Work Text:
The locker room clears quickly after Mark leaves for the Winner's Room. Everyone is eager to get back home and Dick can't fault them. It was a hard game. Getting some good rest before training tomorrow is probably the best way to get over the loss.
He lingers behind, saying goodbye to his teammates as they leave, taking a minute or two to make it more personal. This part of capitancy has always come easy to Dick. People are easy, and Dick is, at his core, a performer.
He loves the C on his uniform, but there's weight to it, too. There's more to being captain than talking to the press and boosting team morale when they're feeling down. The losses feel like personal failures, especially in Gotham. Nothing sucks more than losing on their home turf. Their fans are devoted, but also cruel when they lose.
Mark's words and certainty help: telling Dick that he wasn't off his game, that he played the best as he could, that this isn’t on him. He clings to them, even though he can't quite silence that other voice in his mind—Bruce's voice—telling him that he should have done better. That if he'd truly wanted the win, he would have made it a reality.
"Fuck you, too, Bruce," he whispers to himself, closing his locker, glad to be alone.
A quick glance at the clock on the wall shows him that Mark only left about fifteen minutes ago. It feels longer.
He doesn't have to wait. Mark probably doesn't even want him to. He and Midnighter are good friends. This isn't one of those Winner's Rooms in which Dick has to worry about something going wrong.
It makes staying in the locker room harder. There's really no excuse for Dick not to go out there, to try to find Jason, to talk to him.
'Apologize.' Mark's advice echoes in his mind over and over.
He exhales and lets his forehead rest on the cold beam beside his stall, gathering his courage. He straightens, gathers himself , then heads down the hallway toward the visitors' locker room, unsure if he wants Jason to still be there or wants him to be gone.
He leaves the decision to the hockey Gods… assuming they’re even looking at him when he’s no longer on ice.
It turns out the hockey Gods are looking at him all right, and probably laughing their asses off at Dick's expense because the moment Dick arrives, Jason is coming out of the visitors' lockers, surrounded by his teammates, laughing.
He looks happy. Settled. It hurts somehow, even though Dick can't quite figure out why. If someone deserves happiness is Jason.
The laughter drains away from Jason's face like water from a cracked glass the moment he notices Dick. Only then does Dick realize that he's been lying to himself. Deep down inside he wanted Jason to be gone to avoid this confrontation.
Yup, the hockey Gods are laughing right in his face tonight. First the loss on home ice and now this.
"Hey, Little Wing," Dick greets Jason softly, masking the uneasiness with a smile. It's served him well before, that smile, over the years he's learned to wield it like a weapon.
"Dick," Jason says curtly. Just that. Not even the hint of an opening.
Something warm unfurls in Dick's chest. That initial wariness is so Jason. He's grown taller and broader, incredibly so, but he's still the same Jason that barely came up to Bruce's waist. The same kid with stars in his eyes and dreams bigger than his skates.
It soothes Dick. Whatever happens tonight, whatever the outcome, coming here to confront Jason was the right call. Mark was right, because of course he was. He owes this much to the younger version of Jason. It's odd how so much of Jason's absence in his life defined the man that Dick has become. Those first months with the C on the uniform, trying to be the leader his team could rely on, it was Jason he thought of the most. All the things he did wrong with the kid, the way he took out so many things on Jason back then: his anger at Bruce, his own insecurity. Things that were never Jason's fault to begin with.
And yet, with Jason standing here in the hallway, glaring at him, Dick finds it exceedingly difficult to keep right on being the man he's fought so hard to become.
"Do you have a moment?" he asks anyway.
Jason’s teammates close ranks around Jason, a protective unit. Dick isn't the only one reading Jason's fuck-off-and-die signals loud and clear.
"The bus is waiting," Apollo says: a Captain protecting his team member, a player covering his linemate. Dick’s been there before, standing where Apollo is. "We're in a hurry." He’s said those words, stared someone down just the same.
He has to bite back the grin that wants to spread over his face. Apollo might have wanted to protect Jason, but he's just done Dick the biggest favor ever. If there's one thing Jason has always been allergic to, it's people telling him what he should and shouldn't do off the ice. If Bruce couldn't manage it, back when Jason thought the man hung the moon and the stars, Dick doubts Apollo will. Especially not with this version of Jason, who carries himself with all the confidence in the world.
"It's okay, Cap," Jason says. "I know my way around Gotham. I'll find the way back to the hotel myself. Go ahead."
Apollo looks slightly surprised even if he hides it well. It’s clear he hasn't tried to boss Jason around off the ice too much or he'd have known that Jason's never been one to let others fight his battles for him. Dick watches the silent exchange between the two of them, the gazes that speak more than any words ever could. Finally Apollo tips his chin up and says, "All right. But call if you need anything."
