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Jason opened the backpack, a ratty thing that probably still smelled on inner city smog and vomit, dumping its meager content onto his duvet. A half eat pack of gum, his backup copy of Jane Eyre, a pocket knife, and an unopened can of peaches in juice, not heavy syrup.
This was probably the same shit he had the last time he tried to run from the Manor. He hadn't used the bag since his death, it just sat in the back of the closet gathering dust. He could wash it, use some of that headache inducing flowery laundry detergent and a washrag to scrub out the stains and the smell, but he doesn't.
He could use the fancy military grade pack that hung neatly on a hook on the back of his closet door, but he doesn't. Instead, he carefully replaced the gum, the book, and the pocket knife. Ya know what? Fuck it. He tossed the can of peaches back in as well. Ya never know.
What else? He'll have to hike in from the back if he wants to avoid a confrontation. Maybe a couple of protein bars and some bottles of water?
He missed a lot of things about the Manor. Alfred, the libraries, the double oven—he had dreams about that double oven—but during his time there he'd grown used to the greatest luxury money could offer. Not safety, he never really had that. Not security, nothing could be stable forever. No, the greatest thing money could buy in Gotham City, was water that didn't taste radioactive.
Water was ruined for him now. Even bottled water—which he once believed to be height of luxury—tasted like chlorine compared to whatever the Wayne Manor had pumping through its pipe.
Chemical water is better than no water, he reminded himself, shoving a bottle before thinking better of it and adding two more with a grimace. "Water, food, wallet, keys, phone," he murmured tapping his front pocket. "Phone?" Moving the backpack to look on the bed, he continued patting his pockets in search of the device he knew after the first check was not there. "Phone?" he whispered, this time scanning the room. A quick trip the the kitchen proved fruitless and a fourth check of his pockets was equally so.
"This is why we can't have nice things," he said. "This is why we get chemical water." The empty room didn't answer.
He could use his emergency line to call his personal cell and probably find the thing in less than a minute, or he could not do that and keep running around like a headless chicken until in magically appeared in a place he could fucking swear he'd already check.
Twenty minutes later he was shaking out the contents of his newly repacked bag back onto the bed on the off chance that he tossed the phone in there while he was throwing in all the rest of the stuff. Something tumbled out beside the water bottles that he refused to believe was his phone.
Jason clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, and sighed, resisting the urge to turn around and bang is forehead against the wall repeatedly.
"Avengers fucking assemble," he groaned, pocketing the phone. In a effort to avoid comments about suicide and self-harm, he shifted his outburst to variations of 'Avengers assemble'. Things like 'If this pasta burns I'm gonna walk into oncoming traffic' became 'If this pasta burns I'm gonna assemble the fucking Avengers'. So far, success was variable.
Wasn't the stupidest thing he's tried. Not by a long shot. Something, something, tires.
The now empty bag proved too tempting for Desdemona. Her head and front legs had already disappeared into it before Jason opened his eyes. He's momentarily reminded of the proverb about curiosity and cats. "You're not coming," he told her.
"Mrrow."
"No."
Gently grabbing her around the abdomen he tried to pull her from the bag but she sunk her claws into the worn fabric in protest. "No," he repeated.
"Mrrow."
She was purring. He was pulling her chunky ass from an ratty, old bag against her will and she was purring. Like kids and old ladies and most animals, it didn't take Desdemona long to learn that Jason was a giant push over.
"It's too cold. And I knowing you'll make a fucking break for it."
"Mrrooooooooooooow."
"No," he said, shoving everything back in the bag and adding another two waters and a couple more snacks. His backpack thunked soundly against his back when he slung it over one shoulder.
The old wooden floorboards of his Crime Alley apartment creaked under him, the added weight of his hiking boots and gear amplifying the soft groans he was used to.
Desdemona followed him through the hallway to the front door. "No!" he repeated, firmer this time. She sat. Her big brown eyes stared up at him. "That's not gonna work. Not this time."
He slipped the backpack off his shoulder and leaned it against the front door to put on his wool-lined coat. The hood negated the need for a hat or earmuffs which was fortunate. As much as Gotham was a city that rebelled against convention, earmuff could and would get someone mugged or beat to shit. Gothamites, progressive enough to respect sex workers, accept socialized emergency clinics, and raise minimum wage but earmuffs? Too far. Earmuffs were for rich people, douchebags, and rich douchebags. And Russians. Which, to most of Gotham was almost worse than rich douche bags.
