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A crimson patch of blood trickled down Jason’s abdomen, even as he pressed the adhesive end of his bandage on his wound. It was only a surface tear; he had been a little surrounded at the time and might have let a goon or two take a particularly painful swipe at him. He felt a dull ache roll around in his elbow from training last week and let out a groan.
Clean up was an entirely different ball game when Jason had to do it himself. When he was around Alfred, he had never estimated how much work it took to wipe a wound clean. It was kind of an art. Jason did a pretty good job on most days, but days like today were encompassed with exhaustion. He just wanted to close his lids and nap for sixteen hours straight.
Jason shook his head and shifted further around the couch. He had to stay awake if he had to finish this. He pushed himself briefly to reach for the coffee table where a bottle of vodka lay waiting. He debated using it. It was a minor wound, anyway; if he waited ten seconds, he was sure the Pit would kick him into a heavy nausea that would eventually numb the pain. He grasped at the bottle and took a swig before slamming it back on the table.
There was one thing he could do to stay conscious. He knew, theoretically, it would work. The only problem was that it would be weird. He and Bruce were on ‘okay’ terms now but they still danced around a lot of things they sorely needed to address. Yet somehow he couldn’t think of a better person to call and talk to while he finished up. Calling Alfred would have similar results, but Alfred would definitely want to come over and personally help. Jason knew Bruce would hold out unless things were truly bad.
So he palmed around for his phone and eventually found Bruce’s number among an admittedly short list of contacts.
‘You can call me anytime you want to talk,’ Bruce had said. Jason wanted to test the theory, half to stay awake and half to see if Bruce actually meant it.
The back of his head throbbed gently to the beat of the ringing phone. A heavy, stale taste coated the underside of his tongue. The Pit had begun skittering around somewhere, Jason realized. He was almost grateful for the quick healing.
The ringing stopped abruptly, the noise sharply interjecting Jason’s reverie.
“So I’m bleeding,” Jason started, going back to work on his abdomen. The little bandage was pinkish now, the antibacterial agent working slowly on the flesh. “It’s not bad. I’ve had worse, obviously,” he chuckled softly, imagining Bruce’s scandalized expression on the other end. “But you said I could call and I don’t want to pass out so yeah…”
“Jason?”
Jason frowned. Bruce’s voice was a lot more gravelly and deep and though the voice on the other end did a pretty good job at being similar, it wasn’t Bruce’s. It lacked the monotone. It was a pitch higher and somehow sounding upbeat. It was Dick.
“Thought it was him on the other end,” Jason grumbled.
“Oh no, it usually is,” Dick explained, in what he probably thought was a civil tone. Dick had a way of making casual conversation that Jason once used to be slightly envious of. Now it only annoyed him how Dick beat around the bush just to be diplomatic. “He and Damian are having a...row.”
Jason raised his eyebrows. It was still strange imagining a house full of kids. He wondered what Dick thought of it -- going from being the only one to having to share with people he barely knew. At least Dick had time to cope with it. Jason still felt stung every time he thought about how large the family had grown since he died. It made him feel like a little dust bunny swept under the couch and forgotten until ‘Cleaning Day.’
“Anyway,” Dick said, still sounding polite and upbeat. “You said you’re bleeding; what’s going on? Everything okay?”
He felt a wave of nausea circle around his forehead to the crown of his head. He could feel the Pit snaking its way to his elbow, like something invisible was peeling his pain off like an exoskeleton.
“Save it, goldie,” Jason muttered through gritted teeth. He yanked a stitch tightly, feeling a sharp twinge of pain around his abdomen. He bit his lip to stop from gasping. Somewhere in his ribs the Pit sloshed around like it was angry at him for trying to sabotage its healing process. “Maybe your fake polity works with some people but I can see right through it and trust me, it ain’t working.”
“Damn it, Jason, I was just asking if you’re --”
Jason felt the nausea hit him all at once like a freight train. He fell back onto the couch and watched as his vision went completely dark. Dick’s voice was reduced to a murmur, all his words getting strung together in a jumble. Jason’s phone went ‘thud’ somewhere in the background.
He blacked out.
