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Dick can't feel his fingers.
They're numb, tingling just the faintest amount when he flexes them. They move when he tells them to, but he can't...feel them, not really. The blood coating his gloves and wrists has turned his hands into someone else's, someone who hurts people. Someone who is okay with others killing, or kills by their own hands. Not a hero. Not Nightwing, not the boy who trained under two Batmen. A criminal.
He can't get himself to move. He's staring down at his blood- and rain-soaked gloves, frozen in place. He doesn't...even know, really, why there's so much blood. There was—spray, that hit him. A spray that caused the streak of red across his chest, the droplets that dot his face that didn't manage to get washed away by the rain. But his gloves—his gloves are covered, and he—he doesn't—he doesn't know why—
Stained like your soul, some insidious voice whispers. It'll never wash off, you'll never get rid of what you've done.
So many have died because of him. The people in his apartment building, the ones at the circus, and now Blockbuster. So many people who are dead because Dick Grayson exists. So many people who will never smile again, never draw a breath, never experience joy or anger or sadness, just dead.
All his fault. And Blockbuster, he—Dick did that. He didn't pull the trigger, no, but he gave Catalina permission to do it. He didn't just fail to stop the bullet, he purposefully stepped aside to let the shot happen.
Failure, failure, failure—
And then she. Then she...
Dick's hands move, and he watches them scrub at each other, near frantic. He watches flakes of drying blood flutter off, swirling down to the floor. He hears someone hyperventilating, and it isn't until his chest starts to ache that he realizes it's him.
He doesn't know where Catalina is now. She...brought him here, wherever here is. A motel, Dick thinks. He was a little...out of it, when she was leading him here. After she—after they finished on the roof, she pulled him up and led him back out of the building, and he stumbled along behind her, unable to resist, unable to do anything but climb onto the bike when she told him to and go where he was directed...
And now she's gone somewhere, and he...doesn't know what to do now. She told him everything was okay now ("no, stop, don't touch me—") but he doesn't...know what that means. Because absolutely nothing feels okay.
Dick rips his gloves off as his eyes sting with tears, and he furiously tries to blink them back, hating them for making an appearance at all.
What is he crying for? He did this, it's his fault. He doesn't deserve to—to feel upset, to feel like a hole has opened up in his chest, threatening to consume him. He wasn't the one hurt ("don't touch me, stop—") and he doesn't get to feel like he's a—a victim. He doesn't get to have a pity party, when he's responsible for so many deaths.
His family would be so disappointed in him. How can he ever face them again? How can he look Bruce in the eye, after the One Rule being drilled into him from day one? How can he face Damian, when the man turned his back on the teachings of his childhood and has always done his best to show Dick there's a far better path? Cass, who detests killing more than anything. Tim and Duke, who are such true heroes.
How can he—he doesn't belong with any of them anymore. He's poison, he'll only infect them. Only ruin them. After everything they gave him, and he repays them with this horrible betrayal.
He deserves everything that comes his way. He deserves every bad thing that happened, and every bad thing that comes next. Poison poison poison.
There are footsteps in the hall outside the room. Heavy boots, not Catalina's lighter stride. Another motel guest, maybe? Dick doesn't...he doesn't have a fight in him, if that's what this person has come for. If they tracked him and Catalina, and want to take down Nightwing.
He might as well let them. He deserves it all.
The door opens, and Dick lifts his head tiredly, looking away from numb fingers. The blood didn't seep through the gloves, didn't stain his skin despite how sure he was that it would. That all of him would be painted red, a brand to show everyone just how wrong he is.
The figure is large, taking up most of the doorway like Bruce always does. But there's no cowl, no sweeping cape, and Dick is relieved (he can't face Bruce, he can't—) for all of two seconds before he recognizes that red helmet, the leather jacket, the guns.
Jason. His big brother, brought back to life hating them all. Brought back to life, only to kill and rise as a mob boss. Only to fight them all at every opportunity.
A lump lodges in Dick's throat. No, no, no, he can't do this. Not with Jason, not with Red Hood. He isn't strong enough for this on his best day, and today is certainly not that.
