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When Dick put on his suit, he did not think this was going to be the outcome of the night. Obviously he knew there was a chance , there’s always a chance, but Dick figured, since it’s been pretty quiet for the past few nights, tonight would be the same.
That was his first mistake.
His second is a common one he makes. He didn’t call for help even though he knew he was overwhelmed and that Jason’s in the area. He’s the oldest, after all–he should be able to take a few hits.
(this was not a few hits. this was a full on beatdown that dick could have easily avoided with just a call.)
(jason once joked to roy about how dick has a martyr complex. he’s also told dick right to his face but dick can take it. and he doesn’t have a complex. martyr or otherwise.)
His third mistake is arguably the worst mistake of them all. His third mistake is not talking to his family. Not explaining why he left. Why he stayed dead. Why he listened to Bruce (it wasn’t him, it wasn’t . or–maybe it was, but not completely. he was under the influence of–of something that dick can’t quite remember and maybe doesn’t care because it doesn’t matter ).
Not explaining to Tim why he took away Robin (it was never his, never meant to be anyone’s but dick’s but bruce took it and gave it away and dick tries to forgive him but it’s so hard ).
[Don’t people call him the most emotionally competent in the family? Doesn’t he preach about family and talking ? So why is he being a hypocrite? Why? Why ?]
His third mistake is thinking that he’s fine. Thinking that he deserves this, that this is what he gets for lying and being a terrible big brother and disappointing his family over and over and over again. (when will they realize that dick is poison who destroys everything he touches? when will they get sick of him and throw him away?)
(jason’s right. he’s a martyr. But he’d rather die a hero, die loved than live knowing he’s hated, knowing no one needs him. he hates feeling useless. all he wants is to be needed.)
So here Dick is, reaping what he sowed and being the idiot that people call him when he’s done something dumb (and this is dumb. really dumb. but part of him wants it, craves it, the pain that makes him feel just a little more alive).
He grunts when one of the thugs gets a particularly good hit in. He curls in on himself more than he already has–not possible for anyone but him. Thank god for his flexibility.
“What do we do with him?” asks–someone. Dick doesn’t know who. He barely got a look at their faces before they descended on him like vultures to a dead body.
Everything's blurry. Dick has a feeling that if he tries to stand up he’d be too dizzy to see straight. He closes his eyes, shuts them tight, and tries to retreat inside his mind. He doesn’t do it often, not anymore, but sometimes, when everything’s too much, when he can’t take all the pain-anger-shame-hate he tries to forget.
Most of the time going out and beating up criminals helps–it’s very cathartic, actually. Though not very healthy.
Unfortunately, before he can distance himself completely, someone grabs his chin. He’s pulled to what he assumes is face-to-face with someone, but he still refuses to open his eyes. Not that they’d know that. The wonders of the domino mask. He's forced to uncurl a bit and he hates it. It leaves his stomach vulnerable and his face very punchable.
“Oy. Nightwhore. Listen up. You just ruined–”
Here, he punches Dick in the stomach.
“My entire–”
Another punch–
“Operation.”
Dick groans audibly–getting kicked in the groin is never fun, no matter how much training you’ve got. But–he said “my operation” so Dick assumes this is the boss. He’s not a very nice boss, from what Dick’s seen–uh, felt . He says as much.
“You’re not very nice, are you?” he asks, grinning mockingly even as someone pulls his arm and twists it. Hard. it’s okay, though. he’s had worse–this is hardly the first time someone has hurt him for his mouth. Then the first thing the boss–Dick nicknames him Norman, like Norman Osborn from Marvel because that guy’s an asshole–registers. “Wait, did you call me a whore?”
“Yes.”
Short, blunt, and straight to the point. Dick can appreciate that. Still, what he doesn’t appreciate is the insinuation. He’s a little offended, actually. (and isn’t it funny that he has the strength to be irritated at being called a whore but not to just man up and call for help, as he’s so obviously outnumbered?)
