Chapter Text
Angry words and honking cars
Satellites and falling stars
Distant dark blue radios that whisper down my boulevards
Ghosts and chains rattle in the attic
Broken headphones filled with static
Lonely room you've got nowhere to run
Slamming doors and cell phone rings
Hurricane force of silent screams
Don't know what to believe
Bend the rule just to break it
You're so tired 'cause to got to fake it
But you just wanna be someone
3, 2, 1 for all and all for 1
Times will be bad times will be good
Things I wish I hadn't done and some I wish I would
Cutting through the American noise
You've got a voice and a song to sing
Drink deep in the morning
Drink deep in the morning
See what the day will bring
-“American Noise” Skillet
“Azarath, Metrion, Zinthos. Azarath, Metrion, Zinthis. Azarath, Met- Yes?”
Jason shuffles through Dick’s half open door and drops the hand he had been going to knock with. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I didn’t know you were…” He motions vaguely.
Dick cracks one eye. “Meditating.”
Jason nods. “Yeah, that. Sorry.” He breaks eye contact with Dick and starts to leave. “I’ll just go.”
Dick sighs, uncrosses his legs, and then stretches both his arms above his head. “It’s fine. Not really my thing anyways.”
Jason hesitates and rocks a bit on the balls of his socked feet, clearly curious but trying not to pry too much. “Did that witch lady teach you?”
Dick snorts a bit. “You mean Raven?”
Jason nods. “Yeah, the witch lady.” He drops his voice a bit. “She’s kind of scary.”
Dick rolls his eyes and then swings his legs over the side of his bed. “She’s not so bad once you get to you know her. What’s up, Jason?”
Jason makes a face. “Nothing.”
“You walked all the way to my room for something. I’d like to know what it is.”
Jason mumbles something to himself and then looks over his shoulder. “If I had known you were meditating, I wouldn’t have bothered you. Sorry.”
“Well, I’m done now.” Dick pats the side of his bed. “You want to sit?”
“I just wanted a slushy,” Jason blurts as color creeps across the bridge of his nose. “And Bruce and Alfred won’t take me. Bruce is stuck on some call and Alfred’s baking and can’t leave the kitchen for the next two hours. I was… I was hoping you’d take me.”
Dick just grins; Jason’s had his driving permit for all of two weeks and is always looking for an excuse to go out. “Alright, sure, I’ll take you.”
Jason brightens. “Really?”
“Yeah. Why not? Go get your shoes.”
Jason frowns. “You don’t have to. I can wait for Bruce, or Alfred can take me tomorrow-”
“You want a cherry slushy or not?” Dick interrupts with a smile. “Because I think I’m in the mood for one now, and I’ll just leave you behind if you don’t want to come-” Dick stops short when Jason launches himself at him and wraps Dick in a big hug.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re the best!”
Dick hugs Jason back and just takes a few seconds to savor it. Jason seems to sense Dick’s thoughts and squeezes extra hard.
“You don’t have to,” Jason murmurs. “I can make Bruce take me later and bring one back for you.”
“Maybe I just want to see you try and parallel park,” Dick counters.
Jason tries to pull back, but Dick latches on and then flips Jason (with care) onto his bed. They spend the next few minutes trying to get the upper hand on one another, and then Jason starts fighting dirty and goes for Dick’s ticklish spots until they’re both panting and spread out on the comforter. Jason grabs Dick’s hand and twines their fingers together when Dick stops laughing and rolls his head to the side.
“Hey,” Jason says firmly as he sits up to pull Dick’s attention away from the little orange bottle on his bedside table. “You’re fine.” He jiggles their joined hands. “Let’s go get slushies.”
Everyone else likes to tell Dick he’s going to be fine. That’s this will eventually pass. But they’re not the ones who have had to move back home during summer break to get away from college and running an underage vigilante squad because their depression has decided to come back with a vengeance. Dick doesn’t mind the drugs, he knows they’re going to help, they’ve helped before, he just wishes that it would work now so that he wouldn’t have to deal with Bruce and Alfred treating him kid gloves.
