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Jason hears chatter over the comms (that he may or may not be permitted to access) that Nightwing is grounded. Red Hood hears from his employees (sans benefits, besides being associated with the Red Hood) that some nasties have a plan for Nightwing that involves some kind of hopped up Poison Ivy special. Since her mostly-retirement, Ivy is actually pretty chill whenever Jason has crashed girls night and she hasn’t been actively hostile for nearly eight months (and the destruction of that one attempted development of one of the few green spaces in Crime Alley that was not fertilized by dirty needles was an insult and affront, and Jason doesn’t hold the body count against her). Ergo, that means this new shit is either a) expired and, hopefully, degraded, or b) synthetic and unpredictable. (Hood hopes it's the former, but life seems to find Jason interesting, and therefore fuck-with-able.)
Regardless, those are drugs moving on his turf and Hood has rules about drugs and kids.
(Yeah, Dickie might have years on Jason, but the man eats marshmallow cereal and sings along during cartoons. He's got the big ol' heart of a hyperactive child.)
So, Red Hood sighs, sound crackling static in the muggy air, and hulls his heavy, sore body from his shitty office chair. He flips off his lieutenant in a solemn salute, and bounds gleefully away for a selfless rescue that'll net him at least one free maiming. Maybe manslaughter, if he lets bat and co. stew enough to be grateful.
He doesn't let them stew. He calls for backup so fast he almost moves backward.
Gotham is a musical city. Rush Hour, Act One, starts with Gothamites sounding their horns with gusto. Percussions boom when brake pedals are too slow and the massive, metal beasts they try to tame are too fast. Glass crackles in the stunned quiet before the furious chorus charges the air. Sirens wail and the singers exit with haste as the final verse plays.
Downtown at Dinner features the whisper of jackets and pant legs. The rhythmic clap of shoes on cracked concrete sets the time. Singers shout from humming food trucks and seagulls screech as they circle.
Lullaby Number Seven, also titled "Not My Business" is a chilling number that starts with screaming and doesn't really stop. It sang Jason to sleep a number of cold nights, when he wasn't in the chorus himself.
Number Seven is playing when Jason lands by the warehouse where Nightwing is supposed to be held. The sounds are muffled by the muggy air and the corrugated metal of the warehouse's outer wall, but Jason knows Number Seven and grimaces to think that Dickiebird may be singing tonight.
The thought spurs him to move a little quicker.
Red Hood breaks down the door and the acoustics of a derelict Gotham warehouse are impeccable as always. There is no way to miss the moist screaming. It's the kind that comes from the chest. The kind that tastes like metal and the wet things in the lungs. It has him on edge, but his steel-toed boots command attention when he strolls in, ready to add some percussion with the guns loose in his hands.
He pauses to reevaluate.
The warehouse is a little spartan with just a few boxes, some chains, a shattered laptop, and a ton of bottles. The majority of the decoration is currently on the ground in various stages of black and blue and red, but all wearing matching gang jackets.
The screaming isn't coming from any of the bodies on the ground. Those bodies are barely whimpering. The screaming is coming from a dark figure crouched over a body.
The figure is black and blue and staining red and it is screaming.
Jason's mind screeches to a halt and stalls.
Nightwing has someone bloody on the ground. The warehouse echoes and Nightwing plays shlick-thwack on the body on the ground.
Nightwing's blows draw blood into the air and scatter tiny, thin flecks. The blood settles like the powdery flakes of a snow globe. The whites of Nightwing's domino are pink. His arms glisten black.
Nightwing keeps making noise.
Nightwing is going to beat someone to death. With his fists. (It's a wet way to die, if you don’t get blown up.)
Jason doesn't want to watch his brother kill someone. He doesn't understand. This is Dick. (It's Nightwing.)
It's different when it's Dick.
(Dick is golden. Jason needs him to be golden. It's not fair if he isn't golden.)
His fingers move before the rest of him, thumb brushing the rough grip of his gun. It centers him.
Dick is gold. Jason is green.
Red Hood needs to do something. Red Hood needs to stop Nightwing before someone dies.
Jason scuffs his steel toes over the ground as he slowly approaches Nightwing. Nightwing's head snaps up and his pink flecked domino zeros in.
Jason's entire being twitches. Nightwing rises.
