Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I wish I could say that I come awake instantly, or with any real speed at all. Even more, I wish that I could say that I wake up with any real consciousness, when actually the truth is that I drag towards awareness one step at a time, like my mind is a body I'm pulling down an alley. I swallow, groan, just start to stir before muscles complain, and give up for just a little longer. I know at least my torso is vaguely vertical, I know whatever I'm laying on is comfortable except where it's digging into the outside of my knees, and I know that every time I think about moving a long, slow, ache sings through me.

Not like the pain of a beating, but more like the hangovers after a celebration with the Titans… I didn't get drunk with the Titans again, did I? I thought that was Tim's area now, I was pretty sure I'd left most of the blackout drunk nights behind me after I left the team.

A hand pats my head — ow, shit — and then I drag myself awake, cracking my eyes open through sheer force of will. My mask's still on, so that's something, but the face looking down at me does not help with the idea that something I'd probably rather forget happened. Mostly because it's a crooked smirk and laughing blue-green eyes, and there are very few things that scream 'you fucked up last night' more than waking up to Jason smirking down at me through the hangover from hell.

"Hey, Dick." His voice is soft, thank god, and I only wince a little bit at the sound. "Yeah, sucks doesn't it?" He shifts closer, leaning down, and even if I could drag together the energy to stop him getting closer he stalls me by saying, "I'm gonna take your mask off, alright? I've gotta see your eyes to make sure you're with me again." I manage the tiniest nod, and totally miss wherever Jason pulls the tiny bottle of solvent from. "Alright, easy, Dick." I wince again at the spray of the liquid around the edges of the mask, and then close my eyes as Jason very slowly pulls it off my face.

His hands are bare, and one traces down the left side of my face, lingering on a particularly sore spot below my cheekbone that I think might be a real bruise. Or just more of this headache, it's hard to tell. I honestly don't remember the last time I woke up this fucked up.

"What happened?" I rasp out, opening my eyes and like magic Jason suddenly has a bottle of water in his hands that he raises to my mouth. I spare about half a second considering if it's drugged before just accepting it. Jason really doesn't need to drug me, not right now, and we've been doing better anyway. He hasn't even killed anyone in a few months, that we know of. Lots of emergency rooms visits, lots of bullet wounds, but no deaths we can pin on him.

Jason waits to answer until I pull a little bit away, recapping the bottle and setting it aside. He cups my face, obviously studying my eyes, and then gives a very small nod. "You, were drugged out of your mind last night, remember any of that?" I shake my head as much as I can with his hands holding me pretty much still, and he shrugs. "Yeah, didn't think you would. I found you in the middle of my territory, nearly passed out on a rooftop, and took you back to my closest safe house to detox."

I swallow, not finding anything in Jason's expression that says he's lying. "You could've," I pause, to breathe through the headache pounding away at my temples, "called Bruce, Tim, anybody. Thought you didn't like me."

He carefully lets go of my head, raising the water back to my mouth. "Yeah, well I'm not enough of a piece of shit to leave family lying defenseless on a rooftop, alright? B doesn't take my calls, and the replacement's out at the Titans for the weekend, remember? He told me what you got dosed with, and how to deal with it. So I did." The water tastes like heaven, and I swallow as much as I can before I have to breathe again. "You're gonna be fine, Dickie. Some bruises — you weren't really cooperating, jackass — and scrapes, but it's all minor."

I nod, and feel the pull of something at my throat, and along the back of my neck. I frown, turning my head, and catch sight of a thick blue cord wound down over my left shoulder and underneath my armpit. From there I follow it to another line drawn around my lower arm, and then to what are definitely my bound wrists, lines heading down underneath the chair and also tied to each arm. My legs are spread and bent up, knees tied to the end of the metal arms and tied together at the ankles, and as I shift I can feel a thick, hard object between the back of my neck and the chair that I'm pretty damn sure is one of my escrima sticks.

"Jason," I start, warning him, and he snorts.

"Did I mention you were drugged out of your mind? Apparently you had a run in with Poison Ivy and were stupid enough to get one of her mixtures blown into your mouth; that was Tim's guess, anyway." I stiffen a little bit, except that makes everything hurt, especially the parts of my muscle underneath the lines of rope. "And, way more important, did you know you're a goddamn octopus, contortionist, escape artist when you're that fucked up? Because I didn't." Jason rolls his eyes, and then brings the water bottle back up. "Come on, finish this. Replacement said you'd need at least three bottles to feel even a little normal. You want cold or room temperature?"

"Room," I grate out, accepting the tilt of the water bottle. I test the bindings as I swallow down the last of the bottle. Apart from being able to lift my hips a bit, flex my fingers, and turn my head, I'm pretty much bound into total stillness. It's a really effective style of bondage, and it's all either tied into the chair, or around my two escrima sticks. One is at the back of my neck, and the other is behind my ankles. This would have taken a long time to put together even halfway decently.

Jason pulls the water away and moves around me, his hand clasping down over my shoulder for just a second as he passes by. I take a brief look around — there are curtains over the window I'm opposite, thankfully, but the slivers of light hurt my eyes — and decide that yeah, this is really obviously one of Jason's safe houses. There are metal cases of who knows what, and a table with a spread of guns that makes me just a little sick to look at. A bunch of papers and pictures are pinned up on the wall above it, threads hooking what must be leads together. To the opposite side there's a bed turned flat against the wall, big enough for two if necessary, and with rumpled sheets tossed back to one corner.

I can't turn my head enough to see behind me — the escrima stick hits the back of the chair and stops me — but I assume there's a kitchen back that way, and the door to whatever kind of bathroom there is.

It's a decent safe house, and he's obviously been using this one for a while. I guess he'll move, now that anyone in the family can access the trackers in my suit and figure out where it is. It always makes me feel a little guilty when one of us forces Jason to abandon a safe house, but I know that's not a sane way to look at it.

The rest of the family knows most of each other's safe houses, it's Jason that doesn't want any of us knowing where he is at any given time, or where he might hide. It's not just paranoid of him, not with the fights Bruce and he get into sometimes, but it's not my fault that he's moving. Of course, sometimes Jason gets a little fidgety, goes a little mad with whatever the Lazarus Pit left in his head, and then it's safer that none of us know where he is. He doesn't always distinguish friends from enemies, he just sees threats. Crime Alley gets bloody when those moods come over Jason.

Luckily, at least right now, he seems fine. There's not that tint of bright green to his eyes, and his hands and voice were steady. That's good, probably the last position I should ever be in is tied up in one of Jason's safe houses while he's not quite sane. That's really dangerous, even if I think I trust him not to actually kill me. Probably.

It's not his fault, I know that.

I can hear his footsteps — shouldn't be able to, he's making me more comfortable by letting me track his movements — and his hand touches my shoulder again before he loops back around in front of me. "Here," he says, voice still pitched soft to not aggravate the headache pounding at my temples. I accept another long drink before he pulls it away a bit. "So, remember any of last night?"

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, trying to think. Yeah, I'd been out on patrol on my own, Bruce was at the opposite end of town, and Barbara had some kind of official event to go to as Gordon's daughter so she was off the coms. It was a pretty quiet night, and I do remember running into Poison Ivy. She was… I think she was trying to grow her plants up out of the pavement to bring down an apartment building. Maybe not the smartest plan, and I don't think there was actually anyone in the building, but it was still something worth stopping. We fought, and…

I groan, wincing as I remember pinning her down and her exhaling something bright golden right into my face. After that, things get really fuzzy, really fast.

"I'm gonna take that as a 'yes,' " Jason says, and I flick my eyes open in time to catch the edge of a smirk. "Up to what point?"

"Getting dosed," I answer, grudgingly. It's easier to talk now, after the bottle and a half of water to soothe my really unhappy throat. Jesus, what did I even do after she drugged me? "After that it's… dark, fuzzy." I narrow my eyes, considering where that apartment building was. "I wasn't anywhere near Crime Alley."

Jason shrugs, offering the water again, and I accept the tilt and another few mouthfuls. "Well, that's where I found you. Kinda flattering that you track me down when you're high, if that's what happened. You're all hands, you know that?"

A suspicion flares sharply to life, and I pull my head away from the water and study Jason. He's still got the bottom half of his usual costume on, boots, gun, and knife included, but his jacket is missing and so is most of the armor he usually wears. He's just got a regular black tank-top on, which is something that Jason does not wear as Red Hood. And there are — I swallow, hard — dark bruises along one of his shoulders, small and mostly round and oh shit. I snap my gaze up to his face, and he's got that crooked smirk back. His hair is even more of a disheveled mess than usual.

"You— Poison, or—?"

"Pollen. You're damn lucky I got you off the streets before anyone else found you, Dick. You should be one hell of a lot more careful fighting Poison Ivy, you know the kind of tricks she has." He gives another shrug. "Sorry about the cheek, by the way. You grabbed and I just kinda reacted."

Oh, that explains the slightly more achy point on the left side of my face. Yeah, I thought that was a bruise. I test the binds again, but they hold really, really firm. I'm still in my suit, so things couldn't have gotten that bad, right? I mean, he didn't— I didn't— Fuck, what did I do? Poison Ivy's pollens aren't usually that fast-acting, usually there's enough time to call an ally, or get to a safe house, or just in general make sure that the affected person is safely not in danger before figuring out what it is and administering an antidote. That, or just sedating the hell out of the person until they work through it.

We've had a lot of close calls — we're all strong, and fast, and restraint is hard when she drugs you — but we've never actually had someone get— We've always stopped it in time. Just barely, sometimes, or sometimes we've had to resort to knocking the person out, but nothing's ever happened.

But Jason… Does he know the protocol for this, did Tim tell him? Did he…? I don't feel sore anywhere I shouldn't, but I know that doesn't necessarily mean anything, I know that there are ways… He could have…

"Woah," Jason's hands are wrapping around mine, holding them as he kneels down in front of me. "Dick, breathe."

I shudder, pulling at the cable holding me down and tilting my head back for a second to get control. I swallow, and slowly breathe in, holding it for a count of ten before allowing myself to exhale again. Jason's fingers are tight around mine, solid and comforting even though… Even though I don't know what happened.

"Look at me, alright?" Jason's voice is soothing, worried, careful. "Come on, Dick, look at me."

I drag my head down, looking at him where he's staring up at me. His mouth is a thin line, eyes narrowed and I think most people would assume he's angry but I know it's worry. He's freaking out a little bit, and I can feel that in the flex of his fingers around mine and the way his shoulders are drawn up defensively. It's not fear, but he knows that I'm kind of freaking out and it's rebounding on him. Jason's always been so in tune with what the people around him are feeling, even if he doesn't usually use that talent as kindly as he could.

At least now he doesn't usually use it to hurt them.

"Jason," I pause, work my jaw and swallow again, and he gives my hands another reassuring squeeze.

"It's alright, Dick, I promise. Come on, talk to me."

"I—" I tighten my hands around his for a second, and then grudgingly, slowly, ask, "You didn't, take advantage, right?" He jerks like I've struck him, blue-green eyes shutting away as his head turns, and then he's pulling away and yanking his hands out of my grip. One of his hands rises, scrubs over his face and then back through his hair, and he won't meet my eyes. "Jason?" I need to know, I have to. If he— God.

Jason gets to his feet, hand falling to his side. He's moving slowly, deliberately, like he's restraining himself in every movement. He looks at me, and I can see the anger in his eyes as he steps in and cracks his left fist across my jaw. My head snaps to the side, headache sharpening as I gasp in pain, and instinct makes me focus on him again before I even recover from the punch. He's shaking his hand out, glaring down at me like I've seriously pissed him off, but there's something dark and hurt in his eyes.

"How can you even ask me that?" he snarls, holding my gaze. "Me, Dick, of all people? Jesus, you damn well know that I would never hurt anyone like that. Not you, not some random person on the streets, not goddamn Bruce. I don't touch people that don't want it, you jackass."

"I just—"

"No," he snaps, cutting me off. "Go to hell, Dick. I spent all fucking night watching you writhe, and beg, and fucking whimper for me to touch you so that I could make sure you didn't hurt yourself, or die on me, or cut your way out of those restraints and go fuck some random person on the street. I carried you across half a goddamn neighborhood while you did your best to tear all my clothes off, and you know what your best is? Really fucking good, Dick. I followed all of Tim's guidelines to the fucking letter, and I sedated you but it wore off in barely ten minutes, burned right out of your system. So fuck you, Dick, because this was a pain in the ass and not fun for me, and I would never take advantage of you no matter how easy you made it, you jackass."

He steps away as I stare, my throat locked shut because Jason looks so angry, and so hurt that I even considered that he would have actually touched me while I was down like this, and I can't find the words to try and make it any better. I had to know, and now I do, but god I can tell I've hurt him. I never meant to do that, I just had to know if he… I should have known better.

No one's said it, no one's brought it up, but I'm not an idiot and neither is Bruce. We knew the kind of background Jason had in Crime Alley, knew the kind of things he did to stay alive after his parents… Of course he would never touch anyone without their permission, of course he wouldn't. I don't know it for a fact, but there were always hints about Jason's behavior that implied that he'd had more than his fair share of being used in a lot of ways that weren't legal, and that he didn't like. He was always so touchy about people abusing partners, or kids, or anyone that was sexually assaulted. He was always touchy about that.

"Sorry," I finally manage to spit out, as he turns his back on me and rakes that hand up through his hair again, "I didn't think."

"No, you really fucking didn't." He shakes his head and I can see him forcibly ease his shoulders down, hang his head for a second. Without his jacket I can see every moment of it. "I'll get the replacement to call B," he says, without looking at me. "You're not in any condition to get across Gotham on your own, and he'll throw a fit if I show up at the Cave with you."

"Jason—"

"Just shut up, Dick. I really don't want to hear anything else out of you unless it's asking for more water, got it?" He's… He still sounds angry, but it's taken background to that tinge of pain in his voice, like my words are some kind of knife in his flesh that he can't rip out until he's safe and ready to deal with it.

I swallow, watching his back, and then ask, "Untie me?"

He snorts and shakes his head. "No. Your pupils are still blown. Don't know if it's an aftereffect or this is just some kind of lull, and I haven't got the lab to figure it out." His head turns, not quite looking at me but off to the ground at his side. "I've had enough of being used by you for today, thanks anyway, Dick."

He's moving before I can come up with a response, sweeping past me without actually looking, and without that single touch to my shoulder like last time. I can hear him picking something up off a wooden surface, plastic judging by the sound, and then a short stretch of silence before Jason clears his throat.

"Hey, replacement, get B to come take him off my hands, would you?" A pause as I try, vainly, to twist far enough to see wherever Jason is standing. "As if you're not tracking him." Another pause, and then Jason's voice, when he speaks, is a little darker. "I'll be gone. Just get him the fuck out of my safe house, replacement." A sound like he's tossed what has to be the phone back onto the table, and then he's striding back into my view and off to the side.

He pauses for just a second in front of the table with all of the guns, gaze sweeping over them — a chill still runs down my spine, even knowing that Jason wouldn't hurt me, not like this — and then he hooks one of the closer metal cases with his foot, tugs it over, and crouches down to flick it open. It's empty except for some pieces of foam padding, and he reaches up and pulls down some of the guns. I watch as he expertly, quickly, dismantles and packs them away inside the case until it's full, then clicks it closed and reaches for another. It's obvious that this is familiar, and it's barely minutes before Jason has the guns stripped down and stored away, and is pulling up a small backpack onto the table and pulling the leads off the wall.

I swallow, staring at the still-tense muscles of his shoulders. "Jason?"

"If you want out of the restraints so fucking badly do it yourself," he snaps, without hesitation. "Your gear's still on you, your fingers are free, and the cable's not that thick."

"No, Jason, I'm sorry." I can see him tense a little more, see the slight jerk of one shoulder and the pause of his hand before he eases back into movement.

"I really don't give a fuck, Dick." He still won't look at me, and I'm not totally sure I blame him. "It's not like I didn't know what you think of me." He zips the backpack closed almost violently, and then collects the filled cases on top of the table. He's spinning away and stalking back towards the area behind me in under a second, the backpack held in one hand. I clench my jaw for a second in frustration at not being able to turn and follow him, see what he's doing.

"But—"

"God, just shut up." I can hear the snarl in his voice, the equal frustration to mine. "Look, Dick, I'm really not interested in assuaging your guilt just because you feel like you fucked up. I helped you, and maybe I expected a little more than getting asked if I fucking raped you while I was at it, but I guess that was my own stupid mistake. I don't give a shit how sorry you are you said it, you still did, and no, I'm not just going to sweep it under the rug and pretend it never happened. Fuck you, and shut your goddamn mouth unless you want me to take the gag I untied before you woke up — because I'm a decent fucking human being — and shove it back between your teeth."

I wince, and then take a glance down to try and— Yeah, there is a length of doubled over, knotted blue cable lying down across my right shoulder, long enough it could hook though my mouth and tie back behind my head to the other side of the escrima stick. I tilt my head back a bit, closing my eyes and trying not to say anything more because I've got no doubt Jason will do exactly what he threatened.