“We’re going for slushies,” Dick calls into the kitchen as he grabs a set of aviator sunglasses for himself for the hour or so of sun left before sunset. “You want anything, Alfred?”
Alfred’s waves a hand from the stove and a pot of barely bubbling yellow mush that smells suspiciously like custard. “No, thank you. Have fun. Be safe!”
Jason gets a running start from the side hall and slides halfway into the kitchen on his socks. “Right, so vanilla shake,” he says. “Bruce wants chocolate.” Jason heads for the walls of keys and Dick just smiles and leans his hip against the nearest marble counter to watch Jason.
Dick had jokingly said that Jason was going to get Dick’s old Porsche for his sixteenth birthday when they had been planning the party, and Jason had started crying; Dick, the idiot, had thought it was because Jason didn’t want a hand-me-down car since Dick had gotten his new. Because, even after settling in at the Manor, Jason’s still incredibly down to earth; he had started crying because hadn’t even considered the stereotypical sweet sixteen presents. Every year, Jason just hoped for maybe a cake and a few wrapped boxes. And every year he got exactly that, plus whatever Bruce had bullied him into writing down on a birthday list which was usually nothing extravagant, nothing too big, nothing expensive. Jason has the biggest sock collection Dick’s ever seen, and Jason’s religious about wearing every single pair.
Dick had to go through Jason’s friends at school, a few other vigilantes, and maybe hack a few texts to actually figure out what type of car Jason wanted. Not even Bruce casually throwing into conversation how nice the new Bugattis were looking for next year and how Jason was free to look at them (despite their three million dollar price tag) would open up Jason’s mouth despite the clear invitation that price wasn’t a problem. And Dick had gotten the make and model down, but he didn’t have the color, so Alfred had brought Jason into the kitchen a few weeks before his birthday to help him make dinner and asked him point blank; Jason had hemmed and hawed a bit before answering. And then on Jason’s sixteenth birthday, Jason had woken up and headed outside to get taken to school and had found a shiny black ’67 Impala in the front drive with a big red bow on the hood and banner taped the windows that simply read “Happy Birthday, Jason!” in big blocky rainbow letters.
Jason’s clearly in love with his car, but it’s also obvious he doesn’t want to take it out where other drivers might hit her (“of course she’s a girl!” Jason had informed Bruce, and he had sounded quite offended about having to distinguish his car’s gender). Dick knows the fear will wear off in a few more months once Jason’s more comfortable driving, but for now, taking the Impala solely out around the Manor is good enough for Jason. In the meantime, he’s grown quite fond of a black Mercedes Benz that Dick thinks Bruce bought last year, drove once, and forgot about; Jason goes for Mercedes keyring and holds it up for Dick like he’s asking permission. Jason has free reign of every car in the garage except for Alfred’s Rolls Royce which not even Bruce is allowed to drive.
“Alright, let’s go,” Dick says. “You have your permit?”
Jason had a folded up piece of paper already in hand, his own sunglasses perched on top of his head, and a wad of cash in his pocket from chores. Dick has a cooler already on the counter for Alfred’s and Bruce’s drinks, and he offers a mock salute at Alfred as they head for the garage.
“Drive safely!” Alfred calls after them. “Have fun!”
Jason’s an excellent driver; Dick’s sure all the practice driving the Batmobile has helped, but even so, he’s glad to see Jason’s hand hovering over the ignition until Dick has his seatbelt on. The top of the car retracts, and then Jason shifts the Mercedes into neutral so that they can roll onto the gravel outside of the smooth garage floor. Dick tilts his seat back a bit, toes one shoe off, and props his foot up on the door.
“I need that side mirror,” Jason says as he shifts and they hit the asphalt outside the gate.
“You do not,” Dick replies, although he does put his foot down. “But if it makes you feel better…”
Dick turns on the radio, turns the volume up, and waits for Jason to smile; he knows Jason isn’t trying to feel like the cool kid in the hundred-grand convertible who gets to drive around with his brother just to show off, but even Jason needs to ease off the humble pie every now and then.
“Let’s take the long way,” Dick suggests. “You okay going on the highway?”
Jason just snorts; he had merged onto the interstate doing ninety in the Batmobile, an arguable tank, because Bruce had gotten stabbed, two days after Bruce had started teaching him how to drive stick.