“Excuse you, I am not a whore.” Dick schools his facial expression to be as annoying as possible, all lofty and self-righteous. He wants to piss them off. It works. A little too well. He finally opens his eyes and squints. Norman looks furious . Not that Dick’s new to making people furious at him. Norman slams a hand on Dick’s throat, pressing him up against the wall.
It hurts. By god does it hurt. But he takes it, like a good soldier. (like a good son.)
Dick can feel the adrenaline wearing off which is bad, it’s very, very bad because when it wears off Dick will be in so much pain he’ll barely be able to move and he’s very outnumbered and very in danger of being killed right now.
The hand tightens. It’s getting harder to breathe.
He focuses his blurry vision on Norman to get a good look at him and immediately clamps his mouth shut. He needs to keep his snort to himself, even though he really wants to make fun of him. Norman is cherry-red, with a thick mustache and bald head worthy of being a mafia leader. Except that the mustache is dyed bright yellow and there’s a unicorn dancing on a rainbow painted onto his left cheek.
He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn’t, knows it’ll only cause him more pain, but he can’t help it. He's the Spider-Man of this world, all witty quips and flips and puns.
“Did you get beat up by a five-year-old? ‘Cause let me tell you, I know a five-year-old, and she always tries to paint people after she tackles them. I can hook you up, if you want,” Dick croaks. His throat burns. He tries to come up with a plan to get away, but he’s only one guy and there’s at least ten and he’s alone and he should have sucked up bis pride and asked for help but it’s too late now–
Norman growls and something is jabbed into Dick’s neck–a needle. It’s a fast acting sedative–Dick is already fading. This is bad. This is really bad. He’s thrown on the ground and he curls up as much as possible while trying to stay awake–but he can’t. He can't. He's already exhausted and hurt and there’s a bone-deep tiredness running under his skin that’s been there for who knows how long, at this point, and Dick just . . . gives up. He’ll find a way out when he wakes up.
He will. He has to. He has . . . has too . . .
He drifts.
He screams. Something red-hot is coursing through him and it fucking hurts . It stops but he doesn’t even have the time to take a breath because his neck buzzes and the red-hot-pain is there again. It happens once more before he’s given a reprieve and is able to think straight again. He doesn’t dare open his eyes–he settles for his other senses.
Smell–there’s the stench of ash and gunpowder, which tells Dick he’s probably in a warehouse. By the harbor, if the salt is any indication. And blood. The smell of blood is almost overwhelming.
Hearing–there are footsteps and voices shouting and he can hear the crashing of waves, solidifying his theory that he’s by the harbor. He can[t make out any words, but he’s still adjusting so it’s okay.
Taste–that explains some of it. There’s copper in his mouth and he thinks that he probably broke a rib or too but he’s too scared nervous afraid wary to move or even shift to test out his theory. Besides, they hurt enough with the miniscule shiftling he’s able to do.
Touch–he’s strapped to a wall, gently tugging so as not to arouse suspicion letting him know that his wrists and ankles are positioned so he’s eagle spread against the wall. There’s a band on his chest preventing him from staying upright from his arms and legs alone. Two bands for each leg and one for each forearm. There’s something on his neck, as well–he’d assume it’s another band but it’s not attached to the wall, so his head hangs forward.
He’s a bit impressed, actually. They obviously made an effort to contain him. He’s glad they haven’t stripped him, though. And then he feels a gust of wind and realizes that his mask is off.
And then he screams.
And drifts.
When he wakes up for a second time, he feels, with a creeping sort of trepidation, that he seriously fucked up.
He realizes what’s around his neck–it’s a shock collar . Like he’s some sort of animal.
Then he hears footsteps. And a voice. “Wakey-wakey, little bird.”
Dick nearly flinches, though he manages to contain it, if only because the person saying it isn’t him .
He opens his eyes, waits for them to adjust–though they stay blurry no matter how many times he blinks, he hopes he doesn’t have permanent eye damage after this–and spits in the person’s face.
The person, a woman about thirty, with short brown hair in a curly bob, recoils and slaps him. Dick’s head snaps harshly to the side.
“You’re lucky I don’t press the button,” she hisses, wiping her face.
