Chapter Text
Dick doesn’t know where he’s going when he gets on his bike. The only thought in his head is that he needs to leave. He needs to leave the manor, he needs to get away from Bruce and Alfred and all the ghosts of his past that follow him whenever he sets foot in there.
He didn’t even put on his helmet. He is racing down the streets strangely aware that his tears don’t even have the time to slide down his face before they are being swept away by the wind.
He doesn’t know for how long he’s been driving, only that when he stops, it is in front of Jason’s apartment. He hasn’t seen him patrolling tonight, perhaps he’s here.
He hopes he is, he doesn’t want to imagine the alternative. It feels as if he’ll wither away into nothingness if he doesn’t set eyes on him tonight.
He climbs the stairs and knocks on the door. It’s not a quiet knock. It’s a frantic knocking like that of a madman and Dick would completely understand if Jason were to open the door, guns blazing, thinking that he is being targeted.
Still, he can’t stop himself. His heart is thumping fast. He is pretty sure he is still crying, strange sounds coming out of his mouth which he does not register as his. The wood under his knuckles is not really there at all, the floor under his feet feels strange and dreamlike, the world around him is a looking glass and he is Alice.
Where is he? Where is he? He needs to see him. He needs to see his brother right now.
He knocks again and the door gives in and opens.
Dick can’t stop himself, he falls on Jason and wraps his arms around him. God, he’s so warm. He’s so real. There is something so beautiful about feeling the presence of someone even when you’re not able to feel your own.
Jason hugs him back just as quickly. He must be shocked, he must be scared, Dick is sure of it. He did not even stiffen a little bit at the physical touch, simply did exactly what Dick needed him to do and Jason will never know what that means to him. How thankful Dick feels, how relieved. Jason is here. He is not dead, he is here and it is him who is holding him together instead of the other way around.
“What happened?” Jason asks.
Dick doesn’t respond. He doesn’t think he could speak even if he wanted to. His mouth won’t form the words, his throat won’t produce any sound aside from that pathetic sobbing. He feels like a child again. So small while standing so high. He’s afraid of what he will see if he looks down.
He feels Jason move them until they are both sitting on the floor.
Jason’s still rubbing his back in soothing motions. He can’t begin to explain how grounding his touch is right now. How it feels like a tether and without it he will surely disintegrate and float around without senses.
“You’re really stressing me out, Dickie,” Jason eventually says. “Just tell me no one died”
Is that what this looks like? Is he really that fucked up that a conversation with Bruce reduces him to this?
“No one died” he answers and doesn’t recognise his voice. It sounds so scratchy and broken in all the wrong places.
Jason doesn't say anything, but Dick feels his relief in the untightening of his shoulders and the lighter pressure of his hold.
“What’s got you so upset then?”
Dick tries to answer, he really does. He can’t. What has gotten him so upset? Nothing, everything. Bruce and how he treats the people he cares about, Alfred and everything he has been complacent about throughout the years, this city and how cursed it’s always been, himself…himself most of all.
“Let’s go to the couch.” Jason eventually says.
He must have really freaked him out if he’s not even pressuring him into blurting out the truth. He knows how worried he must be, he can feel it. Angry even. He wants to tell him that it’s not that simple.
Jason helps lift them up as they go towards the couch. It is a couple of steps only and yet his legs have never felt so useless, so heavy. They sit down and Dick is grateful that Jason’s hand is still holding his own. He doesn’t know if he’s real when he’s not being touched.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.” Dick answers, having cried himself out.
“I don’t believe that.”
Dick shrugs. How could he tell Jason any of the things Bruce said, or god forbid Alfred. It will only bring him grief and he has enough of that.
“You went to see him, didn’t you? That’s why you’re like this.” Jason pushes.
He shouldn’t ask if he already knows, Dick thinks.
Jason scoffs. “I told you not to go. I begged you not to talk to him and what did you do? You went there anyway. Why? It didn’t do anyone any good, just like I knew it wouldn’t. Now you are fighting with him again, he fucking wrecked you emotionally, and for what?”
“I couldn’t just say nothing, Jason! Not when I finally knew what happened.”
“Yes you could.” he almost shouts. “You could because I freaking asked you to!”
