Chapter Text
So Jason is pretty sure Talia did something to him during his stay in Nanda Parbat—Lazarus inoculation in his food or magical artifacts, something—because his leg is mostly fine now and has been since Qurac. That’s not to mention the ribs. Or the dislocated shoulder. It’s barely the start of March, still snowy in Gotham. Oh yeah. Jason’s back now. It only took him a rough month and a half. But even before he scraped his courage together, he went on a few wild adventures in the Middle East, and—shockingly—managed to make a few friends.
Cute of Kori to call them Outlaws. Though Jason would like to argue he’s not an international fugitive, unlike some people (cough, Roy). He ran his own ass out of the country, thank you very much.
But now he’s back! Nothing like a long string of vaguely connected shenanigans to refresh the soul and body. Jason, for one, will never pass on the chance to publicly humiliate Lex Luthor. Any opportunity to practice his swordsmanship is also fun, fire or no. And he did enjoy the whole holy artifact thing, even if he’s now legally obligated to call Artemis his favorite Amazon (Diana will understand). Hopefully Biz is actually reading the books Jason gave him. Instead of like, doing drugs. That seems to be Jason’s transitive skill across wildly variate walks of life: English tutor extraordinaire. He’s sure Damian will find a way to weasel out of his assignments, now that Jason isn’t there to threaten him with fake shampoo, but it’s the thought that counts.
It’s definitely a point of pride that he managed to steal Dick’s old friends. Fucking suck it, Golden boy. He’s refrained from telling them about it. They’re still under the impression that he barely knows Nightwing. Adjacently related. Same home town. And yeah, that’s a point of pride too, definitely worth all the teasing he took for never removing his helmet. It’ll be funny if they ever do find out. Maybe not as much for Biz and Artemis—he’s not sure they even know who Dick is.
Beck came to get him from the airport despite still not having a car. It was one of those almost-sunny days, and he could feel the warmth and light with startling clarity—so profound it made his body hum inside out. Beck is mostly the reason for it. She shouted his name across four rows of baggage claim, beaming, ran to close the distance, and jumped into his arms. The surprise tilted him back, but it was easier than breathing to catch her. Her hair was down, she smelled good.
Then she remembered he’d been very injured before leaving and scrambled to inquire of his arm—but the truth is that Jason’s mostly okay now. Honestly, the worst of it is the cold, making his bones ache just so. Even grappling between buildings isn’t much more than uncomfortable.
Talia definitely did something.
Well. Regardless of her meddling, Jason’s okay. Okay enough to resume regular Red Hood operations, which he knows his men are relieved by; it seems in the time he was gone, the Bats mopped up any loose ends on the Black Mask front, so he’s absolved from hunting them down himself. Just as well. Jason can easily order a few inmate assassinations at Belle Reve to keep all the promises he made on Christmas Eve.
He hasn’t exactly advertised his return to anyone other than Beck, who peppered him with questions on where he went and what he did and whether he heard about that new Superman clone from Twitter. He has a backlog of her fanart to look through. It’s nice to return to a rhythm now that he’s not vibrating out of his skin on shot nerves and PTSD. He’s healing well, made a few casual interventions in muggings and the sort, working his way back up to strenuous ops. More strenuous than single-handedly breaking a guy out of military prison, that is.
For the most part, the caution is purely redundant, but even Jason’s not going to hold up to a building dropped on him.
And alright, it’s not like someone picked up a building and let go while he was standing underneath it; this is classic Gotham structural compromise, so explosives are involved. Mildly. Jason is grateful the building didn’t actually go the way of mushrooms. That would have been even more tedious to clean up.
But from the start, it’s problematic—someone planted charges on a load-bearing wall of the first floor of a school, and the whole thing implodes. No, Jason isn’t in the building at that point. He’d just been walking down the street, on his way to casually investigate a possible loose thread in a case on his back burner. In the middle of the day. He’s on the phone with Beck when he feels the hum in his shoes and the start of a familiar sequence of sensations. He’s spent a lot of time around collapsing buildings in his life; he knows what they felt like from the ground up.
On top of that: school. In the middle of the day. Friday. That building is full of kids.
Jason takes a second to gape at it across the street before cutting off Beck’s rambling analysis of the movie they watched last night. “Hey.” He’s already running through an inventory check of his current arsenal. “I’m gonna have to call you back.”
