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“There you go, it’s alright.”
“M’sorry, s-sorry, m’sorry.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ve already said that.” Jason mutters, no real malice behind his words, as he smooths Dick’s hair back from his forehead.
“Just hang on for a minute, alright?”
The eldest groans, shuddering violently, almost knocking the basin in his lap over.
“H-hurts.” he moans, woeful, a string of drool hanging from his lips.
“I know.” Jason’s quick to dab at it, cleaning his brother’s chin with a damp towel. “Tim’s almost done, hang on, Dickie.”
And Jason wishes he could sound less anxious, he wishes he could keep the worry edging in his voice at bay, but–Tim and Jason, they don’t know what Falcone’s men gave Dick.
All they know, is that one second Nightwing was fine, soaring through the skies, from rooftop to rooftop, tailing two goons, and then– then Tim had found him on one of the rooftops, a few blocks out, gripping at his own head, shaking and writhing as he curled on himself and slurred incoherent apologies and pitiful pleas.
It hadn’t taken long for Tim to find a minuscule rivulet of blood on Dick’s neck, trailing behind his ear, with a tiny needle piercing the skin.
He’d immediately called Jason, and before they knew it, the three were back at Jason’s safehouse– it had been the closest, and they didn’t want to risk bringing Dick to the Manor, on the opposite, far end of the city. It had taken ten minutes at most, and it’d have taken half the time if Dick hadn’t started thrashing and screaming, sounding positively agonised.
That had been fifteen minutes ago. Tim had been quick to pull out the test kit that everyone had been required to keep at their places, by Bruce himself– none of them had objected, at the time. Jason, instead, had immediately settled Dick on the bed, gently prying his domino away as the eldest whimpered and begged him not to.
And now– not much seems to have changed. If anything, Dick’s condition seems to have worsened.
“I d-don’t know w-what–” Dick shakes, “fe-feel w’rd.”
Jason’s eyebrows furrow, gaze darkening with urgency. “Weird how? Like you’re gonna be sick? Pass out? Talk to me– weird how, Dick?”
Because– because those had been Catherine’s exact words before she’d overdosed for the first time. Or, for the first time in front of Jason, anyway.
That had been the first time that Jason had had to call 9-1-1, the first time he’d watched strangers dressed in navy blue break into his house and hook his mother up to loud machines and pointy needles and a small tank of oxygen.
And Jason is no shrink, but he’s fairly certain that seeing all that– that seeing your own mother getting resuscitated, at the age of nine, changes you. It did change him, that, he knows.
Dick’s pained moan snaps him back. “Dunno.” he croaks, “M’chest hurts. And h-head.”
Jason nods, almost frantic. “Okay, that’s okay. I mean– not okay, but I can work with that.” he says, before he guides Dick to sit up against the headboard, keeping a hand on his chest to steady him, the other moving to grab at his knees, one at the time, and bend them.
“Dun’ t’ch me.” Dick shakes.
“Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m done. Is that any better? Does your chest hurt less?” he asks after a moment, still holding his brother up. “Dick?”
A shrug, shoulders quivering. “Dunno. F-feel bad.”
The other nods.
Fucking shit.
“Okay,” Jason breathes out, trying to steady himself, “whatever it is, you’re going to be fine, alright? Tim’s working on it.” he says. Then, louder, over his own shoulder, “Right, Tim?”
“Three minutes!” the youngest screams from the living room, “Hang on, Dick, okay? And keep an eye on Jason!”
Jason snorts at Tim’s attempt at lightening the mood. “Yeah, right, as if Dickhead here could ever stop me.” he says, offering a weak grin to Dick, who doesn’t really seem tuned in.
“Dun’ t’ch me, pl-pl’se.” he whispers, barely audible, over and over.
Jason’s heart clenches uncomfortably, and he’s quick to press two fingers against the back of his wrist, radial artery throbbing rapidly under his touch. Jason hisses. Dick’s eyes are open, and he’s fairly certain that the man’s conscious, even if not coherent, but his pupils don’t track, and his heart seems to be effectively racing towards failure– Jason counts an average of a hundred and ten beats per minute at rest.
That’s not right. Fuck.
He watches as Dick slowly brings a hand to his own crotch, grabbing at it. Jason cocks an eyebrow.