There's a sick swirl of guilt in my stomach, but I clench my jaw down — both sides of my face ache now, I'm going to have matching bruises later — and bite back the words. Jason is family, and I should have remembered that. Not just that, but as far as I know Jason is straight, and I don't think he knows that I'm not. I try not to let any rumors of the men I sleep with out to the world — I've got some fond memories of Roy, before things… changed — and Jason wouldn't take whatever I acted like underneath the effects of Poison Ivy's pollen as fact. He knows better than that. I shouldn't have ever even considered that Jason would do anything to me, especially not Jason.

I wait, in silence, and I can hear Jason moving and packing whatever he's taking with him but he doesn't come back around and into my view. Not surprising, there's nothing more over here, as far as I can see, that he hasn't already stored away. I just wish he'd…

No, Jason is right. I fucked up, I'm the one who said something awful, and he doesn't have to forgive me for it. I didn't trust him even that basically, even though he was nothing but kind after I woke up, and I should have. He doesn't have to give me anything, and he's not required to. I can say I'm sorry all I want to but all I'm doing is telling him I regret it, and he knows that already. He also knows that at the time I meant it, so what the hell does it really matter if I regret it now?

Eventually Jason heads back to the table, leaving the backpack next to the cases and leaning on the wooden surface for just a second. He's got his jacket back on, zipped up the center, which hides all the marks that are obviously from me before he tied me down. What did I do before that? How hard did I push for what the drugs made me want? How hard did he have to push back?

He obviously doesn't want to, but he turns around and heads for me after that brief moment, leaning down and snagging — I can't see it past my left knee, but I recognize the crackle of plastic — the water bottle from the ground next to me. He refuses to meet my eyes, focusing further down my face as he guides the bottle to my mouth. I pause, start to open my mouth to say something, and he shakes his head.

"Just drink the damn water, Dick. The rest is on the table behind you; I don't know how long it'll be before B gets here but I'm sure as fuck not sticking around to find out." Because there's a certainty in my chest that if Jason is still here when Bruce arrives there will be a fight. Jason's not calm like he was before, and Bruce always manages to say things just the wrong way with him. No, they do that both ways, and they always misunderstand each other. It's… It's bad, even at the best of times.

I stay silent, accepting the tilt of the bottle, and it doesn't taste like heaven the way it did earlier, but it's still pretty good, so I'm at least a little more hydrated than I was. How much did that drug take out of me to leave me like this? Or is it just because Jason doesn't have an antidote that the aftereffects are so bad? Do we even have an antidote for this particular strain, or are we going to have to try and synthesize one from whatever's left in my bloodstream? That's not a real fun question; I don't want to think about what might happen if we can't find an antidote, or it's already out of me, and she can do this again.

What if it's not me next time? What if it's Tim, or Bruce, or — god forbid — Jason himself? What would have happened if Jason hadn't found me, or I hadn't apparently subconsciously sought him out? Is it enough to make one of us turn on a civilian? If it is, do we have a sedative strong enough to actually keep us down, and not just get burnt through like Jason said I did to his? This is dangerous.

Jason empties the bottle and then pulls it away, tossing it over my head and somewhere in the direction of what I'm still assuming is the kitchen. I hear it hit what sounds like more plastic, maybe a trash can? Then Jason is leaning back behind me, fingers brushing my skin as he works on the knots at the back of my neck. I let him work, not asking, until he finally pushes my head a little further down and tugs. I can feel the cords pull at my throat, along my shoulders, and then slacken. He steps back, and drops the escrima stick that was holding it all together down at my feet.

"That'll get you started," he says, meeting my eyes for just a second before he turns away and back towards the table. About the same moment that the window behind him shatters inwards, the curtains getting yanked from the wall with the weight of a body that's a little too familiar as it lands.

Jason spins into half a crouch, hands going to his gun and knife, and Bruce lunges at him. The words seize in my throat as Bruce gets a grip on Jason — who hesitated, didn't draw his weapons — and throws him up against the wall next to the gear he's packed. I can see Jason grimace at the impact, see his mouth fall open as the air gets knocked out of him at the same time as it occurs to me that he's not wearing armor underneath that jacket. Bruce advances, fast, and grabs Jason by the upper arms, slamming him back against the wall again.

Jason makes a breathless noise of pain, as Bruce growls in the darkest, most dangerous voice he has, "What did you do?"

Jason's mouth curls in a sneer, but before he can provoke Bruce and make this worse, I find my voice. "Stop!" I call. "B, stop."

I can see Bruce's hands tighten on Jason's arms, painfully tight, and then shove him back as Bruce steps away and whirls to me. Jason, thankfully, doesn't say anything. He's still trying to catch his breath, and the way he curls in on himself a little bit as Bruce heads for me says that the impacts with the wall hurt. He's not wearing armor, but Bruce didn't know that, and if he threw Jason as hard as he would an armored person… Yeah, it would hurt.

Bruce's gloved hand touches my jaw, tilting my head up to study first one side of my face, then the other — the bruises, must be — and then turns his head Jason's direction. "Mask?" he demands, and Jason's sneer flicks a little higher. Can't blame him, if someone threw me against a wall as a greeting I'd probably be a little pissed too.

"Floor, left," Jason answers shortly, straightening off the wall. I watch Bruce look over, find it, and then retrieve what has to be a small vial of the glue from his belt to spray the edges with.

He presses it back over my face, fingers lingering until it sticks, and then snaps a sharp glare at Jason. "If you hurt him—" he starts to threaten, and I can see Jason get just a little bit rigid as he cuts Bruce off.

"Your precious favorite was drugged, asshole. Maybe you should have answered my fucking call." Jason's jaw is tight, anger hard in his eyes and obvious in his body language, but he's not reaching for a weapon. Not yet, anyway. Bruce and Jason just don't get along, not any more.

Bruce deliberately turns back to me, and I can see Jason tense at the dismissal, see the sharp flash of rage in his eyes as his hand twitches towards a weapon and then he balls it into a fist instead. "Red Robin told me the situation." Bruce pauses, and I can feel the flick of his gaze down my chest and to the cables even if I can't actually see it. "Did he touch you?" Bruce demands, speaking entirely to me, and my breath catches as my gaze snaps to Jason.

I look in time to see him recoil, see the fury and then the immediate pain on his face as he jerks his head away. His hands are tight fists, and he stays completely still for a long moment before he looks back up. I'm dimly aware that Bruce has followed my look to Jason, and I can see his blue-green eyes flicking between the two of us without the protection of his helmet or his domino mask to shield him. I want to say something, want to stop Bruce's assumptions and maybe wrap my hands around his shoulders and shake him until he realizes what he's thinking. That Jason, with all of his background, could ever hurt one of us like that. But I considered the same thing.

Jason gives a dark, bitter laugh, shakes his head, and softly says, "Fuck you both."

I can see and feel Bruce tense for a fight when Jason starts to move, flinging the backpack over one shoulder and gathering his cases of weaponry into his hands. With the escrima stick gone I can twist my neck to follow his trail back behind me, across the room — yes, it's a kitchen — and out the door he shoves open and slams behind him. He doesn't pause, and he doesn't look back.

God, I wish Bruce had said anything but that.

Chapter Text

I don't see even a glimpse of Jason for weeks. Red Hood is still active, and at least a dozen jobs go through that I can see his signature on — only one death, thank god — but he's firmly avoiding all of us even more intensely than he was before. I can't help feeling like it's my fault, and it probably is if I'm going to be honest. Mine and Bruce's, but especially me.

Bruce and Jason don't get along, not anymore, and Bruce doesn't think much of Jason these days, but I should have known better. Mostly, I should have thought about it before I opened my damn mouth. If I'd taken even a few seconds just to think, to consider that it was my brother and family in front of me, I would have known that nothing happened. Jason might be a killer, but he'd never violate someone like that. Especially not me or any of the rest of the family. If, somehow, it ended up happening, he'd never be able to look in our eyes afterwards.

I should have known that. I deserve the silence, and he has every right to avoid me. He has every right to never speak to me again if he never wants to.

Almost a month later, and about when I'm convinced Jason actually is going to avoid us for the rest of his life, Tim drops by one of my safe houses as I'm cleaning up from a patrol. Like a semi-normal person, by opening the door that I was definitely sure was locked and walking inside. He glances briefly around, and then walks across the studio apartment and closer to me. He's in casual clothing, jeans and some random t-shirt that I'm almost sure isn't his — it looks big enough to be one of Kon's, though thankfully not his uniform one with the S-shield — and he's got a brown business envelope held loosely in one hand.

"Dick," he greets, free hand twitching in something like a wave and mouth curling in a very slight smile.

"Hey, Tim," I say with a much wider smile, as I strip down out of the Nightwing suit. "Envelope; come by for something specific?"

Tim has the Titans for socialization, and even if he decided to actually stop by for nothing more than a visit with me it wouldn't be at the end of one of my patrols, when the primary goal is to strip down, get clean, and pass out for as many hours as possible before dragged back out of sleep. Besides, as far as I know Tim is supposed to be off at the Tower right now anyway, not in Gotham. No one's going to stop him from being here, but he might get a few disapproving glances from Bruce for not being with his team.

Tim nods, waiting till I've kicked off the last of the suit before holding the envelope out to me. "Delivery. Jason asked me to give you this." I pause, not sure if I want to actually take the envelope — who knows what could be in there? — and I swear Tim actually looks displeased with me for a second. "It's safe, I checked already. He said to tell you that he knows you don't trust him, so he put together proof."

I cautiously take the envelope from Tim's hand, cracking it open. "Proof?" A DVD inside a black case falls into my hand, unlabeled and unmarked in any way.

"It's a video feed of the night you were drugged," Tim explains, and I wince. "Collected footage from traffic cameras, store security, and the security he had in his safe house. There are a few seconds missing from transfers across rooftops and things, but it's actually very complete."

"You watched it?" I ask, and Tim raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, of course." Even if it wasn't better to watch through the whole thing and run tests on everything from the sound to the video itself, just in case, Tim would still watch it for the information. "Wait, you talk to Jason?"

Even before this, seeing Jason was rare and probably not more than a few glances or a brief, job-related conversation. I don't think I've had a real conversation with Jason in a really long time, and even longer if you want to call it actually friendly and not just tolerated, or while trying to kill each other. That's still not his fault — we know how the Lazarus Pit messes with people's minds — but it did kind of stop any hope of a friendly talk.

"Well," Tim says, eyes narrowing just a little and yeah, that's definitely unhappiness, "I didn't accuse him of rape, so he didn't have any reason to cut off communication with me." I wince again, and Tim's arms cross as he watches me, mouth in a tight line that screams how badly he thinks I've screwed up this time. "Jason deserved a lot more than that, Dick."

"I know," I say, and Tim shakes his head.

"No, I don't think you do." He nods down towards the DVD in my hand, that eyebrow arching up again. "That's not edited, Dick. That's every single thing that both of you said, every expression, with nothing filtered out. It's as much a confession as it's a defense. He could have muted the sound, blocked out the mouths, and made this easier for both of you, but he didn't. Watch it."

I pause, glancing down at the DVD, and then offer at my TV and the player hooked up to it. "Now?"

"Now," Tim orders. "I'll go." He steps closer, uncrossing his arms and reaching out to shove at the center of my chest with his fingertips. Not hard, but enough to get his point across and make my weight rock back onto my heels. "Jason is bisexual, you moron, and even if you don't like the attention you get from it you know what you look like. Watch that footage from something other than assuming he doesn't like anything but women, and maybe reconsider what your words meant to him."

Tim doesn't wait for me to string together any kind of a defense or even any words at all. He turns on his heel and heads back to my door. He looks over his shoulder as he twists the knob open, and comments flatly, "That pollen didn't just vanish when you inhaled it, Dick. By the way." He slips outside, pulls the door closed behind him, and I hear it lock which means that somehow Tim has a key to this safe house, even though I don't remember ever giving him one.

Wait. What the hell did that mean? I inhaled the pollen, it was in my system, of course it didn't vanish. What is Tim trying to tell me without actually telling me?

And wait. Jason is bisexual? But, he's never made a— Hang on. Actually, he has made quite a few comments, or mid-combat jabs, that didn't sound entirely straight. I mean, that's combat, and you don't really think about what the person fighting you is saying, or what Jason might be saying to other people while I'm fighting next to him. But, I guess now that I think about it, it's not as big of a shock as it could be. I've only seen Jason with women, but that doesn't mean anything. Not everyone who's bisexual is open about it — me, case in point — and about the last people that you ever want to tell is your family. It's their rejection that's going to hurt, if anyone's does.

I lower my gaze to the DVD in my hands, and then glance over at my TV again. I don't really want to, but I should. Only partially because Tim will be even more upset with me than he already is if I don't, and I don't like any of my family being upset with me. But I owe it to Jason, don't I? I made a stupid comment, I hurt him maybe even worse than I thought I did, and this isn't anything like a peace offering but it's at least something. He's communicating, even if it's through Tim, and Tim said… He said this was as much a confession as it was a defense, and I don't know what Jason would have to confess. He didn't do anything, isn't that what this whole screw up is about?

It's not easy to make myself cross to the TV, or to kneel down and get the DVD into the player, but I force myself to. I owe Jason this and more, and I've already let him down once. The very least I can do is watch what he wants me to.

The drive whirs for a moment as I turn on the TV, and then I waste a few more seconds hunting down the remote — somehow underneath one corner of the couch — before turning back to it. The video played automatically, and it's a grainy, black and white, but already digitally enhanced video feed from what looks like a security camera. I make sure the volume is on as I sit down on my couch, and after a second of thought I draw my legs up to sit cross-legged and straight-backed. I set the remote down next to my right leg, just in case — I've got half an idea what might be on here, and if I need to pause it I want that capability to be really close and pretty much instant — and take a deep breath as I fully focus on the video.

The sound is just ambient, but after a few seconds I watch a figure stumble into view of the camera, swaying and looking seriously drunk and off-balance. With a small wince, I recognize the patterns of my own suit. The me on camera shakes his head, one hand flinging out to try and balance, but it doesn't work and I fall to the side. The landing is a little better than just a straight faceplant into the cement, but not by much. I catch myself on one arm, on my knees, and the video isn't quite good enough to tell but I'm pretty sure that I'm shaking. I'm not making any kind of noise though, or at least not anything that the audio on the camera is picking up.

I smother another wince as camera-me apparently decides that even kneeling on hands and knees is hard and sinks to lie flat on the rooftop, shoulders rising in erratic, sharp breaths. I fight to keep my hands loose as I watch camera-me lie there, one of his hands pressing down into the cement like he knows he should be getting up but can't find the strength to actually do it. He lies there for a while, barely moving, before a second figure bursts in at the side of the camera and runs for my collapsed form.

Jason. Even without the color to give him away, his helmet and jacket are unmistakable. He's dressed completely in the Red Hood costume, and his jacket swings out as he rushes over and drops next to me. His gloved hand skims down the length of my back, his other one reaching out to touch my head, and I can see myself stir at his touch.

"Jesus, Nightwing, what the hell happened to you?" Camera-me doesn't immediately answer, shoulders rounding and fingers curling against the cement, and I can recognize my own restraint even if apparently Jason can't. "Are you hurt? Talk to me, Nightwing, come on."

I swallow, resisting the urge to flick my gaze away and give myself some kind of privacy. It's totally useless, and I already did this. I need to know what happened, I need to know what Jason did or didn't do, I need to know what I did to him. I wouldn't have hurt him, but there's a lot I could have done while high on Poison Ivy's pollen that would have been a lot worse. I trust Jason, I swear I do, but…

Camera-me shudders, and then springs up and at Jason faster than should be possible. He's caught totally off guard, and goes down hard on his back and with me on top of him, helmet cracking against the cement of the roof hard enough to look nasty even if I'm pretty sure none of the impact gets through to his skull. He reacts pretty much instantly, his hands shooting up to catch my wrists even as I curl my gloves into his jacket and shove him down. I'm really aware of how camera-me is straddling Jason's hips, and I clench my teeth, knowing it's only going to get worse from here.

"What the hell?" Jason snarls, apparently not noticing the way camera-me's fingers are letting go of the grip on his jacket and spreading wide, touching. "Don't fuck with me, Nightwing. It's goddamn not alright to fake being injured just to get me close enough for whatever the hell—"

He cuts off with an odd choking noise as camera-me squeezes my thighs in against his hips and grinds down, hands clenching down around my wrists for a second before he's letting go and reaching up to shove me back. Trying to, anyway, but camera-me twists to divert the force of the push, and I watch one of my hands dip low — thankfully at an angle the camera doesn't catch — for an obvious target. Jason yelps, and then I wince in sympathy when his fist cracks across the left side of my face, and camera-me sprawls off to the side.

Jason's retreat is anything but graceful, but he's on his feet and backing away within a couple of seconds, already reaching into his jacket. The phone isn't what I expect him to pull out, but it makes sense. Camera-me is moving, getting shakily to his feet and focusing on Jason like a hunting dog on prey. It's pretty seriously disturbing, and if the way Jason backs up another step and spits out a curse is any kind of indication, he thinks that too.

