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When Dick wakes up, it’s with a sharp pain in his neck, a deep ache in his shoulders, and the telling grogginess that usually comes with being drugged. It is therefore not a surprise when he opens his eyes to a cold concreted cell and his wrists twisted harshly behind him, keeping him chained to the wall.
What is a surprise is that about two metres to the right, a familiar figure in a leather jacket and red helmet is also waking up, similarly in chains. Dick watches as Red Hood goes through the usual ‘waking up in unfamiliar territory’ protocol, stretching his limbs and moving his head ever so subtly to see what is going on.
Finally, he turns to Dick. His gaze holds for a moment, then he huffs and stares at the door, twisting his hands to see if there is any give.
“Hey,” Dick says after a moment, not really looking forward to potentially hours sitting here in absolute silence. “What are you in for?’
Red Hood doesn’t reply for a moment, then says gruffly, “Fuck off.”
Dick shrugs. Alright then. Red Hood used to hiss Nightwing’s name with malice and rage and pure contempt, and he’ll take an annoyed fuck off over that any day.
He fiddles with the lock as best he can, but it looks unlikely he’ll be getting out of here anytime soon, especially with the remnants of that drug still in his system. He can feel that his movements are slower than usual.
It takes about 30 seconds for Dick to become bored silly. He huffs and stretches his back and then settles into the most comfortable position he can find. Two minutes later, he changes it, twisting his legs into a pretzel under him. Another minute after that, he moves them so that he is mostly kneeling.
Every time, Red Hood twitches ever so slightly in annoyance. Dick flashes him a grin and starts humming along to some awful radio pop song.
Dick estimates it’s been about another ten minutes pass when Red Hood says, “What about you?”
“Hmm?” Dick hums. “What about me?”
Red Hood turns, and Dick is certain he is mustering up his most unimpressed look under that helmet.
“What are you in for?” he says.
Dick shrugs theatrically. “Would that I knew,” he replies easily. “I don’t even know who nabbed us.”
Red Hood grunts at that and returns to staring at the floor.
“So… It’s good to see you,” Dick says. “How have you been?”
“What on earth makes you think I am interested in small talk with you?” Hood snaps.
Again, Dick shrugs. “I don’t know. You’re the one who started this conversation, now you’ll have to finish it.”
“Consider it done then.”
Dick pouts. Red Hood takes no notice.
“Well I’ve been good,” he says thoughtfully after a while, as if Red Hood had asked him in turn. “Blüdhaven is a real mess, don’t get me wrong, but it’s nice to come back to these murder-ridden streets of childhood every now and then, don’t you agree? Smell that rancid Gotham air. Just love it.”
Red Hood doesn’t so much as twitch in response, so Dick continues. “And of course, Batman has been… well, gloomy and grumpy and angry and brooding and dark and… Hm… All sad mostly.”
Red Hood’s stillness seems more predatory now. He has a talent at exuding a menacing atmosphere without actually doing anything, Dick thinks. He’s even still chained to that wall.
“He’s been all mopey since you turned up and tried to kill him,” Dick adds. “Buuuut, I can see how you’re about to gnaw your arm off to ignore this conversation so I’ll just move on. Hey, did you see the newest art exhibit? Featuring classics from the 1700s and one superb painting of a very cute puppy. You should check it out, I think you would love it.”
“What is wrong with you?” Red Hood snaps. “Quit acting like we’re friends. We’re not friends. If I wasn’t tied up you would already have a bullet through the fucking brain, so just shut the fuck up already, would you?”
Dick blinks at him, then sighs and settles back down into his uncomfortable napping position. “I guess someone doesn’t like art,” he mutters.
“I said shut up!”
Dick rolls his eyes and huffs, but doesn’t say anything else.
Another half an hour passes in silence.
The door opens, and three burly men walk in.
Dick looks up curiously. “Hi,” he says.
The man in the middle, clearly the boss, sneers. “Which one of you was it?” he says.
“Which one of us was what?” Red Hood snaps at the same time that Dick says, “Well who hasn’t played tag in their lifetime?”
“What?” the boss says.
“Tag,” says Dick. “Which one of us was it. You know, when you’re tagged you say—”
The slap hits him with enough force to snap his head into the wall. Dick blinks a few times and grimaces.