“Am I okay going on the highway,” Jason repeats with an eye roll and grin. “Yes, I am.”
It’s nearing the end of summer which means the highway is mostly deserted for a Tuesday. Families have already retreated to their shore homes, and Jason hits the onramp doing thirty-five as they curve around a jug handle. Dick feels Jason downshift, so Dick cover’s Jason’s hand.
“Shift.”
Jason does.
“Shift.”
Jason hits the clutch and feathers it out with the gas while Dick moves the gearshift.
“Once more.”
Jason’s already doing sixty-five when the single solid white line turns dotted.
“Last time,” Dick says, and Jason hesitates before slamming the clutch down; the car purrs loudly, and Jason pulls his hand free to grab the steering wheel so that he can put on his blinker and pull in front of an eighteen-wheeler with more than enough room to spare. Dick twists in his seat to wave and offer a thumbs-up and point at Jason; the trucker gives a soft honk in return, and Jason slides into the center lane.
The slushy place is a hole-in-the-wall freestanding building down a side road. The parking lot is dirt and gravel, and Dick isn’t surprised to see a line and most of the metal picnic tables already taken. There’s no indoor seating, just three windows for ordering, and Dick has Jason park away from the other cars; he’s not stupid, they’re still technically in Gotham, and while everyone around is families with babies, teenagers, a few small group in their thirties, Dick doesn’t want to risk Jason’s first few weeks of semi-freedom being ruined by some asshole trying to jack Bruce’s Mercedes. That, or someone accidentally hitting Jason and having to call the police for a fender bender.
Jason turns the music down once they’re parked, suddenly self-conscious, and shuts the car off. He goes for the button to close up the convertible, but Dick grabs his wrist.
“You just stay here, I’ll go order,” he says as he pulls off his seatbelt. “You wanted watermelon, right?”
Jason nods and goes for his wallet, intent on giving Dick some money, but Dick just hops over the door.
“I got it.”
“But, I was going to pay-”
“Sorry, you drove,” Dick teases. “So that means I have to pay.”
Dick returns ten minutes later with one white Styrofoam cup in hand and a tray of three other drinks balanced perfectly on his head. If it were anyone else, Jason would be nervous they’d drop the tray, but Dick’s balance is something to be admired.
“Pop a squat,” Dicks says seriously, so Jason climbs into the back seat and sits himself on the trunk with his shoes on the expensive faux-leathering seating.
Dick grabs the tray off his head, and Jason grabs the cup with a messy WTML scribbled on the side. The two other shakes get put in the cooler already filled with icepacks and closed. Dick takes a seat beside Jason and they sip. It’s a warm summer night, hot and humid without being uncomfortable, and soon the pair are slurping at empty cups.
“Alright, let’s throw this out and head home,” Dick says. “I would not be opposed to taking the long way home. You know, for practice.”
“Night driving practice,” Jason agrees as he hands his empty cup over before vaulting himself to the front seat and turning the engine on. Music starts to play. “Hurry up!”
Dick’s halfway across the parking lot when he hears an engine roar, tires screech, the distinct crunch of wood, and then something big and heavy hit the ground. He whips around and heads for the Mercedes at a sprint. There’s a wooden pole on the ground and electrical wires draped all over the car that are already smoking; electricity hums in the air, and Dick’s only partially surprised to see Jason sitting perfectly still in the driver’s seat. It’s a miracle Jason hasn’t already been electrocuted given how the lines are draped, but Dick knows once wrong move could kill him instantly.
“I got you,” Dick says as he jumps over the pole, acknowledges the other dented car is out of the immediate danger zone, and then grabs the lines nearest Jason with his bare hands. “I got you.”
Jason’s shaking from head, already teary-eyed and pale.
“You’re alright,” Dick soothes. “You’re safe now.”
