Author's note: sorry this chapter has taken so long to come out, but I've been under a lot of stress lately. There's been a death in my family (I didn't personally know them) so a lot of my family has been down, I'm going on some meds for mental issues soon and I'm just a bit busy with work etc., sorry.
Warning: some blood is in this chapter… but you shouldn't really need a warning for that.
Little brother!" Dick's voice calls cheerfully, though there's a strange undertone to it, a subtle difference from the usual. It—unfortunately for Jason—hasn't been too long since he had last seen his adoptive brother, so it couldn't be that he's missed him greatly. Besides, if that were to be the case, Jason would be fighting for dear life under a huge bear hug. The air would be choked from his lungs slowly, painfully… in a way that only one experience can top.
Jason frowns beneath his mask, fingers suddenly twitching. Gotta break through the wood. Dirt. Wood. Survive. Must survive. Dig. Bruce? No, Dick. Survive. Wait. No. Silly idiot, you're not in there. Move. You're not in there again, look, the sky. Look at the sky, Jason. Move your fat eyelids and look! Thoughts such as those involving flashbacks can occur at any time for the poor anti-hero, though a trigger is usually what causes the gun to shoot. In this case, it was nothing more than his brother, whom was approaching him… with a limp? It could simply be a prickle in the meshes of his too-tight-for-comfort suit. Goodness knows how silly he can be about stuff like that, especially if it'll entertain someone nearby, which is probably his goal. Nightwing always sets a singular goal when he meets Red Hood: to make him laugh, or even chuckle. A small hint of amusement is his aim, and even if it usually ends up with him getting a slap across the head, he can tell Littlewing enjoys the company. Being alone for so long isn't healthy for anyone, especially when the anyone in question is someone whose brain is a bit… squished.
"Little brother," he says again with a little less enthusiasm, closing the distance between himself and the aforementioned male slowly, as if to be cautious. It brings Jason back from the edge of whatever he was about to fall into, and his hand reflexively goes up to rest on his gun, which is securely placed in a hip holster. All it would take is approximately three pounds of pressure to launch death towards this man; he could end someone's existence so easily… it would just take a small… blood drop? Blood splatters behind Nightwing, or it sure seems like blood. To be sure, Jason activates night vision in his technologically advanced helmet and magnifies everything he sees, focusing in on the world just behind limping legs. Yep, that's blood, he confirms to himself, grimacing. It seems Dickhead had gotten into trouble tonight, after all.
"Have you been shot?!"
"Uh-huh." Nightwing stopped at the building's ledge, looking forward in a way that didn't appear too promising. If this is some kind of joke or prank—which it probably isn't, given his unexpected arrival—it isn't funny in the least, Hood decides.
"Where?!"
"M' back." A considerably dangerous place to have a bullet strike, but no the most lethal. Jason sighs and pulls out his grappling gun, aiming and shooting to meet the injured vigilante waiting for him on the building opposite to his current—now former—location. He can't help but wince a little when the figure slumps forwards into his arms, occupying his personal space without permission. "Don't move, you idiot. Lemme look at your back," he growled, though not unkindly. Being rude and consumed with an infinite rage would not help anyone here, in fact, it could only do the opposite. At a time like this, the opposite could be fatal.
Making his way around Nightwing's body while holding it up from the not-so-soft ground, he finds his wound quite quickly. Latissimus dorsi, he sighs to himself, carful hands stretching the space around the bullet's entrance to further examine its location. He now knows where it is on the vigilante's back, but how deep it's gone is just as important, if not more. If it's managed to go all the way through… well, the overall mortality rate will go up by a s—t load, though if it's still lodged close to the surface, things won't be as bad. Jason silently hopes for the latter, prying the hole from two opposite sides. "It didn't go in too far," the sufferer answers the observer's question weakly. He's lost all the joy in his voice; all the enthusiasm has bleed through the cracks in his skin, leaving him an empty shell that's clearly experiencing pain. A twisted part of Jason wants to laugh in his face, to dig his digits in the new weak spot harshly, hearing the screams surfacing through the dry male's throat all the while chanting in his ear. "How do you like it? Where's Bruce to save you?! How. Do. You. Like. It?!"
"Umm… Red?"
"What?" He hisses a little too harshly, though he doesn't regret it.
