Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Being the Red Hood was as stressful as you’d think it was. Sure, having people like Sasha and Remi on his side was helpful. He didn’t have to worry about civil disagreements or betrayal as often as one would expect from a new, rising crime lord with a public opposition to the Black Mask with people like his henchmen (they weren’t gangsters, and no one wanted to see the expression on Jason’s face when they were called that). They offered to take burdens off of Jason’s shoulders, went above and beyond to help him keep his ever-growing empire stable.

But even they couldn’t do everything. They couldn’t carry all his burdens. Especially the ones he had to take on when he slipped off the mask and responsibilities of Red Hood. In the safety of his apartment, Jason’s troubles were no one’s but his own.

Unfortunately, those tended to be the harder ones. His ridiculously complicated relationship with the Bat and the Batlings, his even more complicated relationship with Bruce and his strays, the awkwardness of crossing paths with Tim Drake after wiping the floor with him, the emotional baggage of still getting voicemails from Bruce and people who called themselves his family, trying to meet Alfred because the man wanted to see how his grandson was doing and making sure he was eating.

Oh, and the body of his eldest brother sprawled over the floor of his apartment. That one was new.

Jason switched on the light, started, and crossed the living room in record time. “Dickface?”

At the commotion, Dick rose up to his hands and knees, then stood, facing off to the side. He looked over his left shoulder at Jason and smiled a little sheepishly. “Hi, Jay.”

This was weird. Sure, Dick always tried to drop by no matter how busy his schedule was. Sure, a lot of people slept on the floor. Dick had a lot on his plate at any given moment between his job, volunteering and vigilantism, so he was always tired. It was hot outside, and Jason’s new marble tiling was probably cold relief. So it couldn’t be too weird, right?

Except the last time Dick was here, there was yelling and slamming and hitting and they’d both lost their voices, said things they’d definitely been regretting, and swore not to work with each other. Dick had stormed out, Jason had pushed him out, and the last three times they’d seen each other before that, it had gotten so bad that Bruce of all people had to tell them to take a break from each other.

Or maybe it was the fact that they hadn’t worked a case together in two weeks, and refused to hang out with each other for three. The fact that their decisions and their lives and fates and Bruce had come back to plague them, that good things never lasted, that Richard Grayson wasn’t the golden child everyone thought he was, and that Jason would never have the older brother he’d always wanted.

“Dick,” he said, a little firmer this time. “What the fuck are you doing in my house? Want a repeat of the ass thwacking I gave you last time you broke in?”

Dick scoffed humorlessly, fight replacing the softness in his tired eyes. “Don’t worry. Someone already took care of the ass-thwacking part.”

Jason had every reason to take that statement at its word. Dick didn’t look too good. He was swaying on his feet—and if there was one thing a Flying Grayson didn’t do, it was to be unsteady—and his clothes were tousled wildly. The color of his ripped jacket was rumpled, distinctly reminiscent of being fisted by an angry hand. His right shoe was missing, and his bare feet on Jason’s new marble tile was enough to send him over the edge. He was in civvies rather than his suit, and all the signs pointed to the idea that one flouncy Richie Grayson had fucked around and finally found out. About time.

“So whaddya want from me?” Jason pressed. “A med-kit? A cookie? An apology? What did you come here for, anyway? Boohoo, you got your ass beat. You can still go fuck yourself.”

Dick scowled. “Forget it,” he muttered. “If I’m that much of a bother, just pretend I’m not here. Go text your girlfriend or whatever and I’ll get out of your hair.”

It wasn’t like Jason didn’t want to. Actually, it was a great idea and all he wanted right now. But he stood his ground and crossed his arms. “No, no,” he said, sarcasm bleeding out in his voice. “You’re my guest now, Goldie. Make yourself comfortable. Go freshen up, and then we can have a nice chat. If you’re nice, you can even win yourself some dinner.”

Dick glared. “Wow, dinner?” he shot back, matching the sarcasm with the same intensity. “You’re so benevolent, Jay. What might you bestow upon me next? A red carpet? That silver spoon all that crime money shoved up your ass? A golden plate?”

“I don’t know about golden plates,” Jason ground out. “I’ve only got a dog bowl, Goldie. Sorry, but I don’t have anything for snakes.”

Heat seemed to build up behind Dick’s eyes, constricting his already impossibly small pupils. “I’ll skip on the service and get out of your way, then. A shame you don’t have more plates. Try making a friend or two, if it’s possible with all that blood on your hands.”

For a moment, it felt like all that blood on his fingertips went soaring straight to Jason’s head in boiling anger. He wanted his vision to turn green, and he wanted more of that blood. Golden blood. “You’re not going anywhere now, Dickhead. You came here, didn’t you? Well, you get to stay. In fact, I encourage you to. Go on, Goldie. Go freshen up. You’ve been looking a little tired lately. Haven’t been doing your skincare or going to the spa? Can’t keep up with that million-dollar routine anymore? Or is it that the press just doesn’t care about the golden boy anymore, now that there’s an undead son in the picture?”

He could see the hatred bleeding through every pore on Dick’s unfortunately still-perfect face. It wasn't enough. He wanted to see it explode. “Too many Robins taking away your spotlight?”

Dick did always love the attention. Jason had grown up in the manor hearing tales of his chandelier antiques, his desperate gambles for Bruce’s eyes on him. Of course he did. He was a performer, after all.

At the comment, Dick went rigid like ice. He was like a statue, facing off to the left, staring at the window. His side profile was luxuriously bathed in moonlight, as if the very moon itself yearned to touch him. It smoothed out every trouble on his face, pushing what was already obviously damn close to perfect just over the finish line and turning him into a Greek statue of some great legend. Jason hated him.

The frown never left Dick’s face. For all his incessant yapping, he didn’t have a reply to the comment. It was a low blow, Jason knew, especially considering the fight they’d been engaged in for weeks was about that very topic. Dick muttered under his breath, “Asshat.”