It’s not that simple. It’s not that fucking simple, he wants to scream. He feels anger bubbling under his skin and he is almost grateful for it after this all-consuming sadness that had leeched itself on him since visiting the manor. Then he remembers why he is here in the first place and the anger is snuffed out of him like the quivering flame of a candle.
Jason must register the difference because his eyes soften and his voice is measured again when he asks.“What did he say?”
Dick wants to laugh, the mad-man kind.
“Nothing, he said absolutely nothing.” And the things Bruce did say, it would have been better if he hadn’t said them at all.
There is no chance in hell that Dick would ever tell his brother of how Bruce sees him and Robin as two completely different entities. Of how, in his mind, Jason is still dead. His son is still dead. Nevermind the fact that it is a miracle that Jason came back. A miracle that other grieving parents would kill for and Bruce just throws away like it's nothing. With his track record, he’s more likely to send Jason into a second grave than fix any sort of relationship with him.
He dares a look at Jason’s face. He is not shocked, he’s not angry or sad. It’s an acceptance. Something that he already knew to be true and he’s indeed proven right. And yet there still must have been that small aching part of him that wished it was otherwise. That drop of hope that, despite all odds, appeared and was then squashed like a bug. This is how it is with parents, this is how it is with Bruce. Love and hatred and dependence all jumbled together into one wretched mixture of human suffering.
Dick’s heart squeezes as he looks at him now. How he wishes he could tell him anything else. It is the only reason he wills himself to reveal this to him; “He said he was aiming at your gun, not your neck.”
A flicker of surprise and then gone.
“Then why didn’t he help me afterwards?”
At this, Dick has nothing to say. Had Jason thought it had been a deliberate killshot? Yes, is the answer. Yes, he did. Afterall, Batman never misses.
“It doesn’t matter.” Jason continues, carding his hand through his hair. “It changes nothing.”
And ain’t that the truth? Jason’s right to think that, Dick knows that now. He had been so sure that things would change if he talked to Bruce. He was certain that he would be wrecked over what he had done to his son if he realized the sheer volume of his crime. That he would grovel for Jason’s forgiveness, that things between them could finally start fixing themselves. But now? He doesn't know what to do now. He doesn’t think there is anything he can do.
He’s tired and it is a type of weariness he feels in his bones, in his soul. He can’t fix what’s unfixable, can’t save what’s unsalvable.
He’s so tired of trying to keep everyone above water while he’s also sinking.
“Hey.” Jason says shoves him a little. “Snap out of it. It isn’t your mess to fix, okay?”
Dick doesn’t answer. His eyes are burning again. How much has he cried today? Is it possible that he still has more tears to shed?
Jason’s gaze is piercing him. Dick knows he’s worried without even looking at him. Still, he can’t find it in himself to pretend now. All his carefully constructed masks have fallen into the harbor and he’s too tired to go look for them.
“You could leave, you know?” Jason’s voice is muted as he asks, timid even. “God knows you deserve to get away from all of this. You did it once before and it saved you.”
Dick smiles, but feels no happiness.
“No, I can’t. How could I leave, when all of you are here?”
Jason turns his head away at that, as if hiding himself. Dick wonders if Jason knows how much he means to him. How it used to be grief and guilt that consumed him whenever he saw him in the first few months of his return but now… now he’s the brother Dick gained instead of the brother he lost. And that makes a world of difference in Dick’s heart, in the way his chest squeezes when he sees Jason sad or hopeless. When he sees any of his siblings like that.
“Besides, I can’t leave when Bruce is like this. He’s still sick, but even if he wasn’t- I couldn’t do it to everyone. And Damian…Damian is still so young.”
His voice breaks as he remembers his littlest brother. As he remembers those serious green eyes, too serious for someone so young, and the little frown that always exists between them. As he remembers the soft dark curls he feels at the bottom of his chin whenever he is hugging him, the pressure of his hold, his little puffs of breath on the side of Dick’s neck.
He remembers the excitement, the sheer unabashed joy on his face when they visited the zoo for the first time, the one that even years of brutal training could not compel into disappearing. His little smile, his dry laugh. He’s such a good kid, and he could cry with how much he believes it, with how much his chest is ready to burst with the love and pride he feels towards him.
I will stand at the edge of that crazy cliff for you, for all of you, he feels his heart whisper.