“In tag they don’t hit so hard,” he grumbles. It goes either unnoticed or intentionally ignored.
“I had thirty tonnes of ice shipped in last night,” the man hisses. “And now it’s gone. I want it back.”
“And you think we’re responsible.” Red Hood says shortly.
The man narrows his eyes. “Both of you were spotted in the area. I know it must have been one of you. And if not, tough luck. I’ll take you both in.”
Ah. Dick might actually know what he is talking about. Somehow, he has the feeling that revealing that Nightwing was the one to dump that thirty tonnes of laced drugs into the Gotham Harbour before it could even arrive might not go over so well.
When in doubt, deflect is Dick’s motto, so he quickly shoves on another grin and says, “Officer, you’ve got it all wrong. I wasn’t even in Gotham last night. Where was I? Well, I was in Los Angeles when the most charming young man offered me $300 to get on my knees, and I was real short on cash so—”
The second slap is harder than the first, but Dick bites down a grin anyway. Sooner or later, one of them will slip up, and once they are close enough Dick can knock them out with a kick. They underestimated his flexibility, when they stuck him in here.
“Are you suicidal or some shit?” Red Hood snaps at him.
Dick shrugs and grins instead of replying.
The helmet stares at him. Dick wishes he knew what Red Hood was thinking under there.
“So what happens to the other one?” Red Hood says slowly. “The one who didn’t do it?”
“All we want is the product back or the cash equivalent. The other can go.” A pause. “And if it was you, we just want the money. A good thrashing and you can leave and spread the word.” The boss leans in close to Red Hood’s face and smirks. “That you do. Not. Mess. With us.”
Dick opens his mouth to make some other inane comment, but Red Hood beats him too it.
“You know my rules. I don’t like new competition. That shit is mine, and you will not be getting it back.” Red Hood leans back, exuding an air of satisfaction. “Consider this your first and only warning.”
Dick pauses. That can’t be right. He knows that Jason wasn’t responsible, Jason knows Jason wasn’t responsible.
Both of them know that it was Nightwing. Dick because he was there, and Jason because there is no other explanation.
The man’s face hardens. “Bring him,” he says, gesturing at one of the men. Dick tugs on the chains as they stick a needle in Red Hood’s exposed neck.
“Wait,” he says, and tugs again, harder this time. “Wait wait wait no! Listen, you’ve got it wrong, Hood wasn’t—”
“Shut up,” one of them snaps.
Red Hood’s limbs are already going limp as the drugs kick in, but as they drag him out he slurs, “Fuck off, dickface,” only it comes out more like, fug ooh, dickfay. Nevertheless, Jason’s smug satisfaction is clear.
“You absolute bastard,” Dick whispers, and the door clangs shut once more.
It quickly becomes clear that the drugs are to keep Red Hood uncoordinated enough to get him to the next room, not to knock him out. Normally that is something to be relieved by. In this case, it’s more concerning than anything.
Torture is always preferable when one is unconscious. All the Bats know this first-hand. When the first muffled shouts and then colourful curses filter through the cell from across the hallway, it is evident that Hood most certainly is not unconscious.
“You impulsive asshole,” Dick hisses through his teeth. “You absolute piece of self-sacrificing shit.”
There’s a loud screech, something like metal scraping on metal, and a panicked shout, some yelling, and then silence again.
Dick closes his eyes and does his best to compartmentalise. He twists his hands in the constraints again, moving slowly now. Given enough time, he might be able to work it loose enough to give himself some space to fiddle with it, especially if he pulls on his shoulder just right that he’ll be able to turn a little to see what he’s doing. It’ll probably mean very slowly stretching out the joint and could potentially end with it dislocated, but Dick’s already come to terms with breaking a thumb to get out of these. Another dislocated shoulder won’t make that much of a difference at that point.
Someone screams. Dick flinches and takes a deep breath.
If he twists just so, pins that bit with his knee—
Another scream, this one long and drawn out. It’s more like a wail than anything.
Inhale. Exhale. You have a job to do, he tells himself.
His knee is killing him. Uncooperatively, it twitches. Dick swears as that piece of chain slips and drags his hands back downwards.
He starts again, and the screaming echoes around his skull. His head is throbbing with it.