"Sure," Jason agrees, his words easy.
There's still the briefest hesitation on Apollo's part before he starts walking again. The rest of the team follow along after him like ducklings, leaving Jason behind. The voices fade down the hallway, little by little.
"You wanted to talk," Jason says, crossing his arms, face closed-off. "So talk." It's a gauntlet thrown, a dare more than invitation, and Dick realizes that for all he came here wanting to talk, he doesn't have the first clue what to say.
"You were great out there. That last goal was beautiful." It was. He's pretty sure everyone will be talking about that shot for weeks to come. He won’t be the slightest bit surprised if it’s one of the goals that makes the rounds for years to come, gracing every compilation ever to be made.
Jason's cheeks pink slightly. "Apollo's assist made it possible," he shrugs the compliment off, uncomfortable with the praise.
"The assist helped," Dick corrects, "but not many could have scored from that angle with two Ds breathing down their back. That takes skill."
"Skill you didn't think I had." Jason fires back, his jaw tightening.
That's not what Dick meant, but it's an opening, and Dick excels at exploiting those, on ice and off.
"On the contrary." He allows the weight of his Jason-shaped regrets to show on his face. "I knew you had it. That's why I was an ass to you." He shrugs, waving his hands in a what-the-fuck-do-I-know gesture. "It scared me, how quickly and effectively Bruce replaced me. How quickly he could find someone just as good, if not better, when he'd made me believe I was unique. Special." He whispers the final word, showing Jason the world of his vulnerability under that statement.
Admitting it out loud it's the hardest part. It releases a shame Dick has been carrying within himself for too long. "I was an ass for taking it out on you, when it was really between me and Bruce." He exhales, letting go of the weight of his guilt. "I was sixteen and stupid. Not the best defense out there, but for what little it's worth, I'm sorry."
Jason's face is unreadable. The silence stretches between them, growing more uncomfortable with every passing second.
"Alright," Jason finally says. "You're sorry. It still doesn't tell me what you want."
Dick doesn't know what he wants either. He feels like a fumbling teenager standing here, in this hallway that feels so foreign despite being so familiar. "Nothing. I just… I needed you to know that." He can’t help the chuckle of self-depreciation as the words leave his mouth. "I guess I didn't learn much during the last few years. Here I am again, throwing a me-problem at you and… I'll leave you to be. Sorry to have bugged you."
Coming here was stupid. Foolish. What was he thinking would happen? That he’d apologize and the world would right itself and all his problems would be carried away? He turns to leave, and his shoulders sink as he thinks of the long, lonely night that awaits him in his apartment with nothing but his thoughts for company.
"Dick," Jason calls when he's almost at the end of the corridor.
Dick freezes in place and his pulse rises, adrenaline shooting through his veins like a shockwave. "Yeah?" he asks, tentative.
"I do get it," Jason says, coming to a stop beside him. "Bruce's attention. It's a heady thing. And when it's gone…" he trails off. "I probably would've been an ass to my replacement, too, had Bruce ever bothered to introduce us."
Dick's lips twitch. "Tim is a nice kid. He's absolutely starstruck with you, so chances are you can meet him, be extra mean to him, and he'll still ask you for an autograph or something."
"Great," Jason says warily, "I want to meet him even less now. Thanks, but no thanks."
Dick laughs, the sound of it echoing down the corridor. To his surprise, Jason joins in. "The autograph thing is weird, isn't it?"
"Tell me about it," Jason says with feeling. "But it's kinda cool, too."
"Yeah," Dick agrees. After a moment he adds, "I'm glad you're here, Jason. I'm glad you decided to come back after all. Bruce is a fucking ass and half the time I don't know if I'm pissed off or glad he found me. But whatever else, you have to give the man one thing. He’s got an eye for talent. He was right about you. You belong in the NHL. You belong here. Don't ever let anyone tell you differently, especially not stupid sixteen-year-olds too jealous to know better."
"You needn't worry about that," Jason snorts. "I didn't let Bruce tell me differently. I'm here now in spite of him, am I not?"
"Bruce?" Dick asks, confused.
Jason glares at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. "Come on, you know what he did after my injury."
"No, I don't," Dick admits, bewilderment lacing his voice. "I was at the Olympics when it happened. Bruce never even told me you'd been injured. I only found out after my return. I was so furious with him, but he said he didn't want me to worry, 'cause I had to 'stay focused on the games'," Dick parrots, mimicking Bruce's paltry excuse. "I wanted to visit you, but you'd disappeared. Bruce told me you were done with hockey and to respect your decision."