"Come on, you son of a bitch," Jason says, I'm pretty sure into the phone, not directed at camera-me, and then circles to the side as I start towards him. After a few moments Jason snarls and almost viciously yanks the phone away and brings his other hand back up to it. "Fine, you bastard, fuck you too." That must have been Bruce.

Jason said he called Bruce, and didn't get an answer. So he called—

"You damn well better answer, replacement, or I swear to god—" I don't get the chance to hear whatever he was going to threaten, because camera-me lunges forward, Jason dodges to the side, and it becomes a game of cat and mouse that makes me look away for just a second in another wince. When I look back Jason is fending off my reach for him, dancing back and sideways, trying to keep distance between the two of us while not actually hurting me. "Red!" He sounds relieved, and then there's the shove of a slightly faster movement, a hand that reaches just far enough, and camera-me has him again.

I wince — it should just be a permanent wince at this point, this isn't going to get anything but worse — this time for Jason, as camera-me hooks his leg, and drags him off balance. He snaps a curse as he starts to fall, flailing but holding onto the phone, trying to turn but camera-me is aware and efficient enough to counter the movement. Jason slams to the ground under both of our combined weights, my right leg circling his left and holding it in place, and gives a breathless groan that sounds like that at least knocked the breath out of him. Camera-me's hands are shoving beneath Jason's jacket, pushing it up his shoulders.

Jason catches his breath and reaches up to grab one of the wandering wrists with his free hand, twisting to force my arm straight and my shoulder down. "Red, there's something really fucking wrong with Nightwing." Camera-me twists out of the hold and Jason snarls a, "Fuck! How do I know? He's not talking and he's trying really damn hard to get my," camera-me gets both hands down around his neck, clearly reaching for the catch to his helmet, "motherfucker! — everything off! Don't you fucking dare, Nightwing!" Jason bucks up and twists away, barely deflecting the searching fingers with his free hand and the elbow of the other hand.

I recognize the grace that lets camera-me weather the buck of Jason's hips and fling of his weight without being thrown off, but I don't like it right now.

"Yes," Jason snaps, fighting off my hands even as he answers whatever Tim is asking. "Just tell me what the hell to do, replacement! I don't have time for the goddamn lecture!" Hands reach for the catch to his helmet again, and Jason jerks to the side and then snaps a quick, "Hang on," at the phone.

He drops it to the roof, freed hand digging into his jacket and yanking out what looks like a zip tie. He shoves up, grabbing at camera-me's wrists and getting hold of them, dragging them back behind my waist as he pushes up close to me. Camera-me grinds forward into him, arching and then dropping my head down towards his throat. Jason has enough sense to twist away, putting the collar of his jacket between my teeth and his skin, as he yanks the zip tie tight around my wrists and then yanks back to shove me away from him. He actually manages it this time, and draws back as he snatches at the phone and holds it up — I guess — close enough that he can hear the other side.

"Talk fast, Red." There's a second of silence, as camera-me shifts off the ground and to his knees. I suck in a sharp breath at the familiar flick of gloved fingers — at camera-me's back, where Jason won't be able to see it — and the small blade that snaps the zip tie as easily as a string, my vague hope that I wouldn't have the mind left over to actually use any of my tools vanishing. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Jason says, disbelieving and aimed at whatever Tim said, because it's a second later that camera-me lunges at him again, revealing the freed hands. "Shit!"

He drops the phone, gripping my wrists again and struggling to keep my hands off of him as he tilts his head towards the phone. "Just talk, Red! God damnit Nightwing get off of me!"

Drugged or not, I'm obviously determined. Jason is spitting curses as he grapples with me, head tilted to one side as he listens to whatever the hell Tim is telling him. Probably the protocol for dealing with this. Get them somewhere safe, sedate if necessary, restrain if necessary, give an antidote if one exists, and then just make sure they don't hurt themselves, or escape.

Finally he snaps, "Got it. Thanks, replacement." He bucks, twists, shoves, and manages to get camera-me off balance enough to tilt him sideways and throw him off. He whirls to his feet, snagging the phone and tucking it away before turning to face me. "Alright, I've got no clue if you're aware enough to hear me, but we need to get you the hell off the streets, alright Nightwing? Can you understand me?"

Camera-me straightens up off the ground, visibly shuddering. On one hand I'm really glad that Jason's managed to keep his helmet, but I almost wish that I'd managed to get it off because then I could see his expression. The way he's standing, arms upheld and shoulders rounded for an impact, says he's wary, but his voice is angry and frustrated. Jason's never been the best at hiding what he's feeling, and. If his helmet was off I'd be able to see it. I'd know if he was worried, or just pissed off.

"Damnit, Nightwing. If you can understand, answer me."

Camera-me gives a slightly harder shudder, and then rolls his shoulders and straightens up a little. "I understand." I barely recognize my own voice, it's so dark and strained, and I smother a curse as I recognize the way my hands flex and curl. "Jason."

Jason doesn't know me well enough to see what I can — the curl of my hands means restraint, it means patience because the target's coming to me — and he takes a cautious step towards camera-me. "Nightwing, I need to get you to my closest safe house, alright? It's not that far. Can you let me do that?"

Another flex of hands, a shiver, and then camera-me nods. I resist the urge to yell at the screen, because this has already happened and I can't change it now. Jason's already fallen for it, yelling at him now or even just hissing isn't going to do anything. Jason moves forward, fishing something out of his jacket — the angle of the camera is bad, but I'm pretty sure it's a grapnel — and holding his other hand up and out. I'm not sure if it's supposed to be cautioning, beckoning, or defensive; without his expression I can't tell.

Jason gets close enough to grab, and I wait for the explosion of movement. "You're going to need to hold on, Nightwing. Alright? I can get us there, just hold on." There it is. Before Jason can give more than a startled sound camera-me has both arms wound beneath his jacket and up along his back, one leg hooked in between his.

"Jason," camera-me all but moans, as my younger brother flails a little bit and tries to simultaneously back off and push me away.

"Jesus, Nightwing!" Unfortunately, with the angle of the camera, I can see exactly when one of camera-me's hands drags down and grips Jason's ass. I can also hear the shocked noise he makes as he goes rigid, which lets camera-me press way too close and stay there. There's no place for Jason to get leverage, and the hook of my leg behind his stops him from backing off.

He struggles for another second, trying to get me away from him, but it doesn't work. Jason is physically stronger than I am when it comes down to it, but with camera-me pressed that close, and holding tight, the angles aren't in his favor.

I can see him drag in a deep breath, hands resting awkwardly on my back as he stills. "Alright, I can deal with this." Camera-me leans in, pressing tongue and teeth to the side of Jason's neck, and my brother jerks away. "Fuck, Nightwing, no! You leave me with visible marks and I'm going to be fucking pissed, got me?"

At least some of it seems to get through to me, because camera-me turns his head and just breathes against Jason's throat. Right before he pulls him somehow closer and moves in a arching, grinding wave that folds Jason in like someone punched him in the solar plexus.

His hands clench over my back, helmet starting to tilt down against my shoulder. "Alright, god, this is a terrible idea. Nightwing, please cooperate."

I watch, stiff and silent on the couch, as Jason strokes his right hand down my back — carefully skirting my ass — and grips my upper thigh. Camera-me seems only too happy to let Jason pull his leg up and around my brother's waist, and I relax a fraction at the sight. Right, Jason needed to get me somewhere else, and clearly I wasn't going to let go. To be able to swing, and travel, he needs both his legs free, and at least one hand. The easiest way would be to get me to support my own weight and hold on by myself. That doesn't mean that I like watching my drugged self clench his leg around Jason's waist, or the stiffness to my brother's shoulders as it happens.

"Nightwing," Jason coaxes, letting go of my thigh, "I need your other leg up here too. Come on."

I can see the shift of the jacket as camera-me's hand moves farther up Jason's back and, I think, clenches into a fist. It isn't audible to the camera, but I can read the lips as I breathe out, against Jason's skin, "No."

"Don't do this to me, you son of a bitch. Please, just give me your leg and we can head back to my safe house." Even just watching, I can almost feel the resignation as Jason's helmeted head dips. "Come on, Nightwing. It's safe, there's a bed, and all of this can come off. That's what you want, right? You can have it; promise."

My hands clench into fists, and it feels like longer than it really is before camera-me nods against Jason's throat and draws his leg back. The hand lets go of Jason's ass and slips up, some part of my mind obviously still working because it hooks over the top of Jason's shoulder to get a solid, stable grip. Then camera-me lifts as Jason braces, raising the second leg to wrap around his waist.

Jason stiffens for a second, but doesn't say anything more than, "Hold on."

I can see the curve of my mouth in a grin, thighs clenching around him. Jason starts moving, left arm hooking around my back as his right preps and checks the grapnel. Before the two of us are even out of the camera's view, my drugged self has already shoved his jacket back off of Jason's left shoulder.

The next section is pretty fragmented, and there's no audio, but I do my best to follow it. It's quick shots from a dozen different cameras, bits caught in mid-jump or just at the edge of a frame.

The important part is that it's obvious, even with the fragmented documentation, that Jason is having a seriously difficult time with me. Mostly, it means that Jason's words — "I carried you across half a goddamn neighborhood while you did your best to tear all my clothes off, and you know what your best is? Really fucking good, Dick." — come back into my head in vivid memory, as I watch myself force his jacket back until he's got no choice to pull his left arm out of it and leave it hanging by just his right. Then, despite Jason's twisting and attempts to stop it, as my fingers find the catch of his helmet and release it. His face as camera-me drops it is angry, strained, and determined.

Somewhere in the Crime Alley neighborhood, one of Jason's helmets is sitting in some shadowed corner, or on someone's shelf as a souvenir. If Jason doesn't have some kind of tracker in his helmet that he can activate to retrieve it, or if he just hasn't gone searching for it yet. For all I know maybe he just left it in Crime Alley because he didn't want to remember any of what happened on that night, or maybe it's the one he's wearing now.

The next thing that falls victim to my drugged self is his white t-shirt, to a flick of my hand and a swipe of one of my smallest blades up the length of his spine. I can see his mouth open in what I'm pretty sure is something loud and shocked, but it looks like I'm at least somewhat still capable or maybe just lucky. As far as I can tell from the camera angles, as camera-me rips the remnants of the shirt off of him, he's not bleeding; the blade didn't nick him anywhere. The loss of the shirt leaves him in just the armoring underneath it, which is a lighter layer of padding and reinforcement that still leaves some important gaps, and the jacket on his one arm.

Luckily, Jason decided to wear a domino that night. Also luckily, the straps that connect his armor are too tough to be severed by just the small blade camera-me is wielding without some serious sawing through, which I was apparently still conscious enough not to do.

Jason's jaw is clenched, and the camera angles might be disorienting but I can see that I'm touching what skin I can get one of my hands on, and that the other hand is firmly involved with trying to wiggle down the back of Jason's pants. I'm really glad that my drugged self doesn't seem to be managing it; apparently Jason's belt is pulled too tight to allow that, not that it's stopping the persistent attempts. His arm is locked around my waist, holding me tight just in case my grip wavers, but it's not necessary. Camera-me's thighs are clenched tight around him, heels crossed at the small of his back, and showing absolutely no signs of even considering loosening.

When Jason finally swings onto the ledge of a window, carefully balancing both our weights as he pulls it open, it makes me relax a bit. He disables at least two locks — I recognize it as the window that Bruce smashed through — and gets us inside, and the camera angle switches to something a lot more stable and in real color. Jason's security feeds, a wide view of almost the entire apartment, except for the front door. There's probably a second camera — if not more — that covers that part. Jason wouldn't only have one camera that didn't even cover the whole apartment, he's too thorough for that.

Jason manages to get the window closed again, the curtains pulled tightly over it and secured, and lets the jacket drop off his one arm, before camera-me makes my move. My legs drop down from around his hips, and — the audio is back, clearer and sharper than before, and the quality of the video is much better — he gives a surprised sound as I shove him back against one of the walls.

I'm on him before he can really defend, but he does reach for my wrists as I press up against him, both legs shoving between his and spreading them. It's his bad luck — apparently this drug is dangerous, and leaves the affected person with a fair amount of skill — that I get hold of his wrists before he gets hold of mine. Camera-me slams Jason's wrists against the wall on either side of his head, pressing tight against him and grinding as my mouth lowers to his mostly bare shoulder. He chokes, head tilting back, and I can see the flash of teeth before Jason gives a noise that sounds frustrated and really aroused.

He struggles, arches a little bit, and gasps out, "Fuck, Dick, you're drugged."

"Don't care," camera-me says, grinding forward again but not raising my head from Jason's shoulder; that must be where those marks came from. "Just let me have you, Jason."

He makes another of those noises, visibly shuddering. "God, you have no idea what those words mean to me, Dick." Wait, what? Jason's— "But you're drugged, and you're going to care about that in the morning." He gives a shuddering, strained noise that sounds like he's breaking. I can barely breathe just watching it. "I won't touch you, Dick, not like this. You're out of your mind, you're drugged, you're—" He cuts off with a moan, shoulder cringing back into the wall, and then grimaces. "God, you're straight, Dick. You're so fucking straight and so drugged."

Jason thinks I— Wait. I snatch at the remote, pausing the video and cursing my bad timing because Jason's mouth is parted and his throat is arched at whatever the hell camera-me just did. It's frozen like that, and seriously distracting, so I wrench my gaze away — now's not the time — and up to the ceiling as I lean back into the couch.

Jason thinks I'm straight? I mean, I thought he was straight so I guess it's not really as big as I'm making it out to be, but really? I guess he just saw Kori and Babs and never looked any deeper than that; I am pretty subtle about most of my male partners, or I try to be. Most people don't know, or at least don't have any proof about my bisexuality. Bruce turns a permanently blind eye so long as I don't bring it up, and Tim raises eyebrows or makes pointed comments sometimes but he doesn't really bring it up unless it's actually relevant.

Alright, I guess I could see how Jason could think I was straight. He knows better than to think any actions I made while drugged were actually real, so it's not like my blatant advance would mean anything to him.

Except apparently that it means everything. This obviously affected Jason more than just the regular frustrated arousal of someone attractive and drugged, and that seriously implies that Jason's been looking for a while. How the hell did I miss that? How long has he wanted me? How long has he never said a damn thing or made any move because he was convinced I was straight? How long has he been thinking about this, with some kind of flirt or proposal on the tip of his tongue?

Would I have said yes?

No, bad territory to go into right now. Yes, Jason's attractive. Yes, I've definitely noticed before and I might have had a few thoughts that were pretty far from innocent — trying to figure out what role he'd play in a bedroom — but he's my brother. My brother who I accused of rape, apparently without knowing even half of the struggle he went through with me that night. I'm not going there, at least not until I've gotten through the rest of this video and had some time to figure things out in my own head.

I reach for the remote again, carefully avoiding the image on the screen until I've hit play.

Jason is gasping out something that sounds like a curse, in a language I don't know, and his arms are pulling against the grip camera-me has on them. It's another bad angle for him, and doesn't manage to get his hands any farther away from the wall than a few inches before my grip presses him back. He had to have gotten bruises around his wrists from that grip.

"Let me have you, Jason," camera-me coaxes, pressing kisses up the side of Jason's throat. "Stop fighting and just let me have you. Kiss you. Fuck you."

Jason makes another about-to-break sound, shuddering, his mouth parting, but he keeps his chin raised to keep his mouth away from mine. "Won't. Don't know if you're contagious. God, Dick, stop. You've got no clue how much this hurts."

"Just want to make you feel good," camera-me purrs, rising onto tiptoes to get a little higher up and reach Jason's jaw. "Let me, Jason."

Jason moves, yanking at the hold and throwing all of his weight forward to take advantage of camera-me being off-balance, and it works. Mostly. I fall backwards, but I keep my grip on his wrists and drag him with me. He spits out a curse as he falls, coming down on top of me and barely catching himself with both hands. Almost immediately camera-me has both legs curled around Jason's waist, yanking him down, and is letting go of his wrists to reach up and get better grips. Jason is just a little too slow to stop camera-me from getting a grip in his hair, and pulling.

I freeze on the couch as Jason stiffens for a fraction of a second, head pulled down hard against camera-me's shoulder, and then shudders and all but melts. The moan that comes out of him sounds like it's been physically ripped out of his chest; pain and bliss all mixed into a single sound. His hands flex against the carpet that makes up the floor, and I can't see his expression because he's pressed too hard down into camera-me, but I can see the heave of his back as he breathes.

"Damn," he says, with another shudder. "That's not fair, Dick. That's not— Fuck."

I guess that answers my questions about what side of the bedroom Jason tends to be on. I really didn't need to know that Jason reacts like that to getting his hair pulled.

Camera-me's other hand slides around Jason's side, unbuckling the straps to the armor with an ease someone that drugged shouldn't have. Not all the way — it's hooked over Jason's arms, and would actually take his cooperation to get it off all the way — but enough that the hand can shove underneath it and stroke over his back. Jason arches, shudders, and then I can see him trust his weight to me as his hands slide down my sides. I stiffen on the couch before I realize that Jason's hands are moving in deliberate, searching patterns, and that they focus down on one of the pouches built into my suit as soon as they find it. He also carefully deactivates the security on my suit before he opens the pouch and digs out what I recognize as one of the pre-loaded sedative shots.