It’s the middle of the day, damn it. Gotham proper, upper west side. Red hoodie, leather jacket, cargo pants, converse. No gloves. No fabric gloves. No comm. A burner phone. One gun, one cable, all the obligatory knives and explosives that won’t help him here. He doesn’t have his helmet. He does carry a backup mask: domino built in and tactical air filters—red too, because he likes to stay on brand—and there’s no time really to do more than settle for it. He slides the mask over his face. No one is around to see or care. No cameras close enough to clock him; Jason already checked when he planned to swing by earlier.
“Okay.” Beck sounds a lot less perplexed than he would have expected. “Don’t die!”
Jason stops himself from answering at the last second—the mask’s vocoder is almost identical to his helmet and for sure would have given him away. He hangs up.
Right, okay. Evacuation.
The building itself is only starting to contemplate going splat; the tension is palpable in the chilly air and the sound of steel groaning. Jason darts across the street (ignoring an indignant shout from the car that almost hits him) and makes for the closest door. It’s not obscenely bolted, but there is a lock that he can pick without much fuss. It’s noisy. It’s a primary school. The first kids he sees when he shoves through the now-stilted door barely come up to his hips.
He shouts at the frantic teacher attempting to corral her equally panicked class of children. “Hey! This door goes outside!” The offer’s about to expire, if the way the door frame slants to the left is any indication. “Get over here!”
A few of the tinies make little piercing siren noises at the sight of him—okay, Jason gets it, he’s tall and bulky and wearing a scary mask—but the teacher seems to have a pretty solid grip on the situation and herds the lot his way. He digs out his burner phone and slaps it into one of the kid’s hands when he passes: lucid enough, and less intimidated.
“Hey, dino shirt,”
The kid looks startled, but his little hand closes around the phone.
“Know how to use this?”
A shaky nod.
“Okay, listen carefully. I want you to call 9-1-1. Tell them there’s been an explosion at your school. Think you can do that?”
The nod turns more fervent.
“Repeat it back to me.”
“C-call 9-1-1 and say my school exploded.”
“That’s right kiddo. Now stay with your teacher.”
The class pours through the door, out onto the street, and Jason sees the little boy open the phone and start dialing. He could have given the phone to the adult, but she has enough to deal with, and the chances of losing a kid he’ll have to track down later are reduced if she’s not multitasking. It’s cold. Most of the kids aren’t wearing coats; if Jason has to track them down, it’ll also involve a trip to the hospital.
He knows explosion and school are hit words for Oracle’s algorithm analyzing emergency dispatch, especially in close succession. If she’s not already alerted to the situation, she will be soon. Jason slips farther down the hall.
Deeper in the building, there are other classes of students and their harried teachers. The halls are overstuffed and most of the kids are crying. Some of them are really little. Like. Damian’s size, when Jason first met him.
He manages to get a handle on the noise, marginally—yelling the verses to a nursery rhyme he’s pretty sure is still in circulation confuses everyone just enough to get their attention. And no, Jason doesn’t love crowd control, but being a former Robin, he has a lot of experience. So he starts directing groups by class towards the exits of the building that aren’t actively falling down. He carries a few kids with situational paralysis, and one with a heavy wheelchair, and there’s an older woman—maybe not a teacher, since there isn’t a swarm of little humans clinging to her skirt—and legs it to the door that spits out on State Street.
That’s about all the time there is until the building goes down with more confidence. It’s still slow, awkward for the structural support and latent explosions from ruptured gas lines, but it’s obvious now that the entire thing is going to collapse. A teacher behind him is shouting, counting the frightened gaggle of kids and shouting for a missing student no one can place. There are still kids—shit—stragglers, he hasn’t confirmed the place is empty.
“Emma! Emma—where’s Emma?”
“She—she went to the bathroom—”
Jason runs back inside. Not the most critical of thinking. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for, and he’s out of time. He’d be better off waiting until the dust settles to assist with search and rescue; he can’t help anyone if he gets crushed by concrete or impaled on a rebar. But there’s a pretty instinctual part of him that chucks rationalization out the window.
Okay, bathroom. Second-grade wing, judging by the apparent age of the others in Emma’s class. And there, just outside the girls’ restroom, huddled in a ball under a table is a kid who matches the mental image.
“Emma!” Jason shouts, skidding to a stop—there’s no time, this is the last part of the building and it’s going to bury them any second now (no, no don’t think about that. Fuck.)
