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Chapter Text

Blüdhaven, New Jersey

November 9, 17:23 EST

[Dick Grayson]

It's taking everything in him to act professional right now.

“Honestly Officer, we have no idea why he would run off” the mother keeps getting uncomfortably close to him, finding reasons to touch him. The father seems not to notice, or at least not to care.

He considers texting Wally - he doesn't want to blow his cover if he needs to fight her off.

Jesus, he's a civilian right now, talking to other civilians, why the hell is he preparing in advance for a fight?

He's fine.

Everything's fine.

But he sends the text anyway.

《Me: This kid's mom is kinda creeping me out

Wally: Need backup?

Me: Maybe later

Me: I'll keep you posted

Wally: k 》

“I promise you ma'am, we're doing everything we can to find your son” he tells her.

The rest of the conversation goes by quickly, the questions and responses generic and practiced, but somewhere along the way the mother's hand winds up splayed across his chest, and his tether to his body snaps.

He doesn't remember walking to the bench. And the longer he sits, the further he drifts. Into a nightmare, away from the body on the bench. The details fade in and out, blurring like faces in the rain. His clothes feel wrong, they're too tight, they're clinging to him like that damn Kevlar and latex suit, she's shoving him down and there's water, cold rain running down his face, washing away the bloody spray, she's shushing him and telling him it's all okay but it's not, she's grabbing his arms, he can't move, he can't breathe-

Pain rips through the illusion. Looking down, there are hands with cuticles that are bruised and bleeding from being picked at. They don't look like his hands anymore. A glance down at his phone tells him he's been here for at least 20 minutes

《Wally: u were gonna be back 10 minutes ago, everything ok?》

[3 Missed Calls: Wals]

The screen lights up with a 4th call.

He lets it ring.

The sound echoes in his ears, weaving through his head.

And then it goes quiet.

A new contact pops up, Jason, and he knows that he has to pick up this time. If he ignores the call, Jason will know something's up, and if he answers he'll still know, somehow.

“Hi” he says, but the voice is someone else's.

“Dickwad, why aren't you pickin up Wally's calls?“ He sounds irate, but coming from Jason he knows it's worry. Guilt swells in his chest

“Dick? You still there?“

“Sorry” the stranger's voice speaks through me again.

“Spit it out, birdie” He demands, but there's no hostility, only concern.

Water dribbles down my cheeks, and it's fine until it's not, the wind gusts and they turn cold, rain drumming on my face and running into my eyes, her hands are on me, it never stops it never stops stop stop stop please-!

“You're gonna be okay”

The stranger's voice doesn't come out of my mouth this time, but neither does mine “ No, I won't be! I-I can't-” can't escape, can't forget “can't stop reliving it”

I thought it was gone, I thought I was okay again, but it's not and it hurts.

The soft, controlled nature of his voice shocks me back for just long enough “Reliving what, Dick?“

“Her.“ I choke, the fog is rolling in, have to fight it, fight her, get her off get her off get her off “Night that Blockbust-ter died. Sh-she-e-”

Everything else dissolves into sobs.

“Hang in there, goldie, I'm comin to get you. Just a few more minutes, Wally's on his way too.” 

I end the call before he can insist on staying on the line, standing on wobbly faun legs. I don't know where I'm going, but I need to be somewhere less exposed. I walk until I'm sure my legs are about to fall off. There's a flash of orange in my peripheral, and cold terror fills my body, any second now she'll tear open my suit and pin me down on the sopping concrete.

But it never comes.

Instead there are arms, wiry and warm, holding me tight against a hummingbird heart.

“Shhh… s'okay Dickie bird. I'm right here” 

Wally. My knees give out, he follows me down, letting me clutch his shirt like a life vest as I fall to pieces in this random alleyway.

“Let it all out. It's just me”

I don't even have the energy to cry anymore. So I whisper something in his ear, a dark secret that has been choking me out for months. I talk until the words won't come out anymore.

I don't know why people say these things happen in slow motion. They don't. It's more of a breakneck speed, so fast you miss the steps between, and before you realize what's happening you're being hugged within an inch of your life.

"I'm so sorry...“ 

Tires squeal so loud the sound pierces my brain, a car door is flung open, and heavy footfalls approach “I'm here, might get arrested later but 's fine”

Wally shifts to make room for Jason, who crouches down in front of me.

I almost recoil out of fear alone, because the full force of the Lazarus pit rage burns in his eyes “Did she do what I think she did?“

Wally taps his shoulder, meets his gaze, and nods solemnly.

Jason stands up abruptly “I'm gonna smash that bitch's fucking skull in”

“Not the time, dude” Wally shakes his head.

Jason's anger flares, then fizzles “Yeah, okay. Help him now, get revenge later”

"I'll fill you in with what he told me on the ride to Gotham" Wally says to him, then turns to look at me "But only if that's okay with you."

I nod.

Everything blurs together again, and somehow I wind up in Jason's car. The roaring engine shakes my whole body, forcing me to cling tight instead of one floating off without the other. I'm grateful for the anchor, and as sleep pulls me under I know it will be dreamless.

Chapter Text

Gotham, New Jersey

November 9, 18:02 EST

[Jason Todd]

Rage burns inside him the entire way home.

Seeing Dick, his big brother, break down in the middle of some alley over what she did to him? Fuck. 

He almost cracked the steering wheel as Wally told him the details. It made his stomach churn violently, just imagining Dick out there, in the rain, alone with the trauma of what had just happened.

He took scalding hot showers for weeks, unable to cope with the panic and pain of remotely cool water. He had to get a new suit without latex because the sound of it rubbing together paralyzed him with fear. He's still afraid of being exposed, opting to sleep in his uniform to avoid it. She did this to him. And Jason is going to make sure she suffers for it.

But right now, Dick is more important. He seems dazed, fading in and out of sleep. The manor is fairly empty, though Jason can hear people upstairs. As the three of them walk up the stairs, the people's voices become clearer.

One is Damian, who sounds almost uncharacteristically excited as he chatters back and forth with the other, whose voice he doesn't recognize.

A third voice, Tim, interjects briefly “Somebody's home. Probably Jason”

Floorboards creak, a door opens, and as Tim walks out he catches a glimpse of the newcomer. He looks to be about Damian's age, and the two of them are eagerly discussing something. 

“Hey, why'd you leave so-” He stops, seeing the vacant look in Dick's eyes “Oh.. is he…?“

“I dunno, Timbo. I dunno” he sighs.

We take him to his room, and he starts to seem a little more aware in the familiar surroundings. I take Tim aside, leaving Wally to help Dick change out of his uniform.

“What's going on with him?“ he whispers.

“Remember the night Tarantula shot Blockbuster?“ He nods slowly, and I can tell he's trying to predict what I'm about to say.

The green-tinted rage boils and froths in my gut, in my head, everywhere “It turns out that murder wasn't the only crime she committed that night.“ The words I say next are bitter tar on my tongue “She fucking raped Dick” 

Tim freezes. He couldn't have predicted that.

“Somethin' triggered him all the sudden, Wally's theory is a creepy mother he was questioning earlier, and he's been in pretty rough shape since”

Tim is still wide-eyed, processing the ugly truth “Oh god… why didn't he say anything?“

“Could be lots of reasons. Knowing goldie, he thought it was his fault”

He looks horrified at this thought “Blockbuster died ages ago.. this entire time he's been…”

“Probably”

“… and none of us noticed… not even B” guilt fuels the fire, consuming any scrap of emotion I could still feel other than unbridled rage.

