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Dick probably should have been more prepared for everything to go wrong, and yet it still came as an utter surprise. Red Hood, accompanied by TJ as lap candy and Strike Team One as security, was meeting with a new boss, calling himself an entrepreneur with merchandise Hood would be deeply interested in.
They were meeting in a bar, for heaven's sake! There shouldn't have been anything to set Hood off.
But then the scumbag led them into a back room full of women in cages, and when Dick inserted himself between the guy and Jason, just to give his partner a chance to breathe through the fury, the dipshit grabbed Dick by he hair to drag him out of the way.
By the time Dick had his feet underneath him again after the pull, all hell had broken loose.
Delia absolutely knew TJ was Nightwing, but Hank apparently didn't, because as Delia and the rest of Strike One moved forward to intercept Chief Idiot In Charge's men, Hank and Peter dragged Dick backwards, shoving him behind them as guns started coming out.
Red Hood was in the middle of the fray, a whirlwind of violence that had already caused several blood arcs that wouldn't be out of place in a Tarantino film. Dick winced for him, knowing he would regret this when his mind cleared again.
Then he remembered the cages, and thought, Maybe not.
There was a moment's pause, when every enemy combatant was down. Then Delia shifted, two feet to Hood's left, and Hood whirled on her, snarling crackling like danger through the vocoder.
"Delia!" Hank yelled, as Jason swung her like a shotput.
Delia twisted midair, and took the fall gracefully. "Greenout!" she bellowed.
Strike One was immediately moving away from Hood, scattering to the edges of the room, and trying to cover the cages.
Dick lunged under Hank's extended arm, rolled under Peter's clumsy grab for him, and planted both heels in Jason's chest before flipping to his feet.
No time to worry about Strike One figuring his identity. No time to think about witnesses, victims, or the bodies littering the room. He had to disarm Jason, because the only thing that would make this worse was letting Jason shoot him.
Jason was fast, he was incredibly well trained, and he was much stronger than Dick. And right now, he was doing his damndest to kill him. Getting the guns out of the equation wasn't optional.
Dick took a hit to the breastbone that rattled his whole body, dodged the follow up towards his solar plexus, and planted a knee in Jason's hip with all his strength. He was pretty sure he broke a finger, but the gun went skittering under a table.
He didn't have the space to even think about not hurting Jason. The only thing keeping him one step ahead of Jason's deadly blows was the fact that Dick could plan and strategize, and Jason was passing up setting up combinations in favor of trying to hit Dick as hard as possible right now.
Jason snarled, the vocoder making in a terrible noise.
"Clear the room," Dick bit out, handspringing over a kick that would have shattered his knee and using the far wall as a launch pad to hammer himself into Jason's back before he could turn to follow.
He couldn't even check to see if Strike One was obeying his order. He couldn't take his eyes off Jason, who had gotten a hand around Dick's forearm, and might actually be about to break his radius just by the sheer force of his grip.
Dick got his legs around Jason's arm, and wrenched against his grip. He jerked free, but Jason's other hand fisted in his hair.
Eyes watering fiercely, Dick slammed his body backwards into the pull, using numb fingers to wrench at the hand Dick had already broken, twisting free and losing some strands of hair in the process.
He tried to roll away, but he wasn't fast enough, and took a steel-toed boot to the jaw. Ears ringing, Dick twisted with the blow, getting his legs up and into an armbar. He couldn't hesitate, and dislocated Jason's shoulder with a wrench.
Jason howled, vocoder shorting out on the sound, and hammered his free hand into Dick's ribs.
In the Nightwing suit, the kevlar would've spread the force; it would've hurt but it wouldn't have been notable on even a normal patrol night. In jeans and a polo, Dick felt his ribs creak.
They rolled apart, and Dick hauled himself up, since Jason was doing the same. He was still snarling, blind with rage, and though his dislocated shoulder hung limply, he didn't move like he was aware of the pain.
Every greenout Dick had seen, something either snapped Jason out of it, or he burned himself out and collapsed. And Dick was pretty sure if dislocating his shoulder didn't do it, nothing was going to snap Jason out of this.
Jason feinted, and Dick dodged, taking a glancing kick to the thigh, and then landing a kick of his own to Jason's chest. Dick cartwheeled, trying to dodge, and Jason bore them to the floor, cracking Dick's shoulderblade into a table leg as they went down.
Only Jason's arm not obeying him saved Dick from a collapsed trachea, as Jason fumbled to choke him and Dick managed to wedge his forearm between Jason's good hand and his neck.
Legs around Jason's waist, Dick twisted away from Jason's clutching grip, managed not to let Jason slam his head into the same table leg, and managed to plaster himself along Jason's back instead of his front. He got his arms locked around Jason's throat, and hung on.
Jason lurched to his feet, and slammed his back into the wall, by luck or design aiming for a beam.
Lights popped behind Dick's eyes as his whole back lit up with pain. He hung on grimly, desperately waiting for Jason's air to run out. They'd both been trained to hold their breaths for a long time, and Dick was in no shape to count.
