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The alley reeked of damp concrete and rat piss. Red Hood moved like a storm, a flurry of fists and heavy boots, each strike precise, unforgiving. Nightwing, a blue streak, danced through the chaos, his escrima sticks singing against bone. They were a well-oiled machine, dismantling the gang with ruthless efficiency. Jason slammed a goon face-first into a dumpster with a brutal crunch, then spun, his gun clattering to the ground, dislodged during the close-quarters skirmish. He bent—a quick, economical movement—to snatch it up. The denim of his jeans stretched taut, riding low on his hips.
Dick, mid-kick, froze. His foot hung in the air. A flash of vibrant scarlet, impossibly delicate, peeked from beneath the waistband of Jason’s jeans. Not the tactical red of his gear, but something… lace. A tiny, ruffled edge of it, peeking out from beneath the rugged denim. A thong. Frilly. Red. The image seared itself into Dick’s brain. His breath hitched. A jolt, hot and sudden, arced through him, stunning him senseless. His balance evaporated. His elevated leg, forgotten, wobbled. He tripped over his own feet—a gasp escaping his lips—and face-planted hard into the grime-slicked asphalt.
The burly goon he’d been mercilessly pummelling, now dazed and sprawled on the ground, blinked. He wiped blood from his lip, staring at the vigilante currently sprawled in a heap. “Uh… you good, man?” he mumbled, genuinely bewildered.
“I’m fucking fantastic,” Dick said, or tried to, with maybe two of his teeth rattling loose. He spat damp grit and rolled to his back, blinking at the tangle of fire escapes overhead. Something wet and dark was pooling under his head, but his dignity fared much worse.
Overhead, Jason dispatched the last of the stragglers with a series of crisp, bone-splintering kicks. He bent, ripped a zip tie from his belt, and trussed the jerk like a Christmas ham. The movement yanked his shirt up—just a slice—but enough lace peeked through to confirm that Dick’s brain had not, in fact, conjured this up in a fit of hypoxic delirium.
Jason turned, cocking his head. “You take a nap or something?”
Dick scrambled upright, risking a glance south. Yeah, the thong was still there. His ears burned. “You—” He gestured vaguely, realising mid-swoop that with his arm still hanging midair, because what the fuck was the protocol here? “You are—“ he tried again, “—wearing—” and then promptly ran out of nouns.
Jason, impossibly, did not laugh at him. He holstered the gun with a bored little twist, sparing their heap of cuffed and moaning casualties a bare glance. “Yeah, Goldfish, I am,” he said, deadpan. “What, you want me to model it for you?”
Dick’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again, like, yes, actually, that was exactly the problem, because now that the image was in his head—Jason, ditching the Kevlar, just skin and that frilly red nothing—he’d never not see it.
“You got a concussion?” Jason squatted in front of him, the move lazy but tense, like a cat ready to spring. His thighs bunched and the jeans threatened to split entirely, the taut denim holding for dear life over those monster thighs. Dick’s gaze involuntarily tracked the seam, the way it dug a hard line under that unholy flash of lace.
Jason snapped his fingers in front of Dick’s face. “You hearing voices right now, or just seeing little tweety birds?”
Dick jerked his head, which hurt, but not as much as the mortification. “I’m fine. Super fine. Extremely, uh, alert.” He forced his eyes upward, away from Jason’s thighs—and the lace, mercilessly burned into his retinas—and up to that annoyingly handsome face. The cheekbone bruise was new, and fresh blood beaded along the cut on his eyebrow, but Jason looked otherwise unconcussed. Dick’s own brain, on the other hand, had dropped all processes unrelated to Jason’s underwear.
“I’m gonna check your pupils,” Jason said, already leaning in. He crowded into Dick’s personal space, one gloved hand already tipping up his chin, thumb braced against Dick’s cheek. “Hold still.”
He tried. He really did. But his neck had developed a sudden and powerful magnetism toward Jason’s mouth; it took all his discipline not to lean right into it. Jason’s face was close enough to count the individual flecks in his irises—green as moss and just as good at taking root in someone. The hard line of his jaw was way too inviting, and Dick’s gaze involuntarily tracked the motion of Jason’s tongue as he licked a bead of blood from his split lip.
Focus. He needed to focus.
Jason flicked a small penlight from his utility belt and shined it in Dick’s eyes. “Pupils are fucked,” he announced, “but that’s just your normal personality, huh?”