“You just had to, didn’t you?” Dick mutters as he tries again. “You couldn’t stay the grumpy asshole with a hit out for us, you just had to go covering up my ass so you could be a goddam hero. You bastard. Absolute cow.”
Screaming, screaming, screaming. It’s getting weaker now; a little quieter, a little more breathless, broken up by occasional gasping for breath.
That’s. That’s better. Right?
“Motherfucking sick of your bullshit,” Dick continues under his breath. “I am going to kill you and your ridiculous drug lord scheme, just you fucking watch me, and I am not bringing it back until you learn to save your own fucking butt every once in a while. Fuck. Fuck. God, I fucking hate you.”
He keeps twisting, twisting, twisting. At some point, something gives, just a little, enough that he is confident that he can get out once his thumb and pinkie finger are broken, and he’s scraped off some of the outer layers of skin.
He doesn’t think about it, just does, and the snap of the bone is hidden by the wretched wail coming through the door.
“You better not be dying,” Dick says shakily. “If you are dying I will kill you, you understand? I am not going through that again.”
How long has it been? It feels like minutes. It feels like hours. Realistically, it probably has been a little over half an hour. His skin is rubbed raw and every movement has him forced to stop and breathe through the pain. Funnily enough, most broken bones don’t appreciate be forcefully scraped against hard metal and rough concrete to break off enough skin to slip a very heavy lock, that is also putting significant weight on top of said broken bone.
He pulls, pulls, pulls—
And sharply inhales as the chain falls to the ground with a loud bang.
Dick freezes, hoping the sound doesn’t alert anyone to his activity.
After three minutes and no sign of a check-in, Dick lets himself breathe again.
With his newfound extra breathing space, he turns to inspect the second lock for any hints on how to pick it.
It’s been welded shut.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he snaps.
At least this time he can see what he is doing, as he snaps his own fingers and starts struggling.
Paranoia creeps up on him as he struggles. For a while now, an unsettling uneasiness has settled over his shoulder, breathing down his neck. But Dick is busy, and has no time for invisible nothings.
It takes him another five minutes before he realises what’s wrong.
The screaming has stopped.
Fuck fuck shit fuck shitfuckfuckshitshitfuck—
Dick wrenches his hand out of the cuffs with as much force as he can. His hand is free; his wrist snaps with a sickening crack. Had he done it slower, he could have spared it, but Dick doesn’t have that kind of time.
Both of his hands now are essentially out of commission. Dick’s face tightens and he runs to the door anyway.
It’s not locked, which is a relief, nor is the door on the other side of the short corridor right outside. Dick’s hand screams in pain as he slams it open.
He freezes. There’s a short table, smeared with blood around where one’s head and one’s left knee might lie. It’s empty, just a few buckles and ties hanging around, looking like they’ve been hacked apart or poorly sawn open.
Blocking the door from opening fully is the boss. Or, most of him. His head is no longer attached.
Dick swallows thickly as the head rolls from where it has been pushed by the door. He looks away.
The other two men from earlier are lying on the ground. One stares at the ceiling with wide open eyes, unblinking. From the dent in his head and the knife in his chest, Dick doesn’t need to look closely to tell he is dead. The other one has his eyes closed, and his leg is twisted unnaturally to the side, and his back is bent in a way it should not be. His chest moves with his shallow breaths; alive, but barely. Definitely unconscious.
All this Dick takes in in about four seconds, checking that there is no more danger to them. Then all his attention is taken by the crouched figure in the corner.
Jason’s forehead is bleeding from a large ugly gash. His hair sticks to his face, wet against his forehead from sweat and blood. The rest of it is tussled, sticking up in odd places.
His jacket is missing. Dick glances around, and finds it on the floor by his helmet.
The helmet which is broken into three large pieces, shattered splinters peeling off of the edges.
Jason’s arms, pulled up to shield his face, have evidence of burns and shallow stab wounds.
Dick can’t catalogue the extent of any more of the damage, what with how Jason has curled up on himself. His face, his body, his chest, are all hidden.
“Red Hood?” Dick calls softly. Jason doesn’t react.
Hesitantly, Dick takes a step inside.
“I’m going to come over,” he says, slowly and gently. “Is that okay?”
Nothing.