And Jason’s blood was curdling. Even though he’d heard so much worse from far worse people, he couldn’t keep together the last straw that had snapped at the singular word and all the hate stuffed within it. He took a step forward. “If you have an issue with my hospitality, you fucking dick, I’ll give you some great advice: get out of my fucking house.”

The frown on Dick’s face deepened. “I shouldn’t have fucking come here.”

“Finally, a fucking brain under all that hair. And here I thought you just kept that head to look pretty for the cameras.”

If Dick wasn't going to move, Jason sure as hell wouldn’t make him. He walked past Dick like the guy wasn’t there and moved into his kitchen. And finally, Dick began to walk. He swiveled and shuffled to the bathroom, infuriatingly not the front door. His footsteps, like they’d always been, were almost entirely quiet. In another lifetime, light-footed Dick would have made an excellent protege to Catwoman instead.

Jason turned to watch him out of the corner of his eye. All he caught was the last of Dick’s shoulder as he disappeared around the bend to go to the bathroom. That was enough to make him freeze.

He saw red.

He knew Dick had taken some kind of beating. He’d hoped for it a little bit, actually. A small, cruel part of him reveled in seeing Dick defeated from time to time, if only to prove to himself that everyone in their lives really had just been putting Dick on a pedestal, that he really wasn’t perfection personified.

There was so much red.

Jason’s gaze drifted down to the floor. Little smudges of blood sullied the white tiles, trailing the path Dick had taken from the living room to the bathroom. Jason followed it backwards to where Dick had been laying down, then standing when Jason had first entered.

How had he not noticed all that blood?

It wasn’t a lot. Maybe a few ounces, more staining than puddling the floor, but enough to bleed into the grout between the tiles. It would be a bitch to get out. Jason crouched by it and found droplets on his carpet, disguised by the pattern. It formed a trail vertically to the window, probably where Dick had come in from. Jason walked up to the window and opened it. There wasn’t anything on the inside, but the outside of the sill and the latch of the window boasted red fingerprints.

Well. That made a lot more sense. Especially Dick’s comment about this place being closest. He must have gotten into a scrape and needed to take care of it so he wouldn’t leave blood everywhere. And why he stayed glued to the spot until Jason turned his back must have been so Jason wouldn’t see the injury, which was clearly on the right shoulder, since his left had been facing Jason the entire time.

Jason stared at the fingerprints. Dick had the habit of downplaying his injuries, pretending they didn’t hurt as much as they did. But he’d never hid them before. He’d laugh off a bullet wound. Jason stared back at the blood on the floor, hastily concealed under the rug. Dick had been on the floor when he’d entered. He hadn’t noticed Jason until the light turned on, or maybe until he heard his name being called. And he hadn’t left, even when it was clear he was unwelcome. He’d come here of all places because it was the closest.

How bad was it?

There wasn’t an immediate way of finding out, considering the shower was now running in full force three doors down. So Jason got to work on scrubbing the pink out of his floors, cursing Dick for leaving stains on his newly-fixed white tiles and swallowing down concern when he scrubbed and scrubbed and still found more blood somewhere or the other.

When he got to work on the trail Dick had left behind to go to the bathroom, he noticed how suspiciously it looked like one bloodied right foot hopping off. Dick’s left foot was the only one with a shoe on. There was a trace of something else, miniscule gray-black smudges and grains. Ash, Jason recognized all too well.

Jason returned to the front door and tried to re envision the scene he’d entered to. Where had Dick been lying? What part of his body had been over the largest bloodstain? He couldn’t tell. His anger muddled his memory. While he could tell one track was footprints and the blood near the window were fingerprints, he couldn’t tell where the droplets came from on the rug.

Jason summed it up to at least three injuries. One on Dick’s person somewhere, one on his foot, and one miscellaneous, smaller third one somewhere. He dismissed the fingerprints as a fourth injury, since it was more likely they came from holding down the bigger wound in an attempt to put pressure on it. He couldn’t pinpoint a thing regarding the few ash traces, on top of it all.

So naturally, he checked the fire escape outside the window Dick had come in from. It was curiosity, maybe even a little petty satisfaction that his older brother had been humbled in a fight somewhere. Yeah, that’s what it was, and not concern. He didn’t care about the golden child, not anymore. Maybe Dick had finally been knocked off his pedestal and taken a little fall.

He found barely any blood on the floor or bars of the fire escape, just the same smudged right footprints, some droplets here and there, and the occasional bloody fingerprint that could totally be traced back to one Richard Grayson. He tracked the blood out to a slightly larger stain on the railing, and ultimately decided Dick had gotten down from the rooftop.

That made a little less sense. Dick was in his civilian clothing, a sweater and jeans. If he’d taken any kind of ass whooping as a vigilante, it would make sense to come in through the rooftop. Dick loved escaping people via parkour, because he was really good at it and he could show off. If Regular Person Dick came from the roof, it was either because he didn’t want anyone knowing he was coming here, or… well. He was afraid he was being followed.

Jason registered the shower turning off back in his apartment. He hopped back through the window and walked up to the bathroom door as silently as he could. He pressed an ear to the wood.

There was shuffling inside. Dick putting his clothes back on? He hadn’t taken any of Jason’s. But then came a little groan, suppressed and secretive. A little thump. A small, shaky exhale, almost a gasp. Jason could bet to boot that Dick was trying to patch himself up without Jason knowing, so no one could know how bad the injury really had been. Bandages were bandages, right?

Jason took a step back, raised his foot, and kicked down the door. Dick’s yelp of surprise was drowned out by a painfully loud bang as the door slammed open into the bathroom wall behind it.

First he registered the bathtub. Lines of pink-tinged water ran in streaks to the plug.

Then he saw his older brother, awkwardly slumped on the floor, surrounded by nightmarish smears of blood. In nothing but his boxer-briefs, Jason could see every single mark on his body, old and new. He had the clearest view of the definitely-wonky right shoulder, the bullet wound to the right upper arm, and the tinge of red under his right foot, which was precariously balanced on its toes as he leaned all his weight on his left side. Oh, and…

Jason exploded. “You have a knife through your fucking hand and you didn’t fucking tell me? What the fuck?”