“You’re lucky i don’t break out and kick your ass,” Dick taunts back. He gets another slap for his effort. “Ouch,” he says. “And here I thought we were bonding.”
She presses the button and he grits his teeth and writhes in the bands but he doesn’t scream. He refuses to give her any more satisfaction. Even though he really wants to scream. Still, he holds strong. He’s supposed to pick up Damian from school tomorrow. When he doesn’t show they’ll get worried.
(will they? will they even care? or will they leave him to rot, as payback for leaving them?)
“You know,” the woman says–Dick names her Bellatrix, because they both have the sadistic glint in their eyes–”At first, I wasn’t on board with George’s plan. It seemed too harsh for someone who’s just trying to better his city. But now,” she pauses, smiling widely, “now, I think I want to take charge, for a bit. You’re really quite annoying.”
Dick smirks at her. “Thanks. I try.”
His mind is racing, though, with the new information. There’s a ring on her finger–married. To George–Norman, probably. There’s a hint of an accent in her voice, a British one. So she’s from England, but has lived in America long enough to adopt the accent. Or maybe she consciously chose to hide it.
And she said “take charge”–either that means that he’s being interrogated or tortured, but either way he’s going to suffer. He knows her type. Doesn’t want to get hands dirty, but if she likes someone–or hates–then she’ll take a special interest in that person. And right now, that person is him, which really doesn’t bode well for his chances of getting out of here anytime soon. He’ll hold on, though, until he gets rescued. Or manages to escape. He's thinking the second is more likely, with what his relationship with his family is like right now. (he doesn’t like his chances very much, but what can he do? nothing. that’s what.)
So he’ll try and keep his head down, figure something out, and escape by himself. (all alone, like he always is now.)
Unfortunately, keeping his head down is harder than he’d assumed (hoped) it would be.
The torture doesn’t help.
The woman–Leora, he’d learned her name is–makes no mention of his identity. He grows more and more wary of them doing something with it, but he doesn’t know what. He hates the thought that he put his family in danger but he can’t do anything . He doesn’t ask–doesn’t want him asking to be the catalyst of them doing something.
He’s seen George once, when the man carefully slit one of his wrists, leaving a grunt to clean it and wrap it–what for he doesn’t know. But he does know it’ll leave a scar.
They stick a needle in his neck periodically and electrocute him right as it’s taking effect, keeping him awake even as the drug courses through his system.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been. It could be hours, it could be days. They feed him three times and it’s getting harder and harder to fight back. He uses his words because he has nothing else, and he needs to fight back because if he doesn’t that means that he’s given up and he hasn’t, not yet, and he doesn’t care that it incites a cycle of getting shocked (from the collar ), him snarking back, him getting shocked, and so on and so forth until Leora gets mad enough to knock him out again. He won’t give in. He won’t. He refuses.
He comes to learn to want those times when he’s under. It’s not peaceful, but it’s a welcome reprieve from the pain, no matter how short they may be.
He wakes up with a soft moan, and gives himself a few seconds to adjust. The drug is still in him, but most of it has worked its way through, leaving Dick drowsy and in pain.
He doesn’t know how much time it’s been. Longer than thirty-six hours, he thinks, which means that his family should be looking for him, but . . . maybe . . .
He shakes his head harshly even though it makes black spots dot his vision. He might actually have permanent eye damage after this. He hasn’t been able to see straight since the last time he had a full meal, which was the day before he got kidnapped–he’s been surviving on snacks and energy drinks and coffee but Wally dropped by with food and a video game and Dick was able to relax for the first time in ages.
He has to hold out. He can’t stop believing in them. Can’t give up hope. Because if he gives up, that means that everything he’s ever done has been for nothing .
And it can’t be for nothing. He won’t let it.
“Oh, birdie!~” sings Leora. She looks pleased with herself which does not bode well for him.
Dick raises his head weakly and glares at her as hard as he can. She shudders theatrically. She’s in a good mood and Dick really doesn’t want to know why. Leora in a good mood is never good.
“What, you finally get laid?” he asks. “Here to brag? ‘Cause you know, I’m all ears.” He wags his eyebrows suggestively.
