AN: It's been a while since the last update - I've been snowed under with exams. I still have one more to go, actually, but I've been spending my free time (such as it is, with all the revision) writing this chapter for you guys. My infinite thanks to Chaseha-Wing and Seafalcon for reviewing, and also to everyone who's favorited/alerted this story: it means a lot to me.

Before anyone gets on my case about it, yes, I do realise that this story would probably end up being after the reboot, what with everyone being as they are, but no, I haven't written Nightwing in the red suit. This is because I, personally, hate the damned thing because it's essentially what he wore when he was Renegade, and hence I have no idea what DC were thinking when they made it his Nightwing outfit. Besides, I like the blue one for the fingerstripes. Anyway, rant over, and if you want to imagine the red version, be my guest. Also, apologies if my version of Jason is a little bit bi-polar (across the entire story). That's just how I imagine him. Dunno why.

I still own naff-all, surprisingly enough, and the next update may not be for about a week, because my exams aren't actually over yet, and I have a stunt-riding course in two days' time. Anyhow, hope you enjoy it, and please tell me what you think, even if you just want to rant at me about it (seriously - I like constructive criticism, owing to the fact that I'm not perfect, and I'd like to get better).

PS. sorry if some of the spellings are the English versions - I'm in England, and my spellcheck only knows UK English, so it may have autocorrected some of my attempts to type in a 'Jason' accent.

A Forced Fledging

It's been almost two weeks since I left the manor – Tim helped me sneak out when we got word that Bruce was on his way home from whatever it was that he was up to with the Justice League (seriously, nobody ever tells me anything). I've had countless missed calls and three messages on my answerphone from Tim since then: the first letting me know that all was well with the Damian-baiting; the second telling me Dick wasn't pissed off with me any more, and demanding to know why I wasn't picking the phone up; and the third informing me he was coming over and that I'd better have a damned good excuse for ignoring him, because Dick seemed to expect him to know what the fuck I was up to and it was driving him mad. Yes, Timmy actually swore at me over the phone. Which is why I'm sat on the couch in my war-zone of an apartment, waiting for my little brother to turn up, and not knowing whether to be pleased or pissed off that my family (or rather, those members of it that I'm actually prepared to talk to) are worried about me, despite the fact I'm pretty much healed up. Not that they actually know that…

Tim doesn't bother knocking, just lets himself in with the key I gave him. He's barely shut the door when he flashes me a weary smile.

"You're not dead, then. You would not believe the amount of different catastrophes Dick has run by me for a second opinion on the likelihood of their having killed you. He calls me every two hours, for crying out loud!"

"Here," I hold out a bottle of beer to him and pat the couch beside me with my other hand, "Sit down and have a drink. You look like you need it." Somewhat surprisingly, he actually does as I suggest, flopping down beside me, taking the bottle, and opening it with his teeth before taking a long pull from it.

"Ah, that's good. Seriously, Jason, deal with your paranoid boyfriend before he drives me to distraction – I haven't slept properly in days. I'm genuinely considering moving in with you, just to get away from him… On a brighter note, we blackmailed Dami out of notifying Bruce of your visit, and I've edited you out of all the security footage, so you needn't worry about a visit from the big, bad Bat any time soon."

"Cool. You know, if you don't need to be anywhere for a while, you can crash on my couch for a few hours while I…er…deal with a few idiots who've decided to set up a drug ring a couple streets West of here. I'll be back by 0200, so you could get nearly three-and-a-half hours' sleep, even if I wake you on my way back in. I'll call Dickie in the morning and tell him to give you some peace." Timmy nods, downs the rest of the bottle and prods me with his foot.

"Go on, then, budge. I'll see you later." He curls up as I get to my feet, and I fish behind the couch for a blanket to toss over him. Judging by the light snores already emanating from him, Tim's genuinely exhausted. I tuck the blanket in carefully, before heading to my room to get my gear together.