The kid looks up at the sound of her name—that’s good—but Jason doesn’t wait for an acknowledgement before snatching her off the ground and booking it. Come on, come on. He can see the nearest door outside, propped open on a brick and bent along its frame. It’s at the end of the hall and he’s going fast but…
Jason makes the calculations in a split second. He’s not going to make it, not with the acute tension in the floor, in the cracks splitting open the walls. And she might get a bad scrape or two, but it’s better than taking chances with the rubble. Jason shifts his grip on the kid and throws her, the way he throws Damian. She screams, little arms and legs flailing, but she clears the door and hits the pile of snow far enough from the edge of the building that falling debris shouldn’t kill her.
That’s when everything goes dark.
Jason’s view is obstructed by shadows. In a second, a great hush falls over his surroundings: silence that’s fuzzy at the edges. He must get knocked out at least a little because it takes him a long moment or two to register the pain—and boy, is she there.
The complaining whine he makes sounds a little atrocious through the mask—he takes a hazy second to be grateful for the mask when he can spare a second to remember that everything is dusty. His hair is wet. His hair should not be wet. His hair is wet in that specific itchy way that tells him wearing a helmet in Gotham will never not be prudent.
Assess. A voice hums in his head. It’s hard to tell if the voice is male or female or familiar or two at once, but he pushes the distracting tangent aside in favor of following its directive. He can wiggle his extremities, so debilitating spinal injuries are unlikely. There’s still a faint hum in the solid material surrounding him, which his eyes are presently too blurry to identify. A tingling burn along his arm tells him something has sliced clean through his jacket, and a testing shuffle flares the pain in a way that indicates whatever sharp edge caused it is still uncompromisingly pressed against him. But it’s not the worst cut he’s ever had. Stitches later. Aside from the sharp throb in his head and a punchy sort of ache in his side, he can’t clock any immediate injuries.
It’s dark. Jason takes a few measured breaths. Focus. He’s twisted mostly facedown. There’s a firm weight against his left side, but it feels like he could extract himself if he tired, and the echo of his breathing through the mask says the space around him is tight but not enclosed. The exit is only a few paces away.
Jason is currently trapped beneath a layer of debris.
It should be roughly one story’s worth of debris and change for snow; this wing of the building didn’t have an upper level. He can work with this. Less than six feet, and it’s not even solid mud.
Okay Jason, breathe. He can breathe. He has a great mask with awesome filters so the dust and anything else suspended in the trapped air pocket can’t hurt him if he breathes. It's fine. This is good. This is already way better than October five years ago. He wriggles his shoulder—not the one with the sliced arm attached—and fumbles at his jacket for his phone. Kinda stupid he doesn’t have any other light source. He doesn’t actually need a light source, but the dark and the pressure is making his heart pound. Breathe.
It takes a careful amount of shifting very slowly to get the phone out. He gives it a firm shake to turn the torch setting on, thankful he doesn’t have to fumble with the screen or buttons. There’s a half-plastered steel beam two inches left of his head. Damn. That could have split his skull open like a Goddamn watermelon. Jason cranes his neck to see farther.
The beam extends down his left side. It doesn’t look likely to move on his account, which should be good leverage. Unfortunately, there is a mess of rebars and dented pipes twisted around it, like the beam was above them and fell through faster because it's so heavy. Jason can see a few slabs of concrete dipping in and out of the tangle. Scattered clumps of snow are visible the higher up he strains his neck. He can see light too. Faint, filtered daylight trickling through the cracks. It was dark in the cemetery. Thank God. Okay, he’s not trapped. He’s not going to suffocate.
Jason examines his other side, where his arm is cut. The offending material looks like another beam—smaller, probably cross sectional—torn like a bad hangnail. The fresh edge of it is the part digging into his skin, and it’s already slick with blood. Definitely subdermal. Fuck, it’s going to be annoying.
Luckily, there’s enough room to at least pull himself off the beam, thanks to the rigidity of the barrier on his left. His legs are mostly tangled in the stringy rebars. He should wrap his arm. It’s bleeding freely now, warmth going sticky down the inside of his sleeve. But Jason’s stupid brain lists getting out to be a more immediate priority than spreading DNA all over the rubble—damn, he should blow it up or something, especially if the Bats are going to show on Oracle’s orders. There’s also the head wound to worry about. Jason’s shoulders are getting itchy with the trickle of it.
