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God, when will he ever stop getting kidnapped?
Well, he knows it's not really possible— because it technically comes with the job— but he's getting real tired of getting snatched right in the middle of patrol.
“It’s your fault that you aren't focused, dumbass,” Jason's young voice mumbles as Dick struggles to escape from the ropes. They are bound too tight, too well. His captor must really mean business.
He ignores Jason, of course. He’s got more important things to do than talking to a hallucination of his dead little brother. Plus, he’s no help to Dick. At all.
Jason, however, doesn't get the memo. He crouches on an overturned crate a few feet away, skinny elbows resting on his knees with bones sticking out of the flesh, skin mottled and grey, looking as gruesome as ever.
“Bet you were thinking of Wally again,” Jason gags before snickering, rocking back on his heels. “First rule of patrol— never let your guard down. What would Bruce say, huh?”
Dick grits his teeth, twisting his wrists against the rope. It burns, even through his suit, but the knots don’t give. He sighs, rolling his eyes. “Not helping, Jace.”
“Wasn't trying to help,” the hallucination shoots back, grinning despite his dislocated jaw. “Just reminding you that you suck at your job.”
Dick exhales through his nose, sharp. His head aches, probably from whatever knocked him out before he woke up… wherever here is. Maybe he’s concussed. That would explain the running commentary from the dead.
“Uh-huh,” he mutters, bracing his boots against the chair legs to test their give. If he kicks hard enough, it’ll either break the way he wants it to— or it’ll leave him disappointed and still stuck. “If you’re not here to help, I have a suggestion— maybe fuck off?”
“Rude,” Jason says, mock-offended, swinging one bony leg idly. His kneecaps pops out of place as he does, dangling loose, but he doesn't seem to notice. “I crawl out of my grave to keep you company and you tell me to piss off. Some brother you are.”
“You’re not out of the grave,” Dick scoffs, twisting his wrists again, wincing as the rope digs deeper. “You’re in my head. And in my head, you’re kind of an ass.”
Jason grins, jaw hanging just a little too loose for Dick’s liking. “So… business as usual.”
Despite himself, a laugh slips out, short and sharp. He regrets instantly— because the sound echoes too loudly in the empty space, and because he doesn't really want to let his captor know he’s sort of mentally unstable.
“You’re not funny,” he tells Jason.
Jason leans forward, elbows braced on his too-pointy knees, grin stretching wider. “You used to think I was hilarious.”
“Keyword, used to,” Dick emphasised, groaning slightly when the ropes still won't loosen. He might have to break a bone to get out. “Fuck.”
“Don’t get all dramatic,” Jason says lazily, flopping onto his back on the crate like it was his bed. His head lolls too far to the side, chin digging into his broken collarbone, but his eyes stay locked on Dick. “You’ve wiggled out worse.”
Dick is about to retort back at the little shit when he’s stopped by the sound of footsteps.
Heavy. Measured. Trained.
He whips his head up.
The door to the warehouse creaks open, spilling in a silver of yellow light. His captor finally makes an appearance. The figure that steps inside is broad-shouldered, wrapped in leather and kevlar, a red helmet gleaming dully in the dark.
Red Hood.
Dick’s stomach twists. Great. Of fucking course it’s Gotham’s newest crime lord wannabe. The one who’s getting on Batman’s nerves lately and mowing down the underworld with guns and severed heads like he’s trying to win a competition.
“Company’s here,” Jason sing-songs from his crate, kicking his dangling leg. His kneecap dangles grotesquely, but the grin on his face is all kid-brother mischief. “Don't have too much fun while I’m gone, big brother!”
The kid is gone before Dick can blink.
Red Hood approaches, each step sharp and deliberate, until the barrel of a gun gleams in the faint light.
“Ah, Nightwing,” he drawls through the modulator, but it's cold and detached. “Now, whatever will the Big Bat think when he finds out his perfect little soldier was slacking on the job and got himself kidnapped?”
Dick forces himself to stay calm, even with the gun pressing against his jaw. “Honestly? He’ll probably just sigh and add it to the running tally. You’re, like, the twelfth this year. I think? I don't exactly keep count.”
The crime lord scoffs— a harsh, static-laced sound that buzzes through the modulator. “You think this is fucking funny?”
“A little,” Dick admits, shrugging as much as the ropes allow. “You’ve gotta have a sense of humour for this kind of thing, or you’ll go crazy. Trust me, I’d know.”
