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Chapter Text

Dick POV

He'd love to make it look like an accident. He really would. But that runs the risk of hurting or traumatizing bystanders. Besides...his family is far too smart for that. They'd never be fooled into believing it was an accident. Most of them might accept that at first, but Bruce or Tim would catch onto some tiny detail he forgot about, and it would unravel from there. They're all detectives. All it would take is a single tiny hint to undo the illusion.

Well, at least that opens his options. Rope? No, that's not a good way to go. Knife? That would leave a mess for the landlord. Jump? Quick and easy, but it would leave his body an ugly mess, and he doesn't want his brothers to see that. Overdose? That would work, but what kind? Over the counter, or street? No, can't be street, that would hit too close to home. So, drugstore it is.

Jason POV

"I swear to god, dickface..." he swears under his breath as he climbs up the rusty metal stairs. His brother was supposed to meet him for patrol. Two hours ago. And the idiot hasn't answered comms, calls, or texts. He's probably asleep. Nah, he's definitely asleep. Worked overtime at the precinct again and shut his eyes for a sec and forgot to set an alarm. That's all.

Thoroughly irritated worried, he taps roughly on the window of Dick's apartment.

"Oy! Dickwing!" he shouts through the glass. "You fall asleep or somethin'? Get ya punk ass out here!" He crosses his arms and paces on the landing of the fire escape. He gives it a few minutes seconds then raps on the window again. "Anybody home?" He stands still, listening. No movement, no hurried shouts telling him to wait a minute. Nothing. Huffing in frustration, he bends down to peer through the glass. 

The living room is empty, as are the kitchen and the hallway. That sick feeling he had earlier - the one that told him to make sure Dick had actually fallen asleep - grows stronger. With a silence that's a far cry from the noise he was making before, he slides the window open and shimmies through. His feet land on the floor with practiced softness, and he pulls his gun from its holster. Flicking the safety off and holding it in front of him, he quietly moves down the hallway. He checks the bathroom first. Nothing. The spare bedroom is next. Nothing. The door furthest down the hall is Dick's bedroom, and he opens that one last. 

The gun slips from his hand and lands at his feet with a loud thud. 

Chapter Text

Clark wouldn't necessarily consider himself a genius, but he'd feel comfortable calling himself smarter than the average human. It's kind of necessary in both of his lines of work. He's good at stringing clues together to form a pattern, and he's decent at reading people.

Plus, he has the advantage of having known and been a close friend of the subject of his focus for quite a while.

Bruce is normally composed and to all appearances emotionless whenever he's wearing the bat suit in public. That remains the same with the Justice League, regardless of how long they've all known each other. To be fair though, there are some newer members, and they haven't developed the level of trust or connection it takes for Bruce to be willing to consider them friends, let alone reveal his identity to. And he's very careful to keep the behaviors, words, and even body language separate between the billionaire and the bat. 

Which is why Clark is surprised that Batman is tapping on his knee under the table at the JL meeting. 

Bruce has a nervous tic of drumming on his legs, and restrains it to tapping his fingers when in, say, a board meeting at Wayne Enterprises. Batman has no nervous tics. That is a behavior associated with Bruce, and he doesn't allow himself to show any connection between the two. Besides, it has the effect of humanizing him in the eyes of people he needs to be afraid of him. So his hands are always perfectly still when he wears the cowl. 

Today, however, something is different. It's so soft that no one really notices, but Clark's hearing picks up the tapping. He pin-points the source of the sound, then uses his x-ray vision to subtly look under the table. There, across from him, Batman is lightly tapping his knee with his fingers. Clark frowns slightly. Now that he's paying attention, Batman's heart rate is slightly elevated, as well. That's concerning. His friend always keeps a very tightly controlled lid on his vitals. The fact that he isn't has Clark trying not to give anything away by furrowing his brow. The rest of the League might not notice anything different with Batman, but they will definitely notice if Clark keeps staring at him with obvious concern on his face. So he looks back at Diana and tries to pay attention to what she's saying.

After the meeting ends, he goes to pull Batman to the side, but his friend is already standing a far enough distance from the others that they won't be able to hear. Clark blinks, then half-smiles in amusement as he realizes. Batman didn't lose control, he intentionally did it to get Clark's attention. Clark's, and no one else's.

"Hey, is everything alright?" he asks when he's close enough that he can speak softly and still be heard. Batman's jaw clenches slightly. 

"It's not." The man's response surprises him. Before he can ask, though, his friend continues. "Nightwing and the Red Hood were declared missing nearly three weeks ago, and the last time anyone saw either of them was four days before that." Clark's eyes widen and his brows shoot up.

"I haven't heard anything in the media-" he starts, but is cut off.

"We've been keeping their disappearance quiet. Red Robin and I have been filling in for them, covering their patrol routes when we can, to keep up appearances." That makes sense. When a protector's absence is noticed, those with ill intentions tend to take advantage of the city's vulnerability. It's the primary reason Dick wore the cowl while Bruce was lost in the time stream. 

"Makes sense," he offers lightly, trying to ease the tension. It doesn't work, so he holds back a sigh and continues. "Are there any clues that could point to who took them?" Batman's jaw clenches. Clark's worry increases.

"They weren't taken."

"I'll be doggone," he mutters under his breath. When Bruce told him to come to Dick's apartment in Blüdhaven, he was expecting to find evidence of a fight.

Not this. Not in the home of the happiest kid he knows. 

The air has a stagnant smell that's much older than the last sightings of Bruce's oldest sons. The main living area is clean. Not the type of clean that indicates a fresh cleaning or OCD. It's the type of clean that says the person lived here and spent plenty of time here, but didn't do anything. Even the tv remote, sitting on the coffee table, has a layer of dust on it. Too thick of a layer to have only been sitting for nearly a month. There's a small speaker system, but that's also been untouched. The dust that's accumulated on the couch is barely a few weeks old, so that does get regularly used. 

The kitchen doesn't have much dust older than what it should be, but there's almost nothing in the fridge. Half the stuff in the pantry is expired, like the person that lived here didn't care to go through it. There's an open bottle of salt, sitting on its side as though knocked over in haste and then forgotten.

The guest room is pretty dusty, but that's not really concerning, seeing as there's not really a reason for it to be used unless someone's visiting. It's the same with the guest bathroom. The truly concerning room is the master bedroom. Dick's room.

There are a few fist-shaped holes in the wall plaster. The dresser drawers are open and slightly caddywompus, as well as empty, as though someone had packed in a hurry. The few standing picture frames are on the floor, fallen, broken, and trampled. The messy bed has a large stain and a foul odor...vomit. Scattered through the long-dried stain are tiny fragments of pill capsules. On the nightstand is a glass that once contained highly-concentrated salt water. A light trail of dried bloody footprints leads toward the bed from the bathroom, where the fragments of the shattered mirror lie on the tile floor. Discarded bloody bandages litter both the tile and the carpet. The bathroom trash has a freshly-opened but also empty bottle of acetaminophen. 

Clark turns his worried gaze from the bathroom until it lands on Bruce, controlled expression firmly in place as he holds a piece of paper out to him.

"This was found in the corner." He says, his voice tight. Clark hesitantly takes the paper from Bruce's uncharacteristically shaking hands. The sheet is wrinkled, as though it had been aggressively crumpled. 

"It's no one's fault. I love you all." That's Dick's handwriting. And the shape of the environment paints an ugly picture.

Oh dear god.

Chapter Text

Clark has visited Wayne Manor many times over the years. In the last few, it's usually been to bring Jon over to hang out with Damian. He'd spend the time with Bruce, the two of them discussing the Justice League, their sons' lives, their civilian jobs, and so on. But they were friends long before either of the boys were born. He remembers one particularly rough visit, the one time his friend ever cried in front of him...shortly after the death of his second son. 

He's only been in the Cave a handful of times, and he can't remember a single one in which Bruce was this tightly strung. 

"-fore the most likely conclusion is that Dick tried to kill himself with an overdose-" Clark tries not to wince at Tim's very blunt statement, "-and that someone - most likely Jason - interceded by making him drink the salt water so he'd regurgitate." Clark furrows his eyebrows at the teenager sitting in front of the batcomputer. 

"What about the mirror?" he asks.

"The shatter pattern suggests it was an accident," Tim answers, "though I wouldn't rule it out as unrelated to the attempted suicide. It may have been a last-ditch effort after Jason showed up." Clark frowns slightly.

"How certain are you that it was Jason who showed up?" he asks. Tim shrugs slightly.

"The timelines match," he responds, tapping his fingers lightly on the arm of the chair. "Their last sightings were barely a day apart. Besides, they both disappeared without making a scene, calling for help, or letting anyone know. Also..." He hesitates, glancing at Bruce briefly before continuing. "...I did some digging. The Red Hood made very hasty arrangements within his organization via phone call just under a month ago, basic instructions for keeping things running while he's gone. He didn't tell any of them where he was going, but he implied that it would be some time before he would be able to make an appearance." Bruce's jaw tightens. "All the signs point to the conclusion that Dick has been depressed for some time, tried to end it, Jason found him and stopped him, and now has him under suicide watch." Clark nods grimly.

"Any clues where they might have gone?"

"None." This time it's Bruce who answers, his voice low and rough, as though he's struggling to keep it from shaking. Tim goes into an explanation of the various searches the family has conducted to find his older brothers, as well as the lengths they've gone that proved unfruitful. Clark only listens with half an ear, though. Most of his focus is on the man leaning against the console and gripping it with white knuckles as though it's the only thing anchoring him to reality. 

Bruce has been afraid for his children before. It's sort of unavoidable with how often they all risk their lives doing what they do. It was the main reason he tried to make Dick stop being a vigilante by firing him from Robin. And then Jason died and his worst fear came true. His fear grew more intense after that, took more self-control to work around. Even after all that's happened, even after getting Jason back, that fear of losing his children has never gotten better. 

Normally, he's able to keep it invisible and act as though he's afraid of nothing, as he does with all of his fears. But Dick's apparent attempted suicide has brought out something Bruce has never had to face before. Because the threat has always come from outside. Every single time someone in his family has been in danger, it came from someone else. This time, the threat to Dick's life is Dick himself. And that is a new fear, one that gets worse with every day Bruce can't confirm that his oldest son is still living and breathing.

And to add to the stress, there's no guarantee that Jason is with him. There's still a decent chance that his disappearance is unrelated to Dick's, and he could very well be in danger or dead already. 

Clark's focus is diverted by the approaching sound of feather-light footsteps. Damian, he recognizes. The smell of dried tears fills his nose as the littlest Wayne approaches. He pauses long enough to give Clark a look, then continues his path toward his father. Bruce's eyes follow him, as if waiting to see if he'll do something. Damian stops a few feet away from his father, then lifts his arms. Bruce doesn't sigh or smile, but his eyes betray his relief. He picks up his youngest son and settles him on his waist, wrapping his arms around him and resting his cheek on his hair. Damian lets him without complaint, leaning his head against his father's shoulder and wrapping his arms around his neck. 

Clark is surprised. Damian never accepts physical affection without complaint, and certainly never initiates it without attempting to disguise it as something else, even when he's clearly upset. But...if Clark really thinks about it, it does make sense. All of them are worried, but it's easy to see that Bruce is taking it the hardest. And Damian would never admit it, but he loves his brothers fiercely. And he adores his oldest brother, being practically attached to him at the hip whenever he comes to Gotham. Neither father nor son are particularly tactile, but both are hurting and scared and craving comfort. Damian is remarkably intelligent for his age, and Bruce is struggling to hide...really anything at the moment, at least from his family. Given how Bruce was waiting, almost expecting Damian to ask to be held, Clark guesses this is far from the first time this month he's done it. 

Clark's relationship with Connor started off...rocky, to say the least (something he's still not proud of). But over time, he grew to see the boy as something between a brother and a son. When he was lost in the time stream and everyone believed him to be dead, Clark would sometimes hold Jon in hugs that may have lasted a bit too long, as if by doing so he could somehow feel Connor in his arms. He'd imagine making up for all the hugs he should've given before, and it was a bittersweet sort of comfort. That's not to say he only hugged Jon to feel better about Connor, but it helped. And it was nice to feel like he could keep at least one of them safe and protected. 

It's not the same kind of situation, but Clark imagines it's the same kind of comfort that Bruce and Damian are drawing from each other. 

Tim isn't aggressively averse to tactile affection, but when the conclusion to a problem (particularly a personal one) isn't 100% final, he prefers to keep working rather than accept emotional defeat. Clark thinks it keeps him distracted from the way he's feeling about the situation. Tim is doing a much better job at hiding it than Bruce, anyway. Which makes a morbid kind of sense. Tim has a rather strained history with his own family, as well as what Clark would guess to be abandonment issues. He expects and prepares himself for the loss of those he cares about, whether that be through death or actual abandonment. It's a sad way for Tim to cope, but if there's a bright side to be found, it's that it seems to be allowing him to focus. 

"-and Oracle is monitoring all channels going in and out of Gotham and Blüdhaven for any sign that they're communicating with known associates." Tim finishes explaining the efforts - the extraordinary lengths - the bats have gone to to find their missing family. "If they were in either city, we would've found them. My guess is that they're actively avoiding being found, which they have an advantage in, given that they're intimately familiar with how we operate." 

"Which is where you come in," Bruce says, lifting his head to look Clark in the eyes. "We've exhausted all other options." Clark's eyes widen slightly in understanding.

"You want me to find them," he says. Bruce nods, then takes a breath.

"I need your help, Clark. I need to know that my sons are alive."

Chapter Text

Jason POV

The gun slips from his hand and lands at his feet with a loud thud.

Dick is kneeling in front of the wall, his fist an inch deep in the plaster. His bare foot is bleeding (a quick glance following the trail of red footprints identifies broken glass in the bathroom as the culprit), and his forehead is pressed against the wall. His eyes are shut and his breathing is shallow, his normally tanned skin is pale and sweaty. Something not helped by the sweatpants and long-sleeved t-shirt. 

"Shit, Dickiebird. What kinda bug did you catch?" he says softly, and bends down to pick up his gun. Dick's eyes open slightly as he puts it back in its holster, and he turns his head just enough to see Jason pull a roll of gauze squares from his belt. His eyes widen a fraction, and he sluggishly pulls his hand out of the wall, letting it flop at his side. 

"Yuuuurr not ssposta beeee hhher," he slurs heavily. Jason rolls his eyes. 

"Yeah yeah, none of us like being sick in front of people. Come on," he says, looping his arms under his brother's shoulders, "let's get you into bed." He lifts, and Dick groans. There isn't much space between the wall and the bed, so all it takes is a pivot of the hips to get Dick onto his bed. He immediately falls backwards onto the pillow with another groan, squeezing his eyes shut. His skin looks a tad green, so moving the bathroom trash next to the bed might not be a bad idea. Jason sighs as he sits and picks up Dick's foot to examine it. "You got it deep enough to need stitches, but lucky for you, I have butterfly sutures." He reaches into his belt again for said stitches, and lays them out on the bed. He starts to clean the wound, and says "You know, you could've at least answered ya damn phone to let me know you weren't gonna show up for patrol." Dick just whimpers in response. 

Jason cleans and dresses the foot with practiced ease, and it's over quickly. He gathers up the soiled gauze and stands. Before he can turn to the bathroom (where the trashcan is), he catches sight of something on the nightstand, a piece of paper. He's a big believer in privacy...but come on, he's a bat. Snooping is second-nature. Besides, the writing on the paper is face-up for all to see. 

"It's no one's fault. I love you all."

He blinks. Maybe he should get his eyes checked. He leans closer, squinting slightly.

"It's no one's fault. I love you all." 

His eyes stop squinting. A piece of gauze falls from his hands as he picks it up.

"Dick," he says lowly, "what is this?" Dick doesn't answer. Jason looks at his brother. He's definitely conscious, and his eyes are open, he's just not answering. "Dick Grayson," he tries again, "what the hell is this paper?" Dick says nothing, but his lip starts to quiver slightly and he won't meet his brother's eyes. Jason looks more critically at him. His slightly feverish skin isn't green like he'd thought...it's yellow...as are the scleras of his eyes. 

Jason's gut wrenches, and he moves. He crumples the paper and drops it with the pile of gauze on his way to the bathroom, not caring that bits and pieces are now scattered over the floor. He stops in the doorway, eyes searching. He sees an empty glass on the counter by the sink, but...his eyes lock onto the trash can. He steps forward, easily stepping over the pile of glass, and roughly opens the lid. 

There, right at the bottom of the otherwise-empty basin, is an empty bottle of acetaminophen. Slamming the lid shut, he all but stomps back to the bed and grabs his brother by the shoulder.

"How long ago did you take those pills?" he asks harshly. Dick doesn't answer. "How long?!" he yells. Dick still doesn't answer, and his chest starts shaking with quiet sobs. Jason turns away and roars. "Damn it Dick!" He goes back to the bathroom to grab the glass cup, and runs to the kitchen. He tears the cabinets apart looking for salt, and nearly sags in relief when he finds a bottle of it. He rips the lid off and pours an ungodly amount into the glass, then turns on the faucet to fill it with water. When it's mostly full, he turns the faucet off and runs back to the bedroom, cupping his hand over the rim and shaking it viciously to dissolve the salt. Back at Dick's bedside, he sets the glass on the nightstand and grabs Dick by the shoulders and pulls him into a seated position, ignoring the groan the movement drags from his brother's lungs.

He wraps one arm around the back of Dick's neck, bringing his hand around to grab his jaw. With his free arm, he grabs the glass and brings it up to Dick's mouth. Dick squirms and sluggishly lifts his arms to grab at Jason's but he's too weak for it to make a difference.

"Sorry Dickwing, you don't have a gag reflex so we gotta do this the hard way," he says in a rush, and he squeezes Dick's mouth open and pours the saline liquid inside. Dick coughs and sputters and fights as well as he can, but Jason manages to force most of it down. He releases his brother and sets the glass down just before Dick leans over and hurls on the bed. Jason holds his shoulders and pats his back, encouraging his stomach to keep expelling the poison fragments. After he finally stops heaving, his eyes roll back and he collapses against Jason, passed out.

Jason doesn't pause. He can't. Every second the drugs are still in Dick's body is an extra second they have to kill him. With one arm he hoists Dick onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and with his free hand he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out one of his many burner phones as he moves quickly out of the bedroom and dials a memorized number (one of many). While it rings, he grabs Dick's car keys off the kitchen counter, then maneuvers himself and his brother out the window and hastily shuts it behind him. His call is picked up as he's running down the fire escape.

"Who the fuck is this and how'd you get my number?" Jason almost rolls his eyes.

"Rikko, it's Hood. Code phrase 'the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.'" He set up the identification phrase to prevent would-be imposters from affecting his business. He'll have to reset it since he said it loudly and in the open, but he couldn't care less right now. "Don't you have a cousin in Blüdhaven who provides discreet medical services?"

"Eyo boss! Sorry 'bout that, didn't know it was you! Yeah, Frankie has an office downtown, all under the radar. He's good at discreet."

"I need you to text the address to this number, fast."

"Aight, yeah I can do that. One sec." There's a pause, and a moment later the phone vibrates with a text notification. "Done. Everything good, boss?"