“I'm going to drive that twisted fuck into the ground with my bare hands…” 

Tim pauses, then nods solemnly “I'll help you hide the evidence”

“No. I want everyone to know it was me. I want to show all of New Jersey what I do to people who mess with my brothers” my hands clench so tight I hear my knuckles crack.

“Then I'll help you hide the legal evidence”

“Deal”

We reenter Dick's room, and I try to quell my anger. He's slumped against Wally's shoulder, mumbling something while tears and snot drip down his face. He's still in his uniform, but it's stripped down to just the pants and shirt. The second he realizes Tim and I are in the room, he turns his face away, grabbing a kleenex. In seconds, he looks like his regular ol' cheery self, and if I hadn't just seen him sobbing, the only indicator that anything might be wrong is the redness around his eyes.

“Hey Tim” He grins, ruffling his hair.

Tim's bottom lip trembles, and suddenly he surges forward, burying himself in our oldest brother's arms.

Surprisingly, goldie's façade holds strong “Woah there, what's going on Timbo?“

“Don't play dumb, Dickwad” I snap.

Hurt flares in his eyes, sending a spike of guilt through my chest.

Tim pulls back to look Dick in the eye, hands planted on his shoulders, bottom lip still shaking “It wasn't your fault. What she did to you… You shouldn't have had to go through that. Especially not alone. I'm so, so sorry”

The moment plays out in my mind seconds before it happens. His smile falls, his lips press together in a thin, tense line, and his eyes get shiny. Then he breaks apart, the shinyness dribbling down his face with a soft whimper. We all gather around him, steadying his heaving body with our own sturdy ones. I feel him release every muscle in his entire being one at a time, leaning into us. He bumps his head against my collarbone, looking up with watery eyes, and mouths 'thank you'. I just nod and pull him closer, pressing a soft kiss against his hairline the same way Bruce occasionally did. He hasn't done so to me in a while. I wonder if he still loves me like he did when I was a scrawny street kid stealing his tires.

Wally and I are the only two left awake as the night progresses.

It's just awkward silence for a while, neither of us knowing what to say.

Eventually, I worm my way out from my brothers' embraces, silently making my way up to the attic window.

It's a strange sort of release, taking deep drags of thick and bitter smoke, letting the acrid fumes coat my insides before floating into the sky. The tears come on suddenly, wave after wave of suffocating emotion. And there I am, Jason fucking Todd, smoking and bawling my eyes out on the roof of my dad's house. The worst part is, I couldn't fucking care less about how pathetic I look, because my big brother was raped, and he was too scared to tell anyone until it was nearly forced out of him. Surrounded by loved ones, yet completely alone.

Growing up in Crime Alley, he met thousands of survivors. he was one. he knows what sexual trauma looks like in a person. But somehow, I managed to be too busy to notice it in my own brother. What other shit has he been keeping to himself out of fear, or guilt? How much more is he suffering through alone?

I stand, stretching my cramped legs and pulling another breath of fire and tobacco into my chest before beginning to climb. A few shingles are knocked loose by my ascent up the side of the roof, distantly shattering on the ground below. When I reach the top, I turn my head skyward, and I scream into the nothingness. It's raw, it hurts, it comes from the deepest corners of my soul. It's relieving.

I've worked my way through half a pack before I have company. Unfortunately, it's the last person I want to see.

He places a rough hand on my shoulder “What's wrong, son?“

I want to snap at him, scream, cry, laugh, all at once.

“Did you know…?“ I ask instead.

His eyebrows scrunch “Know what?“

“About Tarantula. What she did to Dick. Did you know?“ The last part is slightly more aggressive.

A curl of anger darkens his gaze “Tarantula didn't make that choice for him. He is-”

I cut him off “Dick didn't pull the trigger. But I'm not talking about Tarantula killing Blockbuster. I'm talking about what she did afterward”

Bruce sighs irately “And what was that, exactly? Because Tarantula's loose moral code is no excuse for Richard to let her murder-”

“Can you fucking shut up for five seconds and let me talk!?“ I shout, moments away from punching him square in the nose.

“Fine” 

I stare at the shingles under my feet, giving myself a moment to cool off before I speak “She raped him. Ripped his suit and left him there, in the rain. He didn't tell a soul because he felt guilty. Like this had all been his fault, somehow. Y'know how fucked up that is?“

He's silent. Of course he is.

“You did that. You made him feel like that.“

“I'm sorry”

“You're sorry? Really? You damn better be” I crush my cigarette butt under my heel “Listen here, B, you can say you're sorry all you goddamn want, but it won't make you any less of a shitty dad until you get your head out of your ass and fucking do something about what you're sorry for!“

“Jay, please-”

“That's Jason to you” 

He slams the window so hard the glass cracks a little.

He's angry. It's the sad kind of anger, the stuff that comes from pain. The pain of knowing that his  brother had to suffer alone for so long. The pain of knowing his own father did nothing when he died. The pain of knowing his memorial still stands in the bowels of the Batcave, because their Jason is still dead. All that's left is him. A Lazarus-rage filled fuckup with a nicotine addiction and a pair of pistols. Not their sweet, innocent little Robin.

Part of him wonders if Dick would have trusted him sooner if he hadn't changed.

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor, Gotham, New Jersey

November 10, 04:07

[Tim Drake]

Many sleepless hours pass before Jason stumbles back into the bedroom.

Green flecks bleed into the blue of his irises, and his staggering gait indicates intoxication. In short, he looks drunk and angry. Or so I think, until the stench of tobacco smoke and blood hits me in a wave.

“You good?“ I ask, flipping through the possibilities.

“What's it to you, Drake?“ He spits.

Something definitely happened, possibly involving B going off of him calling me by my last name.

“You've been smoking. A lot. You only do that when you're upset” I try to keep my voice level.

“Just- just fuck off, 'Kay?“ His voice wavers, one hand flies to press against his ribs.

Bingo.

“What'd you do?“ I ask.

He gets defensive now, but there's fear behind it “I didn't do shit, Drake, now fuckin' leave me alone!“

“Mhhh.. lil' wing..?“ Dick sits up, half asleep.

Jason squeezes his ribs, I can tell it hurts from the way his whole face tenses slightly “Go back to sleep, Dickie”

The pungent cigarette smell seems to wake him up pretty fast, but it might be the tone of Jason's voice, or his white-knuckled grip on his own ribcage. And Jason just… crumbles… under his worried gaze. He sinks to his knees, his body curled in on itself as it shakes and heaves. He's… crying…? Immediately, Dick pulls him into a hug. I just stand there, not knowing what to do. I've never seen him cry before. Dick helps him up after a minute or so, leading him to the bathroom - the one unspokenly designated for tending to wounds without Alfred knowing. The door is left ajar, and though I know it's wrong to eavesdrop, they're my brothers. I silently move to sit outside the door, using a periscope from my utility belt to peer through the opening.

“C'mon Jay, you know the drill” Dick is holding a first aid kit under one arm, his other hand prying Jason's away from his ribs.