Dick, running on pints and pints of lost blood, swallowed. He gaped, his never-ending stream of words having all leaked out with all that blood.

Jason stared at the hand splayed out, and the blade that went clear through his palm and out the other end. Even though it had clearly been cleaned, blood was rapidly collecting around the wound, and dripping down to the floor from the tip. Somewhere, his brain noticed how Dick’s fingers trembled.

“What the fuck?” he heard himself say again. He felt his feet move.

And Dick finally seemed to come back to himself. “What the hell, Jason? What if I was still taking a shower? You can’t barge into the bathroom like that.”

Was it bad that Jason still wanted to slap him? Even when the offending words had been nothing more than a slur? “You fucking barged into my own home. And this is my house. I can do whatever the fuck I want. And right now, I want you to explain. What the hell happened?”

Dick scowled. “What, disappointed they didn’t finish the job right? Don’t worry, Jay. I’ll clean up after myself and get out of your hair. I just need a minute.”

“Can you shut the fuck up?” Jason snapped. It must have come out way harsher than he expected. Dick flinched. Jason wanted to tone it down, but he couldn’t really help himself. “For once in your fucking life, stop talking. You walked into my fucking house and what? Expect me not to notice you’re fucking bleeding? Expect me not to ask you what happened? Who the fuck do you think I am, but more importantly, who the fuck do you think you are?”

Dick scowled fiercely, but it was obvious he didn’t have a comeback. Jason took the silence as an opportunity and tried pulling him out of the bathroom, but Dick dug in his heels and stopped before he could cross the threshold.

A part of Jason almost wanted to think Dick’s constant resistance to help was some kind of ploy for attention. A sort of performer’s gimmick, a play of appeal to lead his audience on and leave them wanting more, building their imagination until they needed to goad him on and he finally showed them.

“Don’t be an ass,” Jason warned. “I have a first-aid kit in the bedroom, and then you can tell me what the fuck happened.”

He pulled again, and again Dick strained against him. “I… I shouldn’t,” he finally admitted. Some of the fire dimmed in those blue eyes.

“You shouldn’t what?”

“I shouldn’t walk.” And then Dick rushed to add, “I’ll track more blood on your floor.”

Jason swallowed the lump in his throat. “That wasn’t a problem when you came in here, was it?”

Great. Now Dick looked mad, defensive, and guilty. He had those puppy-dog eyes that got stupidly big and innocent. No wonder Bruce bent backwards for him.

“I cleaned up the blood,” Jason tried again. “It wasn’t that bad, so don’t worry about it. Once you’re good I’m making you clean it all up anyway. And if I don’t fix you up, you’ll track a lot more blood around.”

Still, Dick hesitated, and Jason finally came to the sickening conclusion that had been in front of him all along. “You don’t want to walk because you can’t, can you?”

Dick’s silence told him everything, even if it was accompanied by a glare. After a split-second decision, Jason leaned over, grabbed Dick’s thighs and hoisted him over his shoulder.

“Stop—” Dick keened above him. “Jason.”

Jason ignored him. He marched to his bedroom.

“Jason, please.” His voice was ragged, breathless. “Jay, it hurts.”

It wasn’t fun anymore.

Jason dropped Dick onto his bed gently. “Dickface. Talk to me. Where does it hurt?”

Dick panted for a moment before shooting him a concerningly glassy glare. All that blood in the bathroom was his, after all. “It’s—I’m okay, I’m fine. I just… I need a minute, is all.”

And there it was, the Dick he knew and hated. “You have a knife through your fucking hand. How many times do you want me to fucking say it, huh? Let me help you. Stop being an ass and tell me where it hurts. You don’t need to get out of here, alright?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have sounded so begrudging. He hoped that unintentionally snarky tone was just in his head, but the brief flash of hurt in Dick’s expression was enough to tell him it hadn’t been.

“I’ll be gone soon, I promise,” his older brother spit out. “I just need… a minute. Just a minute. I can get the knife out at… at.. Um. At home.”

Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Jason wanted to kick himself. He couldn’t remember when he’d stopped being mad, but he thought he’d long since dropped all pretenses of not being concerned. “Fuck. Dick, I don’t care about the blood, okay? We can get the knife out here, it’s okay.”

Dick scowled. “Wouldn’t want to over…overstay my welcome. I’ll get out of your fucking house.”

Okay. Now Jason felt like an ass. “At least—Dick, come on.”

And now Dick was trying to get up. Jason tried pushing him back down, but he didn’t know where else Dick was hurt and didn’t want to somehow make it worse—physically, at least. He’d done enough damage emotionally. So he couldn’t stop Dick from stumbling out of bed and trying to stand on his own. When his brother’s knees inevitably and immediately buckled, Jason caught him before he could fully crumple and deposited him back on the bed. Dick’s head lolled against the pillow, the fight sucked out of him with the sudden movement. He was completely out of it.

With Dick finally pliant, Jason got one more look at him. His hand was bathed red already, despite having just washed it. The bullet wound didn’t have an exit, but there didn’t seem to be anything inside him anymore. Dick must have done some kind of first-aid somewhere before coming here. Jason wondered how much blood he’d lost then, mourned because what he’d seen in the bathroom had been a second round of cleaning. And then he saw Dick’s foot, finally.

When he’d seen red, he’d hoped it was from walking barefoot. Bludhaven streets had a bit of broken glass. He’d hoped it was a high kick gone wrong, Dick humbled after overconfidently performing his favorite trick.

He hadn’t even considered cigarette burns. Circular, pointed, intentionally-placed cigarette burns, a methodical and systematic effort peppering the sole of his brother’s foot.

His vision tunneled. He returned from a tide of raging green to a single-minded, clear focus.

“Dick, are you on drugs right now?”

“Wh-wha? No?”

“I’m giving you painkillers. Strong ones, and you’re taking them dry. Don’t throw up on me.”

“Haven’t…” Dick closed his eyes and tried to become one with the sheets. “Haven’t thrown up since I was twelve.”

“At least you still have a sense of humor. Wait here. Don’t jump out the window.”