He thought for a second, debating, then stuffed an extra coat in his bag. The zipper was straining, but the damn thing held up this long, it would make it a little longer.
"Reconcile with your family, they said. It'll be worth it, they said. I hate hiking."
It wasn't working, deflecting his worry with humor and sarcasm. It never did… but one day.
Jason stared down Desdemona giving her one last head scratch before leaving. "Be good. And for the love of God no more eating plastic. Please. Please. No more eating plastic. I don't even know where your getting it. I—just be good. I love you." He bent down for an extra scratch behind the ear, just in case.
"Mrrow."
"No."
Shoving down the guilt for leaving her behind—fucking ridiculous, she's a cat, idiot, grow a spine—was harder than he'd ever admit.
The door latched behind him and with a quick turn of his key, the deadbolt slotted into place. The alarm armed automatically and the security camera pointed at the door was live 24/7. Anything else would be too much to explain to any overly-inquisitive elderly neighbors and frankly over kill. If someone wanted into his apartment they could just bust through the neighboring wall.
A cab dropped him off on the outskirts of the forest. A polite "Thank you," and a thirty dollar tip kept the cabbie from asking questions. Not that Jason thought he would, this was still Gotham.
Phone in hand, Jason started to pick he way through the scraggly dead underbrush. A location dot flashed periodically on the screen, closer and closer by the minute.
[-]
"What's a place like this doin' with a guy like you in it?" Jason called out. It's an old gag with Dick, something he used when Dick would visit Mount Justice.
Dick didn't look up to greet him. "I think I fit in pretty well."
His left hand was plucking the grass, one blade at time. It reminded Jason of playing 'she loves me, she loves me not' with the flowering weeds that forced their way through the cracks in the sidewalk in the dreary Gotham springs of his youth.
It's a morbid place for a game, but a graveyard was a morbid place for anything.
Jason spent a few seconds processing the scene in front of him. Dick the pallor of porcelain, fragile and sallow. He wasn't dressed for the weather, jeans, sneakers, and a plain navy t-shirt wouldn't do much against the sharp chill of late Fall. The wind rustled the few dead leaves that still clung desperately to trees and scattered those who'd let go. Piles of them gathered against the wrought iron fencing. The green grass, diligently maintained, remained under attack by Dick absentminded executions. The grass, so vibrant and alive compared to its dismal gray surroundings, made it look like an image with the saturation turned too far up.
They're too far from anything to hear signs of human life, appropriate he supposed. Even the Manor which loomed menacingly from most angles was covered entirely by the thick grove of dormant trees.
"Alright, My Chemical Romance. If the next words out your mouth are 'You just don't understand me!' I'm fucking leavin'."
"Promise?" Dick taunted, but it didn't land. Mostly because it sounded more like "proms" than "promise" and Dick looked more like a Halloween decoration than a person. Another blade of grass met a grisly beheading. Truly the Robespierre of Poaceae.
Jason wasn't falling for Dick's shit. Not today. It was too damn cold. He'd walked too fucking far. And he was too worried to play games. "Fuck you, outta the two of us, I'm the one with reserved seating." He gestured to the headstone Dick was leaning against. His headstone. "See that? I'm a VIP. Box seats."
Dick finally moved, head tilting up to acknowledge Jason. "Ow'd y'fine me?"
The words slurred together, like he was drunk, but Jason knew better. Dick didn't drink on days like this, in places like this. Come to think of it, Jason hasn't seen Dick ever. Pre or post pine box vacation.
The revelation shouldn't shock him as much as it does. It's information he has no context, no code for which has no key to decrypt, somehow relevant and irrelevant. The why evaded him, tossing itself here and there across vague and blurry memories. Indistinct images of extravagant galas interspersed between clear conversations on rooftops and couches and train cars.
There was something there, something desperately trying to make itself known under the glittering overhead lights of lavish charity events and warm soft glow of table lamps and the moon. It touted itself as a slew of contradictions, important yet forgettable, now and later, sharp and soft.