The latter sighs, reluctantly pulling his hoodie off and hopping up on the counter. Sometimes, I forget just how much violence he's been through until I see the marks on his skin. His torso is more scar tissue than skin, marred and twisted all over. But this time, there's more. The right side of him is caked in blood, fresh stuff dribbling from a bone-deep gash. It looks jagged, even from here. Dick doesn't even react, and I can't tell if he's desensitized or masking his horror.

“Doesn't look like anything's broken at least”

Jason groans in pain as he takes a breath “Sure fuckin feels like there is”

“What happened anyway? It doesn't look like your usual ones at all” Dick gingerly wipes at the blood with benzalkonium chloride on a cloth.

Okay, first theory confirmed, mostly. But why?

His head falls forward onto Dick's shoulder, and he whispers something I don't completely hear. But I can see his lips, and with both combined I make out “gunshot”.

Dick sighs, running his fingers through Jason's hair “You or somebody else?“

Him? Why would it be him?

Oh.

Oh.

I cross my fingers and hope that it was someone else.

“Sort of both, I guess. I didn't pull the trigger, but I didn't move out of the way” he mumbles into Dick's shoulder.

Christ, Jason, not you too.

“You wanna talk about it?“

“Maybe when 'm not actively bleeding out” He chuckles flatly.

“Alright. Want me to keep talking or shut up?“

“Talk my ears off, goldie”

The way Dick moves is beautiful, in a morbid sort of way. But honestly, I don't think he's even capable of not being graceful. You can take the boy out of the circus, but you sure can't take the circus out of the boy. He fills the silence with anecdotes from work, dumb things Wally's done and said, this one time he had an in-depth conversation about a horror game with a 10 year old kid he met on a mission, whatever he could think of, really. And the whole time, he's patching up the gaping hole in Jason's side, almost on autopilot.

When he's done, he grabs a clean tshirt that has been neatly folded on the shelving unit “figured you wouldn't want to walk around in a bloody sweater”

“Damn right I don't. Thanks, Dickwad” 

He pulls the shirt on “I guess this means I gotta talk about it now”

“I won't force you, but c'mon Jay, you shot yourself. I'm worried about you”

“Technically, the GCPD shot me” he corrects.

“You didn't dodge. On purpose. That counts” 

“Yeah, yeah. Alright, you win. I'll talk”

This is my cue to pretend to be asleep before I'm discovered. I dash back to the bed, crawling into it and laying back down. I slow and deepen my breathing, then close my eyes. It works, and I'm even able to keep one eye open to watch my brothers move to sit on a couch near the window. Jason stares at the floor, leg bouncing steadily.

“Uhm.. Where should I start, exactly?“ He asks in a low, uncharacteristically nervous voice.

“How about you start with where you went when you left earlier?“ Dick suggests.

“Went up to the roof to smoke for a while. Probably smoked too much, but I couldn't stop. Didn't really want to anyway.“ He begins “Then Bruce found me, tried to act like he actually gives a shit” his fists clench as he speaks ”We argued, I left, needed to blow off some steam so I grabbed my helmet and went to a safe house. Y'know the one, it's where I keep my graffiti shit. Long story short, I got caught slapping graffiti on a building. Police chased me, I was pissed, I pulled a shiv on em, and they pulled their guns. Now I'm here”

Dick wraps an arm around Jason's shoulders “What was the fight about?“

“Just him being bitchy” he huffs.

“You're doing the thing again, Jay. As you would put it, 'cut the bullshit'. Please? “ 

He sighs, letting his head drop to his hands “It was about Blockbuster. He kept… pinning the blame on you, he wouldn't let me talk and I just… Snapped” 

A beat of silence.

Dick frowns, head dipping slightly “He's right. I know how you feel about it, but-”

Jason looks up at him “No. You didn't pull the trigger, you didn't tell her to shoot him”

“Jason, I chose to let him die. She told me to move, and I did” Dick's voice wavers, and even in the low light I can see his eyes glistening.

Jason sits up, eyebrows knit “And she'd've shot you both if you hadn't moved. Blockbuster was ready to throw you under the bus, he was taunting you, and you were tired of being afraid”

“But-”

He interrupts “What if it had been one of the Robins? What then?“

He falls silent.

“That's what I thought. He's being too damn hard on you, and you're just taking it”

“… yeah, I guess I am”

Jason leans against him “You don't deserve to be pushed around. He can take his shitty opinions and shove em up his ass”

Dick cackles “Jason!“

He giggles, which is not something I'd ever heard from him before. He's just full of surprises tonight.

Dick's face falls back into a concerned, pinched frown “You were crying earlier. What was that about?“

“Somethin stupid. Don't worry about it”

“Jason” Dick chides him half-heartedly.

His whole body seems to deflate “...B didn't do anything about him. I fuckin died, a-and he left my murderer alive. And when I came back, he-” He stops, nails digging into his legs, barely choking out the rest “B left it up. The memorial. Cause he's still dead”

He left it up? What the hell! Of course that would make him feel unwanted, why would B do that?

He turns away from Dick, shaking “He wanted his son back, and instead he got this. A violent, angry bastard with the same name”

Dick reaches out “Little wing…”

He whips around, standing up so fast the former jumps “Quit fuckin calling me that! Stop trying to pretend that I'm the same!“

“Jay-”

“Stop pretending you don't all fuckin wish I'd just stayed dead!“

The room falls silent. A question sits on my tongue, but I can't ask it. Unconscious people don't speak.

Dick, thankfully, seems to suspect something similar “Do you wish that?“

“Maybe I do”

I had figured as much, but it was still heartbreaking to hear him admit it outright. He sounds hurt and tired, and I just want to scream that we want him here, we need him here, but unconscious people still don't talk.

The former stands up slowly “I don't”

He scoffs, but doesn't interrupt.

Dick's voice is low and raw “Finding out you were back was one of the happiest days of my life. I love you, I love you so damn much, and that will always be true. You're still my Jason, my little brother, no matter what. I could never want you to be dead”

“But-”

It's Dick's turn to shush him “What if you flipped the script? What if it had been one of us instead of you?“

“… you'd be a bit different… but I wouldn't care about you less…”

Dick smiles, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks “Now do you believe me?“

He nods, tucking himself against Dick's chest with a sniffle.

“You're not alone. I promise, you'll never be alone” the latter whispers, and I swear he's looking right at me when he says it.

They stay like that for a while, Jason's breaths getting softer and more even the longer Dick holds him.

“Get some sleep, little wing” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to his hairline.

“Gotcha” Jason replies.

He crawls into bed and passes out nearly the second his head hits the pillow.

The foot of the bed dips under Dick's weight “I know you're awake, baby bird” 

Fuck. I sigh, sitting up.

He holds his arms out to me, a wordless offer. I bundle myself into his embrace. The pressure and warmth is cozy, like a big weighted blanket.

“I won't force you to talk about it if you don't want to. But I know you're not okay. I need you to know you can talk to me about this stuff. I won't think less of you for struggling, Tim” he murmurs.

“Okay”

'But what about you?' I want to ask. Maybe I'm deflecting, but I still feel so awful that we didn't know about Tarantula until today.

So instead, I say "For the record, I don't think any less of you for struggling either. If anything, I admire you for it. Cause you handle all of that, all of our shit, Blüdhaven's crime, and you're Nightwing. That's a lot for one person"

Dick grins, and this time it's genuine "Good point"

He holds me so tenderly, and I just feel so seen and loved. That night, I sleep better than I have in months.