Dick eyed the window distantly as Jason gathered all the supplies he’d need: med-kit, stitching supplies, antiseptic, a bowl of ice, and a freshly fitted trash can. When Jason reached out with the alcohol-filled cotton swab, Dick tried to curl in on himself. The position was painfully identical to the one he’d been in when Jason had first entered.

He wished he’d seen the blood. And all the signs. He wished he’d known earlier. Dick would have been safe and coherent and sleeping and not in pain. How long had he been in pain? Had Jason been that blind? He’d been so angry and now Dick was definitely worse. His eyes were completely glazed over, and he was feverish to the touch. He must have come here and argued with Jason on pure adrenaline and pettiness.

“Shoulder or hand first?”

“...let. Bullet.”

“I’m not doing the bullet first, Dick. You stopped the bleeding well enough on your own. Your shoulder is easiest and your hand needs the most attention, so take your pick.”

Dick mindlessly rubbed his face against the pillow, and Jason’s heard clenched at how quickly his brother had deteriorated right before his eyes. “Attention,” Dick echoed. He was practically talking to himself. “I don’t… like attention.”

“The fuck are you on about?”

“Cameras. I don’t like… looking pretty. For the cameras, I don’t like the cameras.”

Jason may or may not have felt even more like an ass. “Yeah, alright, whatever. Hand or shoulder? You know what, fuck it. I’m choosing shoulder, alright? We can get it out of the way and hopefully you’ll feel good enough to be a little more sane.”

He hefted Dick up to sit. As valiantly as he was clearly trying, Dick couldn’t really sit on his own without support, and he inched his way into a slump, falling more and more forward until his forehead rested precariously on Jason’s shoulder.

How long had it been since Dick had fallen asleep on his shoulder? He used to do that all the time, before he died. And now he was back here, bloody and mangled and losing blood like it was sweat. Jason wanted to hope that his right side was so wounded because he’d been hit by a car, if it weren’t for the knife through his palm and the cigarette burns on his feet, if it didn’t resemble torture—

“Alright, this is going to hurt. Bite down on something if you don’t want to slice your own tongue off.”

Dick’s good hand fluttered in the air aimlessly, reaching out to hold Jason’s hand before thinking better of it and fisting the bedsheet instead. Jason pretended the aborted gesture didn’t hurt.

“Five, four, three, two—”

Snap.

Dick keened into Jason’s shoulder, shivering out his breath. Jason bravely rubbed his back. “Shh. It’s done. I’m going to pull the knife out, okay?”

“Can—can I lie down?” Dick rasped. He sounded so young. Jason swallowed something uncomfortable down and nodded.

“Yeah. We can lie down. Here, just lean on me.”

He maneuvered Dick down onto his back, but the man instantly groaned and flipped onto his side, then his front. Jason stretched his hand out so it would dangle off the bed and over the trash can. Beside it, the bowl of ice was ready. He pushed down whatever the fuck hit him in waves when Dick’s head lolled, unable to keep itself still, and took a deep breath.

This was going to suck for both of them. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. He’d done far worse than take a knife out of someone, even himself. His time at the League and all the modifications from the Pit made injuries annoyances more actually hindrances to himself and the people he dealt with. He had so much blood on his hands. There was a time—recent enough for him to feel the minute burn of shame—that he was enthusiastic about adding Dick’s blood to the collection. Now that it actually stained his hands, soaking into the grit inside his fingertips, he felt sick.

Dick’s eyes had fluttered closed. Jason closed his fingers around the handle of the knife, held Dick’s wrist steady, and took another deep breath. All of a sudden, the fight seemed to surge back into Dick’s body. He shot up the best he could, eyes wide.

“Jay, Jay please, wait—I can take it out at home, please—”

“It’s okay, Dickie. I’ll make it quick.”

Jason shut his ears to his crying heart. He placed his knee on Dick’s back, holding him down. Then he pulled.

He felt it. He felt every inch of the serrated blade—bastards, those sick bastards and their serrated knives—sliding between bones and through muscle, the sickening squelch as it scraped Dick’s insides. Dick’s cry tore through his ears and down his body, spearing him in two. For some reason, his vision blurred, even when Dick buried those sobs into the pillow, clenching the sheets so tight his knuckles were white. Jason dropped the blade into the trash and forged on. Dick choked off into shrill, awful noises, his writhing doubling in effort as the alcohol was rubbed on and it was thoroughly cleaned and stitched. By the time it was packed, dressed and plunged into ice, Dick had stopped struggling. He was completely boneless under Jason, eyes glazed over and completely unseeing.

If he’d blacked out, Jason was thankful. Fingers trembling, he finished up with the rest of the injuries, carefully cutting Dick’s shirt off to treat the scratches—fingernails, human fingernails, someone had Dick’s skin and blood under their fingernails—on his back.

A long, suffering, aching minute later, Jason lifted his knee away and turned Dick over onto his back, quickly adjusting the ice. “Dick,” he said gently. “Can you hear me? It’s over.”

Dick let out a quivering, spineless noise. His eyes were open barely a sliver, red and wet. Jason didn’t know what to do, so he gently pushed his brother’s hair away from his face. “Dick. Dickie. Can you talk to me?”

“I’m…” Dick fought through an inhale. He was shaking, a full-bodied movement that was completely involuntary. “I’m okay. It’s okay. It’s numb now.”

“You did a…” Jason tried to keep his voice from cracking. “You did a good job, okay? You can crash here tonight. It’s okay.”

But Dick didn’t seem capable of hearing anything at all, though. His head lay completely limply on the pillow. There wasn’t one working muscle in his body, it seemed. All he was doing was breathing, irregular and difficult.

Jason didn’t even know why he was holding back tears right now. No one had been there to stitch up his wounds. No one had told him he did a good job. A lot more of him had burned than just his one foot.

The Joker had been laughing. Just like the people holding Dick down, burning their drags into the sole of his feet just to watch him squirm, and they’d been laughing—

“Dick? Dick.” He cupped Dick’s chin, trying to meet his eyes.

“Hn.”