Dick flinched, blinking rapidly. “Maybe if you didn’t blind me—”
Jason’s gloved fingers held Dick’s face with a roughness that sent an embarrassing charge through him, every nerve suddenly giddy. “Don’t twitch,” Jason said, utterly flat, but the glint in his eyes made Dick’s brain misfire so spectacularly that he had to concentrate on not drooling.
“Why,” Dick said, unable to help himself, “are you wearing lingerie in an alley brawl?”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Laundry day.” He shrugged, a motion that made his shoulders look even broader under the battered leather. “Or maybe I just like it. You gonna kink-shame me, Grayson?”
Oh, he could not breathe. “No. Not… not even a little.” His mind went through at least six permutations of how to ask Jason to take his pants off right there and then, but nothing fit the tongue-and-cheek dynamic they’d spent years constructing. His tongue decided to go solo, working at a cut on the inside of his own cheek, anything to keep from saying something catastrophic. “I’m just…” Shit. “Not used to you keeping secrets from me.” That was the best he had, which was pathetic, but at least it kept his mouth from repeating the phrase ‘red-lace-thong’ again.
Jason’s hand lingered, thumb pressing in gently at Dick’s jaw, like he was testing for a fracture. “S’not a secret,” Jason said, way too casual. “You never asked what kind of underwear I buy.”
There was a noise—maybe a groan from a half-conscious goon, maybe the sound of Dick’s own willpower collapsing under the weight of this conversation—but it barely registered. His brain was a hamster in a jar, running frantic laps on a wheel while being forced to look at Jason’s hands, his mouth, the absolutely criminal fuck-you of his jawline, and then, on repeat, the memory of red lace.
“Okay,” Dick said, because he needed a word-shaped barricade. “I’m… okay. Just making sure it’s not a cult… thing?”
Jason’s mouth threatened a smirk, but he must have felt it coming and stabbed it dead. “Yeah, the Victoria’s Secret Society of America. Real exclusive. You want a referral?”
Dick’s internal organs fought for supremacy. His heart was trying to escape via sternum, and his lungs had given up on oxygen in favour of pure, undiluted embarrassment. “I—” He wondered if he could fake a seizure, if it would buy him an exit from this conversational death spiral. “I—” he started again, but his entire vocabulary had defected. “You know what, I don’t want to know. I have never wanted to know less about anything in my life.”
Jason straightened and rocked back on his haunches, giving Dick a brief but merciless encore of the thong in question. “Bullshit. You’re desperate to know,” Jason said, and even with the battered helmet under one arm and fresh blood crusting his eyebrow, he managed to look like he was auditioning for some off-brand Calvin Klein campaign. “You want me to moon you, Grayson? This alley’s got primo lighting.”
“God, don’t,” Dick blurted, which, upon reflection, was the exact opposite of his brain’s true wishes. He scrambled upright, a movement that left his head spinning and his pride trailing somewhere near the gutter water. “I just—” Dick’s mouth ran ahead of his well wishes. “I am not letting the local chapter of the Russian mob be the first audience for your ass in that thing.”
Silence. The whole alley seemed to hush, even the usual background traffic holding its breath. Dick, mortified, caught himself clutching at air like a drowning man.
Jason’s head tilted, and for a moment, he simply stared. Then, very slowly, his lips parted in a wide, perfectly villainous grin. “Oho,” Jason said, pure delight dripping from the syllable.
Dick regretted every decision in his entire life. He weighed, briefly, the merits of headbutting the dumpster until it reset the last thirty seconds.
Jason let the moment linger, that delighted “oho” echoing in Dick’s ears like a death knell. “Fuck, you want a Polaroid?” Jason’s tone was pure malice, sing-song and slow. “You want—what, a commemorative stamp?”
Dick did not want a stamp. Dick did not want evidence. Dick absolutely did not want Jason’s ass in a thong, 8x10 glossy, thumbtacked to his fridge, and he was going to keep telling himself that until he died.
“I want you to shut up,” Dick spat, which Jason, predictably, translated as challenge accepted. He made a to-do of stretching, arms up, shirt riding even higher, the battered fabric barely clinging to the disaster of muscle underneath. The waistband of the thong winked at Dick from under the low-slung denim, brighter than brake lights, more dangerous than a highway pile-up. The curve of Jason’s hipbone was carved out of every bad decision Dick had ever made.