She scowls with what Dick can only presume is disgust. “You won;t be singing long, birdie,” she says. “You’d better watch your mouth, because your owner won’t be so kind.”
Dick blinks, trying to contain the shock. “ Owner ?” he says. Nope, no use. He’s too tired to school his tone. Even now, it’s taking most of his energy just to stay awake. She’s selling him. he’s just–he’s just an object, something that can be replaced as easily as a plate, he’s always been replaceable–
“Red Hood, you can come in now!”
Dick’s head snaps up in disbelief and he knows that his eyes are wide but he doesn’t have it in him to pretend. Why is Jason here? Did he hear that they were–um, selling him? Is he here to rescue Dick?
. . . or is he here because he’s still mad and wants to see him hurt like Dick hurt him?
No, can’t be. Jason wouldn’t do that to him. Sure, Dick’s a shitty brother, and they don’t exactly have the best relationship (to put it lightly), and sure Jason punched him the last time they saw each other, but Jason wouldn’t do that. Not now that he’s gotten control over the rage and madness the Pit brings.
He can’t hear what they’re saying. He can just barely make out Jason’s voice modulator, but can’t pick out distinct words. Everything’s fuzzy. He’s so tired . . . .
His eyes flutter shut even as his body falls forward into familiar arms, gunshots and screams going unheard, the prick of a needle barely noticeable as his vision goes dark and he drifts.
He wakes to shouting and a heavy weight on his neck. Everything aches, and he doesn’t want to open his eyes. Shouting means Leora’s in a bad mood, which means the voltage will be higher than normal. She likes to play with the voltage, keeping him guessing.
He frowns. Usually she’d have done something by now. But . . . the person who’s shouting doesn’t sound like her. So what–
He sucks in a sharp breath, memories flooding in. Right . They sold him. To Jason . That’s good–not that they sold him, but that Jason . . . bought him. Jesus.
So Jason does still care about him, at least a little. Enough to spend money on him. (he shudders at the thought still, of being owned . there are too many memories attached to that word.)
The shouting pauses for a moment as Dick tries to reorient himself. He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t want this to all be a trick. He flinches back as footsteps approach and hears a light curse.
“Dick? Hey, can you look at me?”
Jason . And–and he doesn’t sound mad, doesn’t sound like he’s at liberty to beat him up if he does something wrong (he’s always doing something wrong), so he opens his eyes.
And immediately slams them back shut, groaning and flopping a sore arm over his eyes.
“Dick? What’s wrong?” Jason sounds worried, which is . . . out of character, to say the least.
Still, Dick wants to believe that there’s still a chance that Jason loves him. So, he goes for it. “S bright,” he moans. He winces internally. He’d hoped that his brothers would never have to see how weak he really is, but he guesses that that’s out of the question. He scoffs to himself. How pathetic is he? Getting kidnapped on patrol? Really? Amateur move. He hears more footsteps, pulling him from his thoughts.
From behind his eyelids, the brightness dims until he feels safe to open his eyes again. Cautiously, he removes his arm and peeks out, blinking and getting used to the light. When he’s fully adjusted, he can see Jason crouching in front of him. He blinks again, this time from surprise. Of course, he knows that Jason rescued him, but he figured that once he was out, he’d leave him alone and let him get himself together. That he wouldn’t want to deal with him.
“. . . Dick?” Jason asks, almost hesitantly. It’s laughable, really. Jason’s always been the toughest of them all, and here he is, in front of Dick, looking for all the world like that scared twelve-year-old who’d fucked up on patrol and got both him and Dick in a buttload of trouble. Dick nearly does laugh at that. He tears his mind away from the memories and focuses on the twenty-year-old in the present.
“ . . . hey, Jay,” he murmurs, sitting up. Um– trying to, anyway. He crashes back down, Jason hovering over him like a mother hen. It’s kind of cute. . . . And then Dick tries to correlate mother hens with six-feet bulging guys who look like bodybuilders and shakes that thought away with a mental snort.
He manages to get into a sort of half-sitting, half-lying down position. It’s not the most comfortable, but oh well. At least he has control over his limbs.