Camera-me remains unaware, fixated on stroking across Jason's back and giving intermittent tugs at his hair, long enough for it to work. Jason puts it into the side of my neck, and camera-me stiffens and gasps, arching and then going limp after just a second. Thank god for how fast Bruce's sedatives affect the system, especially when injected that close to the brain.

My hands slip out of his hair and away from his back, to the floor, and Jason just lies there for a few seconds. Then he shudders and pushes up, carefully disentangling his legs from mine and pushing up to standing. He breathes for another second, hands flexing into fists inside his gloves, before he backs off. His hands rake back through his hair, and then he heads past my unconscious form and towards the kitchen. I watch him grab the chair I woke up tied to, and then fish out a tightly wound spool of cable — he snorts at the light blue color of it — before he heads back to me. He plants the chair, and then leans down and drags me up and into it with a clenched jaw and several grunts of effort.

"Fuck, you're heavy when you're dead weight," he spits, obviously to himself, and then drags the escrima sticks out of the sheath on my back and pushes me a little more firmly into the chair. He considers the spool of cable for a few seconds, and the escrima sticks in the other, before setting to work.

He's efficient, and maybe a tiny bit shaky but he doesn't let it stop him from making the pattern of bindings that I remember. It's a good pattern, and he does it pretty quickly considering how complicated it is. How much practice has Jason had tying people up? No, nevermind, I don't want to know.

It happens so fast I almost don't see it.

Jason is leaning down over me, next to my shoulder, tying another piece off on the escrima stick at the back of my neck. He's got my legs completely bound, and most of my torso — not my arms though — immobilized too, except for a few of the finer details. The angle doesn't let me see if there's any sort of warning, but suddenly camera-me is tilting and yanking, and one of his hands comes free from the faint loop that's the only thing holding him down. My head turns, I get a grip in his hair as he's just starting to jerk away, and then my mouth is on his. Jason jerks, but doesn't manage to get away for another precious few seconds. He reaches up and twists my wrist to make me let go, other hand finishing off the knot he was working on.

"Jason."

Jason struggles to keep me contained, grappling and forcing my arms down and back into the loose bindings, which he immediately reinforces. He works with single-minded determination, ignoring the words coming out of camera-me's mouth — I try to do the same — as he finishes the bindings. Ending with making that gag I remember and getting it through my mouth with just a little bit of struggle, tying it off.

Then he finally rocks back, nearly staggering away and warily watching me arch and fight the cable. He's breathing hard, shaking just a little bit, and he almost automatically unbuckles one glove. He raises it, wipes it over his mouth, and then freezes. His head tilts down, staring at his hand, and I can't see his eyes but I can see the realization as the dots connect in both his head and mine.

That's what Tim meant when he said the pollen didn't disappear. It got blown into my face, and traces of it must have still been inside my mouth. If the traces weren't active, or it wasn't contagious, Tim wouldn't have pointed it out. Jason got infected with whatever Poison Ivy drugged me with. Oh, god.

"Fuck," he breathes out, not even audible to his security. He shudders, head rolling, and then he spits out a louder, "Damnit. That sedative was supposed to— Damnit Dick, why couldn't you—?"

He moves fast, digging into the pockets of his uniform pants and heading for his discarded jacket. He all but rips off his other glove, his partially unbuckled armor, and the domino mask over his eyes before he's even kneeling by the jacket. His hands retrieve two pairs of old fashioned handcuffs, what has to be the key to them, and his phone. I watch as he crosses to the heavy, metal-framed bed pressed up against the wall. Quickly — his hands are shaking more by the second — Jason tucks the key and phone away into his front right pocket, unlaces one of his boots and tugs it and the sock beneath off, and then handcuffs himself to each corner of the bed, stretching his arms out.

I can see the pupils of his eyes starting to expand, which must be the drug affecting him with the same speed that I dimly remember. He's shaking a little bit, but he makes sure that the handcuffs are tight enough to dig into his skin and stop any possible attempt at slipping them. The drug seems to leave a fair amount of skill behind, even if it takes all reasoning, but probably not enough to actually piece together the escape route Jason has left himself.

Once the drug's worn off he can shake the key out of his pocket, bend to get it between his toes, and then get it up to one of his hands. He doesn't have the same flexibility as me, but he's got enough to make it work. It'll take a lot of focus, and that seems to be something that the drug doesn't leave, so it should be a safe enough method of restraint, and the best he can do on short notice. It's better than I managed.

I jerk a little bit, in my seat on the couch, when the video feed cuts out. A second one replaces it, Jason sitting at a desk — fully dressed again, but without the domino — facing the camera but with his eyes turned down and away.

"The rest is on here, Dick," he says, reluctance in every single note of his voice. "I got a much lower dose than you did; I don't get free and I black out in roughly thirty minutes. Another twenty before I wake back up. You're affected for another four hours before you pass out, and don't stir again until when you remember. You're gagged, I—" His shoulders rise, defensive, and he takes a glance at the focus of the camera that looks pained but resigned. "I say a lot of things I'd rather you not hear, but I know you're going to watch it anyway. Just, don't come after me, alright? I was never going to do anything, and I'm still not. It's probably better if we just don't see each other for a while."

He snorts, lowers his head, and quietly remarks, "Or ever." My heart clenches a bit at the look on his face — somewhere between someone who's been gutted and the expression of someone who knows they aren't going to make it through the night — and he rolls one shoulder in a shrug, avoiding looking at the camera. "I'll make it easy for you, Dick. I've got business to take care of outside of Gotham anyway. I'll cede control to a couple of my underlings, they'll make sure my Gotham territory stays pretty quiet. It'll take me a few days, but that should tie up all the loose ends here. You won't have to see me again."

No, no. Jason is family. It doesn't matter whatever he might have said while drugged, I don't want him gone. If he runs to the edge of the Earth I might not find him for months, maybe even years. Jason can hide when he wants to.

"Would have done it already, but I—" He swallows, finally drags his gaze up to meet the camera head-on. "I needed you to know, for sure, that nothing happened. I'd never do that to you, Dick. Not to anyone, but especially not you." He sighs, gives a single nod, and closes his eyes. "Tim, I know you watched this too, you little bastard." Jason almost sounds fond, for just a split second. "Let B know I'm leaving Gotham as soon as I finish up my last few leads. I'll send you some emergency numbers, just in case you need me. Talk to you later."

The video clicks back to the feed from Jason's security, and before I can think I'm reaching for the remote and pausing it. No.

I jerk off the couch, crossing to my discarded suit and digging out my phone. Tim's one of the quick-dials, and I barely stop myself from pacing while it rings. My free hand still taps patterns into my thigh, because I can't stay still without focusing on the expression on Jason's face. Luckily, Tim picks up on the second ring.

"I need to talk to Jason," I say, without waiting for his greeting.

"Uh," says a voice that's really not Tim's, and I narrow my eyes. I'm in no mood for this. I don't have the time.

"Kon, put Tim on the phone, now." There's a scrambling noise, some brief conversation I can't quite understand, and then another brief scrambling noise.

"I'm here," Tim says, sounding just a tiny bit irritated.

"I need to talk to Jason," I repeat. "You know where he is, right? Or you can find him?"

"Did you watch the whole thing?" he asks, and I can hear him moving.

"Only up to the end of his message," I admit. "It doesn't matter what he says, he's family, Tim. He can't just leave Gotham, not before I get the chance to talk to him, at least. Just, tell me where he is? Please?"

"I can find him," Tim tells me, "but it will take a bit. Watch the rest, I'll call you when I've got a location. Fix this; I like Jason where I can keep an eye on him and trade information easily, and that isn't halfway around the world. Talk to you soon."

Chapter Text

I land on the roof of the building across from the address that Tim directed me to. An apartment building, ten stories, in a pretty decent part of town. Usually Jason's safe houses are in the far worse parts of town, but I guess when he really wants to hide he goes to the ones that we won't expect him to be at. I check the direction I'm approaching — from the North — and then let my gaze travel down the windows in front of me. Seventh floor, Tim said, and I have to trust his intel. Tim is good at keeping track of all of us, and he's probably the only one in our family who even vaguely knows where Jason hides.

The curtain is pulled tight over the window, and there's the glow of light from behind it but no shadows. It is early though, the sun is starting to brighten the horizon, so even if he were right behind the window I probably wouldn't be able to see him. It is right on the fire escape and even from here I can see a few cigarette butts on the dark metal. It's probably the right window.

I have to take the chance. I have to talk to Jason before he runs too far for anyone to find him.

I hook my grapnel and swing in, making sure that my landing is as quiet as I can make it. I test my weight on the fire escape carefully, a little at a time. I wouldn't put it past Jason to have one of his security measures be a creaky fire escape outside of his window. Or a squeaky window, for that matter.

It takes my weight without sound, and I shift to eye the window. There are a few locks, subtle and not, that raise my guess that this is the right apartment. I set to work on them, carefully disabling the security. I still double check to make absolutely sure that there's nothing still holding it, and when I do pull it open I only do it a half an inch. Just enough to peer around the edges and make absolutely sure that there's nothing hooked to the window that's going to blow up in my face when I open it.

Which I do, very carefully. I slip onto the ledge, check the closed curtain for traps as well — there's no wind this morning, thankfully, so it stays still and doesn't give my presence away — and then take a deep breath. There's no way that Jason misses me slipping into his apartment, no matter how subtly I do it. I've seen his safe house layouts before; anywhere he could sit or work is always aimed so he can see one or both entrances. So I have to do this fast. Or, I have to make it casual.

Better idea. Taking the chance that Jason isn't going to automatically shoot me if I burst through his window is probably a bad plan. So I pull the curtains open and slip through, ducking into his home like I belong there and I do this all the time.

I have time to register the lack of anything immediately Jason-shaped before a hand closes in my hair and yanks my head to the side. A knife sliding underneath my chin and tight against my skin isn't far behind. I give a sharp, shocked noise, and then the knife is withdrawing and I'm getting shoved forward by the grip in my hair.

"Jesus Christ, Dick." Jason's voice is a dark growl, and when I whip myself around he's glaring at me. His eyes are dark, narrowed, but there's also a bright green tint to them that instantly puts me on edge. "I could have fucking killed you," he snaps, as I try and decide exactly how currently affected by the Lazarus Pit's madness Jason is, and how likely that is to translate to violence. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I had to talk to you," I defend. His jaw clenches, something dark and hurt flashing through his eyes.

"Got the message, huh?" His hand tightens around the knife, he sneers, and if I wasn't so used to Jason deflecting his pain into anger I might have missed that it's still lingering in his gaze. "There's nothing to talk about." He stalks past me, keeping his head turned so he can keep me in his peripherals as he crosses the room. I carefully lean out the window and tug it shut as he comes to a stop at the back of his couch.

The apartment is pretty bare, apart from a few cases scattered here and there and some papers around a closed laptop on the far cushion of the couch. It looks like there's nothing here apart from those that's actually his; like these are just the pieces of furniture the apartment came with. That's probably true.

"Nothing to talk about?" I ask, tugging the curtains closed and taking a few steps into the apartment.

Jason stiffens for a moment as he turns back towards me. He looks angry, yes, but he also looks worn around the edges. The green tint to his eyes is emphasized by the shadows underneath them, and his white t-shirt is wrinkled the same as his slacks. Without his jacket, the armor, or any of his gear, it looks like civilian clothes. There's a white bandage around his lower right arm that's got just a hint of red leaking through — not dark, has to be fresh; tonight? — and a nasty looking scrape across the left side of his throat.

This is bad.

Any one of those things I would take in stride, but put together? Jason isn't stupid enough to go out on patrol, or on a mission, when he's tired enough for shadows like that. He's also not stupid enough to look tired, which is what the wrinkles advertise. Jason does get hurt sometimes, it happens, but if that wound is fresh enough to still be bleeding some then that means he did go out tonight, and was in a fight. The wound is one thing, that could be anything, could even have been an accident, but the scrape? A scrape that bad looking either means that he was dragged across something, or thrown into something. Either way, that means that someone big and mean got close enough to get ahold of him. In turn, that means he either wasn't fighting at near his full skill level, or he got into a fight with someone powerful.

Not even Jason gets into fights with people that powerful without calling in some kind of backup. Not unless the side effects of the Pit are wreaking havoc with his mind, common sense, and survival instincts.

"Scrape looks nasty," I comment, instead of asking him if he's alright. No, Jason is not alright, and asking is a really dumb thing to do. All that'll do is make him defensive, which will lead to him being pissed, which could easily turn into violence if the Pit is messing with his head.

Did I do this to him? Jason has a good handle on the Pit's influence. There are times when he just can't control it, and days when it has him no matter what he does, but usually the only thing that can make him lose control of the Pit is when he's already unbalanced. Bruce and I all but accusing him of rape would have been enough, and if he's been pushing himself as hard as I think he has that could have made it worse. Stress triggers these attacks. Mental stress, usually, though pretty severe pain has been known to do it too.

"It's fine," Jason all but grinds out, "and no, there's nothing to talk about. Get out, Dick."

"Jason—"

"Get out!" he shouts, taking a sharp, threatening step towards me. His shoulders curling in, knees bending, eyes narrowing in danger and bright with that unnatural green glow. "I'm already leaving, alright?!" I stop myself from doing anything more than tensing a little bit, and shifting my weight back so I can dodge, if I have to. "Christ, Dick! You couldn't give me the decency of some fucking peace in my last two days in Gotham?! Is the idea of not having the last word that much of a fucking mystery to you?!"

I tense a little further, nearly feeling his fury and really hyper aware that he's still got that knife in his right hand. Alright, how to deal with him. I'm not leaving, I really do need to talk to Jason about all of this. Trying to calm him down isn't going to work, since he doesn't take being patronized or treated like a wild animal very well, and appealing to reason isn't going to work while he's under the Pit's influence. That leaves me with the more dangerous option; meeting his anger with my own. If I can meet him head on, it might be enough to snap him out of this.

Because I am angry. Jason does not get to dump something like this on me and then bail out of Gotham before I have a chance to respond. I know I screwed up pretty royally, and he does have the right to not speak to me again if he doesn't want to, but not yet. Not without giving me a chance.

I crouch down just a little bit, mirroring his threatening, ready position, and grit my teeth together for a second. "The last word?" I get out, slipping my hand back to grab one of my batarangs, just in case he throws that knife at me. "You can't just drop something like that on me and then leave, Jason! Did you really think I was going to just let you vanish off the face of the Earth without a chance to talk?!"

"Talk?" His tone turns sharply mocking. "We all know how you deal with talks, Dick. You've already called me a fucking rapist, what's the next thing you're going to pull out when you get uncomfortable?" My hands clench, and he barks out a sharp laugh that twists his mouth into another sneer. "You don't get to track me down and force me into a talk. See, I remember the kind of nasty bullshit you pull when people press you for answers, Dick, and two can play that game. Get out of my goddamn home, you hypocrite."

That stings, but he's not wrong. I don't do well with people pressing me into talks I don't want to have, and yeah, it's pretty hypocritical of me to be forcing Jason to do something I hate so much. That's the thing about Jason, though, he's so rarely wrong. He's perceptive, and smart, and he's got a kind of raw, instinctive, ability to feel people's intentions that the rest of us had to learn. Product of where he grew up.

"Don't start that," I warn him. "We've hurt each other enough already, haven't we? Don't—"

"Hurt each other? Are you fucking kidding me?!" I can see the fury slide up his spine, into his shoulders and arms, and I grip the batarang a little tighter. Then suddenly he's moving, arm snapping out and flinging the knife. Luckily, not at me. It sticks, quivering and nearly all the way to the hilt, in the wall to his right. It's enough of a distraction that when he lunges at me I'm just a fraction of a second too slow to stop him grabbing my arms and throwing me up against the wall to the side of the window.

It's not hard enough to knock the breath out of me, not with my suit on, but he still manages to get in my face and grab my arms again before I can stop him. A quick knee to the groin or stomach would get him off of me, but I hold back for now. He looks angry, but not murderous, and I don't want to start a physical fight if I don't have to. This isn't dangerous yet, not since he's more or less in civilian clothes, and he's not geared up.

"Hurt you?" he snarls into my face, his voice low and more of a growling rumble than a shout. "I didn't do a fucking thing to you, Dick. I didn't touch you, I didn't hurt you, I didn't humiliate you, and you fucking dare say we hurt each other?" He lets go of my left arm and reaches up, and I twist my head away but he follows it. Nails scrape across my skin, and I shove him back with my freed arm but he already has the edge of my mask in between his fingers. It comes off with his step back, and I wince at the rough removal.

"Jason!" I snap, in sharp reprimand.

He throws my mask to the floor, tightening his grip on my right arm. "Look me in the fucking eyes and tell me how I hurt you, Dick." I can't find an immediate answer, and his jaw clenches down before he spits out, "You've already won. You arrogant, condescending, piece of shit; you've fucking won, alright? I'm leaving Gotham, you'll never fucking hear from me again, and you don't have to pretend you trust me anymore. Better for everyone."