Chapter Text

Gotham(?), New Jersey

November 11, 02:43 EST

[Jason Todd]

Catalina Flores is dead.

It was a slow, bloody, and agonizing one.

Some would call it torture. I call it karma. Justice, if you will. She deserved it for what she did. But I don't feel better. I thought I'd get some kind of satisfaction from killing her, from hearing her scream in pain until her voice gave out.

And I did, but now there's just… nothing.

Maybe I'm a lost cause. I know it's not supposed to be easy to pull yourself up from rock bottom, but at least then you're trying. I'm not sure I even want to get better. I already died once, it's a miracle I'm here at all right now. Maybe the pit was a mistake. A giant, cosmic mistake. Maybe I was better off dead.

I throw myself into fight after fight, but I don't have any sort of desire to protect myself. The hits fall, and I just let them. I don't stop until I'm barely conscious, my mind trying to drag me back to crowbars, bludgeoning, and laying in pools of my own blood. I struggle my way onto a concrete roof, laying flat on my back to rest.

The metallic smell of blood clings to the inside of my mouth and nose. Its salty taste coats my tongue. I swallow, more takes its place.

My head's real fuzzy.

I fight the haze, gripping my phone in trembling hands. My finger hovers over his contact, 'Arse'. A fitting name for more than one reason. 

I don't trust myself to be coherent on the phone, so I shoot him a text:

《Me: hey

Me: u busy

Arse: kinda, why?

Me: nvm its fine

Arse: jaybird

Arse: my dude

Arse: ur bleeding out arnt u

Me: idk

Me: did smthn stupid》

I feel like I'm gonna vomit, pain clawing at every inch of my bloodied body. I can't muster up a scrap of sympathy for myself. I did this.

Another message pops up but my eyes won't focus to read it. The phone buzzes, one long one, then a short pause, then again. My hands are shaking so bad I acidentally hit the green instead of the red.

“Are you okay man? You're kinda freaking me out right now”

Roy. Course it's Roy. Never did know when to mind his business. I don't mind. It's kinda sweet.

I open my mouth to speak, but only a wet gurgle comes out. I'm gagging, I can't breathe, everything's full of blood, it's all bloody and sore.

“Jason?! Jay c'mon, talk to me, where are you?!“ 

He sounds real scared. I turn on my side, facing the phone. A rush of dark red spit spills out of my throat, letting my lungs fill painfully.

“Jaybird?“

“Dunno. Don' worry 'bout me. 'S better this way” I slur, blood clots bubbling out of my mouth.

“Jason, please, tell me where you are“ 

He sounds so upset, so afraid.

“M'kay” I whisper.

I force my eyes to focus on something, anything he could use as a landmark. A fuzzy coloured blob, distant in a shop window. Gumball machine.

“Corner store. Roof.. roof o' the other building” I pant.

“The one we get weird candy from?“

“Mhm”

“I'm coming right now. Hang in there, Jaybird”

“Love you, Roy” I wheeze.

I don't know if he says anything else after that. All I can hear is the steady plip, plip, plip of blood hitting the rapidly growing puddle under me.

I can die here. It's alright. I got to say goodbye. I can't keep my eyes open for a second longer, my brain finally freezing over.

I hope he doesn't find me.

Chapter Text

Gotham, New Jersey

November 11, 03:04 EST

[Roy Harper]

I don't think the blood smell will ever go away.

To me, this place will always reek of it after today. Our couch will always look bloodspattered, I'll never get rid of the dark red streaks on the cheap linoleum. And I'll never forget how he looked on the roof, blood dripping from his mouth, soaking through his hoodie, oozing through his bruise-mottled skin.

He's lost a lot of blood, at least a quarter if I had to guess. And looking at him now, half-naked in the dingy bathtub of the nearest safehouse I could find, beaten within an inch of his life, I'm not scared.

I'm fucking terrified.

There's blood everywhere, on the bathroom floor, puddling in the tub, running down my wrists from carrying him through the house.

I've never seen so much of it in one place, let alone from one person.

Air catches in my chest, I know I'm spiralling.

In.

Hold.

Out.

In.

Hold.

Out.

In.

Hold.

Out.

One step at a time, Roy. You can do this. He's gonna be okay.

I grab towels from the closet, making a mental checklist of where else I'll need to go for supplies.

The first aid kit is under the sink, and the clothes are in the dresser.

The towels are off-white, but they won't stay like that for long. I locate the bloodiest injuries, which are a gash on his upper arm and a stab wound on his stomach, and press towels against them.

His eyes shoot open suddenly, accompanied by choking and gurgling.
He thrashes, glancing around in a panic.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, you're okay!" I soothe, gently tilting him onto his side and turning his head.

Thick blobs of spit and congealed blood come out of his mouth, hitting the red-stained tub with wet splats. He coughs up some more, then takes several gasping breaths.

"I gotcha, Jaybird" 

He doesn't speak, which is odd for him, even in an injured state. Instead, he stares blankly off into space, leaning into the hand I've placed on his shoulder. If I had to guess, he's dissociating.

I move my other hand to brace against his ribs, hauling him into an upright position. He howls in pain, swatting my hand away.

"Sorry, sorry, I know you're sore" I wince at the agonized look on his face.

His face goes flat again, and he resumes his staring, left hand absently grasping by his side. I hold my own hand out, palm down, and he latches onto it immediately. 
It looks comically small in comparison to his. He studies it, tracing the lines and scars with both his gaze and his fingertips. Runs the pads of his fingers over my horribly chipped nail polish again and again.

"That's it" I coax, shifting to sit on the edge of the tub.

I don't get to see him like this often. He's got all these walls up, separating himself from the harshness of the world. Of course he does, he's had a rough life. It makes sense that he's always on high alert. But that gets exhausting. He deserves a break from having his guard up. He deserves to feel safe.  I'm glad he can let people in sometimes, and I'm touched that I'm one of them.

He mouths something, maybe just sounds since I can't tell what he's saying.
I move slowly, making sure to not brush against him too much as I bandage him up with my free hand. I start to hum while I cut gauze and medical tape to size. He hums back, matching my pitch. It reminds me of how he parrots phrases from his favourite books and movies (When questioned about it, he just said "the tism is tisming and you're a decent audience") I like finding out what comes after each one so I can respond.

Once I'm confident he won't bleed out, I offer both hands to help him out of the tub.
He takes them, body trembling with the effort of standing. Blue-green eyes unfocus, his body sways dangerously, and suddenly he topples to one side. I hold him steady, hooking an arm under his knees to lift him out onto the floor. 
The second I set him down, he shuffles backwards into a corner, burying his head in his knees and arms.
He compresses himself into this tiny space, letting the shadows cover his bloodied form.
“Jay?“
Gentle rocking is the only response I get.

“That's okay. You don't have to talk” I sit on the floor with him “there's a lot going on in that noggin of yours. Take your time”

His shoulders drop. His fingers drum on his skin. Slowly, he shifts, hugging his knees to his chest and lifting his head a bit. Then more, until his back is completely pressed against the wall. His arms move to prop up his head. I scoot closer, being careful not to box him in. He flops over, head in my lap, still silent.
I start gently picking bits of dried blood and gravel out of his hair, waiting for him to be ready. A selfish part of me hopes he'll never be ready. I don't know if I'll be able to handle hearing him admit what this was.