"Tell Frankie I'm comin' in hot with an OD patient," Jason says and hangs up the phone. He jumps off the remainder of the fire escape and books it toward the street where Dick's car is parked. He quickly unlocks the vehicle and yanks open the rear driver's side door. He deposits his brother on the seat, holding him upright while he reaches into another pocket. He pulls out a spare domino and slaps it over Dick's eyes. Hopefully, that'll be sufficient to hide the identity of Officer Dick Grayson from a doctor who would probably not be willing to treat a cop. He can always just say he stole the car. He lets Dick fall onto the seat in a lying position, tucks his feet in, and slams the door shut. 

Twelve minutes later, after pushing the old car to its limits and breaking several traffic laws, the car pulls up to the address Rikko sent. Jason jumps out of the driver's seat and tears the back door open, reaching for his brother. He hooks his arms under Dick's legs and back, picking him up bridal-style. He kicks the door shut and quickly moves to the building's side door. He doesn't even have to knock. The door swings open, and a short, middle-aged man wearing business-casual attire and a pair of latex gloves waves them in.

"Rikko told me you were coming," he says as Jason steps into the building. Frankie leads the way through a few brightly lit hallways and into a surprisingly well-equipped exam room. A man and a woman are there, also dressed business-casual and wearing latex gloves. Frankie quickly introduces them as his assistants, Mallerie and Kade, and instructs Jason to put Dick on the table. He sets his brother down, and the assistants immediately go to work. Frankie gently grasps his shoulder.

"You can stay in the room, but I need you to let me do my job," he says gently. "You did good getting him help, now let me take it from here." He gestures to a corner of the room where a few chairs are stationed. Jason hesitates, then nods once and walks to the corner. He doesn't sit down, though. His adrenaline is still up and...he's scared. He hasn't had a chance to really think since he walked into Dick's apartment...barely thirty minutes ago. 

Thirty minutes. Before that, he was annoyed, maybe a bit worried. Now, his big brother is dying. And Jason is scared. Did he get there soon enough? How much precious time did he waste on patching up Dick's foot? Was that small amount of time enough to sign his brother's death warrant?

He runs his fingers through his hair, the glove nearly getting caught on the domino mask, and takes a breath, trying to steady his trembling hands. Dick tried to kill himself. That thought struggles to process. Yeah, he's been a bit distant lately and more tired, but he did break up with Babs not too long ago. Did he really love her that much? Jason shakes his head. Even if he did, Dick is the strongest person he knows. It would take a lot more than heartbreak to push him this far. So what the hell happened?

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Not the one he used to call Rikko. No, this phone is the one he uses to communicate with the family. His pacing pauses. Oh shit. He's for sure not going to get any answers if their well-meaning but overbearing family swarms his brother. And knowing them, that's exactly what they'll do the second they find out. 

He pulls the phone out of his pocket and checks the notifications. He almost sags in relief that it's just another comment in the group chat. He doesn't know what he would've done or said if someone was trying to reach him. Sorry, can't come to the phone right now, I'm busy dragging our brother kicking and screaming back to the land of the living. 

Kicking and screaming. 

Several grueling, terrifying hours and just as many gut-wrenching close calls later, Dick is finally stable. Hooked up to a ventilator and a dialysis machine, but stable. 

Jason's used that time to think. Dick is the type to put on a happy face...or rather, whatever face is needed, to help other people feel better. And that's exactly what he'd do instead of actually getting better. None of the family would judge him for having mental health struggles, but they would each have their own ideas of what would help. And they would push it. Especially Bruce. Bad parenting aside, Jason knows Bruce loves them all. Knowing that one of them is suicidal would send him into a panic. And he would do what he always does when he's scared: take control of the situation. He would have Dick locked in a padded room, seeing rounds after rounds of psychiatric professionals, getting doped up on psych meds, and being heavily monitored. Jason's confident his brother would agree that that sounds like absolute hell. 

So, Bruce can't know. And because Bruce is the world's greatest detective, none of the rest of the family can know, either. So Dick needs to go into hiding. And because Jason will absolutely not be leaving his brother alone for the time being, he'll be going into hiding as well. Which is not realistic for either of them if they stay in either of the sister-cities. They'd be found in a week once all the bats start searching, maybe two. Road trip it is, then. Hopefully Dick will be able to travel before they really start looking.

After ensuring threatening that his brother will be safe for an hour, Jason goes back to the apartment for Dick's clothes and toiletries. He also leaves Dick's car at the apartment and instead acquires steals a plain black SUV, something that doesn't stand out and isn't known to be connected to either of them. He debates whether to take Dick's phone just to keep up appearances, but decides against it. They'd figure out something's up and Babs would track it. Which is the same reason Jason will be chucking his own phone down an incinerator shaft and getting a new set of burner phones. 

When he gets back, he calls Rikko, instructing him to lay low and tell no one what happened, even within the business. When that's done, he closes his eyes and stretches his neck. He has several more calls to make. 

Chapter Text

Out in space, there's no air to tickle his skin. No people to bump into him or talk to him. No animals to yap at him. In short, nothing to distract him. 

Clark hovers over the planet he calls home, eyes searching and ears prickled. He starts with New Jersey. It's unlikely the boys would be there without already being found, but it couldn't hurt to look. Just as he suspected, nothing. He moves on to the surrounding states. Nothing. He searches the remaining states. Nothing. They're not in the United States. He searches Canada. Nothing. He searches Mexico. Nothing. His eyes are a blur as they move down. Cuba. Belize. Panama. Peru. Bolivia. The Falkland Islands. Nothing. They're not in the western hemisphere. 

He flies west, glancing at Hawaii (nothing there) as he positions himself for an unobstructed view of Asia. Keeping his ears alert for their voices, he scours through Russia first, then Japan. He looks through China, the Koreas, Mongolia, making his way west. 

He's almost at Ukraine when he hears it. Dick's voice. He flies closer to the planet's surface, trying to pinpoint it. It didn't come from the area he's currently searching. He hears it again, and flies further west. This time, though, he doesn't just recognize the kid's voice...he hears it...the strain in it. A fresh wave of worry makes its way through Clark as he flies closer. 

He stops over Italy, the boot-shaped peninsula sparkling with city lights at night. 

"I don't-no," Dick's voice whimpers. Clark zooms to the north, toward the Dolomite mountains. 

"Hey, wake up Dickiebird." That's Jason's voice. Clark flies toward a small town halfway up the eastern range. He can hear Jason trying to wake his brother, but they're not in the town. He flies a few miles further up, and finds a little house tucked into a small clearing of trees. He floats down and lands softly on the porch outside. The curtains are drawn, so he peers inside with his x-ray vision. Dick is lying on the couch, eyes squeezed shut, trembling and twitching, still in the throes of a nightmare. Jason is sitting next to him, grabbing his shoulder, gently shaking him and talking to him, trying to rouse him. 

Clark decides to wait outside, knowing that barging in during a moment like this wouldn't help things at all. He watches as Dick finally wakes up, jerking violently and sitting upright, breathing fast and eyes wide but not seeing. Jason catches him before he can launch himself, and speaks to him again, talking soothingly. It takes a minute, but the glaze lifts from Dick's eyes and he's able to focus his vision on the man in front of him. Jason assures his brother that he's here and he's got him, and Dick's upper body sags. Whether from relief or from emotional overwhelm is unclear...likely both...and he drops his head onto Jason's chest and sobs. Jason wraps his arms firmly around him, thumbs rubbing comforting circles on his shoulder and back. 

Clark doesn't know how long the boys sit there, Dick crying and Jason holding him, and he doubts they do either. At one point, he steps away to call Bruce. He's decided to wait until Dick has calmed down before trying to approach them, but he can at least let his friend know they're alive. 

He stops about a mile away, still keeping an eye on the house, and taps on his comm. 

"Superman, do you have an update?" Barbara asks. 

"I do," he says. "You can tell the family that their missing bats are alive and seemingly healthy."

By the time Dick's sobs have subsided, the morning birds have started chirping and the sky has a faint tint of blue. Clark returns to the porch and sees Jason handing his brother a cup of water. Dick takes the cup, sniffling and wiping his nose with his sleeve, and takes a sip. Jason rubs his arm.

"You okay?" he asks softly. Dick stares at the cup and shakes his head, not saying anything. Clark takes a breath, knowing if he wants to talk to them before Bruce gets here, he needs to do it soon. He understands his friend's urgency, but he's been thinking about why the boys would've felt the need to go into hiding, specifically from their family. He lets the breath out, and knocks on the door. 

Both of them stiffen, and their eyes lock onto the door. Jason stands up slowly, tip-toeing to the linen closet and reaching for his gun. 

"It's just me," he calls out, hoping to calm them a bit, "it's Clark." Jason stops reaching for the gun, but doesn't relax. He looks at Dick, whose eyes have widened. Jason grabs something else instead...a small box from his suit's utility belt. Clark sighs. Of course he'd have kryptonite. Jason opens the door a crack.

"Did Bruce send you?" he asks, his voice low and eyes glaring.

"I'm not here to force you to go anywhere," he says instead of answering the question. Judging from the way Jason's eyes narrow, the avoidance didn't go unnoticed. "Look, I agreed to find you because if it was my son who was missing, I'd want to at least know he's still alive," he says in a rush. "But I'm not here to bring either of you back to Gotham. I just want to talk, if that's okay." Jason's glare eases a bit, but his grip doesn't lighten on the box. He stares at the older man for a minute, then shuts the door. Obviously Jason knows that would make little difference if Clark intended to push things, so Clark doubts he's trying to end the conversation. Through the door, he sees Jason pinch the bridge of his nose. 

"Won't be long before Bruce shows up," Dick says quietly. Jason picks his head up and walks over to the couch and sits down. He puts his arm around his brother's shoulders and presses their foreheads together. 

"Bruce can bring the whole goddamn Justice League, we're not going back to Gotham 'till you're ready," Jason assures him. Dick closes his eyes and leans into the hug. Jason rubs his arm. "You're all sweaty. Why don't you go wash off, and I'll talk to Kansas," he suggests. Dick half-smiles for a brief moment, and nods. He gets up and crosses the living area, steps into a bedroom (that has an attached bathroom), and closes the door. Jason takes a breath, then stands and makes his way back to the front door. 

He puts the box in his pocket and opens the door, giving Clark a look before moving aside. Clark gives him a small smile and steps into the house, and Jason closes the door behind him. 

"Alright, you wanted to talk," he says, crossing his arms, "so talk." Clark turns around to face him. He doesn't have a lot of time.

"I'll start by asking why you ran away instead of telling...anyone, really, what was going on?" He thinks he knows the answer, but he wants to confirm it. Jason scoffs. 

"And have Bruce breaking down the door within a week? No offense, but the only people capable of lying to him are the same people who would be too emotionally invested to pull off a convincing lie."

"None taken. But why do you specifically not want Bruce to know?" he asks. Jason's expression turns grim.

"You know what he's like. He deals with fear by controlling every possible variable so that he has nothing to be afraid of. He'd have Dick locked in a padded cell before you could say 'Arkham.' That won't help. If anything, it'd make things worse." Clark doesn't enjoy hearing it, but Jason has a point. And unfortunately, it's confirmation that Clark was right. 

"I figured it was something like that," he says, nodding slightly. Then he hesitates. He knows he's short on time...he can hear the jet approaching the western side of the mountain range...but his next question is bound to be uncomfortable. Jason can apparently tell.

"Just spit it out," he says. Clark sighs.

"What caused it?" he asks, choosing to be direct. "Is it clinical depression or did something happen?" This time it's Jason who hesitates. He chews his lip, thinking over his answer.

"Both," he finally says. "You don't go through...something like he went through...without developing a few mental illnesses." Clark's jaw clenches. There are plenty of traumatizing experiences Jason could be referring to, but not many that aren't common among heroes. He really hopes it was just something Dick witnessed and not something that directly happened to him. 

"Has he tried talking to a therapist?" he asks, not really expecting a yes. Though he wasn't expecting Jason to laugh, either.

"You know any therapists who can be trusted with our secrets?" the kid asks sarcastically. "Nah, he's been doing what every bat excels at: bottling it up, burying it, and pretending it's not an issue till it explodes. And he's the grand-fucking-master at it." 

"Language," Clark says instinctively, but without any real force behind it. Jason rolls his eyes. Clark's head turns toward the door. The sound of a hover jet landing reaches his ears from roughly two miles away. Jason sees the movement and stiffens.

"He's almost here, isn't he?" Clark nods, then pats the boy on the shoulder.

"I'll talk to him," he says. 

Chapter Text

Dick POV

Jason stares out the windshield at the road, one hand on the wheel. Dick stares out the passenger window with his arms crossed and his head leaned against the glass, not really focusing on anything. It's been like that for the last few hours.

Three days ago, Dick woke up in a medical room that wasn't in a hospital. There were IV's in his veins and there was a tube in his throat. It hurt. Not as much as his head did at the time, but his throat is still sore. Jason told him he'd been out for two days. He hasn't said much, using the excuse that it hurts to speak. 

He wasn't supposed to wake up. 

Objectively, he knows he can't be angry at Jason. Not for saving the life of someone he loves. He can't begrudge his brother that. But he feels like he was robbed, like the long-awaited relief was yanked out from under him. The moment Jason walked into his bedroom, he knew he'd failed. He knew it wouldn't be final. And the weight he'd managed to lift a bit by swallowing those pills came crashing back down, suffocating him. 

He wasn't supposed to wake up. He didn't want to wake up. 

He doesn't have the energy to pretend in front of his brother anymore. There's no point, anyway, he already knows Dick's not okay. When the doctor said he had to stay connected to the machine for another day, he didn't argue. When the doctor said he has to take a medication every day for the next week, he didn't argue. When Jason said they were going on a trip, he didn't argue. He didn't ask why. He couldn't bring himself to care. He knows he's become somewhat catatonic. He can't bring himself to care about that, either. 

"The last thing I want to do right now is tell you that you have to talk to me," Jason says, after being silent since they got in the car. "But you have to talk to someone, and right now our options are kinda limited. So unless you got someone in mind that I ain't thought of, I'm all that's available." 

Objectively, he knows he should. He should've talked to someone a long time ago. That's exactly the advice he himself would give to anyone he found in the same situation. But his options were borderline nonexistent long before now, and he couldn't bring himself to tell anyone what...what happened...

His fingers tighten on his arms.

"You should've let me die," he says quietly. Wait...no...why did he say that?! To his brother! Jason stiffens, but Dick can't make himself apologize. The words won't form in his head, and he can't make his mouth move to say them. Jason's quiet for a long time after that. Eventually, they stop at a gas station to refuel, grab food, and use the bathroom. When they get back in the car, he doesn't start the engine right away. Instead, he takes a breath.

"Look," he begins hesitantly, "if it gets real bad…if you really can’t take any more and you’re absolutely certain there’s no hope and the only way out is the permanent way…I...I won’t stop you." Dick looks at his brother, who's staring at his hands and gripping the wheel like it'll run away. "But I want you to promise me two things in exchange." He turns to look at Dick. "First, I want you to promise that you'll try. And I don't mean just going through the motions till you think I'm satisfied with your effort. I mean really try. And that means talking about it, and talking through it, and making a real attempt to get better." He stops, waiting. The last thing Dick wants is to put even more effort into fighting a battle he's already given up on, but if that's a nonnegotiable condition to being allowed to rest, he'll concede. So he nods once. Jason lets out a breath, and looks back at his hands. "The second thing I want you to promise, is that if...if it gets to that point, I want you to promise that you'll tell me before you do anything." Dick's eyes narrow a tiny bit.

"So you can stop me?" he challenges. Jason's jaw clenches and his eyes look misty. 

"So I can say goodbye."

The motel reeks of cigarettes and weed. That part doesn't bother him. There are stains and burned holes in the carpet and bedding. That doesn't bother him, either. It's raining outside. That part bothers him quite a bit.

Dick is sitting on one of the two beds, the one furthest away from the door. He faces the wall, hoping it'll help if he doesn't look at the window. 

"Get out of the way, Nightwing..." His hand twitches on his knee. It's not helping. He forces his breathing to stay even, his heart rate to stay steady. Just like Bruce taught him...like he taught all of them. But he knows he's having a panic attack. "All you have to do is get out of my way..." Her voice whispers into his ear, casting a booming echo in his head. "Don't talk to yourself, querido, talk to me..." He forces his muscles to stay relaxed. He has to, it's what he was trained to do. "Everything's alright, baby, it's all okay..." He's vaguely aware of a deeper voice somewhere close to him, but it's being drowned out by hers. "Quiet, mi amor, callado..." 

"-kay there Dickwing?" A hand touches his shoulder and he flinches, though his eyes don't focus. "That's good, that's right..." "Maybe you should take a shower, it's been a few days since-"

"No." Dick's voice is firm but broken. That absolutely will not help. He's tried. His hair has been more oily with how infrequently he's been able to bring himself to wash it the last several months. The single word snaps his control and his breathing becomes ragged and shallow. His hands begin to tremble.

"Hey, hey Dickie, talk to me." His brother's voice is thick with concern as he steps in front of him, hands gripping his shoulders. Jason's face enters his line of sight, but his eyes won't focus. His lip wobbles and he shakes his head with quick, jerky movements. The hands on his shoulders squeeze slightly. "Dick, please, tell me what's wrong." "...talk to me..." 

"I let her kill him," he gasps, "and then I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe," his words come out fast as his hands clench into fists, like he's trying to get them out before his voice stops working. "It was raining," he says with the passing thought that he should try to explain his refusal to shower. "I couldn't move, I couldn't get her off." His voice hitches with every other word, and a tear forces itself from his eye. "I told her to stop, I told her not to touch me, I told her...I couldn't move, I couldn't...I couldn't...make her...stop..." His words stop working as his lungs gasp and spasm. "Alive, querido...yes...you and me..." He sobs violently and grabs at his hair, pulling the strands tightly in his fingers as he curls in on himself. "What is there to be afraid of now?"

At some point, Jason sits next to him on the bed and pulls him against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around him and cheek pressed to the top of his head. At some point, Dick's grip moves from his hair to Jason's shirt, bunching it in his fists. At some point, the shirt starts to feel cold against his face where it's soaked with tears and snot. Jason doesn't move, doesn't release his hold even a little. If anything, it only gets more firm the longer Dick cries and gasps and sobs. 

Chapter Text

Jason POV

The two of them sit separately at the terminal. On the off chance that Barbara decides to look into the airports down the coast, he wants as few clues being traced to them as possible. So Mikey Reyes sits sprawled in his seat, with athletic clothes, a football letterman's jacket, and a Nike baseball cap, chewing a piece of gum and winking at every other girl he sees. He has headphones in his ears, tapping his foot and drumming along to music that isn't playing. A few rows up, Simon Williams sits with old and baggy but nice-enough clothes, long grey hair and beard neatly combed, wearing round sunglasses and holding a white cane. Simon booked his ticket a few days ago, and paid with cash. Mikey just bought his ticket a few hours ago, and paid with cash. 

An attendant announces the ticket group with Simon's number, and he sits up. The other attendant notices him and comes over, offering her arm to guide him onto the plane. Mikey watches, then lets out a breath when the attendant returns to the desk, indicating Simon is situated. He waits another half hour, then his ticket's number group is called. He walks up to the desk, winking at the attendants. One blushes, the other rolls her eyes and stamps his passport. He tips his hat, hoists his backpack onto his shoulder, and strolls onto the boarding ramp. He ducks through the doorway, and steps onto the plane. He pretends to be looking for his seat in the wrong place, then chuckles, smacks himself on the head, and turns around and goes the correct direction...after he's quickly glanced around to confirm Simon is indeed in his seat. 

