. “We’re not supposed to be safe and smothered in bubble-wrap!”

“Dammit, Jaye, would you just listen to me?”

“You’re not making any sense,” She forces out over the growing lump in her throat. “If this is some misplaced guilt about me dying, you motherfuc-”

“What? No, no, Jaye, it was never about that.” Dick’s grip is bruising, eyes wide and panicked. She scoffs, opening her mouth to condemn the lie, but he continues on.

“Yes, your…death affected us all, and it does pop up, especially when you get hurt,” He pauses, loosening his grip and taking a deep breath. “But this was never about that.”

“Then why?” She demands.

He grimaces, mouth twisting and she snarls, smacking her hand against his chest again. Even after all this, after being vulnerable in a way that no one else but Bruce has seen, Dick still refuses to tell her the truth. 

The anger and the misery curls around her heart and her fists and she hits his heart again. “Dammit, Dick, tell me!”

“The gunman at Brenda’s Cafe.”

She stops, blinking. It takes her a few seconds, before it clicks. The gunman. 

It was April and she was staying with Dick in Bludhaven. The Hoods were handling the Alley and she had no immediate cases to busy herself with. So, she hopped on her bike with her non-work duffle and drove to her home-away-from-home.

The two of them spent the weekend together, watching TV and lazily lounging around in their off hours. She gave him unsolicited advice on the cases he refused to stop working on, and they almost got involved in a shoot-out when they went out for brunch. At Brenda’s Cafe. 

It was a very normal weekend for her. 

Dick refused to let her out of his sight until she needed to go back to Gotham.

“What?” She breathes out. 

“It was a hit, Jaye, at the diner,” His words are garbled, as if he had swallowed a dozen razorblades, and he refuses to look at her. “Blockbuster put a hit on you because of me.” 

She exhales, shakily. He ended things with her two months after that weekend. The puzzle pieces are starting to slot together in her head. It’s not a picture she likes.

“Are you telling me,” She stops, swallowing. “You broke up with me because a wannabe mob boss-”

“Don’t. Don’t do that,” He spits out, voice wobbling. “Don’t treat him like another gangster. He blew up an entire apartment building with 37 people in it just because I lived there.”

She presses her palms to his chest, staring helplessly as Dick unravels before her. She should say something, pull him back from the edge, but he doesn’t stop. And maybe he won’t, almost as if he needs this moment of clarity, a few seconds of solitude to talk, speak, rip his heart out and hand it to her.

“He burned Haly’s to ashes, he ruined my relationship with Barbara,” He continues, fingers tightening around her arms. “He figured out my identity and made sure to use it against me, to hurt the people I care about.”

“Okay,” She murmurs.

“He will do anything and everything to hurt the people I love, and I couldn’t let that happen again,” He explains, voice cracking with the pressure.

“Okay,” She repeats, softly. 

“He…he,” He stalls out, blinking down at her. “Why aren’t you yelling at me?”

She frowns, sliding her hands up to cup his jaw and tilt his face towards her. She loves this emotionally stunted idiot, she does. But this is a problem. 

“Did you get mad and yell when I freaked out about Joker trying to brainwash you?” She asks, smothering the panic and dread she still feels at the thought. 

She’s honestly surprised she made it through that whole ordeal without going off the deep end. Jaye cut her way through Joker’s thugs, his new bitch of a groupie, through all the booby traps of Wayne Manor, and threw down with Batman again, with terror buzzing through her veins and in her head. 

The idea of Joker taking Dick and hurting him, of brainwashing him? Yeah, her PTSD was bad those few weeks. 

“No..?” Dick pauses. “But that’s-”

“It’s not different,” She cuts the argument off before it can gain wings. “You and Blockbuster have history, just like me and that bastard. It isn’t different.”

He seems lost at her words, as if he’s not supposed to be affected by what the villains and Rogues do to them. As if he’s supposed to get over how they torment and torture them, as if he’s only allowed to be affected in the moment and not years later. 

She sighs, quietly, before pulling him to her. Wrapping her arms around his neck and shoulder, she rubs her cheek against his and holds him close.

Dick shudders against her before he just slumps, arms curling around her tightly. He buries his head into her neck and exhales shakily, his breath tickling over her skin. 