"... can, I tell you, something.." He says finally, barely more than choppy whisper.

"Mhm" I wrap his single lock of white hair around my finger.

"... I think," And I know it's coming, I know what he's gonna say, but it still hits me like a freight train "everyone wishes, I had never come back."

The next part rips my heart in two "I know, I know Bruce does. And, to be honest, I don't blame him. I, look like, his son. And Dick, wants to pretend, I'm still his Robin. His little brother. But I'm not, those things. I'm not, innocent, or pure. I'm just... this. I'm, hurting them. I'm hurting, everyone. Just 'cause, I wouldn't stay, dead"

His jaw clenches.

"Jaybird..."

"I-I want, to, be dead" his voice breaks on the last word.

"Jason, look at me" I sit him up in front of me, hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye.

His gaze dips lower than mine, falling on my lips instead.

I know he's really listening when he does this. Sometimes words don't land right in his brain, so he compensates with lipreading. 

"I'm glad you're alive"

He slumps forward, face pressing into the crook of my neck. I wrap my arms around him as he starts to tremble, tears soaking into my shirt. He curls closer, moving into my lap as he clings to me.

"I love you," I murmur around my own tears "I love you so much, and I'm gonna keep saying it until it sticks"

I sit there with him on the grimey bathroom floor for god knows how long, rocking him back and forth. I want, no, need him to understand just how important he is to me, to all of us. I can't lose him.

I only move to get up when I notice him shivering "how 'bout some tea? We've still got some of the stuff Alfred buys, the fancy looseleaf kind"

He smiles, seeming a bit more present now "Yeah, I'd like that"

I help him to the bedroom before proceeding to the kitchenette to put on the kettle.

While it boils, I help him clean up.

The bathroom is still covered in blood, but I don't have time to scrub it down, so I dump peroxide on it and mop it up with the bloody towels from earlier. It's not perfect, but it's good enough. I brush the first aid stuff to the side, grabbing Jason's basket from under the sink.

I don't need a toiletries basket, because I have like 3 total things, including my toothbrush. Mr. 'Too good for 3-in-1' on the other hand has a billion little bottles of hair goop, soap, and mystery liquids.

It takes me a second to find the right things, but I still remember what order they go in from when we first started sharing safehouses. (Ten products. First three are for hair, leave the last one in for a couple minutes. Second two are for everything below the neck, don't rinse off the last one. The next three are for everything else. Only rinse off the first one. Last two are styling products. Pink bottle, green bottle, white bottle, black bottle, blue pump bottle, white pump bottle with purple label, blue pot with white lid, orange pot with silver lid, orange tube, green tube.)

I lay a towel over the edge of the tub, bringing the showerhead within arms reach.

"I think the wat-" Jason pokes his head around the corner "Oh. Thanks. Dunno if I can manage that like this, but I'll figure it out"

"You seriously think I was gonna let you aggravate all the injuries I just fixed up? You wound me, Jay" I clutch at my chest dramatically.

He snorts "Oh shut it"

Soft footsteps pad across the faintly bloodied linoleum floor, the precursor to Jason sitting down where I put the towel.

I start by rinsing his hair with warm water. He hums contentedly, eyes closed, hands fidgeting with the frayed bits on my shirt sleeves.

Scrub, rinse, scrub, rinse, comb, wait, rinse, towel dry, style.

His damp hair smells fresh and sweet, filled with notes of citrus and coconut. I kiss his forehead softly, leaving the bathroom long enough to grab the largest comfortable clothes in the house (Note to self: Make Jason buy pajama pants)

One pair of stretchy shorts and a tshirt later, I'm dumping peroxide over Jason's old clothes while he changes in the bedroom. The shorts are a little tight around the thighs, but I can't say I'm complaining. Those hunks of toned muscle could crush a watermelon with ease. Fuck, they could probably crack a skull.

Focus, Roy.

I grab a pair of mugs from the kitchen (Wonder Woman and Robin, respectively) and place strainers filled with tea leaves in each. Steam billows into my face as the hot water pours, leaving a moist residue on my skin.

I bring the mugs into the bedroom before the tea has finished steeping, setting them on the side table. Jason picks up his mug (the Wonder Woman one) and swirls it a bit. His peaceful little smile makes something in my chest swell.

"Roy, this is still water"

I sprawl out on the bed next to him, laying my legs over his when I meet no resistance "You said you liked watching the leaves open. Now you can"

He pauses, turning the information over in his head "Thanks"

Once the mugs are finally full of tea instead of hot soggy leaves and water, I sit up. And suddenly, the atmosphere of security is gone. 

Jason stares into his cup "I guess this is the part where you grill me and I try to convince you I'm fine"

"Nope. Not if you don't wanna talk" 

"Wait, seriously?" He glances up.

I stretch my arm out across the pillows "Yeah, of course. Just promise me you'll talk to someone eventually. Please"

He takes a final sip of his tea, setting the empty mug down and sprawling out "Okay, I will"

We don't speak. Barely awake, warm and tired. But somewhere in that time, he grabs my hand and holds it against his chest.

A little reminder that he's still breathing.

Chapter Text

Blüdhaven, New Jersey

November 12, 9:08 EST

[Dick Grayson]

It was nice while it lasted.

Being heard, being seen as more than a mask without being judged for the wounds it hides. But that's not sustainable for me. I can't just stop being fine. So many people rely on me, I need to be there for them.

I have to double down and power through. They need me.
Tim's a depressed workaholic, Jason's suicidal, Damian has one human(oid) friend, Bruce doesn't know shit about parenting, and Babs is working two mentally demanding jobs at once while dealing with keeping everyone's secret identities under wraps.

I can cope. I've been coping. It's fine.

I'm.

Fine.

"Dick?" Barbara's voice pierces through my thoughts.

"Hm, yeah? Need something?" I give my head a little shake, guilt bubbling up in my stomach. 
Pay attention, Dick!
She needs you to get your head in the game.

"Nope. Just wanted to make sure you're okay. You are okay, right?"

I smile and nod "Yep! I'm fine"

“You sure? You know you can tell me” She looks worried, driving the stake of guilt further into my gut.
She has enough on her plate without me dumping my own shit on her.

“I'm good Babs, really” I adjust my posture and body language to make this believable.

She seems skeptical, but drops it “Okay then. Just checking”

Babs may have detective skills that rival Tim's, but not even he can read me when I'm masking hard enough. The perks of being Batman's ward since 9, I suppose. The 'tism helps too. 

“My shift starts in like 15 minutes, gotta go babe” Babs rolls over to me, leaning over and kissing me.
She smells sweet in a sort of woodsy way, like old books with yellowed pages, and her lips leave the lightest coating of berry pink lipstick and a couple toast crumbs.

“Have a good day, Babs. I love you” I beam.

“Love you too”
And with that, she's gone.

I drop the mask, letting myself slump out of my chair and onto the kitchen floor.
The cool tile feels nice on my neck. My phone buzzes in my pocket, lighting up with a text from Jason.

《Little Wing: i lived bitch》

What in the fresh hell is he talking about?

《Me: ???huh???
  Little Wing: didn't roy tell u?》

Didn't Roy tell me what? This explains absolutely nothing!

