Author's Note: Hey guys! Glad you found your way to Chapter 2.
Chapter 2
I fill a large sports bottle with filtered water from a pitcher while Dick stares at me. That's all he does lately, stare at me. I turn around and shove the sports bottle in his hands.
"What?" I snap.
Dick tilts his head and sets the sports bottle on the kitchen table in front of him. "You." He frowns at me as I straddle the chair next to him. "You're… being weird."
"Hey, drink that." I push the sports bottle back at him.
The idiot has double kidney infections from not drinking enough water and holding it too long instead of taking a piss when he needs to. It's so bad his kidneys are bleeding and his urine looks like Coca Cola. It's no wonder that sicko-rapist had gotten him down after a few hits three days ago.
I cringe. Bruce hasn't looked at me since that night. He barely even speaks to me… or Dick. It's kinda funny seeing the Golden Boy on Bruce's Shit List, but if Dick's on the Shit List, what list am I on?
Dick takes a slow sip from the bottle, still staring at me. He's got dark half moons under his eyes so big it looks like someone belted him twice and he's white as a ghost. He's not shaking anymore or walking like an old man, but he moves slow and he's still got a fever.
"You're being too nice to me. It's not 'turbing, dude," Dick says.
"Turbing?" I don't know why I asked. I don't want to hear it.
"The opposite of 'disturbing'," Dick says with a grin that fades after a beat. He looks worried about something. "Uh look, I know I kinda freaked you out the other day…"
"Kinda? Dr. Leslie put you in the hospital and you had tubes coming out of you. What the hell were you thinking? What if I hadn't come in to help you right then? That freak woulda killed you, 'cuz you were too fucked up to fight back!"
I blink. My heart is racing, my nerves are raw, and my fists are clenched, ready to fight. My whole body feels hot, like I'm pissed, and I realize that I am. Dickie-bird is on my Shit List, too! I haven't yelled at him yet. He's been too sick. Yesterday, he was in bed all day and before that, he was in the hospital.
"I'm sorry, Jay," Dick said, ducking his head like a little kid. "I just… I thought it was the flu or something, and I can work with the flu. I've done it before, and I had stuff to do. I have stuff to do."
"You better not be doing anything, asshole," I yell. I grip his bony wrist, hard. Dr. Leslie said Dick's kidneys could shut down. She called it renal failure. That's something that happens to old people, not 14 year olds. "Dr. Leslie said you need to rest."
Dick flinches and looks uncomfortable. He won't meet my eyes for minute, then he looks up at me; those blue saucers of his are so sincere it makes my skin crawl. "I'll be okay, Jay."
It's my turn to not meet his eyes. I hate how he can read me so easy sometimes. I'm so used to people I care about leaving me that I expect it. My dad was locked up 'til I was eight and, as soon as he was out, he got himself shot to death. My ma was a crackhead and fried her brain when I was nine. I lived with my Aunt Gigi for a little while, 'til her deadbeat boyfriend beat her to hell, and I kicked his ass. I was on the street after. Bruce and Alfred and Dick have been with me for three years now, and I keep waiting for it to be over. It's too good to stay true.
I feel Dick's hand on my shoulder and I shrug it off, giving him a mocking sneer. "Just drink your water, Dickie-bird. Did you take your horse pills?"
Dick winces and nods. "Almost choked on them."
The antibiotics Dr. Leslie prescribed are big as the cockroaches in Aunt Gigi's fridge. I don't know how Dick gets them down. "Good." I look at my hands, not knowing what to say next. Dick talks so much it's never quiet around him, but it's quiet now, like he's nervous. Like he knows something and doesn't want to talk about it. A flash of fear hits me like a punch in the gut and I narrow my eyes.
Does he know what I did? Did Bruce tell him the rapist is dead?
"Is everything okay with you, Jay?" Dick asks. His voice is soft. "Like, really okay? We can talk—"
"Did Bruce tell you?" I demand; I sound angry but I'm scared shitless. What does Dick think of me? He's always been too good for the likes of me. He's all charm and smarts and morals, and I'm everything but. Why should he like me anymore?
Dick watches me and reaches into the front pocket of his baggy sweatshirt. He extracts a folded newspaper article he's cut out. He opens it up and palms it on the table in front of me.
Third page news: Suspected Serial Rapist's Body Found in Gotham Harbor.
So that's what Bruce did with him.
"Bruce is avoiding you and you're being way too nice," Dick says, pressing his index finger on the word "rapist" and shifting the article from left to right on the table. "Something's up. Did you…?"
