Chapter Text
Blüdhaven’s skyline is beautiful, Dick Grayson absentmindedly thinks to himself. When it’s night, all the city lights illuminate his surroundings. It feels peaceful.
He forgets about all the twisted mess that’s hidden inside, like a maze; Dick seems to keep on hitting dead ends. Those who’ve died, friends or foe, or the next attack waiting to happen. There is poison injected in cities like Gotham and Blüdhaven, and all it echos is kill, kill, kill. It's never ending.
He’s perched on the edge of his building’s rooftop right now, and the wind howls intensely at intervals. A jolt of wind brushes over him, as he feels it in his tired, chilled bones. Blüdhaven’s winds are just what he needs right now to help him stay alert, though. It shocks him to his core. He stifles a quiet yawn, blinking. He knows Nightwing can’t afford to be lacking. There’s too many things happening, and not enough people to accommodate it.
He noticed he’s been getting more groggy. Maybe it’s the 14 hour shifts he’s been pulling at the police department, or the off-call emergencies he responds to anyways. Only to then return to patrol as Nightwing. Or maybe how he can’t remember the last time he’s slept properly, nightmares plaguing his dreams leading him to distract himself, a natural workaholic born. He still pictures a specific spider in his dreams, and she won’t leave him alone. He’s caught in her web, and can’t escape this one. Caffeine seems to be his only solution to avoid it. Or maybe how he has to make time for Tim to hangout because he’s young and still wants to instill some kind of non-fucked up bonding time to make him feel like a regular kid – he can’t mess up, not again. Not this time.
So, Dick Grayson sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, knowing he doesn’t have time. Time ticks, a constant. He feels like he’s running out of it, despite its endless continuity. He leaps off the perch, landing silently, knowing he had a task at hand.
Earlier, Bruce called Dick to let him know he’d gotten some information from Oracle about something alarming that may be happening on his end of the turf. He knew Bruce was busy, he’s got his own city to take care of. So, naturally, Dick does this by himself. When Bruce offered a small report of a bunch of files on his computer, though it may be a stretch due to what little data was in it, he didn’t hesitate a single second to read over it.
Storage units of drugs were getting transported, right to the docks of Blüdhaven at night. Who initialized it? Some rich, foreign scum-bag, but what matters is getting rid of the drugs. He can’t let more circulate in his city, destroying lives. Even if that meant this whole thing was probably gonna take a couple years off his life-span, stress increased by the day.
Dick hides behind a dumpster, scoping the area out at the docks. At the edge, near the body of water, a boat, specifically a mini yacht, is headed towards the docks, eventually to get ready to stop and board. There’s still a good distance though, maybe 15 minutes till it reaches the docks. There, at Dick’s side of the docks, at least 3 men are posted up wearing ski masks– all of them armed with guns, likely assault rifles, and bullet-proof vests. Patrolling a small part of the area.
Bingo, Dick thinks.
Boats are holding the packages of drugs, and he could distract the men patrolling and take ‘em down. Easy work, huh?
Smart enough, he remembered to bring some canisters of tear gas (obviously borrowed from the Batcave), and they’ll come in handy for this. He stands up from where he was crouching, and squints, looking at a rooftop, knowing it’d be a perfect place to roll out some of the canisters. Then swoop in.
He swiftly climbs up the nearest rooftop, hitting the top with a quiet thud, and peers over, seeing all the men directly below him. Nice. This gives him a good vantage point, and–
–He hears the sound of boots stepping beside him, crunching on top of the metal roof, and quickly he whips his head to the side (making a mental note to not give himself whiplash). His eyes scan the scene immediately, his escrima sticks raised quickly, and realization dawns and— it’s Red Hood?
He freezes, like a deer caught in headlights. The hell?
His arms which are holding up his escrima sticks are threatening to fall to his side instead, but he ignores the nagging feeling. Distrust, anger and longing cloud his mind. This is Red Hood, not Jason, he has to forcefully remind himself. Even if it feels like he’s gutting himself.
Hood’s leather jacket reeks of a mix of cigarettes and gunpowder. The street lights are illuminating the side of his helmet, the red metal grooves that shone, and he stands with his arms crossed, leaning. His body language is relaxed, yet he can’t tell if he’d shoot Nightwing right now or give a friendly handshake.
Dick’s grip on the escrima sticks only tighten, and his eyes narrow. Why’s he here? On his turf?
Is Red Hood helping initiate the drug transportation?
Or stop it, Dick’s mind faithfully supplies to ask.