《Me: that clarifies. a whole lot of nothing
  Little Wing: i may or may not have tried to
Little Wing: yknow
Little Wing: off myself》

Shit.
Shit shit shit shit shit!
This is all my fault! I should've asked him to stay another night, I should've checked in on him, I should've done something!

《Little Wing: im ok rn
Little Wing: roy's stayin w me for a bit
Little Wing: just thought u'd want to know》

“Some fucking brother I am…” I whisper to myself.

I wander out of the kitchen and into the bathroom.
I think.
I'm not sure.
I can't really remember all that well.
But I'm here now. Back against the wooden door, letting the red run down my ankles. It's warm. The air makes it feel cold. It trickles in thin streams, pooling under my feet.

Fuck.
I was getting better. Why can't I just be better?! I'm trying. I've been trying. I've been trying to be better all my damn life!
But nothing ever sticks.
At the end of the day I'm still fucking useless.

I couldn't even care about my little brother enough to stop him from killing himself. He almost died again. He almost died again, and it would've been my goddamn fault if he had! He deserves better.
So does Babs. Honestly, everyone deserves better than this fuckup.

The least I can do for this world, for all of them, is leave. Let someone better take my place.
I don't deserve all this. I don't deserve to be Nightwing. I'm no hero.

I write out my letter of resignation from the BPD, ending it with a practiced signature. It gets placed on the table, along with my will and my letters (Death is an occupational hazard for vigilantes, and I like to be prepared). On second thought, I move them a little more out of the way.

I pull my hood up and walk out into the chill morning air. With no direction or destination in mind, I just start moving. Eventually, I wind up at the top of a stairwell, staring out over a more rural part of Blüdhaven. The sun is high, my limbs feel like they're about to fall off, and so I sit.

Suddenly, the sky is dark, horizon lit only by the last sliver of sunset.
I jerk upright, blinking sleep from my eyes. My phone buzzes insistently in my pocket. I fumble with it and take the call.

“Hi”

“Hey babe! I'm running a little late, so I thought it would be nice to get takeout for supper. Maybe from that little restaurant a few blocks over? The one with that chickpea curry you like. Thoughts?” Babs' voice chirps through the phone, a happy lilt to it.

Chana masala. She remembers. I order it every time we go there, and she cares enough to remember it.
She cares.
This was a mistake.
I can't do this.
Not to her, not to any of them.

“Dick? You there?“

As hard as I try, I can't hold it in anymore as the reality of what I just tried to do hits me at full speed. I can't speak, my lungs won't move right, I'm shaking so hard my phone falls out of my hand. I hear her panicked scream faintly as it plummets to the ground and shatters with a sharp crack. I rock myself back and forth, letting the tears fall. That was almost me. It could still be me. Everything is expanding rapidly in my skull, every thought, feeling, sensation, urge. 
I'm going to explode.
Or puke.
Maybe both.
I need help. But I don't know if I deserve it.

Chapter Text

Blüdhaven, New Jersey
21:34 EST
[Barbara Gordon]

Oh god, Dick, pick up, I need you to pick up.

Please.

It goes to voicemail. Again. I want to panic, but I can't let myself lose it. Not here, not now. He's probably fine anyway, but I'm not taking any chances. He's been acting weird for months. I'm worried. At first, I thought he was just tired, but it's more than that. He stopped eating as regularly, stopped sleeping almost entirely, and just looked miserable all the time. He always assured me he was fine, but I never truly believed him.

I go through my contacts, texting everyone who might be close enough to find Dick and make sure he's safe. Jason, Roy, Tim, Steph, Wally, even Bruce.  In minutes, Tim is tracking his location, Steph and Bruce are going out to find him, and Wally's meeting them there. Jason doesn't respond, Roy says he's busy but to update him if anything happens.

The next hour is the longest fucking hour of my entire life. It seems to last forever, chipping away at my frantic mind. The seconds trickle by at a painfully slow rate, I'm staring at my inky black phone screen and just… waiting. It's driving me insane, being held in suspense by the texts I haven't received. He's both dead and alive in my mind, and I'm still waiting to know where the hell he is.

And finally, finally, there's a knock on the door. I race to grab the handle, and Dick's there, shivering, face streaked with tears.

“Jesus christ” I breathe.

 “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry” He falls to his knees just as the door closes behind him “I-I'm okay, I'm okay, see?“ He presses one of my hands to his wrist, letting me feel his pulse.

“You're not, Dick, I know you're not.” He stiffens, fear and guilt sparking in his eyes.

He looks like he's going to cry again, and I wish I could just hold him tight until everything's okay again. He's suffering, he keeps pretending he isn't but I can tell.

“Why do you keep hiding these things from me? Are you afraid? Do you not trust me?”

His voice is watery, rising in volume and urgency “I do trust you, I swear!“

“Then what is it? Why won't you let me help you?“

“I just- I love you too much to make you deal with my shit!“ He drops his head onto my lap, breaking down into sobs, awful choked sounds that rip into me with blunt saw teeth “I'm not good for you. I'm not good for anyone. I'm poison, Babs.“

I stroke his hair, holding back my own tears “No, birdie, that's not true..“

“You're just saying that” He sniffles.

“I'm not”

Watery blue eyes drift upward, empty and pained “You don't know the half of all I've done. I'm not a good person”

I hold his dampened face, pressing a kiss to his forehead “Dick, listen to me. You're one of the kindest, sweetest people I know, and nothing you are capable of doing could ever change that. I am always here for you. No matter what you need, I will be here, and I will do everything in my power to help you be okay. But I can't do anything if you don't let me” my voice bows under the weight of everything I'm trying to convey, adding softly “You're not allowed to forget how much I love you, okay?“

“I-” He breaks off, tears trickling down his cheeks “I was- I was gonna kill myself tonight. An-and then you called, and I- I realized how stupid of an idea that was” he's laughing almost maniacally through his tears now “Two of my brothers are depressed, one already tried to kill himself, who knows what they'd do if I had jumped?!”

I rub his cheek gently “I'm glad you didn't jump. We all are.“

His lip wobbles as he presses his face into my hand. Eyes closed, face contorted with emotion, tear trickling lazily down his face.

“We'll get through this. Together. Okay?“

He takes a shakey breath "... okay"

I tug him into a hug, burying my face in the crook of his neck. He presses himself close, and I don't care that his wet clothes are getting mine damp. He's here. He's alive. He's letting me in. 

Chapter Text

Gotham Academy, Gotham, New Jersey

November 14, 11:16 EST

[Damian Wayne]

I need to improve.

That shouldn't be this difficult, this unachievable, for someone like me. And yet, here I am, sitting in the headmaster's office for the third time this week. It's Wednesday.

“Damian, I expect better of you. Picking fights with your fellow students? Beating them bloody? What will your father have to say about this behaviour?“

I bite my cheek, letting the sharp pain draw me away from his continued speal. It's what he won't say that will sting. Father is a man of few words, but he is by no means an unexpressive one. He simply has no need for verbal cues when it comes to filleting me where I stand over the smallest mistake. I can almost feel his piercing gaze on me, even here. Dissecting, analyzing, judging. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. At least mother speaks her mind.

I don't understand this in the slightest. One moment, I must protect my allies. The next, I must not engage in the antics of those below me. This system is in a constant state of flux, which makes no sense in itself. Systems are made of rules, they provide structure by definition. Part of me yearns to be nine again, training with the league of assassins. Back then, I had a purpose. I always knew exactly what was expected of me, and how to acheive it. There was consistency in the rigidity of their rules, an identity built just for me. Everything made perfect sense. And now? It has all fallen to ruin.