A picture comes into his head then, unwelcome and retro coloured. There is a young boy amidst the field of rye. His gaze is troubled but his eyes are the brightest blue he’s ever seen. The boy runs and runs in the golden field. The boy doesn’t stop running. There’s no one at the edge.
Dick gasps, a full body shiver taking over him.
“Dick?”
There’s cold sweat all over him and his breaths feel infected. Dick squeezes the hand that’s holding his own like a tether. He looks around and it is Jason’s worried gaze that he meets again.
“Dick? You okay?”
“Yeah”
Some seconds of silence.
“I’ll get you some water.”
“No!”
Jason sits back down again. His hand is still holding his own. It never stopped.
“I’m fine”
“The hell you are”
“I am. I just need some seconds”
Dick closes his eyes, trying to think of anything else, trying to will himself back into his own body for the second time tonight. He starts listing in his mind, all the things he can feel; Jason’s hand on his own, the couch underneath him, the back of his shirt and the way the tag annoys him on his oversensitive skin.
He starts listing the things he can hear; the faint sounds of passing cars from the road, the ticking of a wrist watch, Jason’s slow breaths, louder than they should be.
He lists the things he can smell; a neighbor cooking something in the oven, Jason, the acidic scent of ammonia, the intense smell of bleach and chlorine - wait what?
He opens his eyes.
“Did you deep clean this place?”
Jason looks at him confused.
“Jason! Did you just deep clean this place?”
“What? Yeah I did, what does that have to do with anything?”
Oh God, oh God. He had been right. He knew he shouldn’t have left Jason alone after all the things he had been telling him on the rooftop. Jason is not well. And if he hadn’t come here, then he would be dead a second time, by his own hand.
He stands up, his whole body trembling like a fish out of water. This can’t be true. Why? Why? Why?
“What are you doing?” Jason yells and gets up on the couch. Dick hears him hurt his knee on the coffee table as he scrumbles to get over to him.
He would have left a note. He must have. There is no way Jason would do this and not leave any words to the rest of them. He needs to find the note, he needs to find it now! Then he will talk to him, cry for him and take him to Bludhaven in his apartment for the foreseeable future. As away from all of this as possible, as away from Bruce as possible.
“Stop it, Dickface.”
Dick’s opening drawers after drawers and finds nothing. He hears Jason as if he’s underwater and pays him no mind. He needs to find it first. He doesn’t pay any attention to the way his breaths come shorter and less successful each time, to the way the air in the room is thinning, his heart is racing, his hands trembling to the point where everything he tries to hold falls to the ground.
“Dick!”
Jason pulls him away from the table near his bed with force. That’s where he is hiding it then. He wrenches his arms away from Jason’s hold and he hears him cursing behind him.
He opens the two drawers and finds…nothing. A pack of cigarettes and an old copy of Lord of the Flies.
“You wouldn’t do this, you wouldn’t do this..” Dick mumbles to himself. “You would leave a note, I know you would”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he hears Jason yelling from behind him.
Perhaps it’s in the bathroom. God, the bathroom. If he finds razor blades in there, he’s gonna lose it.
He goes towards the bathroom, completely ignoring Jason’s shouts even if he knows he is following him.
“You’re out of your mind, you know that? I told you I’m not like this.”
He opens the cabinet frantically. Ibuprofen, paracetamol, gauze, scissors, electric shaver… no razors. No razors, no note.
Jason is behind him, still talking, still shouting at him and saying things Dick has no desire to listen to.
“And if you’d stop for just a second, you’d realize that you are minutes away from causing yourself a panic attack so you need to calm the fuck do-”
“Show me your wrists” Dick says
He doesn’t care if he’s scaring him, or making a mess of his things, all he cares about is that bone deep fear that makes his whole body tremble and that image of that little boy in the rye field running towards the cliff with no one to stop him.
“What?”
“Show me your wrists, Jason.” He shouts and tries to take hold of his hands and turn them around forcefully.
“No!”
“Show me your wrists!”
And Jason lets him. He lets him pull his hands towards him, he lets him turn them upside down so that the screen of his watch is facing the floor, he lets him pull up his sleeves…
There’s nothing.
There are no lines.
Jason wrenches his arms away from him.
“I’m not fucking suicidal!”
Dick’s relief is so immense, that he feels his knees give out beneath him as he slumps to the floor.