He clears his throat, wincing at the dryness, when a cold glass is pressed against his lips. He raises an eyebrow at Jason, who’s holding the cup, and he says, “Don’t want you to spill it.”
Dick shrugs and sips, relishing in the cool liquid rushing down his throat. He sips slowly, knowing from experience how shitty it feels to throw up from drinking too much after having barely any. He finishes the cup and Jason moves it away, and Dick takes a moment to mourn the loss. Then he refocuses back on Jason, who’s staring at him.
“ . . . Do I have something on my face?” he jokes weakly. Then he frowns. His neck still feels heavy–he reaches up to feel–
“Hey, hey,” Jason says, catching his hand when his breathing starts getting heavier. “Don’t do that.”
“What–” Dick gasps. Why is the collar still on. Why why why tell him he needs an answer right now –
“Stop it,” Jason says firmly.
Dick realizes that he had been scrabbling at the collar and lets his free hand drop limply into his lap. “Sorry,” he says. “I just–sorry.”
Jason frowns and shakes his head. “Don’t be. It’s a completely natural response.”
“Why is it–”
Dick stops half-way through asking the question and watches Jason’s face carefully. He looks–Dick almost can’t place it, and then he recognizes the look that’s on his own face every time he looks into a mirror. It’s guilt. Jason’s guilty. Why? Because of the collar? Dick reaches back up and feels the back of his neck cautiously. Usually there’d be some sort of hook, or latch, or mechanism to take it off, but–but Dick can’t feel any cracks. It’s like it’s welded together. Like it’s–like it’s never meant to come off.
He sucks in a sharp breath at that and tries to keep himself steady. (always steady, always afloat, for everyone else, but never his own.) he breathes. Once, twice, a third time, in through his nose and out through his mouth.
“Get if off.” His voice is flat and hoarse, the second a consequence of doing nothing but scream for hours straight.
“You think I’m not trying?” Jason snorts. “I’ve done everything but laser it right off your neck, and I figured you’d want to keep it like it is, so.”
Dick’s lips twitch at the attempt but it ultimately falls flat. He takes another breath. It wouldn’t do to freak out again and be even more of a burden–Jason must already be sick of him. Case in point–Jason turns sharply away from Dick and heads to another room–Dick doesn’t know which one. This is a safehouse he’s never been in before. It must have been built while he was still–still away .
Dick brings his hand back up to the collar and fingers the cold metal, wincing at the tender skin. How long until they get it off and he can get out of his little brother’s hair? How long will he need to rely on Jason? He doesn’t know the answer and he hates it. Hates how little he can do. He’ll be out of commission for at least a week, he knows that much after cataloging the injuries he has.
He runs through them again, shifting as sounds are coming from wherever Jason is. Kitchen, probably. Did he skip lunch taking care of Dick? Hopefully not, Dick would feel even worse if he did. He shakes his head–he got sidetracked. Maybe he’s a little worse than he thinks. He makes a mental list. Heavy bruises, of course, some burns from the electricity, and he’s sore all over. His body aches with every move he makes. He hates it. He hates a lot of things, now that he’s thinking about it. But mostly he hates being useless. Which he is right now, as he knows he can’t even leave the safehouse until the collar is off unless he wants a scandal. Which he doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t.
Just as he’s about to go exploring, Jason comes back with a bowl and a spoon. “Eat,” he says gruffly, thrusting out the bowl and spoon.
Apparently, Dick takes too long to answer, too busy staring at his brother in surprise and shock (welcome shock, something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time) because Jason gently sets them down on his lap.
“Eat,” he repeats, and plops down in an armchair with a book. Dick stares for–far too long, then catches himself and glances down at the steaming hot bowl on his lap. He looks at Jason again, and Jason meets his gaze head on. “What, do I need to feed you? Just eat the fuckin’ soup, man.”
Dick swallows past the lump in his throat–the one not from screaming his lungs out, but the one that rises when Jason does something nice for him, even though he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, doesn’t he know that Dick is poison? That he ruins everyone and everything he touches?