“Aw, too bad, could’ve had bragging rights on being the first. Shame.”
Dick’s mouth worked, a valiant effort at words, but nothing surfaced except a ridiculous, high-pitched wheeze. First? The first? He was halfway to a meltdown. There was no precedent for this. It was one thing to know, on a purely intellectual level, that Jason might have a secret lace collection (his own brand of hedonism, sure, and wasn’t Dick always preaching acceptance?)—but to realise he was the first to glimpse it, even by accident, was a dizzying, unfair privilege. Heat crawled up his neck, blossoming out to his ears. Was it possible to be flustered into a nosebleed? No, but his brain was definitely trying. Jason didn’t seem to notice the existential crisis happening three feet away—he just finished zip-tying the whimpering goon to a parking meter and dusted off his gloves, the picture of professional detachment, except for the telltale smirk still present on his mouth.
Dick couldn’t keep eye contact. He stared at the cracked pavement, let his pulse rocket and burn, let the ugly pain in his head blossom out until it was the only plausible explanation for why his hands wouldn’t unclench. He had never been this mortified in his life, and that was including the time Damian had, at the ripe age of ten, walked in on him in a towel and announced to the family chat that Dick’s “gluteal assets are excessive and unsightly.” Even that, even the memes Alfred had printed out and hung on the Batcave fridge, pale in comparison. He heard the scuff of boots, a jangle of gear. The next thing he knew, Jason squatted down in front of him again, this time with the heavy sigh of a man who knew mercy was for the weak. Jason’s gloved hand landed squarely in front of Dick’s face, palm up, expectant.
Dick stared at it as if it were an alien appendage. He reached out, hesitant, and grabbed it. Jason yanked him upright, but the world tilted dangerously, the ground rushing to meet him again. His knees buckled.
"Whoa there," Jason said, catching him easily with one arm around his waist. Dick's face slammed against the hard plane of Jason's chest, his nose crushed against the leather jacket. The world spun in nauseating circles, and he clutched at Jason's shoulders to stay upright. "Shit, Dickiebird, you really did scramble your brains this time."
"M'fine," Dick mumbled, but the words slurred together like he was drunk. His fingers dug into the worn leather of Jason's jacket, holding on for dear life as the alley tilted again. "Just... need a minute."
"Yeah, and I need a medal for putting up with your ass." Jason sighed, shifting his grip to better support Dick's weight. "Come on, Boy Wonder. Let's get you home."
Before Dick could protest, Jason was herding him out of the alley, one arm firmly around his waist, practically carrying him. The world tilted and swayed with each step, but Jason's grip was steady.
"My bike's this way," Jason muttered, steering him around a corner.
Dick caught sight of the motorcycle—sleek, black, and modified with enough illegal tech to make Batman scowl for days. Jason propped him against a wall, then swung his leg over the seat with casual grace. The movement pulled his jeans tight again, and Dick's gaze dropped helplessly to where that sliver of red lace peeked out.
"You gonna stare all night or get on?"
Dick swallowed hard and pushed off the wall. The world swam momentarily, but he managed to stagger to the bike without face-planting again. His dignity couldn't take another hit tonight.
"Just don't puke on me," Jason warned, revving the engine. "This jacket's vintage."
Dick clambered onto the seat behind Jason, hesitating for only a second before wrapping his arms around that solid torso. The bike roared to life beneath them, and Dick seized the opportunity—blamed it on the head injury, on the need for stability—and pressed himself fully against Jason's back. The leather jacket was cool against his cheek as he rested his head between Jason's shoulder blades. His chest moulded perfectly against the broad expanse of Jason's back, thighs snug against the outside of Jason's. Dick's arms tightened around Jason's waist, fingers splayed across that taut abdomen. His fingers brushed against something hard beneath Jason's shirt—probably the knife holster—but it was what lay beneath Jason's jeans that consumed Dick's thoughts.
The engine's vibration hummed through them both as Jason took a sharp turn, sending Dick sliding closer. His thighs tightened instinctively around Jason's, and his chest pressed more firmly against that broad back. The leather jacket creaked beneath his grip. Dick closed his eyes, letting his face nestle against Jason's shoulder blade, inhaling the scent of cordite and leather and bergamot.
"You still with me back there?" Jason called over the wind, his voice a rumble Dick felt more than heard.