Jason immediately catches him, puts his arm underneath his armpit, all before he can feel the cold tiles against his legs, before he can curl up and cry his eyes out from the sheer relief that he’s not too late, that his brother is not running in that rye field towards the cliff while Dick’s somewhere else entirely.
They both slump to the ground and it is only now that he registers how much his hands are still trembling. He even registers the tears falling down his eyes one after the other, endlessly while he makes no sound, because his neck is useless, because all of him is useless.
“Let it out, let it out” Someone is whispering against him, as he finds someone’s shirt and grips it tight, as he lets his face fall into the crook of a warm neck while his body is taken by shudders that hunch his shoulders inwards with their intensity each time.
Another arm comes and circles him from his other side, the side that’s not leaning on something warm and solid, until those strong arms are all he can feel.
“It’s alright.” that voice says again. “I wouldn’t do something like that. Not to you, never to you.”
“Jay” he cries while more tears cascade down his face and into Jason’s shirt.
“I’m here. I’m alright”
And it’s that which makes the dam break completely. He’s alright, they all are. They are fine. They are alive, they are healthy, they’re not injured. Jason’s not suicidal.
The fear he felt controlling him earlier is replaced by relief, for now. Because it is for now, it is only at this moment that he’s not afraid. Every other moment though…he’s constantly scared of something happening to them. He’s so anxious he can’t sleep at night and whenever there is a mission, his mind chooses the worst possible outcome to latch on and convince him that it’s going to become real. It is an endless cycle. It is paranoia. No wonder Bruce is the way he is, if the alternative is this.
He can’t live properly, not with this endless well of fear inside him. He wants them close, needs them close at all times and he doesn’t even remember when that started, not when he used to be the exact opposite before. The easy answer would be that it started after Jason’s death, but even that is simplifying it. Even that horrifying memory of learning of Jason’s death, of having to live with all that it meant, is not enough to explain this dependence, this constant fear of the future, the absolute certainty that if something were to happen to any of his siblings he would lose himself completely, his mind frozen in an endless scream.
How isn’t anyone else screaming?
It feels like all he does is scream. He screamed in fear when he saw his parents fall to their deaths, no warnings, no goodbyes; only a second which cost him everything he knew, everything he loved. He screamed again all through his teenage years with an anger that burst from deep within him like a monster that had laid dormant and was finally let loose. He screamed in between cries when he learnt of Jason’s death, of the death of a young boy with dreams and expectations; a boy that died in his colours, in his name. And even that death had been without any warning.
He’ll never forget the day when he got back from space. He hadn’t even thought of Jason in quite some time. There was no feeling of doom that took over him, no sixth sense whispering to him that something was amiss. He was simply relieved to be back on earth, happy even. Had he been eating with his team, or laughing at one of their jokes when someone burst in and announced the news? He can’t remember. He’ll never be able to remember. He only remembers that specific feeling. How is it that so many insignificant seconds pass by every day and it only takes one of them for your whole world to fall apart? One second. One second was all it had taken both times.
How can he live his life knowing that something like that can repeat itself. How can he let them go knowing that Damian might die tomorrow from a stray bullet, or that Jason might stand a little too close to an explosion and have his body go up in flames, or that Tim can lean too close to the edge and not have time to pull himself back, or that Steph or Cass or Duke…
A sob bursts from within him, his heartbeat racing again as he struggles to breath. Jason’s hand is rubbing his back again in circular motions and it is getting more and more frantic the more his body constricts inwards, the more it fails him.
“Breath Dickie, come on…” A shaky voice says from above him, and he feels its timbre from the way the sound reverbates through their chest.
But what if it had not been sudden? What if he had returned from space and found his little brother comatose, barely breathing in a hospital room? What would he have done then? What if his death had dragged on, slow and painful and horrifying with the way every little flutter of a heartbeat gave them false hope. Would it have been better, simply because he’d be allowed to say goodbye?
No, no, no.
The image is now in his head and he can’t get it to leave. People lie when they say that the final goodbye brings them closure, because it doesn’t. How could it ever? Perhaps down the line, after years have passed a grieving father or brother would be glad to have said goodbye to their little boy, would be glad that they sent it off to heaven with love and tears. But not at that moment. How could he have ever survived going into that hospital room knowing that he’d never see Jason again? How could he have survived the surge of memories tying a noose around his neck with their finality? How could he have survived the certainty that from now on these memories would be just that, memories and hurtful ones for that matter. The answer is simple; he would never have survived it, just like, if it ever happens to any of his siblings, he knows he won’t survive it either.