What did they want from you? Were they laughing? Did they try kidnapping you? Were they laughing? Was it to get to Bruce, or from your police work? Were they laughing?

Was it sexual assault? Are you a victim?

“Get some rest, Dickie.”

Dick was already asleep.

Jason moved to clean everything up. His eyes strayed to the knife, bloodied and soiled, inside the new trash cover. So much DNA. So much he could find, so much justice he could get. Even if it was for a brother who didn’t believe in justice the way he did, even if Dick would be mortified if he got involved. All his dreams of reconciliation and apologies would fly out the window, and Dick would never talk to him again or drop by his house, even if it was closest.

Jason slipped on his gloves and picked the knife up. He tucked Dick under his softest, lightest blanket. He took his keys, wrote a note and placed it on the surface of the bedside table by the night lamp. Then he left his house, his brother and his heart behind.

Chapter Text

The knife led him to nowhere.

Aside from all the blood coating it, there were no other forms of DNA present. No fingerprints, saliva, skin cells, nothing besides the stark red evidence that it had violated Dick’s flesh. There was, however, little crumbs of some kind of brick. Trying to piece together how it had gotten there, Jason ran some scans.

It was a specific brick and cement combination that was used by a set of builders in Gotham and Bludhaven. The two cities combined had seventy-two buildings with that specific concoction. Seventy-two could be narrowed down to thirteen buildings that Dick’s civilian life came even remotely close to.

Of those thirteen, seven of them were overridden by some kind of gang or dubious regulars. Jason set up shop and spent a while with each one, spying from afar and trying to glean any kind of information. He dreaded what evidence he might get, what he might hear, if they’d be laughing over burning his brother’s foot and watching him hurt. He didn’t know if he even wanted to know what had happened, not when Dick’s wretched cries of pain were still fresh in his mind.

One by one, anticipation fraying his nerves and turning him numb, Jason went from one location to another. No one mentioned a Dick Grayson. There was no blood left over. Like hurting Dick was just a past time, a common and forgettable experience for the sake of a few minutes of excitement.

Jason knew there wasn’t no hope left. If he really needed to, all it would take was one scan of the knife sent to Oracle, and she’d be pulling up every possibly valuable security footage he would ever need to find and hurt the perpetrators. Even if Oracle was unavailable, he could probably ask the same of Tim Drake. While Oracle knew pretty much everything in the universe, Drake was an A-grade Flying Grayson stalking fanatic. And he was worse than the paparazzi, too, because he had access to Dick’s home life.

Jason took a moment to wonder why they’d let him into the manor at all. What a creep. And then he reasoned with himself, shuddering to think how it could have gone if the League had gotten to him instead, and what all that information could have done for the wrong hands. Maybe it was better to keep him at arm’s length.

In the end, all he really needed to do was get his hands on some specific security cameras, grab the faces of those black-lunged freaks, ID them from his or Oracle’s database, catch an address, then go make some visits with his best friends: 9mms Leftie and Rightie.

But he couldn’t get Oracle or Tim involved. Then they’d know something was wrong with Dick, and Dick would hate that, because he didn’t like the cameras. He didn’t like the attention.

So all he had was this knife. The only way he could get any of the perpetrators’ DNA would be from Dick’s own body. Dick would most definitely still have some of their skin under his fingers. Perhaps even some of that blood he’d cleaned off of himself was traceable. But what worried Jason was just how much DNA he could find off Dick’s body, and what kind. A theory was beginning to form at the base of his skull, trickling cold dread down his spine.

It hadn’t been an accident. And it hadn’t been a simple mugging. This had a motive, a plan—even if it was only a hasty one—and it was targeted.

A pit formed at the bottom of Jason’s stomach, one that could put the Lazarus to shame. He was left feeling sick. He shut his laptops and surveillance down, took down his setups, and barged back home.

It was almost sunrise by the time he came back. Dick wasn’t just still asleep, he was in the exact position Jason had left him in. Now, Dick was no rock when he slept. Even unconscious, he just had to move around, cuddle, kick, and sometimes even talk. Before he died, one of Jason’s favorite pastimes used to be holding nonsensical conversations with his sleeping big brother.

Dick probably hadn’t even twitched in the last six hours. Jason sat by him and checked over his injuries, although if he hadn’t moved then there really was no reason to worry about tearing a stitch or two. When everything did seem fine, he pushed aside Dick’s now-greasy hair.

Somehow, that and nothing else woke Dick up. His eyes slid open and flitted around the room. He lifted his head, the motion reminiscent of a baby deer standing up on wobbly knees for the first time. When that was apparently too much effort, Dick’s head dropped back down. Jason caught it, hand on his forehead, and the way Dick just melted into his touch sent a buzz of irrational happiness to Jason’s brain that really wasn’t fair.

“Dickhead. You with me?”

“Hn.”

Morning, Dickie. Sorry I called you an attention-seeker last night, Dickie. For all he knew, Dick probably hated the spotlight. All performers did, probably. Jason felt a little defensive at his own guilt. It wasn’t like Dick hadn’t said some nasty shit. Then again, only one of them had a knife almost sever their phalangeal abilities forever.

“Wanna tell me what happened yesterday?”

“Hn.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Hungry?”

“Hn.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, too. Wow, I’m good at this.”

“Hn.”

“Yeah, sure. And when was the last time you ate?”

Dick made a face like he was trying to look grumpy, but also didn’t have enough control over his facial muscles. It was kind of stupid. Jason lowered his brother’s head back to the ground, but Dick seemed intent on using his hand as a pillow. Jason missed how tactile his brother was, missed those hugs and all the warmth of a human body when all he was himself was a corpse with a heartbeat.

“It’s settled then,” he said. “Are eggs and toast alright, or—I know you’re more of a sickeningly sweet kinda guy. I don’t have cereal, but I could run down to the store real quick and get some.”

“Hnn.”

“Work with me here, Dickface. Fruit Loops or Apple Jacks, or are you more of a chocolatey kind of guy?”