Out first. He takes another breath to stay calm. Focus. He’s trapped, yes, but he’s faced far worse odds before and been fine (if trauma-induced brain-dead adjacent passes for fine, that is). Fuck. Focus Jason.
He runs a hand along the larger beam and shuffles on his side like a crippled seal until the beam bends up, bracing a larger slab of wall—outer wall, judging by the brickwork. Both sides slouch against each other to form a tented space. It’s too small for Jason to crawl through, but both sides are firm when he gives a testing kick, and he can see light past the wall and snow spilling down it. Probably the best exit. He pockets his phone and sets to work picking through the pieces, tugging and pushing, slipping on cold wet until a spot above gives in and daylight pours over him. Fuck, yes. Jason takes a gasping breath on instinct. It sounds a little stupid with the vocoder.
He ignores the niggling urgency and keeps moving, prying at larger chunks of rubble, hunching his shoulders, forcing his way up until his hands sting from the scrape and his arm burns and his head is pounding and clear of the darkness. It’s tight, and he’s currently cursing his bulkiness. The debris strains as he struggles around it—which is not a good sign—but it won’t matter if he can get out fast enough.
He does almost make it. He mostly makes it. He gets up over the top of the wall, high enough to see the civilians have relocated and first responders have arrived somewhere out of sight; he can hear the dull murmur of a crowd nearby, and at least one set of red and blue lights is silently splashing the wall of a building one block over. There’s no one picking through the remains of the school. Jason is alone. It’s perfect for him—he’d rather get away clean and drop off the grid to treat his injuries—but fate doesn’t seem fond of the idea. And sure, why not? He’s been home a week or so by now. About time he had his share of unpleasant predicaments.
The wall cracks under his feet, and everything around Jason shifts. There’s nothing to grab, no time to jump away, and the footing too unstable to anticipate its movements. Jason slips back. A shelf of plaster crumbles with the pressure from his left foot, and with nothing beneath it to brace his weight, his leg goes down.
“Fuck!” He yelps, suddenly unable to remain upright. Granted, he doesn’t fall far; thankfully not all of his progress is undone. But as the rubble resettles with an ominous groan, it becomes apparent that he is very very stuck again.
He’s not buried, thank God. Most of him, anyway. His left foot, however, is now firmly pinned beneath a pipe thick enough and wide enough around to give his arms a run for their money, and it’s embedded in a big chunk of concrete, because why not? The entire piece is also nestled in a twist of cable lining and crooked rebars: one of which is jamming quite painfully into Jason’s ankle. Fuck.
He curls his toes. Nothing is broken or sprained. He’ll be okay if he can just get this damn thing off his leg. But the piece of concrete is massive, and Jason’s not very optimistic about his ability to move it. Maybe if he had some kind of brace? He’s stuck up to his knee, precariously balanced on his ass with one fumbling hand attempting to prop him up off any other potential instabilities in the debris that might fancy swallowing him. This specific vantage doesn’t allow for much scavenging, and even if he did find something strong enough to wedge against the concrete, he doesn’t have the leverage to push it off.
“Fuck.” Jason says again, a little quieter. He kicks the concrete with his right foot. Nothing happens besides a pathetic answering throb from his left ankle. “Oh my God. This is so fucking stupid.” Then he has to readjust his grip on the bricks behind him before his stinging hand slides off and his abs have to compensate. It’s getting cold.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, the hairs on the back of his neck alert him to a new problem. Jason snaps his head up. Oh. Oh Goddamn.
Cops would be preferable. Even ground zero on fire is something Jason wouldn’t mind. But Nightwing?
“Shit.” Jason all but squeaks. Suddenly his heart rate kicks up, and a shrill spike of terror shoots through his blood when the black and blue vigilante turns and meets his gaze straight on. It’s Friday. He visits on Fridays.
“Shit shit shit.”
He told the kid to call. Jason wanted the Bats here because they’re the best help in situations like this—he still believes that for some stupid reason—but believing it and seeing it now when he’s trapped with no escape and injured and unprepared produce two very different psychological responses.
He has no rational reason to be afraid of Nightwing. Nightwing may be cruel, but he has very specific triggers, and Jason isn’t likely to hit any of them right now, immobilized like this. Besides—besides, surely Nightwing isn’t still mad at him. He doesn’t look mad. It’s always been harder to read Nightwing’s moods, especially compared to Batman, but Nightwing doesn’t look mad. He looks almost hesitant.
