Dick Grayson

"Embrace the pain. Make it your closest friend. Use the pain to remind you of who you are."

Batman's instructions, reminders of childhood training, wandered into my mind unbidden. His deep, dark voice used to be soothing. Now even the memory of it made my excruciating headache worse.

Embrace the pain.

I had no idea how long it had been since my escape attempt had crumbled into dust. Since Terrance had been murdered because I wasn't enough to save him. Not good enough, not fast enough, not smart enough.

He was just a kid. A kid killed trying to protect you.

Davis had hit me again before dragging me back to my cell. I remembered that much. But not what came after. Wasn't sure where all these bruises came from. Red and blue and purple, deep and painful and everywhere.

I couldn't recall them shackling me to cold metal pipes jutting out from the wall, either. The chains were just long enough for me to lift myself to the sink for water that I could only hope wasn't contaminated. Not enough slack to actually lay down on the cot. So I sat and shivered on the floor and tried not to fall into myself. Tried not to surrender to the darkness and just let go.

Embrace the pain...

Must've at least been a few days. The gnawing, empty pain in my stomach was gone. Or maybe it was just drowned in the cacophony of suffering. Tamped down by the throbbing drumbeat of that damned headache.

Make it your closest friend.

I guess I tried to slip the cuffs at some point. Would explain why my wrists were mottled and bloody. But I couldn't remember. It didn't matter. I was too weak to try again.

Bruce would be so disappointed in you. He trained you to survive things like this. To escape.

That wasn't entirely true. He had prepared me to resist starvation, beatings, and torture when they were tools in the hands of an interrogator. All of us were trained to keep our secrets, even if it killed us. But I must've missed the lesson on how to keep it from driving me insane. How to cope when my captors had no end game aside from working diligently to destroy me.

Jason would know what to do. Jason would keep his head. He'd been through more agony than anyone, and he came out the other side. Came through it all and was still capable of loving me more ferociously than I could ever conceive.

Heartache joined my list of torments.

You've pushed Jason away. Over and over. Even if, by some miracle, you survive this, do you really think he'll open himself up again?

It probably wouldn't matter. Survival odds looked bleaker by the minute. I suppressed a shudder as I heard heavy boots slow, then stop outside my cell. The door swung open and I instinctively winced, covering my face as Davis stepped inside, brandishing his baton and a sinister smile.

"'S'it time?" I slurred, expecting to be hauled to my feet and off to my fate at the 'Tribunal'.

Laughing, he crouched down and dug his fingers into my hair, nails biting at my scalp. "You still got days before it's time, Princess. I'm just here to make sure those days are as painful as possible."

He slammed me back and stood, continuing to laugh with maniacal glee as he kicked and hit whatever target was easiest. I did my best to cover my head - another concussion would probably kill me - but it left my side wide open. Steel toed boots connected and I felt ribs shatter and splinter with the force. I coughed and sputtered on the blood that suddenly filled my mouth; the herald of a punctured lung.

Embrace the pain…

"What exactly do you think you are doing, Officer Davis?" LeGrande's voice echoed in from the hallway, and the blows abruptly stopped. Gasping and wheezing, I looked up to see her framed by the door, hands crossed over her chest, scowling.

Davis stammered and sputtered, trying and failing to find an explanation for his wanton brutality.

LeGrande held up a hand, stopping his attempts and rolling her eyes in disapproval. "You realize if he dies before the Tribunal, there will be consequences. And I will ensure the President's office is made very aware of who was responsible. Now get him to medical before he bleeds to death. Idiot."

Chastised, Davis pulled out his keys and unlocked the shackles, the heaved me to my feet. For his trouble, I coughed a mouthful of blood onto his uniform, just as I collapsed back onto the floor and stopped fighting for consciousness.

Embrace the…

— — — — — —

Before

After those first 48 hours holed up in my bathroom with Jason, after he confessed his love for me, I was ashamed to admit it wasn't mutual. I didn't love him, not like that. Or, I had convinced myself that I didn't love him. That our 'relationship' was casual and physical. Filling a mutual need.

What can I say? I was raised by Batman, after all. I had a knack for swallowing emotions I wasn't prepared to deal with.

Forgetting it was easy at first. We were busy. Night after night of endless, thankless work. Together we'd smother our sorrows and aches under the pillows and sheets. Rinse and repeat.

My avoidance of the topic had become so rote that we made it two years without addressing it. Before bad timing and an asshole with a gun changed things.

No. Wait. It started with pizza.