"You," Nightwing accuses. Red Hood puts his guns back in their holsters, surrendering the safety of them. He subtly presses the panic button he swore he'd never use before he slowly raises his empty hands.
"Hey, birdie," he says, thankful the mechanical modulation of his helmet makes his voice sound level, if not menacing. "Having a party?"
"Shut the fuck up," Nightwing snaps and Jason sucks in a quiet breath, taken aback by the cold fury. "I don't have time for your posturing today," he continues. "You're not the only one who's going through some fucked up shit, Ja--"
"Names," Jason cuts him off quickly, though he doubts anyone on the ground is listening.
"Oh, right," Nightwing sneers. "Red Hood. Jesus. Jesus, Hood, what the fuck were you thinking, huh? What kind of theatrical, dramatic, over-the-top," Nightwing continues and he's advancing on Jason with his balled fists dripping plop plop red and Jason really needs anyone else here right now.
"That's rich," Red Hood starts, because he's a fighter and he isn't scared of a man that once wore a mullet as a choice. (All the red and copper and metal tang of blood is starting to make Jason feel a little green.) "Coming from the star pupil of Daddy Bat’s School for--"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP," Nightwing roars and Jason is ashamed to say that Red Hood takes a step back.
"What the fuck did they give you?" Hood asks.
"Something to loosen me up." Nightwing rolls his shoulders and then cracks his neck. "Inhibitions, right, Hood?" he continues with a mocking shake of his head and bearing of neat, pearly teeth. "Hold you back."
"Ivy shit?" Jason asks.
"Do I look cuddly to you?" Nightwing snaps, face twisting. "These guys certainly thought so," Nightwing kicks a goon in the ribs.
"Okay," Hood draws out the word. "Gave you the good shit and now you've got that Bane energy. Cool, cool. Think you can take a couple of breaths for me--"
"I said," Nightwing starts advancing on Hood again, "shut the fuck up." Nightwing is getting just a little too close for comfort and Hood considers pulling a gun to stall. The green is getting fussy about Nightwing's bullshit, but Jason doesn't really want to get into a fight with a seasoned vigilante who no longer has an "off" button. (He knows how the Robin showdown goes.)
Jason's debating which leg to shoot out (carefully, Dick will kill him if Jason hits something important, damn the Batman), when a dark shadow swoops from the rafters and tackles Nightwing to the ground.
Speak of the devil.
As Nightwing writhes against Batman, a smaller form darts into the warehouse, hovering over the varied messes of meat and bones littering the ground with obvious dismay.
Nightwing thrashes, getting a lucky elbow into the left socket of Batman's cowl, making both of them grunt. Red Robin looks up at the two men rolling on the floor. The kid looks queasy as he checks for signs of life.
"You're a fucking coward!" Dick snarls, trying to violently eel his way out of Batman's arms, even as the man squeezes him tighter. "Too scared of your own overblown darkness, like--like child soldiers are better than dropping fucking murderers!"
"Calm down," Batman growls and Nightwing thrashes harder, managing to wiggle enough to kick Batman in the face.
"No! You're a fucking hypocrite! How many people have you sent to the hospital, huh? How many die on the table?"
Jason should leave. Batman came for his bird. He's got Red Robin. He doesn't need Hood for anything. Jason should leave.
"Hood," Batman growls, grabbing Nightwing by the ankle and dragging him back. "Sedative." Nightwing kicks him in the gut for the trouble. Batman doesn't wince, but his nostrils flare and his lips thin.
"Fuck you," Jason says on reflex as Nightwing says:
"Can't fucking help yourself, can you? Throwing out your flunkies." Yeah, Jason is starting to feel green. "And snatching up the next kid! And who takes care of your little army, B? Who? Because it's not fucking you."
Jason isn't really the sedative kind of guy. (He's not a fan of stuff that makes a person loopy.) But, Lil' Red tosses Hood a capped syringe that Jason almost fumbles. He glares and tries to beam the kid in the head with it.
"You stick 'im," Jason says. Red Robin insults him by easily catching the syringe while applying a compression bandage on a goon with one hand. He lobs the sedative back at Jason.
"Little busy!"
"Listen, Florence --"
"Boys!"
"Don't talk to him like that!" Nightwing wriggles furiously, finally pinned by Batman's significant weight and bulk. "You're such an asshole! Always yelling at your problems and never actually thinking!"
"Hood, now," Batman barks when Nightwing frees a hand to reach for a shattered bottle.