And it could be nothing at all. Jason himself wasn't much of a drinker. But it felt so—so pertinent. Here was Dick, clothes unfit for the weather, knees drawn up to his chest, back against granite, hands anchored in the grass. No water, no windbreaker, no whiskey, just a man, the clothes on his back, and a phone that Jason knew had yet to leave his pocket.
Another time, then. Jason was pretty sure Dick didn't even know who he was talking to anyway.
Plopping down Jason said, "Oh, ya know, only things certain in life is death, taxes, and Dick Grayson gettin' all mushy round the holidays and sulks around dead people." Well, one out three ain't bad.
Dick didn't move, no chuckle, no admonishment, no raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
"I followed the overwhelming stench of self-loathing."
Static.
"I had my GPS reprogrammed to lead me to the nearest person who's living la vida loca. And low and behold," Jason said, gesturing to Dick sat in s pathetic heap next to him.
Nothing.
Alright, okay, fine, fuck you. Tough crowd. Every failure fueled Jason's desire to make Dick smile. A real smile, not those bright and shiny magazine smiles he plastered on. It's i=on, you bastard.
"I followed the North Star. I brought you frankincense."
At least Dick was breathing. If nothing else, Jason could count on the steady rise and fall of his chest. Come on, man. I can't fucking talk to you when your like this.
"I visited the Titanic and saw someone moved the furniture. Headed straight here after."
Dick heaved a long, dense sigh. Not the reaction Jason was going for but it was something. "See it's funny because—" Jason began with no intention of finishing.
""I'll stab you," Dick threatened, but it came out all mumbled and lackadaisic.
"Shaking in my boots," Jason said, flatly. Then "You shared you location with me the other day and didn't turn it off."
Dick was silent for just a little too long.
"Beignets," Jason explained.
"Mmm," Dick hummed in recognition. "Why'd y'fine me?"
Jason held back a wince, just barely. That's what he was afraid of. "Dick."
"Hmm?"
The ground was cold and damp, seeping through his clothes and rolling like a fog over his skin. God dammit. God fucking dammit.
"Dick."
"Hmm?"
"Dick," he repeated, firmer.
"Hmm?" Dick said. Jason watched his eyes close, slow and lethargic, followed by a few more rapid blinks in immediate succession.
Seizing the opportunity, Jason placed a hand on Dick's arm. Dick was so cold the disparity sent a sort of shock through Jason's system. The jacket. He brought Dick a jacket, but he couldn't let this chance slip away.
"Dickie, come on. Need you here with me," he said, gently shaking Dick's shoulder.
"Hmm? Yeah. I'm here," Dick responded.
Turning so he could put a hand on each of Dick's biceps, Jason tried to rub some warmth back into his brother's arms. "That's good, Dick. That's good. Can you tell me where here is?"
"Mm."
In a split second decision, Jason flipped the backpack off, opened it, and fished out the extra jacket. Something settled in his chest as he guided Dick's arms through the sleeves and zipped the front up to his chin. At least he could do that. He couldn't do much, but he could do that.
"Dickie, hey. You gotta give me somethin' or I'm callin' in the cavalry."
For a second Dick looked at him with recognition in his glazed eyes. "Jay?"
"Yeah, Big Bird. It's me. It's Jay."
"I miss you sometimes. Is that terrible?"
It was the first clear thing he'd said since Jason's arrival.
Anywhere else and those words would have a different meaning, but here—here they were dense and thick. They stuck in his throat and weighed down his lungs like mucus. Though he wasn't the one the say them Maybe before, maybe a year ago Jason would have thought it terrible. Hateful, dismissive, and selfish. But this wasn't a year ago. Jason and Dick, they could say things like that to each other now. Things that were thick and roiling, heavy and infected. And it was okay. They were okay.
Jason glaced over at the white granite headstone with his name lasered in thin, precise letters. "No, I miss me sometimes, too."
"I don't want them here," Dick said.
It took Jason a minute to realize the subject change, wasting a few seconds trying to figure out where Dick's statement fit into their conversation. The gentle curve of pink granite wider than it was tall, held the answer: John Grayson & Mary Grayson.
But, as was rapidly becoming the day's pattern, the realization did little to illuminate the path forward. What the fuck do I say to that?
Dick saved him the trouble, "I—they wouldn't like it here. It's cold."