He wraps his fingers around the spoon and dips it in the bowl. He starts eating, Jason glancing at him every few seconds to make sure that he’s actually doing it. He can’t bring himself to take more than a few bites though, stomach rolling around dangerously. He puts it on the coffee table and pushes it away. Jason puts a bookmark in the book and sets it down.
“That’s it?” Jason sounds incredulous, the disbelief clear in his eyes. He snorts a few seconds later. “Damn, okay. I go to all this trouble of making soup and you barely touch it.” His voice drips with sarcasm but Dick still can’t help the flinch. Despite trying to hide it, Jason obviously catches it because he gentles his tone when he speaks next. “Whatever, s’fine. I don’t really have much of an appetite after being tortured for days, either.”
Dick looks away, uncomfortable with the thought of anyone in his family getting hurt. Obviously it’s a given, literally in their job description, but Dick still hates it. (another one for the list, he thinks offhandedly.)
“Sorry,” he mutters.
Jason rolls his eyes. “It’s whatever,” he says, waving his hand to emphasize.
“Still,” Dick says. He feels bad. Jason went to all this trouble when he could have just dropped him off somewhere. Instead he went to all this trouble.
“Dick, I already said it’s fine. If it wasn’t, don't you think I would have mentioned something?”
“I guess.”
Jason frowns and stands up, taking the soup with him. Dick watches his retreating back listlessly until he disappears again. He slumps back against the couch, suddenly extremely tired. He doesn’t want to sleep, though. He doesn’t want the nightmares, and if he doesn’t sleep, then that’s a no-nightmare guarantee, right? A small voice in his head tells him that what he’s doing is extremely unhealthy and detrimental to not only physical but mental health as well, but it sounds too much like Bruce so he ignores it.
He stares straight ahead, unfocused. It’s probably a bad idea to let his mind wander right now, but he just . . . doesn’t have the energy to care. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything right now, really. He doesn’t hear the footsteps, hardly registers the hand in front of his eyes, and barely hears the curses spewed from the figure he vaguely makes out.
Who is it, again? One of his siblings–if they still even consider them his siblings. He tries to think, but it’s too hard and he’s too tired, so he stops, sinking deeper into the couch (who’s couch is this? he doesn’t remember) and with it, deeper into his mind. And against his better (worse) judgment, he falls asleep.
Dick wakes shaking. Whether he’s the one who’s shaking or if it’s just because someone is literally shaking his shoulders is completely up to interpretation (he trembled and cried and shook and shook and shook until jason was finally able to wake him. fuckin’ nightmares, man), but he opens his eyes to see Jason looking at him with an uncharacteristically serious face.
“Hm?”
Jason’s shoulders slump–in relief? exhaustion? Dick frowns and sits up, yawning. “What’s happening?”
“I can get the collar off.”
Dick sits up ramrod-straight at that, suddenly paying attention, all thoughts of going back to sleep wiped from his brain. “Seriously?” he breathes, a sliver of hope that he doesn’t want to let go of. He firmly pushes back the images that are flashing in his mind–he doesn’t remember, doesn’t want to remember–and focuses all his attention on Jason.
Jason nods. He holds out a small piece of metal, ridged on one side. Dick looks at Jason doubtfully, tilting his head in a sort of elaborate , please , motion.
“It’s Tamaranian. S’posed to be able to cut through anything. Extremely rare. You’re lucky I was able to get this shit at all. Now let’s get this fucking over with, I gotta get this back to Kory by one.”
Dick swallows and nods his understanding. “Noted,” he says, smoothing out his voice to hide any tremors. Not that there are any–but just in case. He doesn’t want Jason to think he’s weak (he is, he’s failed jason so many times and keeps on failing him, he’ll never stop). “So how does it work?”
Jason stares at him for what feels like way too long but is probably only a minute or two, and Dick shifts uncomfortably. Eventually, Jason nods, apparently finding what he’d been looking for.
“I just gotta slice it. Should pop right open.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Dick hates the way his hands shake and quickly hides them by fidgeting with his sleeves. He hopes Jason didn’t notice. (he did.)
Jason’s quiet for a minute. He heaves a breath, and tells Dick, “If it doesn’t work, we’ll find something else.”