Jason laughs, but his laughter sounds like glass shattering, coated in sharp edges, ready to cut and draw blood.
"It wasn't my decision," Jason spits. "It was his. He said the injury couldn't be fixed and that even if it could, I'd never play as good as before. He told me to forget hockey and move on. Then he left and never came back. None of you did. Not even Alfred."
Dick's first irrational instinct is to defend Bruce, to say he hadn't meant it like that, that Jason must have misunderstood somehow. He holds it all back, reaches up to rub his face instead. He’s bone-deep tired, feeling every sore muscle, every bruise of the game.
"Fuck," he mutters at long last. And then more passionately, "Fuck. Of course he did." Because for all that Dick wishes he could claim otherwise, he knows Bruce better now. The man is obsessed with hockey. Finding new prospects and getting them NHL ready is all he cares about. A constant rotation of the newest, shiniest, best waltzing through his doors.
He'd like to think that if he'd been the one with the injury, Bruce would have reacted differently. But the cold, hard truth is that Dick doesn't believe that for a single second. Not really. Bruce dropped him, too, as soon as Dick was drafted and there was nothing more for Bruce to gain. It’s part of the pain, part of why he aches inside every time he thinks of Bruce. Part of why he lashed out at Jason the way he did.
He exhales, and huffs out a breath. "Well, you sure as shit showed him."
"The jury’s still out on that," Jason says.
Dick stares at him incredulously. "No, it's not," he returns with utter conviction. "You've already shown him. I know they don't let you Google yourself, and you really shouldn't because that way lies madness, but Jason, if you won't believe anything else I say today, believe this: You're writing history, Little Wing. And every time you go out on the ice and score, you write another page. So, fuck, Bruce."
Jason's lower lip quivers for a second before he rolls his shoulders back and breathes out, "Fuck, Bruce." His exhale is a wry chuckle. "You know, if someone had told me three years ago that this would be the first thing you and I would agree on, I wouldn't have believed them."
The ridiculousness of it strikes Dick too and he snorts. "Well, we're wiser now."
"So much wiser." Jason rolls his eyes. "Look, I gotta go, or Apollo will start to worry."
"Sure." Dick recognizes it for the excuse it is. "Do you want my number? You don't have to call or text or anything, but if you ever want to trash talk about Bruce, I'm probably one of the few out there who'll get it."
Jason hesitates for a moment. "Alright, but don't give him my details. I mean, he's B, he probably can get them if he truly wants, but—"
"I get it. No need to explain," Dick reassures him.
"Here," Dick gives Jason one of those stupid business cards Bruce insists he needs to carry as the face of the franchise and Jason pockets it. "Don't be a stranger, Little Wing."
Jason wrinkles his nose in a gesture so familiar that Dick's heart aches to see it. "I'll try, but you know…" he gestures at the world around them.
"Yeah, I do know." It's hard to keep in touch during the season, even when you want to. "Good-bye, Little Wing. Go fucking show them. Show him."
Jason smiles and it's his genuine, shy smile, the one he seldom shows anyone. It feels like a small victory.
Dick watches him disappear down the corridor with fondness, the heavy weight on his heart lifted. Beneath that, where guilt used to sit, a new, darker emotion brews. Fury at Bruce. Behind it rests a renewed determination to be there for Tim and Damian. He doesn't want them to go through the same thing he and Jason did.
He heads towards the parking lot, makes it all the way to his car and then stops, watching the interior lights come on and then slowly fade away to black when he takes too long to open the door. The prospect of his lonely apartment is too much to bear. He doesn't want to spend the night tossing and turning, thinking nonstop about Bruce, analyzing every memory he has of his mentor, wondering if the older man would have turned his back on Dick, had he been the one injured. Trying to understand Bruce is like trying to find firm ground on quicksand. An exercise in futility.
He presses the key fob and the car beeps, locking the doors and turning itself off. With wary feet Dick makes his way through the stadium back to the team's locker room and sits down to wait.
Maybe he's wrong about this thing growing between Mark and him, but he'd rather be wrong and know, than be right and never find out. He pulls out his phone to kill the time while he waits for Mark to return from the Winner's Room.
There's one unread message from a new, not-stored number. Dick taps on it and grins when he reads: Wildstorm rule. Gargoyles suck.
He saves the contact under Little Wing and fires back: What r u? 12?
His phone helpfully informs him that, 'Little Wing is typing…' and Dick's grin widens while he waits, feeling lighter than before. Maybe, just maybe, this day won't be a complete waste.