He lets go of my arm, starts to step away, and I snap my free hand out and grab ahold of his shirt, at the collar, to hold him closer. "Better?!" I can't help how angry I am, or how frustrated, or how much it hurts that every bit of what Jason's said is true. "Are you delusional?! Do you think I want you to leave Gotham?!"

"Why wouldn't you?!" he shouts back.

"Why would I?!" I counter, immediately. I tighten my grip and give him one vicious shake. "You're family, Jason! I screwed up, I know that, but—"

"I don't want your fucking apologies—"

"—where the fuck did you get it in your head that I'd want you to leave Gotham because of what I did?! It's my problem; if anything I should be leaving! God, Jason, you're my brother!" He jerks like I've struck him, and then he gives a low snarl that sounds more like an animal than a human.

"Don't ever fucking pretend that I'm anything to you but a loose cannon," he grinds out, his voice shaking just a bit. "Don't you dare."

"Are you insane?" I shouldn't have said that, I know it the instant that he gives a tiny flinch, but I shove ahead anyway because it's too late to stop now. "Of course you are!"

"I'm what?!" he demands, grabbing my wrist and wrenching it away from his shirt as he snarls into my face. "Your brother? Through what, Dick? It's not blood, it's sure as fuck not loyalty or trust, and as far as legality is concerned I'm dead! You're free and clear, so what the hell makes you think you can call us that?!"

I suck in a sharp breath, stiffening up for a moment. "Jason—"

He lets go of my wrist and shoves me back against the wall to cut me off, before stepping away and deliberately turning his head to not look at me. "Get out, Dick. I'm not here to make you feel better about your shitty choices, and your apologies don't mean jack shit to me. Get out, or God help me I'll throw you through the damn window myself." I can see his hands curl to fists, see a tiny shudder shake his shoulders, but I shove away the obvious warnings.

I take a step forward, bringing us close again, and I can see his gaze flick to me. Not quite as green anymore, that's good. "I know I screwed up, Jason. I shouldn't have said what I did, and yes, I've got my excuses for what I did but they don't matter. I still said it, and I know it hurt you. Tell me what you want from me, Jason. Just tell me and I'll give it. I'm the one who messed up, not you. If you really hate me that much for it then I'll leave. I'll go back to Bludhaven and—"

He shakes his head, taking another half-step back. "No, fuck, Dick I don't…" He raises his right hand and scrubs over his face; back through his hair. Then he slowly, deliberately, meets my gaze and lowers his hand. "What I want from you, you would never give me." His voice is flat and resigned, with just a tinge of pain mostly hidden by irritation. "I already know that, and I'm not going to push so just… Don't. Don't, Dick."

"Don't what, Jason? What is this about? Why have you got it in your head that you have to leave Gotham?" I push him back as I ask my questions, taking steps forward that he matches with backwards movement until his legs hit the side of the couch. Then I take one more, crowding him, and he grits his teeth and clenches his hands down on the arm of the couch. "Answer me, Jason."

"Fuck you," he snarls, but he feels and looks like he's on the defensive. "You're not going to give it to me so there's no fucking point in asking."

"How do you know if you don't ask?" I point out, sharply, and the frustrated resignation spikes into anger again.

"How do I—? Did you even fucking watch what I sent you?!" He jerks forward for a moment, like he's going to lunge at me, and then bares his teeth instead. "It's you, you son of a bitch! I want you, and I always have, and I'm always going to! But you're straight, and I'm not enough of a piece of shit to push you for that." Then he does snap forward, shoving me back a step and giving a furious, pained sound. "And now you fucking know, and I won't put that between us. I won't put you in that kind of a position, Dick, so I'm fucking leaving, alright?!"

"Is that what this is about?!" I ask, completely incredulous. "You think I'd make you leave because I know you're attracted to me?! Do you really think I'm that insecure?!" I push back into his space, meeting his bared teeth with my own. "Have you missed all the attention I get from people, Jason?!"

"No!" he snaps. "You think I'd give a shit if it was just finding you attractive, Dick?! God, you moron. I think Bruce is hot, I think Tim is hot, but I don't want them. It's just you. It's only ever been you!"

Oh. Jason actually cares for me? I didn't get that from his video. I got a lot of lust, and a lot of him having wanted me for a long time. But actually wanted me? That's different, that's complicated, and it's not something I ever expected from Jason. He wants more than just sex?

"Fuck," Jason hisses, scrubbing his right hand over his face and ducking away from my gaze. "Missed that part, huh? Shit." His hand lowers again, and he gives me a narrow-eyed glance that says a lot I'm not sure I entirely understand. "It's not going away, Dick. I've spent fucking years waiting for it to, and it hasn't. I didn't ever want you to have to deal with it, and I still don't. I know that it's fucked up, and it's awkward, and wrong, so I'm just going to go. I'm not going to force you to deal with it, alright? Just back off and let me go."

I study Jason, staring at the sharp angles of his clenched jaw, the line of his neck, the fall of his hair and that small shock of white at his left temple. I slowly raise my right hand up towards his face. He cringes a little bit, sets his jaw a little more firmly like he thinks I'm going to hit him. I carefully touch his forehead, beneath that shock of white hair. His eyes snap up as I trace my fingers along his hairline, down past his ear and to his jaw.

"I'm not straight," I tell him.

Instantly his hand snaps up and knocks mine away, and he straightens up and jerks forward into my space. I barely manage to stop myself from flinching back.

"Don't you fucking dare!" he shouts. "Don't you dare fuck with me like that, Dick! I'm not your toy to be yanked around and manipulated, and if you try I'm decking you, got that?!"

I lash out and shove him backwards, knocking him half off balance and sprawling him partially back over the arm of the couch before he catches himself. His right arm hooks over the back of the couch, stopping his fall, and I push forward to be too close for him to comfortably straighten back up. I am not letting this happen.

"I'm not straight," I snap at him. "I was never straight, Jason. I thought you were. Have I ever thought about having an actual relationship with you? No, because I thought you were straight. Have I thought about sleeping with you? Yes." I reach down and grab him by the front of his shirt, dragging him partially up so I can bare my teeth and speak right into his face. "I am not letting you cut all ties with me because of this, you understand me? You're going to stop whatever plans you've put in motion, you're going to stay in Gotham, and you're going to give me time to think about this."

I carefully pull him the rest of the way up as I step back, giving him some space back but not letting go of my grip on his shirt. Not yet. "You're family, Jason. No matter what, I'm always going to care about you, and I would never make you leave Gotham." I carefully ease my hand out, leaving it resting flat on his chest. "Stay, and give me a bit of time, alright?"

"For what?" he demands.

I lower my gaze for a moment, and then tap my gloved fingers against his chest and meet his eyes. "To think about this. I can't promise anything yet, but if you give me some time to think… It's not a 'no' yet either, Jason."

He makes a wounded noise and shakes his head. "Don't play with me, Dick. God, don't—"

"I'm not playing," I correct, putting just a bit of snap into my voice to make him pay attention. "I'm saying 'maybe.' Stay, Jason. No matter what I decide, you still belong in Gotham and I'm not going to make you leave." He avoids my gaze, and I carefully lift my hand to touch the side of his jaw and tilt his head up. "Jason, please, look at me."

Grudgingly, he does. I can see that he doesn't want to, but he clenches his teeth together and does it anyway. "What?"

"I know this doesn't change how badly I screwed up." He winces, but doesn't jerk away from my touch like I mostly expected him to. "I didn't need it, but thank you for the proof. I thought it was just a pain in the ass for you; I didn't know it was that much of a fight, and I didn't know that you'd actually… I shouldn't have assumed anything, and I should have trusted you. Thank you for being honest about all of it; I know you didn't have to tell me any of your side of it."

"Wasn't really a choice." He sounds grudging too. "Make it obvious or have you wonder what I was hiding were the only two routes; didn't really leave me any option to avoid any of this."

"You could have made an excuse," I point out, lowering my hand to rest on his shoulder. "If it was halfway decent I would have taken it; I didn't really want to know that much detail about what I did." Which— "Sorry, by the way."

He looks just a little confused, and then snorts. "For what?"

"The—" I have to pause, avoid his gaze for a second and clear my throat. "Marks, and the uh, hair pulling."

He gives a sharp bark of laughter, and I look back to see his mouth curling in a tiny grin. Still hurt, and a long way from being alright, but at least it's something. "Yeah, those were pretty much the best parts of the whole night, Dick. Besides, you were drugged. I can be mad that you were stupid enough to get dosed in the first place, but the rest of it isn't your fault." He deliberately meets my gaze, holds it for a moment, and then pointedly says, "It wasn't your choice either."

"If it was?" I don't even register the words until they're out of my mouth, and then I yank my hand away from his shoulder and step back. "No, sorry, I didn't mean that."

His grin is gone. I swallow, meeting the intensity of his gaze — only the faintest hint of green in the blue; he's alright — and trying not to back away from it. The last time he looked at me like that, I'm pretty sure that we were about midway through a fight and he was so fully focused on me it was unnerving.

Finally, Jason eases out, and his gaze softens some. He gives a quiet sigh that's more like a huff of breath, closing his eyes for a moment. "In a heartbeat," he says, sounding like it hurts him to admit it. "I wasn't kidding, Dick. This is so fucked up, but I can't control it, or make it stop." His mouth parts like he's going to say something else, but then he shakes his head and closes it again.

Before I can stop myself, I ask, "What was that?"

"My business," he answers instantly, gaze flicking up to meet mine, "not yours."

I nod, reading the hard wall of refusal that those four words represent. Whatever it was, he's not going to tell me. Pushing is only going to piss him off, and I just calmed him down. I don't want to ruin that. "Got it. Fair enough." There's a moment of silence, and I recognize that this conversation is done and over. Jason's avoiding my gaze, but his eyes are blue again and he's not screaming danger anymore. That has to be good enough for now. "I'll go," I concede. "Stay in Gotham, Jason? Give me the time to think it through?"

He hesitates, but then gives another huff of breath and a short nod. "I'll stay." Then his gaze flicks sharply up to mine. "This doesn't fix things between us, Dick." His hands clench on the couch, and his shoulders draw in as he turns his head away. "What you— I can't. Not yet."

"I'm not asking you to," I reassure him, even though the refusal feels a bit like getting sucker punched. "You don't have to forgive me a second sooner than you want to. But whatever I can do to make it up to you, tell me and I'll do it. I never meant to hurt you, and I really hope you know that."

Jason's gaze is a little more obviously pained when he glances back at me, and then dips his head in acceptance. "I know." He shoves out a breath and squeezes his eyes shut, rolling both of his shoulders back. "You should go. This is a good note, and if we keep talking we're just going to fuck it up."

I wince — it stings that I'm almost sure he's right — and then back off a few steps. "Yeah, I'm going." There are a dozen different things that I could say, apologies and promises alike, but I settle on, "Get some sleep, alright? You look tired." That means more to us than it would to any civilian — it means that Jason looks weaker, and none of us can ever afford that — and for a second I'm worried he'll take it badly, but he just snorts and shakes his head.

"Haven't really been—" He cuts himself off, glances at me, and then rolls one shoulder in what might be a shrug. "I will. Go beat the sun, Dickiebird, B won't like it if you're out past curfew." I watch him stiffen just a little bit at even the casual mention of Bruce, but bite my tongue and force myself not to go after that. I'm not going to help by getting in the middle of the two of them; I never have before. They're going to have to work things out on their own, someday.

That, or I need to enlist the rest of the family's help in trapping them together somewhere and forcing them to work it out. I'm pretty sure they won't kill each other. Pretty sure.

But instead of any of those thoughts I just give another nod — he's not looking at me, but he'll catch the movement out of his peripheral vision — and back off. I do have to pause to lean down and swipe my mask off the floor, and another to press it back into place and make sure it'll stay for long enough to get me back to my safe house. I climb back out the window, leaving Jason to fix the security on it, and head off into the night.

I don't look back, and I don't stop to watch the shadow of his frame behind the curtains. I have other things to think about, and Bruce might not have any say in what time I get home but I would love to catch some actual sleep for once. Especially after tonight.

Then I have to talk to Tim. He has to have known about at least some of this, even if he didn't know specifics. Tim is the closest to Jason out of all us — a little weird, considering how much Jason wanted him dead for awhile — and yeah, I'm really sure that Jason's never told anyone this, but that doesn't mean that Tim didn't figure it out. At least, I'm sure Jason's never told any of us. Maybe Roy, or Kori, but they're a step removed from any of us. Now, after everything that's happened, Jason is closer to both of them than any of us, Tim included.

I'm not going to them for answers, or perspective. The history with Kori and Roy is one thing, but I also don't want to invade Jason's privacy like that. I've done enough of that recently, and I've hurt him enough too. I don't want to drive that in any deeper if I can help it.

So sleep, Tim, and then I need to sit down and dissect everything I've learned today. I just need the time to figure it out, like any other unsolved case.

Chapter Text

Life interferes, of course.

The next week is full of a dozen minor emergencies, in Gotham and outside of it. I see Jason at about half of them, but he studiously avoids both me and Bruce, and vanishes long before the last of everything is wrapped up. I let him.

This hasn't given me the time to think like I need to, and I'm not going to track Jason down before I have an answer for him. If he comes to me, that's a different case, but I'm not going to press him without having an answer ready. Me having an answer and him forgiving me are two completely separate things, and they're running on two separate time tables. I don't have any right to ask him to forgive me before he's ready, and he doesn't have the right to press me for an answer I don't have yet.

So we avoid each other.

Tim plays go-between, relaying orders and combat messages. I can tell that he's getting tired of it, but he doesn't say anything either. Mostly because Tim's been right beside me at every one of these emergencies, and he knows that I haven't had the attention to spare for anything deeper than making sure I eat, sleep, and get reports and other needed details back to Bruce in time. Everything else has fallen by the wayside, for both of us. I don't think Tim's done much more than briefly talk to the Teen Titans since this streak started.

Except Kon-El. I don't have any concrete proof — which doesn't mean that I don't know it's true — but I'm sure that Tim's main safe house has become a secondary home for Kon-El. I'm completely sure the two of them are a lot more than best friends, but I'm not going to bring it up until Tim does. That's his decision, his secret if he doesn't want anyone to know yet, and I'm not going to out him.

Besides, Kon-El is good for him, as far as I've seen. And it never hurts to have a Kryptonian at your back.

Finally, on day eight of the neverending emergencies, I get a call. I'm at the Cave, taking the brief break in activity — while Bruce tracks a lead down on the computer — to clean off my equipment before I jump in the shower for a rinse, when my phone starts vibrating. I hook one of my escrima sticks under my arm and dig into my belt for the phone, flicking it open and tucking it between my head and shoulder without looking at the caller ID.

"Yes?"

"Hey, Dickie."

I straighten up a little bit, my heart rising in my chest for a brief moment. "Jason?" I can see Bruce twitch out of the corner of my eye, his hands pausing over the console of the computer.

"The one and only," he answers, his voice dry and sarcastic. "How far are you from Ivy's park?"

I blink, furrow my brow for a second and try to think of why Jason would want my location. There are some good options, but there are also some really bad ones. It's really a tossup which ones are more likely. "I'm at the Cave; why?"

Another twitch from Bruce. He's probably only thinking of the bad options; the most likely being that Jason wants to know where I am so he can know if I'm going to be close enough to stop him from doing something he knows we wouldn't approve of. I can almost feel the reprimand, even though Bruce is silent, but I ignore it. He doesn't know the full story between Jason and me, and he doesn't know that this could be the call I've been semi-waiting for since we parted.

I hear him make a slightly irritated sound. "Get over here as fast as you can, bring one of B's cars. I know Replacement is tracking me, so call him and get him to guide you. Don't bring B, alright?"

"Why?" I demand, a little wary and a lot worried.

"Because I'm about to do something really stupid, and if I have to swap to plan B instead of A I'm going to need a ride. I'm going to give you about fifteen minutes before I go in, so I should be out by the time you actually get here. I'll give you a call if I can."

"Woah, Jason, do—" The call cuts off. I know it has, but I still grab the phone and pull it away from my ear, staring in disbelief. Then a little bit of panic.

When one of us says we're about to do something stupid, it's really bad. We do a lot of really dumb and risky things, but we never actually call it that. Jason calling and asking for a ride in case his first plan fails? That qualifies as a serious problem.

"Shit," I spit, and jerk to my feet. I shove my phone away and then my escrima sticks, as I run for the cars. I'm geared enough. Not fully stocked, but I'm not out of anything vital so that will have to do. I all but leap into one of the two seaters, starting it up and peeling out of the garage as quickly as possible.

It's only once I'm out of the Cave and onto the road that the communication screen between the handles of the wheel clicks on. Bruce looks a bit irritated, and I smother a small wince and just tighten my hands on the wheel instead.

"Is there anything I should know?" he asks, voice flat but with hints of reproach and something like disappointment.

"Jason called," I start, trying to think of the shortest way I can explain this without making my brother sound like a reckless idiot. "He asked me to meet him down by Ivy's park, said he needed backup on something. He didn't sound interested in waiting for me to get there."