Most people think Dick’s magic is air orientated or gravity related; surely the Flying Graysons passed on something to Dick. But, no, Dick’s magic is all about electricity; his acrobatics are natural skill and hard work. It’s why Nightwing fights with electrified escrima sticks; they pack a punch all on their own, but it’s easier to hide magic behind something non-magical to keep Dick Grayson and the vigilante separate. It’s why Dick’s been careful to flaunt his magic over the years, to show the world that it’s there, that’s it something he uses. Grabbing livewires is nothing; Dick’s grabbed worse at nuclear reactor plants. He just needs to be careful he doesn’t kill the power grid by accident.
By the time the police and fire department and proper power companies have arrived, Dick’s hair is sticking up and he’s got a buzz under his skin that has everything to do with the electricity he’s been channeling. That, and his eyes are glowing like a glow stick and leaking wisps of blue out of the corners from too much magic usage. Jason hasn’t moved an inch from the car, and he refuses to do so even when one of the power company employees walks over to the Mercedes and tries to coax him out to be looked over.
“Come on kid, it’s safe now.”
Jason’s still white-knuckling the steering wheel. Robin has taught him more than a few things about staying calm, about processing fear, but right now Jason’s not Robin; he’s just some poor sixteen year-old who was this close to getting electrocuted.
“Come on, Jason, I’ll drive home.” Dick gently shoulders his way past the employee and offers one hand to Jason. “I’ll make sure he gets looked over.”
Jason reluctantly gets out of the car and lets Dick guide him around the front of the scratched hood to the passenger side. Dick pulls Jason’s seatbelt on and then goes back to the driver’s seat.
“You sure you’re okay?” the employee repeats as Dick starts the car. “You just had how many thousand volts running through you?”
Dick just shrugs. “Not really a big deal for me, my magic’s electricity.” He pats Jason’s thigh. “You have our contact info, I’m sure our lawyer will be in contact with you soon. Hope you have a nice rest of the night.”
The other driver of the car who crashed into the pole is clearly drunk.
“Phone?” Dick requests once they’re on the highway.
Jason hands his over to Dick who takes it in one hand. There’s a single spark, and Jason’s battery immediately hits 100%.
“You alright?” Dick asks once they’re halfway up the winding road to the Manor. “You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to.”
“‘m okay,” Jason mumbles. “Tired.”
Probably in shock, no pun intended, but Dick knows Jason will bounce back after nine hours of solid rest.
Bruce and Alfred are already in the driveway when Dick pulls up. It’s pitch black out, and this far from Gotham and close to the ocean, the sky is clear. Stars dot the sky. There’s a cool breeze in the air.
“We’re both fine,” Dick says before anyone gets the chance to speak. “Jason got a serious adrenaline rush and would probably appreciate a hot bath and maybe a sleeping pill tonight.” Because Dick knows Jason is wondering what would have happened if Dick hadn’t been there; Dick’s thinking the same exact thing. Magic isn’t exactly rare, but it’s still far from commonplace, and while Jason could have been ok without Dick, there’s the chance that a line could have shifted and hit Jason with almost five thousand volts.
Dick watches Alfred put an arm around Jason and walk him to the house; he stays in the driver’s seat while Bruce approaches with care.
“There’s nothing I can say that will make any of this right or better,” Bruce says gently.
Dick just nods. His teeth ache.
“The only thing I will say is that I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, but if it had to happen, I’m glad it was you and Jason.”
Bruce goes for a pat on Dick’s arm, but Dick pulls back. “Don’t,” Dick snaps, and Bruce freezes. “Sorry.” Dick sighs. “I just… I’m all static-y right now. I’m going to go jump in the pool. Can you put the car away?”
Bruce just nods. Dick exits the car, leaves the key in the ignition, and then heads for the backyard and one of the massive outdoor pools. There’s already lights on in the pool and cycling through the rainbow, and Dick dumps his phone and wallet on a big round glass table before checking all the filters for any frogs or small animals that might have gotten stuck. Once he’s sure he’s alone, Dick kicks his shoes and socks off, jackknifes into the pool, and then watches the water above him steam and sizzle until there’s a thin layer of mist. He breaks the surface with a gasp, shakes his head to get his bangs out of his face, and then spreads himself out on his back so he can stare up at the sky. A few wayward sparks jump across the surface of the pool like water bugs; the big discharge is over, and Dick lets a little more of his magic go until he’s thoroughly exhausted, bordering on delirious, and (metaphorically speaking) running on empty.