Somewhere in the space between the first bombings and Lex's takeover, the US government limped along by instituting a ration ticket system. People on our block got to go to the store and trade coupons for food on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Actual money was a thing of the past. The bottom fell out of the exchange rate the minute the first bomb hit.

So, needless to say, comfort food was not on the menu. Which made it all the more surprising when I came home from a check-in at the manor to find hot pizza on the table and Jason smiling beside it.

"How…" I was blinking, stupefied. As if it were some mirage or trick of the light. Not really a pizza, just three cans of beans in a trench coat.

His Cheshire grin grew. "I made it."

He pulled out a chair and motioned for me to sit. I flopped down, flummoxed, even as he placed a crisp slice on my plate.

I looked from him, to the pizza, and back again. Still not quite believing it. He laughed a little and relented. "Fine. I'll share my secrets with you. We had some flour left from last week's ticket. And some stewed tomatoes because you hate them. So there's the crust and the sauce."

I took a slow, tentative bite. My eyes flew open and I covered my mouth while I chewed, retaining at least a little decorum. "This is amazing! Where did you get real cheese?"

"That," he grinned again, "was trickier. There's a guy out by Robinson Park that will take some milk tokens and some tradable stuff and make mozzarella. Apparently he still has the enzymes and salt left, just needs milk and something to make it worth his while."

Suddenly ravenous, I took another bite, fascinated and nodding along. "What did we have that was worth trading?"

The smile settled out of his eyes a little, still making it up to his cheeks. "He was pretty smitten with my Beretta. And ammunition's harder and harder to come by…"

Once again I was stunned. But for an entirely different reason. Jason had that gun since the early days. His preferred weapon, even after he switched to rubber bullets. Giving up a firearm was conceding some of his own defenses. I knew him well enough to understand vulnerability like that was excruciating for him.

He shrugged at my silence and grabbed a slice of pizza for himself. "What can I say, Dickiebird? I'd cut off my arm for you if I thought it'd make you happy. I love you."

There it was. An inescapable declaration. I lowered my head and closed my eyes. "Jay, I…"

"It's ok," he interrupted, shrugging again and feigning nonchalance. "You don't have to say it. I'm not upset. I just… I wanted you to know. Because I do love you, and it's enough for me that we make each other happy." He scoffed, clambering to the more comfortable terrain of gallows humor, "At least as happy as anyone can be living in an irradiated hell-hole, right?"

I'd like to think I would have had something worthwhile to say in the awkward heartbeat that followed. We never got a chance to find out. Simultaneously, our phones pinged with an alert from Bruce.

"Armed assailant at Gotham General Hospital. Hostages taken."

"Well, shit…" Jason muttered.

With practiced speed we stood from the table and headed for our gear, forgetting the conversation and the pizza. We were afraid something like this might happen. People, children especially, were getting cancer at an alarming rate. It was so bad there was a waiting list for chemotherapy and radiation treatments - triaged so the patients with the best chance at survival went first. That left a lot of very sick people to languish. It was only a matter of time before the dam burst on the implications, and a hurting family member would decide to take matters into their own hands, using violence to bump their loved ones up the list.

Naturally, the newly-militarized police would approach this situation with a sledge hammer when a scalpel was required, and people would die. So we suited up and headed out, preparing for the worst.

As predicted, the entrance of the hospital was completely barricaded by SWAT vans and police with body armor and assault rifles. Detouring to the back, we shattered the window of a small office and slipped inside. I pressed my ear to the door and heard what sounded like a terrified man on the phone with a negotiator. We were close.

"I don't want nobody to get hurt," he said, a pleading edge to his voice, "but my little boy ain't got a lotta time and I just want him to get medicine. That's all. I'm scared he'll be dead before they make it to him on that damn list."

I closed my eyes and tried to crush the growing heartache with my deep breaths.

Leaning over, I whispered to Jason, "Assailants a Dad, trying to save his kid. I'll head out, try to talk him down. You hang back and be ready to save my ass if this goes south. Yeah?"

Solemnly, he nodded. We both knew how this would end. Nobody was coming out of this situation a winner. Either the police would barge in and kill the desperate man, or I would manage to walk him back from the metaphorical ledge, dooming his son in the process.

Steadying myself with another breath, I turned the knob and opened the door slowly, keeping myself low and my hands spread wide. Making sure it was obvious I wasn't a threat. Still, I wasn't surprised to find myself at the business end of a loaded handgun held aloft in trembling hands.