"I think… can we sit down? Standing is a bit… uch, hard." In any other scenario, moving one's body would be extremely dangerous with a bullet in them. Not only do you risk the obvious things like falling over and cracking your skull because of a loss of conscious or shock, but, particularly in chest wounds, you can gain collapsed lungs. The air enters and doesn't leave, complicating things a lot more than necessary. Seeing as though it ain't a sucking wound, thus he's not in immediate danger, I'll… what am I going to do with him? Call Batman? No, no that's not an option. I could treat him here on the rooftop, but he's too noisy for that kinda s—t and I… I forgot my medical supplies, dang it. All this freaking rushing and preparation 'n' I can't even manage to bring the basics! He felt like pulling his hair out.
While he continues to consider his options with careful consideration, Dick's whole body throbs. He was already in a pretty deep level of pain when he first came out tonight—he really wanted to take a few pills during the interview and held back only for the viewers' sake—but now it was borderline unbearable. Testing Jay's patience and limits was a suicide mission, but he really couldn't keep himself up for much longer, even with two bracing hands on his biceps that seemed to be squeezing harder than they ought to be. "Red…" he groans, moving a foot back to tap on the boot behind him gingerly.
"Think you're up for being carried, princess?"
The trip back to Todd's apartment was filled with a slightly awkward silence, and both former Robins were sighing with relief when they finally arrived. Jason was growling some threats into Dicks ear, probably something along the lines of being decapitated were he ever to share this place's location and significance, but he was too tired to care. In response he only offered a lazy smile.
"Wipe that smile off your face or I'll punch all your teeth out, before making you swallow them down that pathetic throat of yours."
"I've missed you too, Jay."
"Mm."
He helped him over to a couch and frowned. The colour was light, so stains would be as broad as daylight and he couldn't really afford to buy another should some stains ruin its appearance. Dick's existence would forever be burnt into his living room, which is a big 'no' in Jason's mind. Why on earth the cheapest couch couldn't be brown or—even more convenient—leather was beyond him, though he'd still rather it over nothing or something plastic. Goodness knows it would probably collapse under his weight. "Can you stand by yourself for a second?" He asks pensively, looking down at the face that seemed to be considering his question. A quick "yeah" is his only verbal response, so Jason assumes the worst and walks over to a corner wall, propping Dick's body up against it like an annoying plank of wood that was no longer necessary for constructing whatever had to be built. "Don't slump or you'll hit it," he warns with a finger poking his chest, initiating contact by its own will. His bathroom has a few towels to lay down on the couch; a small assurance that it will be relatively clean once he's finished patching the idiotic vigilante all up. Grabbing the ones that he can definitely identify as being clean—not that they would be messy for any… oh that's disgusting—and easy to acquire, Jason wastes no time. A bullet wound is grave, no matter the situation its found, and he didn't really want to explain why a certain Bat's golden boy has suddenly dropped dead in his apartment. The whole freaking Justice League would be after my head… Diana would provide the noose, Clark would deliver the glare that sears into your soul and judges your inner moralities… Batman would remove the floor beneath my feet. And then what? Peace? Nah. They'll have some undead dude to mess me up in wherever I find myself next, or maybe J'onn will mess with my head 'n' convince me to wanna live, only to die. Can he even do that? Completely oblivious to the time he's wasting, Jason has an empty gaze fixated on his shower. Not too long ago there was a case of black mould behind the tiles so he's had to do a bit of DIY renovation in this room.
If only he could be as talented in renovating bathrooms as he is with guns.
"Jay," Dick croaks, "not to intrude on whatever you're… doing, but I really want some painkillers."
"You insinuating that I have them? That I am in constant pain? Well, lemme tell you, Grayson…" he turns a corner to see the subject he's addressing and forgets the hostile words in his head, like a switch was flipped and the words were dumped from his memory. Helping him walk over to the couch, he doesn't flinch when a body leans against his back before slowly leaving to sit on the couch once towels were laid down properly, tucked in at the corners to ensure they don't fall off. Jason, in truth, has a lot more than some simple pain relief capsules in his cabinets and fridge, but he couldn't even remember the argument he wanted to have—not properly—so the issue is at rest, quietly snoring in a grave where it would remain undisturbed until someone decided to dig it up and resurface it to the world. Dick would advise him to see a psychiatrist if he didn't know better… then again, if everyone who knew Jason didn't know better, he'd probably be in a mental asylum, locked up in a strait jacket.
That's just the way he is.