By the time Dick got through Jason’s safehouse firewall and the firewall’s firewall, it was already pretty dark. Thankfully Jason was out cold, his half-done stitches gleaming an ugly salmon pink in the moonlight. He had done a pretty good job -- much better than Dick could be arsed to do most days -- but it looked like he had passed out mid-rant.
“Typical,” Dick muttered, shuffling through his own medkit and getting to work. He eyed the opened vodka bottle for a minute, then decided against it. When Jason regained consciousness, it would be best if they were both sober.
About ten minutes in, Dick’s hands began working on autopilot, a product of years of patching up friends and family. He took the opportunity to glance around Jason’s apartment. See what his kind-of-estranged-but-not-really brother lived like.
Most of the apartment was surprisingly bare. Dick didn’t know what he had expected but he hadn’t expected it to be this empty. Back at the Manor, Dick remembered Jason’s room being full of trinkets and little merchandise neatly organized; it told the story of a brother he barely knew. Posters of edgy pop-punk bands taped to the walls, shelves and shelves of books crammed everywhere -- heck, even the poem he wrote in seventh grade that he won an award for. Dick had never properly been in there when Jason was Robin, but he had stopped by several times after his death. Had walked around the room in hopes that it would revive a relationship that never was. Revive a brother who died when he was off-world.
This apartment was just empty. Spare a few couches in the living room and a lonely looking fridge in the kitchen, there was nothing. Not even scattered junk mail, like in Dick’s own apartment, from banks and marketers and stuff. Either this was just a stowaway apartment or Jason had become less about the showmanship. Judging from what he knew about his brother, he suspected it was the former.
There was, however, a photograph resting on the coffee table.
The woman in the picture was pretty. Curly, jet black hair and scarlet lips matching the exact shade of her dress. Jason didn’t resemble her all that much. His hair was darker and he probably -- definitely -- had his dad’s nose. This woman’s features were sharp where Jason’s were rough and blunt. They both had a similar, naughty smile, though. In the way that Tim often frowned a lot like Bruce on a difficult night on patrol. Or even Cass, who’d laugh in a soft snort like Babs would.
“I’d tell you to stop staring at my mom but I think that’d be weird for both of us.”
Dick turned to see Jason propping himself on his elbows and squinting at Dick. His eyes were half-closed but they glowed under the shadows of his choppy hair.
“And he’s finally awake,” Dick announced, grinning, as he scanned Jason for any other damages. Besides the scrape on his abdomen, he seemed fine. A little grumpy but that came with the territory more than anything else. “I've been meaning to drop by.” he said, getting up. It wasn't exactly a lie; Babs had been pestering him for a while now to come visit, but he'd been putting it off.
Jason shrugged, like he didn't know what to say to that. His eyes glowed an eerie aqua, like those luminescent fish tanks at the Gotham Aquarium he once took Damian to. It made Dick uneasy.
Dick walked into the kitchen, feeling Jason’s eyes follow him. He poured some water into a cup and tossed it into the microwave, watching as it turned round and round in the little box. He tapped his fingers on the countertop. “Granite?”
“Melded bones of my enemies,” Jason called out from the hall. “The fuck you doing here, Grayson?”
Dick padded back into the hall and handed Jason the cup and a bottle of pills. “Painkillers and plenty of admonitions,” he continued, sitting on the couch opposite Jason. “Courtesy of Alfred.”
Jason shrugged, playing with the label of the pill bottle. He cleared his throat. “Thanks...I guess.”
Dick was almost surprised at that. He was half-expecting a sardonic remark or a fight of some sort. The growing silence just made it...awkward. And Dick did not do awkward.
“You don’t look like her,” Dick said, for a lack of better things to say. He eyed the picture and its stark contrast to the rest of the room. “Looks like we both got our dad’s noses.”
“I’m almost sorry for your dad, then,” Jason replied. “You have a very punchable nose.”
Dick chuckled. “Always with the low blows.” He stared up at Jason and nodded towards the bottle. “You should take those before the water grows cold.”
Jason stared down at his hands “These won’t work,” he mumbled. “Should have brought something stronger. Or at least soluble.”
Bruce had told him that Jason’s biological processes had changed. Panic attacks, nausea...that kind of thing. It should have occurred to him that his response to medication would have changed too. “Is that a Pit thing?”