Bruce is silent for a moment, and then gives a small nod. I don't doubt that he knows I'm leaving parts out of what I'm telling him. "Keep him in line," he orders, his syllables clipped, and then cuts the feed without giving me the chance to answer. I stifle some irritation at that, and take in a slow, deep breath.

I have to stay calm, and ready for whatever Jason might need from me. It would help if I had any clue what he's about to do, other than what I can read into what he said. That it's reckless, dangerous, and if whatever his first plan is doesn't work, he's either going to need a fast getaway or be in a condition where he'll need a ride. Neither is reassuring. Plus, he's sure enough that it's going to go badly that he actually called me. Considering we haven't spoken since I tracked him down, not even in passing, I'd say him calling me is a pretty big sign that this is serious in one way or another.

God, what has Jason gotten himself into? Or what is he about to get himself into?

I make it down to the edges of Poison Ivy's park pretty quickly, but not within fifteen minutes and in time to stop Jason from starting whatever he's planning on doing. I pull the Batmobile into a shaded alley and jump out of it. Locking it down comes naturally, fishing my phone out does too. I call Tim to get the number of whatever he has that's tracking Jason, fending off his initial irritated disappointment and explaining that Jason called me. I tell him what Jason said to me, what he asked for and what he told me to ask for, and Tim sighs and grudgingly gives up his information.

As I found out — I did have time to talk to Tim before this week started — Tim does know what Jason feels for me. He didn't initially, but he figured it out at the same time that he figured out Jason was bisexual. Mainly, the clues were that he caught Jason watching me more than a few times. He brought it up, and Jason was pissed but confirmed it anyway. He didn't really have much choice, at that point. Tim wouldn't talk to me about what he thought I should do, though. He bluntly told me it was my decision, and I should make it myself.

I've barely gotten off the phone when it rings, and after glancing at the caller ID I quickly pick it up.

"Jason! Are you alright? What did you do?"

"Jesus, D, give a guy a second to breathe." Jason's voice sounds tight and a little breathless, and I force myself not to bombard him with more questions. He could sound like he's in pain, and he doesn't, so that's at least one step up. "Yeah, A tanked. I'm going to need a ride in about—" A sharp gasp filters through the phone, and I carefully keep myself loose and not tense as I want to be. "Now. Yeah, fuck, now would be good."

"I'm on my way." I head for the car, unlocking it again and getting inside completely without any actual thought. "I've got the tracking info. Are you hurt?"

"Yes and no," is the answer, which is frustratingly noncommittal. "I went in to bargain with Ivy. Harley was there, knew Ivy wouldn't give me anything with that bitch around. Went for option two."

"Bargain?" I echo, checking the tracking and then gunning it in his direction. I keep the phone between my ear and shoulder, leaving my hands free to twist the wheel in turns too fast to be safe. "For what?" A terrible thought snaps into my head. "Jason, did you go in there for the pollen she drugged me with?"

A strained bark of laughter. "Like I said; stupid idea. Fuck. Pollen's dangerous, Red said it had already burnt out of your system by the time you got back to the Cave. You need a sample and now — God — you have one."

"Jason, tell me you didn't go in to get yourself drugged. Please tell me you're hurt and didn't get that pollen blown in your face." If Jason got a full dose of that pollen, if he's affected as fast as I was…

I speed up just a little.

"You want me to lie?" He sounds amused, but that strain is in his voice and it tells me even more than his words that he did exactly that.

"Damnit, Jason! That's so far beyond reckless, you're—" I strangle down the anger, the worry, and the rising wariness. Even if Jason were in a condition to really appreciate how angry I am that he would do something so dangerous, he needs my help. He doesn't need me shouting at him. Yet. "As soon as it's out of your system, I'm going to rip you a new one for this," I tell him flatly.

"Looking forward to it. I'm not completely insane, D. I went in to bargain a sample; pissing her off so she'd drug me with it was plan B. At least I called you first; that counts for something, right?"

"Not enough. How did she even get you? Your helmet filters all of that, doesn't it?"

A shaky laugh. "D, I am happy to play twenty questions with you later, but I can't do this right now. Just," he gives a strangled groan that sounds wrenched from the depths of his chest, "get over here, tie me down, and get me back to the Cave, alright? Just do that and I'll answer anything you want me to later."

"I'm holding you to that," I snap. "I'm almost there, Jason. Just hold on; I'll make sure you're alright."

"Oh, I would really appreciate you not saying anything like that." His voice has dropped into a low, rough rumble, and even past the worry and the anger that voice does something to me I'm not ready to look at any closer. "Fuck, fuck. This is too fast. I'm going to take a sedative."

"Jason, wai—"

"Shut the hell up, D. It won't keep me down for long, remember that, but it should be long enough for you to get me in restraints. I know what I might do if I lose control and I won't risk you, D. Not like that. Don't you dare fucking argue with me."

"Jason, don't. You're not going to hurt me, you couldn't."

"God, Dick." His voice cracks in the middle of my name. "I'm bigger than you, I'm stronger, and I—" He chokes off, I hear him take in a deep breath. "If I lose control, I lose control of the Pit. I can't risk you against that. I don't know what that combination would do, and if I hurt you, especially like that…" My jaw clenches as he fades into silence for a moment. "Just get here. Please."

I hear the line cut off at the same time I skid around the last of the corners, and I force myself to slow the car so I can hone in on exactly where the tracker is telling me Jason is. Two blocks up, at the very edge of where the park starts. It feels like way too long, but I find the brown and black curl of his form sitting against a wall. No red, so he's sans-helmet. That would explain how Poison Ivy managed to get the pollen into his system.

He doesn't move when I screech to a halt in front of him, and as I leap out of the car I can see that his head is rolled forward against his chest, arms lax and one curled halfway around a small, empty, syringe. If I didn't know better I'd say it looked like an overdose, but I know Jason isn't that careless. Especially not Jason, not with his past.

I rush to him, kneeling down and checking, just in case, for a pulse. It's fast but strong. I grit my teeth for a second — if he'd just waited — and lean in to get him across my shoulders in a fireman's carry. His weight is almost enough to be a problem, but I've managed Bruce as dead weight before so I can handle Jason too. It's tough, but I get him over to the car and into the passenger seat. I circle around to get into the driver's seat, closing the top, and then glance over and consider Jason's words.

I know how little time the sedatives worked on me, and that was Jason's same brand of them. They're not going to last long enough for me to get him back to the Cave.

Wincing, I hit a command inside the car and activate the passenger seat restraints. I have to maneuver Jason's arms and legs inside the metal restraints, but after I click them closed I'm fairly sure they'll hold him. Metal bands around his wrists and upper arms, several locked around his torso, and more around his ankles and upper thighs. There's one for his neck as well, but I'm a little concerned that Jason will strangle himself on it so I leave that one open.

Then I throw my seatbelt on and gun the car, whirling it around to head back to the Cave.

After a moment of hesitation I swallow and activate the Batmobile's communication system to call Bruce. He picks up after about half a ring, the screen clicking on to show his face.

"Nightwing. News?"

"I've got Jason," I answer shortly, glancing to the side. Bruce won't be able to see Jason — the camera only shows the driver's side — but I know he'll see my glance and understand some of what's going on. "He's drugged. Poison Ivy. Sedated for now but it won't last; I'm going to need some help getting him out of the car."

Bruce pauses. "The same pollen that was used on you?" he asks, sounding just a little bit stiff.

"Yeah. Jason…" I glance over again. "He knew we didn't have a sample of it to create an antidote, so he provoked Ivy into drugging him." Bruce's entire face shuts down, tightens and stiffens, and my hands clench on the wheel. "Trust me, I know, Bruce. I'm going to tear him a new one when it's out of his system, but it's already done. We did need a sample. I'm not saying it wasn't reckless and stupid of him to do it, but it's too late now."

I check my location, then speed up a little bit. "I should be back in about twenty, he'll be awake by then."

"I'll have the lab ready," Bruce promises, though he still sounds tense.

My jaw clenches for a second. "Look, Bruce, I know you two don't get along, and I know things have been especially bad since what happened to me. But you need to back off; he's trying to help. I'm not asking you to be friendly, but just don't make anything worse than it is, alright?"

"I don't—"

"You do," I counter, knowing the words that were going to come out of his mouth. "It's not totally your fault, but Jason's going to be vulnerable enough once this is out of his system and he really doesn't need you getting on his case on top of it. Honestly we could bypass this whole thing if you two just don't talk at all. Just try, Bruce?"

He doesn't look happy about it, but he grudgingly spits out, "I will."

I nod, then glance to the side again. "Thanks. See you soon." I click the call off and focus on driving, trying not to think about Jason being beside me, and everything that means.

What does this mean for the two of us?

I'm still not entirely sure what I want to do about that whole thing. I just haven't had the time to think about it, and I haven't had the time to come to any kind of a decision.

Alright, I know that Jason is attractive, and I know that I'm attracted to him. I also know that, apparently, he tends towards a more submissive role in a bed, which fits in nicely with my own tastes. I know the thought of Jason in my bed, beneath me and at the mercy of my touch, is seriously hot. I know that even if I read his desires completely wrong, the idea of our roles being reversed is a good one too. I don't play bottom for many people, but I can see myself doing it for Jason. So that solves any kind of physical issues.

That just leaves the emotional, and the mental.

Jason's a criminal, but I know that he's just trying to help. It's flawed, and I can't condone some of what he does, but he is trying. If he calmed down just a bit, if he stopped killing, I could let the rest of his questionable actions go. Jason's a good person at heart, I don't doubt that. I could never doubt that. I know he would never hurt me if he could avoid it, not unless the Pit's driven him temporarily mad. Which brings up another issue; the Pit.

Jason is a long way from totally insane, but it is true that he's got parts of him that aren't quite fully sane either. There will be days where that green glint comes into his eyes, and he starts seeing threats instead of friends and allies. He's been really good about avoiding all of us when that happens, and since he calmed down and came somewhat back into the family he hasn't hurt any of us. But that doesn't mean the potential isn't here. Do I trust Jason to distance himself when he needs to? Do I trust him to know his own mind, and his own limits? And if he loses himself, can I take him down?

My gaze flicks to the line of Jason's throat, and then up to the eased relaxation of his brow and mouth.

Yes. I trust him. And if it's necessary to take him down, I know he would never hold it against me. Jason, more than anyone else, knows what he's capable of and how far he can push himself. He isn't always smart about it, but he knows himself. I trust that if he really does need to hide away somewhere the rest of us can't find him, until he's sane again, then he'll do it. I don't think Jason would risk hurting me. In fact, I'm nearly a hundred percent sure that Jason wouldn't risk hurting me.

If he was willing to risk it, then he would have waited for me to get to him. He wouldn't have sedated himself. If he was willing to risk it, he would never have thought up this plan to begin with.

He has his helmet, the pollen isn't really a danger to him. But to the rest of the family it could be pretty bad. Something that takes us that far out of our minds, but leaves our skills intact? It's dangerous. So he isn't doing this for himself, he's doing it for us. It's even more than that, actually. Jason took himself down for the count, he sacrificed his own well being to get us something we needed, and what it's going to do to him… It's not like he doesn't know. He watched me get dosed with it, and he suffered his own smaller version when he was infected as well. He knows what that pollen will do.

Jason sacrificed his pride for us. He trusts me to keep him safe while he's helpless, and he trusts me to make sure he gets through this without anyone taking advantage of him. For Jason, that's one hell of a thing to do.

Plus, there's the darker, worried part of my mind that says this links back to what's been forced on Jason before.

I don't know specifics, maybe I never will, but I know something happened when he was still in Crime Alley. Still a kid. I don't know if it was verbal or physical abuse, and I don't know if it was ever sexual, but I know Jason's quick to hurt or kill anyone who threatens kids. Always has been.

This isn't just any form of helplessness, and I'm almost positive that beyond a replica of the night he died, this would place at the very top of Jason's most hated ways to be incapacitated. Being forced into baring himself to the world like that, being forced to want his own violation… It's hell for me to think about, so I can only imagine how deeply Jason must both hate and fear the idea. But he still did it. Willingly.

For me.

This is humiliation, helplessness, sexual and mental violation, and at least a moderate level of fear because I know Jason has a thing about restraints, and he subjected himself to it to help us. That says more than enough about how much he cares, doesn't it?

Jason comes instantly back to awareness, jerking at the metal binds and arching as he gasps. It's sudden enough to make me flinch.

His head twists, focusing on me almost alarmingly fast, and then I have to swallow as his mouth parts by about half an inch, and his whole body rolls in a thrust against the restraints. "Dick," he rumbles out, and I flex my fingers around the wheel. Now is not the time to decide that that low rumble of a voice is about the hottest thing I've heard in years.

"We're on our way to the Cave; just hold on Jason, okay? Hold on for me?"

The moan he voices makes me tense, and I try not to look over at the way he's twisting against the restraints holding him down. "I'll hold onto anything you want me to," he promises, and I should not be having fantasies about my drugged brother but god if I can help myself. "Let me out, Dick, please. Let me climb over your lap and ride you right in here, sink down on your cock. Let you do anything you want, just please."

I push out a slow, hard exhale to control myself. "You're drugged," I point out, even though I know that it won't matter. It didn't get through to me; it won't get through to him. "If you were in your right mind you'd never offer that, Jason."

The laugh he gives sounds strained, rough, and so packed with desire it makes my stomach clench up. "I've thought about it so many times, Dick. Thought about you taking me while I worked myself open. Imagined you filling me, stretching me," oh god, "fucking me until I can feel you come, feel you claim me. God, fuck; making me come on just your cock because I can."

I slam on the brakes and twist the car to the side, making it screech to a halt halfway onto a sidewalk. I have to stare straight ahead for a moment, my hands clenched around the wheel and my breath catching in my throat with every gasp I try and get in. God, I had no idea that Jason was capable of this kind of personified sin. He could be reading a grocery list and I would react to that damn voice, but hearing him voice his fantasies? Oh god, I can't handle that.

"Please, Dick, let me touch you. I'd kneel at your feet and let you fuck my face, let you come down my throat and I'd swallow for you. I'd get off on it; be so fucking hard just from sucking your cock. Come in your hand and fuck I'd lick it clean for you if you wanted. Anything you wanted, Dick."

I yank off the seatbelt and turn on him, trying to control the frenzy taking over my mind at his words. I reach in and cup his face, tracing my thumbs across his cheeks and he gives a shaking moan and twists against the restraints in reaction to my touch.

"Anything," he whispers, like it's a prayer, "anything. Please, Dick, just let me—"

"Jason," I manage to get out, cutting him off. My voice is a lot more strangled than I'd like, and I'm really, really glad that Jason's domino mask is firmly on, and I can't see whatever's in his eyes. "Jason, I know what I want from you, alright? Will you do it for me?"

"Yes." His voice is a pleading breath, and my gaze gets caught on the way his tongue swipes out along his bottom lip. Damn. "Just tell me. God, just tell me, Dick. Use me, fuck me, please."

"Jason, listen." He whimpers, and I have to fight to keep my hands from clenching down on his face. I manage to control myself. "I'm going to take your mask off, and you're going to close your eyes, alright?"

His head twitches in what I choose to believe is a nod, and I carefully find the edge of the domino mask with my right hand. I peel it, slowly, from his face. I can feel him shudder. I drop the mask to the side, and he looks at me for a long moment — god, his eyes; brilliant blue and so desperate — before his eyelids drop down and his lashes flutter against his skin. Another shudder, a small, hitched moan, and I manage to refocus on what I'm trying to do.

"Open your mouth for me, Jason." My voice cracks at his name, and there are so many images in my head but none of them are innocent. It's just a command. I need to— Fuck, I can't concentrate with Jason speaking to me. I can't.

His mouth parts without hesitation, jaw loose and relaxed underneath my touch and if he weren't drugged, if he was in his right mind…

I manage to reach back with my free hand towards my belt. It's not what it's supposed to be used for, but the heavy duty duct tape will have to do. It occurs to me after I have it out that there's no way I can tear it without him hearing it, and I don't know what kind of reaction that might get me. There's not much he can do, strapped down like he is, but that doesn't mean that he can't make things more difficult for me. I have to distract him, contain him, and get him still long enough to get a piece of tape over his mouth.

Got it.

"Jason, I'm going to pull away from you to get some of my suit off, so you can do exactly what you just offered. But if you open your eyes I'll sit right back down and take you to the Cave instead, understand me?"

He moans, twisting up, but his eyes stay firmly closed. "Yes," he says, and it sounds like a plea, like he's begging. God, Jason begging. I didn't need that image in my head. "Whatever you want."

I slowly pull my hand away from his face, leaning back a bit to put a bit of distance between us. I pull one of the small knives I've got out of my suit and quickly cut off a decent stretch of the tape, tucking both the tape and knife back away as soon as I'm done. I carefully watch Jason's eyes, making sure that he's not opening them, right up until I press the tape down over his mouth. Then they snap open, his head jerks, and he makes a violently protesting sound. I can hear him trying to speak behind the tape, but it's muffled enough that I can't understand it and that's the important part.