Red Hood speaks, his voice heavier and more static-y through his modulator, “Nightwing.”
Dick eyes him, with distrust. Jas- no, Red Hood is a crime lord. Not his little robin, he has to remind himself. Not when his younger brother has chosen to go down a path in life which is the very same people he has to make sure don’t depreciate Blüdhaven. But the Lazarus Pit… he thinks, a conflict blooming in his chest. Was it really his fault?
“Red Hood,” he addresses him, fully turned. “What brings you here? To Blüd, nonetheless?” Dick’s eyes narrow at him.
Hood lets out a quick laugh, but it falls short. “What, I can’t stop by to say hi to my brother?” he asks, and Dick can’t tell through the modulator what expression is laced through his voice. It sounds taunting, though.
“I didn’t think you’d wanna see any of your brothers considering, y’know, you tried to kill Tim not too long ago.” Dick says, his voice sharp. He wouldn’t forget that, the brutality that Tim recalled Hood fought him with. For fucks sake, Tim’s so young. He doesn’t deserve all this.
“Hey, you can’t blame me for wanting to figure out what the new Replacement is like. I gotta hand it to him though, kid’s kinda smart — surprised he was able to hold up.” Hood stretches while speaking, cracking his back, as if he was merely discussing the local newspaper.
It just enrages him more. “He’s a kid, Hood, jesus– nevermind,” Dick recalls that Jason was a child too, when his last breath was the day he stepped foot in Ethiopia.
“What do you want? I’m kinda busy right now.” he huffs out, still holding his escrima sticks, but they’re looser in his grip. He fixes his gaze on the scene below, trying to seemingly look busy.
Hood straightens up. “I got some business orchestrated here, so you might wanna get along now.”
Dick turns his head back at Hood, and fixes him with a look, his eyebrows knitting together. “Uh, no can-do buddy. I kinda have to do a drug-bust. Plus, this is my turf?” he says, questionably, but also as a statement, his head tilting to the side in curiosity.
Hood sighs, leaning off the side. “Just— stay out of it. I don’t need another Bat meddling in my shit.”
“Hood, cut the crap— what’s going on?” hidden frustration laces in Dick’s tone.
“It’s business that i’d rather not get the fucking Bats warped into. What, you want a taste of what it’s like being a crime-lord? Go ahead, attend my fucking negotiation for me down there—” Hood spits out venomously.
Dick momentarily freezes. “Wait, so did you get the drugs transported here? Or have something to do with it?”
Dick knew Hood was a crime-lord and killer but— a part of him actually thought he would have given up some of it by now. But maybe he’s wrong. Maybe his vision of just wanting to see his little brother again taints reality. After all, Dick has been losing his mind more often that he’d like to admit.
Hood simply seems unphased, and gets closer to Dick, sizing him up, resulting in Dick gripping his escrima sticks, not backing down— or showing any other emotion, with a hard fixed look.
“You wanna know somethin’?” Hood says, a leveled-tone, yet he looks like he may strike—
“Places like Gotham, and Blüdhaven there’s no fixing them, Birdie. The drugs that circulate in these towns? Nobody’s gonna get them out. There’s no jobs available for people other than going into a life revolving around crime, because god forbid a civilian have a normal life. The cops here are all corrupt. Fuckers like Black Mask, Or Blockbuster, none of them are helping. The cycle isn’t gonna fucking stop by itself, Goldie, so for fuck’s sake, somebody’s gotta keep the supply of these drugs clean and out of kids hands and the weapons less lethal because if not you, Or B, who will?” He snaps, loudly.
The thin thread that was hanging in the air felt like it just broke.
Before Dick can register anything, an armed man below them screams, someone’s up there!
Dick’s head snaps back to Hood, and they exchange a glance.
Quickly, Dick goes for his escrima sticks in a tighter grip, and Hood takes his dual pistols out, and both of them hop down. Dick lands on top of one of the armed guards, crashing down with his weight. He places his escrima stick against the man’s neck; they thrash, wildly, kicking, but Dick applies pressure to his neck until he passes out. They crumple to the ground, in an instant. 1 out, 2 more to go. Doesn’t help that the other 2 are likely alerted.
Dick hears a grunt, the sound of someone getting shoved into concrete, and turns his head.
He sees Hood aiming his gun towards the other henchman, towering over, weapon trained at his chest. Dick’s eyes widen, because shit , he can’t let him kill.
“Hood, put the gun down—” his voice gets diminished over a familiar bang, and the body slumps to the ground.