Well, whatever hesitation he feels, it’s not enough to stop him from picking his way over, and Jason’s brain decides very firmly that it doesn’t like that. Fuck, he’s definitely coming closer. Jason can see the way his calculating gaze assesses the situation, cataloguing unstable rubble and Jason’s awkward position and maybe the blood too. The lack of the helmet.
Shit, he doesn’t look like he’s after a fight. Jason can’t tell what to make of the mild expression he wears, but he’s not taking the chance that it’s benign. Jason knows Dick can snap in the blink of an eye: shatter a sparkling friendly illusion with rage and bitterness and cold hard cruelty—and Jason isn’t in the best shape to defend himself right now. His heart stutters at his most recent Nightwing memory. Fuck. No. He’s not—he wouldn’t do that—not again. He probably knows Jason didn’t hurt Robin, right? Nightwing doesn’t have a reason to hurt him, right?
Finding out first-hand sounds like a terrible fucking idea. Jason yanks on his leg. The only thing that shifts is the bone in his ankle, and that hurts.
“Shit, shit,” Jason pulls again, twisting—anything—he has to get away, he can’t stay here—but he can’t move the rubble. Damn it, his leg hurts. “Fuck—stay the fuck back!” He changes tactics.
Nightwing pauses briefly. He seems tense where he stops a few meters away. His arms are lowered, ready to snap up at a moment’s notice, and now he’s close enough Jason can make out a worn grimace converging on thin lips. It looks so different in daylight.
Jason distantly registers that his chest is heaving. Fuck. Calm down.
“Red Hood?” Nightwing says, voice carefully measured. He makes a show of keeping his posture open, like that could fool Jason into thinking the man harmless. Jason can still taste ozone if he tries. He’s trying not to.
Jason pulls his leg again, hard enough to lose balance and accomplish nothing. “Shit, no—fuck—” He scrambles to readjust his handhold. His fingers are aching and frigid now, and he’s getting the ominous sense that the spot he’s gripping is about to break away.
Nightwing takes advantage of the momentary distraction to inch forward.
“No—I said stay back!” Jason doesn’t want Nightwing near him right now. He can’t really protect himself. He—he draws his gun from his jacket and points it at Dick—and they both know it’s a useless show, but—Jason will admit it. He’s scared. Nightwing scares him.
All that explosive rage, the experience and skill to set his anger free. Nightwing is one of the most dangerous people on the fucking planet, halfway because he leads on instinct and feeling. And if he felt like it right now, he could kill Jason without breaking a sweat. It would be so easy. There would be no proof he’d done it, there are no cameras nearby, and it’s the two of them alone, and all this shifting rubble… it could be an accident.
But perhaps more frightening—and much more likely—is the event in which Nightwing doesn’t release his anger by killing Jason. Dick isn’t above killing. Jason knows that. Jason also knows Dick is a petty son of a bitch and thinks murder is too quick a way to express himself sometimes. He could put Jason through a lot of pain before Jason thought dying again would be a swell idea.
And there would be no tells to warn him of any impending doom. Jason used to aspire to Dick’s performative skill. He’s a better actor than Bruce in that regard, maintaining the mask in and out of uniform.
“Hood…” Nightwing starts in a voice suspiciously devoid of a placating undertone. It sounds like his visible hesitation carries over. Like it’s real. “I’m not—”
Jason shoots. He doesn’t remember flicking the safety off, but the bullets fly out, and Nightwing is forced to duck to avoid eating lead. Concrete chips and cracks, and there’s the high ping of metal getting hit.
Bad idea, he thinks, like part of him is still twelve years old clutching a tire iron. Are you trying to make him mad? Angry Nightwing is way worse than angry Batman and the last time Jason shot at Nightwing he was so pissed off—
“Wait, I’m not going to hurt you!”
Lie lie lie—Jason yanks at his leg and kicks at the cables—he’s not going anywhere but his arm hurts and his head hurts and Nightwing is right fucking there and if Jason doesn’t at least try to escape he might get so dizzy he passes out. Is he breathing? Yeah, he’s still breathing. Fucking miracle it would be if he doesn’t go into alkalosis, he’s breathing so fast. Jason forces his throat to close. His lungs spasm in protest.