“Sure,” Jason replied, staring at Dick dead in his eyes, almost like he wanted to challenge Dick to press further.
Jesus, Dick thought. Like picking a fight with a tiger.
“My bad,” he said, as nonchalantly as he could, like he had accidentally spilled something on Jason. “You got anything that works?”
“I can get it myself.”
“Sure you can,” Dick responded, with a sigh. “But Alfred sent me here to mother-hen you so just give him the satisfaction that I did something useful for you while I was here and stop being a stubborn little bird, will you?”
“You can’t pull the Alfred-card on me,” Jason complained, narrowing his eyebrows and crossing his arms. Dick almost laughed at how Robin-like that was, but he didn’t point it out because he would like to keep his nose from meeting Jason’s fist, thank you very much.
“I just did, Littlewing,” Dick said, “Now where’s your fix?”
“Oxycodone in the bathroom cabinet,” Jason said, pointing out towards the hallway. “Dick.”
Dick scoffed, taking the hallway to the bathroom, which smelled heavily like lime for some reason. The walls were sparkly white, like Jason scrubbed them clean often. Dick almost felt guilty at the little patches of blood stains in his own place that he had gotten too lazy to clean up. He propped open the cabinet, shaking his head at a gun strapped behind its wooden layer. Jason’s loose idea of a ‘moral code’ still brought cold anger to his gut sometimes but guilt would wash over it just as quickly as it would arrive.
When he returned, Jason was sitting up and sipping on his water. He had a fuzzy, soft red blanket draped across his torso. Some golf game was on television, playing softly as background noise.
“You’re welcome,” Dick said, sitting back down. He pulled the blanket over his own legs.
Jason yanked the blanket back. “I’m not thankful,” he shot back, swallowing the pills.
“You know what this reminds me of?” Dick asked, wiggling his feet under the blanket again, much to Jason's chagrin. “Alaska.”
Jason raised his eyebrows at him, like he was genuinely confused.
“The ski trip?” Dick continued. “You, me, some very fierce snowstorms and a cabin up in Alaska?”
Jason's face went taut, his throat bobbing up and down like he was tense. His face was blank, as though he was trying to figure Dick out.
“I've never been to Alaska.” he said, slowly.
Dick frowned. “I have a gazillion brothers but I'm sure that ski trip was with you, Jason.” He had a picture somewhere, back in his apartment.
Jason shook his head. His skin was chalky white now and he was looking at Dick with such wide eyes that it frankly scared Dick a little. “Hey, are you okay?”
“No, I'm really not. What the fuck are you talking about, Dick?”
Dick narrowed his eyes, scanning Jason's face for signs of shock or maybe some kind of psychological residue from his wounds. “You and I,” Dick started slowly. “went on a ski trip to Alaska one weekend when Bruce was off world. Do you not...remember that?”
It would be entirely possible that Jason might have a lot of memory gaps, given his traumatic history and his encounter with the Lazarus Pit. That was something Dick hadn't considered until now.
“Dick, we never hung out,” Jason said, like he was trying to convince himself desperately. “You were barely in Gotham.”
The words struck Dick in his chest, a sharp pang of guilt. You were never there for him. Still, he hated how accusatory Jason's words were. How spiteful they were. It evoked some natural wall of self-defense in him, but when he looked at Jason's clueless face, he breathed his anger back down. The younger him would have definitely been whinier, more defensive of his self-image.
“I'm not fucking with you, dude,” Dick said, gently. “Trust me, I'd never play with your memories like that. It was when you were done with freshman year, I think. It was in the summer and you were bored so we wanted to sneak out. Alfred decided to cover for us -- you know how he put family bonding above everything else -- so we slipped away for a weekend.”
“And Bruce didn't know about it?” Jason asked, dubious. It didn't seem like the details were jogging any memories but at least it kept away some of the hostility and Dick considered that a win.
“Nope,” he grinned. “We managed to get back in just the nick of time. He never suspected a thing.”
“Huh.” Jason muttered. They relapsed into silence, with Jason seemingly running over this new information in his head. Dick wondered if that was part of the reason he was so hostile to the family. Of course, Dick wasn't completely naive to the fact that Jason had returned with a vengeful streak -- but he did suppose it became easier to hate people if you couldn't really remember them.