“Hey, what is it, Dickie? You gotta go?” he asks, kind, “I got a bedpan somewhere–”
Dick squirms, eyes wide. “N-no, no, pl’se.”
“Okay, okay. I can take you to the bathroom if you prefer. Can you walk?”
“N-no, I– pl’se, stop, s-stop it.”
And Jason– he’s panicking. Because it’s evident that Dick’s fighting against something, someone, only he can see, and that this someone is– touching him in a way that Jason hopes, prays he misunderstood.
Tim’s in the doorway, now, fanned. “I got it.”
Jason turns around, still perched on the bed. “Fucking finally. So?”
“It’s truth serum.” Tim says, plain. “Crane’s.”
Jason’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Are you–”
“I triple checked.” he cuts, “I didn’t think it was possible either, given that his symptoms have nothing to do with truth serums, but… Essentially, it appears to only work when the, huh, patient is explicitly asked to answer.”
“And the hallucinations?”
“Psilocybin, I think.”
Jason clicks his tongue. “Fucking hell.”
Tim then moves closer, crouching on the floor, next to the bed, eyes trying to meet Dick’s. “My theory’s that he’s repressing it.”
“And it’s making it worse?”
A nod. “And it’s making it worse.”
Jason looks at Dick, eyelids fluttering, thighs locked together protectively.
“Dickie–”
“N-no, no, s’fine, d-don’t t’ch.”
Tim makes a move to pat at Dick’s knee, to get his attention, but Jason’s quick to gently swat it away, shaking his head as he mouths ‘no’. Tim nods, apologetic, and drops his hand.
“Dick,” Tim calls, tone firm, “Dick, hey, listen. You got dosed with truth serum. Don’t fight it. The more you go against it, the more it hurts.”
A shake of the head. “C-can’t, pl’se, I c-can’t– let me go, pl’se.” he breathes out, low, visibly exhausted.
Jason swallows the lump in his throat, side-eyeing the youngest. “Antidote?”
A shake of the head. “It’s got to run its course. I’m sorry, Dick.”
And that’s when the eldest starts sniffling. He doubles over, slow, and Jason’s hands itch as he represses the urge to hold him upright. Tim, too, watches silently as Dick lets out a stifled sob, guttural, violent. His nails drag along the skin of his arms, leaving faint, white trails.
“Don’t do that.” Jason calls, trying to sound calm, “Just talk to us, okay?”
Dick shakes his head, movements frantic, “Ca-can’t.”
“You have to.” Tim says, eyebrows arched in worry, “Dick, whatever it is, just let it out.”
The eldest moans, voice wet, hands moving from his arms to his face as he scratches at it– hard.
“Dick!” Tim shrieks, his own hands hovering near Dick’s.
“Hey, hey, put those hands down.” Jason bellows simultaneously, eyes wide. “Dick. Stop doing that, now.”
Dick’s shoulders hunch further. “Go ‘way.”
“Not a chance. You have to be thankful I’m not putting your ass on suicide watch right fucking now.” Jason says, “Speak to us, man. Whatever it is, just– it’s fine, okay? You know how these things work. Spill what your brain’s fighting hard to block out, and the side-effects of the serum will subside. Let it out.” he explains, slow.
Tim nods encouragingly, even if Dick can’t see that.
A few minutes pass, and– Dick doesn’t ‘let it out’. He shakes and cries and dry heaves– Jason has to hold the basin for him when the eldest keeps quaking incessantly.
Tim mutters an apology to Dick’s deaf ears as he takes his wrist, and lets it drop gently onto the mattress again after a few moments.
Dick starts shaking harder at that, pupils pinpoint.
“I think we should call Bruce.”
Jason’s head snaps towards him. “No. Not now.”
“Jason–”
“He would’ve asked for it.” he says, and before Tim can interrupt, “Had he wanted B here, he’d have explicitly asked for him like he always does.”
Tim lets out a sigh, running a hand through his own hair. “Alright, okay. But he’s not– this isn’t going anywhere, Jay.”
The other inhales, then exhales, heavy.