As I arrange my holsters, I wonder how Timmy missed the implication that the drug-dealers wouldn't be seeing tomorrow. Not that I should complain, but it's not like him to just let me go and shoot criminals without some kind of attempt to talk me out of it, at least. I slip a kris in each boot and double-check my guns – two Browning HPs, a Luger, and a Beretta M9 tonight, plus my trusty AK-47, of course. I know the Walther's loaded and in place, 'cause I haven't actually used it since I changed the clip – that particular pistol is for emergencies only. Everything seems okay, so I smear a little spirit-gum on the back of my domino and press it to my face, leaving it for a few seconds to be sure it's stuck properly; then grab my helmet and put it on. I'm Red Hood now, not Jason Todd, so I don't feel quite so guilty about leaving Tim here alone. Still, I use the remote to re-latch the window once I'm outside, just to be sure nobody can get in. He's still my brother, after all. I slip away across the rooftops.

Okay, looks like I won't have to blow this place sky-high: my targets are doing it for me. Nobody actually lives in the area that'll be affected by that amount of explosives, either, what with this part of town being mainly warehouses, so I don't have to worry too much about collateral. Good. I set myself up in the best position I can find to snipe from. The sight-line isn't perfect, but it's a damn sight better than anywhere else (I've been watching this place for a while).

A flash of blue flits across my peripheral vision. Shit. What the fuck is Dick doing here? Oh, fuck no – don't do that, Dickie! I'd yell, but he wouldn't hear me from here. Can the idiot really not have seen the amount of explosives that place is rigged with? I shoulder my AK-47 and try to get a clean shot at the man with the detonator. Don't panic, Jason, whatever you do, don't fucking panic. I squeeze the trigger. The explosives detonate a split-second before the bullet hits home.

I'm already moving as the body hits the ground and the rubble begins to settle. I can't see Dick anymore, and I really doubt that's a good thing. I narrowly avoid stumbling as I hit the floor – that last jump was too hasty, and I misjudged the distance slightly. The remainder of my targets are scattering, but I can't afford the time to follow them. I know who they are; I can deal with them later. I activate the emergency alarm on my belt, muttering an apology for waking Tim up that way – he rigged it the day I left, and it causes his cell phone to make the most appalling racket. He should be here soon. God knows, I'm glad I let him persuade me to have some method of contact.

Wait, what's that? Shit. Shit, shit, shit! A black glove with two blue fingers. Still on the hand of its owner, and poking out from the wreckage of the warehouse. Fuck. Hurry it up, Timmy: I need you here now.

I drop to my knees and catch his wrist gently in my fingers, hunting for a pulse. Come on, Dickie-bird, don't be dead. You can't die before I've told you what you mean to me. Screw the fact that I couldn't actually quantify exactly what that was 'til now, just don't be fucking dead! There! A tiny, reassuring flutter under my fingertips. Now I just have to get him out of the rubble without getting him crushed. I can do that. I hope…

It takes me a moment to notice the second pair of hands that join my attempts to dig Dick out. I tense, ready to do some serious damage; then realise it's just Tim. Or should I say Red Robin? Guess he keeps a spare suit in the bottom of his bike's panniers. I refocus on removing the rubble.

"What the hell happened?" Tim's voice is terse, and I can almost see him calculating exactly what's safe to move and what isn't.

"I don't know what he was doing here, but he turned up at exactly the wrong moment. Help me with this, would you?" I take one end of a section of girder and Tim helps me lift it. I hold my breath as the debris shifts slightly, revealing the upper half of Dick's body. Tim and I wince in unison. That's a hell of a lot of blood. Tim peers into the hole Dick's lying in, frowning slightly.

"Looks like we can pull him out now. Careful, though – I don't like the look of the slab that's holding that cave's roof up." I manoeuvre into a position where I can get my arms around Dick's chest, noticing with some relief that he doesn't seem to have broken any ribs.

"Ready?" Tim nods an affirmative, hunching over in preparation to catch Dickie's legs once they're clear, so we can move him away. I start lifting, pulling Dick upwards and away from the overhanging rubble. Timmy looks as worried as I feel when Dick's legs come into view. Nothing looks broken, which is good, but there's a nasty gash on his left thigh that looks suspiciously close to the femoral artery.

"I've got him." Tim tells me as he slips his hands under Dick's knees, "Let's get him out of the immediate danger zone, and I'll call Batman."

"What?" I nearly freeze up, but Tim's continued momentum reminds me to keep moving.

"He needs a doctor, and we can't get him to one on a motorbike." Fuck it, Timmy, I know that, but if we hand him over to Bruce, I won't be seeing him anytime soon. "I promise I'll sneak you in to see him, if I have to, but we haven't really got much choice."