He lived in the Manor with Jason for three years before the older boy died. They were—brothers, best friends. Dick looked up to Jason, considered him his entire world. And him dying shattered Dick into a million pieces.
(Dick thought he knew rage, when he learned what the Joker did. But that was just grief and despair really. No, he truly learned what rage was when Timothy Drake turned up on their doorstep, jaw set with determination when he said he was going to be taking on Jason's mantle, that Batman needed him, like Dick wasn't enough, like Jason could ever be replaced—
He loves Tim now. He's Dick's big brother, and he wouldn't trade him for anything. But in the beginning...oh, did he hate.)
And now Jason is back. Dick hasn't seen him in person since before he died, only seen video footage of the Red Hood in action, read the field reports of his escapades. For all that Red Hood fought with Tim and Bruce and the others, he steered far clear of Dick. Like Dick wasn't even worth the time of day, like he was nothing.
Of course Jason had to pick now to finally fight him. Of course Dick couldn't be at the top of his game. Not that he—not that he would beat his big brother, nor did he think he would be able to give a fight against Jason his all even slightly, but at least he wouldn't be so weak. At least he wouldn't be the easy target he is now.
Dick is—Dick is just fucking exhausted. This has been the longest day, week, month of his life, and the gunshot is still ringing in his ears. He still feels Catalina's hands on him. The heat of a raging fire is still bright against his skin. So he...he doesn't have it in him. Frankly, it's taking everything in him right now to not just break down sobbing at the sight of his big brother.
It's been years, and Dick isn't anymore that twelve-year-old boy he was when Jason died. He's seventeen, a grown man by at least Bruce's standards (and, apparently, by Catalina's as well), not a whining child. He can't just—break down, because Jason is here to hurt him. Because the boy who was his hero is now filled with hate. Hate for all of them. Hate for Dick.
He almost wants to laugh, actually. Because maybe two months ago, he wouldn't have understood that. How Jason could possibly hate him. But now—well, Dick hates himself, too. So Jason might as well.
Jason steps into the room. His head swivels slowly, like he's taking the place in, and then shuts the door behind him. Dick can't do anything more than stare, too exhausted, too broken, too poisonous, to try to defend himself. To say anything. To do anything other than sit on the bed and wait for the pain to arrive.
"Where's your partner?" Jason asks, voice coming out flat and mechanical.
Dick blinks slowly at him. Partner? Does he mean Catalina?
It makes Dick's stomach lurch with nausea, at the idea of the two of them being partners. But he—well, he supposes they are now, aren't they. In this together. A team. A pair of killers. He might as well call her his partner.
Dick manages to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth, not eager to test Red Hood's patience. He's heard quite a lot of things about the crime lord's temper, from criminals and other Bats alike.
('Other bats', Dick thinks, like he's still one of them. What a ridiculous notion.)
"Dunno," Dick says, voice coming out barely more than a rasp. "She left—" When? How long has it been? How long has Dick been sitting here in self-pity? "—A while ago."
Jason doesn't say anything for a few moments, and Dick wishes he could see his face. Jason was always so expressive when they were younger, so delightfully clear with his emotions. Always made everything so much fun; being able to see Jason's irritation at all the rich snobs, his amusement when annoying Bruce, his chagrin when caught doing something he shouldn't by Alfred. But the helmet is just—blank. Uncaring, unfeeling. Nothing to give Dick a hint about what his brother is thinking.
"Get your shit, we're leaving," Jason says.
Dick blinks at him. His shit? Dick doesn't...have anything. All his belongings burned with his apartment building, and anything else that he might have a claim to is still back at the Manor where he's surely not welcome. No, all he has is the Nightwing suit he's wearing. A suit he's not even worthy of anymore.
But honestly, he doesn't have it in him to argue. Can't even muster up the energy or courage to protest, to not leave with a violent mob boss. Doesn't deserve anything better, anyway.
(And maybe, just maybe, a small part of him is desperate to be around Jason. Even if it ends in pain, even if it's a stupid decision, Dick misses his big brother like a missing limb.)
So he picks up his gloves and gets to his feet. Jason watches him silently, not saying anything while Dick slowly crosses the room to stand in front of him.