Cold was good. Cold was current, present. Jason's takes the barest of seconds to appreciate being one step closer. "Can you feel the cold, Dick?"
Dick's hand stopped moving in the grass, then clenched into a fist, relaxed, then clenched again. "My hands. My toes. Is it snowing?"
Snowing? "Snowing? It's not snowing, Dick, it's November. You're outside. I'm here with you. We're in Gotham." Each statement was slow, deliberate. Worry gnawed at Jason's stomach, expanding rapidly to press against his lungs and claw at his heart.
"Mom doesn't like the snow. She'd get sad in the winter."
Jason stayed quiet, hoping Dick would continue.
"She likes spring. The flowers, the colors, the birds."
It took effort not to visually recoil. Jason knew this story, had for a while. But this wasn't about that.
"I tried to tell them but I no one listened. I didn't have the words, yet," Dick continued, clearer than anything he'd previously said. "It's too cold here. It snows."
Jason's brain was running out of useful ideas. Start a fire, it suggested. Which, overall, wouldn't be a bad idea if it weren't for all the reasons it was even if he did have the means to start a fire. Oh, how he loathed that voice. Steal those tires, it said. Trust Thalia, it said. Murder that kid, it said.
For a long while he thought the voice was youthful impulsivity. With every regret he clung to the idea that he'd grow out of it, that maturity would invite attentive consideration, but the day never arrived. It took even longer for him to discover that it wasn't impulsivity and immaturity fueling his ill-advised thoughts and actions. The voice in his head wasn't a child. It wasn't irresponsible and reckless. It was desperate.
A starving kid. A lost teenager. A traumatized young man.
An uninformed view of Dick at that very moment, underdressed, unprepared, alone before Jason arrived would paint him as unequivocally, unarguably, impulsive. But Jason wasn't uniformed. And Dick wasn't impulsive.
Grabbing Dick's hand and flipping it palm up, Jason decided to try a different tactic. Maybe Jason was desperate, that didn't make him wrong. The hand that wasn't holding Dick's systematically dug through the pockets of his cargo pants until it found his lighter. The 'ktchk' 'ktchk' of the lighter bounced on off of the headstones and died against the forest foliage.
Jason sent a quick prayer to whatever entity bothered to listen, squared his jaw and stuck the flame about an inch from the back of Dick's hand.
One second, two seconds, three. Jason was this close to giving up when Dick yanked his hand back of his own accord. Blinking a couple of times before settling back into his near catatonia. This time, though, Jason could see the cracks, could see Dick hiding under the layers and layers of false apathy and detachment. Jason just had to keep reaching. Just a little farther and could grab his brother and drag him out of his cocoon of self-preservative indifference.
He had to believe Dick could hear him, had to believe Dick was listening, had to get through to get through to him. And he knew just how: a story. Jason was smiling a little, as if reminiscing on a fond memory but his eyes, he knew, reflected a deep sorrow. "When I was a kid, I thought I had a super power," he huffed a short laugh through his nose, "Called it time-warping."
"And it worked. I'd skip a couple hours here and there. Willis shouting, Mom cryin', ya know, the worst bits. And it worked. I'd resurface with new bruises or another hole in my shoes but how I got them, I could skip all'a that shit." Swallowing thickly, Jason willed himself to keep going. He wasn't—it felt like he was cracking his chest open and letting Dick wrap his cold fingers around Jason's still beating heart.
"Sometimes I'd come back and Mom was there, sometimes she wasn't. Sometimes I was on the streets, sometimes I wasn't. And it was like that for a bit. In and out. An hour, a few minutes, a day." Fuck. Was this how Dick felt telling him all his stuff. It's like he was vomiting and shivering and imploding all at once. Talking to his therapist was one thing. He could close that office door and forget they exist 'til his next appointment. This was—it was—he was swirling with something sour and loud. He felt—he was alone and surrounded, bursting and hollow.
Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Jason continued. "'Til I went under one day when I nine and when I came back up I was eleven. Willis was gone. Mom was on death's door. Nothing new, really, except I didn't even know where I was."
Dick was looking at him now, really looking. Jason let himself hope. "Do you know where you are, Dickie?"
"I'm outside. Jason?"