Red Hood goes still for a moment, the kind of stillness that feels heavy. Like he’s holding something back. Then, without warning, he shoots at the crate behind Dick’s chair. The wood explodes on the impact.
“Do you ever shut up?”
“Only when I want to,” Dick replies lightly.
“Well, you fuckin’ better or I’ll make sure you won't be able to talk forever,” Red Hood growls, the gun now pointing in between Dick’s eyes now.
“Okay, but— why did you kidnap me anyway? I’m not exactly Gotham’s vigilante, y’know? I have a city to get back to, crimes to stop and stuff. If you want Batman, I can leave a message—”
“Jesus fucking Christ, I told you to stop talking!” Red Hood snaps, voice cracking slightly even through the modulator. “You’re the reason Robin exists. The reason there's a fucking kid running around in traffic light colours every fucking night. The reason one of them died.”
Dick’s breath hitches. How— who is Red Hood and how much does he know about Dick’s history? Of his past, of his regrets? Of… Jason?
Anger fills his body.
“Not talking anymore, huh? Did I hit a sore spot?” Red Hood sneers, circling around him like a vulture. “But it’s not like you really care about the dead kid.”
Dick growls, almost inhuman, the raw frustration coiling in his chest like a spring ready to snap. “You don't know jack shit about me and my life,” he spits, straining against the ropes. “So don’t stand there and act like you do.”
“Oh, but I do,” Red Hood snarls. “I know every goddamn thing about Tim, about Bruce, about Barbara, about you, Dick— and even Jason.”
Dick’s pulse stutters.
Red Hood knows.
Knows them. Knows Jason. That shouldn't be possible. They’ve only known about his existence for two weeks. Two weeks— and yet this stranger talks like he lived their grief.
The man behind the helmet keeps pacing in a slow circle, gun still lazily aimed at Dick’s head, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
“Yeah,” Red Hood continues, almost conversationally, but there's venom in it, despite the slight waver. “Jason Todd. The kid that died in your colours. The one you're supposed to protect. The one you couldn't save.”
Dick’s throat closes up. His stomach sinks.
There are a lot of things people accuse him of— but that one cuts.
“...You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says quietly, because it’s the only thing he can say without his voice breaking.
Red Hood barks a laugh. It’s a broken sound, filtered through the modulator, half hysterical, half furious. “Don’t I? You were his big brother!” He snaps, the words cracking halfway through, distorted by static— or maybe something else, suddenly slamming his boot into the chair leg. The metal screeches and the whole thing jolts hard enough to make Dick’s teeth rattle.
The impact tips the chair sideways, but Red Hood keeps him upright. The gun presses harder against his forehead now, but his hand trembles slightly.
“And Bruce,” he spits, and it sounds less like a name and more like a curse. “The great fucking Batman. Daddy dearest. Didn't even do jack shit to avenge his so-called son.”
“Batman doesn't—”
“Kill?” Red Hood finishes lazily with a scoff. “I bet he’ll come running when he finds out I killed his beloved golden son. I bet he’ll rip me limb by limb because his favourite son died.”
“You don't have to do this, Red Hood,” Dick says, cautious, almost a plea— because lashing out would just end terribly— as the familiar click of the gun’s safety snaps off. “What are you trying to prove? What does Bruce’s no killing rule have to do with you?”
For a beat, Red Hood doesn't respond. The silence stretches— heavy and tense. Then, his breath catches. Just barely. Like he’s choking on something that isn’t air.
“What— what does it have to do with me?” He repeats, voice rising and distorted. “Everything! It has everything to do with me!”
He stumbles back a step, like he’s losing balance. The gun lowers, then jerks up again. The tremor in his hand is obvious now.
Dick blinks, frowning, holding his breath. “Hey, easy—”
“Don't—” Red Hood cuts him off, voice cracking. “Don’t talk to me like that. You— you don’t get to—”
And just like that the dam breaks. The sound that comes out of him isn’t a growl anymore— it’s a sob, raw and wrecked and furious. He drops the gun. It clatters across the concrete, allowing Dick to breathe. Red Hood’s knees hit the floor a second later, gloved hands gripping Dick’s legs like his life depended on it.
Dick stares down at him, utterly bewildered.
Um... what do you do when your captor is crying on your lap like a child?
“I can’t do it,” Red Hood gasps, fingers tightening around Dick’s knees. “I fucking wanted to— I told myself you deserved it— but I can’t! I can’t kill you, Dick—”
Dick blinks once. Twice. Actually, no matter how many times he blinks, it’ll just be the same sight— the intimidating crime lord Red Hood down on his knees, clutching his legs like a traumatised koala.
