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There’s a body on top of his, weight on his hips and suddenly Dick can’t breathe. A fist is flying towards his face but he’s frozen, unable to move, and it hits his cheek with an awful crack. His mouth is full of rain — no, blood — and he chokes on it, gagging as it tries to slip down his throat. It’s raining and he’s on a rooftop with Catalina, Blockbuster’s blood on his face, his suit, in his mouth. He tries to buck her off, but he can’t move. His body is frozen like a useless block of ice while she —
— — — —
Jason doesn’t know what the fuck to do. One minute, he’d been fighting Nightwing, blood hot in his veins. The Pit was roaring in his ears — it felt so good to kick and hit and fight. The next, Nightwing was still underneath him, not fighting back, not even dodging the punch that cracked across his face. Jason startled, freezing in place in pure shock as his brother choked on the blood filling his mouth but didn’t move, didn’t struggle, just took awful wheezing breaths.
This was— Jason realized abruptly that he was straddling Dick, his weight firmly planted on Nightwing’s hips, and a chill slipped down his spine. This was — this was wrong. His brother shouldn’t be hyperventilating under him, having — a flashback? Fuck, this wasn’t what he wanted. Fuck!
Jason scrambled back off of Dick, his own breath coming faster. His brother, the man who quipped his way through bullet wounds, lay still as a corpse on the ground. The only indication he was alive were his staccato breaths, too fast to properly bring in oxygen, stuttering and painful.
Before conscious thought, Jason was moving, turning Dick onto his side so he could spit up the blood, so he wouldn’t be trapped in the position that— so he wouldn’t be stuck on his back, vulnerable and exposed. Dick coughed and shivered on the cold cement. His breathing was still awful, but he curled in on himself a bit so Jason took that as a win. At least he was moving under his own power, even if it was just to protect himself from a threat that didn’t exist. It was still miserable to watch (Jason was sure it was a thousand times more miserable to experience).
— — — — — —
Dick is caught in a nightmare. He knows how this ends - the hands holding him down will tear at his suit, exposing his nakedness to the night air. He will say “don’t” and she will keep going anyway, sating herself with his body as if it belongs to her. Maybe it does. Maybe it always has, and maybe it always will — belong not to Dick, but to those who would take it without his consent.
There are hands on Dick — he would flinch if he had the strength, if he could will his body to move even an inch through the weight that holds him down. Instead, he is still as he’s turned onto his side. There’s blood in his mouth, running onto the asphalt. His body curls in on itself without conscious thought and he realizes suddenly that he is crying, tears — rain? — tears on his face as his breath catches again and again.
There’s a voice, and it’s saying Quiet, me amor. Callado... but it’s deep and gravelly and not at all like Catalina’s breathy speech. And it’s not whispering Spanish pet names and hushing him, forcing his words back down his throat until he chokes on them and can’t speak, can’t breathe. It’s saying...
“Dick, Dickiebird, come back. You’re safe, no one’s touching you. Just breathe, like that. In 1, 2, out 1, 2, in 1, 2...” And Dick can’t help it, he follows the words and he breathes. There’s not rain in his mouth, he realizes, nor on his face. His suit is dry. It’s complete, fully zipped, squeezing him gently in a way that makes his breath shudder out of him in relief.
The voice is familiar, in a way that tickles the back of Dick’s mind but he can’t quite place. He was... doing something. There was something he needed to do — adrenaline pounding in his veins, kicking and dodging and flipping to avoid... the Red Hood. Shit. Shit!!!
Dick sits up with a gasp, instinctively scooting back and away from the presence near him. The large, hulking presence. The presence that... is no longer wearing a helmet, and is looking at him through blue-green eyes that he recognizes. He sees those eyes, in his dreams, in his nightmares, in the waking moments when he can’t eat and he can’t sleep and the world gets a little fuzzy around the edges and the present blurs with the past. The eyes are greener than he remembers, the face is craggy and sharp and there’s a streak of white in the hair, but it’s still...
“Jason?” The man — Red Hood — Jason gives a small, crooked smile.
“Yeah, Dickiebird, it’s me. ... Surprise?” And yeah, Dick is definitely surprised. And overwhelmed. And happy sad relieved grieving crying crying crying, throwing himself across the roof towards his little brother who is alive. He doesn’t care that minutes ago they were fighting — doesn’t care that Jason could shoot him right now, point blank. His brother is here, and Dick is going to grab every second with both hands, fisting them in Jason’s jacket and pressing his face into his neck.
And Jason... doesn’t throw Dick off. He’s stiff for a moment, and then his broad frame softens, curling gently around Dick to return the embrace. He’s home, and Dick is safe in his brother’s arms.