“I really don’t want to do this.” he starts, hesitant, “But if we ask him some random questions regarding whatever he’s seeing–”
“Unless you feel like administering CPR to your brother, don’t.” Tim hisses, “Not that the whole thing’s going any different, anyway.”
Jason curses under his breath. “Right, okay. Okay, sorry.” he stands.
He paces back and forth for a minute, hands on his hips, before he returns to his spot on the bed. Tim watches, quiet.
“What are you seeing?”
“No, Jas–”
“Her.” Dick mutters automatically. And as soon as that single syllable leaves his lips, his eyes widen, head snapping up. “N-no, don’t– stop, pl’se, d-don’t ask.”
The eldest’s hands raise and before they can stop him, he starts pulling at his hair– the other two swear they can hear the strands snap.
Tim clenches his fists, teeth grinding to dust, “Jason, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“I don’t like this either, okay?” Jason snaps, livid, scared, “But let’s just– rip the bandaid, or whatever.”
“Rip the bandaid?” Tim breathes out, “He’s going to have a fucking heart attack, you idiot!”
The other shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut in pain, because of course he hates doing this to Dick, of all people, of course he hates seeing him so terrified and broken. But Jason would rather trigger him now, when he’s there to help, than read on the news of how Nightwing was found at the bottom of Gotham Harbour.
“Who’s ‘her’, Dick?” Jason asks. Tim buries his face in his hands, tongue clicking.
Dick whimpers, high-pitched, “Tarantula– f-fuck, J-Jay, pl’se, h-hurts–” he moans, bringing a hand up to his heart, clenching at his uniform. “D-don’t, pl’se–”
“Tarantula?” Jason cocks an eyebrow.
Tim looks at Dick through his fingers. “Catalina Flores?” he asks Dick. Then, to Jason, “I read her name in his file. She was involved in Blockbuster’s mur–”
Dick screams.
It’s raw, agonised, heart-wrenching, and as he screams, he pounds his fists against his head, with more force than he thought he possessed now.
“Dick!” Jason yells, then immediately grabs his brother’s hands, prying them away forcibly as the eldest tries to pull them closer to his own chest.
“Stop, pl-se, let–”
“Dick,” Tim speaks. Nausea churns at the pit of his stomach. “Dick, what did she do?”
“No, no no no no–”
“How the fuck is he doing this? He shouldn’t be able to fight it.” Jason mutters, bewildered, still fighting against his brother as he thrashes under his hold, “Dick, answer. What did she do? Do we have to kill this bitch?”
“N-no, she r– no, pl’se.” the eldest sobs, loud, “Don’t make me say it, d-don’t–”
“Don’t make you say what?” Tim asks shakily, “Dick, don’t make you say wh–”
“I’m going to– kill her.” Jason seethes, and Tim stills.
“Did she rape you, Dick?” Jason asks.
“Yes.” Dick grits out. Then, he doubles over, bile instantly soiling his lap.
“Oh, Dick–”
“M’sorry, m’sorry, I should’ve– sorry, m’sorry, let m’go, pl’se, I–” his stomach spasms again.
And Jason does let go his wrists at this point, own hands trembling. He meets Tim’s gaze, and realises that they’re essentially mirroring each other’s, blind rage ever consuming– Tim’s being less green than Jason, but just as dangerous.
“S-she–” Dick starts again, snapping them out of their stupor, because Dick’s not been asked another question, he doesn’t need to go on, they don’t need to know any more.
“She k-kill’d Blockbuster ‘cause I stepped a-aside and she–” his chest heaves, heart hammering in his ears so loud that he can’t hear his own words, he doesn't know if he’s saying them out loud, he can’t–
“...roof and it w-was raining an-and I…” he keeps talking and talking and talking until his throat is dry and bleeding, eyes blind, ears deaf as he speaks.
“...my h-hi-hips and I c-couldn’t say no, she j-just…”
His face is wet.
“...motel a-and I don’t know ho-how long…”
Someone calls his name, someone grabs at his shoulders and shake him, someone pats his cheek lightly and someone’s hands cards through his hair, and their touches burn–
“...saying no, I tr-tried, I did, b-but she…”
The world swirls, drenched in rain and grey and pain, the stench of sweat and sex making his vision tilt, tongue coppery.
A hand sets itself on his knee.
And Dick blacks out.