Jason's helmet tilts downward, like he's looking him over. "You don't have anything?" that robotic voice asks, and Dick shakes his head mutely. This close, Dick can make out how many weapons Jason has hidden—and not so hidden—on his person.
Dangerous, his mind shouts at him. Jason, his heart sobs back.
"Alright," Jason says, and there's a gruffness to it, the first sign of any sort of emotion, not that Dick can identify what it is. "Let's go then."
He opens the door again, and begins walking down the hall without glancing back. Confident that Dick is going to follow him.
And Dick does.
There's a car waiting outside, and Dick gets into the passenger seat without a word when Jason instructs him to. The older boy is quiet as he gets in as well, the car starting up loud in the silence. He continues to say nothing as they drive, and Dick doesn't bother trying to keep track of where they're going. It doesn't matter. None of it matters.
Eventually they reach an apartment building, and Dick follows Jason inside, up three flights of stairs, into an apartment at the end of the hall. It's nice enough, if a bit empty; clearly a safehouse instead of any kind of actual home. But it's furnished—a couch and couple armchairs, a coffee table, a small dining table with four chairs, a little kitchen with a granite island. Soft blue curtains hang over the windows.
Jason walks further inside, and Dick shuts the door behind him, the action feeling a little final. When he turns back around to face the body of the apartment, it's to find Jason pulling his helmet off, setting the thing down onto the dining table. His hand moves across his face, and a red domino mask joins the helmet.
And then it's Jason, looking over at him. Years older, face more grave than Dick ever remembers seeing it, a deepness in eyes that speaks to experiences no one will ever understand. But still Jason. Still the face Dick has missed for years, still the person Dick used to cuddle with while they watched scary movies.
And now the person who wants to hurt their family. Who is probably about to hurt him.
Jason's expression is blank, flat, like his voice was earlier. Dick feels a bit like a bug under a microscope as Jason's eyes—green, why are they green?—scan him, head to toe and then back up again.
It's not until Jason's eyes lock onto Dick's own that there's a hint of something soft.
And it splits Dick in two.
His knees buckle, and he drops to the hardwood with a thump, a keen escaping his throat. He hears Jason jolt forward, boots thudding against the floor, but he can't see anything, tears filling his eyes and blurring the world around him. When he blinks, they fall, only to be caught by his mask, soaking into the material.
He feels a body in front of him, and he can't muster up the energy to be afraid, can't find it within himself to stay on-guard around the man who has hurt so many. All he can do is cry, his chest aching as his breathing hitches on every inhale, his throat thick, nearly choking him.
"Dickie," he thinks he hears, a gentle murmur, a voice that is soft and loving and familiar and would never hurt him and Dick pitches forward, falling against Jason's chest as his crying picks up, as he begins to sob.
Arms wrap around him immediately. They're bigger than they used to be, but hold him just as tightly as they always did, just as protectively and maybe a little possessively, and Dick knows in this moment—just like he always did back then—that Jason won't let a damn thing happen to him.
Dick isn't a child anymore. But he clings to his big brother nonetheless, and lets himself break apart.
He doesn't know how much time passes, before his crying tapers off. Before he's completely limp against Jason, drained of all control and all emotion, numb and lifeless and not sure of anything, least of all what he's supposed to do next.
Jason's fingers card softly through his rain-damp hair; he must've removed his gloves, because those are definitely his bare fingers, his callouses brushing against Dick's skin any time they touch his forehead.
"What did they do to you?" Jason asks, barely more than a whisper, and Dick thinks he's mostly talking to himself. He answers anyway.
"Deserved it," Dick says, and Jason's fingers pause for half a second before continuing in their ministrations. "Killed him, killed them all..."
Jason sucks in a sharp breath. His voice seems to shake a little when he asks, "What do you mean, Dickiebird?"
Dick missed that nickname. Fuck, he missed Jason so much. He had to grow up without his big brother there with him, missed so much time with him, and now everything is changed and Dick is broken and he doesn't think any of it can be fixed.
"They all burned," Dick says distantly, remembering the screaming, the flames, the heat, the fear, the despair. All his fault. Always all his fault. And Blockbuster. And Catalina—
"Quiet, mi amor. Callado..."