A horrible, horrible feeling overcomes Dick. If Hood had just lowered his gun, but he didn’t—
It sends a jolt down his body like lightning flowing; he knows he can’t let this affect him, not right now in this situation. But he can’t stop the cold dread filling his veins. A part of him ceases to think, but thank god for his deranged mind for having a sort of auto-pilot.
Hood spares him a glance, scrutinizing, before speaking up.
“There’s no blood,” Hood states, and he steps aside, and sure enough, Dick tells from his field of vision that the guard’s chest is miraculously not bleeding out— thank goodness. He finally jerks out of the haze.
“I use non-lethal rounds now,” he continues, pointing obviously at the body. “Still pack lethal ones though, just in case.”
A wave of relief hits Dick, but it’s gone in a blink when he sees another guard charging straight at Hood with a gun.
“Hood— watch out!” Dick springs up, because shit , Hood’s reaction from looking up was too delayed, and swift with agility he throws his escrima stick straight at the man and it hits him in the head, knocking him out cold, hitting the ground, inches away from Hood.
Hood’s head snaps up in alertness, his eyes entirely on the body, still gripping his gun.
Dick gets up, a small, cheeky smile on his face. “C’mon, not even a thank you?” Dick teases, lightly, as he goes over to bend down and grabs his escrima sticks, putting them back on his back.
A beat passes.
“Yeah yeah, whatever. Not bad, Circus Boy.” Hood simply huffs. He’s still stiff but…less. The air feels less tense.
“You weren’t so bad either, Hood.” Dick offers a small smile, before it slowly falters.
It’s raining now, small droplets hitting the side of his face. Looking up, Dick can only imagine bad memories associated with the rain. In a distant part of his mind, he’s still there, on a rooftop, as a spider crawls over him; she wants to suffocate him with faux endearment, and he’s choking on it. He writhes in agony somewhere in his mind, and the feeling never perishes. He can’t do anything, though, or at least now now. He pushes the twisted thoughts away outside his cerebrum, an unwanted ship cruising in his mind.
The rain trickles off of Hood’s leather jacket. It’s a lot quieter without the guards patrolling with their clunky vests now, and the boat carrying the packages are still making their way to the dock. The two of them are silent, and there’s no free flowing aggression floating, despite the both of them jacked with adrenaline. Something’s changed in the air.
“Jay?” Dick murmurs, and it sounds like a question, and quiet. Like he’s teetering off the edge of something. He doesn’t know what. Maybe it’s the uncanny feeling of saying his name after so long, unfamiliarity reeking from his mouth. Maybe he pushed too far. The urge to utter the name felt so prevalent.
He sits down, his back against the building, knowing the shadows will shield him from anyone inside the boat from seeing him due to the distance of arrival. They have a couple minutes, give or take until the boat comes.
“Yeah?” A blur of red, and Hood sits beside him, a metre away.
Dick takes a second to think, his mind articulating words to put in a sentence. A part of him just wanted to say his name again. He doesn’t know why.
“Nothing. Just…” You’ve changed, he wants to say. I’m sorry. I miss you. I miss Jason. Did I fail you? It was my fault, was it not?
He doesn’t know what to say. How is it possible he’s missing someone who’s sitting right beside him, he wonders?
“You could come by on patrols with me to work on a case together.” Like old times, “I know we work differently, but our goals are the same. Or if you just wanna grab breakfast with me and Alfred sometime. No pressure, obviously bu–”
“Dick–,” Hood interjects, tone-leveled, “--I’m not…I can’t, okay?” frustration lingers in his tone.
Distantly, the sound of rain pattering against the ground is the only sound there is for a moment.
“Your brother is dead. We weren’t even—close. You were off-world when I literally died. And I sure as hell don’t remember you guys the same either, especially with Replacement and Demon-Spawn,” He spits the mock nicknames of their younger brothers out with venom, and Dick swears he would see green gleam in his brother’s eyes,“But…” Hood ventures, pressing a button on the side of his helmet, and it flips up.
Dick gets hit with a pang of guilt because fuck, he’s right.
Jason looks older– more mature. Small unrecognizable scars litter the sides of his face. He wants to cradle him and ask him where he got them from. What he’s seen and dealt with from the time gap they haven’t seen eachother in. The feats and struggles. Dick’s searching his face, reminiscing all of him. He wants to soak in the itty bits of youth that remain. He’s grown into his features, though. Rain coats his long eyelashes, Dick notices, as they look at eachother. His eyes are locked onto his brother, as if the rain would whisk him away.
