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The ringing of his cell phone startles Jason straight out of his bed. He tries to get up, makes an undignified noise when his legs get tangled in his blanket, and promptly faceplants on his bedroom floor.
The phone is still ringing. Jason groans, disentangles himself, and gets up. A glance at the bedside clock reveals it to be 6:03 in the morning. A glance at the phone screen reveals the identity of the caller.
It’s Dick.
Jason stares at his phone, debating whether or not he wants to pick it up. On one hand, Dick woke him up. On the other hand—6 AM is an unusual time to call. Calls between 8 PM and 5 AM are usually urgent. Calls from 10 AM to 4 PM can be ignored, because most of them are Dick’s attempts to drag him into some family bonding activity. But 6 AM? Jason’s usually asleep at this time, worn out after a long night of vigilantism. So why is Dick calling?
With a sigh, Jason plucks the phone off the table and answers the call. “What,” he grinds out.
“Jay!” Dick’s voice filters through the speaker, breathy and surprised. “You—you picked up!”
Jason has no patience for whatever shit Dick’s pulling. “Dickhead, why did you call me at six in the morning?”
Dick has the nerve to sound sheepish. “Uh. Sorry. Were you busy?”
“I was sleeping.”
“Oh. Whoops.”
Jason almost hangs up then and there, but he stamps down the urge and settles for pouring as much vitriolic irritation into his words as he can. “I’m gonna ask again. Why the fuck are you calling me?”
Dick’s quiet for a long moment. Then he says, softly, “I wanted to hear your voice.”
Jason stares at the wall. “...What.”
“I wanted to hear your voice,” Dick repeats earnestly—but Jason’s beginning to notice an odd cadence to his voice, a slight lull that has his words slurring together. He pulls the phone away from his ear to squint at it.
“Dick, are you drunk?”
Dick lets out a hiccuping laugh. “Maybe,” he answers, and his words are definitely slurring together now. “I just really wanted to hear you talk. Missed you, Little Wing.”
Jason ignores the way his cold, dead heart warms by one degree. “Out of all the people you could’ve drunk dialed,” he says flatly, “you picked me.”
“Actually, I called Damian first. He didn’t pick up.”
“Because it’s six in the morning on a Saturday, Dickhead. Why the fuck are you drunk at six in the morning?”
Dick is quiet.
“Dick, I swear I’ll hang up—”
There’s a shaky inhale from the other side of the call. A tingle creeps up the back of Jason’s neck.
“Dick,” he says slowly, “are you drunk?”
Dick says nothing. Alarm bells start ringing in Jason’s head.
“Where are you?” he demands.
“Home,” Dick says.
“The Manor?”
“...No. Bludhaven.”
Jason moves towards the clothes tossed haphazardly over the back of his chair. “You’re in your apartment at Bludhaven?”
The only answer is strained, stuttering breaths. The alarm bells turn into klaxons.
“Dick, where the hell are you?” Jason barks, tossing the phone onto the table so he can pull on his jacket. When Dick doesn’t answer immediately, he snarls. “I swear to god— ”
“...I don’t know,” Dick whispers. “Doesn’t matter. You won’t…get here in time.”
“Won’t get there in time for what?” Jason yanks on his boots and is out the door in seconds. His motorcycle’s hidden a block away. If he can just—
“Blud’s half an hour from Gotham,” Dick murmurs. His words are getting quieter. “You won’t find me in time.”
Jason pulls up Dick’s suit tracking data on his phone with one hand. His other hand is preoccupied with wrestling his motorcycle helmet onto his head. The interior headset lets out a pleasant ding! as the call connects to the helmet’s bluetooth. “Shut the fuck up, Dick—what the hell happened to you?”
He temporarily minimizes the tracking data to slam out an SOS to the rest of the Batfamily along with Dick’s coordinates, then gets right back to the map. Fuck, Dick isn’t just in Bludhaven—he’s in the center, which adds at least another fifteen minutes to Jason’s drive. And from the looks of it, the rest of the family is even further away.
Dick’s right. None of them will get there in time.
“They chased me. I got shot,” Dick murmurs. “Then fell off a roof. I…can’t feel my legs. Think I’m bleeding out.”
Jason fights down his rising panic. “I’m on my way,” he says, steady and even and only slightly choked. “What were you even doing? How did you get shot?”
“Been tracking down this gang.” Dick’s words are shorter now, more strained. “They were—pressuring kids. To join. Stumbled ‘cross their hideout by accident, and…”
He trails off. Jason’s heart lurches. “Dick? Dick!”
“‘M here,” Dick mumbles before Jason can spiral into full-on panic. “S’rry. Passed out for a bit.”
Jason pushes his motorcycle to full throttle, ignoring the shouting and cursing from other drivers and pedestrians as he zips by them. “If you pass out on me again, I’m telling Alfred where you hide that sugary monstrosity you call cereal.”
“Hey,” Dick protests, but is apparently unable to muster up a stronger response. Jason grits his teeth.
“Talk to me,” he says. “Stay awake.”
“Don’t have much to talk about.” Dick’s next inhale shakes. “I can describe this alley—”
“Yeah. Do that.”