In a way he’s glad that it was sudden, that he never got the chance to say goodbye.
What a selfish thought. He’s so fucking selfish. How can he think like that? How can he love them and think like that? He hates himself, he hates himself so much it physically hurts.
“Dickie?”
Jason’s voice is so sweet, so soft. Has he ever heard it so quiet before? No, at least not since he came back. It is a welcome distraction from the surge of bloody images and hateful feelings that have taken over him for quite some time. His voice is lovely, his voice is grounding. A reminder that he’s here. A reminder that, against all odds, his fierce little brother found his way back to him. There’s no comatose blue-eyed boy with tubes hanging out of him, there never was. That was just his mind, that wasn’t real, it’ll never be real. He grips him so hard he’s afraid it will bruise.
He doesn’t know for how long he’s been crying. The minutes slip through his palms like water.
He comes back to his body in bits and pieces, and Jason’s arms around him are still the only real thing he can feel. His body is still trembling but it is a weaker shudder now, less pathetic. There are still wayward tears cascading down his face, but there is no urgency to their journey from his eyes to his chin. They flow slowly with seconds of silence between each one.
It is only because of the sudden silence that he is able to hear the slight sniffing from above him. He lifts his head.
“Jay”
His brother’s eyes are red, even if he’s not truly crying. They’re red and glistening like the quivering last drop of an overfilled glass.
Jason’s not even looking at him when he says “I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I simply deep clean my apartment every three months.”
The sentence is so ridiculous that it makes a wet chuckle come out of Dick’s mouth. Of course, people deep clean their apartment for reasons other than suicide. But Dick…Dick is not “other people” it seems. He - it doesn’t matter.
“I’m sorry for scaring you.” Dick says and avoids Jason’s gaze. “I’m a mess.” he laughs wetly. “I really am. You don’t have to deal with this.”
“I think I’ll do whatever I damn want to.”
This is such a Jason response, Dick thinks. It makes a smile appear on his face, even if it is a sad smile. Even if, were it not for his brother, it wouldn’t be there at all. He hugs him tighter and he feels Jason doing the same thing.
“Come on let’s get you to bed.”
Dick had wanted to ask if he could stay here, but it seems that he didn’t have to. It makes a warm feeling bloom in his chest. Jason with his hard shell and his heart of gold. His first brother, who will get angry and lash out, but will be the first to help whoever needs it, no questions asked. Bruce is such a fool, he’s such a damn fool for not seeing this.
He tries to remain as present as he’s able given the circumstances. Tries to focus on Jason’s touch and on the rhythmic ticking of his watch. Despite that, his mind drifts to different times, times where the roles had been reversed and Jason was the one crying his eyes out on the bathroom floor of his apartment. It seems that time really does change everything. There is no ease to living now. Even the little pond near Bristol does not have ducks anymore. Maybe it’s simply because it’s winter. Maybe they’ll come back.
He hopes they will
Jason takes Dick to bed and tries not to think of how weak and heavy his brother’s body feels as he helps him with those four steps from the bathroom to the bedroom. He’s never seen him like this before. It’s fucking scary, it’s horrifying, when he remembers an older brother who used to be larger than life.
“Come on, we’re almost there.” he says, only so he can fill the silence.
Dick doesn’t answer, his half closed eyes staring into the void.
He takes him to the bed and pulls the covers over him. Dick is pliant as he straightens the cushion under his head, as he takes off his shoes and turns on the little lamp at the side table. He wishes he would scream but perhaps he’s tired of that too.
He sits next to him over the covers of the bed and looks at him.
His eyes are so red and puffy he can barely open them and his cheeks are sunken as if he hasn’t eaten in days. There is nothing in the world that could make Jason mask the sadness he feels at this moment. It’s reverberating through his body, it’s consuming every fiber of his being and poisoning the room with its pungent nature. When did it get so bad? How did it get so bad?
“Your eyes will sting tomorrow morning with all this crying” he says with a little chuckle, trying to get some sort of reaction, trying to diffuse the essence of the shadows that have taken over this room.