"I dunno," Jason stalls. "He's making sense."
"Like you're any better, Hood," Nightwing snaps at him. Batman grabs the reaching hand by the wrist and tries to wrestle it back. "At least B didn't put my brother in the fucking ER."
"Nightwing!"
"Jesus." Jason hears the Replacement mutter. Jason very carefully doesn't look at the kid that said that, because the little trickle of green that's been hanging around all night opens into a deluge. It washes Jason clean of rational thought.
"Yeah, Goldie?" Hood says. His mouth is so full of green he can't feel his tongue, but he can feel it moving.
"Hood," Batman warns. "Give me the sedative."
"Easy, old man. Bigbird has something to say."
"Cut the macho shit, Hood," Nightwing sneers, stilling under Batman to pin Hood with the full force of his disdain. "We all know you're just a little daddy's boy throwing a tantrum for attention."
"Nightwing," Batman's voice drops low, less command and more warning. Batman is watching Hood, too. "Easy." Hood is watching Nightwing. His gloves creak around the syringe in his hand. "Just give it to me, Hood."
"Jesus," says the kid. Jason doesn't look at him. He doesn't look at the kid. Jason looks at Nightwing and Batman. His brain is green and static and his mouth is sealed with rage and a deep, aching hurt. He stomps the hurt down physically with every step he takes toward Nightwing. The vigilante is struggling anew, trying to lunge for Hood. Batman grunts and holds him. Hood crouches down and pulls Nightwing's head to the side by the man's perfect hair. He is not gentle. Nightwing snarls.
"I didn’t even make it to the ER," Hood hisses, and plunges the syringe into Nightwing's neck.
"Fuck you!" Nightwing howls, trying to toss his head to get away. "Fuck you! All of you! Fucking hypocrites!"
"Red Robin," Batman starts. Hood watches Nightwing seethe. "Get to the cave. Hood and I will get him home."
"Um--"
"Like hell, old man," Jason growls. "Goldie can go fuck himself."
"Not now, Hood," Batman says. Nightwing has started to flag, not falling unconscious, but the man's limbs are starting to look too heavy to thrash.
"Fuck you. Fuck Goldie. And, know what? Fuck the Replacement, too."
"Um!"
"Red Robin, go."
"Yeah, okay! I'll just--"
"And take this," Batman rises to his knees and holds out a small vial of blood. God, the Bat is such a creep. "I'd rather know what we're working against."
"Yeah, yup! Okay, I'll just--you'll…be okay?" Jason still won't look at the kid. There's still too much in his head and he kind of hates all the bats and birds right now, but he isn't going to send Nightwing's precious brother to the ER (again).
"I've got Hood," Batman says, looking expectantly at Jason. "I'll be fine. Go." The kid doesn't say anything else. Jason doesn't hear him leave, but he hears the rev of the kid's bike and knows that he's alone with Batman, Nightwing, and a fuck ton of bloody bodies.
"Fuck you."
"Please." Batman says it so wearily that Jason hesitates. The man gathers Nightwing into his arms and grunts as he rises. "It wasn't a strong dose. If there are no complications, the sedative will wear off before I can get him back to the cave."
"Sounds like a you problem."
"If he gets loose," Batman starts, "he will get himself killed." The limp man in his arms mumbles something that sounds insulting. Batman adjusts his hold to bring Nightwing's head closer to his shoulder. "Easy, chum."
"Nightwing goes on a murderous rampage," Jason starts. "And he gets knock out juice and a cuddle."
"Hood, please, not now."
"Oh, no, please! Run away with your precious, perfect Robin. He probably just needs a nap, huh? Then he'll be your perfect little second in command, again." Jason seethes. "Playing happy little family!"
"He isn't going to stay down for long." Batman walks toward the warehouse entrance, glancing back. "I know you're angry with him. But, he needs your help."
"Fu--"
"I'll give you intel on Mask. Red Robin's." Jason considers it, but he knows the Replacement is good at intel. Fucking stalker.
"I want O, too," Jason says. "I want the feeds scrubbed when I'm done." Batman's mouth disappears into a displeased line.
"I don't control Oracle."
"Not my problem," Jason shrugs and ruthlessly smothers the hurt clawing for his eyes. "Figure it out, or you're gonna have another dead bird on your hands."