I rip the article away from him and ball it up. Dick doesn't look mad or disgusted but I'm waiting for it. My insides are twisting in all directions. "I hit him too hard. I saw you, and him, and I took that stupid bat from him and smashed the shit out of his head. I didn't mean to kill him, but…" I held up my hands. "And… and so what? A murdering pedo-freak is dead."
I don't look at Dick. I don't want to see his face after what I just said. I can't see those saucers of his filling with pity or scorn. I turn my whole body away from him, and nearly jump out of my chair in shock when I feel his skinny arms closing around my shoulders.
He's fucking hugging me!
"You saved me," he murmurs. "That guy was gonna kill me."
"Uh…"
"I'm sorry I made you have to do that." His voice wavers. "It's all my fault, Jase. I shouldn't have gone out with you guys."
Wait, what? Dickie-bird's blaming himself? I almost chuckle out loud, relief and disbelief making me stupid. Of course he's blaming himself. It's what Dick Grayson does. Everything's his fault. His parents getting killed when he was eight is his fault. Bruce taking him in and taking flack from the Justice League jerks for having a kid partner is his fault.
I fuck up and Dick's acting like he swung the bat. "Dammit, Bird Brain." I shrug his arms off me and spin around so that I can glare at him. Dick looks heartbroken. This kid needs physical contact like crack whores need a hit, but I'm not so touchy-feely.
"Look, nothing's your fault. I messed up, I misjudged and the guy died. Bruce covered it up. End of story," I say. "I don't care about it."
Dick swallows, looking ready to hurl. "But…"
"I don't, okay," I say. "It was an accident." One I ain't sorry happened. Even Dick says that perv woulda killed him. There's no problem.
"If… if you say so," Dick says. "I just…" he trails off. "Thanks, okay." He clasps his hands in front of him, watching me still, but not moving to hug me again—though I can tell he wants to.
Oh hell.
I lean forward and put my arms around him, rolling my eyes when he hugs me back, hard. Sentimental Bird Brain. I frown; his fever's down but he's still hot, and he feels bonier than ever. My brother is a short, scrawny bugger, but he's made of steel—or at least he is when he's healthy. When he's hurt or sick, he becomes a five-foot-two, 100 pound kid who needs someone bigger to protect him.
Or maybe that's just how I see it.
I let him go and he sits back, grinning at me. "You're getting all sappy on me, Jay. Next I'm gonna catch you looking at Steel Magnolias with a box of Kleenex and Bon Bons."
I make a fist, about to deck him in the shoulder, but I remember how fragile he felt in that hug. I noogie him instead and he pushes me away, laughing. "Jerk," he says.
And that's it. I killed a guy, Dick finds out, and it's cool. I'm happy that Dick doesn't think I'm a monster or something, but isn't this too easy? I broke a big rule and like, a Tenth Commandment. The cosmos must have something planned because this is going too good for me.
The sound of soft patented leather shoes approaching signals Alfred's entrance. I look to the doorway to see him coming in. He's wearing his usual starched and ironed tux and professionally bored expression. His dark eyes light up at seeing Dickie-bird upright. Lots of people's eyes light up when Dickie-bird's around. Adults love patting his head and pinching his cheeks. They know better than to touch me, though.
"Master Richard; how wonderful to see you out of bed. I trust you are feeling better?" Alfred said. He raises a brow at Dick. The man's got truth beams in his eyes. He can always tell when we're lying.
Dick gives Alfie a small smile. "A little. I got tired of being in bed."
Hyperactive bastard.
Alfred makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat and runs a finger over the kitchen table, probably checking for dirt. "Well, since you are both here, what would you two like for lunch?"
I make a face. I don't care what I eat. Food is food, and if it comes from Alfie it's usually damned good. I mean, with my mom, I used to eat condensed soup right out of the can. I glance at Dick though. He's not a picky eater, but he doesn't eat a lot, and when he's hurt he doesn't eat at all.
My brother looks whiter than ever and he grimaces. "Alfie, I'm not so hungry."
"You must eat, Master Richard," Alfred says, sounding firm. Sometimes, Bruce says stuff and I ignore it, but when Alfred says stuff I do it. There's just something about the guy that's scary.
Dicks feels the same way. He told me once that he thinks Alfred is a meta in hiding. That's stupid, but sometimes I think Dick is right.
"Uh… maybe a grilled cheese would be okay," Dick says, looking sicker by the minute.