“I wish you had said something, instead of…instead of this,” She murmurs.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers. 

“Do better,” She snarks, half-a-beat late. Her voice wobbles and she doesn’t bother to hide it behind anger and bravado. He presses a soft kiss to her neck in response. 

“Let me?” He hesitates. “Let me do better?” 

“If you try to take me on an apology date to that stupid food stand, I will bite you,” She jokes, unwinding her arms from around his neck and pulling back to look at him. He looks just as exhausted as before their argument, but there’s a light in his deep, blue eyes. A familiar flicker of light and joy she wants and hopes sticks around.

“Not Stan's promise,” He agrees, quietly. “That Vietnamese place you love at our place?”

“Acceptable.” She nods, solemnly. 

Dick swoops down, peppering kisses across her face before rubbing their cheeks together again. He holds her tightly against him and she melts into the embrace, tired and content.  

“Just...just promise me something?” He leans back, resting his forehead against hers and cupping the back of her neck.

“Hm?” She looks up to him, fingers playing with the curls at the back of his neck. 

“When it comes to Roland, when you come to Blud, promise me you’ll listen to what I say?” He stresses, eyes searching hers. 

“Only if you explain it to me,” She counters, squeezing his wrist gently. “I can’t mind-read and barking orders at me is just gonna piss me off.”

Dick is so much like Bruce sometimes—they can deny it all they want, but every Bat takes after the man in ways they never expected, never know until it’s rightfully and embarrassingly pointed out. Communication is not their strong suit, but damn it, she’s willing to try. Stilted and broken and terrible as she can be, and despite Dick’s frustrating avoidance of ever talking about his emotions, she’s willing to try for him. She’s willing to try for this.

“I know it’s not your thing, but you have to talk to me, Dick,” She murmurs, nuzzling the palm of his hand.  

“You may need to remind me from time to time,” He confesses with a sad smile. “Blanket permission to knock some sense into me if I don’t.”

Jaye darts forward and seals the promise with a kiss. 

It’s not long before it turns hot and heavy, not quite desperate but insistent in making it mean something, in showing how much this means to each other. 

“Dick,” She whines against his lips. He presses forward, making her stumble backwards. The back of her legs hit the bed and she has to quickly steady herself. 

“Missed you,” He murmurs into the next kiss. He grips her thighs and lifts, setting her onto the bed. She lets him slot between her legs, her hands tangling in his hair. 

“Missed you so much,” He continues, breathy and hoarse, and dives back in. His one hand cups her thigh, fingers digging into her muscles, while the other teasingly slides down her side to hold her waist. She wraps her leg around his hip and drags him closer.

His next breath is shaky, spilling out against her cheeks when he pulls back. Nudging her head up before he kisses her again, he pulls her waist closer and is unable to stop himself from rolling his hips.

Okay, yeah, she is so down for hot, desperate and sloppy reunion sex.

She smothers a devastatingly needy moan in her mouth at the friction, and harshly tugs him back down for another bruising kiss. 

He tips forward too far when she pulls at him, both of them tumbling backwards onto the mattress. She rolls her hips, chasing the pleasure, the want-need to be with Dick, and immediately winces. 

“Shit, Jaye, you’re still injured,” Dick curses, leaning back. She whines, tightening her legs around him and pushes the pain to the side.

“I’m fine,” She says, clutching at the hem of his shirt.

“You were stabbed,” He stresses, though he doesn’t pull away.

“Are you saying you don’t want hot reunion sex with me?” She pouts, not quite fluttering her eyes up at him. His eyes go dark with her delightful words and she shivers in anticipation.

He groans softly, pressing back down against her. “You’re going to be the death of me.” 

She grins, and hauls him in for another kiss.

“Tell me if it hurts,” He orders, nipping at her bottom lip before diving in again.

Dick makes quick work of opening her up, pushing in and exploring her mouth, devouring her as if he—his tongue, his mouth, his hands—doesn’t have every inch of her memorized. His hands wander, fleeting touches over her body that, always and still do, leave her hot and bothered. 

He rocks against her, softer and gentler than usual, but finding a rhythm that can only be described as theirs. She digs her nails into his shoulder, softly whining and gasping with each burst of pleasure, a growing heat pooling in her gut. 