Mikey spends the flight chewing gum and watching movies and flirting with the attendants, but Jason is restless. He tries to limit himself to four trips to the bathroom during the 8-hour flight, using each excursion as an excuse to subtly check on his brother. His brother, who seems to be using the time to sleep. He's definitely breathing, which eases some of Jason's concern. 

It was a nightmare trying to find an transatlantic flight out of DC that was crowded enough for two people to sneak onto unnoticed by bystanders or cameras, but not too crowded for Jason to separate their tickets so that two tall, broad-shouldered men wouldn't be seen boarding together. It was another challenge to pay for his brother's ticket in advance with cash. Thankfully, a bit of makeup, some black clothing, and a truly impressive number of silver accessories was enough to convince the kid at the front desk that he was just a goth dude booking a flight for his blind father. 

When the plane finally lands in London, he both relaxes and stiffens. The flight is over and he can have his brother in his line of sight again, but they'll be moving through large crowds. Dick may have agreed to his terms, but there's the little nagging worry in the back of Jason's head that his brother will use the crowd to give him the slip. Which is why Jason releases a rather large breath when he exits the plane and sees Dick right where he should be, moving at a normal pace on the arm of an airport employee escorting him to the exit. As planned, they take a detour to the bathroom. The employee waits outside, and Jason saunters in, bobbing his head to a song his headphones aren't playing. Once inside, he knocks twice on Dick's stall to let him know he's there, and walks into his own stall to open his backpack. Dick won't be changing yet because an employee waiting for a blind man who disappears would be fishy. Jason, however, swaps his athletic clothing for a white shirt, matching grey slacks and a vest, and polished black shoes. He slings the matching grey jacket over his backpack and exits the stall, pulling a comb, a small tube of gel, and a pot of black shoe polish from one of the side pockets. He uses the polish to cover his white streak, then the gel and comb to seal it and slick his hair back. He puts the materials away and pulls out a pair of glasses. 

He grades himself in the mirror, sighing at the thought that he accidentally made himself look like a slightly shorter Clark Kent. He slings his backpack over his shoulder, making sure to keep it covered with the jacket, and knocks on Dick's stall again to let him know he's done before pulling a phone from his pocket. He puts it to his ear and starts talking to a nonexistent person, muttering about "the mrs getting fed up with the cat again" in a Mancunian accent as he pushes the door open and leaves the bathroom. He walks toward the exit, and comes to a stop in the crowd waiting for their taxis. He hangs at the back, waiting until "Simon" is in the crowd. He waits until Simon mentions to the employee that he's heading to Portsmouth, then makes his move.

"Portsmouth, you said?" he asks. Simon turns his head.

"Yes sir, that's where I'm headed," he answers. Jason smiles.

"What say you and I share a car then? I'm headed the same direction, we could split the fee for the cabbie to the bus station." Dick smiles back. Jason struggles not to react. He knows it's fake, but he didn't think he'd see his brother smile again for a long time...if ever. 

"Sounds like a plan, mister..."

"Davies, Harry Davies. And you are..."

"Simon Williams. Pleasure to meet you."

They continue chit chatting, putting on a show. When the cab pulls up and the driver puts their bags in the trunk, they both slide into the back seat and continue talking. Jason can tell it's draining Dick though, so he looks up a youtube clip of a mother playing with her baby, and pretends to describe the scene, passing it off as his wife and kid. Roughly fifteen minutes later, the cab pulls up to the bus station. After the driver gets their bags from the trunk, and Jason pays, he "guides" Simon to the bathroom inside the building and waits outside the stall while Dick changes. When he comes out, he's wearing torn baggy jeans and a large black leather jacket. Jason helps him put magnet-studs on his ears, then observes his face. 

Dick looks tired. The blind act allowed him to get away with not reacting to people, but the little amount he had to do for the airport employee and then the cab driver took a lot out of him. Jason glances around the bathroom, making sure they're alone, then puts his hand on his brother's shoulder. 

"We'll get through this," he says gently. "You can pretend to sleep...or actually sleep...on the bus. The hard part's over, we're done with planes, we don't have to separate anymore. You can pretend to be deaf if you want." Dick doesn't smile, but his face relaxes a bit and his eyes regain a bit of light. Jason half-smiles and squeezes his shoulder.

Dick did indeed pretend to be asleep on the bus, resting his head on Jason's shoulder the whole time. And when they got off, he pretended to be deaf as Jason suggested, and Jason pretended to interpret for him. They boarded a ferry in Portsmouth (they stayed inside, Dick being unable to handle the spray of the seawater) and docked in Cherbourg. By the time they left the boat, it was night. Which is how they ended up in a bed-and-breakfast. 

It was surprisingly easy to find a hotel that wasn't beach-front and took cash. Well, euros. The harder part was finding a room with two beds. He did find one, but they're both twin beds. Which is fine. Just...might be a bit of a tight fit, especially for Jason. But that's not the primary concern right now. Because Dick needs a shower. It's been more than a week since he's bathed, and he's starting to smell. The problem is he can't even go near an active stream without his pulse skyrocketing and his breathing growing shallow. 

"How did you manage to stay clean before?" Jason asks. Dick shrugs.

"I turned the water as hot as it would go so it felt a bit less...like the real thing, and then just dealt with the panic attack after," he says. Jason blinks.

"You...just dealt with it? Every time?" Jason says slowly. Dick nods. Jason exhales through his nose. "For how long?" Dick stiffens a little. It's a legitimate question, but Jason knows his brother's not stupid. His response will answer another, very different question, as well. But Jason's trying to take it slow, to not make his brother spill everything all at once. And Dick's smart enough to know that, too.

"Seven months, give or take," he says, finally. Jason almost lets his brows furrow. It wasn't very long before that when Dick and Barbara broke up. He didn't think the...it...happened early enough to cause the breakup, but at least this confirms it. He knows that Dick left Gotham and Blüdhaven for a while after, but no one really knows what he was doing. Just that he came back when Bruce called him. 

"What about a bath?" he suggests, mentally shaking himself out of his thoughts. Dick shakes his head.

"I don't have a tub, just a shower stall," he says. Jason tilts his head.

"So you haven't tried it? Just to see if it works?" Dick shakes his head again, considering. "There's a bath here," Jason says, nodding towards the bathroom, letting the suggestion go unsaid. Dick stares at the door for a while, then slowly nods.

"I can try," he says quietly. Jason nods, and reaches down to pick up his brother's bag off the floor, the one with toiletries and night clothes. 

"Do you need help?" Jason asks, knowing Dick will understand the unspoken part. Do you need me there for support? Dick takes the bag and stares at it for a minute, considering. Then he shakes his head again.

"No, but...I'll leave the door unlocked." I want to try to do this myself, but I want you to be able to reach me if it goes badly. Jason nods in understanding. 

"I'll be right here."

Now that they're no longer moving and Dick seems to be doing okay in the other room, Jason is able to relax just a bit and think. And the pit-rage seizes the opportunity to surge. Never before has he worked so hard to keep the green from blinding him. He has a pretty decent handle on it, but there are still moments when his control threatens to slip. 

Nothing like this, though. He doesn't even think he was this angry when he found out Bruce didn't kill the Joker. 

Because someone raped his big brother. Someone hurt him badly enough that Dick, the strongest person he knows, a man who can withstand literal torture, broke under the weight of what was done to him. 

The moment Dick is stable enough to be on his own for a while, Jason's going to go on a little hunt. And Batman's morals be damned, he's going to kill the son-of-a-bitch.

Chapter Text

Dick POV

They sit across from each other on the train, looking out the window. The scenery outside flies past in a 200mph blur. The car is mostly empty, save for a couple sitting side-by-side, one person traveling alone, and themselves. Jason sits back in his seat, one hand on his knee and the other a fist under his cheek as he leans on the armrest. Dick's feet rest on the seat beside his bottom, his shins leaning on the table between the two, head leaned back and arms crossed over his chest. Jason's gaze is contemplative, Dick's is empty and unseeing. French music plays softly on the overhead speakers as they stare towards the blurred view outside. 

Dick's face may be blank, but his thoughts are not. He's debating. Jason's been...surprisingly and remarkably helpful. It isn't easy...god it isn't easy...but Dick really has been trying to keep his promise. He can't say he expected Jason to push him, but he certainly wasn't expecting him to let him go - mostly - at his own pace. And all the "pushing" he's been doing has really just been gently getting Dick to verbalize at least some of what's going through his head. He hasn't pressed for details, hasn't made him feel like he's being interrogated. And also...Jason's not a particularly tactile person, but Dick very much is. Jason knows that. The drastic increase in physical affection is proof enough. And it means so much more because Dick knows why Jason is averse to physical touch. He had a rough childhood, and the Joker only made matters worse. So the fact that Jason's been so liberal with his affection...it's...well, Dick appreciates it. A lot. 

If Dick is honest with himself, telling his brother what happened on the roof with Catalina was cathartic. It hurt, but he feels a bit less weighed down. It might help to tell Jason more. Besides...he has a promise to keep. And for once, he's not overwhelmed by the thought of putting in the effort. So, bracing himself, he takes a breath, still staring out the window.

"It wasn't just the once," he says softly, "and it wasn't just her." Jason's eyes snap to him. He lifts his head from his fist and takes a minute to process what Dick just said, then his face contorts as he struggles to mask the fury Dick knows he's feeling. He feels guilty for causing it, knowing his brother has to fight not only his own emotions, but the effects of the Lazarus Pit, as well. Jason's fist tightens as he takes a steadying breath, and he lowers his hand to his lap and leans forward, supporting himself on his knees. 

"Do you want me to ask questions or let you tell me at your own pace?" he asks, keeping his voice steady. Dick considers for only a moment before answering.

"Ask." He's willing to talk, but just the first statement took a lot of willpower. He's not going to be able to get through this if he has to figure out which order to do it in. Jason nods slowly.

"Okay," he says lowly. "Let's start with 'just the once.' How many times did it happen? With this one specifically?" Dick forces himself to look through his memories, trying to count them. He catches himself starting to slip into reliving them a few times, and gives up after he has to aggressively pull himself out. He shakes his head, banishing them as best as he can, and clenches his hands into fists under his arms.

"I don’t know. It was a few weeks, most nights, sometimes more than once," he says in a hurry, then exhales. "If Bruce hadn’t called when he did, I would’ve married her. We were in a courthouse, there was a paper on the table, and I was holding a pen when my phone rang." He pulls his arms tighter against his chest. "I wasn't...I couldn't...disagree with her. I was in a-in a fog, and I couldn't decide anything, couldn't make any choices. I guess, in a way, Bruce summoning me back to Gotham was what snapped me out of it." He laughs once bitterly, tears beginning to sting his eyes. "Before everything with Blockbuster, she crashed my date with Babs. She started a fight and then kissed me. That led to a whole thing and Babs broke up with me." He sinks a bit in his seat, taking slow, deep breaths. Across from him, Jason's employing the same breathing technique, but for a different reason. 

"What's her name?" he asks. Dick swallows.

"Catalina Flores." Jason's nostrils flare. Dick cringes. Of course he'd know that name. She worked with Batman for a while as Tarantula. He would also know that she died a short time ago. Jason's eyes close, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. He takes a few breaths, then picks his head back up.

"Who else?" he asks. 

"Miriam Delgado," Dick says, his voice becoming a bit unsteady, "when she was with the Titans as Mirage. She pretended to be K-Kori so I'd sleep with her." He pauses. It's starting to become difficult to speak. "Pantha called me a...a slut. Miri said-said I should've known it was her, that the fact that...the fact that-that I didn't meant I must've...wanted it. Kori agreed and...broke up with me." A tear escapes out of the corner of his eye and he aggressively wipes it away. He brings his arms up to wrap around his knees, pulling them to his chest. Jason snaps.

"But that's literally her pow-" he cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have burst out like that, this isn't the time for going over how other people messed up." He schools his expression as best as he can. "Was it just the one time?" Dick nods, and Jason nods along with him. "Okay...okay...was there anyone else?" Dick doesn't answer right away. 

"I'm...not sure it counts," he says, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice now. "Her name was Liu...she...groomed me." He speaks slowly, trying to keep himself from tripping over his words. "She was trying to get at Wayne Enterprises...she was the first person I ever...that I ever slept with. She died a while back." Jason looks at him carefully.

"How old were you?" he asks.

"...Sixteen." Jason's mouth tightens.

"Dick, you were a child. It counts." Dick's lip wobbles and he buries his face in his arms, trying not to break down. He knows there's more to say, more to talk over, but this part's over. And he can't handle any more right now. And - thank god - Jason can see that, and he doesn't ask any more questions.

Jason POV

Motherf&#($+&#!&%+@)!#&(*!#+&%!+*@&(*!@&%+)(!

It takes all of Jason's self control not to pry the table out of the floor and lob it across the train car. 

Three people raped his brother. All three of them are already dead and out of his reach. Two of them died as fucking heroes. Heroes! He really hopes Bruce didn't know while he was working with Catalina, because if he did, it'll be a genuine challenge to resist committing a patricide. Pantha died a while back, but Jason's heard rumors that it didn't stick. He hopes it didn't. He'd love to give his fists some action against her teeth. And Kori...she's his friend. Or, more accurately, was. If he trusted his brother even slightly less than he does, he wouldn't believe Kori would be the sort of person to victim-blame. His anger is at odds with the sadness and hurt he feels, knowing that's the kind of person she is. As for this Liu person, he doesn't know how she died, but he fully intends to do some investigating. Later. It's waited more than a decade at this point, it can wait a bit longer until Dick is no longer a threat to himself. 

Jason looks across the table at his brother. He's curled in on himself, more tense than a tight rope, his head buried in his arms and hands gripping his knees. Jason grits his teeth. 

There's a reason he has a zero-tolerance policy for rapists and pedophiles. A reason that that's always been the case, even going as far back as his Robin days. Jason is intimately familiar with the hopeless feeling of having his choice taken away, being unable to fight back, and being left to try to pick up the pieces of himself afterwards. He's also familiar with the struggle of having it happen over and over, and the toll it takes. When he sees someone closed in on themselves, looking as broken as they feel, that look in their eyes that is horrifically unique...he knows. And when he sees it, he feels powerless. He wants to keep that from happening to others, but there's rarely a way to be proactive. He can only react and avenge, and hope that scares the would-be future offenders into behaving. 

Dick is hurting. Jason couldn't protect him. He can't even avenge him. 

And on top of everything, Dick lost two relationships as a direct result of his rapists' actions. Two people who should've been his strongest supports were instead sources of pain, and it was the fault of the same people who hurt him.

When the wave of fury ebbs and dulls into a low roar, the old weight settles in Jason's chest. He's used to its presence by now, but it's so much heavier now because this time, it's his brother who's been hurt. He's quick to wipe away the tear that escapes before Dick can see. He doesn't want him to know how powerless he feels, how much it's affecting him to learn what he's been through. Especially because right now, his feelings aren't the focus. Dick is the one buried under so much weight it nearly killed him. 

Chapter Text

Jason POV

Hotel, hostel, or rental car? Or grand theft auto? No...no need to attract the attention of the local authorities. Besides, he made sure to pack plenty of cash before coming to Europe, and exchanged the dollars for euros in a series of back alleys after arriving instead of going through official channels. It'll be easy enough to rent a car. 

"Where to next?" Dick asks as they step out of the train station in Rome.

Jason turns his head to look at his brother in surprise. This is the first time he's participated even slightly in their journey beyond simply being present for it. 

"Um..." Jason says, blinking. "...well, I was thinking we get a rental car and camp out in that for the night, then drive in the morning." Dick nods.

"Where are we driving?" he asks. Jason's brow furrows.

"Haven't decided. We could go south, hop on a boat and go to Africa. We could go north, wander around Europe for a bit." Dick is quiet. Jason observes him. His face is mostly blank, but his eyes are tense, like he's thinking hard. Jason sighs and guides them over to a bench, then sits down. His brother follows suit, still thinking. He's quiet for a long time, long enough for the sky to turn from blue to orange as the sun sets. Jason doesn't press. There's a rental car agency that's open till 10pm, they have time for Dick to figure out what he wants and how to verbalize it. 

"I don't want to get on another boat," he says finally, speaking softly, "but I'm tired." Jason knows he doesn't mean physically. Dick could run all the way to Viterbo and still be able to do a flip at the end of the road if he had to. It's not that kind of tired. So Jason nods slowly.

"Okay," he says gently. "We can stop soon. I want to get us out of any major cities, but Italy has plenty of little hideaways. It won't take long to find something." Dick sighs in relief, and Jason wraps an arm around his shoulders. Dick leans into the hug, tucking his head into the groove of Jason's neck. They sit there for a long while. Eventually though, Jason pulls out a burner phone and dials a taxi service. 

The car pulls up a half hour later, and the brothers reluctantly pull away from each other and stand. 

"[Where to?]" the driver asks when they're loaded into the vehicle. 

"[Primerent rental car service, please,]" Jason answers as he buckles himself in. The driver nods and pulls away from the curb. 

"[So, you fellas in town to see the Colosseum?]" he asks. Jason shakes his head.

"[Sadly, no. This is just a pit stop. We're headed to Pisa,]" he answers. He will absolutely not be driving them to or through Pisa. 

"[Ah,]" the driver says, oblivious to the lie, "[fans of da Vinci, then?]" Jason smiles, playing along.

"[Very much. We're gonna take those funny tourist pictures with each of us holding up the tower.]" The driver laughs. 

An hour later, they're pulling out of the rental car lot in a little white Toyota Corolla. Jason drives to a public parking garage, and he and Dick lean their seats back. It's a bit cramped, but they've both slept in far less comfortable places. Oddly enough, Dick seems to sleep better than he has all week. Jason falls asleep wondering if it has something to do with the enclosed space or the lack of a bed. The next morning, they leave Rome before the sun is up. 

Jason drives for hours, letting Dick sleep. It's the first time he hasn't been twitching or mumbling in his sleep, and Jason wants to let him get as much rest that's actually peaceful and productive as he can. 

By the time Dick wakes up, they're approaching Pordenone. Jason decides to stop and get them food. They go to a little outdoor spaghetti restaurant and sit at a corner table, quietly munching away while Jason looks over a map. 

"What are you looking for?" a cheery accented voice asks. The brothers look over in surprise at a young woman standing next to their table, pointing at the map. Jason raises an eyebrow.

"[How'd you know we speak English?]" he asks. Her blue eyes light up in surprise, and she chuckles.

"[There's an American military base not too far from here. You guys always lean on everything,]" she answers, flipping her brown hair over her shoulder. "[Pardon me for assuming you wouldn't understand Italian, most Americans don't bother learning our language before coming here.]" Jason smiles.

"[Oh that's alright, it's not your fault Americans are jerks.]" She laughs, her voice slightly shrill. Jason gestures to the map. "[To answer your question, my brother here is getting married in a few months, and I'm helping him look for a good honeymoon spot.]" Judging from the way Dick's fingers tighten a bit on his fork, that was a triggering thing to say. Jason feels guilty, but he also doesn't want this girl to try to hit on his brother. That would be exponentially worse. And if her body language and the way she's eyeing them are any indication, she's trying to get lucky with one of them. "[Any recommendations?]" he asks her. She smiles and shifts her weight, exaggerating her hip and zeroing her gaze on him now that she knows Dick's not available. 