“...I don’t want to come back, Dick. The manor isn’t meant for me. Or just that version of life. Not anymore. Or, at least I don’t think so.” Jason continues, and without the modulator, Dick can still hear the remnants of his younger voice, but replaced with the pained maturity of an adult, now; and it hurts.
Dick’s world freezes for a second, then shatters, and he speaks up.
“Okay,” Dick pauses, suddenly words foreign on his tongue. It came out more automated than he thought. “Just– don’t forget about me and the Bat.” he finalizes, looking at Jason. Jason’s staring back, but it’s not some steely, hard stare; he’s listening, attentively too, at that.
Jason goes silent, but not in the dismissive kind. Jason’s gaze shifts to the ground ahead of him, and lets out a quiet, “Mhm.” He presses a button on the side of his helmet, and it flips back down, covering his face. Dick’s younger brother’s face is now replaced with someone whom he doesn’t know anymore.
Dick already misses his face, wishing he’d left his helmet off for longer, and could chat with his younger brother, but he casts his gaze away, towards the sea, and the boat’s arriving.
Back to business, it seems.
“So, how’d you wanna do this?” Hood speaks up, the modulator masking his true voice, while he tilts his head in the direction of the boat.
Dick’s eyebrows furrow, thinking of recalling the earlier conversation. “Uh, didn’t you mention something about negotiation?”
“It was the plan. I was gonna talk to them–okay, maybe not talk, but get them to hand over the cases of drugs to me. Then I'd see if they’re clean and supply them out under my own,” Hood sighs, “But since you’re here, it doesn’t really work out since Nightwing’s showed up. Wouldn’t look great if you’re caught allowing that…And I know for a fact you’re not gonna dip right now.” There’s no venom in his tone, just factly-stated.
At first, Dick would've gone crazy under the idea of re-supplying clean drugs. They’re still drugs.
But it’s better than drugs laced with lord knows what, given to the wrong hands too. Maybe Hood’s right. His way of reforming towns like Gotham and Blüdhaven are better than what Nightwing and Batman can do. It’s out of their grasp now.
“That’s true, and gosh , we probably make a wacky duo, huh?” Dick gives a smug grin, his head tilted. Hood shakes his head, most likely rolling his eyes underneath the helmet. “Best bet, Jay? We should just detonate the packages. It’d be easier than seizing them all and hauling ass, dontcha think?” Dick suggests.
Honestly, that was a lie; he'd rather go about hauling the packages and dropping them at the police department, old-fashioned and timely, but he knows about Hood’s little reckless tendencies.
Hood contemplates silently, and he can see the boat in the corner of his eye, it’s steadily approaching. He looks back at Dick. “Yeah. Sounds about right.” he nods to the plan, and Dick’s got a grin on his face, reminiscing of times together in the past. It reminds him of when he’d drive little Robin around, sharing crazy stories while on the look-out.
The boat reaches the docks, and it stops. Somebody steps out from inside, an armed man, who anchors a rope from the boat to the dock to board. Dick and Hood watch silently, when alarms go off in Dick’s mind.
The bodies.
The guards they beat up– they’re still there on the ground.
Aaand, the guard from the boat notices them lying on the ground, and immediately shouts to the people inside a warning, all of them now in alert, and Dick looks at Hood.
“So…not stealthy now, I guess?” Dick whispers.
“Dickwing, that option was long-gone when we made the plan to blow up something.” Hood snorts.
Dick laughs, absentmindedly realizing he’s a dumbass.
As the packages are getting ready to be loaded out of the boat onto the dock, Dick makes a mental note of 4, maybe 5 armed men. Shouldn’t be too bad, especially now considering he has Red Hood on his side, an extra hand. The thought of it feels so surreal, but he decides it’s best not to dwell on it.
Scanning the area, an explosion wouldn’t be too bad either. They’re at the edge of Blüdhaven. This drug-bust is gonna play out in their favour.
“Hey, Jay, you do have explosives on you, right? Because I don’t carry those kinda toys on me and–” Dick asks, continuing to ramble, momentarily waiting for a reply; and he’s met with silence. He whips his head to the side, only to realize he hasn’t been talking to anyone.
“Hood?” He glances around the perimeter. Soon, a sigh follows from him, because of course he zeroes in on that idiot Red, and sees him already creeping up the dock, with his dual pistols in both hands, without Dick, planning on doing everything himself. Silently, Dick makes his way towards Hood’s position. The wooden docks are creaking under his feet, and it’s making him internally cringe. Hood sees him in the corner of his eyes, and nods.