Getting Nightwing into the backseat of the Batmobile is like trying to fit the most stubborn and sticky string of overcooked linguine into a half inch hole. (Which Jason has never done because it's much easier to pour olive oil over pasta then to dip the pasta into the bottle, Roy.) The man's fingers slip off every surface, but he just as quickly grasps another. Eventually, Jason helps by getting into the other side of the Batmobile and forcibly yanking Nightwing back by the shoulders. Batman gives Jason an unimpressed look, but climbs in after Nightwing to secure him for the trip.
"You'll be monitoring autopilot," Batman says as Jason slides into the front seat. "I'll monitor Nightwing." Jason grunts, but it's a chance to mess with the Batmobile, so Jason makes sure to fuck with the seating as much as possible and leave smudges on the glass. The tank starts rolling and then picks up speed.
"I'm sorry you had to hear that," Batman starts. Jason glares over his shoulder at Batman. Batman is gently dabbing a soaked cloth at Nightwing's domino mask. "He doesn't mean it." Nightwing tries to gnaw on Batman's gauntleted fingers.
"Sure about that?" Jason sneers. Batman sighs and eases the domino mask off and tucks it into a pouch on his utility belt. Jason can barely see Dick's blue eyes squinting with accusation.
"Your brother is…" Batman hesitates. "He works very hard."
"Not my fucking brother," Jason growls. Nightwing makes a noise and Batman shushes him.
"You know he has a temper," Batman reminds him, petting the hair away from Dick's eyes. Dick keeps trying to rip his face open on the gauntlets to nip at Batman, until the bat pulls them off and then his cowl. The man is filthy with sweat and the bruising around his eye is going to be ugly in a few hours. He’s going to need the good concealer.
"No fucking shit," Jason says. "Like I wasn't there to witness golden boy's fucking meltdowns every weekend." Bruce looks at Jason.
Jason tries to ignore the nerves, trapped in the Batmobile with two of the nastiest tempers he knows (barring himself and his little green problem). Living in the manor had been hell in the early days, with Dick screaming himself hoarse and Bruce just as petty and cutting. Alfred had been the only refuge, then. He was always calm, inviting Jason to help with lunch, or showing Jason how to darn the elbows of his Gotham Academy jacket.
There was an incident in the early days when Jason's old walkman gave up the ghost right as the yelling turned into porcelain shattering.
Jason was inconsolable for almost an hour, sobbing into Alfred’s stomach and clinging like a burr after the waterworks had dried up. The sound of breaking bottles and Willis Todd followed him into sleep when Alfred finally got him to bed.
Dick didn't show up to the manor for almost two months after that.
"He's not in his right mind," Bruce says.
"You saying Dickie's always been a mean drunk?" Jason sneers. "'Cause we're about to have a lot more fuckin' problems, B."
"Don't you dare," Bruce growls. "Insult your brother like that."
"You're the one apologizing for the asshole! You think I don't hear the 'he doesn't mean it he's just drunk' spiel every fuckin' night?"
" Jason."
"I'm the Red Hood, goddamnit!" Jason slams his fist down on the wheel. The autopilot keeps them steady, even as Jason feels like he's shaking apart. "He's not my brother and I'm the Red fucking Hood!"
"Jason," Bruce says, more gently. "I'm sorry."
"Shut up," Jason's voice cracks. His voice modulator makes every one of his harsh breaths a burst of ugly static.
"I am," Bruce continues, the stubborn bastard. "I'm sorry. Dick loves you. He loves all of you. He's just not okay right now. I know that…might not mean much right now, but--"
"That why you sent the kid home? Little Timmy doesn't get the Domestic Special?"
Bruce gently grabs Dick's wrist when the guy tries to clumsily claw at Bruce's face.
"Do you think, Jason, that if he were in his right mind, he would do this?" Bruce asks. Jason grudgingly gives Bruce the point. Dickie fights dirty, but he's more of a "bamboozle" than "bulldoze."
"Doesn't make it okay," Jason grumbles.
"It doesn't," Bruce agrees. Dick mutters something and Bruce pats his captured hands. "Thank you for giving him a chance."
"I'm not doing shit," Jason argues as the Batmobile glides its way into a smooth park. The lights of the cave are dim, but Jason can make out Red Robin stripped down to his thermals and the snippy little Robin limping after him, mouth moving silently outside the sound proofed vehicle.