He mumbles ‘miss yous’ and ‘need yous’ against her lips, her cheeks, her neck, anywhere he can kiss and nibble her skin. She’s unable to stop herself from whimpering at Dick’s repeated teasing, unwilling to smother the noises he’ll beg to hear.  

Knock-knock-knock.

“Miss Jaye.”

Dick jerks back at the sound of Alfred’s voice and she squeaks as his quick movement dislodges her legs from around him.

“And Master Dick,” Alfred adds on belatedly, before continuing to speak through the door. “Are the two of you decent?” 

Dick sputters, a mix between a cough and a bewildered laugh. She can’t help but wheeze, giggling under her breath at the fact they got caught like a pair of horny teenagers.

“Oh my god,” She chokes out gleefully. 

Dick rolls his eyes, pinching her thigh before stepping back. Jaye chases him up, trying to keep him close and in range. 

“You’re good, Alfie,” Dick responds, straightening out his pants quickly. 

She can’t help the grin on her face, reaching a leg out to poke him with her foot. He playfully glares at her, grabbing her and removing her shoe in one quick motion.

“Hey!” She hisses, as the door to the room opens and Alfred steps inside. 

“You’re on bed-rest,” Dick reminds her, holding his hand out for her other shoe. She grumbles and ignores him, instead turning to Alfred.

“Hi Alfred,” She greets. 

“Miss Jaye,” He greets her right back, letting the door shut gently behind him. “I hope Master Dick isn’t impeding on your recovery time.”

Oh, if that ain’t a reprimand for trying to “get it on” in a hospital bed while injured. She bites her lip, trying to smother the blush warming her cheeks. Dick, of course, has no shame and simple smiles at Alfred.

“Just trying to keep her on bed-rest, Alfie,” He grins. She makes an indigent noise, but is quickly silenced by Alfred’s raised eyebrow.

“Miss Jaye,” He rebukes, disappointing and chastising all in one.

“I wasn’t going to leave!” She retorts. Dick gives her a pointed look before his gaze is dipping down to her foot, still wearing her converse.

“I would surely hope not. Your wound needs at least four weeks to properly heal,” Alfred huffs, making his way to the end of her bed. He reaches for the blanket, the one corner dragging against the tiles, and makes quick work on making it neat and tidy. 

“Any extraneous movements are prohibited,” He adds, tone admonishingly. 

She groans, flopping back against the bed. Stuck on bedrest and she can’t even have absolutely mind-blowing reunion sex? 

Someone put her out of her misery.

Dick’s quiet chuckle at her dramatics makes her turn her frustrations to him, sending a glare his way. He simply smiles and she melts like the sucker she is for the idiot.

“Wait,” She pauses, before sitting up. “I need to be in New York in a few days.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow, pointedly turning to look at her while he folds up the blanket in a perfect rectangle. Dick tilts his head, a question in his gaze.

“Miss Jaye, it is prudent that you remain on bedrest, if only to give your body enough time to recover not only from the stab wound but the poison,” Alfred explains patiently, as if she were Bruce or Cass trying to make an escape.

“I really need to be in New York,” She emphasizes.

“Why?” Dick asks. 

She tugs a hand through her hair, mouth twisting. How should she go about explaining the whole secret Himalayan monks and spiritual beings she fights and protects on a weekly basis, besides the wannabe gangsters and clowns in Gotham?

Here’s a hint: she doesn’t.

“Would this have anything to do with the ‘disappearing’ person who attacked you?” Dick frowns, leaning his hip against the bed and crossing his arms.

“Mm, maybe,” Jaye hums, dancing around a confirmation.

“Jaye,” He warns. 

“If you are truly worried about this adversary, I am sure Master Bruce or one of the others would be more than happy to handle it,” Alfred adds. 

Dick coughs, hiding a smug grin behind his fist. His smile might be amused, but there’s a bite to it, the barest hint of the night terror he is curling around the edges. The heat in her gut stirs at his look, with her desire curling around her fingers, her mouth, her skin. And the bastard knows it too, given the way he refuses to take his eyes off of her but doesn’t reach out and touch her. 

“If I thought they could handle it, I would have said something,” She starts, rolling her eyes. Dick coughs again and she twists to glare at him.

“I would!” She hisses.

“Sure, sweetheart.”

“Ugh,” She throws her hands up.