"Grilled cheese sandwiches it is, and how about some soup to go along with it," Alfred says. He bustles over to the pantry, not waiting for Dick to add anything else.
Dick puts his head down on the table with a light moan. "Wonder what grilled cheese tastes like coming back up."
"Probably better than fried chicken. That's just gross, man," I supply and laugh when Dick gives me the finger.
"Master Richard, that is inappropriate," Alfred scolds, but he'd never turned around to see us. The man has eyes in the back of his head.
"Meta," Dick utters and I nod.
Dick and I sit and wait for our sandwiches. I'm always hungry, so my mouth is watering at the growing platter of brown and crispy goodness on the counter top beside the stove. Tomato soup bubbles in a pot beside Alfred's hot, buttered skillet. I'm not the biggest fan of tomato soup, looks too much like blood for me, but Dickie-bird likes it.
My brother is drinking his water like a good boy and shooting queasy looks at the food. Hell, whatever he doesn't eat I will. I'm used to finishing his plates, too. The backdoor swings open, and I tense. Only Bruce would be coming through that door at this time. And I'm right.
Bruce sweeps in still in his three piece suit, carrying his briefcase. He must have come straight home from a Wayne Corp Meeting. I don't know why he bothers to go. He puts on this ditz front when he goes out in public, so no one in those meetings takes him all that serious. If I was him, I would live up the playboy life. Bruce has had some seriously hot chicks walking around this place; though not so much anymore after he caught me and Dick spying on him and one of his bimbos in the Jacuzzi one night.
"Good afternoon, Master Bruce. Will you be joining the boys for lunch? It is just about complete. I will serve you in the dining room."
Dick grunts. He hates eating in the dining room, and I don't blame him. That place is huge and full of china and other really expensive stuff. Makes me nervous that I'm gonna break something every time I walk through there. But, hey, at least Alfie's not expecting us to dress up for it or anything. He usually makes us brush our hair and put on shoes. I'm in jeans and a t-shirt, but Dick's still got on pajama bottoms and his black hair is no man's land.
Bruce sets his brief case on the kitchen table and I hold my breath. This is the closest he's come to me in days. Bruce's severe blue eyes pierce me; he doesn't smile, he doesn't say hello. His eyes go to Dick, who's steady sipping his water and looking miserable, and—of course—his eyes soften—looks like someone's off Daddy's Shit List. Bruce reaches out and places the back of one large hand on Dick's forehead.
"You still have a fever," Bruce says. He tries to smooth Dick's rat nest and fails epically; then his eyes are back on me, and hard as rock. "Jason, I want to talk to you in my study."
I think I gulped. I'm not sure. I just know Dick's looking at me like I'm on a march to the gallows. If he tries to shake my hand, sick or not, I'll punch him.
"Uh… okay, sure," I say. "No problem, Bruce." I start to shake and suddenly the smell of grilled cheese and tomato soup is making me as nauseous as Dick. I follow Bruce out of the kitchen and toward the stairs. Bruce takes the stairs by two's and three's, in a hurry to get to the top. I take my time. He doesn't look back to make sure I'm following him, because I'm sure he knows that I am.
Like I said earlier, I don't always do what Bruce tells me to, but I also don't like to piss him off too bad. I still owe the guy a lot—a lot. I'd be in some crappy boys' home if it wasn't for him or I'd be in some loser gang or dead on the street.
My hands grip the rails of the stairs. He's not gonna kick me out. If he was gonna do that he'd have done it that night. No, this is just gonna be some kinda lecture, or punishment. I stop cold, heart falling into my stomach.
What if he tells me I can't be Falcon anymore?
Fuck.
My feet won't move. It's more than me not wanting to go into the study; I can't. I stay there on the stairs, staring into space. After a few minutes, I hear Bruce call me. It doesn't matter; I'm still not moving. I can't let him take Falcon away from me. What will I do? Who will help Batman and Robin? Who's gonna watch Robin's back? What about all the killers and criminals that will get away without a third person on the team to run them down?
He can't do it. I won't let him. He can't if I never go…
"Jason." Bruce is in front of me, gripping my shoulders. "Jason, are you all right?"
I blink, staring at him and I do something I didn't think I knew how to do. I grab his hands, my voice high, tears streaming down my face. God, it hurts. "Please… please, Bruce."
"Jason, what…"
"Please don't make me stop being Falcon. I'm sorry. It was an accident. Please, please, don't take Falcon away from me!"