Thank somebody, Jason was also in no shape to dissemble. When he collapsed and went limp, it was because he was unconscious, not because he was faking Dick out.
Dick released him, and rolled off with a soft moan. Everything hurt.
"Teej?" Delia called hesitantly. She was hovering in the doorway.
"Here," Dick groaned.
"Holy shit," Hank said.
"Everyone okay?" Dick asked.
"Well," Delia said. "Everyone we care about, anyway. No one's dead, though."
"Unless you killed Boss?" Hank said wryly.
Dick shot him the finger, which hurt his wrist terribly.
"We've got a good cover story," Delia said. "So if you and Boss want to ditch," she said meaningfully. "Lights and sirens are on the way."
Dick groaned again. Then he began the painstaking process of getting himself off the floor. "I dislocated his shoulder," he warned Hank, who was currently attempting to drag Jason vaguely vertical.
Hank obligingly shifted his grip off Jason's arm and onto the strap of his body armor.
"Jesus," Delia said, looking him over. "You good?"
Dick shrugged halfheartedly. He silently held out the keys to Jason's bike. "Can I borrow your car?"
Delia scoffed and exchanged her keys for his own. "I expect you to fill the tank," she said dryly.
Dick flipped her off too, and it was worth the pain in his wrist.
Then he took Jason to the Cave, because he wanted to MRI Jason's shoulder to make sure he hadn't done any long-term damage, and Bruce hadn't yet found a way to get Leslie that kind of expensive equipment.
Jason came to with the immediate, terrible knowledge that he'd had a greenout. This was followed sharply by the realization that he was in the Batcave. he considered just going back to sleep, but he needed to know what he'd done.
"Don't move," Tim said from somewhere outside his eyeline.
Jason blinked at the ceiling and obligingly didn't move. His shoulder ached dully, and his head hurt, and swallowing was a strange chore. There was weight on his chest like they might have strapped him down. What had he done?
"Ice chip," Tim said, and set the object against Jason's lips.
Jason took it between his teeth and held it till it was gone and his throat didn't hurt so much. "What did I do?" he asked.
"You and Dick beat the shit out of each other, mostly," Tim said, appearing in his peripheral vision. He held up the cup of ice chips in question.
Jason shook his head slowly, because it still hurt. "Dick?"
Tim pointed at Jason.
Jason craned his aching neck, and realized the weight on his chest was not straps, it was his boyfriend, slumped fully across him. "Is he-?"
"Zonked out on muscle relaxers," Tim reported. "Alfred gave him a full body x-ray just to make sure, but you didn't break anything. Just bruised the shit out of pretty much his entire body."
Jason breathed out slowly.
"He dislocated your shoulder, and then choked you out," Tim continued. "He also broke two of your fingers."
Oh, his Pretty Bird, Jason thought achingly. How guilty was he going to be?
"MRI is clear," Tim finished. "Nothing a sling and a day's rest won't cure in the shoulder, and your throat is fabulously bruised, but that should clear by morning at your usual rate."
"Can we at least go upstairs?" Jason asked.
"Let me get Bruce to get Dick," Tim said, peeling away.
As soon as he was out of eyeshot, Jason rocked himself to his feet and scooped Dick up as carefully as he could. His shoulder twinged, but held.
"Goddamnit," Tim said, scowling at Jason. "You're supposed to rest that shoulder."
"It's fine," Jason said, and headed for the stairs. He didn't want to be down here. The manor was bad enough, but the memories in the Cave were choking. He headed for the elevator, not quite brave enough to attempt the stairs. Dick had clearly done something to his right leg, as well, based on the deep ache in the muscle of his thigh.
Tim jogged ahead of him to push buttons, and he led the way to Dick's room without even glancing at the closed door to Bruce's shrine to the boy who'd died in Ethiopia, so Jason figured the kid couldn't be that mad.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
Tim nodded. Then he set both Dick and Jason's phones on the nightstand. "Call if you need anything," he said, and vanished, closing the door behind himself.
Jason lowered himself onto Dick's comforter with a groan, settling back in the pile of pillows with Dick still cradled to his chest. He'd changed, sometime while Jason had been out, and the clinging white tank he was wearing showed all the bruises coming in across his chest and shoulders.
Jason nuzzled his hair apologetically, holding tight as he could with his sore shoulder.
"S'posed to rest that," Dick murmured against his chest.
"It's all right," Jason replied, hitching Dick carefully closer.
Dick responded by instead rolling away, sitting up and brushing his hair back.
Jason hissed, seeing his face for the first time.
Dick had a spectacular bruise and swelling coming up on his jaw. "I'm not concussed," Dick said, catching his good hand before it could make contact. "And Alfred says it's a miracle, but my jaw's not even cracked." He splayed Jason's good hand, still caught in his own, over Dick's heart. "And neither are my ribs, or my collarbone." Even through the shirt, the deep purpling welts over his chest showed the blows that had, somehow, not broken bones.