Hood lifts a portion of his leather jacket up, and there’s some C4 in a pocket, motioning his hand to it. There’s several other gleaming metal things, and Dick kinda wants to laugh, since his brother’s on some Mr. Gadget shit now. Maybe Bruce shouldn’t have benched him so much since it’s evident Jason watched way too many shows as a kid.
The two of them rush out from the shadows, unveiled, and bullets fire, from the guards that miserably fail to hit Dick, and Hood’s quick shots. Chaos ensues. It feels like watching a gunslinger when he sees Hood, some showdown happening, except no cowboys here and it’s just twisted old Blüdhaven, Dick thinks to himself.
A guard starts firing at Dick, and he quickly goes for cover behind a truck, and takes his time to grab his escrima stickers, and remembers some of the tear gas canisters he brought, as he hears bullets firing in the background. He looks at Hood, who’s in the middle of punching a guy, and knocks them out with an upper-cut, blood from his mouth splatter onto the ground with a tooth knocked out, and Hood spares a glance at Dick. He internally winces at the sight, but Dick shakes the canisters to him, like a little kid with candy to indicate he’s going to use them.
He deploys the tear gas, and quickly rolls them out towards the edge of the docks, where the 3 others are, and they all immediately cease firing, coughing and hacking, defenses down, as the air gets veiled with smoke.
Now’s their chance.
Hood’s helmet shields him from the fumes, and Dick’s got through enough of Batman’s intensive training to withstand it, and together they go 1 by 1 knocking the bodies unconscious. He watches Hood, manipulating the henchmen like rag dolls non-lethally.
He realizes Hood's got a distinct fighting style. He can be swift, his limbs easily coordinating a well strategized move, but then delivers with harsh, unrelenting force. A bit brutal, if you ask Dick. Afterwards, they head inside the boat.
Away from the smoke, the inside’s pretty nice, Dick thinks. Despite being a mini yacht, it’s great. More home-y than he’s used to, at least, considering the kinds of properties he’s used to seeing Bruce lavish himself with.
“Y’know, I kinda would want something like this for myself. Nothing too big, but the interior's great.” Dick ponders, his eyes still taking in the scene. “For a vacation, or somethin’.”
A quiet, deep chuckle comes from Hood. “I mean, you could steal it. Finders keepers, am I right?”
“Oh my, who do you think I am? To steal?” Dick sighs dramatically, a hand over his heart.
“Yeah, like getting hit with one of your sticks are just pool-noodles.” Hood snorts, motioning towards the escrima sticks.
Dick opens his mouth, his pointer-finger in the air, to make a point, when Hood suddenly slaps his hand over Dick’s mouth, mumbling a “Shhh.” Confused, he closes his eyes, listening, and they hear slow creaks, coming from upstairs.
Footsteps, Dick realizes.
“Guess us and those packages aren’t the only things here, right?” Dick whispers, a light grin as Hood lifts his hand away. Hood dismisses him, and quietly goes up the stairs, towards the sound, looking both ways with his hands trained on his gun. Dick can see in the corner of his eye the package, and makes a mental note to mention to Hood where to place the C4’s. Though, technically if he’s planning to blow up the whole boat, it won’t matter. Better to do it at the source, though, in his mind.
Hood heads left of the stairs, and non-verbally Dick agrees to go right, and his escrima sticks in hands, walks towards the source of the sound, appearing to be closer. He hears louder steps, and eventually reaches a door, and it seems to be coming from inside. He puts his hands on the door knob, quietly twisting it.
The rusty metal sound of the twist stops, and he semi-opens the door, and he peeks his head inside. It’s a small guest room, but nobody’s in it. He fully opens the door, walking inside, constantly moving his head back and forth, until he hears shuffling, and it’s coming from the balcony. Bingo.
He creeps up, and slides the door to access the balcony. He can see the coast now, and the smell of the ocean fills his senses; and there’s nobody..?
He turns the other way, off the corner, and smack!
Staggering, Dick sees black for a second, ringing intensifying, as he processes he just got hit in the head with something. His head sears with pain and quickly he puts his escrima sticks up to shield. Despite the dots that are covering his field of vision, he knows to not be vulnerable. Something automatically swings at him, but his escrima sticks deflect it. His vision quickly refocuses, after a couple of blinks.
A rich, plump man in his 50’s wearing a suit holding a bat in front of him. He has wild, big, crazed eyes.