Bruce is still, his hands slack in mine for a moment. His eyes scan me, roving up and down, and resting on my face. I don't know what I look like, a hot mess I bet, but if it's working I don't care. Bruce's features shift from cool to concern.
Concern? For me?
"Jason." He pulls one of his hands from mine and touches my hair. He sighs and I'm pulled into a light hug, right there on the stairs. Good thing Bruce has good balance or we would have toppled backwards. "Come on."
I let Bruce lead me the rest of the way up the stairs and into his study. The blinds are drawn and the room is dark. Long shadows cover the floor. Bruce keeps an arm around my shoulder as he walks the room, turning on lamps. He brings me to the leather loveseat and sits me down; then takes the seat beside me.
"Jason…"
I'm looking at my feet. I'm wearing Dick's socks; they've got Superman logos on them. Here it comes. Here it comes.
"I'm not going to take Falcon away from you."
I gasp and stare up at him. His expression is serious and worried.
"But I am grounding Falcon for a while," he said slowly. "At least until Robin is ready to fly again."
Okay, okay, I can handle that.
"And at least until I know that you're okay to fly again, too," Bruce says, his voice wary.
Until I'm okay to fly? I'm not hurt.
"Jason, when you hit that man, you aimed for his head and swung as hard as you could," Bruce says. "I understand you were angry and scared, but your actions that night…"
"I didn't mean to. I should have… I shouldn't have hit him in the head. I shouldn't have used the bat. If I could go back, I wouldn't do it. I just… I thought Dick was dead—that the guy killed him the same way he killed all those little girls. I just—I wasn't even thinking; I just wanted him to pay."
"And that's why I'm worried, Jason," Bruce said. "That line of thinking—it's not abnormal. Your reaction was completely normal; people do feel murderous when their family is attacked, but not everyone has the power to hurt others in the way we can. Your temper is out of control. I've noticed it before this. I should have been watching you better that night. I should have been watching the both of you better. I knew that Dick's movements were off, but you're not as reckless when you work with him, so I let it go. That night is my fault. Both you and Dick got hurt on my watch."
I stare at him, slack-jawed. Bruce is taking the blame and admitting he was wrong about something? Well, hell yeah, he was wrong if he noticed something was wrong with Dick and let him run into a fight anyway. But he'd done it because he thought that Dick could control me, that I need Dick around to make me act smarter.
"That's not it at all!" I shout. I can't believe this shit. Bruce let Dick work sick because he thinks Dick is my leash. "I'm not reckless; I'm good. Bad guys are afraid of me, but when I work with Dick I just—I have to watch his back. I can't fight like I want to because I'd leave him open… like that night."
"You are reckless," Bruce says, voice like steel. "You take unnecessary risks, you cause more injury than required, and you have disobeyed me on too many occasions. This can't continue, not if you want to remain Falcon. You are on probation."
Which is actually pretty light for killing somebody. I shouldn't complain, but Bruce's words eat at me like the Joker's acid. I'm reckless. I hurt people when I don't have to. I don't listen. So, what? I get the job done. The people I hurt are bad, and sometimes, I have good ideas that don't make sense to Bruce but they work.
I want to say something, but I don't want to push it. Bruce isn't taking Falcon away; I just gotta wait for Dickie-bird to get better and maybe do some things to get myself in Bruce's good graces. Maybe I'll stop talking back to my stupid science teacher. I could do my homework better, too, and get better grades.
"Okay, Bruce," I say. "I get it. I'll work on it. I'll fix it, and then it'll be okay again."
Bruce studies me in his creepy Batman way, like he's reading my soul. What does he see in it? I know I'm not all shiny and gold inside like Dick, but there's some good stuff in me, too, Bruce sees that.
He has to, or he wouldn't have made me Falcon. He wouldn't let me stay Falcon.
"Go eat your lunch, Jason." Bruce rises from the couch and goes to his desk.
I stay where I am, frowning at him. I want him to comment on me fixing myself. I want him to agree that it'll be okay again. "Bruce?"
"I'll join you for dinner tonight."
I don't want to leave, but he'd used that tone, the one that said: You are dismissed.
I got up to leave. I made it to the door, before he called to me again.
"Jason?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you regret killing that man?" he asks; he's doing the Batman thing, reading my soul.
Can I lie to Bruce Wayne? Yes. Can I lie to Batman? No. But I still can't answer the question truthfully. I want Falcon to fly again. So, I say, "Yes, I do."
Bruce Wayne nods, but Batman knows I lied.
Author's Note: Well, what's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care about it either way? Any way you liked it, let me know! Please review! Take care!