"Dickie," Jason rasped, stroking carefully over the discolored, swelling patches across Dick's body.
Mouth curled a little ruefully, Dick pulled further away, standing fully. He dropped the sweatpants, revealing more welts and darkening bruises down his thighs. He held his hands out like he was posing. He turned a full cirlce, giving Jason the complete view of what he'd done.
"None of that," Dick said quietly, and climbed back into the bed. He gently bullied Jason back into the pillows, and lay his bad arm on his chest where it ought to have been immobilized.
Then Dick parked himself right back on Jason's chest, pinning Jason's arm down and resting his head on Jason's shoulder. "It's okay," he said.
"I hurt you," Jason protested.
"Jason, only one of us is actually injured, and it isn't me." Dick's voice was firm, and stern. He was not taking feedback on this point.
"You didn't have a choice," Jason said immediately.
"I didn't," Dick agreed. "If I'd tried to strategize a way to bring you down without hurting you, I'd've gotten my ass kicked. It was all I could do to get you down at all."
Jason closed his eyes, pressing his face into Dick's hair, stroking his back carefully.
"I can start carrying tranquilizers, if that would make you feel better," Dick said.
Jason startled slightly. That hadn't occurred to him. "Uh," he said.
Dick pressed a kiss to his neck. "What's going on in your head right now?" he asked quietly.
Jason tried to gather his scattered thoughts. "I hate that I hurt you," he said after a moment. "I hate that you had to- had to find a way to put me down. That I made you hurt me."
"You didn't make me do anything," Dick said.
Jason leaned to see his eyes. They stared at each other seriously for a long moment.
"Okay," Dick said after a moment. "I disagree, but I accept your premise."
Jason kissed his forehead. "I'm worried about doing it again. I've had fewer greenouts lately, but not none, and odds are good that I'll do it around you again. I'm worried next time I'll seriously injure you, or you'll have to do something you regret trying to stop me."
"Hence why I offered to carry tranquilizers," Dick said placidly.
"Which I hadn't thought of," Jason admitted. "I'm certainly not going to say no."
Dick kissed his neck again, arching slightly into the hand Jason ran down his back.
"I don't want you to feel guilty for hurting me," Jason finished.
Dick sighed. "If I say I'm not, will you stop feeling guilty about me?" he asked dryly.
"That's different," Jason said.
"Because you weren't in control of yourself and I was?" Dick retorted.
Jason grumbled at him.
Dick nipped the skin nearest his mouth. "I'm not," he promised more quietly. "I wish we could've resolved it without hurting either of us, but I know it doesn't work like that. I know we were lucky it wasn't worse. I'm sorry your shoulder is dislocated, and sorry that your neck is bruised, and sorry you're in pain right now, but I'm not sorry I did it."
Jason breathed out slowly, relief easing through his chest. "Okay," he said. He couldn't say the same.
Dick lifted his head to stare him in the eyes. "Jaybird," he said quietly.
Jason leaned forward to push their foreheads together. "Pretty Bird, you're covered in bruises that I put on you, and I don't even remember doing it. That's- I'm gonna be fucked up about that."
"Hate that it happened," Dick said. "But don't hate yourself for doing it."
Jason stared into those beloved blue eyes. "Dick," he sighed. "If one of my people walked into the center with the kinds of marks on them that are on you right now, I'd go shoot that asshole's kneecaps out."
"No," Dick said, every inch his Nightwing Command Voice. "Absolutely not, Jason that's not the same."
"Is it?" Jason asked. "I hit you. Because I was mad about something else."
"You were not in control," Dick said firmly. "You were not exerting power over me, and you were not to blame."
"Still my hands," Jason murmured, cupping Dick's swollen jaw tenderly.
"Fuck that," Dick snapped. "If you want to blame someone, blame the assholes who locked people in cages! They're the ones that set you off. Or blame the pit. But I know you, and I know your body, and I know your style, and that was not you."
With all the care and delicacy his giant frame could manage one-armed, Jason tenderly rolled Dick to the pillows, covered him with his body, and buried his face in Dick's warm, slightly sweaty, very bruised shoulder. "Pretty Bird," he croaked.
Dick combed his fingers through Jason's hair. "I'm okay," he promised softly against the crown of Jason's head. "We're okay."
"Okay," Jason murmured, and let himself rest there for a moment, breathing Dick in.
Dick stroked his hair and lay easy under him.
Finally, Jason forced himself to get off of Dick's bruised body, and get off his bad shoulder.
Dick followed him over, curling into the curve of his body with a soft, unconscious groan. "Should ice that shoulder," he mumbled, squirming right back atop Jason's chest.
"Should ice all of you," Jason replied, hitching him to a more comfortable position and then stroking another swollen welt on the curve of Dick's waist.
Dick blew a raspberry against Jason's chest, complaining, "Nuh-uh, comfy."
"It can wait a little while," Jason conceded, tracing careful patterns with his fingertips on Dick's back.
Dick hummed happily, nuzzling into his neck.
Jason breathed out slowly, willing himself to believe Dick that it was okay.