“Damian, are you listening to me?“

“Yes, sir” I answer flatly.

He sighs, body seeming to sag under its own weight “You hurt those boys quite badly, you know. They will need medical attention”

I picture Jonathan's crooked nose, dripping deep red blood. The hollow crack of the water bottle against his skull. The pure, cold rage that filled my veins as he doubled over in pain, tears in his eyes. How dare they. Hurting my friend is an offence punishable by a shoulder dislocation at the very least.

“Good.“ I spit, standing up abruptly.

“Damian Wayne, you sit back down this instant!“ The headmaster demands, but there's a slight quake in his voice.

“I have business to attend to.” I leave, breaking into a jog to reach my destination faster.

I find Jonathan in the nurse's station, holding a wad of bloody tissues under his nose.

“Dabian!“ He grins, then winces.

I roll my eyes “Your nose is broken. Stop moving around”

“Oh, yeah” he nods, causing a gush of blood to come out of his nose.

I sigh “this wouldn't be a problem if you had just” I mime lasers shooting out of my eyes, whispering a 'pshooo' sound.

“I ab NOT using by heat vision on people!“ He groans nasally.

When I sit on the stiff cot next to him, he leans on my shoulder, which I would loathe had he been nearly anyone else. I don't like to be touched under most circumstances. There are five, maybe six people from whom I will accept physical contact. He is one of them.  And in this case, even if the touch made my skin crawl, I would tolerate it. He seems to need it at the moment.

“Thanks. For sticking ub for be” he mumbles into my shoulder.

“Anytime, farm boy” That gets a snort out of him, along with a spurt of blood.

“Sorry” He grimaces at the red splatter on my sweater.

“Don't worry about it. I have 12 of these” I shake my head.

A familiar voice coming from across the hall draws my attention “Excuse me, I'm here for Jonathan Kent and Damian Wayne?“ Dread settles in the pit of my stomach.

“Yes of course Mr. Wayne, Jon is with the nurse at the moment. Her office is just across the hall” There's a beep over the intercom, and then:

“Damian Wayne, to the office. Damian Wayne, to the office”

Something inside me flickers to life. In one fluid motion, I slip under the cot, clinging tightly to the underside. My muscles barely protest.

The tap of father's pristine black loafers on the tile sends another pump of adrenaline through my veins “How's the nose, Jon?“

“Brokeb”

He's suddenly looking under the cot “I know you're there, Damian. Come on out, I'm taking you both home” his tone isn't readable, but it feels angry.

He's angry at me. Again.

“Fine.“ I hiss, standing up smoothly.

He sighs. My stomach churns with bitterness. Jonathan watches silently, following behind me a little unsteadily as I march out to the car.

“Damia-!“ Father calls, silenced abruptly by the slamming of the door.

Bullshit. It's all bullshit!

“Hey, Dabi? Are you… okay?“ Jonathan asks timidly, resting a hand lightly on my arm.

My mouth opens, but no words form. I sign 'don't touch' and he backs off.

A moment, and I begin softly “I don't know how to fix this. Fix me.”

He shuffles closer, angling his body toward me.

“I was born to be a living weapon. Everything revolved around that, until it didn't. Now I'm Robin, Batman's sidekick. My whole life, I've been told what to do. Ra's, Talia, Bruce, Richard, everyone's voices are in my head, constantly filling my thoughts with what they think is best. But where's my voice? What do I think?“ I stare at my spindly fingers shaking in my lap “How am I supposed to be the son, brother, and friend I need to be when I don't even know who I am?“

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. Don't. Cry.

“I know who you are” He peers at me with those stupid blue eyes “You're Dabian, by best friend, and the bost creative, cool, sbart, and brave person I've ever bet”

I wipe a tear away with my palm, looking away and muttering “You're not so bad yourself, Kent”

He rocks in place for a moment “Can I hug you?“

I nod after a pause, pleasantly surprised by his gentle embrace. The tiny spark of security is vanquished the second father enters the car. We're only in the car for a few minutes, but the viscous tension makes it feel like eons.

“Alfred is waiting for you in the cave, Jon. We'll join you in a moment” He says once we've entered the Manor.

My fists clench so hard they hurt, I listen helplessly to Jonathan's soft footsteps on the plush rugs become further and further away.

“You can't keep starting fights at school”

“I don't start them” I mutter.

“Who does, then?“

“They do”

“That's not what the school told me. Your headmaster says that you have been seen aggravatedly attacking your peers with no apparent provocation”

I stay silent. Jonathan begged me not to tell.

Father places his hand on my shoulder, I force myself not to flinch away from his piercing gaze.

“You're a good kid, Damian. I know you're having a hard time, but you can't take it out on other people. It's not right” his lips say.

'I am disappointed in you' his eyes say.

But other people are hurting him. That's not right either.

He pulls me into a hug, which is not welcome, but I relax my muscles as not to let him clue in to this.

As soon as I am released, I dash to the cave, taking up a position by the cot.

“I'b ready now” Jonathan sits up straight, moving the bloody tissue wad away from his nose.

He cries out in pain when Alfred sets the broken bone, squeezing the edge of the cot so hard it bends.

The sound makes me nauseous, but I shake it off “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah I'm fine, that just really hurt” he chokes out.

“Here you are, my boy” Alfred folds a towel-wrapped ice pack into his hands “this will help”

“Thanks” He gingerly holds it to his face.

With a sigh of pure exhaustion, he deflates into the pillows. Alfred leaves, perhaps to talk to father, and I tug the thin sheets over Jonathan. One of his hands pulls away from the ice pack and grabs mine. It's cool and soft, almost absent of callouses entirely. I sit and lean into him, using my free hand to grab a book from his discarded schoolbag. 'Welcome to Night Vale' the title page reads. I open it at the bookmarked spot and begin in a low voice.

“Jackie screamed. The man was perfectly normal. She screamed.” It makes little sense, but there's something strangely enthralling about it. There's also something soothing in the way it falls effortlessly from my lips.

“I'm glad you're you, Dami” He mumbles, half asleep “n I'm glad I get to figure out who that is with you”

“Likewise” I murmur, then continue reading.

And if Jonathan notices the tearstains on the book pages when he opens it the next day, he doesn't say anything.

Chapter Text

Blüdhaven City, New Jersey

November 15, 11:36EST

Dick Grayson

The past few days have been.. a lot.

I told Babs everything, and I mean everything. I told her about Slade, Catalina, the source of every scar on my worn body, how badly I've coped with losing my loved ones. She cried just about as much as I did, and she held me so tight I could feel the metal on my ribs pressing up under my skin.

She cleaned and bandaged my cuts too. She didn't have to, but she did. I think it's her way of showing me she loves all of me.

It's been about 72 hours since my near-attempt, I'm officially off suicide watch. But she's still keeping an eye on me. I don't think she's slept in days.

“It's fine, Babs, you can look away for two seconds. I won't disappear. I'm-”

She presses a finger to my lips “Don't. Don't you dare say 'fine'.“

I sigh, because she's right, just like she always is.

“Dick, I almost lost you. I can't take that chance, you're way too important to me” There are tears in her eyes, and I just feel grossly guilty about it.