"[Well, that would depend on what kind of honeymoon he's looking for. For something fun, I'd go west and visit Gardaland. For something especially romantic, I'd go east to Venice, though I'd avoid touching the water. For something quiet, I'd go north to Barcis.]" Gardaland is an amusement park, so probably not a good idea. Venice wouldn't work for several reasons, not the least of which being that there's cameras everywhere in a city so densely populated with tourists. Barcis, on the other hand...he's never heard of Barcis. 

"[I've never heard of Barcis,]" he admits. She smiles again.

"[Most people haven't if they aren't from around here. It's a very small town about twenty-five kilometers north. A lot of locals stop there on their way up the mountain. It's a...nice place for a quick getaway,]" she says, fluttering her eyelids. He internally rolls his eyes, but turns to his brother. 

"<A town that small might have backwood cabins. Might be a good place to hide out for a while,>" he signs, giving him the cop-out of being deaf so he doesn't have to interact. Dick's posture relaxes minutely in relief, and he signs back.

"<I'm okay with it if you think it'll work.>" He pauses. "<As long as she isn't part of the tour,>" he jokes. Jason's eyes widen in surprise, and he snorts. 

"[My brother thinks Barcis might be a bit too quiet for a honeymoon, but we'll probably check out Venice,]" he says, turning back to her. "[Thanks for the advice, ma'am.]" 

"[Bianca. Call me Bianca,]" she says, offering her hand. Jason shakes it briefly.

"[I'm Kade, and my brother is Dylan,]" he replies. 

"[Will you be in town long?]" Bianca asks, teeth grazing over her bottom lip. He pretends to be disappointed. 

"[Sadly, no. We have to be on a plane back to America in a few days, and we need to cover as much ground as possible.]" She pouts. 

"[That's too bad,]" she says, but quickly recovers. "[Well, best of luck with the wedding!]" she says cheerily. Jason pretends to translate in sign, and Dick smiles slightly and nods, making the "thank you" gesture. She leaves, and the brothers go back to eating their food. Jason looks past her as she walks away, and his gaze lands on a little shop across the street. 

"Have you ever had gelato?" he asks suddenly. Dick looks at him, an eyebrow raised.

"I'm Romani," he says, as if that answers the question. And in truth, it does. Dick spent his early childhood traveling around, mostly through Europe. And gelato is a staple in Europe. Of course he's had it before.

"How long's it been since you had any?" Jason asks, looking back at Dick, who tilts his head questioningly. The corners of Jason's mouth turn up, and he gestures with his head towards the shop across the street. Dick turns and looks, and his eyes light up. Jason chuckles, and pulls a few bank notes out of his pocket, tucking them under a plate. They're pretty much done eating, anyway. He stands, and Dick - dare he say it? - eagerly follows. They cross the street and walk up to the counter, and Dick looks at the flavors like a kid in a candy shop. 

He ends up getting a large cone with four scoops, each a different flavor. Jason gets himself a single scoop of orange and passes a few coins to the man behind the counter with a quick "grazie mille." The brothers find a bench to occupy, and sit down, Dick happily licking away at his ice cream. Jason observes him, and smiles softly. It's beyond relieving that something can still make his brother smile when he struggles to even speak. 

Though, honestly, it also worries him. The most dangerous part of suicide recovery is when the person still wants to die but suddenly isn't so depressed that they don't have the energy to act. He hopes this isn't that, but he wouldn't be a bat if he didn't consider the possibility. 

Chapter Text

Dick POV

Dick shifts on his feet, absentmindedly adjusting the straps on his shoulders. The fabric of his jacket scratches his skin and he wants to take it off, but it's cold outside. That's worse than itchy. So he deals with it and waits for his brother, both their backpacks on his shoulders. 

Jason is across the street, talking with a man next to the rental car. Dick can't hear what they're saying. Not that he's really trying to listen. After a while, Jason passes a roll of bank notes to the man, along with the key to the car, and nods in thanks. 

"Disposing of our ride?" Dick asks when Jason crosses the street and approaches him. His brother shakes his head, reaching for his backpack.

"Returning it to Rome. Disposing of it would send the agency looking for their missing vehicle," he responds as Dick slips his brother's pack off his shoulder. Dick nods, Jason hoists his bag onto his own shoulders, and Dick puts his own bag on properly. 

"Are we walking all the way to Barcis, then?" he asks. Jason nods.

"Yep. It's uphill, but it's twenty-five kilometers. We could trek that in our sleep," he jokes. Dick half-smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He was tired in Rome, and his energy's draining fast. The gelato yesterday was an unexpected joy, a blast back to a time when his only worries were centered around mastering a trick his parents taught him. The rest of the day was good, and he rode that high. Until he woke up in the hotel room last night, sweaty and whimpering from a nightmare. Now he's once again running on energy he doesn't have. Jason offered to carry him or book a few more nights in the hotel. He turned him down. His feet work fine, it's not the exertion that's the problem. Besides, the sooner they get to the actual stopping point, the sooner he can rest. 

When Jason found him in his apartment two weeks ago, it was as though a switch flipped. His depression and all that entailed were discovered, and all the energy he was dedicating to hiding it left him like a popped water balloon. When he woke up, he fully intended to put the mask back on and try to convince his brother that he'd been gassed or drugged or something. Instead, he found he couldn't so much as blink to try and cover up the truth. What little actual thought he was able to pull together in the next few days led him to the conclusion that he'd been operating on burnout, not energy reserves. And when he was forced to stop, the momentum was lost. His mind collapsed like a muscle finally relaxing. 

Jason took most of the effort out of going into hiding by making the decisions and doing all of the work that didn't absolutely require Dick's involvement. In moments when he has the energy to feel anything outside of the mess in his head, he's grateful. But making himself put in the little effort he has, has been like doing the universe's most extreme triathlon, dropping at the end, then getting immediately back up to do the Rasputin dance. 

He can't keep going. He's burnt out, badly, and he can't keep running on energy he doesn't have. 

The soft rumble of thunder should've been the first clue. The smell of petrichor should've been the second. The clouds rolling above should've been the third. 

Dick has been noticing his brother's uneasiness as they hike, but he figures it's just the terrain that's concerning. The ground isn't particularly steep, but the rocks are loose and the dirt is muddy. It wouldn't be hard to slip and go tumbling. 

He finally realizes what Jason was actually worried about when the first cold drop lands in his hair. He stops walking. Jason takes a few more steps before realizing Dick isn't behind him and turning around. Dick imagines his face is some combination of empty and afraid, but he doesn't care. He slowly brings his hand to his head, running his fingers through his hair. He can't find the wet spot from the single drop, but that quickly ceases to matter as more drops fall onto his head. His heart sinks to his gut and his breath catches in his throat.

Suddenly, Jason's directly in front of him, taking off his own jacket. 

"Hey, stay with me," he says, throwing the jacket over Dick's head. "You with me?" He looks at Jason, whose eyes are tense and worried. He swallows - with some difficulty - and gives a jerky nod. Jason turns and takes his hand, pulling him forward. Dick isn't paying attention to where they're going, only where his feet are landing. After a few minutes, Jason stops, removing Dick's backpack and telling him to sit. He doesn't argue, instead leaning against the trunk of the tree his brother parked him under. Jason takes off his backpack and sets it on the ground, crouching beside it and opening the zipper. He pulls out a thin tarp and rope (he planned for rain?) and unrolls the tarp as he stands. He spends a few minutes quickly tying it to the branches above Dick, spreading it over him as the rain begins to turn from a light sprinkle into a downpour. A rumble of thunder echoes over the mountainside, and Dick pulls his legs to his chest. 

"callado..."

Dick whimpers and presses his forehead to his knees, sliding his hands over his ears and digging the heels of his palms onto the tragi. Not now, please not now... he'll be pretty much useless for several hours if he has a panic attack right now.

Jason slides down beside him and puts an arm around him.

"Hey, it's okay Dickiebird. No one's here but me. I'm right here with you." Jason mutters reassurances to him, trying to keep him grounded. Dick barely hears them. The rain pelts the tarp, and the dirt under his shoes turns to concrete. He squeezes his head tighter, pressing his eyes shut. The smell of the rain fills his nose, and his brother's voice is replaced by hers. 

"Everything's alright, baby, it's all okay..."

He whimpers again and struggles to breathe. The arm around his shoulders squeezes. The rain pelts against the tarp, thunderous and sharp on the plastic material. His diaphragm convulses and a lamp light shines beneath his eyelids. Out. Someone keeps muttering next to his ear. Can't breathe.

"Quiet, mi amor..."

Out. Need to get out.

Dick springs up, letting whatever's on his head fall away as he sprints, eyes still firmly shut. He vaguely hears someone shout, but he doesn't stop. 

Oh god that was a mistake. The rain is ice cold against his skin and what little hold he had on reality slips away. His hair sticks to his forehead and his suit clings to his skin. His boots grind against gravel and broken glass. His gloves...they're covered in red...she killed him...he let her...

His foot slips.

He doesn't know or care how far he tumbles before he comes to a rough stop by slamming into a young tree. He doesn't try to move. He just lies there on his side, reeling from the impact to his midsection. His eyes open finally, and instead of concrete, he sees dirt and rocks and shrubbery. The rain still hammers against his skin and the thunder still rumbles and he's still freezing. But this pain isn't something he felt back then. He focuses on it, grounding himself with it. His head hurts, and he struggles to keep his vision clear.

"Now hush..."

"Dick!" 

He could try to stay conscious. He should. But if he does he'll cry again. He's really tired of crying. He’s tired of moving. He’s tired of…well, everything.

Jason skids to a stop next to him, sending a spray of mud and pebbles behind him. He catches sight of his brother's terrified expression before his vision goes black.

"What is there to be afraid of now?"

Dick's eyes snap open. 

Normally, he jerks awake. Normally, Jason hears him when he's in the throes of a nightmare. Not this time. This time, he's stuck. He can't move. He can't breathe. There's nothing stopping him physically, but it feels as though if he exhales, twitches, or so much as blinks, the illusion will break and he'll be dragged back into the nightmare. 

There's a ceiling above him. Why is there a ceiling above him? Wasn't he outside? He looks around quickly and frantically, not daring to move his head, trying to figure out where he is. He's in a bed. There's a nightstand with a softly-lit lamp. There's a dresser and a small wardrobe. There's two doors, one to a bathroom and one that's closed. There's a desk. On the desk are the contents of an advanced med kit. A bat-tech med kit. There's an armchair a few feet from the bed. Jason's asleep in it. Dick relaxes a bit. If Jason's here and asleep, then they're safe. He looks back at the ceiling. There's an overhead light, but it's off. Dick stares at it. His eyes water and sting, but he forces them to stay open. The dream is still clinging to the back of his eyelids and he can’t stand the thought of losing sight of the room, reassuring him that it is in fact real and he is in fact in it. 

Eventually, he can't hold his breath anymore, and he shakily releases the air from his lungs. His chest spasms, refusing to let him breathe normally. He sits up, and his body barks at him. He ignores it and swings his legs over the edge, moving as quietly as he can bring himself to be to avoid waking his brother. He leans forward and sits up...slowly, because his body won't let him move faster. He pads softly across the floor, his feet chilled on the bare wood planks, and he has just enough awareness to realize the pain is coming from an ankle, a knee, both thighs, his midsection, his back, a shoulder, a forearm, and his head. Nothing feels broken, so he guesses it's just heavy bruising and a couple of dislocated joints. One of his arms is strapped to his chest and his ankle is wrapped, so it was probably that and his shoulder that got dislocated. He shuffles to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door.

He stands for a minute, realizing he had no plan coming in here. Isn't there something people do in a bathroom? He looks down at the toilet, barely visible in the dim light from the lamp in the bedroom. Oh...right. He could go. He moves his free hand to the button on his pants...he's wearing different pants. Why is he wearing different pants? Wait, where's his shirt? A memory flashes in his mind, a remnant of the nightmare. Catalina on top of him in a motel, straddling him and raking her fingers over his chest after tearing off his shirt. Dick's hand moves to cover the skin of his clavicle. She liked his chest. And his neck. She liked to touch and lick and bite him there. He rubs the area, pressing down with his fingers as he sinks down to sit on the cold tile floor. She also liked his jaw, but she was careful not to mark that, knowing a visible mark could provide a connection between his civilian and vigilante identities. He digs his fingers into his skin as he moves them, trying to chase the ghost of her touch away. His nails scratch the skin, and that...actually works. A bit. The sting overpowers the memory. Sort of. But sort of is better than nothing, and he leans his back against the tub, digging his nails into his skin. 

What Liu did to him hurt. If she hadn't gotten herself killed and if she hadn't had her actual lover protecting her before that, she would've ended up in jail. If for no other reason than having sex with a minor. He cared for her. Back then, he thought he loved her. The betrayal stung. Knowing that he was used, that his first time was taken by a predator who was manipulating him...that stung more. It affected every relationship he had afterwards, leaving him insecure and constantly doubting himself. 

Miri was his colleague, his peer. His friend. That she would do that to him was a shock almost worse than the actual realization that she'd raped him. And to make matters worse, his friends had immediately turned on him. Even Wally, though he didn't end their friendship or talk down to him, saw what happened as Dick cheating. Kori didn't give him the chance to defend himself before dumping him. That left a mark that - if he's honest with himself - he was never able to really heal from. After all, he's nothing if not good at pretending he's not hurting, even to himself. 

As bad as the others were, though, neither of them compared to Catalina. She irreparably damaged his relationship with Babs, leaving his heart wounded and vulnerable. Then everything with Blockbuster happened. He threatened the lives of everyone he cared about, mocking Dick's unwillingness to kill him and put a stop to it. In a moment of overwhelming anger and hopelessness and fear, he'd let Catalina kill him. She had no qualms about it, but he started hyperventilating the moment the villain was dead, and ran to the roof. He was freshly traumatized by his decision, and he had no willpower to move after falling to his knees. There in the cold rain, she took advantage of his weakness, straddling him as he cried and told her to stop. She continued to take advantage of him, night after night, over and over until Bruce called him home. That...he would have trouble even beginning to list the side-effects that came from that. And he couldn't shove it down and forget about it like he did with the Liu and Mirage debacles. 

"-op, Dick stop," a voice drags him out of his thoughts. His eyes refocus and his vision comes back, and he's assaulted by the bright bathroom light that he didn't realize had been turned on. Kneeling in front of him is Jason, whose hand is covering his own on his chest. "You with me?" his brother asks. Dick finds his eyes - which takes longer than he'd care to admit - and nods minutely. Jason exhales in what Dick would guess is relief, though at what, he doesn't know. Probably something to do with him, but he doesn't have the energy to figure it out. The smell of copper reaches his nose, and he briefly wonders where it's coming from, before deciding he doesn't care. 

"You really did a number with those nails," Jason says, pulling some toilet paper from the roll and dabbing it on Dick's chest after moving his hand away. Dick looks down. His chest is bleeding from where he scratched it - how long was he scratching? - and his fingertips are coated in red. He hm's and puts his head back where it was. "What made that spot itch so bad?" Jason asks. He usually doesn't press, but he probably figures it was a plant or a bug bite.

"She liked to touch me," Dick says bluntly, and Jason's hand stills. "I woke up, and she was touching me. Scratching makes her stop." He could clarify. His brother probably knows he means he was trying to rid himself of the memory of her touch, but he could at least make sure of it. But he doesn't. The words won't come. And even if they did, he doesn't care enough to say them. 

Chapter Text

Jason POV

Jason allows himself a minute...just a minute...to close his eyes and let the hot water run over his head. The walk itself was long and he ended up sweating, but the rain made the ground muddy. Between sitting in it under the tree, splattering it all over himself while chasing his brother's falling form, then carrying him while running the last several kilometers uphill, he ended up drenched in mud. He needed a shower. He didn't bother getting one before he knew Dick wasn't seriously injured, then he just...fell asleep. He was tired. But with Dick settled on the couch - with fresh bandages over the new wound on his chest - he felt like it was okay to take that shower. And now he's enjoying the warm spray. He's about to shake himself out of his daze when his stomach does it for him by growling. His eyes open, and he sighs.

They need food. Jason was in too much of a hurry when he rented the cabin to care, but now that Dick is okay - physically, at least - he's concerned. He can't leave his brother alone, but he can't take him into town. Dick can't handle any more traveling, however short-distanced it may be. Jason would consider having groceries delivered, but he doubts such a tiny town offers such a service. Besides, there's no reception here. He'll have to wait until Dick's asleep, but it's unlikely that the town would have stores open late at night, and he has no way of predicting when else his brother will sleep. 

He turns off the water, grabbing the towel and drying himself off. He steps out of the little tub, drying his feet last, then wraps the towel around his waist and opens the door. His skin chills as he exits the warm bathroom and walks over to his backpack, pulling out a set of clothes. He's just got his underwear and pants on when he hears a sound from the living room. He pauses, arms halfway through his shirt, and hears it again. Is that...? He pulls the shirt over his head and quietly pads over to the door, opening it carefully. Well, I'll be damned. 

There, on the couch, right where he left him, is Dick. Except he's lying down, curled up and facing the back of the couch. And he's snoring softly. Jason half-smiles, then moves, not about to let the opportunity slip by. As quietly as he can, he slips his shoes and jacket on, pockets a wallet full of bills, then tip-toes out into the living room. He grabs a blanket and considers putting it on Dick, but that might wake him. So he just sets it on the couch in easy reach. He then slips silently out the door. 

He returns an hour later with two big paper sacks of food. He glances at Dick - still snoring away peacefully - and goes to the tiny kitchenette on the other side of the room. He puts the veggies, fruits, and meats from the first sack into the compact fridge, then puts all but two of the to-go meals from the other sack inside it, as well.

Did Bruce know? 

The question has been rattling in Jason's head since Dick told him about Catalina. He never met her, but he read the mission reports. He always does, even when he and Bruce are at each other's throats. It's a practical necessity, so he knows what he's getting into when he goes out at night. He knew Batman worked with Tarantula. He knew Blockbuster blew up Dick's apartment building, and she killed him. He knew Tarantula and Nightwing were out of the action for a while, then returned when Batman called Nightwing to Gotham. He knew Dick later turned her in to the police for killing Blockbuster. He knew she got out, went off on her own, and died a short time later. He knew she died fighting a villain, she died a hero. And that pisses Jason off so much because he now also knows what she did to his brother. If he knows Dick, it was overwhelming guilt over the decision to allow Blockbuster's murder that landed him in a state of near-catatonic shock. And he now knows that Catalina and Dick went MIA because she was using that shock to control him. 

But did Bruce know? He doesn't know what words were exchanged or how much Batman and Nightwing interacted when he returned to Gotham. But Bruce is a detective. The world's greatest detective. So adept at reading people that he hardly needs their words in order to know what they're thinking or feeling. Dick is a gifted liar - one of the side effects of growing up learning to dazzle an audience - but it's highly unlikely that Bruce didn't notice something was off with him. 

Did he know? Did he see it and ignore it?

"Jay?" a groggy voice sounds from the couch. Jason jerks in surprise and turns to look across the room. Dick is half lying down, body still facing the back of the couch and head turned toward the kitchenette. His hair is slightly crumpled and his eyes are bleary. Jason's lips turn up slightly at the corners.

"Hey, Big Bird. How'd you sleep?" he asks. Dick glares as well as he's able with sleep still clinging to his eyes.

"Thought I told you not to call me that?" he says incredulously. 

