Welcome back! So, I hit 50 followers on Tumblr, and I'm doing a prompting session as a reward (and a thank you)! Drop on by my Tumblr, find the 50 Followers prompt list, and follow the instructions for prompts! (I'll be reblogging it every day, so it shouldn't be hard to find.) If you do it non-anonymously, I'll credit you for the prompt. I'm going to leave this open until the end of the 3rd, so everyone gets a chance to peruse the prompt list! Have fun!
Now, this is the second chapter. Not much to say about it, but enjoy! Warnings for: Dubious consent.
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."