Dick carefully avoids the bodies, the helmet, and the trolley adorned with bloody torture devices as he slowly makes his way to Jason. As he gets a little closer, it becomes apparent that Jason is shaking, and his hands are tightly clenched into hair, hard enough that his knuckles are bloodless and pale, and his nails surely biting into his skin.
“Red Hood?” he says. “It’s me. Nightwing. Can you hear me?”
When there is still no response, Dick finally comes to a crouch beside him. “Hood,” he says, “I need to check you for injuries. I’m going to move your arms now, okay?”
Jason doesn’t show any sign that it’s okay, but nor does he resist when Dick gently lays his unbroken fingers on his arms, so Dick gently prods him to lift them away from in front of his face. He grimaces at the sight.
Jason’s domino mask is still in place, but one edge of it is jagged and torn. Dick doesn’t let himself think about how much force it takes to cause damage to their masks. The eye underneath is swelling alarmingly and all kinds of shades of blue.
Dick takes a deep breath and gently moves his fingers down to check Jason’s stomach, moving his knees only minimally to take a look. He exhales as he finds no terrible damage, although there do appear to be more burn marks.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. We can handle this.”
Slowly, he lifts his hands back to Jason’s face. Jason is still staring down towards the floor, seemingly completely unaware of Dick’s presence. His mouth is moving, ever so slightly, and Dick pauses.
It takes him a moment to figure out what it is that Jason is mouthing.
“Please,” he’s whispering. “Please. Please. Please.”
“Red Hood, I need to check your eyes,” Dick says carefully. “Can you lift your head?”
“Please,” he whispers. “Please.”
Dick swallows. “Hood. Please. I think you have a concussion.”
Jason’s eyes squeeze momentarily shut before he keeps muttering.
“Hood,” Dick tries again, a little desperately now, and then he hesitates. “Little wing,” he says softly.
Jason twitches.
Dick sighs with relief. “Little wing,” he repeats. “I’m gonna check your eyes now, okay? Lift your head up for me now.”
When Dick’s hand nudges his chin, Jason obediently tilts his head up, staring at Dick blankly through the white-out lens.
“I’m going to need to peel some of this off,” Dick says steadily, gesturing to the domino mask. “Don’t worry, no one else is around to see. Okay?”
Jason is shaking, if anything, a little harder, and the muttering turns into something more desperate, more anguished. It is more like a whimper than words now.
Dick pulls out some solvent – not enough to take off the whole thing, but enough to make it a little less painful for a corner at least – and reaches for the edge of the mask.
Instantly, Jason flinches back, hard, and pulls his arms and legs back close. The shaking intensifies, and in his shock it takes Dick a moment to recognise the words under the sudden heaving sobs and gasping breaths.
“Please, I’m sorry,” he’s saying. “Please, please, stop. I’ll do anything. Please. I can’t, please I can’t.”
“Little wing?” Dick whispers, after a very long moment. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Jason lets out a deep heaving sob and then wails, pushing himself frantically into the wall as best he can while keeping his arms protectively around his head.
“Oh little wing,” Dick breathes. “Where are you right now?”
“Don’t, please, I’ll do anything, anything—"
Dick sits down next to him, leaning back against the wall. “Can I tell you a story?” he says. “A story about my little brother?”
Jason doesn’t reply.
“He was the sweetest kid,” Dick says. “Brave and cheeky and stubborn as hell. Determined to change the world and damn anyone who tried to stop him.”
Jason heaves another sob.
“We used to go get ice-cream in the middle of winter,” Dick continues. “And ride on the roof of the trains in the middle of the night, when no one was around to stop us. Remember when B found out? He was so mad but you were glowing.
“I miss that glow. I miss that little kid. He was smart too, you know? He loved school. Loved books. Loved learning just about anything, really. But most all he was kind. He was good. He still is, actually.”
Jason hiccups.
“Do you remember that time he stole B’s shoes? Every single left one, from every single pair of them. And how, how he didn’t have time to find them, so he had to go out with two mismatched right shoes?”
Jason whimpers. Dick sighs and looks up to the ceiling. He counts slowly to ten, then continues.