"Actually," Jason says with a smirk, "what you said was that you hate that name. Which of course means I can never stop using it." Dick groans and flops back down, raising his hand to flip his brother off. Jason snorts, letting his previous train of thought go for now. There'll be plenty of time to brood over whether Bruce knows what Catalina did, but for the time being his focus is his brother's immediate well being. So he grabs the two takeout containers and walks over to the couch, setting one on the coffee table and taking a seat in the armchair across from the couch. He didn't grab drinks while in town because there was already too much weight in the paper bags and he didn't have a third arm, but it's not a huge issue. They still have the water canteens he got for the hike, and there's a tap and ice trays in the kitchen. 

"Here," he says, nudging the box closer to Dick, "eat." His brother rolls over to face him and looks at the box. For a moment, Jason thinks he's going to ask how he got the food. But he's not wearing his confused face. He's wearing his tired face. "We burned a lot of calories yesterday," Jason says, trying not to sound like he's pushing. Dick closes his eyes for a moment, then sighs quietly and sits up. He runs his fingers through his hair, then opens his eyes and reaches for the box. He opens the lid, staring at the sandwich inside with the same tired expression. He sits that way for a while, staring and not touching. Jason starts to eat his sandwich, trying - and probably failing - to at least look like he's not carefully watching his brother. 

"I can't," Dick says, barely above a whisper. Jason stops chewing, looking up at him. He looks close to tears. Jason sets his sandwich down and quickly chews the rest of what's in his mouth. "I can't," Dick says again, his voice cracking. Jason swallows. Can't what? Can't eat?

"You can't..." he says, waiting for Dick to finish the sentence. Dick exhales, and his lip wobbles once.

"Do you have any idea how frustrating...no, how...how maddening it is to be afraid of everything?" he asks, not looking away from the sandwich. A weight settles in Jason's throat, but he says nothing. He lets his brother speak. "I've been avoiding the rain for months because every time I get caught in a drizzle, the world disappears and I'm back on that goddamn rooftop." Dick's voice is unsteady. "I haven't slept in my own bed because it's big and flat and every time I try to sleep, she's climbing on top of me. I can't look at gas station coolers because there might be a Topo Chico in there, and that was her favorite drink. I can't walk past a motel because we stayed in them for weeks." Dick takes a shaky breath, his eyes watery. "I can't...I can't..eat sandwiches...because she'd buy them and then...and then feed them to me. Because I wouldn't eat. She'd shove bite-sized pieces into my mouth and tell me to chew."

Jason keeps his face as neutral as he can, trying not to give away how fast his heart is beating. Or how dry his mouth has become. Or how difficult it's become to breathe evenly. He keeps his gaze firmly on his brother's face, and not on the floor, which has suddenly become stained and covered in discarded tissues and syringes. He focuses on the smell of the sandwiches, rather than the smell of cigarettes and sweat and booze. He keeps his hearing directed at his brother's words, ignoring the lewd words spoken behind him. When Dick's words stop and he starts to hyperventilate, Jason stands up. He closes the sandwich box and moves it to the opposite end of the table. He then sits on the table in front of Dick, their knees almost touching, and leans forward to gently grab his brother's arms.

"Dick, look at me," he says, his voice as gentle as he can manage with a racing heart. Dick breathes fast and shallow and, slowly, raises his eyes to meet Jason's. "Point out five things you can see," he orders. It takes a moment, but Dick's eyes move, searching.

"Tab-table...chair...rug...w-wall...blanket," he gasps. Jason nods lightly.

"Good. Now four things you can feel," he says. Dick's hands move to touch his shirt.

"Sh-my shirt...pants...couch...s-socks."

"Now three things you can hear." 

"Me...you...bird, out-outside."

"Good, you're doing good, now two things you can smell." This one is the kicker. Because in order to smell, Dick has to breathe. It forces him to breathe deeply with the distraction of looking for a smell. He struggles the first few times, his lungs refusing to expand. But he does manage to inhale deeply a few times.

"Couch, it-it's old, an-and the bread, it's t-it's toasted." Jason nods again, following along silently, grounding himself as well as his brother.

"Alright last one. Tell me one thing you can taste." Dick moves his tongue around his mouth behind his teeth, and makes a disgusted face.

"St-stale. My mouth tastes stale," he says through the unsteady but finally deep breaths. Jason scoffs half-heartedly.

"That's cause you haven't brushed your teeth in two days," he teases lightly. Dick exhales, and the corner of his mouth almost turns up. They sit like that for a minute, Dick catching his breath and Jason calming his own silent panic attack. And deliberating.

Dick knows Jason had a rough childhood. He knows Jason was no stranger to violence when Bruce found him. But Jason didn't tell him the whole story. He barely admitted it to Bruce, and that was only because he had to get a health exam before he could be adopted, and he was panicking so much at what he thought that entailed that Bruce and Alfred both had to calm him down. Between the context of what he was panicking about and the words he uttered in his hysteria, there was just no way to keep it secret after that. But as far as Jason knows, neither his adoptive father nor his pseudo grandfather told anyone else, and Jason himself certainly hasn't. 

If Jason is correct, then what Dick knows of his childhood traumas is limited to his mother's overdose, his father's imprisonment and murder, his own homelessness, and the physical abuse he endured from many of the adults that surrounded him. It's more than most people know, but...Jason's thinking that might not be enough. The most difficult part of dealing with all of his greatest traumas was doing it alone. But Jason's been hyper-independent for as long as he can remember. It hurts to face things alone, but he can do it. Dick, on the other hand, grew up surrounded by people he could rely on, people he could trust. If Jason had to guess, the self-imposed isolation was a result of Dick's fear of hurting those he cares about, overpowering his need to confide in people. And Dick - sweet, kind, protective Dick Grayson - would've wanted to shield others from his own traumas. Would it help, to admit that he's already been exposed to that kind of trauma? To tell Dick he's not alone in it?

Across from him, Dick buries his head in his hands, looking two seconds away from crying. Fuck it. I'm not gonna let him keep thinking he's alone. 

"Yes." 

Dick looks up, confused. Jason takes a steadying breath.

"You asked if I had any idea how maddening it is to be afraid of everything," he says quietly, "and I do. I've been familiar with that feeling for a very long time." Dick's brows furrow, saying without words that he doesn't understand. Jason puts his hands on his knees and leans on them, suddenly unable to look his brother in the eyes.

"My mom was sick, and my old man was in jail. The landlord kept coming around to yell for the rent money. Mom's head was hurting, so I begged him to stop yelling. He went kinda quiet for a minute, took a good long look at me, and said 'boy, I think I might be able to offer your mama a discount so's she don't have to worry about rent no more.' I thought Christmas had come early. Then he added, 'so long as you and I can come to an arrangement.'" In his peripheral, Jason sees his brother tense. He forces his lungs to keep from shaking, and keeps going.

"We didn't have any money coming in, and I couldn't steal enough to make rent. I was so scared we were gonna be kicked out and mom, frail as she was, would freeze or starve. So I agreed. Every Tuesday, I'd go to his apartment two floors down, and I'd stay there for a few hours." The softness of the intake of breath indicates Dick tried to hide it, but he's close enough that Jason heard it. His breath hitches in his throat, so he clears his throat and continues.

"It went on like that for a few months, then mom died. I didn't know what to do with a body, but I knew the second she was found, I'd be put in the foster system. So I left. I never went back to that apartment building, and I thought I'd never have to do that with anybody ever again." Jason clenches his jaw. "The first person to prove me wrong was an older kid. He offered me twenty bucks to run a bag of coke to someone down the block. I'd just watched my mom overdose and I didn't wanna touch any kind of drug. He looked at me, the same way the landlord did, and offered those same twenty bucks if I followed him inside an old broke down car. I was hungry, and twenty bucks is twenty bucks, so I followed him." Jason debates pointing out that part of the reason he took over the drug trade in Crime Alley and forbade the inclusion of kids in the trade was to prevent things like that, and to provide for the kids who have no one so they don't have to do what he did to survive. He could point it out, but that's a pretty easy connection to make. Dick came pretty close to guessing it back when he first started out as Red Hood, it wouldn't be a difficult connection to make with this new information. So Jason presses on.

"After that, it was a stream of people. I tried to avoid it if I could, but there's only so much a kid can steal and survive on." Jason takes a deep breath through his nose, and exhales as steadily as he can through his mouth, digging his fingers into his knees. "Then Bruce found me. It took a while, but when it finally kicked in that I was safe, all that shit I'd bottled up exploded. And suddenly every shadow looked like a predator, every closed door was hiding something, every open door was a vulnerability, every food tasted like expired bread, every touch was a grope." Jason finally looks up at his brother, who's looking at him with a pained expression, mouth slightly agape, the tears finally fallen from his eyes. Jason looks straight into his eyes, his expression as gentle as he can make it, hoping the water in his own eyes isn't as obvious as it feels. 

"So yeah, I know what it's like to be afraid of everything. I know how crippling it feels, how humiliating it can be at times. But...more than that, I know that despite how never-ending it seems, it isn't. It does get better. You'll never get rid of the memories, but they'll hurt less and over time, they'll have less and less power over you. And some day, you'll be able to look straight at that memory, and instead of fearing it, you'll tell it to fuck off." Jason tries for a smile, but it comes off as more of a grimace. Dick's expression doesn't look more hopeful, only more emotional, and Jason worries he only made things worse. Before he can back up or apologize though, Dick's chin trembles and he lunges forward, pulling Jason into a hug. 

I'm so sorry that happened to you. I am angry that it happened to you. I wish I could've protected you. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for trusting me. I understand what you're trying to tell me. Thank you. I love you. I love you so much.

One of the neat things about being brothers and being trained by Batman to read body language, is how much can be said without a word being uttered. As Dick wraps his arms around Jason, one hand reaching up to cradle his head, Jason sees the message. He feels it in how tightly his brother holds onto him, all the while shaking and biting back sobs. And this time, he doesn't have to force it. He reaches up to reciprocate the hug, and buries his head in his big brother's shoulder. 

The sandwiches have long gone cold by the time they break apart. 

Chapter Text

Jason POV

“Why are we here?”

Jason pauses stirring and looks up from the eggs in the skillet. He looks at Dick, sitting on a stool and leaning on the small bar counter. 

“You might need to specify just a bit there, Dickie,” he says in a light tone. “Cause if you mean the kitchen, it’s so we can eat. If you mean the cabin, it’s secluded. If you–”

“I mean not home,” Dick interrupts. Jason’s brow furrows in confusion, and he elaborates. “Why are we running? Why not hide out in Gotham or Bludhaven? For that matter, why are we hiding in the first place?” He finishes, and Jason tries not to show how nervous he’s suddenly become. He looks back at the eggs and stirs. He knows Dick will see it for what it is: buying time so he can figure out how to answer. He doesn’t call him out on it though. Jason’s grateful. 

How the fuck is he supposed to answer that? How’s he supposed to tell his brother that the reason they’re running is because their siblings will smother and Bruce will straight up commit him? 

“We left because if we’d stayed in Gotham or Bludhaven, we’d’ve been found in two weeks,” Jason answers carefully. Dick’s head tilts slightly to the side.

“Who are we hiding from that could find you in two weeks?” he asks in confusion. “Bruce and Tim and I looked for you for months when you first…showed up as…Red Hood…” Dick trails off, and Jason doesn’t look at him. 

Under normal circumstances, it would’ve taken Dick all of two seconds to figure out why they’re running, if he didn’t already know to begin with. The fact that it’s taken him this long to think to ask, and that he’s having trouble piecing it together himself without clues, speaks volumes to how little mental energy he has. 

“...We’re hiding from the family, aren’t we?” he says quietly. Jason hesitates, then nods without looking up. “Why?” He glances at his brother. Dick is looking at the wall, looking like he’s trying to think but the answer isn’t coming to him and he’s getting frustrated. Jason sighs, scooping the finished scrambled eggs out of the pan and onto a plate. He sets the plate in front of Dick, then leans with his hands on the counter, facing him but not looking at him. 

“They all love you, and they’d do anything for you.” He pauses. “But that’s kinda the problem.” He looks up, and sees his brother looking at him with an expression that’s mildly confused but approaching understanding. “And I didn’t think a padded room would do you any favors,” he says, not indicating who exactly he thinks would’ve put Dick in said padded room. From the look on his face and the clenched jaw, though, it doesn’t seem like he needs to. 

“Thank you,” Dick says, a minute later. Jason gives a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and nods, turning back to the stove. He reaches into the carton to the side and cracks a few more eggs, wondering if he should’ve just said there was a villain on the loose.

Dick POV 

He’s back to lying on the couch, his back to the kitchen. 

He’s grateful for his brother’s forethought, he really is. And Jason’s right, a padded room would’ve only made him more determined to die. 

And he’s trying really, really hard not to be angry.

He decided several days ago that he can’t blame his brother for saving his life. But…it’s his life. He should be able to decide what to do with it, even if that means ending it. His choice was taken away from him, was snatched away with all the tenderness of a freight train. The padded room wouldn’t even be a variable in the equation if he’d been allowed to die like he wanted. And he tries not to think it…but a dark part of him compares his brother to his assailants who took away another choice. He knows it’s not the same, not by a long shot, and he feels guilty for even having the thought. But it sticks to the inner walls of his skull like a tic: subtle, but slowly infecting. He closes his eyes, banishing the thought for the dozenth time, and a small tear slides out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t want to see his brother that way. His brother, who has been nothing but good to him, who has done nothing but look out for him and help him. 

Dick can’t blame Jason for saving his life. It would be hugely hypocritical, seeing as he would’ve done the exact same thing for any of the people he loves. But…that’s just it, isn’t it? The people he loves. The people who love him. 

He thinks about Damian. His littlest brother, who (if he’s honest) he sees as more of a son than a brother. He’s not blind, he knows Damian is more attached to him than the rest. He knows his death would devastate him. He thinks about Tim. The brilliant kid who stole the Robin uniform and then accidentally stole their hearts along with it. The kid who stalked him for years, figured out his identity, and looked at him with star-struck eyes for a long time after they met. His death would hit Tim hard. He thinks about Wally. His best friend. They’ve been practically attached at the hip since they were kids. He’s the only one who didn’t turn his back on Dick when Mirage came clean. Dick doesn’t know if Wally would be able to smile fully again if he were to lose him. He thinks about Bruce. He doesn’t have to wonder how Bruce would react to his death. He saw it when Jason died. It would not go well. He thinks about Jason. His first little brother. Who has intense abandonment issues. He’d go on a rampage. People would probably die. He thinks about the teams he’s led and the young heroes who look up to him. 

Dick knows he’s loved. He knows his death would have a massive impact on his family and the hero community. And for it to be suicide would be so much worse, because they’d be wondering what they missed, what they did wrong. And they’d be angry because there’d be no way to avenge him, because he’d be his own killer. He knows this. It’s what kept him alive for months and months. The first night he spent without Catalina, he sat and stared at one of his wingdings, in that moment wanting more than anything to shove it into his carotid artery. But he didn’t, because his death would hurt people. He battled his depression and his trauma in the following months, because his death would hurt people. He fought tooth and nail to keep himself from drowning, because his death would hurt people. 

He grew to hate them for it. 

Not really. But in the darkest moments when he had a blade against a vein or a pill bottle in his hand or a grapple that would fail if he fired it just a tad too late…he hated that he had a reason to keep living, to keep fighting, to keep suffering. He hated that it took him months of enduring the hell in his head for their sake for him to finally be willing to go through with killing himself. He resented them for loving him. 

And right now, with his thoughts dragging him back under as he lies on the couch, he resents his little brother for loving him so much. And he hates himself for feeling that way. 

The hardest part of going to the kitchen is doing so without Jason following him. 

The bed is big enough for them to both be comfortable - neither of them takes up much space while asleep, both preferring to curl up or lie still - and the weight of someone much bigger and heavier than Catalina, someone who doesn’t sleep with a leg wrapped over his waist, is comforting. Especially given that being alone on a mattress tricks his brain into expecting her to walk through the door. 

The downside is that Jason, a ridiculously light sleeper - just like the rest of the bats - wakes up when he feels weight shifting on the mattress. Such as when Dick tries to get up. 

The first time he tries, he makes the excuse that he’s going to the bathroom. He goes and does his business, hoping that by the time he’s finished, Jason will be asleep. He certainly tries to seem that way, but Dick, having been trained by Batman himself, knows how to recognize the difference between faked sleep and real sleep. And Jason, while putting on an impressively convincing show, is not asleep. So back into bed Dick goes. 

The second time he tries, hours later, he’s more successful. He moves painfully slow, sliding inch-by-inch off of the mattress. At several points he could’ve sworn Jason had woken up, but by the time he’s standing upright, his brother is sound asleep. So he moves, avoiding the creaky floorboards he mapped out earlier. Which is how he ends up alone in the kitchen in the middle of the night. 

He’s not really sure what he had in mind when he came in here. He’s not hungry. He’s not thirsty, but even if he was, there’s a full glass of water on the nightstand in the bedroom. He’s not after quiet - Jason doesn’t really snore. He could argue that he’s after stillness, and not having the movement of another person breathing beside him, but that’s not really it, either. He just…he had to get out of that room. There’s nothing wrong with the room. It’s far too cozy and fitting the theme of a cabin in the woods for anything about it to be triggering. The room isn’t the problem. He…just…wanted to be alone. 

He looks around the kitchen, looking at everything and nothing. Looking for something, but having nothing in mind. He’s searching, but there’s nothing he needs or wants. The little fridge is cute, he supposes. Not practical for long-term or for multiple people, but handy enough for two people staying a short time. His stomach sinks at the thought of traveling again any time soon. If he’s honest with himself, he barely has the willpower to walk around the cabin, let alone travel. Which brings him back to the present. Why did he decide to spend his already-scarce energy and willpower to come in here? He looks at the varnished wood counter. There’s a space between two sections where the stove and microwave go. And right next to the stove…Dick gulps, but doesn’t look away.

Next to the stove is the knife block. 

He should really go get Jason. He should wake him up. He made a promise. 

But…he’s not really about to do anything dumb. He’s not. He’s just looking. That’s all. And if he walks over and draws one of the knives from its slot, that’s not hurting anything. He’s not going to do anything with it. He isn’t. And really, what harm could there be in imagining the pressure of the sharp edge sliding through the skin of his wrist? It’s not as if he’s actually going to do it. And since he’s already here and he’s for sure not going to do anything, what could be wrong with letting the flat of the blade rest against his pulse point? 

“Dick,” the voice accompanies a gentle, restraining touch on the hand holding the knife. He doesn’t jump, but his muscles tense in surprise. Jason. “Give me the knife,” his brother says in a soft voice. If Dick didn’t know any better, he’d say the voice was calm. But he’s not a random civilian, and he does know better. He knows every pitch and timbre of that voice. His brother is anything but calm. The hand loosely restraining his own is tense, prepared to become an iron grip in half a second. 

Dick doesn’t move, doesn’t look away from the steel blade. Jason is fast, but Dick is faster. If he were to suddenly jerk his arm, Jason wouldn’t be able to stop him before he nicked something important. His wrist is right there . 

“Please,” Jason says. The suppression fails and Dick’s emotions rise so fast he barely has time to blink before his eyes tense and his chest tightens. 

“Don’t.” Dick’s voice is quiet but hard. Jason misunderstands.

“We made a deal–” he starts softly, but Dick doesn’t let him finish.

“Don’t say ‘please,’” he practically snarls. He hears Jason’s surprised intake of breath. Dick drops the knife, letting it clang onto the floor, and walks briskly to the other side of the kitchen. His head feels fuzzy, and his ears are buzzing. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to breathe deep, and facing away from Jason. 