Dick obliges. “Lots…lots of trash here. No dumpsters, though. Guess Blud has a littering problem. The walls are brick. Black. Can’t tell if it’s—paint, or the lighting, or—dirt—” he breaks off into a coughing fit. It subsides with something between a laugh and a sob. “This is a shitty place to die, Jason. I don’t want to die here. I…I don’t want to die.”
“I’m pretty sure most of the family agrees with you,” Jason deadpans. His nonchalant tone is at odds with the racing of his heart. “We didn’t give you permission to die, Dickhead. So stay awake.”
“‘M so tired,” Dick mumbles. “I just…”
“Dick.”
Dick clears his throat, then makes a quiet sound of pain. “I can see…the sky,” he tells Jason. “It’s getting lighter. Sun’s coming up, right?”
The sun’s rays slash through the visor of Jason’s helmet as he makes a turn. “Sun’s already up,” he says.
“Oh. The…the buildings are—blocking it, I guess.” Dick’s voice trembles. “Jason…does it hurt? The after?”
Jason’s going double the speed limit on the freeway connecting Gotham and Bludhaven now. The question slams into him like a speeding truck, and for a moment, he just stares at the road ahead, mouth agape. His motorcycle nearly drifts into the rightmost lane, but he drags it back at the last second.
“Jason?”
The thing is, Jason doesn’t remember what comes after. He’s not sure if there’s even an “after” at all. If it does exist, he sure as hell doesn’t know if it hurts or not.
But dammit, Dick is bleeding out in an alleyway and Jason’s not going to make it in time. So Jason takes a deep breath, sets his jaw, and lies to his big brother. “Doesn’t hurt,” he says. “It’s peaceful. Like sleeping.”
“Oh.” The emotion in Dick’s voice is unreadable—some jumble of relief and grief and fear. “That’s…good.”
“Living’s better, though,” Jason tacks on, because he hates how resigned Dick sounds. “What else can you see?”
“Um. The—the sky—it’s…cloudy today. Gray. Everything’s going blurry, I, I—Jace, I don’t think…I can talk much more.” Dick’s voice is small. “Jus’..stay with me? Please?”
Jason’s eyes burn. “Yeah. Yeah, big bird. I’m here. I’m right here.”
“Thank you,” Dick whispers. Then, even softer, he adds, “Love you, J’son.”
Jason swallows around the lump in his throat. “...You’re an asshole,” he mutters, and is rewarded by a soft huff of laughter—which turns into a strangled groan of pain. Jason’s heart stutters in his chest. “Oi. Dick. Dickhead.”
The only answer is a tired grunt. Jason really should get a cheaper helmet, because the Bluetooth in this one picks up the sound of Dick’s gurgling breaths all too well. “Dick,” he snaps.
This time, there’s no response.
“Dick. Dickiebird. Richard John Grayson. Don’t you dare fall asleep on me. Don’t you fucking dare. I don’t want to be the oldest, you hear me? I don’t—I’m not cut out for that, Dick, so just say something—”
His voice cracks. The call is silent. Totally, completely silent. Jason can’t even hear Dick breathing anymore.
He looks down at his phone. There are a string of alerts from the other members of the Batfamily—questions, probably. Concerns about Jason and Dick’s wellbeing. Even after breaking nearly every traffic rule along the route, Jason’s still ten minutes out from Dick’s location.
Ten minutes too late.
Jason clutches the handlebars of his motorcycle, turns the throttle even further, and screams. And screams. And screams, hurling jumbled profanity and insult and pleas into the call. But still nobody responds—not even to hang up, because the person on the other end is fucking dead. Jason’s on call with a corpse.
His screaming turns into hysterical laughter. Or maybe he’s crying. It’s hard to tell. If Dick heard him, he’d try to help. Offer him one of those stupid hugs that Jason refuses to admit he likes, or crack a stupid joke to distract him or just murmur soothing nonsense until he’s calm again. But Dick’s not around to help anymore. Dick’s dead.
Nonetheless, Jason doesn’t hang up the call until he gets to the coordinates. Bludhaven’s streets are just as confusing as Gotham’s, which means it takes Jason even longer to find Dick and when he finally does—
His body moves on autopilot, nearly falling off his motorcycle in his haste to get to Dick’s side. “Dick,” he croaks, tearing his helmet off and ending the call in one motion. “Dick, I’m here. I’m here. I made it.”
Dick doesn’t move. Jason blinks and finds himself on his knees, Dick’s cold, stiff hand clutched in his own.
“Asshole,” he chokes out. “Woke me up, and now you won’t even let me return the favor?” His gaze slides over to Dick’s face, and it’s a terrible idea, he doesn’t need to know what Dick felt in his final moments—but—
—but Dick’s lips are curled upwards in a tiny, tiny smile. It’s a smile Jason remembers from long ago, before the Joker—the smiles he’s seen Dick shoot Tim and Damian. It’s the fond smile Dick reserves for his brothers, the one that says you’re all terrible, but I love all of you anyway.
“Love you too,” Jason whispers.
Dick doesn’t say it back.
Jason presses Dick’s hand to his forehead, closes his eyes, and weeps.