Dick strokes over to the nearest ladder, hauls himself out of the pool, and isn’t surprised to see Bruce waiting for him with a big towel, plastic tarp, and thick rubber apron and matching gloves already on. Bruce wraps him in the towel first before draping the tarp around Dick with care; Dick isn’t particularly dangerous at the moment, but he’s accidentally zapped Bruce more than a few times (and sometimes on purpose) to the point that Bruce puts on the gloves and apron for Dick’s comfort, not his.
“Jason’s going to spend the night in Alfred’s room,” Bruce says as he slowly walks Dick back into the mansion, leaving a trail of water behind them that hisses and sparks before evaporating. “You’re more than welcome to stay in mine if you’d like.”
There’s a big window seat in front of Brue’s bay windows; Dick’s spent more than a few nights on the worn cushions to the point that even years later, Bruce still keeps a pillow and blanket tucked into the corner of the window.
“Yeah, yeah, I think… I think I might.” Dick knows he’s slurring. That whatever sugar he ate from his slushy is long gone. That exhausting himself by discharging all his electricity probably wasn’t the best idea because now Dick’s running on empty, but it’s nothing a few hours of sleep and some food can’t fix. “I just…” Dick stumbles when his vision briefly blacks out, and Bruce grabs him with a string of almost swears to keep Dick from face planting.
“For the love of- holy- on a cracker!”
Bruce turns them back towards the kitchen where he deposits Dick on the floor in the pantry, wedged in a corner so Dick can’t tip over, and then spends the next five minutes pouring Pixie sticks into Dick’s mouth. Magical exhaustion is basically the same exact feeling as being drunk minus any potential hangover, so Dick lets Bruce grab his cheeks and force him to make a fish face to get his mouth open.
Once Dick’s hands aren’t tingling, and he admits as much to Bruce, Bruce sits down beside him, rips the top off a Pixie stick for himself, and then tilts his head back. Dick goes back to licking a root beer flavored lollipop.
“You could have just driven home and gone to bed,” Bruce says slowly. “You didn’t have to get rid of everything. You didn’t have to do this.”
Dick shrugs; the tipsy/sleepy/low blood sugar feeling from total exhaustion is sort of nice. He’s careful not to do it too often, it’d be no better than getting blackout drunk every week or doing drugs for a high, but…
“Jason could have died,” Dick says around his lollipop before reaching for the container on the floor and a lemon flavored one. “If I hadn’t been there, he could have died. Or someone else. I don’t want that in me.” Dick peels the wrapper off, licks it, and then crumples the waxy, colorful paper. “Does that make sense?” He shakes his head and sways a bit. “I’m so fucking drunk, Bruce.”
“You are not drunk,” Bruce says firmly, but he does go for another Pixie stick and carefully leans Dick’s head back. “Open.”
Dick’s still too uncoordinated to drink from a glass himself, so Bruce gets him an adult-sized Sippy cup used for just these occasions and fills it with watered down apple juice and ice. He’s at the sink when he catches Dick slowly scooching himself out of the pantry on his belly like some type of inchworm out of the corner of his eye. All Bruce has to do is whistle and wave an Air Head in Dick’s direction to get him to come back. Dick’s blood sugar is still dangerously low and could potentially be a serious medical emergency, but the droplets Dick’s leaving behind from his wet clothes are still sparking and disappearing, so Dick’s still in control and isn’t too far gone. Bruce hates seeing Dick like this, hates seeing him helpless and needy because Dick’s always been independent, proven he could take care of himself, but at the moment, he can’t even hold his own glass; Bruce is thankful for the little plastic grips on the curved handles.
“Drink all of that,” Bruce says firmly once Dick has been sat upright against a cabinet with his sippy cup. “Then shower and bed. I have to go tidy up the pantry.”
Dick’s far steadier on his feet when Bruce slings an arm around his shoulder, and by the time Dick comes out of Bruce’s bathroom in his pajamas, he’s mostly back to normal; he refuses to look Bruce in the eye and just curls up in the window seat with his blanket.