“Do you know how long I fought against my own head, dragged myself through hell on a daily basis, all so I wouldn’t hurt anyone by dying?” He doesn’t hear an answer. Not that he cares. His chest keeps getting tighter. “I kept myself alive…for you. And Tim. And Damian. And Bruce, and Alfred and Wally and–” His breath hitches, cutting him off in a watery choke. He inhales, not letting himself stop. “And when I finally work up the nerve to do something selfish, for once…” He doesn’t finish that sentence, but bunches his hair in his fists at the back of his head as his legs shake, struggling to hold him up. He thinks about the last several months, and Blockbuster’s voice echoes in his ears. “It’s never gonna stop.” “I can’t.” He shakes his head, pushing tears - oh great, even more tears - from his eyes as he squeezes them shut. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep living like this, I can’t keep fighting. It’s never gonna stop. I want it to stop.” His voice breaks at some point and he sobs out the last part, and it keeps going. His chest sinches and spasms, dragging choked sobs from his throat. After some time - could be seconds or minutes or hours, Dick couldn’t say which - a hand touches his arm. The last of his strength leaves his legs, and he falls. His brother catches him.

He feels so small. He’s supposed to be the big brother, but with Jason’s long, bulky arms wrapped around him and his own frame huddled and shrunken, he feels tiny. But he’s not upset. Not at that. He’s just so tired of crying. He loves his brother, but he’s tired of relying on him. He’s tired…he’s so tired of fighting. He can fight criminals and villains all day, but his own mind is by far the most difficult and unrelenting foe he’s ever faced. 

“It will stop.”

Dick cries harder into his brother’s chest and shakes his head. He’s not listening…

“Dick, I get it. It’s crushing. It’s suffocating. I’d say it’s disheartening, but that would be a record-breaking understatement. After a while, you start to believe it won’t ever stop.” The surprise at the words shocks Dick just enough to take a slightly deeper breath, and the choking eases up just a bit. Jason…knows? “But I swear to you, it does. Sometimes it slowly lets up until one day you realize it doesn’t hurt as much. Sometimes it happens so fast it’s like somebody picked up the barbell you were trapped under. Sometimes it’s something really meaningful that lifts it, sometimes it’s something really stupid, sometimes it’s a fucked-up mess of random shit. But all those directions end the same way: with an end. The bad part ends, and something comes after. There’s always an after. And whatever it is, you know it’s gonna be better. So you focus on that.” 

If Dick’s head were a bit - a lot - more clear, he’d probably wonder how his little brother gained such an intimate knowledge of suicidal depression, and how he gleaned that kind of wisdom from it. He’d probably connect it to either the abuse he suffered as a child or the effects of his resurrection. Right now, though, the thought doesn’t occur to him, and he doesn’t care. All he knows is that his body is trembling uncontrollably, forcing his lungs to keep spasming and his eyes to keep leaking. And Jason’s words, while not exactly comforting at the moment, don’t hurt to hear. He doesn’t know whether he’s angry, tired, sad, or something else entirely. Probably all of them. He doesn’t care about that either. Nothing’s getting past that emotional tsunami right now, anyway. So he says nothing, choosing instead to hold onto his brother’s shirt for dear life. 

Chapter Text

Dick POV

As much as Dick hates crying, he can’t deny how cathartic it is. He cried, went was carried back to bed, slept, then woke up…however many hours later. It wasn’t morning. Now, he’s numb. But in a good way. It’s the kind of numb that feels more like an antidepressant than a tranquilizer. Should he be on antidepressants? Might be something worth looking into. But not right now. Not while he’s trying not to get his ass whooped.

For all Damian teases that his second-oldest brother is only good for busting heads and occasionally severing them, Jason really is a gifted strategist. It wasn’t luck that enabled him to take over Crime Alley in such a short time. And right now, he’s using those gifts to humiliate Dick at chess. Now, Dick isn’t a bad chess player. Quite the opposite. But even at his best, he would have a difficult time keeping up with his brother. And he’s hardly at his best right now. If he had to guess, Jason’s pity is probably the only reason he hasn’t already been defeated in five moves or less. 

Granted, it doesn’t take much more than that. Jason traps his king with a Budapest defense smothered mate, and Dick groans in defeat. He holds the pale white piece close to his face, whispers “traitor,” and flicks it, sending it flying into his brother’s chest. Jason catches it, and chuckles.

“Don’t abuse the set just cause you suck at the game, Big Bird,” he says, setting the piece down in its spot. Dick’s jaw falls open indignantly.

“I do not suck!” he defends himself. “I’ll have you know I actually have a chess mastery.” Jason snorts.

“You say that like anyone taught by Alfred couldn’t get one of those in our sleep.” Dick pauses, considering, then deflates.

“Yeah, okay. That’s fair,” he concedes. Jason raises his arms above his head, groaning as he stretches his back. 

“I’m gonna grab us some food,” he says, patting his knees before standing up. Dick nods and hums in agreement. He starts placing the game pieces back in their starting positions while Jason walks into the kitchen, where the knife block is sitting empty. 

Jason hid the knives at some point this morning while Dick was asleep. It would hardly be enough to stop him if he was bound and determined to go through with it, but it’s understandable. He scared his brother last night. He feels guilty for it, but a part of him - one he’s struggling to acknowledge - admits he needed it. He needed to come clean about how he felt, and he would never have said anything otherwise. And he appreciates that the only thing Jason did was hide the knives. Jason knows it wouldn’t stop him, he did it for his own peace of mind. Dick doesn’t blame him. And…for once, he’s not warring with himself over it. He’s not angry. He doesn’t know how long that’ll last, but it’s nice to have a break from the resentment he’s been feeling. As for what Jason said…he’ll think about it later. Right now, he just wants to enjoy the temporary absence of a weight on his chest. 

Jason POV

His brother hasn’t smiled so far today, but Jason’s not completely discouraged. Dick’s been less lethargic today than he has been since they got gelato. 

He was surprised earlier when Dick grabbed the chess set off the shelf and started setting up the board. He’s been hesitantly testing the waters, trying to see where his brother is at, mentally. The fact that he’s been not only responsive, but actively participating in conversation, is a very good sign. Jason hopes. There’s still a long way to go, and they’ve still just barely scratched the surface of what originally caused Dick to end up nearly overdosing in the first place. He doesn’t think this high will last, but he hopes it won’t get as bad as it was last night. 

It’s one thing to walk in on the result of an attempt. It’s another to walk in on an attempt in progress. 

He said Dick’s name four times. His brother didn’t hear him until he paired it with physical contact. The fear Jason felt from the moment he saw the knife until the moment it was dropped was damn near paralysing.

He knew it wouldn’t help, and he knew Dick would probably know why he did it, but he couldn’t sleep while those knives were still accessible. So while the sun was barely starting to make an appearance over the trees, he put them in one of the paper grocery bags, went outside, and buried them under a bush, where it would be hard to tell the soil had been disturbed. He has every intention of washing and returning them…when the sight of them no longer makes his heart clench in fear. 

For now, he uses his switchblade to cut meats and vegetables. He didn’t get much in the way of seasoning besides salt, pepper, and garlic when he went shopping. The fish that’s currently frying in the skillet won’t be as flavorful without dill and basil, but he did get a couple of lemons, so it won’t be bland at least. 

“Oy,” he calls over to his brother, “come get your food.” Dick hops up - hops! - and walks to the bar. Jason subtly searches his face while scooping the fish onto a plate and sliding it over. He’s not expressive like one would normally associate with Dick Grayson, but he’s not blank-faced, either. He takes the plate, grabbing a fork from the utensil cup next to him, and walks back over to the couch with a “thanks, Jay” as he turns away from the bar. 

Which part did this? Jason’s not dumb, he knows it was likely something that happened last night that gave his brother this sudden burst of energy. But it would be nice if he could figure out which part, if for no other reason than to gauge where Dick is at. 

It could’ve been the admission. Knowing Dick, that kind of thing would’ve weighed heavily on him. But then again, he could also be regretting that he told Jason. 

He won’t lie, it stung just a bit to know he was resented for caring about his brother. But, given the situation, he doesn’t hold it against Dick. It’d be a bit hypocritical if he did. 

It could’ve been Jason’s advice. Not likely . Not to be self-deprecating or anything, but he honestly doesn’t think his brother would’ve immediately taken to his words. Listening to counsel just isn’t something that is typically an easy or simple thing to do when the mind is as drained and sluggish as Dick’s currently is. 

Which is another reason he sat down to play chess when his brother asked. He used it to gauge just how slow Dick’s mind is moving. He had a general idea, but a game is a much more effective measuring tool, and he wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity. 

Safe to say, he wouldn’t let Dick anywhere near a strategy table or combat zone in his current state, even with this latest improvement. 

As the second fish fries in the pan, Jason considers asking about Catalina - he has a feeling there’s more to that than what’s been said thus far - and trying to get to the root of Dick’s trauma. But when he looks over and sees his brother contentedly munching away at his food, he decides against it. It’ll need to be addressed at some point, but it doesn’t have to be today, and he wants to let him rest. Healing a wound like that typically involves first cutting off the infected scab that served as a sealant, and that’s gonna hurt. And…to be perfectly honest, Jason’s being a tad selfish. He’s afraid to learn more, but more than that, he’s afraid of screwing this up. He’s terrified he’ll say the wrong thing or make the wrong choice, and his brother will spiral before his eyes. 

So, being both selfless and selfish, he waits. He takes his own plate to the living area, takes a seat beside his brother, and says nothing. 

The tiny antique twelve-inch TV in the corner drones on, with some random Italian soap opera playing on the screen. Jason’s barely paying attention, and he doubts Dick is paying much more attention than he is. They did for a while, making fun of it and predicting lines every so often, but now they’re just silently leaning against each other. 

As the sun slowly makes its way down the western side of the sky and casts a soft orange glow on the windows, Dick’s eyes begin to droop. He lets his head fall onto Jason’s shoulder, and it isn’t long before his breathing slows and deepens with sleep. Jason lets his head rest on top of his brother’s, a soft smile adorning his face. 

Dick was only awake for four hours, but it was a good four hours. Huh. Maybe sleep was the key. A nice, long, peaceful sleep. Jason yawns, and allows his eyes to close. 

Chapter Text

Dick POV

“You need a shower.” Her voice sounds from beside him. He doesn’t move from his spot on the bed, lying naked on his stomach with his face all but buried in the sheet. He doesn’t respond, either, opting instead to continue staring at the threads in the fabric. He doubts it was clean before they got here, but it certainly isn’t now. She was frustrated, so he tried to please her. His heart wasn’t in it, but he didn’t stop until she seemed satisfied. Maybe now she’ll just let him be, for a while at least. Part of him wants to grab the clean sheets from the closet after the mess they made, but he doesn’t have the willpower to move…or care, really. He just wants to sleep. And wallow. She doesn’t like it when he wallows, but maybe she’ll let him now that she’s happy. 

She rolls over, letting her bare leg rest against his own. She reaches up and cards her fingers through his greasy hair. 

“Querido,” she says softly, “it’s been days since you’ve showered. You need to get clean.” She continues running her fingers through his hair, waiting for a response. He doesn’t give one. She sighs, then sits up and rolls off the mattress. He can hear her footsteps on the carpet as she rounds the bed, her naked form coming to a stop in front of him, skin shining with sweat. She’s beautiful, she really is, but he can’t bring himself to appreciate it. She gently grabs his hand, pulling on it lightly. Sighing internally, he drags himself into a sitting position. 

“Vamos, amor,” she says, her voice tender, almost caressing. She grabs his other hand and pulls on both of his arms. He obeys, and stands. She walks him to the bathroom, letting go of one of his hands to turn on the shower. She puts the toilet lid down and motions him to sit. He does. She grabs a comb from her bag on the counter and starts working it through his hair, letting the water warm up. There’s several knots, but she works them out gently. By the time she’s done, the mirror is starting to fog up at the edges from the steam. She sets the comb on the counter and guides him into the tub and under the spray. She closes the curtain, with a murmur that she’ll be back in a minute. 

He dissociates. She’s right, he needs a shower. But right now it’s all he can do not to bolt from the bathroom. It’s too much like being on the rooftop after…after his part in…

He closes his eyes, trying to forget where he is. He imagines the gym at the Manor. He remembers the first time he saw it, when he grinned so wide his face hurt upon realizing Bruce had installed gymnastics equipment - including a trapeze - for him. He remembers the first time he met Barbara…

A stone settles in his throat. He misses her. His fists clench as he fights off a sob…god, he misses her…

The shower curtain opens, and Cat stares at him. He can’t see her expression, so at first he thinks she’s admiring his body - she does that a lot - but after a minute, she sighs. He realizes she was expecting him to clean himself. His stomach twists, wondering if the effort he just put in earlier to get her to leave him alone just went down the drain. His eyes fly open and he grabs the cheap soap on the edge of the tub. He opens the cap and pours some into his hand, then sets the bottle down and searches for a washcloth. 

A hand grabs his wrist, stopping him. He looks at her, expecting to see frustration. Instead, she looks at him with…concern. She doesn’t say anything, but climbs into the tub with him and slides the curtain closed, not breaking eye contact. He doesn’t know what she’s seeing on his face, but he’s confused by her reaction. She takes his arms and guides them around her waist, pressing herself flush against him. Her arms wrap around his shoulders and he thinks she’s about to start kissing him, but…she doesn’t. Instead, she pulls him into a hug. 

At first, he just stands there in shock. She’s…not trying to initiate sex? The fingers of one hand run through his hair, and the other one rubs circles on the skin of his shoulders. 

“It’s okay, baby, he can’t hurt you anymore.” Her voice is soft, but her words aren’t comforting. Blockbuster…that whole ordeal was hell. He just…he wants to go home. He doubts anyone wants him to come home. Oh sure, people care about him, but that’s not the same thing. And he got an apartment building full of innocent people killed. Then he allowed a murder. That’s on him, no matter how much she insists otherwise.

He doesn’t say any of that. He just buries his head in her shoulder and tightens his arms around her, not caring that the soap in his hand is now running down her skin.

They stand there for a while, hugging and letting the warm water run over them. After…some time - he doesn’t know how long - she pulls away slightly and grabs the soap. She pours some into her hand, grabs the washcloth, lathers the soap into it, and starts to gently run it over his skin. When she’s done, she grabs the cheap shampoo and reaches up, massaging it into his hair. He closes his eyes. 

Barbara did that for him, once. It had been a difficult patrol, and they were both tired and sweaty. He cleaned her first, massaging the muscles he knew were sore. Then she turned around and did the same for him. They spent a while hugging once they were both clean, standing under the spray until the water ran cold. 

He opens his eyes, and his astounding self-control comes in handy as he forces himself to not break down into a sobbing mess when he sees black hair instead of red. 

Barbara doesn’t want him. She made that clear. 

Cat quickly cleans herself, then rinses them both off. She turns the water off and takes his hands again, guiding him to step out of the tub. She dries them both off, then leads him back into the bedroom. He almost doesn’t notice until he’s at the bed, but it has clean sheets. That must’ve been what she was doing when she stepped out. She turns him around, and gently pushes him to sit, then to lie down. His heart sinks in his chest, thinking she’s going to climb on top of him again, and he braces himself when she climbs onto the bed. 

She lies down beside him, tucking her head into the crook of his neck, letting her arm fall over his chest and her leg drape over his own. He tries not to let his surprise show, but is unsuccessful.

“ ¿Qué pasa?” she asks. He looks down at her in confusion.

“You don’t…want to…” He lets his question trail off, not sure how to finish it. She half-smiles at him.

“You’ve got the body of a god and the stamina of a horse, querido, of course I want to,” she says, like it’s obvious. “But we just had some amazing sex, and we just got clean. Besides, sometimes it’s good to take a break.” She closes her eyes. “Rest, mi amor. You’re safe.” 

It worked. He made her happy, and she’s letting him be. He breathes easier. He doesn’t feel safe, despite her words, but he feels…actually he’s not sure what he feels. It’s not necessarily good, but it’s not bad either. 

Cat wants him. 

Jason POV

It’s the TV that wakes him up, and he groans. He didn’t turn it off . It’s still dark, save for the light from the TV, but his muscles ache, like he’s been still for hours. Must be early morning . He feels Dick beside him, still leaning on him the same way he fell asleep. The corner of his mouth turns up in a half-smile…until he realizes.

Dick’s not asleep.

Jason lifts his head and turns to look at his brother, who’s still leaning on his shoulder. His expression is blank and his breathing is even, but there are tear tracks on his cheeks. Now fully awake, Jason presses his forehead against Dick’s, silently offering comfort while letting him know he’s awake. Dick’s head turns slightly, leaning into the touch. Jason doesn’t say anything, choosing to let his brother speak in his own time. He doesn’t have to wait long. 

“It wasn’t all bad,” Dick says, barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t all sex. With Cat, I mean. She could tell I was struggling after Blockbuster. She didn’t…I don’t think she understood why, but she tried to help.” He pauses. His breathing suggests he has more to say, but is trying to psych himself up to say it. Jason stays silent, letting him go at his own pace. Eventually, Dick takes a long breath. “I felt…dirty, like I couldn’t get his blood off my hands. It was my fault that he died, I let her kill him. I could’ve stopped her or told her no, but…I just walked away, knowing full well what she would do.” Jason wants to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that it’s on her and her alone, but he doesn’t interrupt. “I failed. I failed Bruce as his former protege, I failed Catalina as her mentor, I failed as an example to the younger heroes, I…” he takes a breath. “I felt like…I let everyone down, and I thought that…that no one would want me to come back, to come home.” Jason’s throat tightens and his eyes grow misty. He’s familiar with that feeling. It hurts, learning that his brother - his perfect, golden boy big brother - felt that way. But…in a way, he supposes it makes sense. Dick has always had ridiculously high standards for himself, and every failure hits him hard. A deviation that far from the bar he sets, no matter how justified or understandable…Jason’s not surprised he spiraled. “But she wanted me. I was dirty and broken and unforgivable, but she wanted me. So I…I stayed. I knew what she was doing, I knew she was hurting me, I knew what it meant every time I didn’t want it and she still made me do it. But I stayed until Bruce called me home.” 

Jason’s angry at the bitch, but he’s more horrified and heartbroken as he realizes. This isn’t just about what Liu or Mirage or even Catalina did to Dick. It’s about the fact that he chose to stay, to allow it to keep happening. That…that would screw anyone up mentally. It certainly screwed with Jason, even if his reasons for making the choice were different. 

A treacherous tear escapes his eye, and he wipes it away, disguising the movement by lifting the arm Dick is leaning on until his brother is instead nestled under his arm. He leans back, letting them fall together until Jason’s lying on the outer edge of the cushions with his head propped up on some throw-pillows, and Dick is lying between him and the back of the couch. Dick sniffles and tucks a hand next to his chin as his head rests on Jason’s shoulder, letting his arm settle on his chest. 

Way back in the day, when Jason was newly adopted and Dick was at the Manor visiting him instead of yelling at Bruce, Dick would read to his new little brother. Sleepy, tiny, 12-year-old Jason would sit next to him and end up falling asleep on him. Dick never moved him or moved away. He would just lean back, put a pillow under his head, and fall asleep with him. Alfred took a picture once. He and Bruce each still have a copy somewhere. 