“Get off my boat, you freak– you messed everything up!” the man screams, swinging his bat wildly, aiming for Dick but fails, as he easily dodges. Perks to being raised as an acrobatic.
“Just– calm down mister– sorry about shutting down your little drug transport, but not really–” Dick laughs (despite the headache he has now), turning to the side to dodge, but this time, the man leaps into the room. They collapse to their knees, their back turned, fiddling with something. It’s clanky. A box? Curiosity has Dick stumped, standing there.
Dick’s about to knock him cold, escrima stick raised, when the man flings around from the box, with a gun in his hands, and shit– Dick’s eyes widen because he wasn’t prepared for that, and being a minute too slow, the loud sound of a gunshot overlaps his thinking–
Hot, searing pain envelopes the right side of abdomen, and he staggers. Something akin to a hot coal getting jabbed into him is happening; the pain is going ten-fold the amount it was, and everything just burns.
He tries to grasp something, what? He doesn’t know. But he’s swaying, and everything feels jumbled, his thoughts feeling like they’re melting along with his chest. He can’t hear anything other than the static and sound of blood running in his ears. The smell of copper in the air is making him nauseous, overstimulating all his senses along with the pain. His vision keeps going black, everything tilted sideways, and it takes him a second to register he’s on the ground, and oh, he fell, he realizes.
He got shot.
He’s gotten shot before, but– that doesn’t make it any different on the pain scale. He’s sputtering now, his hands flimsy, feeling like foam, as the small logical smart of his brain is screaming at him to apply pressure to the wound. With his fuzzy vision, he cranes his neck down, hitting his chest, as he looks at his stomach to get a view.
Crimson red trickles from all over the morbid sight, ragged flesh visible. The red blossoms everywhere, like vines, growing onto the floors. His hands attempt to flutter towards the wound, but as soon as he dares to put any pressure on it— his vision bursts, along with his chest he feels. Everything explodes at once, and it doesn’t help that his intestines feel like fire. It feels like a messed up sort of juxtaposition, because the blood that’s coming out feels concerningly cold now. He’s choking, god, he hopes he’s not choking on his own blood, and trying to breathe through it. He’s sputtering, gasping, but all he smells and tastes is iron. His vision’s covered in spots, and he keeps resting his eyes for too long, but he can’t tell if he keeps momentarily falling unconscious or not. The phantom pins and needles covering his body remind him he’s alive.
He thinks he hears another gunshot, since something loud rings out again, and Dick groans. He’d flinch if he had the effort. A pass of red goes across his vision, and how did blood get in his eyes? Hopefully he didn’t get shot in the head. It’s not the greatest feeling.
“Not blood, it’s me–” he hears a familiar voice call out, but it sounds underwater. He can see someone’s knees falling quickly onto the floor beside him. Is Dick speaking out loud? Everything’s slowly amounting to a dull, distant ringing in his ears. Someone's hands, rough, are quickly roaming over his chest, until they feel the spot of where he got shot, and they press down–
Dick screams , as if someone poured gasoline over him and lit him up, and over and over. His legs wildly thrash, and he tries to pull the hands off, but he’s too weak. He hears a string of curses, then replaced with mumbles of sorry’s. No amount of words are helping with the pain, not right now. White, hot bubbling stars cover his vision. The hands wrap something soft, but secure around his torso, tight, eliciting another sputter of gasps, and he’s clutching the floor, digging his nails into the ground to distract him.
He hears another plethora of words, but everything’s starting to fizz out and in, from his vision to his hearing. He registers a distant buzz in pain, but hey, at least it hurts less? He’s not sure if that’s good or bad though.
“ Sto—y– can’t– pass ou– c’mon– ” he hears a grunt of frustration with pleading words, and–
“Ja’sn?” Dick mumbles, not fully there, and realizes his little brother’s helping him. It was his voice. Now he’s convinced it’s fine. Little Wing’s got him. He feels strong arms lift him up, and he thinks he hears a distant explosion, and lets the dark envelope him.
He awakes…being put beside a heater? Something warm, and he cuddles closer.. He leaves his eyes closed because he decides nah, it’s too much work to open them. But fuck,-- the pain in his stomach comes crashing all at once, and it’s too much, and he lets out a gasp– and clutches whatever’s beside him, and hears a voice.
“Dickie? You awake?” he hears above him, all floaty. Their voice is exasperated and concerned, and he can hear them breathing quick, like they’re…running? The warm thing surrounding him is even tighter now. For a second, Dick goes silent, processing, and finally, opens his eyes, and notices that he’s still in his brother’s arms. Carried. Hood feels like a heater. The slight bumping movement is from his running.