Dick blinks once, twice.
“Yeah, it’ll suck” he says eventually and Jason feels himself breathe just a little easier.
“Are you sure you don’t want some water?” he asks.
“Yes”
“Alright”
He feels completely useless, sitting beside him doing nothing but holding his hand. He knows Dick is not the same person he knew almost five years ago. It was obvious from the first minute. But this? This feels like a breaking point and it’s not just Bruce who’s at fault, even if he’s not helping either. This is something that has been a long time coming.
He looks down at his hand, Dick’s still gripping it like a lifeline. It makes a small sad smile appear on his face.
He’s still here.
He’ll be alright.
He knew how bad it’d get and came to me instead of staying on his own.
Dick will never know how grateful Jason is for that. He doesn’t want to imagine this happening while he was in his apartment, alone, shivering for hours on the bathroom floor. He tries not to think of the amount of times it’s happened in the past.
“You’ll be alright won’t you, Dickie?” he asks, but he’s already asleep. He cried himself out.
Perhaps it’s better this way, there’s no reason to stay awake with his thoughts when this is their result. He hopes he’ll sleep till morning. He should probably go to the couch, get some sleep himself. But then he looks down where Dick’s still holding his hand even in the clutches of sleep. He couldn’t leave him even if he wanted to.
His thoughts drift to the moment it all went to hell. The smell of bleach in the air…. Is that what had happened? Had Dick tried to… Was he - was he afraid Jason would do the same? He doesn’t know. He hopes it’s a coincidence, that it’s not true, even if he’s long since trained himself away from hoping. Perhaps a similar case, or a person he knew?
His eyes start to burn the more he thinks of it. What world would this be without Dick Grayson?
Dick’s not like Jason, he’s not like Bruce either. He’s better than both of them and they both know it, it’s the one thing they agree on. There’s a reason Jason died at fifteen, miles away from home with blood in his mouth and sorrow in his heart. He was never supposed to live that long and fifteen had already been way too fucking long in a world that never wanted him in the first place.
It was borrowed time, that’s all it was.
And then he came back and any shred of heroism he gained with his death, died when he clawed his way out of six feet of dirt. There was no young boy to miss, to remember fondly, because that boy grew up, because that boy grew up wrong.
Perhaps certain things should stay the way they are. No one looks at a museum and wishes the frozen animals to wake and run into the wild. No one looks at an old glass case and wills it into breathing. It simply won’t do, not when it is more beautiful that way.
If someone were to bring that saber tooth cat back to life, then Jason would surely kill it again. It is a violation, an invasion. The animal would not survive in its new environment and it would be cruel to let it try.
Perhaps Dick has good reason to be worried, Jason thinks. It’s definitely not love for life or appreciation of it that makes him stay…He’s not suicidal though. Survival is way too ingrained in his soul for him to ever be. He’s been clawing his way into this world ever since he came out of the womb already addicted to drugs he never touched. Perhaps he’s been surviving out of spite, that strange desire to spit at a world that has always been so adamant to break him. Maybe its not even that, maybe what is saving him from suicide is the idea of suicide itself. An open door in the back that is never acknowledged and yet is always there.
He remembers the first time he’d been so afraid that he contemplated walking in front of a moving car. He was eight, freshly out on the streets, crying because of a man that had pinned him down on the cold concrete, telling him that he should charge for it next time instead of trying to run away. He cried and cried, he thought of slitting his wrists but he had been much too scared of all the blood. He didn’t do anything in the end. Afterall, the man had been right.
He looks at his brother. He hasn’t called him that out loud in a long time and yet he doesn’t think it has ever been truer than it is now. Dick is still clutching his hand, he hasn’t let go once. It is a tight grip, too tight. He hopes it remains this tight all night, he hopes that when he wakes up in the morning there’ll be a hand-shaped bruise that will stay there all his life, one not even the pit can erase.
Love is supposed to hurt anyway, Jason’s always known that. There’s no proof of it otherwise.
He doesn’t mind the hurt, in fact he’s often reminded of it in the form of strange dull aches littering his body; The cut on his lip from the edge of a beer bottle, the neverending sting in his eyes from a woman with holes in her arms, the throbbing of the scar on his neck, the pressure on his hand from a tight hold…
It is an aching kind of longing.