I sit back into the driver's seat, raking one of my hands back through my hair and realizing that I'm shaking just a little bit. I shove out a breath, dragging the seat belt back over my torso and giving myself a few seconds to just breathe. I'm going to need a lot more than just a few seconds, and holy shit did that click me into a whole new level of guilt. I pushed Jason even more than he was pushing me — physically, not just with words — and he's wanted me for years. Three minutes with a drugged Jason and I was struggling, but he took it for hours and never touched me when I was drugged.

If he'd been free, if he'd had his hands on me on top of his words, I don't know what would have happened. I don't have the same height advantage that Jason does, and I don't think I could have kept my mouth away from him. I probably would have been infected, and then… That would have been a hell of a thing to mess up on.

Jason was right; it's better that he sedated himself before I got there.

I glance over at him, then wince and quickly look away at the look in his eyes. Desperation, desire, want. "Just hang on, Jason. Hang on."

Chapter Text

I can't even describe the relief that overtakes me at the small, pained groan that slips from Jason's mouth. He's been silent and unconscious for way too many hours, pulse fast before it slowed to a crawl that made me refuse to leave his side in case it stopped. And before that, the drug wreaked havoc on him. The hours I had to watch him to make sure he wouldn't hurt himself, the two times that his... It's been one hell of an ordeal.

I drag myself out of the chair I stationed myself in, trying to ignore the protesting stiffness of muscles I haven't moved in too long. I sit down next to Jason, beside his hip and at his left side, and carefully touch the side of his neck to check his pulse. The machine beside him is doing that already, monitoring his heartbeat amongst a dozen other things, but it's more reassuring to feel it under my fingers. Steady now, and a lot stronger than it was even as little as a half an hour ago.

"Jason," I murmur, turning my touch into a gentle stroke of my fingers up to his jaw. He shifts a little in response, towards my touch, which is more than he's moved since he blacked out. "Are you awake?"

His brow furrows, his head tilts back, and then his mouth parts. "Ow." His voice is a rough rumble, but with a lot more emphasis on the rough than there was last night. Which is good, because my libido has firmly decided that is pretty much the sexiest thing in the world.

This really doesn't give me any hope for my control if I do end up in Jason's bed. When, actually. I think it's pretty much definitely a when. As long as Jason agrees to a couple of small things, and I'm pretty sure he will.

"Hey," I say, very quietly because I remember how badly my head hurt when I woke up from Ivy's drug. "Stupid question, but are you alright?"

Jason's mouth twitches in what I think might be supposed to be a smirk. "Think I'll live," he grumbles, and I can see the effort it takes him to pry his eyes open. His pupils are back to normal, finally. "Water?"

"Got it right here. Give me a second to get you out of the restraints." I lean over, snagging the keys from their hook on the machine and then twisting to get at the restraints holding Jason down. Not nearly as many as when the drug still had him; once he was unconscious we took off all but a basic minimum. Now there's just bands across his ankles and wrists, though still locked shut by padlocks just in case. I make short work of them, and he shifts just a bit before stilling with a wince.

"Fuck, did I actually get kicked in the chest a few times, or does it just feel like that?"

I stiffen for a moment, memory bringing back the sharp terror of why Jason's in that specific kind of pain. The slice of the monitor's alarm, the quiet determination on Bruce's face, and the thud of my own heartbeat as it did its best to pound out of my chest because—

"What is it?" Jason asks, and it must be a Herculean effort for him to shift and prop himself up on his left elbow, but he does it. "Dick? What's wrong?"

I swallow, shake off the remembered panic. "We weren't sure you were going to make it," I tell him, quietly. "You must have really irritated Ivy; she hit you with what we think was at least three times what I got dosed with." I curl my hand into the blankets beneath Jason, close my eyes. "Your heart stopped. Twice. Jesus, Jason, you almost died."

"Fuck, Dick, I'm sorry, I didn't think—"

I open my eyes and snap, "No, you didn't." Then I catch the exhausted pain in his eyes, and the guilt, and the anger drains right out of me. "God," I manage, dropping my gaze to the blankets and then raising it to the roof of the Cave. "God, you deserve to get the lecture of your fucking life but I'm too relieved to be angry right now."

"I'm sure it'll be a hell of a speech," Jason says softly. I look down at him, and he slides down on his arm to lie on his left side, head resting too low to be on the pillow. He's still meeting my eyes though. "I'll listen to every word," he promises, his right arm reaching down — with only a bit of trembling — to take my closer hand in his. "Every word, Dick, promise. Won't even interrupt." His grip is weak, but at least it's something.

I stare at his hand, then shake my head and close my eyes again. "You know, I spent this whole time sitting next to you, just thinking that if you…" My throat closes, and I have to swallow to force it open again. "If you died, we'd leave all of this stuff between us unresolved. You'd still be waiting on an answer, and I'd never get to know if you forgave me or if you were still angry." Jason's fingers twitch around mine, and I force myself to look up. His eyes are half-lidded, but his fingers tighten just a fraction more.

"Dick." He swallows, winces, but then pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, holding my gaze. "It's alright, I do forgive you. I just, needed a bit of time." His fingers twitch around mine again, eyes closing for a moment. "You said 'we,' " he points out, voice barely above a whisper.

"Bruce is here," I admit. "He was catching a nap last I heard, at the cots in the back. Tim's been in and out, the rest of the family is holding down Gotham." I don't think Jason's strong enough to tense, but he definitely flinches at the mention of Bruce. I carefully tighten my fingers around his. "He's been scared out of his mind, Jason. The two of you might have the worst communication in the world, but he still cares more than you give him credit for. Both of us have been here the whole time, and you know how he is, Alfred had to bully him into sleeping at all."

Jason shifts his head in a small nod, and then his gaze flicks instantly up above my head and he does tense. Just for a second before his muscles can't keep the tension, but it's more than enough to get me to turn my head and look. Of course it's Bruce standing there, stiff, tall, and clearly uncomfortable with my words.

"Voices woke me," he explains shortly, at both of our looks. He moves then, circling my legs to stand by Jason's head. He just stands there for a moment — I resist the urge to cross my fingers that he won't say something terrible — with his gaze trained down at Jason, who's looking up at him. Bruce looks tired, guarded, and he might be dressed in his suit from the neck down but his cowl is gone so that's even more obvious. Sleep has messed up his hair even worse than the cowl already had, and there's the edge of shadows under his eyes and strain in his shoulders.

I know Jason can see it as clearly as I can, maybe even better. I've known Bruce longer, but Jason's more tuned into people's emotional and physical states than I am a lot of the time.

Which might be why Jason doesn't say anything but a quiet, "B," in acknowledgement.

"Jason," Bruce answers, like my younger brother's voice has jarred him back to something like consciousness. He straightens a little bit, just a tiny shift of movement. "This was stupid and reckless," he says, voice harsh and sharp, and I can almost see Jason shut down and bring his walls up. "You nearly got yourself killed, you went in on a half thought out plan without any real backup, and you didn't give any of us a chance to help you or to work out a better way to do it." Bruce's jaw works for a moment, and then he shoves out a sigh and raises his right hand, scrubbing it over his eyes and then back through his hair. "But we did need samples of Ivy's new pollen for an antidote," he admits, quietly, "and there weren't many options for obtaining them."

Jason shifts a little bit, eyes slightly narrowed and something wary and slightly confused in them. "What are you saying?" he asks. Bruce is very still, so is Jason, and they're so totally focused on each other that it almost feels like if I move this whole thing will fall to pieces. It's so close. It could be good this time.

"I don't approve of your methods," Bruce answers, after a few moments of tense silence, "but you got the job done. I would have preferred if you'd talked to the rest of us first, given us time to come up with something less risky, but you did get what we needed before anyone else was hurt." He pauses, Jason stares at him, and then he quietly says, "Thank you, Jason."

Jason looks shocked, and it only gets worse when Bruce slowly, haltingly, leans down. He gently brushes Jason's hair away from his forehead, and presses a small kiss to his then exposed temple. It surprises me too, mostly that even though it clearly makes Bruce uncomfortable, he still follows all the way through on it. He pulls back equally as slow, but leaves his fingers holding Jason's hair back from his eyes for a moment.

"You're still my son," he says softly, "no matter what. Don't do something this risky again; losing you once was hard enough." Finally, Bruce's gaze flicks over to me as his fingers fall away from Jason's forehead. "Dick, make sure he gets water and something to eat." His eyes turn back to my younger brother as I nod. "Jason, if you'd rather go to one of your safehouses I won't stop you, but there's more than enough room in the manor. I'd like to keep an eye on you until you're recovered, just in case there are any more side effects that we haven't discovered yet with a dose that high." He waits for the tiny shift of Jason's head, what might be acknowledgement, before stepping back. "I'll contact the rest of the family and update them."

Bruce moves away again, and I can see Jason's gaze follow him as he moves across the cave and to the computer, far out of hearing range. I watch until Bruce is sitting in front of the computer, and then turn my attention back to Jason, who's still staring at him.

That went surprisingly well.

"Did that really just happen?" Jason asks, finally tearing his eyes away from Bruce and up towards me.

I manage a small smile, flexing my fingers around his still loose grip. "You're not hallucinating, promise."

His eyes narrow a little bit. "Did you tell him to say any of that?" Jason demands, or as much as he can make it sound like a 'demand' when his voice is still so rough and tired. It does sting a little that Jason thinks I might do that, or that Bruce would go along with it, but I can't fault him for the suspicion.

"I actually wanted him not to talk at all," I admit. "That was all him, Jason. Like I said, he cares more than you give him credit for. Now come on. Like B said, you need water and food, and it might be a pain in the ass but if you want out of the Cave I can get you upstairs at least. Somewhere more comfortable."

He glances at Bruce's back, and then shifts his head in a more obvious nod. "Yeah, that's… That's a good idea."

I squeeze his hand and then carefully let go, getting to my feet and letting my hand rise to rest gently on his shoulder. "I'll grab you that water, then go talk to Alfred about a room and some food, alright? And…" It's my turn to pause, to swallow and then clear my throat. "When you've recovered, I have an answer for you. Not before," I say quickly, cutting off the sharp spark of interest and what I might actually label hope in his eyes. "There are some things we need to talk about and agree on first, and it's not fair to do that while you're not at full strength. Once you've recovered, we can have that conversation. I promise."

I think the huff of breath he gives is something like a laugh. "A conversation, huh? Doesn't sound like a flat out 'no' at least." It's definitely hope in his eyes, but shielded behind wariness and a carefully controlled expression. "Alright, I'll hold you to that, Dick."

"Good." I pull my hand off his shoulder, and then stretch to work out the dull ache in my lower back from all but sleeping in that chair. Just a couple of quick ones, before I straighten up. "Try not to fall asleep, alright? And if anything at all doesn't feel right—"

"Let one of you know," he finishes. "I know, Dick. Grab me the damn water so I can feel human again."

The rumble of a demand feels more like Jason's usual attitude, and I give a small, lopsided grin. "You got it."

Jason is surprisingly patient. It takes him about three days before Alfred clears him to leave the manor, and another two before he's actually back up to full strength. He stays at the manor, apart from a brief vanishing act on the fourth day where he came back with his bike and a backpack full of clothes. He probably snuck in at least some of his weapons too, but Bruce and I try not to look too closely at that. He, at least, is happier not knowing exactly how many guns Jason has in the house.

He doesn't bring up the promised conversation.

Bruce and he tiptoe around each other, speaking in clipped conversations that are never more than a dozen sentences. I count it as a victory. Five days in a house together with no violence? With their track record, that's a victory. Luckily, the rest of the family recognizes it too. I'm sure that both of them have noticed, but the rest of the family takes on the job of playing interference. Phone calls or texts at just the right times, courtesy of Tim and Barbara, and alternative conversations courtesy of everyone else. They have to know — Jason and Bruce are too smart not to see something this obvious — but if anything I think they're grateful for it, in their own ways.

I probably wait longer than I should, but the thought of the upcoming discussion tightens my gut every time it comes through my head. Still, Jason doesn't push, and I put it off one hour after another. Until I come down to the Cave and find him in the middle of a spar with Cass, who's definitely not going full out, but clearly neither is Jason. Still, it's a smack in the face that Jason's fine, he's recovered, and putting this off any longer is just avoiding the inevitable. Also, he might not be pushing it, but putting this off is just making him wait, and hurting him because there's no way he doesn't know that I know he's fine.

Although part of what kicks me into gear might be that Jason's shirtless and barefoot, and even though it's just a friendly spar he's worked up a sweat. Without all of the gear, and the jacket, I get a totally clear view of how his muscles shift and play underneath his skin. I think it's actually the first time I've seen Jason shirtless since he came back, and there's a big difference between earlier Jason and this one. Mostly, that this one is enough to pause me on the steps of the Cave when I see him, and make me spend a few long moments just staring at the mock fight.

Cass is faster than him, more flexible, but it's easy to see that she's got a healthy respect of the fact that Jason is stronger than her. Jason is playing that to his advantage, making her come at him instead of pressing an offensive where she'd likely dodge and duck around everything he tried. If he gets a hold of her, then it turns into a simpler grappling and endurance match, and he's more likely to win that.

Judging by the small grin on his face, Jason is having a lot of fun.

I head down the stairs, watching their spar as I get closer, and finally stop at the edge of the mat. Jason's gaze flicks to me for a brief moment, and I can see the moment of tense surprise when he realizes I'm there. Cass takes advantage, of course, and Jason goes down hard from the impact of her heel in the center of his chest. He keels over, the air rushing out of his lungs, and collapses down to his knees. His right hand clasps at the point of impact as I wince, and Cass straightens up. She leans over, patting the top of Jason's head with one hand and then following it up with a quick peck of lips to his forehead.

"Have fun," she commands, and then turns on her heel and heads towards the edge of the mats. Towards me. I give her a smile, and she pauses next to me. "Be…" She stops, head tilting in that way she does when she needs to find the right word in her head. Then she pats my shoulder, with a bit of a scary smile, and finishes, "Nice?" with a bit of a question mark at the end of the word.

I give a small laugh, watching Jason lean back on his arms and tilt his head back to stare at the ceiling out of the corner of my field of vision. "That works, yeah. Thanks, Cass."

She nods and then heads off without another word, and I turn to Jason. He's rubbing at his chest, but he still looks like he's enjoying himself, not like he's pissed, so it can't be that bad. I step onto the mat, heading up to Jason, who turns his torso and looks up to meet me. I take one glance back, to make sure that Cass has kept moving, and then another around the Cave, to make sure no one is close enough to get nosy, before offering him my hand. He takes it, letting me pull him up to standing.

"Up for that conversation?" I ask, with just a little bit of a nervous edge.

In contrast, Jason relaxes, and his grin softens to a smirk as his gaze drops to the mat. "Almost thought you'd bailed out on me, Dick," he says, quietly, then pushes out the rest of his breath and looks up to meet my gaze. "Yeah, I'm more than ready." He tilts his head, over towards the stairs I just came down. "Upstairs?" he offers, and then shrugs. "Or if you want to go somewhere else, that's fine. I can uh," he glances around, to the other side of the mat, with a tiny grimace, "put a shirt on. Or take a shower, or something."

The fact that he's clearly nervous too helps, and my mouth curls up at one corner. "It's fine, and upstairs is good. You can put a shirt on if you want, if it helps, but I don't mind." I manage to cut myself off before I finish that sentence with, 'the view.' I think that's a bit of a line to cross before I even know if Jason is willing to conform to what I'm going to need from him.

I know I like Jason, I know I can trust him, and he's hot as hell so physical attraction clearly isn't a problem, but I also know that I can't be that close to him the way he is now. Not with what I know he does, not with how at odds he is with so much of the world. I need him to agree to what I've decided I can't live with, and then… Then, I'll give this a shot.

He gives a snort of amusement, and the grin he gives has just a hint of embarrassment to it. "Yeah, came down with Cass so all my stuff is still up there anyway. Lead the way, Dick."

I take him at his word — as I try not to look at his chest too obviously — and halfway turn away, waiting for him to start to move with me before I finish the movement. He falls into step at my side, and my crusade to not watch him gets a little harder as he moves while we walk. He's doing small stretches, easing down muscles from the fight with simple, easy movements. Mostly detail work, on his hands and fingers, but there's an odd shoulder roll or neck turn in there with it. If I hadn't watched all of my family do the same thing at one time or another, I'd think he was just showing off. But it's just a good thing to do — keeps muscles from going from an intense workout to instant cessation of movement — so I just try and keep my eyes off of him.

We get back up the stairs, into the manor, and I pause for a second. Do I take Jason to his room, mine, some empty one where no one will go looking?

"Anywhere you want, Dick," Jason comments, like he's some kind of mind reader. Logically, I know that there are only so many reasons I might pause, and he just picked the most likely one, but it still feels like Jason is way too in tune with my thoughts. He's not even looking at me when I glance over either, his eyes focused down on his hands as he stretches each finger out with a brief tug.

My glance over reminds me that Jason is missing a shirt, and as nice as the view is I'm not sure I can focus as much as I'll need to if he's shirtless, sweaty, and in my room all at the same time. His room it is; that's where all his clothing will be. Even if he doesn't decide to put a shirt on — I did give him the choice, and a part of me doesn't like the idea of going back on that — it's still his room, not mine. Only a slight difference physically, but a huge one mentally.