Dick finally managed full glare. “I’m not hungry,” he said. His voice, thick and difficult, finally was clear enough to not slur at the edges. There went the possibility of a concussion, and Jason was happy to shut the window after it.

“So he speaks. Now you can tell me all about what happened yesterday over breakfast.”

At the word yesterday, Dick’s head shot back up. He checked his injured hand. No, Jason realized, his wrist.

“It’s about seven in the morning,” he supplied.

Dick’s eyes widened. “Shit. I have to get to work.”

“Dickhead, it’s Sunday.”

Dick groaned to himself like that was somehow worse. He looked back at his hand, this time at the bandage. Jason watched him give it a little test flex, then shudder.

“Dickie.”

Dick turned to look at him.

“What the hell happened?”

Dick stopped looking at him. “Got mugged,” he muttered.

The thing was, Dick was a really good liar. If Jason hadn’t been staring so intently at his face, at every single twitch of the muscle with all the skill in the world, he never would have known that was a bold-faced lie.

He couldn’t say that, though. Not after everything else they’d said to each other. “Was it random?”

Dick nodded. Another lie.

“So they didn’t know you?”

Dick shook his head, hesitating a little. Putting it together and falling apart at the same time, piece by piece.

“So they didn’t recognize you as Bruce Wayne’s kid?”

Dick stiffened a little. Realization.

“So they just wanted your money? That’s it?”

“Jason…”

“And that was why you have fucking cigarettes branded on your feet?”

“Jason.”

Jason scowled down at him. “Don’t fucking lie to me. Just—can you stop fucking lying, Dick? Can you do that for me?”

His brother looked guilty when he hung his head back down. His hair dropped with him, veiling his face. “Look,” Dick began after a deep breath, but Jason knew from the get go that there wouldn’t be any more honesty than last time. “It’s the way it just is, y’know, there’s people out there who want a ransom, or someone I pissed off from the BPD. There’s people who don’t like me—”

Jason couldn’t feel his hands anymore. He was clenching his keys too tight. “How about we do this, Dick. How about I make you breakfast and you find yourself an appetite. I need to change out your Band-Aids, and once you’re fed and cleaned up you can stop fucking lying to me through your fucking teeth. How does that sound?”

When Dick groaned, having the nerve to be exasperated with Jason’s antiques, Jason decided not to wait for a reply. He walked around the bed to Dick’s side and held a hand out.

“Alright, I can carry you unless you think you’ll be fine just leaning on me for support. Let’s go eat.”

Dick scowled up at him. “I’m alright. I can walk.”

“What did we just talk about lying—”

“I’m not lying, Jason! I can walk, okay? How do you think I got to your fucking apartment?”

“Fine.” Jason settled by the door and crossed his arms expectantly. Dick squirmed under his watch, but finally stood. His right leg was stiff, his left unhelpfully and uncharacteristically rigid, but he managed to limp well enough to cross the room.

So maybe Jason was just a little impressed, a little relieved that his brother was much better. That didn’t mean he hadn’t dreamt about those scenes, wouldn’t keep imagining someone laughing and pressing drags into the soles of a foot that was meant to fly, robbing him of his grace.

“Get to the dining table,” Jason said. “Don’t try to make anything yourself. Don’t eat cereal. I’ll go take a bath and when I come back, I’m making you something with actual nutritional value.”

Dick offered, “NutriGrain has—”

“Nope. Sit down and rest. I’ll be with you in ten.”

***

When Jason walked out, bathrobe tied close and a towel on his shoulder, he saw movement in the bedroom. Instantly, his nerves locked up. Had Dick not gotten out of the bedroom? Had something happened? Had whoever followed him finally caught up, was it too late—

Jason peered into the bedroom, as inconspicuous as he could manage. Dick was on the other side of the room, his back to the door. He was dressed hastily in Jason’s clothes. The window was open in front of him.

For a moment, Jason just stood with his jaw agape. What, was Dick planning on escaping? The man couldn’t even move his dominant arm. The window didn’t even have a fire escape. It was a twenty foot drop to solid concrete below, and last night his brother had been so delirious that he couldn’t even speak, let alone scheme up a getaway plan.

Out of morbid curiosity, Jason just watched.

Dick unlatched the window and pushed the pane up with one hand. He sat and swung his left leg over the sill, then more carefully joined the right leg. He peered down at the drop, then looked upward. His good arm latched onto something on the outside of the building, out of Jason’s view. He slid right off the window and hung with one arm, the other pressed to his chest.

When his good leg hoisted him up, Jason started and came to a sudden realization. Dick could escape. Not good.

He was on the other side of the room, in front of the window before he could even register it. He grabbed Dick around the waist. Before Dick could even finish his surprised yelp, he’d been dragged back inside.

Jason ignored the sharp gasp when both of Dick’s feet his the ground equally hard. He pulled him along, not too fast because he wasn’t a monster, he wasn’t like them—and hauled Dick out of the bedroom, shutting the window.

“Jay, fuck, stop. Jay, it hurts—”

Dick’s protests died in his throat when he was dumped onto the couch. Jason leaned over, bracing his arm on the backrest behind Dick’s head, and used all his extra Lazarus height and muscles to look as intimidating as possible.

“So. Wanna tell me what the fuck that was about, or is this is another thing Your Highness just doesn’t think I’m important enough to tell?”

Dick glared up at him. “I’m just getting out of your hair, okay? Jesus.”

“Why didn’t you use the front door, then? Is someone following you?”

“No,” Dick answered, too defensively and just a tad too delayed.

Jason didn’t realize how green his world became until his brother’s eyes no longer looked blue. He slammed his fist on the table in front of his seated brother, and that sickening Pit part of him relished the full-bodied flinch he got in response. “Stop being such a difficult ass, Dick! You barge into my house, all bleeding and mad, knowing full well that I’m going to have shit to say about it, knowing full fucking well that we have our issues, and then fucking avoid me like you aren’t the one who broke in! You’re either telling me what the fucking issue is or getting the fuck out.”

Instantly, Dick stood. He wobbled but pushed past Jason to get to the door. It was much harder to pretend that gesture didn’t hurt. It was much easier to feel so, so betrayed.