“Hood, please—” Blue palms pop up behind a pile of bricks, followed closely by a swoop of dark hair and skeptical lenses squinted white.
Jason contemplates shooting the fingers off—but he has no justification for it the way he did when that assassin tried to slit Beck’s throat. All he can do is point.
“You’re stuck.” Nightwing pitches. “I just want to help.”
“Carry your useless fucking assistance elsewhere, dick.” Jason swallows another spasm that’s more phantom than asphyxiation. “And leave me the fuck alone.”
He wonders what difference it would make if Dick knew who he was. If it would make one at all. Judging by Dick’s lack of reaction, it wouldn’t really.
“Hood, you’re stuck.” Dick repeats, probably to be a dick.
“I’m fine.” Jason growls. But the pressure on his leg is starting to actively ache, and he can feel the shape of the strain in the brick beneath his hand now. His arm and head are still bleeding freely. Another few minutes like this, and he won’t need respiratory alkalosis to feel dizzy.
Nightwing stands slowly, arms still raised—closer to his escrima—and keeps that twist in his lips. He’s frowning, almost thoughtful.
“Let me help.”
Jason snarls, grip tightening around the gun. “You know what would be really fucking helpful? Go find a couple kids to dig up. You’d be avoiding a lot of current problems if you’d prioritized rescuing buried kids—”
“Everyone’s accounted for.” Nightwing interrupts. There’s something weird about the way he says it that Jason’s too wired to try and pin down. “All the kids are safe. You were the only person left in the building when it went down.”
Oh. On one hand, that’s heartening. It means Jason was able to help. It also means there’s nothing to distract Nightwing right now, and Jason’s having a hard time thinking straight past the irrational fight or flight response.
Jason doesn’t shoot, doesn’t move his gun away. He keeps the barrel pointed at Nightwing, and the tension ratchets up and up with every tiny tip-toe step black boots take towards him. His hands are trembling, he’s aware. It’s stupid; there’s little reason for Nightwing to lie about wanting to help, Jason can still follow the logic. But his heart remembers stars beneath his skin. His vision is getting spotty.
Nightwing gets to the piece of rubble trapping Jason’s foot and crouches slowly, face still neutral. He rests a hand on the concrete.
Jason wants to yell, shoot a hollow through his hair, swear and threaten and—and—something to make him go away because he’s about to vibrate out of his fucking skin, but he feels frozen and holding his breath is a more present concern.
Dick is staring. “Your hair is black.” He murmurs.
Jason blinks. His—the fuck? Subconsciously, he jerks the gun back, like he’s going to run the hand through his hair. It’s more or less the same as ever; Talia made him cut it before he left, muttering about appearances that he rejoined with a comment on the helmet. Same streak of white that hasn’t gone away, same floppy locks that go curly at the ends. Beck likes to flick at the curls sometimes. It was a definite source of delight that she exploited when he grew it out. And yes, most of it is black. What the fuck does that have to do with anything?
“Good eye.” Jason snaps.
“Does Batman know?”
“Why the f—no, Batman doesn’t know my hair is black. Why the hell would he know that?”
Nightwing breaks eye contact briefly. “Never mind.” He almost says it to himself. “It would seem like a sixth sense at this point.”
It’s a blatant disarming tactic, and Jason really despises that it’s working. He’s still fucking wired. He still feels jittery and panicky. But he knows the hair thing is a reference to Bruce’s type where child adoption is concerned, and—wait, does that mean Batman was planning to adopt Red Hood? Red Hood is a grown fucking man, what the fuck? Would this have come about before or after Batman made an attempt to collapse Jason’s trachea?
“It doesn’t matter.” Nightwing shakes his head. Jason’s starting to find it odd that the bastard hasn’t smiled once. “Please, let me help. I’ll just pull this—” he taps the concrete, “Off. Okay? That’s it.”
“You’re a fucking idiot if you think I’m going to trust you after what you did last time we exchanged pleasantries.” It really doesn’t make sense. Pretty much from the start, Dick has had it out for Jason. And sure, Jason didn’t handle the encounters well at first, too caught up in his plan and the atrocious mess of emotions that seeing Nightwing brought about, but Dick committed to the bit very solidly. There have been a few times he relaxed: a razor scraping against its blade, rather than cutting to the point. He’s openly flirted with Jason maybe once or twice. But… but Christmas Eve was all bad. And Jason could understand if he’s backing off on the antagonism after finding out about Robin, but to sincerely say he wants to help? To make vague allusions to being family? It doesn’t make sense. It has to be a lie, because this doesn’t make sense any other way. Jason wishes he would just skip to the punchline already; the panic thrives on anticipation, and he’s sick of it.