Dick silently glad it’s midnight, because if this all went down during the day, the brightness of the sun would probably give him a migraine (or, actually maybe worse than the one he has right now).
“Yeah.” It comes out a lot more hoarse than he’d like to admit. He’s a little upset about waking up so soon. He wished he’d woken up in a cozy bed, filled with painkillers and a cup of tea beside him. But nope. ‘Course Dick Grayson can’t have anything good.
Dick narrows his eyes in thought, still a little lucid. “Hey, what happened?” but it comes out more of a, whuh hap’ened?
Hood’s pace slows down, now walking, and Dick infers that whatever he was trying to get to, they’re there. He can hear him attempting to catch his breath.
“Well, the dude that was behind that drug operation shot you. I took care of him,” Hood adds, not explaining how, “I came to your little rescue because you just proved you’re incapable of taking care of a basic conflict, and I carried you away and set the charges on the packages. Then dipped. And here we are.” Hood finishes, maybe a little too smug for Dick’s liking. Dick nods in response, too tired to reply with a sassy remark.
Dick cranes his neck, carefully, to the side, and sees Hood’s motorcycle. It’s a sports type, and it’s sleek and all-black. Surprisingly for Jason, in great condition too.
“Nice bike, Jay.” Dick adds, slightly in awe.
“I know. I’m not letting anyone damage her.” Hood hints with pride and precaution, patting the bike. He carefully sets Dick down, but as soon as Dick’s feet touch the cement ground, he staggers, seeing double for a second, groaning. Hood immediately reaches a hand out, grounding Dick on the shoulder, guiding him towards sitting on the motorcycle slowly. A radiation of pain is blooming from his chest, and he ignores it. Harsh, rugged gasps sputter from him. At least the gauze that was wrapped feels like a nice cushion; despite it being almost completely soaked through with crimson. Hood simply stares at him, and Dick doesn’t enjoy the feeling of being scrutinized.
“B’s too far and same with Leslie. A ride from Gotham’s gonna take half an hour. I don’t really know if you can afford that right now Goldie, judging from your shape.” Hood huffs out, getting onto the motorcycle, revving the engine. The sound feels horrible against Dick’s ears. He also isn’t exactly sure who Hood’s talking to.
“My apartment isn't too far. Jus’ drop me off there. I’ll be fine.” Dick grits out, wishing he could just sleep. He’d probably knock out as soon as he steps foot in his home. It’s fine. Blood loss can wait.
“Are you crazy?” Hood turns from his seat and asks, quickly. “Just because your blood isn’t gushing out of you right now doesn’t mean you’re fuckin’ fine. It’s just steadily bleeding as we’re speaking right now. And the bullet is still in you. You’re not taking care of this by yourself.” Hood snaps, leaving no room for Dick to speak.
This just– feels so surreal. Is Dick weak?
He’s always the one taking care of others. As it should be, as it’s always been. It’s odd when it’s the other way around.
When Damian has nightmares, he’s the one who gets into bed with him, cradling him until he falls asleep. When Tim’s drained till exhaustion, and exerts himself to the limit, he offers to take over his work and make him tea, or read geeky sci-fi comics with him. When Bruce has a major case, he takes up the other tens that seem minor but are just waiting to hatch into something worse, and has to be a step ahead — or pick his children up from school.
He has to keep pushing himself as far as he can until he snaps, broken.
Hood grabs a helmet and places it on top of Dick’s head for him, and he feels like a little child. “I can put on a helmet, Jason.” Dick pouts, crossing his arms.
“Says the man-baby. Immature child.” Hood taunts.
“I’m literally older than you–”
“Yeah, maybe start fuckin’ actin’ like it.” Hood spits, as he starts the motorcycle, and they pull out of the docks. “You do have first aid at your place, right?” Hood questions, fear of his idiot brother lacing in his tone. They’re riding at a slow pace, for now.
“Yes– Jason– I do,” Dick sighs, “I patch myself up constantly. So, naturally, it’s always restocked.” Dick adds. Usually, he’ll get a text from Bruce every other week asking if he needs any more medical supplies, and swing by.
He has an arm wrapped around Jason’s torso, and another around his own, clutched against his side of his injury. He feels nauseous, but to be fair he has been this whole time.
Hood hums. “I dunno if it was obvious, but I’m comin’ over to patch your side up.”