“Uh,” he starts slowly, peering down at the crying man. “Are you… okay? I mean, I’m glad you can’t kill me, but— this isn’t exactly how I pictured my kidnapping to go.”
“Shut up,” Red Hood chokes, voice warbling through the modulator before he rips the helmet off and throws it across the room like it's suffocating him. It bounces once, clattering to a stop against the far wall.
And Dick’s breath stops.
Because beneath all the armour, fury and guns… is Jason. Older, scarred, eyes red-rimmed, wet and furious all at once. Very, very alive.
His brain short-circuits. “You’re— what? How— hold on.” His mouth opens and closes uselessly. “You're real?”
Dick’s throat works soundlessly. His brain refuses to connect the dots— his ghost isn’t a ghost, his dead brother isn’t dead, and suddenly he’s terrified that if he blinks Jason will vanish again.
Jason sniffs, glaring up through the tears that pool in his eyes like it’s Dick’s fault he’s crying. “No, I’m a ghost. Boo.”
“That’s not funny,” Dick says automatically, because his brain can't process any of this.
Jason swipes his face angrily, like he can wipe away the evidence. “You used to think I was hilarious.”
That brought a choked laugh out of him, small and uneven. He’s unsure if it’s relief or hysteria clawing up his throat. Then, the emotions finally caught up to him. “Jason— Jay— fuck.”
Dick’s voice cracks around his brother's name, half-laugh, half-sob. He doesn't even know what he’s feeling— relief, guilt, joy, confusion— all of it crashes into him like a punch to the gut.
“I thought it’d be easier to hate you,” Jason admits hoarsely. “I wanted you to hurt— to feel what I felt. But— but I can't. You’re my brother, Dick. I can’t hurt you. You— you weren't even on Earth when I died, you didn't know—”
He stops, letting out a sob before continuing, head bowed against Dick’s thighs like he’s avoiding eye contact. “But I woke up alone and— and scared and just… so angry. Angry that I got myself killed— got myself kidnapped by the League, at Bruce, at the world— that anger slowly directed to you.”
“Oh, Jace,” Dick whispers softly, leaning forward as far as the ropes allow, the movement instinctive. His hands itch to reach out, to touch, to prove Jason’s real. “I’m sorry I wasn't there. I should've been there. I should've been there to save you.”
“You don’t get it,” Jason chokes out, clutching his legs tighter, breath shaking. “I thought killing you would make it stop— that voice in my head sounds like you, telling me to be better. But it doesn't. It never did. You’re just— you’re supposed to hate me. Why don’t you?”
Dick’s throat tightens painfully. His chest aches. “Because you’re my brother, Jason,” he says softly like it’s the simplest thing in the world— because it is. “That’s never going to change. I don't care what you’ve done, or how angry you are, or what you think I deserve—”
“Stop,” Jason croaks, shaking his head violently. “Don’t— don’t say that. Don't say it like you mean it.”
“But I do, Jay.”
Jason looks up then— eyes even redder than before, expression so raw and miserable that it almost doesn't fit on his face. His lips tremble. “I’m sorry, Dickie.”
“I know. I forgive you,” Dick says softly, voice almost breaking despite himself. “Always will, no matter what. You’re my brother, Jason. Nothing changes that.”
Jason sobs in what sounds like relief, his hands tighten around his legs like letting go might break him— too tight. Too cold.
And then—
—he’s gone.
Dick’s breath hitches, eyes frantically searching the empty room, struggling against the ropes. “Jason—”
The ropes are gone too. The room is quiet. The air smells like antiseptic and fresh bandages.
He blinks, dazed, staring up at the ceiling of his own bedroom. The city hums faintly outside. His hands are shaking.
For a moment, he just stares at them, flexing his fingers like he expects to see rope burns. There are none.
His voice comes out hoarse. “Goddammit.”
He drags a hand down his face, exhaling hard. The sound that escapes him is somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
He’s alone. Just like always.
The silence stretches— until, from the corner of his vision, he catches movement.
A figure sits cross-legged on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, grin sharp and crooked. Bones and blood peeking out of the flesh. Skin pale and gray. Eyes bright even in the dark.
“Rough night?” Jason drawls.
Dick sighs, leaning back against the headboard, eyes squeezing shut.
Somewhere in the distance, a motorcycle revs.