"Go on, then." I sigh, as he helps me rearrange Dick so I'm holding him bridal-style, "Call him. And…look after Dickie for me. I swear, if you let him die, I'll murder you." Tim nods solemnly, activating his communicator. I shut out his voice, opting instead to take a good look at my Dickie-bird, just in case this is the last chance I get. I'm glad of my helmet – I don't want Tim to see me crying.

"He's on his way…" Tim's hand on my shoulder brings me back to reality and, reluctantly, I let him take Dick from me.

"You know how to reach me. Don't worry if I don't pick up – I have a few…errands…to run before I go home." Tim's answer doesn't surprise me nearly as much as it should.

"Happy hunting, big brother."

I was expecting a message to be waiting for me when I got back to my apartment; not to find Tim hunched over on my couch with his head in his hands.

"Timmy?" I'm getting an awful sinking feeling. Tim's head jerks up to look at me, and I can see he's been crying.

"Jay? I… I couldn't stay there, Jay. Not without knowing if…if…" He breaks off with a sort of choked sob, and launches himself at me, clinging to me as if I was…well, as if I was Dick, I suppose. I wrap my arms around him awkwardly, unsure of exactly what I'm supposed to do now that Tim is actually acting like the frightened teenager he is. I'm kind of glad I took my helmet and mask off before I left my bedroom – anonymity is really not useful when incompetently attempting to comfort people.

"How…how bad is it, Timmy?" Fuck, I really don't know if it's something I should ask him, but I can't stand not knowing.

"There was, um, brain haemorrhage. He's in surgery, but…Alfred and Leslie aren't neurosurgeons, Jay, and the margin for error is so tiny…" Aw, fuck… Quick, gotta think of a way to calm him down…

"Babybird, listen to me, 'kay? You trust Alfred and Leslie, right?"

"Well, yeah, but –"

"And you trust Dick, don't you?"

"Of course I do, but Jay, what if –"

"Everything will work out, Timmy. Trust me." Fuck, I hope that sounded more convincing to him than it did to me. It's true, though – Alfred and Leslie will do all they can, and Dick's a fighter. They'll manage somehow. They have to.

"I do trust you, Jay." Wait, what? Timmy trusts me? Jesus, how the fuck am I supposed to react to that? I give him a gentle squeeze and kiss his forehead, because that's what Dickie would do.

"Good man, Timmy. Now, do you want to go back, or shall we wait here for news?"

"Can we stay here? I don't think I can face going back there on my own." Shit, of course, I shouldn't have asked.

"Sure thing, kid. Want me to find some music for you? I'm pretty sure I've got something non-depressing around here somewhere…" Was that a smile I just saw, Timmy? Success!

"Jason, is this seriously your definition of 'non-depressing' music?" Hey! It's not my fault if my musical taste is a bit on the dark side.

"What's depressing about Skillet?"

"Apart from the fact that this particular song appears to be about comforting a suicidal friend? Nothing." Okay, so he may have a point, but 'The Last Night' is one of my favourites.

"Don't knock it, Babybird – it reminds me of him." Yeah, call me a fucking loony if you like, but it really does remind me of how it felt to have Dick's arms around me as I fell asleep. Maybe that's just me reading too much into it, but whatever…

"It does? How?" Oh, Timmy, why do you always ask the awkward questions?

"Just…fuck it, I dunno…that feeling of not being alone anymore, you know? Having someone to rely on, for once." Even if it does mean I have to endure being randomly hugged at every opportunity: never quite got used to that, though it was…nice, I guess.

"I always thought 'Those Nights' fitted him better, but I can see what you mean…"

"You listen to Skillet too? Well, fuck, I didn't see that coming…" Tim smirks at me.

"You weren't the only one who felt lonely, Jay." Fair enough, but I still can't quite picture it, somehow. "Just out of curiosity, is this genuinely the least depressing music you have?"

"Um…depends on how depressing you rate Yellowcard and Rise Against as being, I guess. And there might be a Relient K album in my bedroom…unless that was the one I lent Roy last April and haven't actually got back yet… Most of my CDs were already here when I moved in; they were okay, so I didn't throw them out."

The buzzing of Tim's phone shuts off our conversation instantly. I turn off the stereo. I stay silent as he answers the call.