Dick knows there’s no room for arguing, and simply closes his eyes, resting his forehead against Hood’s back, the leather jacket feeling cool and providing some relief. The cool wind as they ride is brushing against his body, and it feels nice. He’s tired.
Dick murmurs, “Sounds good. Go 4 blocks down left of the police department. Unit 13.” he adds, the place of his apartment. Exhaustion is threatening him to fall asleep, and he yawns.
“Alright,” Hood replies. A beat passes. “You can rest now, birdie. I got you.”
That’s all Dick needed to hear until he promptly passed out, knowing he’s safe.
Dick can’t really remember what happened exactly after. He thinks he woke up from the ride, but started screaming bloody murder because he remembers his brother shushing him to go inside, urging him softly. Everything came in blurs of treading between the realms of consciousness and unconsciousness. He remembers getting inside the bathtub, and in a blink, it was sleek with blood, and metal tools around him, and something small and gleaming in Hood– no, Jason’s hands. The bullet. Dick’s voice was hoarse from…screaming? And Jason was washing down the blood covered-tub and his own stained hands. Then, Jason gave him something to drink. And now, he feels fine.
Well, maybe not fine, considering everything feels fuzzy, but hey, whatever Jason gave him is working. Better than the horrible pain he’d had to withstand for so long.
Senses slowly come to him – first, smell. He's overstimulated with a strong smell of antiseptic. It reminds him of the hospital after a surgery. His eyes crack open, blurry, and he can make-out his shitty apartment, where paint peels off the walls, and he notices that leak from the ceiling that he’s never had the chance to tell his landlord about; it’s been happening for over a week now. He’s on his dingy couch, that’s seen way too many things for its inanimate lifetime. His disoriented state is wearing off. That’s good.
He feels like a marshmallow, when he notices that several wraps of bandages are covering his torso. He’s also wearing an old t-shirt and sweats, and he doesn’t remember putting those on. He feels numbed to the gills, but at least it’s just a dull, buzzing sore pain in his side.
He blinks again, and realizes Jason sitting beside him, by his feet on the other side of the couch. Jay’s helmet is off and on the coffee table, and he’s reading a book, sprawled, with his feet resting on the table. He’s wearing a compression shirt, but must’ve snagged one of Dick’s gray sweatpants from his closet, since he’s wearing them. His hair’s all tousled, akin to taking a nap it resembles. His chin’s resting in his palm, his eyes in the novel. He looks tired, but he’s so focused on his reading it elicits a small, dry chuckle from Dick. He just looks like…him, again. His little brother that he missed. The one that read way too much Shakespeare for someone his age.
Dick’s chuckle catches Jason’s attention, and he places his book quickly down in his lap, and looks at Dick. Jason looks like he’s about to call him crazy – which is fair, considering the second Dick awoke he bursted out laughing. Before Dick can open his mouth, Jason goes to grab a cup of water that was already prepared for on the table, with a straw, and hands it on to Dick.
“Drink.” Jason chides, placing it in Dick’s hands. Complying, he took the cup from his hands. His hands feel weak, and he notices they’re trembling, but Jason never comments on it. He takes a sip from the straw, and fuck, he was dehydrated. He’s sipping on the water, reminding himself not to drink it too quickly so he doesn’t choke, since that’s the last thing he wants. Jason was smart to put the straw there. He puts the cup down after some sips, wiping his mouth.
He smiles at Jason. “So…”
“Nope. I don’t wanna hear any of your yap after I dealt with all the bullshit you put me through.”
“Hey– my yap is great yap, I provide great conversations–”
“Nope. Nadda. Shut up. Also, Dickface, why’s your fridge basically empty?” Jason accuses. His eyes narrow at him. “No wonder you’re so fuckin’ skinny.”
Dick shrugs, but the small movement elicits a wince, and he’s glad Jason doesn’t mention it. “I eat out most of the time. Or eat instant noodles. Why were you going through my kitchen, little wing?”
Jason rubs a face over his hand, ignoring him. “Oh my god. I’m cooking you something,” Jason groans, standing up, “You need real food in you. I’m gonna run to the grocery.” he announces, sliding on his leather jacket. He’s at the door, ready to leave; Dick wants to admit it felt nice to see Jason in his civvies.
“Alright, just– come back quick.” hesitance laces Dick’s words. “I’ll get bored without someone to annoy; I go practically insane on bed rest.” Dick adds, hoping he wasn’t too clingy.
“Don’t care, you’re not allowed to move from that spot.” Jason says lightly, and a beat passes.
“...I’m not going anywhere, Dick.”