Just a second, less than, Jason closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, relief flooding his body. "Yeah?" he replied, more choked than he'd like.
"I'm cold."
"I know, Dickie. I brought you a jacket."
Dick looked down at his arms and hands. "Oh," he said as if he'd only just noticed. "Thank you. I didn't know I was cold. I'm outside. I should know that."
"It's okay, Dick. I knew for you."
His eyes were still hazy, but something about them suggested a presence that wasn't entirely there before. "Oh, thank you," Dick repeated.
A silence rapidly descended upon them, settling in between their sentences and worming its way into the gaps between their breaths. The leaves layering the ground around the cemetery dampened any sounds the forest tried to send towards them. And it remained for a second, a minute, a few, quiet. Then, "Have I been gone for two years?"
Jason spun the words over in his mind a couple of times, trying to catch up. I went under one day when I nine and when I came back up I was eleven. "No, Dickie, but everyone's pretty worried about you. No one's heard from you in two days. It was me or a hoard of hyper-concerned heroes."
"Worried? About me? I'm okay."
Jason smiled a little despite himself. "Yeah, you look it."
"Jason?"
"Yeah?"
One last piece of grass was decapitated before Dick's hand stilled. "I think I'm here now."
Holy fuck. Who took the fucking planet of his chest? Jason's chest expanded to near full capacity for the first time in days, he could feel the muscles stretch and strain from disuse. "Yeah? You better be. My ass is starting to hurt."
Dick laughed, or breathed something like a laugh, if a laugh was near silent and sorta shuttered. Close enough for Jason.
"Two days?" Dick finally asked.
Jason considered him, trying to gauge what answer he wanted, what answer he expected and maybe which lie would do the least damage.
The truth might scare Dick but lying would have the unfortunate side effect of both being untrue and making Jason feel like a slimy, putrid, sludged swamp creature of a man. In the end, it wasn't a hard decision.
"Two days," Jason confirmed. "You'd'a thought you's gone a month the way everyone ran around batshit." Not too honest, though. His other thoughts—let's leave, it's cold as fuck, I wanna go home, you scared me you fuck—those he swallowed. Or perhaps just set aside for later.
Rummaging through his backpack, Jason pulled out a protein bar and offered it to Dick but didn't pressure him to eat it. He had a feeling trying to make Dick do anything at the moment would be one step forward and two steps back. "Deedee tried to come with. Climbed into the bag and everything."
Dick smiled, tentative but genuine, taking the food and nodding his thanks. But he didn't unwrap it. "You shoulda let her."
"You kidding? We would never see her again if I let her out her out here."
"She doesn't come when you call her?" Dick asked, hands shoved in the pockets of the jacket Jason put on him.
Jason huffed, exasperated. Desdemona was supposed to be an emotional support cat, but she only really succeeded in the emotional category. Namely frustration and disappointment and admonishment. She was perfect, really. "That cat responds to tubes of processed meat and nothing else."
Another almost laugh. It made Jason feel a little less cold.
Once wind blew away their words, Dick began to regard him with an emotion Jason couldn't quite identify. Then, "Was it true? The story you told me?"
And again, Jason felt the urge to lie but—"Yeah. I didn't know what it was 'til I was older but, uhh, yeah. Haven't done it in years."
Maybe he should have left it at that, but something—hope, love, guilt, something—to say, "It gets better, Dick."
Dick didn't respond.
It wasn't really something Jason could promise. Jason knew that. Dick knew that. Jason knew that Dick knew that. But it was a promise that wasn't a promise. A promise in the same way a 'hello' promised a 'goodbye'.
It meant 'I'll be here'.
It meant 'You're not alone'.
It meant 'It's okay'.
Jason knew that. Dick knew that. Jason knew that Dick knew that.
"Jason?"
"Yeah?"
Jason braced himself for some sort of apology, readied himself to shoot it down gentle but vehement. Dick always pulled this shit, internalizing everything and keeping inside and reshaping however was needed to convince himself that it was his fault.
It was fucking cold, Jason was fucking tired. He's leaning against his own out of date headstone—why hadn't they had that removed? He missed his cat. He'd fight half the League for an actual meal. And he just really didn't want to deal with that shit right now. He would, of course he would.
"Let's go home."
Huh. Maybe it's getting better.