He talks about the shoes, and the time they found a hurt mouse and hid it from Alfred in the cupboard until it got better and starting eating all the flour. He talks about the time Dick painted the Batsuit orange, and how Jason laughed so hard he could hardly stand, and how when Alfred came to chastise them, Jason’s wheezing laughter combined with Bruce’s disparaging glare set him off into giggles as well.
Slowly, Jason’s breathing evens out, inch by inch.
“He was the best of us,” Dick whispers. “Is, the best of us. Even now, he’s the kind of kid to rush himself into danger because you drowned a shit ton of drugs. And you know something, little wing? I love that kid so damn much, and nothing will ever change that. Not death, not rebirth, not anger problems or daddy issues. I’m always going to love you, so, so much.”
Jason shudders, one last time, and whispers hoarsely, “You’re a sappy piece of shit.”
Dick breathes out slowly. “There you are,” he says gently. “Feeling better?”
Jason groans quietly. “Feel like shit,” he mumbles with a grimace.
“I’m not surprised,” Dick says, turning to face him better. “I need to check for concussion. Can I take your domino?”
Jason tilts his head back as he sags against the wall. He waves his hand in a ‘do whatever’ gesture.
“Thanks, little wing,” Dick says evenly, hiding his smile. He makes quick time getting the domino off, and grabs his torch from his belt to check his eyes. Both react normally to the light and then absence thereof.
Dick hums. “All looks fine, but don’t go to sleep for a while, ‘kay?”
“Fuuuuck,” Jason groans. “I would kill for a nap right now.”
Dick huffs a laugh, and moves back to his position against the wall beside Jason.
“Thanks,” Jason says after a long moment.
Dick blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Think nothing of it.”
Jason turns his head ever so slightly to look at him more closely. “You really mean that, don’t you?” he says, a little exasperatedly, and shakes his head. A moment later he winces, clearly regretting it. Dick isn’t surprised. He must have one hell of a headache.
“And what about you?” Dick says once Jason’s grimace has died down a little. “You know it was me that took their stash. What in the ever-loving heck were you thinking?”
Jason snorts, something like a grin creeping onto his face. “Fuck if I know. Was not worth it. I didn’t expect them to get the helmet off, those fuckers.”
Dick glances again to the corner, where the helmet lies in glossy shards of red. “How did they do that?” he wonders aloud.
Jason snorts again. “Would you fucking believe it,” he says. “They used a crowbar.” And he snorts yet again, and it quickly devolves into some kind of exhausted laughter.
Dick winces.
“I think what finally sent me over the edge was when they said they’d use it to pry my fingernails off. Like you can even do that with a crowbar.” Jason chuckles softly. “All the electricity and burns and knives and it was the. The fingernails with the crowbar.” His fingers tighten around his arms, pressing in with too much force. The laughter gets a little more breathless, until it sounds a little more like hyperventilating for Dick to feel comfortable with.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. You’re here now. It’s okay.”
“Y- yeah,” Jason says a little shakily. “Yeah. Hey, uh. Let’s get out of here.”
“Do you want to get ice-cream?” Dick blurts out without really thinking it through. Jason stares at him, mouth open in surprise.
The he laughs, much more hearty than before. “I think you need to get those hands checked out first,” he grins. “What did you do, rip your hands out of the chains?”
Dick swats him in the arm, mindful of the burns. “Fuck off,” he laughs.
“Fuck me sideways, you actually did,” Jason says, staring at him. “You’re—What is wrong with you?”
“You’re the one who volunteered to be tortured,” Dick retorts.
“Yeah well,” Jason says, laughter fading. He suddenly looks immensely awkward, instead. “Consider it payback. For all that ice-cream, back in the day.”
“And including today’s?” Dick asks with a lopsided smile.
Jason sighs, and slowly pulls himself to his feet. “You should stay away from me, dickiebird. I’m really not the kid you remember.”
“I know,” Dick says. “I know that. I don’t care.”
Jason smiles, a little sadly. He presses the domino back to his face. “Bye, Nightwing.”
Dick watches him as he grabs his jackets and leaves, giving him a shaky mock salute as he lets the door swing shut.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “See you round.”
A few days later, Dick gets a text from an unknown number.
I want mint choc chip. You're paying.
Sure thing, little wing, Dick writes back with heavily bandaged fingers.
He doesn't get a reply. But that's okay.
One cone of ice-cream at a time.