But instead of bristling, or making any manner of logical rationalizations for his distinct lack of Christmas spirit the last time they exchanged pleasantries, Dick’s face crumples.
Jason knows what a fake Dick Grayson slump looks like. He knows how to spot the manipulative regret and disappointment. There’s none of it here.
“I’m sorry.” Dick says in the realest voice he can manage. He ducks his head. He stares at the rubble. His shoulders threaten to hunch; Jason can see the tension. “I’m really sorry for hurting you. I was wrong about you. I’m never going to do it again.”
As far as apologies go, it’s pretty pathetic, but Jason bites down judgement because from what he can tell, it’s sincere. He knows Dick says it differently when he doesn’t mean it. When he’s just trying to smooth things over, when he doesn’t actually care. This is different. This is… real shame wafting off of Gotham’s Golden boy. He’s not even crying.
Something jittery in Jason’s chest calms down a fraction. The uneasiness lingers—he still doesn’t trust, not fully—but it’s enough to let reason seep in. This is a good offer. It would be strategic to accept. And—and he would rather not call Talia at the end of the week just to tell her he broke his leg again because he’s too chicken to speak to Dick Grayson. She won’t cancel Damian’s flight on Sunday, but she will laugh at him.
“Okay.” Jason bites out.
Dick’s head snaps up. There’s an achingly hopeful glow behind his thinly veiled expression.
“Get this thing off me.”
Dick nods, reaching up over his shoulder—Jason can’t stop the violent flinch as gloved fingers curl around the bright blue rod—and Dick goes still. He holds one hand out peaceably.
“No no, wait. I’m not going to—”
Jason flicks the gun back up, just to make himself feel better. “Fuck you. Hurry up.”
Dick moves slowly. He keeps his gaze carefully steady, pulling the escrima off his back. Jason knows they snap together and extend into a staff; that was one of his earliest ideas, right around the time he showed up and started giving his two cents. Dick was always good with the staff. It was a base requirement that he have the weapon on hand, and Mr. Fox had been happy to oblige despite Batman’s long-standing funk about Dickie flying the nest.
Dick snaps out the staff and shoves it under concrete, right along the length of Jason’s leg. He wishes he had his combat boots. Street sneakers are meant for casual strolls around the block, and there’s no ankle support. He feels the strain in the rubble through his leg. Dick pushes down.
The pressure lightens. Jason pulls, scraping past crooked rebars, kicking at cables, trying to keep his damn shoe on past the narrow sliver of space Dick’s making. He’d rather not have to walk home half barefoot, thanks. The needle-lined streets will probably give him HIV again, and he’d like to avoid another encounter with the Lazarus pit if he can help it.
Finally, Jason’s leg comes free. He scrambles in a way he’s sure is telling, but right now he doesn’t care. Nightwing is right there. Jason surges to his feet—bad idea with the head wound and blood loss—and stumbles backwards over the uneven rubble. He pays the minimum attention to other weak points in favor of keeping the gun trained on Dick.
“Red Hood—” Nightwing tugs his staff out of the concrete and straightens carefully. “Wait, you’re injured.”
“Don’t push your luck, Big bird.” Jason snaps.
Nightwing’s expression twists. Why is he pressed about that, of all things? Surely it’s not disappointment he can’t stitch up Jason’s boo boos. Dick’s never been the fretful sort of big brother. Or has that changed?
“Okay.” His voice sounds a little strangled. “Thank you… for helping these kids.”
“Whatever. I was in the area.” Before Dick can make it any more awkward or abort any more attempts to form an emotional bond, Jason steps off the nearest chunk of concrete and makes a break for it.
“Hood—!”
Jason ignores the plaintive tone. It makes his skin crawl. He needs to fix his arm, find out if he’s concussed (probably not), and formulate a plan to track down whoever’s responsible for this stupid stupid situation. Who the hell plants staggered bombs on a primary school? Jason’s going to torture that sick fuck.
Oh shit, he left a lot of blood behind. Is that a big deal? He needs to call Beck again.