"I want to help you. Okay?" I kept my voice quiet and took a tentative step forward. "We can just talk. I heard your son is sick." Another step away from the door and into the Emergency Department hallway. The man matched the gesture with a shuffling step back. I stopped. "What's your name?"

"L-Lucas? Lucas Ruiz?" He seemed genuinely taken aback at my question. Like it was the first time anyone had asked him since this all started.

Leave it to the police to utterly fail to see this guy as an actual person.

"Hey, Lucas. I'm Nightwing. What's your son's name?"

"Isidro. We call him Izzy. He's… he's only 4. He's so little…" Tears started falling and he lowered the gun.

I stepped forward, grabbing him in a hug as his adrenaline crashed and he started to fall to the floor, sobbing. I pulled the gun from his hands and slid it out of reach as I whispered, "I know. It's not fair. He's little and he's sick and you just wanted to make him better. You're a good father. But he needs you by his side, not in a jail cell. He needs his dad."

Jay stepped out of his hiding spot and made a quick check of the other people in the ED, ensuring sure no one was hurt, while I did my best to comfort Lucas, who was now shaking uncontrollably and weeping.

Then some moron ex-hostage decided it was his moment to be a hero and he snatched up the handgun from the floor in front of him, pointed it at Lucas, and fired.

I did my best to shield him, but Jay was faster. He dove in front of both of us, then grunted and fell to the ground as the bullet buried itself in his side. Moving on instinct, I tore myself away from Lucas, then tugged off Jason's jacket and pressed hard on the steadily bleeding wound.

With my other hand I wrenched at his helmet. He grabbed my wrist to stop me, then unfastened it himself. "Jesus, Goldie." He coughed, then winced. "I knew you'd be mad at me for getting myself shot, but I didn't figure you'd literally try and tear my head off."

Stifling a chuckle and rolling my eyes, I pulled my hand back to survey the damage. "You're damned lucky," I remarked, "it's not very deep. Your jacket must've taken most of it."

With shots fired, it was only a matter of time before SWAT was banging down the door, so we took our cue to exit. I hoisted Jay up and we shambled out of the broken window together. Seemed like ages, but we finally made it back to my apartment, and I tossed him down on the couch so I could grab the med kit.

He was bellyaching by the time I came back. "Can you at least get me a beer or something - this is really starting to hurt."

"Consider it penance for being an idiot." I grabbed on tight to the end of the slug with forceps, and pulled hard, freeing it, then stemming the flow of fresh blood with sterile gauze.

"And here I thought…" he sucked a breath through his teeth as I cleaned out the wound, "here I thought you were the one atoning for some sin. You certainly spend enough time on your knees." He waggled his eyebrows at the raunchy joke.

I rolled my eyes, scoffing. "Sometimes I wonder why I love you, Jay."

His smile dropped and his mouth hung open. "You… said it."

"I did…" I hadn't even realized that I'd said it. But I found that it didn't feel as wrong as I'd feared. I reached out to touch the side of his face, stroke his cheek with my thumb. "And I do. I love you, Jason." I leaned forward and claimed a gentle kiss, hoping to show him everything I couldn't yet bear to say.

I've loved you for ages. And I'm sorry it took so long for me to tell you. But I'll spend a lifetime making it up to you. I promise.

— — — — — —

After

Hazy. I tried to remember where I was and why, but everything seemed cottony and distant. Tentatively, I attempted to sit up, but found it impossible. My wrists were cuffed to tan bed rails on either side of the narrow cot. In spite of my disorientation, I took stock of injuries. Or would have, if not for the tight, clipped sound of heels on tile.

"Welcome back, Mr. Grayson. You'll be pleased to know that we've patched you up. Again." LeGrande did not seem amused.

I, on the other hand, found the entire situation absurd, and barked out an excruciating laugh. "You didn't have to on my account. Don't expect me to thank you for protecting your own interests."

"A duty I will happily discharge very soon. You've been convalescing for days, Mr. Grayson. And time is nearly up." The edges of her lips cocked up into an almost-smile. "Though perhaps I should have thanked Officer Davis before he was… reassigned. His indiscretion has given us an opportunity to make you presentable for your Tribunal. After all, you will be of little use to us if you aren't recognizable to your own family of miscreants and malcontents."

Suddenly the situation seemed significantly less humorous.

She continued, absently examining her perfectly polished fingernails. "In a few hours, you will be transported to the courthouse to await final judgement. And with your execution inevitable, I find myself already breathing easier."

"Keep the champagne on ice, LeGrande," I spat with as much venom as I could manage, "I'm not dead yet."