Dick is starting to get more lively, like a baby after the car stops moving. No longer rocked to sleep and now ready to start screaming.
"Good evening," Alfred opens the driver's door of the Batmobile and gestures Jason out. "I've heard that Master Dick is feeling a bit under the weather?"
"Living up to his name," Jason grunts as he exits. The old butler hums disapprovingly.
"I'll need a hand," Bruce says as Dick starts to wriggle for the door. "How's the containment cell?"
"F'ck," Dick growls, doing his best to become a liquid and drip through Bruce's fingers.
"Oh my," Alfred says. With a huff, Jason opens the rear door and takes the furious impact of Dick starting to come up from sedation.
"Traitor," he hisses when Jason hauls him out by the shoulders.
"Shut up, I'm pissed at you," Jason snaps.
"You're always mad," Dick snaps back.
"Boys." Bruce clambers out of the tank.
"The room is prepared. Master Tim is still analyzing what you provided. Is he lucid at all?"
"I'm right here!" Dick tries to wrench out of Jason's hold, but is braced by Bruce on his other side. "Stop touching me."
"Yeah, he's lucid," Jason says. "And an asshole."
"Master Jason, if you please," Alfred reprimands primly. Jason takes advantage of his helmet to scowl out of Alfred's direct sight. "Do keep your manners. And don't scowl so, it isn't gentlemanly."
"I'm not even doing anything!"
"Don't snap at Alfred!" Dick manages to crack his head against Jason's helmet. It doesn't hurt, but it's annoying.
"Ow! Watch it, dickface!"
"Master Jason!"
"Jason!"
"He started it!" Jason nearly throws Dick into the containment cell, but Bruce catches the man and lets him get steady on his feet. When Bruce looks back at Jason to give him a scolding look, Dick aims a punch at Bruce's face. Bruce gingerly dodges the blow and exits the cell swiftly. The door closes with a click and a hiss. Dick snarls at them, fists balled and teeth bared. Jason bares his teeth right back, realizes his helmet is still hiding his face, and scowls.
"Come away a moment, Master Jason," Alfred lightly touches Jason's shoulder and offers him a bottle of water. "Let us let Master Dick settle."
Jason knows what Alfred’s doing--he's seen him use the same technique to lure Bruce away from tough cases and unwinnable arguments.
Jason really wants to be angry right now, but a bottle of water is probably better.
Jason doesn't like this. He wants to not be here. He wants to be far away from here, where he can lick his wounds and nurse his hurt feeling into a righteous rage and turn all this green into something productive.
Dick is always such a fucking liar. Talking shit about family and safety.
Jason doesn't want to be here.
Alfred eyes the bottle of water and Jason takes off his helmet, because there are rules of engagement and one of them is: take the refreshment Alfred gives you or suffer the wrath of God. Pick your battles, but even Jason knows when he's beat. His window to slip away shrinks with every dish Alfred asks him to tidy and every bottle Jason gathers, until Jason is well and truly invested, goddamn him. And then Alfred leaves them to it, because "the world above never ceases." And then it's just Jason and everyone else.
Dick calms down around the youngest members of the family, but he loses his shit around Bruce and Jason.
Jason watches the kids, because they're just fucking kids, and he watches the kids because Dick is the kind of angry that mandated reporters watch. Jason hates that he thinks that and hates that he is watching, but he has to know. It's his job. He has the ugliest job in the family, barring anything Alfred does ever, and that means he has to take a step back and look.
Damian and Tim are scared. They hover and twitch and glance; they are waiting. Jason watches them watching him and Bruce, but they do not watch Dick.
Jason stifles his sigh of relief and feels sick with self loathing and guilt. Of course Dick wouldn't hurt the kids. Of course he's a good brother to the kids. He's Dick fucking Grayson.
Dick is scary, though. Maybe it's because Jason isn't Dick's baby brother anymore and that Jason has hurt Dick's family, and Dick sure as hell isn't afraid to put the Red Hood in his place. (And green hisses at him, reminding him that Dick will put him in his place, even if that place seems to be right back in his grave.)
Dick slams his fists against the enhanced plexiglass of his cell. His nose had started and stopped bleeding from his screaming. The blood is coagulating and cracking on his lips and chin. He just licks his lips and the lines of his gums are stained pink and red, like an animal interrupted in its feeding.