The roles are reversed this time, but it’s no less familiar. Dick cries into Jason’s chest - no sobs, just tears and sniffles - and Jason rubs his thumb on his brother’s shoulder in a soothing motion. Jason doesn’t fall back asleep, though, even after the sniffles stop and Dick’s breathing finally deepens. He’s too busy thinking…and trying not to cry. 

He has an idea…but oh good god this is gonna suck.

Chapter Text

Dick POV

He knows he slept for a long time, because the sun is not only up, it’s on the western side of the sky. Which means either Jason also slept for a long time and woke up only a bit before Dick did, or he’s been awake for hours and didn’t move. Knowing his brother, he’s leaning towards the latter. 

“You know,” he says, his voice muffled in Jason’s shirt, “it’s okay to get up, stretch your legs, maybe take a piss, even if I am asleep.” His head bobs as Jason’s chest shakes with quiet laughter. 

“You telling me it wouldn’t’ve woken you up?” He says, humor in his voice. 

“Maybe,” Dick says, choosing obstinance. Jason scoffs.

“Yeah, sure. Not like you’re a light-ass sleeper, just like the rest of us.” Dick reaches up and flicks his brother’s nose. Jason complains in a whine, and Dick puts his hand down, satisfied with his victory. 

“Seriously though, I gotta pee,” he says.

“Then go pee, dumbass.” He can practically feel his brother’s intense eye roll.

“But…comfy,” he whines. 

“But but but. Get your butt off me and go to the bathroom before you piss all over me.” Dick picks up his head and glares at his brother.

“I have not pissed myself since I was four.” His brother glares right back.

“Well, I’d rather not break that streak just cause you decided to go…” Jason pauses to count, “eighteen hours without going to the damn bathroom.” Dick lifts an eyebrow.

“Says the guy who hasn’t gone in nineteen hours.” Jason groans.

“Okay, well we both have full bladders so either you get your ass up and go first or I will.” Dick chuckles and sits up. He climbs over his brother, deliberately using Jason’s lower abdomen to brace himself (earning him a “mother fucker!” and a light punch to his arm), and goes to the bathroom. 

They’re sitting in the living area again, Jason on the couch and Dick in the armchair, polishing off the last of the food from their plates, when Jason brings it up.

“Dick,” he says, leaning forward and hunching his shoulders as if bracing himself, “what you said last night…” Dick pauses, fork in mouth, then sighs. 

“I guess I didn’t really expect you to let that go,” he says after he finishes chewing. He sets his plate on the coffee table, leaving the last few bites untouched, and leans back in the chair.

“There’s…a couple things I think need to be said,” Jason starts hesitantly, as though carefully mulling over his words. “First, you didn’t fail anyone.” Dick tenses. “I’m not gonna try to tell you the guy deserved to die, I know you and I have different perspectives on that. But his death wasn’t your fault. The only people to blame for it are himself and Catalina. He’s the one who backed you into a corner, put you in an impossible situation, forced you to make an impossible choice.” Dick opens his mouth to say something…but what could he say? That it wasn’t an impossible choice? It should’ve been easy, choosing not to kill. But Blockbuster threatened the lives of everyone Dick knew. He made it clear he wouldn’t stop until every one of them was dead. And if any of them had been killed, it would’ve been Dick’s fault for choosing wrong. 

Both choices were wrong. But they were the only choices he had. 

“And she’s the one who pulled the trigger,” Jason says. Dick opens his mouth again to argue, to say that it was his choice to let her act, but his brother cuts him off. “She would’ve done it whether or not you gave her permission. All you did by moving out of the way was make it easier for her, not impossible.” 

Dick closes his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say. Could he have stopped her? He thinks so. He’s protected people from far worse, after all. But…could he have done it while Blockbuster was actively fighting them both? …If he’s honest with himself…it’s unlikely. All it would’ve taken is one stray bullet or fatal blow. 

“The other thing,” Jason continues before Dick can think too much about it, “is that you shouldn’t blame yourself for staying with her.” 

He can feel himself starting to close off. His eyebrows relax as his face goes blank. His vision goes fuzzy around the edges and he can feel his heart beat harder. 

“Dick…” He doesn’t answer, only shakes his head as he stares at the ceiling. What exactly he’s saying “no” to, he doesn’t know. His thumb meets his fingers, and the nail digs into the pads of his fingertips. Jason’s quiet for a while. Part of him wants to ask why or what he’s thinking about, but he’s mostly just relieved he’s not talking. Talking means digging into his emotions. Digging hurts. He doesn’t want to dig.

It’s not that he’s against the digging happening. Objectively, he knows it would be good for him. But it doesn’t need to happen now. Seriously. He’ll get to it, eventually. Honest. Just not yet. Not right now. Later. 

“My mom was sick,” Jason says after some time, “and for a while at the end, I had an arrangement with the landlord.” Dick’s brow furrows slightly in confusion. He already told him this story. Why is he bringing it back up? “And then when I was homeless, I pimped myself out so I wouldn’t starve.” He pauses, and Dick lowers his gaze from the ceiling to look at him. Jason’s leaning forward, staring down at his hands clasped between his knees. He looks to be breathing a bit hard, despite seeming controlled. 

Dick gets the feeling his brother didn’t tell him everything. 

“But…after a while, I got real good at stealing. Got to where I didn’t really need to keep giving out favors. Not to survive, anyway.” Jason’s jaw clenches. “But I was lonely. And it was…it was suffocating. My mom wasn’t great, but she was there. And without her, I just…I spiraled. And one night, I decided, ‘screw it. Anything’s better than nothing.’ So I went looking for my usual customers.” He rubs his hands together, squeezing until the skin turns white. “I went back. Over and over. By then, I knew it was bad. I knew they were bad people, I knew I was being taken advantage of. But…I didn’t care. I just wanted to stop feeling lonely.” He pauses to rub his eyes - his fingers coming away suspiciously wet - and takes a deep, shaky breath. “After Bruce took me in and I realized I was safe and everything came crashing down, I couldn’t look at myself in a mirror. I felt…I felt dirty, and it had nothing to do with what I’d been through and everything to do with the fact that I kept going back. I made a deliberate choice, over and over, to let it happen. I let myself be hurt, because it hurt less than being alone. And when I finally looked back, I was…I was horrified. I was filthy, dirty, disgusting…”

Dick can’t take it anymore.

“Jay, you were traumatized,” he says, leaning forward, before his brother can say one more self-deprecating thing. He might be having trouble getting unstuck from his own head, but he’s not so far gone that it doesn’t hurt. It hurts to hear his brother - his sweet baby brother - shit-talk himself like this, over something that wasn’t his fault. It hurts to hear him degrade himself over something that, even for an adult let alone a child, was a completely understandable reaction to his circumstances. “You were backed into a corner, and…and…” He trails off and his eyes widen as he realizes, his brain finally connecting the dots. 

He looks at Jason, who is looking back at him, eyebrows raised pointedly. 

“It’s not the same thing…” he says weakly, grasping at straws, knowing he doesn’t have a leg to stand on. 

“Isn’t it?” Jason asks, his voice soft and still trembling slightly from his admission. Dick opens his mouth to say something…anything…it wasn't his fault...it hits him like a sledgehammer. 

It wasn’t his fault. His vision loses focus as his eyes well up. It wasn’t his fault. His throat tightens. It wasn’t his fault. His chest convulses, dragging a pained sound from him as tears spill over. It wasn’t his fault. His head lowers, and his breathing becomes strained and ragged. It wasn’t his fault. He grips his hair in his fingers, bracing his elbows on his knees. It wasn’t his fault.  

Jason suddenly appears in front of him, kneeling on the floor. He touches Dick’s forearms, letting him know he’s there. Dick…he tries to lift his head, or his arms, or do something…all he manages to do is slide one of his hands from his head onto his brother’s shoulder, letting it fall limp. Jason catches his hand before it can roll off, and leans forward. He takes Dick’s arms and places them over his shoulders, wraps his own arms around Dick’s torso, and sets his chin on Dick’s shoulder.

Dick leans into the hug as best as he can, wrapping his arms loosely around Jason’s neck and letting his head fall on his shoulder. He lets his brother hold him up as the strength leaves him and he sobs. He’s loud…louder than he probably has been in a long time, and he can feel his tears and snot and drool soaking his brother’s shirt. But he doesn’t care. Neither does Jason.

“It’s not your fault,” his brother whispers to him, over and over. Dick cries harder. 

Jason POV

His brother’s cries echo in the small cabin, and Jason’s heart breaks with every sound. Hope and terror fill his chest in equal measure. Forcing Dick to confront that was an enormous risk that could result in healing…or it could result in spiraling. It could easily go both ways. 

Please please please pleeeeease let this have been the right choice.  

Chapter Text

Jason POV

Jason’s worried. 

Dick cried for so long yesterday, his voice went hoarse and Jason was genuinely concerned he would end up dehydrated. He cried until he passed out, and he’s been asleep since. 

Dick’s been sleeping a lot lately, but this is different. It’s been nearly a full twenty-four hours, and the sun is setting on the following day. He hasn’t woken up once, hasn’t tossed or turned, hasn’t moved hardly at all. It’s just been the same deep breathing. If Jason didn’t know any better, he’d suspect a sedative or a spell. But they’ve been hidden and isolated for days. So…with no better ideas, and with the logic pointed that way anyway, Jason suspects his brother’s mind shut itself down. 

Just like last night, Jason is both hopeful and terrified. He’s no Harley Quinn - should he try calling her to ask for help? - but he knows enough about psychology to know this could be either very good, or very bad. On one hand, Dick’s mind could be processing something he’s been unable to confront for months, and it’s similar to recovering after the initial shock of ripping off a bandaid. That’s the possibility Jason hopes for. But on the other hand, the confrontation could’ve hit so hard his mind shut down to protect itself, and it’s similar to putting peppermint oil on a sunburn. That’s the one Jason’s afraid of. 

He’s tired. He’s been watching over his brother vigilantly, and that’s on top of the hours he spent awake before. In the early morning he went to town to stock up on food. This time he got tea bags so they’ll have something other than water to drink. As soon as the food was stored, he went back to the armchair by the couch Dick was sleeping on (he seems to sleep better on the couch than on the bed, so that’s where Jason settled him), and watched his chest rise and fall. When he grew restless, he stood back up. He went back to the kitchen, and started chopping vegetables. He did as much food prep as he reasonably could, looking back at the couch every few minutes, then stored everything once again and cleaned the kitchen. He went back to the chair, back to watching his brother. 

He doesn’t want to wake him…but the longer he sleeps, the more worried Jason grows. Besides, there’s a practical side to consider. Jason, like any other bat, can stay awake for days. But after a certain point, it starts coming at the cost of his cognitive faculties. He cannot afford to be mentally out of it when Dick wakes up. He’s been awake for roughly thirty-seven hours. By his estimation, he has approximately eleven hours before he’ll reach a point where he wouldn’t trust himself to make important decisions. So he has a choice to make: tough it out and hope Dick wakes up soon and doesn’t stay awake long, try to sleep now and hope Dick stays asleep for a while, or wake him up now and hope he doesn’t stay awake long. 

He chooses the second option. He’s a light enough sleeper and the couch is noisy enough that it should wake him up if his brother gets up. He leans back in the chair and lets his eyes fall closed, already dreading the sore neck he’ll have later. 

He was wrong. The couch did not make any noise. 

When he opens his eyes and sees the couch empty, the lingering sleepiness leaves him in a hurry. He sits up, his eyes searching, moving quickly across the space. No sign of his brother anyw–... a flush comes from the bathroom. Jason sags in relief, running his fingers through his hair. 

A few minutes later, his anxiety builds up again when there’s no sign of Dick exiting the bathroom. Is he okay? He resists the urge to bounce his leg on his toes. For a few minutes. What if … he doesn’t allow himself to finish that thought. At the ten minute mark, he shoots up and softly makes his way to the bathroom. His heart pounds at the thought of what he might find, despite him frequently shoving every imagined scenario out of his head. 

What he finds is Dick sitting on the edge of the tub, his eyes open but not seeing, his face worryingly empty of expression. His posture is slumped and his forearms rest on his thighs, his hands limp between his knees. His eyes don’t move, his muscles don’t twitch…he gives zero indication he’s aware there’s another person in the bathroom. 

Jason’s relieved he didn’t walk in on a scene like the other night or like in Bludhaven, but this one isn’t doing his nerves any favors. 

“Dickie?” he says in a hushed voice, trying not to spook his brother. He’s scanning Dick for any sign of awareness, any indication that he’s still somewhat lucid. 

What did he do? Oh god what did he do? Was this the wrong choice? Did he do more harm than good by forcing the issue?

“Dickie?” Jason says again, leaning down to meet his brother’s eye level. “Can you hear me?” Nothing.

Self-doubt feeds his anxiety, making it damn near impossible to think straight while trying to get his brother to respond, to show some indication of life behind that terrifying blank stare.

If Jason were even slightly less alert, he wouldn’t have caught it. An ever-so-slight increase in Dick’s breathing rate. A sudden tension in his eyes, as though he wants them to focus but can’t make them. 

Dick POV

“Can you hear me?”

He hears him. 

He should let him know. 

He doesn’t have the energy. He doesn’t even have the energy to blink. He just lets his eyes sting and water. 

He tries. He tries so hard to make his eyes rise and focus on Jason’s. 

He can’t do it. 

He picks up on his brother’s worry despite not being able to focus his vision. 

Oh, Jason…please don’t torment yourself over this…I just need…a minute…to sleep…

He barely notices when his brother’s strong arms are lifting him off the edge of the tub. He barely registers the movement as Jason walks. He’s already asleep again before they reach the couch. 

Chapter Text

Jason POV

Jason doesn’t sleep at all that night. The signs of life he saw are little comfort when compared to the complete and utter lack of response to stimulus. He’s still not entirely sure how Dick managed to get to the bathroom and relieve himself in that state of catatonia. At this point, his best theory is a toss-up between sleepwalking and half-asleep muscle memory. 

Late the next morning, Dick wakes up. He doesn’t sit up or even open his eyes, but his breathing quickens ever so slightly. Jason, being concerned about dehydration and seeing an opportunity, goes and grabs a bottle of water. Returning from the kitchen and crouching beside the couch, he runs his fingers through his brother’s hair, gently coaxing him into a slightly more alert state of awakeness. 

“Hey Big Bird,” he says, “can you sit up?” After a long moment, Dick opens his eyes. Jason tries not to feel too relieved just yet. Dick’s arms move, slowly and clumsily, from his chest to his sides. His fingers flex, gripping the couch cushion. His face twitches, contorting with barely-visible microexpressions of concentration and frustration. “Do you need help?” Jason asks. A minute passes, and Dick blinks before almost imperceptibly nodding. Moving slowly, Jason slides his arm under his brother’s shoulders, and lifts. With Dick’s upper body now upright, Jason slides his other arm under his lower thighs and lifts, just enough that he can turn his brother so his feet slip off the cushions toward the floor and his back is supported against the couch in a seated position. 

From there, he manages to coax Dick into holding the bottle of water, with a straw sitting in the rim so he doesn’t have to lift it so much. He still has to hold it against his chest with both hands. He sits without speaking, without focusing on anything, and for the most part without moving. Occasionally, he sips at the water. 

Jason sits beside him, pretending to read a book, trying - and failing miserably - to hide how tense he is. It’s an improvement , he tells himself over and over. 

Dick stays awake for just over two hours before his arms slowly relax (queuing Jason to take the half-empty bottle from him) and his head slumps onto his brother’s shoulder. 

Jason manages to get some sleep. Poor, restless sleep, but sleep nonetheless. 

The next time Dick wakes up, Jason helps him to the bathroom, then back to the couch. Dick sips at water, and Jason pretends to read. Dick falls back to sleep after a few hours. Jason sits on the chair across from the couch and tries to actually read the book, to take his mind off of his anxiety.

Dick POV

“Wake up.”

Dick’s eyes fly open as his lungs push a yelp from his throat, and his arms flail into a clumsy defensive position as he shoots upright. 

“Woah!” Someone catches his wrists and holds them close to their chest. “Hey! It’s me, Dickwing, it’s me!” Dick stills, breathing hard. He knows that voice. He gives his vision a chance to focus, and a moment later, a familiar patch of white hair on black and a pair of blue eyes shimmer into view.

“...Jay?” he breathes. Jason’s eyes widen just a fraction, and he nods.

“Yeah, it’s me, I’m here.” Safe. He’s safe. Dick sags in relief, falling forward until his forehead lands on his brother’s shoulder. Jason lets go of his wrist and wraps one arm around him while the other hand rubs his arm. “I’m here.” As the fear drains away and the adrenaline with it, the dream runs rampant through his mind. 

He’s used to dreaming about watching people suffer because of him. He’s used to the echo of Blockbuster’s words, “it’ll never stop.” He’s used to hearing Catalina whisper to him, tauntingly asking why he doesn’t just leave if he wants to so badly. He’s used to various people calling him things like poison or filthy or evil or a liar.

This dream was different. It was no less horrible to endure, but there were no words. Just a suffocating silence and Catalina, looking at him. Touching him. Licking. Biting. Grabbing. Grinding. He wasn’t physically restrained, but he couldn’t move. It was as though someone had given him a paralytic, and he couldn’t even so much as yell for help. And the whole time, she wore a smiling expression that said “gotcha” in a way that was less playful and more sinister. And, in a way that had no clarity, a way that was just an overwhelming knowledge of what was, he felt…trapped. That word, it’s so simple…and not enough to fully encompass the sheer weight and terror and utter hopelessness he was drowning in. And yet, it’s the only word that fits. 

Five things you can see…blanket, Jason’s shirt, hands, Jason’s pants, couch.

Four things you can feel…shirt, sweatpants, blanket, Jason.

Three things you can hear…his breath, Jason talking, air vent.

Two things you can smell…sweat, old wood.

One thing you can taste…stale mouth.

His breathing slows, if still slightly shaky, as he works through the grounding technique. He’s still emotionally reeling from the dream, but he’s no longer on the verge of a panic attack. He sniffles, not having the energy to restrain a few tears from escaping as his brother rubs his arm. 

He and Jason sit on the couch, Dick leaning on his brother’s arm and resting his head on his shoulder.

Jason tried to get him to eat something. He should eat. But eating involves lifting food to his mouth. And chewing. And swallowing. The sheer implication of how much energy it’ll take to eat had him shaking his head. (Jason would’ve probably been willing to spoon-feed him soup, to remove one of those steps and make another one easier, but mentioning that would’ve required words, and words require energy.)

So he holds his water bottle, and occasionally takes a sip. 

“...hope you will grow up gentle and good, and…” Jason’s voice carries over to his ears, and Dick looks up, not moving his head. In the hand of the arm not supporting his weight, Jason’s holding a book, and reading it out loud. Dick has to squint a little to make out the title in small print on the top of the page. Black Beauty . The corner of his mouth tugs a little. He recognizes that copy from his brother’s collection of classic literature. Of course he’d bring a piece of his mini library on the run . 

At first, he just focuses on the sound of Jason’s voice. After a while, though, he starts to hear the words. He starts to listen, hearing the story, seeing the horses and stables and people in his mind’s eye. 

It’s a distraction, something to think about other than reality. It’s a feather-light mental exercise free of effect or implication. It’s…well, it’s like stretching his muscles at home to maintain his flexibility rather than out on patrol in preparation for a fight. 

Holding onto his water with one hand, he grabs his brother’s hand with the other, and squeezes lightly. Thank you. Jason’s voice falters for a moment, before he squeezes back and continues. You’re welcome.