...And the next thing Jason saw was Dick back on the couch. But now, he was sprawled back against the cushions, wide-eyed.

“I didn’t say you got to choose,” Jason heard himself saying, and he’d never wanted to kick himself more. He couldn’t bring his voice to soften, not until he heard laughing somewhere in the back of his head. He forced out a sigh. “Dick, just… fuck. I didn’t say I want you to leave, alright? Well, maybe I did. I don’t fucking know. I don’t want you to leave right now. You’re hurt and someone might be targeting you. Can’t you just tell me the truth? What happened?”

For a brief moment, hurt flashed across Dick’s eyes in a way that made him look like he wanted to cry. “I…I don’t want to talk about it.”

Progress. It was something. “Come on, Goldie. Do you need me to make promises or something? I won’t tell Bruce or Alfred, I swear. Or anyone you don’t want me to, including your little stalker. And… and I mean, if you don’t want me to, I won’t go after whoever did it, either. I won’t kill them. Even if I want to. What I really want is for you to tell me who did it and why.”

Dick’s voice was soft and pleading. “Jason, please. Can we just not talk about it? Please, Jay.”

Yes. Of course. Whatever makes you comfortable. I’m not going to push you, Dickie. I just care, and I want you to be okay.

None of those words came out. Jason was distantly aware of how intently he was just staring, and it occurred to him that he should actually voice those thoughts, but nothing seemed to come out. Dick, taking that silence as who-knows-what, continued on earnestly.

“I’m sorry I came here, especially when we were fighting. I thought I shouldn’t, but you’re the closest here and I didn’t want to go to Bruce, and—and Tim’s only half an hour further. If I’m in the area or something I’ll go to him if—if something like that ever happens again, I swear. Thanks for helping me and letting me stay over. I’m sorry about what I said, too.”

…What.

“I shouldn’t have said any of those things to you,” Dick rambled on. Was it possible for someone’s voice to be so begging that they were practically on their knees? “It’s stupid that we’re still having arguments about Robin. I mean, you deserve to feel mad about it still. I shouldn’t be making them arguments. Robin stopped being mine a long time ago, and I won’t bother you about it again, okay? Your feelings are valid, I promise, and us fighting or, or you and Bruce fighting about it doesn’t change that—”

“Dick, stop, okay?”

“I—I just want to say I’m sorry. I mean, I wasn’t thinking when I came here or anything but now that I’m here, I want to apologize. I’m your older brother—I mean, if you’ll have me—and I should be a good role model, and I haven’t been, and I’ve never been, but I promise I’ll do better. And—I mean I won’t be suffocating you or anything. I’ll give you space, I promise. I-if you want space, I’ll give you space, but if you want to hang out ever in the future I’ll do better and—”

“Jesus, Richard stop.”

It was probably the name that did it. Dick’s jaw clicked shut. Jason sank onto his haunches and ran his hands over his face.

So that was a lot to take in. He didn’t even know how to begin unpacking that, any of that. Dick’s sorry. He wants to do better. If I’ll have him, of course I’ll have him, of course he’s my older brother, of course he’s a good role model, or I wouldn’t have felt such big fucking feelings. No, I don’t want space, I’ve been dead and cold and alone for so long and I want the opposite of space, I want my personal space to be completely violated by this family, yes Dickie, you’re my family and so is Bruce and the fucking replacement and the little demon that crawled out from hell and called itself Al Ghul, you’re all my family. I want to come home. I want to hang out. Robin was always, always yours. Your feelings are valid too.

“J-Jason?”

Jason finally looked up at him. He had no idea how to poke this with his cracking ten-foot pole, or if he wanted to. He stared at Dick’s worried, tight face and wondered how the hell it had come to this. Did he wish for simpler times when they’d been arguing? If there was one thing Jason could handle, it was an argument. Not… this.

He settled on a, “You hungry?”

Dick blinked. “What?”

“When was the last time you ate? You can tell me that, can’t you? When was the last time you ate?”

“I, um. Yesterday.”

“I mean a full meal.”

“Yeah. Yesterday.”

“Cereal bars, cereal and/or five-hour energies don’t count as full meals, Dick.”

“Um. Day before yesterday.”

“Right. Are you hungry?”

Dick’s face twisted a little. “No.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Are eggs fine?”

“Good,” Dick relented at last, ducking his head. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. Okay, I’ll get something on the stove and then give you some more medicine, alright? If the pain’s getting worse, I’ll start you on oxycodone. If you’re fine, then the over-the-counters from yesterday should work. How’re you feeling?”

Dick shifted. “Over-the-counters are fine.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

Jason stood. He hesitated. “You… do I need to lock the windows?”

Dick’s lips tugged downwards, and Jason was almost afraid of a fight. His older brother just sank forward, hiding his face in his hands, and shook his head. Jason nodded a little awkwardly and fled to the kitchen.

He cooked up some eggs with spices he knew Dick liked, trying not to let his head pull him back into peacefully buzzing memories of Dick trying to make him some of his childhood food and accidentally setting off the fire alarms in Wayne Manor. Dick used to love food. He’d always say it was because food reminded him of home, of the circus, of his parents and his Romani heritage that he tried so hard to stay in touch with. Jason liked food too, because it brought him stories of another life, head ruffles and hugs and that fond look in Dick’s eyes like Jason was the best thing that could have happened to him. Like coming to Wayne Manor was the best timeline to be in, of all the possibilities, in all the universes out there.

With the eggs were some toast, and a side of apple juice because he knew Dick needed something sugary. Even if he even considered fixing some cereal, he’d thrown all his Fruit Loops away after their fight. Jason had always had Fruit Loops in his house, in the expectation—the hope—that Dick would come over and eat it with him, never mind that he ate it himself sometimes instead of calling over his family for lunch.

“Dick, breakfast,” Jason called, rounding the French counter to set the plates down at the dining table. From where he sat on the couch, Dick slowly rose to meet him. Jason stared at his brother as he took a seat.