Dick slams his fists into the plexiglass until minute fractures start to spider out. That's when Bruce grimaces and gases Golden Boy silly.
It's hours, because they don't have an antidote for this. It isn't fear; it isn't hallucination. It's not even good ol' meth.
It's just Nightwing stripped away of every last one of his inhibitions and instead of the cuddly, horny, cheesy boy everyone expected, they got wrath.
(And Jason feels like he can weigh in on that, being possessed by a madness that makes him a little green-eyed and irritable.
But the pit is a corruption, a corrosion of rationality, and this is just a Richard Grayson, Nightwing, without of all those pesky social niceties like “thou shalt not maim.”)
Bruce is against it, Jason is against it, but the little Robin, the stabby one (Damian, Jason knows his name) wants to gentle Dick like a cornered animal. It’s not unreasonable, given that the elegant gymnast is pacing like a taunted panther, collected and coiled and radiating lethality. They don’t really have a better option, though, not without knocking the man out again, and there’s only so much sedative a body can take without consequence. (They’re hoping the antidote will knock him out, if the man hasn’t tuckered himself out with his hours-long raging. Because Vanilla Flavor Dickie is exhausting on a good day. The spicy version is making Jason want to slam his head into the stalagmites.)
And, Dick relaxes when he can see the kids, smiles at them. Not the loose, easy Dickie smile, but something that crinkles the corner of his eyes.
They slip Damian an antidote they hope will work and as Damian approaches the cell, Dick stills and presses his finger stripes against the glass.
“Be calm, Richard. I mean you no harm. You are safe, now,” Damian says gravely. ”I swear to you: you are safe.”
“Sh, it’s okay, Damian. I trust you, little robin,” Dick says softly, eyes crinkling, the rest of him coiling.
“B, I’m not so sure--” Jason starts before Dick hisses at him.
“Stay away from him!” Dick’s gaze zeros in on Jason and then Bruce and then back again, trying to assess the bigger threat. Jason bares his teeth right back, but lifts his hands in mock surrender.
“Maybe you guys should, I dunno, step back?” Tim offers and Dick's gaze snaps over to him, making the kid startle.
“Hey, Timmy,” Dick starts, low and friendly. “Hey, why don’t you come over here, Tim? Get away from them. I’ll take care of you. You don't have to leave again, just come on over here.”
Tim looks nervously at Dick, then Bruce, Jason, Bruce. The longer he hesitates the more agitated Dick gets. Dick licks at the cracking blood on his lips and stares.
“Richard,” Damian says, still grave, but gentle. Jason grudgingly sees the Robin in the little hellion. Dick's wild eyes whip back to him. “Focus on me.” The little bird continues.
“Hi, Dami,” Dick coos and taps playfully on the glass. “Come here, Dami.”
“I will open this door and you will be calm,” Damian says. “I am helping you. You will let me help you.”
“Always so serious." Dick makes a face and then softens right back into focused and fond. "Of course, baby bat." He says. "I trust you."
“Step back, Richard.” Dick steps back, graceful as a snake, eyes never leaving the kid. “I am opening the door,” Damian continues to narrate what he’s doing, trying to keep Dick grounded.
Damian opens the door. He eases in with one arm primed and the other placating. Dick smiles at him and slowly raises his arms in return.
“You will let me help y--”
He doesn’t even finish his sentence before Dick lunges at him. Tim shouts in alarm and Dick snarls, slams the door shut with a vicious:
“Mine," and he drags the squawking demon of a child behind him. “Mine, Bruce.”
“Good job, old man,” Jason says as he ignores the way his fingers feel staticy and numb as his heart jumps. He masks his nervous breath as a heavy sigh and inhales deeply. “Gonna send the Replacement in next and see how many birdies get got?”
Bruce doesn’t even grunt and Jason feels like an ass.
"Unhand me, Grayson! You are unwell and need assistance! I am trying to help you!"
"Damian, I love you. I love you so fucking much. So, please, shut up. If they try to take you--if you leave --" Nightwing's chest heaves and the man pants into the bewildered (frightened) boy's hair. "Don't leave. I'm here for you. I'm here." The last word is a noise, a whine of pain and betrayal as Damian stabs the needle into Nightwing's neck and depresses the plunger as fast as his little fingers can.
Dick grabs his tiny wrist and wrenches it away. The syringe isn't empty when it clicks across the ground and a bit of the antidote leaks cloudy fluid from the unfinished injection as Dick stills, poised.