Dick stays awake longer than he did before. He tries to stay awake for the end of the story, but he’s tired. And comfortable. Not a combination conducive to avoiding sleep.

Chapter Text

Jason POV

It’s late in the morning, but the sun isn’t bright against the windows. That’s the first sign. 

He opens a window for the fresh air, and it smells like petrichor. That’s the second. He quickly closes it. 

A distant rumble echoes over the mountainside while Dick is asleep. That’s the third. 

By the time the clouds roll over them like a thick blanket of wet cotton, Jason’s rummaging as quietly as he can through his bag. He knows he packed noise cancelling headphones, but with every item he moves aside in the search, he grows more concerned that they fell out of the bag on the way up the mountain. Eventually, he simply removes everything from the bag, even resorting to turning it upside down and shaking it. Nothing. Just the headphones that connect to his old ipod, the ones he used for show at the airport. Fuck . He tosses the bag onto the bedroom floor and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Whatever progress Dick’s made – if any – there’s been zero improvement with his handling of rain. And, frankly, that’s pretty low on Jason’s priority list, with more pressing matters like getting his brother to a point that he no longer wants to die taking precedence. However, a panic attack or a flashback won’t help the situation. So, while Dick is asleep, that’s what Jason’s attempting to prepare to avoid. The problem is that he himself prefers to deal with his fears by confronting them head-on – exposure therapy and all that – which is the last thing his brother needs, and he’s a bit out of practice with the whole avoiding-triggers-altogether method. He would do a quick internet search, but there’s no signal within a mile of the cabin. There’s barely any signal in the town of Barcis. That was one of the highlights of this place, because it meant they couldn’t be digitally traced, but right now it’s biting him in the ass. Maybe he could call Babs… no . No, as much of a help as she’d be, she can’t fool Bruce, and that’s the primary concern. Tim could…he’s scarily good at it…but Jason can’t trust that he wouldn’t tell Bruce if it meant getting their big brother back. 

So, no. Jason won’t be contacting anyone. Which means he has to figure this out himself. 

He runs his fingers through his hair and starts by thinking practically. Where in the cabin would block out the most sound from the storm? The bathroom. Okay, how does one make a bathroom comforting? His mom…Catherine…used to make blanket forts in the tub, back when he was little, before his dad’s arrest, before the drugs. She’d pad the bottom with the raggedy couch cushions and stuff the sides with pillows and blankets. Sometimes, if they were in there for a long time, she’d light candles and read a book to him. She always moved with urgency whenever this happened, though he didn’t understand why at the time. As he got older, he learned it was in response to the first pop of the shoot-outs that sometimes happened outside the apartment building. Hiding in the bathroom protected them from any stray shots, and the little fort provided the comforting illusion of safety. 

It’s not the same thing, not really. But there’s something loud outside that Dick is afraid of, and maybe a blanket fort in the bathroom wouldn’t hurt. 

Dick POV

The first thing he registers when he wakes up is a rolled-up towel being draped over his head and around his ears. He opens his eyes briefly, looking in bleary confusion at the form of his brother. Jason doesn’t say anything, only helps him sit up and lift his arms. He recognizes the motion, and wraps his arms around the other man’s neck, letting his head rest on his shoulder as he’s lifted from the couch. Before he can let his eyes fall closed again, though, he catches sight of the window. 

The window which is shimmering in rain water.

His breath catches as he squeezes his eyes shut, his grip reflexively tightening around his brother’s shoulders. He focuses on the sway of Jason’s steps and the sound of the fabric against his ears, willing himself to stay calm. He keeps his breathing measured and even, forcing his mind to go blank. He knows it won’t last long, and if he thinks, it’ll be about the rain, so he occupies his thoughts with noise. Nothing in particular, just sound, and his brain fills with a fog that feels like tv static given form. It’s not foolproof, but it makes it easier to dodge and redirect unwanted thoughts. 

Dick feels himself being lowered, and he cracks his eyes open. They’re in the bathroom, but it’s…well, simply put, it’s been repurposed. The shower curtain has been removed and the top sheet from the bed draped over it, swooping to the side where it’s held in place by a string that’s duct-taped to the tile wall. The tub is full of pillows, with a thin blanket stretched across them, creating a sort of nest. The only light in the room that’s on is the small plug-in nightlight by the door, casting a soft glow that makes the walls look like a still-frame of an aurora borealis. Folded on the floor by the tub are the thick blanket from the bed and a thinner one from the linen closet. Jason deposits him in the tub-nest, and Dick almost wants to fall back asleep. 

He catches his brother’s eye and looks at him questioningly. Jason shrugs, trying to play off…something.

“Everybody likes blanket forts,” he says simply, his voice muffled through the towel over Dick’s ears, and looks away. Even with his brain muggy, he can tell there’s plenty his brother’s not saying. And if the rain on the window in the other room is any indication, there’s a reason. One he doesn’t want to get into. So he lets it go. Jason pulls the towel away from his ears a bit, just enough to fit a pair of old headphones into the conchas of his ears. The cord connects to an ipod in Jason’s hand, which the man himself is fiddling with. The screen rolls and flips until it lands on something he’s satisfied with, and he hits play. 

Soft harp music fills his ears, and Dick furrows his brows in confusion. Then an oboe and strings join in. Is Jason playing orchestral music? He looks at his brother, brows still pinched together. The man in question holds up his hand in a “wait” gesture. Dick is no less confused. Then...a woman’s voice joins the instruments. Opera. That…is probably the last thing he expected to come from one of Jason’s playlists . Dick raises one eyebrow. Jason turns a bit pink, but otherwise just shrugs. 

“Keeps the Pit quiet,” he says, just loud enough for his brother to hear through the music and the towel. Dick’s brows relax in understanding - even if he doesn’t really understand why opera of all things is what works - and he leans back against the pillows, turning to curl up on his side. Jason picks the two blankets up from the floor, holding them out in front of him. He hears the unspoken question, and considers the two choices. He’d usually go for the thin blanket, but this feels like a comfort-seeking moment, and the thicker blanket would lend itself better to the feeling of nesting or snuggling. So, he reaches his arm out and grips that one. Jason sets the other one down and unfolds the chosen blanket, draping it over his body. Dick grabs the top edge and pulls it over his shoulder, tucking it under his chin. 

He faces the side of the tub as the soprano glides through the melody, lulling him back to sleep, and his eyes droop shut. Before he lets himself fully sleep, though, he mutters “thanks, Jay,” hoping it’s loud enough for his brother to hear. 

The rain goes unheard and forgotten.

Jason POV

He’s not sure what he expected, but it for sure wasn’t for his hatch-job plan to work, at least not as effectively as it has. He can hear the thunder from his spot on the bathroom floor beside the tub, he can hear the rain pounding on the roof. But his brother doesn’t stir, continuing to breathe deeply and evenly in his sleep. “Thanks, Jay.” The first time he’s spoken since Jason made him confront his trauma. Well, technically not the first time, but he doesn’t really count the half-asleep exhale that managed to sound like a word yesterday. And Dick actually chose his blanket!

If someone told him a month ago that he’d be excited and damn near crying in relief over such tiny steps, he’d have laughed. 

Chapter Text

Dick POV

He doesn’t open his eyes right away when he wakes up. He still feels the headphones in his ears, but they’re silent. Ipod must’ve run out of battery . It’s hot, and he can feel himself sweating. Moving slowly, he lifts the blanket from his upper body and lets it sit at his waist. He stays there for a minute, enjoying the rush of cool air, then reaches up and removes the towel from his head. He then takes the headphones out, and is greeted by a muffled patter on the roof. He stills, his eyes fly open, and his heart jumps. 

He’s spent far too much time dealing with trauma - both his own and others’ - to delude himself into thinking that simply looking at what happened with a different perspective would fix him. But…he thought that, at the very least, this part would be easier. His breath hitches in his chest, but not in panic. His eyes sting in a way that’s become very familiar the last few weeks. Why is this still happening? Why can’t he have this, just this?  

When he was six, he was talking to Zitka the elephant when he heard a drizzle against the canopy. He rushed to the tent’s opening and watched the water fall from the sky and splatter onto the ground. Squealing in delight, he ran into the sprinkle and proceeded to splash mud and rainwater on himself. He jumped into every puddle he could find, fascinated by how the water receded from his feet upon impact and then surged right back to him, running over his toes. He was suddenly lifted from behind, and he laughed at his tati’s playfully disgruntled face. He held his grin, and it wasn’t long before the mask broke and his tati laughed and ruffled his hair. 

When he was eleven, there was a mild downpour outside the manor. He wasn’t sure if Bruce would approve of splashing in puddles and potentially giving himself a cold, but frankly he didn’t much care. He was still a child, and dammit he was going to seize the opportunity to act like one. He kicked off his shoes and ran outside onto the soft grass. He would’ve tilted his head up to catch raindrops on his tongue, but with Gotham being…well, Gotham, he thought better of it. Still, he continued to play, cartwheeling and flipping and landing in muddy puddles and generally making a mess of his pajamas. After a while, he caught sight of Bruce, standing on the patio in a dressing gown with an umbrella and watching him. An idea popped in his head, and he grinned mischievously. He started running, then lowered his hands to the ground, doing a series of turns and flips that brought him closer to the man. When he was close enough, he jumped as high as he could and spun, knowing exactly where he would land. He wasn’t worried about falling or landing badly, though. He trusted Bruce to catch him. And catch him, he did, just as he did every time Dick pulled a stunt like this. He didn’t even drop the umbrella. As the boy laughed and wrapped himself around Bruce’s shoulders, the man looked at him with a warm expression, seemingly uncaring that his clothes were now also drenched and muddy. 

Dick doesn’t move. He lies there in the tub, staring at the ceiling and listening to the rain and wishing so badly that he wasn’t afraid of it. Tears pool in his eyes and spill down his temples, and he makes no move to wipe them away. 

He hears shuffling and sees his brother in his peripheral, sitting up from his spot beside the tub. Jason stares at him, seeing his unobstructed ears and probably expecting him to dissolve into a panic attack. 

“You okay?” he asks after a minute. Dick knows he’s not asking if he’s hunky dory. He’s asking how he’s handling the rain. He thinks about it, wondering how to explain.

“Used to love the rain,” he says softly, his voice gritty from lack of use. His chin tightens. “I don’t even care about being happy anymore. I just want to be okay.” Another tear joins the stream to the hair at his temple. It’s a long time before Jason speaks.

“Look, I can’t promise that you’ll get better and then never be afraid again,” he says, “that’s not how it works. Healing isn’t linear. You’ll have good days, where you can laugh and jump around in the rain and catch a cold and have no regrets. And you’ll have bad days.” Dick huffs.

“‘Healing isn’t linear.’ Where’d you hear that?” he asks. Jason’s mouth turns up a bit at the corner.

“Some dufus on the internet.” Dick almost rolls his eyes. The tears don’t stop coming, though. He didn’t have the energy to think about it before, but right now he just doesn’t want to. But…he made his brother a promise. And he…wants to try to keep it. 

“I want to believe it,” he starts, his voice trembling, “but I also want…I want to reject the idea.” Jason cocks his head in confusion.

“...the ‘healing isn’t linear’ part?” 

“You said it wasn’t my fault,” he says, eyes focused on the textured ceiling. “I want to believe you, and…maybe a part of me does. But another part, a loud part, is fighting it. And I can’t make heads or tails of what does or doesn’t make sense because my brain is foggy.”

“Dick,” Jason says, reaching into the tub to grip his hand, “one…epiphany, I guess…isn’t gonna fix everything. It’s only a first step.” He takes a minute, thinking over his words. “You know how when a bone gets broken and it isn’t set right, it heals all wrong and ends up hurting the person?” Dick blinks, but doesn’t answer. Jason doesn’t ask him to. “And you know how when the bone gets rebroken and set right, it has to heal all over again, and the body has to adjust cause it got used to it being the other way?” Understanding begins to creep over him, but he doesn’t say anything, and Jason continues. “It’s like that. It’s gonna hurt for a while, and your mind’s gonna have to relearn some things while it gets used to the new setting. It’s gonna take time.”

Part of him wants to scream and demand to know how long. But the part that’s listening and making sense from the words is arguing that maybe that’s not the point. Maybe you’re not supposed to shoot for the end result. Maybe you’re just supposed to focus on being just a little better than yesterday, and take comfort in the fact that you’re making progress, and that in the meantime you’re better than how you started. 

…Woah. Did…did his brain really just do that?

Jason POV

He was lying on his back over the thin blanket when he heard his brother moving around. He gave it a minute, cause he might’ve just been shifting in his sleep. But then his breath hitched, like it does from emotional stress, and Jason sat up. When he saw Dick lying there, in tears and with his ears fully open to the sound of the storm, he worried a panic attack was coming. But instead, Dick just lay there, quietly staring at the ceiling. 

When he spoke, really spoke, and exchanged words with him and talked like he was thinking deeply and understanding, it took all of Jason’s restraint to not collapse in relief and just bawl his eyes out. 

He’s gonna be okay. He’s gonna be okay.

Dick stays silent after their conversation, and some time later readjusts their hands. At first, Jason thinks he’s trying to remove his hand, but instead he just twists it around so they both can have a sturdy grip, and he squeezes. Jason squeezes back. After what feels like hours, Dick quietly says, “you’re a good brother, Little Wing.” He’s asleep before Jason is able to pull himself together enough to respond. It’s a good thing, though, because he hates it when people see him in such a vulnerable state as crying. And this time, he can’t help it when his forehead rests against the edge of the tub and his shoulders begin to shake. 

Chapter Text

Jason POV

By the time Dick wakes up, the storm has passed, and all that remains is a light drizzle. So Jason turns the tv on, turning the volume high enough to drown out the sound of stray drops, and helps his brother back to the living room. Dick is able to walk on his own this time, but still leans on the other man for support since he’s struggling to coordinate his feet. When he’s situated on the couch, Jason goes to the kitchen and heats up some leftover soup. 

Dick looks spaced out when Jason returns carrying two bowls. He doesn’t have time to be concerned, though, because Dick looks up at him and a small smile breaks the empty expression. 

“Thanks, Little Wing,” he says, taking his bowl. Jason restrains himself from reacting as he sits, but it’s a near thing. He’s complained about that nickname since the first time his brother used it, but though he’d never admit it, it’s long since become something he loves. When he was dead, when he was alive but thought to be dead, when he first came back and was on less-than-civil terms with the family, every time one of them had to be away for a while…he missed hearing it. Because Dick is the heart of the family, the glue that holds everyone together. When Dick calls him “Little Wing,” things are okay. Even if he screws up or pisses someone off, it’s not irreparable as long as his big brother still wants him there. He misses that affectionate endearment every time he goes without hearing it. 

Four times in the last month, he’s come very close to never hearing it again. And right now, it’s only his bat-trained self control that prevents his breath from hitching when Dick says it. 

Dick POV

Jason’s tired. He doesn’t say it, but Dick can see it. It’s in the bags under his eyes, the lethargic movements, the strain in his breathing when he lifts himself out of his seat. Dick feels guilty. If their positions were reversed, and he couldn’t say for sure whether his little brother would still be breathing when he woke up, he wouldn’t be sleeping much, either. 

After they finish eating, they watch Italian tv dramas. Jason makes predictions and provides commentary, and Dick smiles in amusement. The motion feels strangely foreign on his face, and thinking about that makes the smile dim. He’s the smiley one. It shouldn’t feel strange to smile. 

Jason eventually falls asleep, head tilted back on the couch and snoring lightly. Dick doesn’t move for a while, not wanting to disturb him. The tv doesn’t keep his attention though, and his gaze wanders, along with his thoughts. He catches sight of the window through a crack in the curtains. The glass is still and dry. The rain stopped.

A thought wanders into his mind as he stares at the glass, and he doesn’t give himself a chance to second-guess it. 

Jason POV

The first thing to cross Jason’s mind is frustration with himself for falling asleep in such a stupid position. He can already feel his neck aching and knows his back won’t be far behind. 

The second thing to cross his mind is panic when he opens his eyes and his brother is nowhere to be seen. Again. He tries to calm himself. He’s probably just in the bathroom. He walks from the living area to the bedroom, quickly doing a once-over of the room, then moves to the bathroom. The door is already cracked open and the light off, which doesn’t bode well. He opens it fully and turns on the light. He finds the room empty. It should be a comfort, but seeing as the rest of the little cabin is also empty, it only causes the panic to swell. 

If Dick isn’t in the cabin, he could only be outside. Where outside is a scary question. He could be in the woods. He could be in the town. Hell, depending on how long ago he left, he could be in Slovenia by now if he managed to steal a fast enough car. The ideas of where he could be are made all the more terrifying by the added question of why he left. 

Quickly slipping his shoes on, Jason runs to the front door. He damn near tears it off its hinges and it slams closed behind him right as he catches sight of something in the corner of his eye. He about gives himself whiplash and trips over his own feet as he turns to fully look. 

Because there, sitting cross-legged on the porch by the window, with his hands folded in his lap and a concerned expression on his face, is Dick.

“Sorry, I meant to be inside before you woke up,” he says. “I thought you’d be asleep longer.”

Jason stares at him, trying to even his breathing as the panic releases its chokehold. He closes his eyes, but otherwise doesn’t move for a full minute. He eventually takes a deep breath, opening his eyes as he lets it out.

“Are you okay?” he asks. Because asking his brother if he came outside to kill himself would be a bit too harsh. Dick seems to understand the underlying question, though, and guilt flashes across his features. 

“I’m fine. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Jason doesn’t say anything. What could he say? That he wasn’t scared? That he’s okay with being scared? Neither of those are true. But he’s also painfully aware of how absentminded the other man is right now. The fact that he had enough presence of mind to consider that Jason would worry if he woke up to find him gone is a good sign, even if it’s little comfort at the moment. So he says nothing. Instead he walks toward Dick and grips his shoulder, in part to comfort him and in part to reassure himself. His knees feel a bit shaky from the adrenaline spike, so he sits down beside his brother. He looks at the environment, still wet despite the absence of rain. 

“And this is…okay?” he asks in confusion, nodding his head at the outdoors. Dick shrugs.

“It’s not pouring. It’s humid, so it’s not particularly cold. And it doesn’t smell like smog. It smells like petrichor, like it’s supposed to.” He swallows. “I wanted…I wanted to see if…” He pauses, furrowing his brow and chewing on his lip. “I wanted to see if the difference in the rain would make a difference in my head.” 

He’s silent for a long time after that, but it looks like he’s trying to say something else, so Jason stays quiet. After several minutes, he draws his knees up to his chest and rests his arms on them. 

“I don’t wanna go back,” he says finally, barely above a whisper. “Home is where the problems are. Here is away from all of it. It’s safe.”

Jason doesn’t respond at first, mulling over his words. He and Dick both have responsibilities, teams to run, jobs to get back to, people to protect. That’s not even taking into account that the family is probably neglecting their own responsibilities searching for the two of them. But none of that matters as much as his brother’s life. It’s not realistic to say he’ll stay until Dick is completely fine, but he’ll stay with him as long as it takes to get him to a point where Jason doesn’t feel like he’s risking his brother’s life by bringing him home.

“We’ll have to go back at some point,” he says slowly, “but there’s no set timeline. It doesn’t have to be soon.” He turns his head to look at Dick. “We’ll stay as long as you need.” 

Dick looks contemplative as he tucks his chin into his arms.