"I heard about the circus," Jason says, something in his voice Dick can't interpret. "And the building burning down was all over the news. Is that what you're talking about? Dick, unless you're telling me you're an arsonist now, I don't think that was you."
Jason tries to inject some levity into his tone, but it falls flat.
"Was after me," Dick says. Full sentences are hard. "All my fault. Was trying to hurt me, kill me. All of them died for me. 'Deserve it, Jay. Just kill me."
Jason jolts like he's been struck by lightning, and then suddenly he's grabbing Dick's shoulders and ripping him away from his chest, holding him at arm's length to look him in the eye. There's something wild in Jason's expression, something almost desperate, and Dick blinks at it, not understanding. Everything feels very far away.
"Dickie, what the fuck, no. Why would you—? I would never. Fuck, Dick."
Dick's brow furrows. "But you hurt the others. And none of them have killed anyone. They're not poison like I am."
Jason looks heartbroken, and afraid. "What happened between me and Bruce, and me and Tim, that—it has nothing to do with you. My problem is never with you, birdie. Dick, kid, come on, you're my little brother. I could never hurt you, you hear me? Let alone—!" His words end with a choked noise, and he closes his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply.
"You aren't poison," Jason says when he opens his eyes again, and seems much calmer than he did before. "You are the best person I know. And you don't deserve a single goddamn bad thing."
Emotion swirls in Dick's chest, and he wishes it would go away again. The numbness, the distance, was so much better. He doesn't want to feel horrible anymore. He just wants to stop existing.
"I do," Dick says hoarsely, and disgusting tears prick at his eyes again. "I stepped aside, Jay, and let her kill him, I chose for him to die, I did that, she wouldn't have killed him otherwise. And then she—she punished me for it, and I deserved it, I deserve it all—"
Jason's eyes sharpen a little, his focus narrowing in on something. "What do you mean she 'punished' you, Dickie? Tarantula? What did she do to you?"
Dick's gaze drifts downward, to where the bottom and top halves of his suit are still slightly askew, not reconnected properly after Catalina was—after they were done. Dick had been too far gone to do it himself, and she hadn't known his suit well enough to do it properly.
Jason's gaze follows his down. His brows furrow in confusion, and his eyes flick back up to Dick's face, taking in the younger boy's expression, Dick's features twisted into something sick as nausea churns in his gut.
Understanding dawns, along with disbelief. And then rage, his green eyes flickering like fire, and Dick can't resist the flinch, eyes squeezing shut against the pain that is sure to come. Of course Jason is angry with him, everyone should be. Dick is a failure, worthless, poison—
A large hand cups the back of Dick's head and pulls him forward again, until Dick's face is pressed against Jason's chest again, a firm arm wrapping around his back.
"Oh, Dickie," Jason says, voice wrecked. "Sweetheart, fuck. That is...Fuck, that is so far from your fault, you hear me? That—what she did, that isn't punishment. And you didn't fucking deserve it, no one does."
"But I—"
"Doesn't matter," Jason interrupts, tone brokering no arguments. "You could kill the goddamn Pope, or the president, or the entire population of Gotham, and you still would not deserve that. Do you get me, Grayson?"
"Jay..."
"I said do you get me?"
Dick buries his face, the material of the red bat drying the tears that managed to slip out from under his mask, streaking down his cheeks. And Jason continues to hold him, not treating him like he's poison, or an enemy, or someone to be disgusted by. Not treating him like he's unworthy of love or affection. It's just Jason.
"I hear you," Dick whispers, because it's the best he can offer right now.
"Good," Jason says, equally quiet but firm, and Dick feels a kiss be pressed against the crown of his head. "That's a start, I guess." A pause, and then a thick, "Missed you, kid."
Despite everything, Dick feels a smile pull at the corners of his mouth. Jason's alive, Jason's here, Jason doesn't hate him. Dick might feel like a million shattered shards of himself, but Jason seems fully willing to pick up all the pieces.
"Missed you too, Jaybird," Dick says, and wraps his arms around Jason in turn, sinking into the hold, sure that—at least for now—nothing can touch him, least of all the bad things in his head. Not while Jason is here to protect him.