“We weren't, um, BFFs or anything,” Dick said quietly. He had definitely gotten on with Tim a lot quicker than with Jason who had always been quiet, hesitant to trust easily, distant. “But we did hang out a couple of times. Remember Titans?”
Jason glanced at him sideways and smirked. “You mean when I saved your ass from being toast?”
“See? You haven't lost all your facilities yet.” Dick pat him on the shoulder in what he hoped would be perceived as friendly. Jason tensed, but he didn't shrug Dick's hand away.
They continued watching the game, but Dick could tell Jason wasn't really paying attention. He was, instead, rubbing at a fading out scar below his ear. It had all the trademarks of the claw of a crowbar. Dick winced. There were things -- injuries -- that still gave Dick nightmares. The ones that tried their goddamn best to shake him to the core of his very bones. Being in a coma, nearly losing his shoulder, nearly losing his head...the memories rolled on as phantom aches one after the other. If the psychological scars of their job didn’t touch him enough, he had physical damage aplenty to prove these wounds lasted a lifetime.
“So we were closer than I remember,” Jason started, his voice almost quivering. “But you didn't go to my damn funeral. How does that happen?”
Dick sighed. “I was off world, man.”
“Sure,” Jason said easily. “What about after? I helped save your life with the Titans and you still let people believe I was reckless and out of control. I even helped you break Jefferson Pierce out of prison after I came back and you never reached out after. Hell, Babs came to me before you did.”
“I know what it looks like,” Dick replied, feeling his heartbeat rise up to his ears. “But you couldn't seriously have expected us all to trust you wholeheartedly after the shit you pulled, right?” Dick shook his head. “When the Outsiders weren't willing to trust your intel, I still vouched for you. And despite everything that's happened since you came back, I still believe in you. But after a certain point, you're going to have to stop working against us and start working with us if you want us to know who you really are and what you're really like instead of being the enigma that you currently try so hard to be.”
“Gee, you just loving spouting your fortune cookie wisdom at people, don't you?” Jason spat. “It's not like being dead and losing some of my memories messed up my perception of people or anything.”
“I didn't ask for any of this shit to happen to you, asshole!” Dick shouted, slamming his hand against the couch. “We were having a civil moment and now you've gone and broken it. Again. Why can’t you just talk about shit without making it a confrontation?”
“Why do you have to treat every person like they're something for you to fix?” Jason challenged back. “Understand this. Maybe our other brothers appreciate input from their beloved numero uno, but as far as I'm concerned, you're still on thin fucking ice.”
The room was quiet for a moment. Dick felt his heart angrily throbbing up and down. In a way he felt like he had failed Bruce in snapping at Jason, considering how much their father wanted them to get along. But it was so hard. He could get through to Tim and Damian in a way that was just so foreign to Jason.
Dick sprang to his feet. “Get up.”
“What?”
“I said get up,” Dick repeated, already heading towards the front door. “Grab your coat.”
“Dick, it's two in the morning,” Jason reminded him, bewildered.
“Yeah, it fucking is,” Dick said. “So grab your coat and come on.” He beckoned his head to the door.
Jason stood still for a minute, before shaking his head and reaching for the coat rack. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“That’s the spirit.”
.
It turned out that Dick brought them up to an abandoned building somewhere in central Gotham. At this time of night, all the construction workers had gone home, leaving the place quiet, spare the howling wind.
“I come up here,” Dick said. “To clear my head.”
Jason scoffed, but his eyes caught Dick pulling out a box from his backpack. It was stacked with layers of weed neatly pressed into paper. He raised his eyebrows. “Never thought you to be the hippie type, Dickiebird.”
Dick rolled his eyes, posing himself atop a telephone wire, using the weight of his lower body to swing on the ledge of the building. “What are you, 80 years old?” he called out. “It's prescription.” He tapped the spot beside him, like he expected Jason to join him.
Jason sat down and eyed the weed. He jerked his shoulder towards the box. “So this is what you meant by clearing your head?”
Dick nodded. “I let myself have this once every six months.” He said, rolling up a joint. “Got a light?”