Dramatically falling back on the bed, she grimaces at the short burst of pain it causes. She can’t help but rub at the bandages, lightly poking and pushing at the wound. 

“Miss Jaye.” She rolls her head to the side to find Alfred giving her a pointed look. 

“Can I at least eat something solid?” She asks, sighing and letting her hand drop to the sheets. 

“Indeed, you may. I shall fetch you something from downstairs,” He nods, turning his pointed look to Dick. “Do get her comfortable, Master Dick…but not too comfortable.” 

She hides her face in her hands at Alfred’s teasing, a blush growing across her face and neck. Dick laughs, a bright, sunny sound that has her peeking through her fingers to look. 

“Will do,” Dick grins, tilting his head towards her and winking. 

“Asshole,” She mumbles around her own smile. 

As Alfred leaves, the door left cracked behind him, she sits up and lightly stretches. Dick watches her, hovering but not looming, thankfully.

Jaye holds her foot out, expectantly. If she’s going to be stuck on bedrest, she’s going to make the most out of it. 

Dick gives her a look, before he rolls his eyes and takes her other shoe off. He dumps it under the bed with the other one, but keeps his hand around her ankle. His hand slides up, bunching up her sweatpants before he stops. He squeezes the back of her knee, and she does her best not to shiver. 

He leans forward and kisses her forehead, his other hand cupping her jaw. She sighs into the hold, eyes fluttering at the reverent touch. She’s missed this.

“Any way I can convince you to stay with me for the week instead?” He murmurs, tilting her head back and pressing their foreheads together.

She pauses, holding onto his wrist gently. There’s nothing more she’d rather do than to spend the next week lounging around Dick’s and re-marking her claim on his apartment and him. But she promised Ducra and that does, unfortunately, take priority over her innate need to get down and dirty with Dick.

“You could persuade me to go to New York for a weekend getaway,” She suggests, trying not to laugh. 

“Hm, I don’t know,” He drawls, thumb rubbing circles into her skin. “Sounds like you need to convince me to drive you to the city.”

This is more than just claiming Dick as hers again, though. This is a moment—an opportunity to lay all her cards on the table and hope that he does the same. As much as she likes to keep the All-Caste secret, she doesn’t have to and it clearly bothers him.

If they’re going to do things differently this time, if they’re going to make things right, they both have to be honest. They have to trust each other. She has to trust him with this piece of her soul. 

“Does promising to tell you all the details on the way there help?” She counters. Jaye wants him to realize she’s serious about this, about them. That she’s willing to let him in on her case and secret affiliation she’s never truly told any of the Bats. 

Dick is quiet, thumb still moving against her jaw. His eyes search hers and she hopes he finds the vulnerable honesty she wants to give him. Hopes he sees somewhere safe to show his too. 

“We’re staying at my safehouse,” He says with some finality, ducking down and pressing a kiss to the corner of her growing smile. 

“You just don’t like my safehouse,” She chuckles, reaching out to rest her hands on his waist. 

“No, I just don’t like the blood-stain in the middle of the living room.” He rolls his eyes, brushing her hair behind her ear. 

“It gives the apartment character,” She defends.

“Jaye, baby, it’s atrocious and doesn’t even match your furniture.”

She barks out a laugh, grinning up at him. It’s hard to imagine living without this. The few months where they weren’t together weren’t the worst months of her life, but if she had to choose between a life with him or without him, she would do whatever it takes to keep him. Life without Dick Grayson is unimaginable for Jaye Todd.

He smiles back, a small bright thing that makes her stomach flutter. She leans further into his touch, nuzzling into the palm of his hand. 

Her love is embarrassing and cringeworthy, loud and brash, unflinching and excessive. She doesn’t know any other way to love. More often than not, it leaves her with a broken heart.

Other times, it saves her. 

“When…When we’re in New York, we can talk. I can talk, if you have the time,” He murmurs, swallowing roughly. 

“I love you,” She whispers, holding his wrist gently in her hand. Something doesn’t necessarily break in his expression, but it does soften, emotions flooding his eyes. He doesn’t hide from her this time.

“I love you too,” He whispers back, leaning down and kissing her. 

Her and Dick are a mess—complicated and terrible and all over the place. But it’s them. They’ll always be there to catch each other.