Jason holds his breath, stomach circling the drain of his shitty life and waiting to sink.
Then, Nightwing shudders and smiles at Damian, eyes glassy.
"Sneaky," the man sighs and pets over the kid's affronted face. "Clever lil' bat."
“Rest, Richard,” Damian tries to get the man to uncoil, but Dick clutches the kid even tighter as he scans the room and finally lands on:
“Br’s.”
“Here,” Bruce says, opening the cell door even as Dick hisses at him. Bruce opens the cell door like Dick wouldn’t pick right back up and try to maim them all. “I’m here.” Like Dick can be reasoned with.
(Jason knows you can’t reason with rage. Green can’t be reasoned with. That kind of anger is napalm.)
“‘S mine,” Dick’s words start to slur faster than Jason expected, exhaustion winning over hypervigilance, but not the seething disdain. “Y’can’t have--mine.” Bruce nods, placating. Dick looks around the cave and he reaches out to beckon Tim over to him. “Timmy…Timmy com’ere. S’ mine, Br’s.” Tim makes a strangled noise and turns Robin-red, looking away and then shyly peeking back. "N'one. 'S leavin'."
“Of course, chum,” Bruce says. “You’re a very good brother.”
“I wan’...I wan’ cus’ody.” Tim makes another noise and Jason would sympathize if he wasn’t feeling a little left out of the farcical custody battle between stone-faced Bruce and the puddle of Dick on the floor.
“And what?” Jason scoffs, already regretting the words coming out of his mouth, but, oh well. His temper has been well watered today and he’s feeling verdant with it. “Dead boy is chopped liver?”
Dick watches him a long moment before he sighs.
“‘M mad a’you,” he slurs and Jason clenches his jaw against the writhing creature in his chest trying to escape the smothering swell of shame. (For caring, for trying, for asking, for everything he’s ever done.)
“Well, fuck you--”
“Jason,” Bruce says sharply and Dick slaps at Bruce’s leg.
“Shuddup, I’m talk’ng t’my brother!”
“Dick--”
“Father--”
“Okay, maybe we can all just--”
“SHUT UP! ”
Everyone falls quiet and still as Dick pants, face red and teeth bared at Bruce, until Bruce takes a placating step back.
“J’son,” Dick starts, determined even as he sways. “S’my br’ther. He’s dumb. And mean. But, ‘s mine.”
Jason clenches his jaw again against a different creature trying to escape the swell of horrific, desperate want mingling with the shame.
“Okay,” Bruce says. His rough voice gentles.
“You suck,” Dick mumbles and Jason can barely hear it from his safe distance. “You’re the worst. I hate you.”
“I know,” Bruce agrees, easily.
“No,” Dick nearly whines as the child in his lap finally starts to squirm in earnest.
“Unhand me!”
“No,” Dick does whine, petting over the kid’s hair. “Stay.”
“Come on, chum.” Bruce coaxes. “It’s been a long night and your brothers are tired. Let’s get them to bed, yeah?”
Dick eyes his father suspiciously.
“Cus’udy.” He demands. Jason watches a twitch of a smile grace Bruce’s face. He nods solemnly.
“We’ll discuss details in the morning.”
“I’m actually not that tired,” Tim offers. “If you guys need to call it a night, I can keep an eye out, maybe run some more tests on whatever got to Nightwing?” Bruce frowns at Tim, but Dick’s mouth is a hard line that will not be tested.
“Bed.” Dick says and struggles to stand with Damian still wriggling and affronted. "Y'suck," he slurs again at Bruce. Bruce tenses to catch Dick as the man carefully stands, supporting Damian by the head and just under his rump, like a child. "Mine."
"Of course, chum," Bruce agrees again. "Is Damian okay to walk on his own?"
"Do not patronize me!" The kid hisses and squirms. Dick doesn't let go. "Unhand me."
"No," Dick stumbles and clutches the furious little boy to his chest. "No, no, no. Don't leave. Please, Robin, don't leave."
Everyone stutters as Dick starts to cry.
"I c'n't keep y'safe if you're gone," Dick sobs. "Dad, they're s' small. Too li'l. Dad." He tries to curl all the way around Damian. He starts to crumple and Bruce darts forward to catch him.
Damian grabs a hold of some loose scruff of Dick's outfit.