Jason pulled out a lighter from one of his side pockets. He hadn’t smoked in years but kept one around anyway. Force of habit. He tried not to be weirded out by how bizarre all this was. He focused on the Gotham skyline instead, thinking about how each blinking light was probably a lost memory in his own head. The height at which they were at was dangerous; it was a level only someone as experienced as Dick and intrepid as Jason would even remotely enjoy.
Dick tapped him on the shoulder and passed the joint. Jason chuckled, taking a hit shakily.
“What?” Dick asked, mimicking him seconds later with his own. The smoke curled up in lazy circles above them.
“I don't know,” Jason said, shaking his head. “Didn't really think you were this fucked up, dangling 50 feet in the air, smoking weed. It's not like you.”
Though the image of Dick in his head was that of a stranger, someone he barely knew about seven years ago, let alone now.
“I'm plenty fucked up, Jason.” Dick chuckled.
“Yeah? What did you do? Accidentally trip a grandma? Not save a cat from a tree?”
“I once killed the Joker.”
The statement came out like a quiet confession. Like it was something Dick was ashamed of. Jason knew he wasn't high enough to be hearing things, but he frowned. “Dick, the Joker's alive.” He said lamely, his brain struggling to connect the dots.
“I thought he killed Tim,” Dick explained and Jason couldn't tell whether his voice was quivering because of the cold air or revisiting this memory. “He mentioned you. I got so mad, I beat him to a bloody pulp. He was technically dead for a while.”
“Let me guess,” Jason said, feeling the smoke burn his chest mingling with the Pit enough to start to put him in a daze. “B resuscitated him?”
“He didn't want blood on my hands. He did it to save me...my conscience.” Dick explained. “He doesn't want any on yours either. Doesn't want us to feel guilt. I know if we had gone through with it, I would've lived with that guilt all my life.”
“I wouldn't,” Jason said forcefully, biting down on his lip. “I would've slept like a baby.”
“I guess you can do what we can't do. And maybe that makes you different from us,” Dick said, placatingly. “But I honestly couldn't care less about what you can or can't do. I just want my baby brother back.”
Jason coughed lightly. “I've never been your baby brother.”
“Hmm, you know what I think?”
“What?” Jason asked warily. Dick was starting to get a soft, smiling look in his eyes that Jason really didn't like. His chest felt warm, like sugar was caramelizing down his ribs, probably a result of the weed and the Pit and the drowsiness all coming together.
“I think you're suffering from a disease -- severe lack of brotherly hugs syndrome,” Dick said. “Five in two people die every year, it's fatal.”
“Been there, done that.” Jason grumbled as Dick shushed him and crossed an arm around his neck. He looped a hand around Jason's shoulder and pulled him closer until the crown of Jason's head was pushed into Dick’s collarbone. “Dick, I swear if you don't let me go, I'll push you down this building.”
“You wouldn't,” Dick replied, cheerfully. “Killing me would make Bruce sad and you love him, so you wouldn't.”
Jason sighed and gave up, leaning into Dick's half hug. “Bruce doesn't have emotions. He's a robot.”
“He's our robot,” Dick said fondly, patting Jason's ear.
“Hey, Dick?” Jason said, loosely releasing himself from Dick's grip. “About my funeral...Babs kind of implied that you were off-world,” Jason admitted. “But I wanted to hear it from you.”
Dick nodded, like that confirmed his suspicion. “I'm sorry I didn't go,” he said. “And I'm sorry I wasn't around much.”
“I'm not sorry for treating you like shit,” Jason countered. “But I am sorry for not giving you credit where it's due.”
Dick smiled. “Fair.” He said. “Congratulations on college, by the way. I think you'll do great.” Dick rubbed his shoulder, giving a him friendly pat on the head. “I mean, of course you will. You were writing Shakespeare level poetry when you were a sophomore, I think you'll be just fine.”
“Yeah,” Jason said. Then, “You went through my shit?”
“Shh,” Dick whispered and Jason could horrifyingly feel another hug coming on. “I missed you.”
“You're a creep. And a weirdo.”
“I'm also your brother,” Dick said, poking his tongue out. “Deal with it.”
Jason shook his head, this time letting himself get tackled by Dick's clumsy arms.