“I know. I'm sorry”

She hugs me, and I can't help but wonder if she's walking on eggshells around me now.

“I'm sorry” I repeat.

Her warm, gentle hand presses against my jaw “Don't be”

I hold the hand “Okay. But seriously, you can't just put your whole life on hold because I'm messed up-”

“-you are not messed up, you are hurting!” she snaps.

“And what about you?! Barbara, when was the last time you slept? Ate a solid meal? Drank something other than coffee?“

She sighs sharply “Stop it. Stop redirecting the conversation every time it starts to center around you! I'm trying to help you, dammit!”

You shouldn't be. I don't deserve it.

"Maybe I don't want your help!"

"Fine!" She storms off into the bedroom.

My throat tightens, I can't stay here, I can't breathe, can't breathe, need to get out-

Cold rain jerks me back to my senses. Tense, tight, drifting. Muscles, lungs, mind.

A roof. The looming ground below.

'Do it' the little voice coaxes 'jump. End the pain. End this'

I teeter on the edge.

Gritty wet concrete against my skin.

I didn't realize I hadn't put shoes on.

There's something refreshing in the way my heart pounds in my chest, hammering against my ribs so hard I'm sure they'll crack. It's painful. It makes me feel more alive than I've felt in months.

I was afraid I'd never escape her influence. That I'd be haunted by whiffs of her sickly sweet perfume for the rest of my life.

But as I stand here now, in the ice-cold pouring rain, face to the sky, I feel a spark of defiance. It suddenly ignites, and I'm laughing, tears streaming down my face. I let it blaze, let it fill my limbs and throat. I dance with the rain, spinning and jumping and flapping, giggling like a child. I don't just fly.

I soar.

 I'm wild, free, and in this moment, untouchable.

When the wet clothes on my skin become too much to bear, I go inside.

I feel exposed and afraid, even in the confines of my bedroom, stripping off each wet article of clothing. But I force myself to stay in the moment, to revel in the fear, to prove that I am safe. I stand in front of the mirror, taking in every detail. Every scar, every mole, every freckle, and every callous.

Just doing that almost brings me to tears again, because for once I don't feel like an object. I don't feel like my body is inherently sexual. I feel pretty. Not because someone told me I was, but because I am looking at myself right now and deciding I look pretty.

I used to imagine what my body would look like if it was 'perfect'. What I would remove, what I would add. But it was never things I really wanted. It was always things that other people had commented on, even just in passing, or in other people. Love handles, hip dips, thick fingers, rolls, wrinkles, creases, scarring, grey hairs, anything really. I felt like I owed it to others to be what they wanted me to be. I know now that I don't. They can either like me for who I am, or they can screw off. What matters is that I like me. And I do, most days. It can be hard. But I'm still here, aren't I? Struggling, but thriving.

'This is your body. Not hers, or anyone else's' I tell myself.

A deep breath, watching my ribs shift. And this time, my hands run over tanned skin, feeling ridges of toned muscle, brushing against incision scars over each rib, pressing into soft fat at the hips, bone and warm flesh under the pads of my fingers. Mine and only mine. I bask in the feeling, in my own skin.

I slip into dry clothes, but instead of just feeling relieved, I feel pride.

I won't let her take this from me. 

Later, when the rain has slowed to a soft patter, Barbara and I sit in the living room together.

"I'm sorry. I should never have talked to you like that, let alone yelled at you" she blurts.

I sigh "I'm sorry too. You just wanted to help me, and I snapped at you. That was super uncalled for"

"Wanna watch a movie and call it even?"

I smile completely genuinely for the first time in a while "Always. I'll go make popcorn"

She's asleep on my shoulder before the opening credits finish rolling.

Chapter Text

Gotham, New Jersey

November 15, 16:34 EST

Jason Todd

I feel strange, in a bad way.

Empty.

Like I'm just drifting aimlessly. Nothing more than the universe's plaything.

I want to close myself off and waste away, wondering if I'd be missed. The thought doesn't even make me sad. It just makes me feel dead.

An icy coolness is spreading, freezing the very blood in my veins. I'm not in control. I need to be. I need something sharp right now.

But there's nothing. Roy confiscated my blades. All I have is one of his hair elastics, wrapped around my wrist.

I hook my finger under it, pull back, and let go.

Snap!

It doesn't even leave a mark. I pull harder this time.

Snap!

A slight burn, but it's not enough. I need more.

Snap!

Snap!

Snap!

I start pulling the elastic completely taut before letting go.

Snap!

Snap!

Snap!

It's not enough, it hurts but it won't break skin. I suck in a sharp breath, pinch a fold of swollen flesh, and line up my teeth. It's so painful my eyes water, but I allow myself only a short reprieve before I sink my teeth further into my wrist. There's still no blood, and I want to sob. I bite down again, frantically tearing at the skin. And finally, it starts to break.

“Jaybird?“ Roy's tone tells me he knows exactly what he's walked in on.

“Go away” I grunt.

I don't really mean it. But it's easier to push him away. If I don't, he'll make me stop. I need this.

The floor creaks under his feet “Jase..“

His woodsy, soapy smell draws me closer, into his waiting embrace.

Being held by him is the best feeling I've had in days. Warm and musky-sweet, melting away the edges of the frost. And he doesn't let go right away like I expect him to. He stays, arms wrapped around my torso, shaggy hair brushing the back of my neck.

“Are you okay?“ His breath is warm and damp.

“Loaded question” I quip dryly.

He takes hold of my forearm, inspecting the damage “Yeah, I figured”

I mourn the loss of his sturdy arms around me as he moves, presumably to get the first aid kit.

He doesn't say anything else, instead opting to clean and bandage the lightly bleeding puncture wounds on my wrist.

When he's done, he settles against my back again.

I feel the drag of stubble right before the press of lips against my cheek.

“I love you” he whispers in my ear, warm breath ghosting my jaw.

It's torture, I want to feel the joy, the adoration. But I'm so full of emptiness and lies that there's barely room for it.

A shiver runs down my spine, and then my throat tightens.

“Jay?“

Tears start to dribble down my face and soak into my shirt. But there's no release. There's no feeling.

It's just cold. Cold and dead.

“Hey, I've got you, you're okay” his hands are warm against my skin, massaging the heat into every exposed patch he can find.

He fends off the encroaching ice with calloused palms and fingertips, melting it away like the dawn's first light dissipates the early spring frost.

I lean forward, pulling him down with me. He chuckles, but takes the hint and adjusts himself so he's draped over me. It's nice. Even, warm pressure. Good smells. It makes me feel a little less dead.

“I think I'm depressed”

He laughs, he fucking snickers, and says “Who are you, Captain obvious? Of course you're fucking depressed Jase, you tried to kill yourself like 5 days ago”

And I'm laughing too, because he's right.  Everything seems a little less dim, laying here with him, laughing so hard we can hardly breathe.

“God, I'm the worst” He pants, chest heaving against my back.

“Yep. You suck, Harper” I mumble into the pillow.

I feel him smirk against the back of my neck, a warmth spreading from that point. And I'm crying again, because I know what it is. I remember this feeling. And I can feel it, I can fucking feel it this time.

“I love you” He whispers like it's a secret that he saved just for me “I love you so goddamn much. I won't let you convince yourself I don't”