Dick nods again and shifts so that the back of his neck is facing Jason. Jason puts a hand on his shoulder, nearly engulfing it. It’s not fair, Dick thinks hysterically for a second, trying to distract himself (and failing), that Jason has huge hands and is taller than him. It’s just–not fair. And stupid. And Dick should stop thinking, because he’s over thinking and he trembles and he needs to stop trembling if he doesn’t want his neck sliced open.
Jason’s hand hovers over his neck. Dick can feel the heat. “You good to do this, dickhead?”
Dick steadies himself. “Yeah–yeah. Just do it.”
It’s over before he knows it–just a quick slice down and the collar splits open and falls onto Dick’s lap. He raises a shaky hand to his neck, a disbelieving smile on his face, and just as the tips of his fingers graze the bruise-burns, he screams. It’s a throat-ripping yell, pain made very clear in every part of his body. It passes, and he slumps backwards, falling off the couch and into steady hands. Eyes closing to block out the stars in his vision, he allows the darkness to overtake him as all thoughts leave his brain, finally slipping into unconsciousness.
His head is pounding when he wakes up shivering. He clutches the blankets closer to him–when did he get blankets? Does it matter? He’s cold and he wants to be warm so he snuggles under the warmth.
He can hear a voice but he can’t understand the words. He wants to go back to sleep but the warmth is taken from him. He whines at the loss, not caring if it sounds childish. Something wet and cold is placed on his face and he sighs, content as the blanket is placed back over him, the cold feeling oddly soothing on his suddenly too-hot face.
He sinks into the bed–that’s a little weird, wasn’t he on a couch earlier?–but the voice is back, keeping him awake. He grumbles but is appeased when something cold is pressed to his lips and he opens his mouth obediently, his throat suddenly really sore.
The water helps, but his stomach rolls and he leans over the side of the bed and vomits up everything in his stomach–mostly just bile, but he feels gross anyway. He dry heaves a few times, head throbbing and growing dizzier the longer he leans over the side of the bed. He also feels really hot and tired, and even though the bottle is held to his mouth again, he turns away, not wanting to experience throwing up his insides again.
There’s a hand on his forehead, words that sound suspiciously like cursing, and more shaking, but Dick can’t fight the pull of sleep, so he doesn’t even try. He just . . . lets go.
The next time he wakes up, he’s a lot more lucid. He’s also pretty sure that he’d woken up a lot more times, but they blur together in a feverish haze. He almost wishes he wasn’t lucid, but he shoves away those thoughts. He should be glad that the world makes sense again, not wish that he could stay in the peaceful dark forever.
There were nightmares, screams of terror and sobs of grief and terrified faces, but he doesn’t want to remember those either, so he just focuses on opening his eyelids–which is harder than expected, because they’re sticky with sleep and sweat. His whole body is sweaty, actually, and Dick feels really gross and makes a note to take a shower at a later time.
He cracks an eye open, grateful that the room seems to be dark. He pushes up to a sitting position, slowly going over what happened. He passed out, that’s obvious, and someone–Jason?–moved him to a bed. He thinks–is pretty confident–that he got sick and someone–Jason again? He’s the only one here–took care of him.
The collar is off. Dick brings a hand to his neck, wary of the pain that rocketed through him the last time he tried. But his fingers brush bandages without consequence and Dick can’t help but let out a sigh of relief.
“Oh, you’re up.”
Dick startles, looking up to see Jason setting down a tray with soup and water on a chair. Jason leans over, feeling Dick’s forehead–definitely sick, then, but still–
“What happened?” Dick croaks. Jason hands him the water.
“You fucking passed out on my fucking couch,” Jason says with a scowl as Dick takes a sip. He vaguely remembers throwing up and remembers to take it slow.. He looks angry, but also . . . not? Less angry and more of a mix between pissed and worried, Dick thinks.
“Sorry,” Dick says genuinely. He never meant for Jason to–
“Will you stop already?!”
Dick flinches at Jason’s outburst. Jason’s hands slammed down on a desk as he shouted, breathing heavily and glaring at Dick.