"Bruce?...That's great!...Yes, of course I can get there…Right. I'll be with you in ten." He snaps the phone shut and turns to look at me. "Dick's not awake yet, but he's going to be fine. Bruce wants me to get over there ASAP – says he's had a call from Commissioner Gordon. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Jason?" I tap the side of my nose and wink at him.

"That would be telling, Babybird." He scowls at me, seemingly somewhat irritated.

"Are you aware that you're utterly incorrigible?" Hell, yeah, Timmy – it's 100% deliberate.

"Shouldn't you be off to look after Dickie-bird so Daddybats can go talk to the Commish?" Tim sighs in what I assume to be exasperation and leaves. I head to my bedroom and watch from the window as he roars off on that funny little motorbike of his. It looks like he put it together from parts of various different makes and models. Knowing Tim, he probably did: he's not a bad engineer, really. Even if he does lack spontaneity sometimes.

Fuck, it's been almost an hour: I can't just sit here any longer. I stand up, smoothing the sheets where I've been sitting – nobody ever expects it of me, but I do actually make my bed. It's about the only bit of my apartment that's ever remotely tidy, really. Call me paranoid, but when you've gone without a safe place to sleep for as long as I did, you get kind of obsessive about making sure your bed is sort of a safe haven. Hence why mine always has clean sheets and hospital corners. It was like that at the manor, too, though nobody ever noticed, except Alfred. I think he understood about it, to an extent. Well, as much as anyone understands my habits (myself included: some of the stuff I do has no apparent cause; I just do it).

I pick my way across the floor (which is, as usual, covered with the parts of the guns I've currently got stripped down for cleaning – I rotate them every week or so, just to be sure they're all in perfect working order), and open the wardrobe, grinning at the sight of the six-foot tall, roughly human-shaped block of wood in Kevlar body armour that I use for target practice. What to use today – a gun or a kris? My bedroom's soundproofed, so it hardly matters, really. I remove the armour from the target; then wander back to the other side of the room, fishing out a kris from the drawer in my nightstand. I turn; throw without really aiming. The kris hits the target right where the heart would be. I smirk, grabbing another kris and throwing it just as casually as the first. It sticks in the wood about three millimetres to the right of its twin.

I'm about to pick up another when the phone rings. After a second's hesitation, I pick it up.

"Timmy?"

"Hey, Jason. Dick's awake – it was his idea to call you, actually."

"That's…" I huff out a sigh of relief, "That's awesome, Timmy. Any chance you could put him on?"

"Sure. Just a minute…" A brief pause; then a very familiar voice comes down the line.

"Jaybird! How come Tim has your number and I don't? I thought I was the one you were in to." Oh, Dickie… Trust you to joke around when I've been worried about you.

"I dunno, maybe 'cause you were still kind of pissed at me when I left and he wasn't. How come you were trying to get yourself blown up on my patch?" Seriously, I want to know.

"I was looking for you, actually. I was…well, I was worried about you, I guess…"

"Yeah, I worked that out when Tim told me you were calling him constantly. I was going to ring you in the morning, you know." And fuck I feel bloody guilty right now. Why didn't I just call him there and then?

"Ah, well. It all worked out for the best, anyhow."

"How the fuck did it work out for the best? You could have died!" And I really need to calm down – I don't want to lose my temper with Dickie over the phone. Not now.

"This way, we get to have make-up sex." I hear Tim's squeak of protest in the background and fight back a giggle. Because I don't giggle, no matter how much those two idiots might make me want to.

"There's a flaw in that plan, beautiful – you're supposed to be taking it easy, what with the whole head-injury thing."

"Fuck. Whatever, we'll just have to postpone the sex for a bit. I can still use you as a pillow." Now there's a plan I like the sound of.

"And are you going to tell Bruce about us, or were you planning on running away with me?" There's silence on the end of the line for a moment; then a new voice speaks.

"Care to tell me why Commissioner Gordon found four men on the docks, all neatly castrated and all reporting to have been told that they were damned lucky that the Red Hood's lover doesn't like him killing people?" Oh, fuck. Bruce. I let out a sort of strangled squeak. "Get over here now, Jason, before I come and get you." There's a click as he hangs up. I put the phone down and stare at it in shock for a moment; then make a mad dash for my front door, pausing only to pick up my keys.