"I know, chum. I know," Bruce murmurs into Dick's ear. "You did good, chum. Everyone is safe. I'll take care of it. You did good."
Jason follows in a daze, watching Bruce gather Dick into his arms. Damian holds onto Dick like a blanket while Tim hovers like a phantom orb in a photograph.
They breach the grandfather clock and the light of the study, dim though it is, still prickles all of them.
"Poor lad," is what Alfred says when he sees them.
"Alfr'?"
"Here, lad," Alfred says and starts to fuss over the Nightwing outfit still clinging like a filthy, bloody skin to the man.
"'M tired."
"I'm sure you are, Master Dick. Let us get you changed and all to bed," Alfred soothes and ushers them further into the manor.
"Come on, chum," Bruce murmurs.
It’s a struggle that Jason is both viciously gleeful and horrifically embarrassed to watch, stripping Nightwing from Dick as he fusses, soothed only by clinging to one person or another, whether they’re on his arbitrary shit list or not. Like, Bruce.
They end up in Bruce's room with his enormous bed and Dick refuses to let go.
"Y'r face is stupid," he grumbles and clutches Bruce tighter. Bruce somberly sacrifices his youngest child to Dick’s dull hands to make his escape. Dick curls the bright red ball of indignation close to him, but is not satiated as he seeks out more bodies. He looks blearily around and reaches a hand out to the Replacement.
“I can…still go?” Tim offers, even as he twitches closer. The kid can’t resist the want in every line of Dick’s body.
“Don’ be stupid,” Dick grumbles and yanks the kid ungently onto the bed, before squishing the demon spawn between them.
“I’m going to get stabbed,” Tim whispers.
“Don’ stab,” Dick mumbles into Damian’s hair. Jason spies Bruce trying to sneak away, probably to go agonize and brood or work himself silly until dawn two days from now. Jason, too, would like to make a clean escape, but he is petty by nature and holds no sympathy in his heart.
“What, just going to abandon your brood, B? No wonder Dickwing wants custody.”
Bruce tenses and shoots Jason a look of betrayal. Jason’s smirk quickly drops when Dick sits up and glares at him.
“You,” he says flatly and points at Jason. “Here.” And Dick points to the bed and his face is glacial.
“Thought you didn’t like me. I’m, what was it, ‘mean.’” Jason uses his fingers to quote the word and Dick’s expression doesn’t change.
“Ass’h’l’,” Dick grumbles.
“Jason,” Bruce sighs and finally rubs at the bridge of his nose, the most solid tell that Jason is close to breaking him. (Or, Jason is taking the credit for it. He needs a win today.) “Stay, Jason. He needs you.”
Jason wants to argue that point, feeling so many different things in his chest he wants to scream or explode or both. But, he’s tired. He’s tired and maybe he can’t resist the ravenous love Dick is threatening. He glares at Bruce and Dick and the kids the whole time he ditches his gear, leaving it spitefully on the floor, hoping one of the bats will trip over something and sprain an ankle.
“I’m pissed at you,” Jason hisses when he’s settled against Dick’s back. Dick presses into him, trying to absorb Jason into the homunculus of territorial cuddling.
“Shuddup,” Dick grumbles. “‘M pissed a' you.”
“Can we be pissed tomorrow?” Tim interjects, sounding nervous and as exhausted as the rest of them.
“Whatever,” Jason snaps and settles in. He doesn’t expect to sleep, too much has happened today and he feels like a wrung out dish towel. Bruce slumps into an armchair to watch over his kids, face indistinct. Jason presses his face between the pillow and Dick’s hair until he can breathe again. It smells like Dick’s fruity shampoo and Alfred’s preferred detergent. It smells like Bruce’s sweat and like leather and kevlar. The kids smell like coffee and animals and they all smell like wet cave stones.
It’s too much and Jason tries not to shake as a few tears escape him. He hears Bruce move from the armchair and tentatively brush his calloused fingers through his hair. He doesn't say anything, and Jason closes his eyes and lets the day go, surrounded by something like family.
"Bruce," the Replacement says. "Bruce, wait, hey. Bruce?"
"Sh," Dick shushes the kid.
"No, wait, Bruce I just thought--I just--" Tim gives up struggling free when Damian growls. And then he says:
"What if it's contagious?"
And Jason's eyes snap right the fuck open.