Dick swallows, leaning over and putting the cup back on the tray and meeting Jason’s glare with a blank look of his own. “Stop what?” he asks with no emotions. He can see how it throws Jason off. Dick is usually the emoting person in the family.
Jason clenches his jaw after regaining his balance. “That!” he says exasperatingly. “I can hear you thinking–no, not like that , fuck off. But I know you think you’re being a burden and your fucking not, okay? You’re allowed to want someone to take care of you. Fucking hypocrite,” Jason mutters, stomping out of the room and slamming the door shut, Dick left alone with the echoes.
Dick . . . doesn’t know how to feel. He isn’t that bad at hiding what he’s thinking, right? But even so, just because Dick wants someone to take care of him (for once), doesn’t mean it’s a possibility. He’s the oldest, he’s supposed to take care of everyone else, not the other way around.
. . . Right?
Or . . . can he let himself just rest and let someone else do the heavy lifting? But he doesn’t want to, he wants to help–
And that’s the problem, he realizes. In trying to help, he puts everyone else over himself, leading to a kind of–burnout? Maybe. He doesn’t think there’s an actual word for it, and he doesn’t really want to keep thinking about it, but. What comes around, goes around. He doesn’t want to be the one who needs to be helped, the one who needs to be pitied . But is it pity if they love him?
No. No, it isn’t. He’s the one who’s told others that exact same thing, over and over again. So maybe . . . maybe it’s his turn to heal. His family wants him to heal. But he didn’t, and that’s the problem. He can’t heal until he takes the first step. And he wants to. So he does.
“Jason?” he calls, biting his lip.
Footsteps come closer and Jason opens the door. “What?” he asks shortly. “Make it quick, I have to give it back to Kory.”
Dick bows his head, and whispers out a painful, “I’m sorry.”
Jason stares at him, then snorts. “Yeah, whatever.”
Dick looks up at him hopefully, skillfully arranging his expression into his most powerful puppy-dog eyes, pouting and trying to show Jason how much he loves him with his eyes. Jason’s eyes widen with something akin to horror and Dick has to bite back a laugh, feeling much better. But it’s still missing–
“Jay?”
“No–”
“Jason, Jaybird, Little Wing–”
“God–what?”
“Can I have a hug?” Dick sticks his lower lip out. “Please?” He softens his voice and makes a split-second decision. He decides to be vulnerable. “I haven’t had a hug since–well, I dunno.”
He stops guarding his face. He must look pretty pathetic–but that’s what he’s going for, right? He wants to be able to show his weaknesses (that’ll get everyone killed) that his family want to know to (betray him) help him?
He looks away from Jason and bites his lip again, worrying at it. “Sorry, it’s dumb, nevermind–oof!”
He grunts in surprise as Jason manhandles his way next to Dick, slinging an arm around him and maneuvering so Dick can bury his face in Jason’s stomach.
Jason flicks Dick’s forehead. “Stop thinking, Goldie,” he chides gently–more gently than Dick’s ever heard him.
Dick trembles in his arms and sobs. It’s gross, with snot and liquid running down his face and mixing together at his chin and he’s ruining Jason’s shirt because he’s too exhausted to stop it and he doesn’t even know where it came from but it doesn’t matter because Jason’s holding onto him and murmuring assurances in his ears.
He cries and cries and cries and Jason doesn’t stop him, doesn’t even shift away from him to avoid the grossness. No, instead he clutches Dick even tighter, grounding him and keeping him from floating away. Eventually, Dick runs dry, slumping into his brother’s arms. He yawns, blinking tiredly.
Jason snorts from above him. “Go to sleep, Dick,” he mutters fondly.
“D’nt leave,” Dick whines. “St’y. pl’se.”
“I’m not going anywhere, dickface,” Jason replies, amused.
Dick huffs but leaves it at that. He’s too tired to do anything else. “Pr’mise?” he asks, fighting off sleep until he can hear Jason’s answer.
“Yeah,” Jason whispers from above him. “Promise.”
Dick smiles, content, and drifts off to sleep, safe in the warm arms that embrace him.