"Mmmm," Dick managed, not trusting himself with actual words. The bike leaned into another turn, and Dick used it as an excuse to hold tighter, his hands slipping dangerously close to the waistband of Jason's jeans.
The journey to the cave was mercifully brief, Dick's compromised equilibrium making every turn a new adventure in staying conscious. The cool air of the tunnel hit his face as Jason guided the bike through the hidden entrance, the familiar darkness of the Batcave enveloping them. The bike's headlight carved a path through the gloom, illuminating stalactites and the hulking shapes of various Bat-vehicles. Jason cut the engine, the sudden silence almost deafening. Dick didn't move, his arms still locked around Jason's waist, face pressed against his back. The warmth of Jason's body was the only thing keeping him from shivering in the cave's perpetual chill.
"We're here, Dickiebird," Jason said, his voice oddly gentle. "You can let go now."
"Mmph," Dick grunted, arms still locked around Jason's middle. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, each pulse sending a fresh wave of pain radiating from temple to temple. Reluctantly, he peeled himself away, immediately missing the solid warmth of Jason's back.
He swung his leg over the seat and promptly stumbled, the cave floor seeming to tilt beneath his feet. Jason caught him by the elbow, steadying him with a grip that was firmer than necessary.
"Med bay. Now," Jason ordered, the words clipped and brooking no argument.
Dick wanted to protest, to insist he was fine, but his legs had other ideas. They wobbled traitorously as Jason half-guided, half-dragged him to the medical station tucked in the corner of the cave. The antiseptic smell hit him as they approached, making his stomach roll unpleasantly. Jason eased him down onto the examination table, the metal cold even through Dick's suit. They sat in silence as Jason rummaged through the medical cabinet, pulling out gauze, antiseptic, and butterfly bandages. The quiet felt strange between them—usually they'd be trading barbs or insults, filling any silence with meaningless chatter.
Jason worked methodically, his touch surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the gash on Dick's temple. The antiseptic stung, but Dick barely flinched. Instead, his mind drifted, fuzzy from the concussion but still churning with thoughts he usually kept locked away.
It hadn't always been like this with Jason, this strange dance of aggression and avoidance, punctuated by rare moments of teamwork. There had been a time when things were simpler, when Jason was just the happy kid with a chip on his shoulder and willing to learn, and Dick was just the cocky older brother figure trying to show him the ropes. Dick blinked, the antiseptic stinging his eyes—or at least that's what he told himself as memories surfaced unbidden.
That ski trip, when Jason was fourteen. Bruce had been called away on League business, and Dick had volunteered to take the kid instead. Jason had never seen snow like that before, pristine white mountains that seemed to go on forever. Dick remembered how Jason's eyes had widened, how he'd tried to play it cool but couldn't hide his excitement. He'd been a natural on the slopes, fearless and quick to learn, just like with everything else.
"Hold still," Jason muttered, his breath warm against Dick's forehead as he applied a butterfly bandage.
The concussion demolished whatever filter existed between Dick's thoughts and his mouth. "That red lace," he mumbled, eyes drifting down to Jason's waistband. "S'nice. Really pretty." His voice slurred as he tilted his head, genuinely curious despite his compromised state. "Where'd you even find something like that? Doesn't seem like your usual style."
Jason's lips quirk up at the corner, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. "What, a guy can't pamper himself?" He shrugs, the movement casual despite the flush creeping up his neck. "They're comfortable. And sometimes..." he pauses, eyes meeting Dick's with unexpected directness, "I like having something that's just for me. Something nobody else knows about."
Dick's head lolled slightly, his eyes unfocused. "M'sorry," he slurred, patting Jason's arm clumsily. "Didn't mean to... y'know. Ruin your secret." He blinked slowly, then his expression brightened with sudden inspiration. "Ever tried blue? Blue would look..." His gaze drifted downward again, a dopey smile spreading across his face. "Really good. On you."
Jason's voice drops to a teasing whisper, his lips barely an inch from Dick's ear. "What do you think, Dickie? Should I get something in that Nightwing blue you're so fond of? Just for you?" His fingers ghost along Dick's jaw, tilting his face up slightly. "Would you like that?"
Jason expected stammering, blushing, maybe even outrage—the usual Grayson deflection tactics. Instead, Dick's eyes lit up with a hazy, concussed sincerity. "You should," he murmured, fingers curling weakly into Jason's sleeve. "Promise me you will? Blue lace. Just for me."