Dick looked like he’d been sleeping on the streets longer than Jason. he dark circles under his eyes showed all evidence of being gradual and long-developing, and the tension in his muscles seemed to be the only thing keeping him from shaking uncontrollably.

Dick had thrown on clothes from Jason’s hamper to prepare his dashing escape from the window. Jason recognized the shirt, one of his band tees from his unwashed basket. It was turned inside out and backside front, the tag sticking out like a collar. It was loose on Dick. Jason had to remind himself he was taller and bigger than the rest of his family, as fearsome as Batman himself. Would it have ended that way without the Pit, he wondered.

Jason slid into the chair opposite to him and unabashedly watched his brother pick the spoon up with his left hand as easily as he could use his right. It was only after the first few small bites were taken that Jason started eating.

He was almost done with his breakfast, and about halfway through plotting how he’d manage to track down the assailants without getting Babs or Tim too involved—Dick wouldn’t want that, all the attention—when he was jolted out of his thoughts. Across from him, Dick gagged. Jason scrambled for a trashcan, but Dick shook his head, his good hand firmly over his mouth, and valiantly breathed.

“Good, that’s good. Just breathe, Dickie.” Jason ran around the counter and brought him water. “Come on.”

Dick keened away from it, retching before hyperventilating, but Jason pressed it closer until he took a couple sips.

“Sorry,” Dick heaved. “Sorry, it was good, I swear it tasted really good—”

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s fine. Do you feel queasy? Did you get punched in the gut? That always turns my stomach over and I get weirdly vomity—sorry, I won’t say that in front of you.”

Dick just shook his head again. “This… this is stupid,” he managed finally. “This is stupid. I’m okay. I’m sorry.”

Jason passed a hand over his face. He put a hand on Dick’s good shoulder. He missed the contact, the physical contact, the warmth of a human body.

“It’s okay, Dickie. I’m not mad at you. No one’s mad at you. It wasn’t your fault.”

“You don’t know what happened.”

Yeah, I wonder why. “I still know it isn’t your fault.”

Dick scowled up at him. “You weren’t there. You don’t know.”

Jason crouched in front of his brother. He took a deep breath and looked up. How long had it been since he had to be the one looking up? Something about it just felt right. He placed his hands on Dick’s bent knees and met his brother’s gaze.

“Was it?” he asked softly. “Was it your fault?”

Dick looked at his bandaged hand. After a minute, he answered.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Dick?”

“Hn.”

“Was it… you know.”

God, he didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to call it that. But he forced himself to. “Was it sexual assault?”

It tasted horrible on his tongue. He didn’t want Dick to nod.

Dick just ducked his head down further, like he was trying to hide behind his own fringes. “I don’t know,” he said again. Jason pretended his stomach didn’t violently flip.

“Where did the cigarette burns come from? Why did they do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you know, then, Dickie? The knife, what about the knife? Why did they do that?”

Dick swallowed. Jason didn’t know if he could handle another I don’t know. Did Dick not know why? Or could he genuinely not remember? It was so much to unpack, Jason didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath until Dick finally replied.

“The, um. I think they were trying to get me to, um.” Suddenly, he laughed breathily. “I mean, they put my hand up against the wall and—you know, the knife went right through and it was stuck in the wall. So I’d, you know, I wouldn’t get away.”

Jason wanted to hit something. His brother’s hand had been stabbed to a wall, like Jesus held up against his crucifix. Were they planning on doing that to his other hand? Were they going to burn his other foot?

He wanted to cry, maybe see Dick cry and just let it out. Instead, he tried to twist his face into something as open as possible, and gently squeezed Dick’s knee. “Thanks for telling me, Dickie.”

Dick just covered his face with his hands again. “Stop. Jay, I’m not a child.”

“I know.”

“Stop using the fucking victim voice on me, just stop. I’m not a victim.”

“Dick. Come on, Dickie.” Jason pulled his hands away from his face. “I just… I just want you to be okay.”

That seemed to stiffen Dick’s weak bones up. He straightened and locked a smile onto Jason’s face—brilliant and sweet, the mask that suddenly dropped like curtains over the stage of his true emotions. “Don’t worry, Jay. I am okay. They had their fun and I’m safe now. Thank you. Seriously, thank you. For letting me stay and helping me, and for breakfast. I’m alright."

How about we do this, Dick. Now that you’re done with breakfast, how about I give you some more pills and you can rest. I need to change out your bandaids, and now you’re fed and cleaned up so you should stop fucking lying to me through your fucking teeth. You promised.

“Okay,” Jason said.

And by the time he changed Dick’s bandages, gave him pills, and somehow managed to convince him to stay here and take just another little nap, his mind was fully made.

It would be okay if Dick never spoke to him again. It was alright if Dick felt disrespected, that his privacy was breached, that Jason’s Fruit Loops would never be touched again. It was fine if Dick never came by his place again, even if it was closest.

Jason was finding who did it. And then he’d wipe them off the face of the Earth like he’d cleaned his pure marble of blood. Dick was marble, and fuck if Jason allowed someone to crack it. Dick would never have to know. It was blood under the carpet.

***

Three days later, when he set up his surveillance again and finally, finally caught a pair smoking against the brick and talking about ‘how much he’d squirmed’, Jason descended upon them like a red angel of death and pummelled them until the woman cried out that her and her partner hadn’t done anything. It was all the things they’d just heard on the streets. Jason asked them who did it.

It was a name he didn’t know. A nobody who’d tried to ruin his brother, a single cloud of smoke trying to taint the entire blue sky. When he forced a location out of the pair, all he got in response was a laugh. And a sudden realization like the heavens had revealed themselves to him in a moment of clarity. He knew why Dick had come to him.

“Find them all in hell, buddy,” said the man, teeth bloody and stretched wide into a grin. “Don’t ya read the news? There was a gang bust yesterday morning. They all got shot up by some rookie police. He probably would've gotten fired if they hadn’t found seventeen pounds of cocaine on poor ol’ Markie Dawson.”

His wife barked a laugh. “It’s a funny thing, isn’t it darling? Markie and his posse never even did drugs. They all hated the good stuff.”