Decision made, I head in the right direction. I mean, any room I could take him to to have this conversation would be this direction, so pausing right on getting out of the manor didn't really make sense, but moments of indecision rarely make any actual sense when you think about them.

Jsaon doesn't say anything about our path towards his room, just keeps pace at my side, and moves to open the door when I pause in front of it. It's just a little weird for him to hold it open for me, but the flash of a slightly teasing grin eases out the strange moment. I slip inside the room and flick the light — it's still daytime, but he's got the curtains on the one window drawn shut — as he follows me in.

"Mind if I rinse off?" he asks, as I glance around. I was only really in here while he was still mostly too weak to stand for that long without help, and I really haven't been in here since he brought some of his stuff over.

It's neater than I expected. Not the perfection that Alfred leaves behind when he decides we're not fit to take care of ourselves, but a more human style. Everything is put away, and his gear is carefully either hung up in the open closet, or arranged on the dresser. The bed is made, but pulled down at one corner in a precise, folded angle to make it easy to get into. No evidence of dirty clothes anywhere but the hamper, no dishes, no mess. Actually, it looks a bit like Damian's room. Talia's influence, maybe?

"Yeah," I answer, as he closes the door again. "Go ahead."

I watch him give a small nod and then move to the dresser, pulling open drawers and snagging a pair of what look like sweatpants, and what I'm pretty sure is a normal white t-shirt. It's only because I'm watching that I see the slight hesitation in his movement as he looks back over at me.

"Not going to vanish on me, are you, Dick?" he asks, with a crooked grin and an obvious attempt to not be taken seriously. But I see the slight rise of his shoulders, the way he doesn't turn towards me to ask the question, the dozen small ticks of body language that are defensive and wary.

"I'll be here," I promise, and all those ticks ease out almost simultaneously. "Go on, before you start to really smell."

He snorts, tossing, "It's not that bad," over his shoulder as he heads for the bathroom. He does close the door behind him, and I let out a small breath when I hear the shower start.

I glance around the room for a place to sit, and conclude that apart from hoisting myself up on top of a piece of furniture definitely not meant for sitting on, the bed or the floor are my only real options. There is a single armchair, next to the bookcase, but if I sit in it that forces Jason to sit on the floor to be anywhere near me. I could move the armchair over, towards the bed, but that would still force a strange dynamic. The only way it feels like this is an equal conversation is if we're even, whether that's on the floor, standing, or on the bed.

I don't want to stand for this, and the bed is just a little too imposing for me, at the moment, so I take a seat at the foot of it. The carpet is fairly soft at least, and the bed is a decent rest for my back.

It really is just a rinse, and it's not more than a couple of minutes before the shower shuts off, and one more before he's opening the door and stepping out. He's still drying his hair, and getting him to rinse might have been a bad idea because he's still damp, and the shirt clings to his chest like a second skin. I swallow down the urge to stare, and raise my gaze to his face as he tosses the white towel back through the open door and then heads for me.

He sinks down, sitting at my side but with a decent distance between us. He seems relaxed, but those defensive hints are back in his posture. "So," he starts, "you said you had an answer, and that there was a conversation that needed to happen?"

I nod, and clear my throat. "Yeah." I draw in a breath, to steady myself, then meet his gaze. "I'm interested, Jason," his eyes light up as he draws in a breath too small to be called a gasp, "but there are things I need you to agree to first."

"Sounds like something you'd say to a mark you were trying to get evidence off of," he comments, and then lifts his far shoulder in a shrug. "Shoot, Dick."

I wince, and then turn a little bit towards him. "Killing." He echoes my wince. "I don't like the rest of it, Jason, I don't like what it turns you into, but I can deal with it." I have to draw in another breath to finish, to keep my voice steady. "I don't think I can get seriously involved with anyone who kills. Not even you. I need you to promise me you won't kill again."

He's still and silent for a long moment, and I can see the resignation take over his eyes. "I can't promise that," he says softly. "I wish I could, Dick, but I'm not…" He clears his throat, looks away from me and out into the room. "I don't always have control over myself, and when—" His eyes squeeze shut as he cuts himself off, and then he gives a shrug and a humorless laugh. "Might as well just drop this here. I can't have you for a week or a month just to lose it the next time I have a bad day."

There's a dark resignation to Jason's voice that clenches my stomach, a pained surrender that makes me stare. Jason doesn't just surrender. He always fights, always.

"You're just going to give up?" I ask incredulously, and his eyes snap open. "You can't even try for me?"

"It's not like that," he snaps, glaring at me with his mouth curled into half of a snarl. "You have no idea what the Pit did to me, Dick. What it's still doing. I'd love to just tell you that sure, I won't kill again, but the fact is there will come a day when I snap and it happens. How much I fight doesn't matter; there's no such thing as winning. I won't make a promise to you that I know I can't keep, and I thought you might appreciate me being honest." He looks away, down at his legs, and I can see his hands curl into the carpet. "So is that it? Are we done?" His head tilts back, and he shoves out a breath that's half a laugh. "One chance, and I'm just too fundamentally fucked up to—"

I reach for him before I realize what I'm doing, brushing my knuckles along the side of his neck, and he instantly cuts off. His gaze snaps to me, falls to the wrist of the hand touching him, and then he winces and twists his head away.

"Don't," he says softly. "If that was it, just tell me. You know there's fucking nothing that hurts worse than hope, right?"

My heart clenches, and I ease my hand out against the side of his neck, brushing my fingers along his skin. "I… Hang on, let me think." Jason winces again, but doesn't pull away any farther.

He has a point. We all know that when Jason is stressed, or something triggers him, or he gets caught by surprise by something bad, he tends to slip into a state that's not quite sane. The Lazarus Pit messed him up — who knows how badly? — and it drove him for years. He's better now, mostly. He's still not quite sane sometimes, but he's usually not a danger to the rest of us. Jason's right, it isn't really fair for me to demand a promise from him that he'll never be able to keep. He'll fight for as long as he can, but eventually something will happen, and maybe that something happens at just the wrong time and there's a criminal in front of him that he thinks deserves to die. Maybe he won't even know what he's done until it's over.

I can't hold something that's not Jason's fault against him. He never chose to get dunked in the Pit, he never chose to have it mess with his mind. When it does, I have to accept it. I can't fault Jason for something like that, and I won't ask him to be perfectly in control forever. No one's capable of that.

"Jason," I say softly, to call his attention. His head turns in small fractions, gaze finally meeting mine. I brush my thumb across the front of his throat, high beneath his jaw. "Promise me you won't kill if you can help it."

He pauses, just for a moment, and then asks, "If it's Joker?" It's a question as much as a reminder, and I wince. I know Jason has so many words about this, that he's got entire arguments and counterpoints in his mind, but he doesn't say any of them. He just lets the name hang in the air between us.

I breathe out, making sure every bit of air is expelled from my lungs, before taking a new breath and answering, "If you're in your right mind, then you'll have to choose. Me, or him."

Jason flinches, and I find myself sending up a quick, desperate prayer that it never comes down to that. He's silent for a few long moments, and then gives a pained sound and nods. "I promise," he breathes out. "As long as I have control, I won't kill anyone." His eyes squeeze shut for a moment, and then his mouth curves in a hollow smirk. "What else, Dick?"

I carefully slide my fingers up to curl against his jaw, and then through the very edges of his hair. He leans into my touch. "I want you to get help, Jason."

He reacts about as badly as I thought he would.

He jerks away from my hand with a snarled, "Excuse me?" as his eyes narrow. I hold my ground, with a little bit of difficulty.

"I want you to see a therapist," I clarify. "A league-sanctioned one, someone you can talk to about everything you've been through."

His jaw clenches down, and then he's shoving off the floor and to his feet, and I can't do anything but follow him. "I don't need a fucking therapist," he snaps at me. "I'm fine, Dick."

"You're not," I stress, stepping closer and grabbing for his arm. He slips out of range of the first one, but not the opposite hand follow up that closes in the fabric at his shoulder. "Jason, you died." He flinches, pulls a little bit, but doesn't resort to violence. "You woke up in a grave. No one would be alright after that. I am not judging you, Jason, but you do need to talk to someone." I carefully let him go, and it feels like cheating but I pull out, "I need you to talk to someone."

"That's manipulative bullshit," he snaps, sounding a little bit hurt.

"Yeah," I concede, "it is, but that doesn't mean I'm not right, Jason."

His teeth grind together, and then he gives a sharp laugh. "Fuck you," he hisses, into the air between us. "Fine. I'll go once."

"Three times," I press. "If you're still convinced you don't need help after that, I won't ever even bring it up again."

He almost snarls, but then dips his head as his hands clench to fists. "Fine." He meets my gaze, and the only thing that stops me from recoiling from the anger in his eyes is that there's also a slight green tint to them. "What next, Dick? Want me to hand over all my weapons, cut my fucking arm off for you? What the hell are you leaving me with?"

I wince, but tighten my grip on his arm for just a moment. "Bruce," I admit. "I am not asking you to forgive him, Jason, or to get along with him. But try, alright? Even if that means just not talking to him at all. Just try for me, Jason? I can't be in the middle of you two."

"Good I'm not interested in a threesome then," he snaps instantaneously, and I flinch. That seems to get through to him at least a little. "Fuck, sorry. I didn't mean…" He looks away, up at the walls, and then shakes his head. "Alright. I'll try. I can't promise anything, and I'm not biting my tongue if he's a jackass, but I'll try not to start anything. Is that good enough?"

"Yeah, it is. Thank you." I squeeze his upper arm. "Will you look at me, Jason?"

He draws in a slow breath, and then turns his head to meet my gaze. "Is that it?" he asks, and there's something hurt in his gaze that makes his voice crack a bit. It hurts me.

"That's it," I confirm. "Thank you for agreeing, Jason." He swallows, nods, and I step closer. "So my answer is yes. Yes." He stares at me, looking somewhere between shocked and stiff, and I reach up with my free hand.

He draws in a sharp breath as my fingers touch his cheek, brushing along his jaw and then back to comb through his damp hair. "You're serious," he murmurs. "Fuck, you're really serious." His eyes widen, light in surprised hope, and then he gives a slightly breathless laugh. "I… God, tell me you're serious, Dick. Please."

My fingers clench down in his hair, and I move closer at the same time as I pull him down. My lips meet his, and I drag him closer to me and press myself up against him. He makes a shocked noise, pulling against my hold just a little, but I tighten my grip in his hair and pull a little harder. Then he melts against me, his hands coming in against my waist and his lips turning pliant and welcoming underneath my own. The next noise he makes is a low, rumbling noise that screams want at me, as his hands flex against my sides. I make an approving sound back at him, giving him permission to do whatever it is that I know he wants to.

His right hand slides forward, onto my back and sliding up my spine, fingers digging in against my back with a force just shy of desperate. He's making small sounds into my mouth, noises of desire and a whole lot more. Each one feels like a small confession, and I scratch my nails along his scalp. That makes him break the kiss, head twisting down with a low groan as his grip on my waist tightens to just shy of bruising. It's painful, but not enough for me to stop him. I tug at his hair a little bit, and take the turning of his head as invitation to lower my mouth to his neck.

He gives a choked exhale of sound that almost sounds pained when my lips close over the skin below his ear, and then breathes out, "God, Dick."

I pull back enough to graze my lips over his ear, and then whisper, "I'm serious." It's a promise, and I feel his head tilt back, his fingers clench just a little further. I'm going to have bruises.

"Fuck," Jason gasps, and then he's lowering his head and his teeth are against my neck. Grazing more than biting, and I spare just a second to think about how the family will react — Bruce will be pissed, but he really hasn't been the best lately and I find myself not caring like I think I should — before turning my head to bare my neck and giving a small noise of encouragement.

"Go ahead," I offer, combing my hand down through his hair and to the back of his neck. "It's alright, Jason."

Jason shudders, and then his teeth sink into my skin, rolling it between them in a way that I know will break the blood vessels beneath. I'm going to have a large mark, an obvious one, and there's nothing in me but satisfaction about that fact. I allow myself to give a groan, tilting my head back and tightening my grip on the back of his neck, his upper arm. His nails drag down my spine, blunt through the fabric but still enough to make me arch my back a little bit and press harder into him.

I give a second groan, feeling his hip hard against my crotch in a way that is starting to become pretty seriously nice. I force myself to focus. "Is the door locked?" I ask through my teeth. "The last thing I want right now is someone breaking in to interrupt however far we're going."

Jason lets the skin he has between his teeth go, and gives a shaky exhale against my skin. "No, I— Fuck, I'll get it."

I loosen my grip, letting him pull away and move around me. I turn to watch, spinning on my heel as I track him. He flicks the lock, pauses for a moment in clear hesitation, and then takes three steps to the right and grabs the wooden chair from in front of the desk pushed into the corner. I snort as he leans it in underneath the handle, effectively blocking the door even if someone is persistent enough to pick the lock. Honestly, considering our family, it's probably a pretty good idea. Jason's locked door is more likely to be respected than mine, but that doesn't mean it's a guarantee of privacy.

Jason turns back to me, and there's something a little wild to his eyes but not in a dangerous way. The green tinge has faded away, and there's just an edge to his gaze that's a mix of emotions I'm not even going to try and decipher. I'd never get done in the small slice of time left before he comes back over here.

He doesn't crash into me the way that I expect him to. Instead he stops in front of me, and the way he reaches forward to touch me is careful, gentle, his fingers ghosting over my jaw and my arm. That wild edge is still in his eyes, but I can also see the steel control evident in the set of his shoulders and the faint tremble in his hands. I raise my hand to clasp over the one on my jaw, turning my head to press a kiss to the center of his palm before meeting his gaze again. His mouth is just slightly parted, gaze focused on my lips. He looks hungry.

"You don't have to hold back," I tell him. "You're not going to hurt me, and I can take however rough it might get."

His eyes snap up to meet mine, and he blows out a sharp breath. "No, it's not— I know that. I just…" His fingers squeeze down on my arm, and his head ducks away for a moment before he looks back up. "Can we take this slow? You—" He cuts off with a laugh, as I watch him. "You have no idea how much I want you, Dick, but you're… You're so much more important than just another person in my bed, and I want this to be right. I want to give you everything you deserve."

I blink, more than a little shocked, and then my mouth curls in a small smile. "You want to court me first?" I ask, my voice quiet and soft because Jason just keeps surprising me with how kind he is. How thoughtful.

He looks a little bit embarrassed, but nods. "I'll do everything you want me to, Dick," he murmurs, "but I just want the first time between us to be… special. God, fuck that sounds so cheesy when I say it out loud." He's blushing now, the embarrassment a red tinge high on his cheeks that's — even though I think saying it would be a mistake — just adorable.

My smile gets a little bigger, and I press a second kiss to his palm. "It's very sweet, Jason." My words are totally sincere, but that doesn't seem to stop the blush from getting just a little bit more obvious. "Alright, no sex just yet. Not until you feel it's right."

He breathes out, it almost sounds like relief, and gives a small nod. "Thank you," he says, eyes closing as he visibly relaxes. Then he shrugs and gives half a grin, opening his eyes again. They're softer now, less of that wild edge and more just restrained desire. "So now you know; I'm a huge fucking sap. That's pretty much my big secret right there."

"I think it's wonderful," is my immediate answer, as I shift a little closer and then lean in to kiss him. He yields underneath my touch, and then gives a soft sigh as my free right hand touches his waist and strokes up. I break the gentle pressure of our lips, and he curves in towards me but doesn't chase my mouth. It's just his shoulders bowing in, his eyes still closed like he's lingering in the moment.

My breath catches, the fact crashing down that Jason loves me. Not just cares, not just thinks that I'm important, not just appreciates what I look like, but loves me. He doesn't have to say it out loud for it to be obvious, not with everything else he's said, and every single inch of how he's acted. He agreed to go against his own morals for me, he agreed to talk to someone about problems he's never admitted to having in any way more specific than agreeing that he's 'fucked up.' He did that for me.

"What is it?" Jason asks, eyes flicking open, and I shake my head in response.

"Just reading between the lines," I tell him, with a smile and another brush of my lips against his. "Nothing bad." The smile won't leave my face, it's got too much of what I think I'd cautiously call joy behind it, bright and expanding in my chest, for me to make it go away. I can't even make it smaller. "Come lay down with me," I say, tilting my head towards his bed. "There are things we should talk about, decide, and I... " I give a soft laugh, squeezing the hand I'm still holding captive as I turn and bury my nose against his wrist, keeping his gaze. "I don't want to do anything more right now than run my fingers through your hair and memorize what your lips taste like," is my confession, and it might be just a little mischievous but I'll own that.

Jason softens. His entire demeanor eases out, and the breath in his lungs comes out slow as his mouth curls into a grin. "Whatever you want," he says, and it feels like a promise more than an agreement.

I step closer, letting his hand go as I draw him into a kiss. When his arms come around me, loose against my back and in my hair, it's like something finally clicks into place. Like the last tumbler in a lock.

It's just right.