Jason Todd

"This is fucking bullshit. You know that, right? The waiting? We should be out there now, ready to grab him as soon as we can."

I leaned on the counter in a small, run-down apartment on the Eastside. One of our fellow 'insurgents' had offered it up as a base of operations. You couldn't beat the location. Just a few blocks away from the courthouse we were preparing to storm.

"There's a specific timeline to this, Jason," Tim huffed, never turning his attention away from the live broadcast on the TV in front of him. "Anyway, he's only just pulling up. This is mostly 'pregame' hype."

Selina sighed and tried to reason with me. "What if Duke was right? What if this is all a trap? Then we can't afford to be out there too soon. It won't do Dick any good if we end up getting ourselves caught." She checked over the equipment we had left, adding it to the stash some of the others in our group had scavenged.

"Right," I scoffed, "let's pretend that's the reason we're holed up in here with our thumbs up our asses. That it's not because Bruce wants to turn this into some galvanizing, revolutionary moment, consequences be damned. In case you all forgot, they're going to kill him! Murder him for their own sick reasons and make us watch! Fuck!"

I wasn't angry. Not really. I was just terrified, wanted this done, wanted Dick back safe. Wanted this whole goddamn nightmare to be over. But Tim didn't see that. He just saw my rage, and a challenge he wouldn't back down from.

"You're acting like you're the only one here who's worried about him!" Tim got to his feet, livid. "He's our brother, too! Our family! We love him just as much as you do!"

Damian made an uncomfortable noise and shifted his attention to his feet. "Perhaps our time would be better spent preparing instead of bickering."

"Fuck that," I spat. "And fuck all of you. I can't believe none of you are willing to stick your necks out for Dick unless Bruce gives you his stamp of approval." My voice was practically smothered in disdain. I grabbed my bag angrily. "You're all fucking cowards. And if you won't go out there now and save him, I will. I'm tired of waiting for Bruce's say-so."

From the door behind me, I heard Bruce growl. As always, the Old Man had impeccable timing. "You will stay put, Jason. We will bring him home…"

I was tired of his shit, and I interrupted with a savage smile, "Really, Bruce? Well forgive me if I don't trust you on this one. After all, you've got a track record of being too fucking late."

That was a low blow. Bordering on cruel. I didn't give a damn. He rocked back on his heels, his face contorted into an expression that seemed close to regret. But at least he didn't stop me as I pushed past him and out the door. I was sick to death of sitting on my ass. So I stormed down the stairs, out of the building, and into the quickly crowding streets. Popping the hood of my sweatshirt up, I blended into the masses of insurgents already screaming their way toward the courthouse.

Surprise, surprise. Looks like Bruce's timeline was off. Revolution came early.

— — — — — —

Before

I wish I could say that having a trusted bed partner made my constant flood of nightmares better. But even weeks after I 'unofficially' moved in with Dick, and graduated from the couch to his bedroom, they just kept coming.

Hell, they might've been worse.

Probably didn't help that we both had them. Didn't help that his cries wove themselves into my dreams, and I'd wake up, sobbing, afraid I'd lost him. Convinced that whatever gruesome scenario my brain manufactured was real.

Sometimes it was more than I could take. His screams. My thrashing. His violent outbursts if I woke him. My blind swings that connected too often when he tried to soothe me. So on bad nights, mine or his, I'd drag myself out of bed and sit at the kitchen table, blankly staring at the clock over the stove and waiting for the sun to come up.

It wasn't a habit I wanted to let him in on. For fucks sake, he apologized for days when I accidentally punched him in the nose after he woke me mid night-terror . This was my ritual. For me. For us.

So of course he found out about it.

It had been another bad night in a string of bad ones. I ended up reflexively shoving Dick off the bed when he curled up against me, looking for just a crumb of comfort. Once I got him settled, got him to stop saying 'I'm sorry' for my fuck up, got him to fall back asleep, I padded out to the kitchen and took my familiar spot, where I would watch the minutes slip away.

Maybe I dozed off, because I didn't hear him behind me until he whispered a tentative, "hey, you awake?"

Irrational anger surged up against his gentle gesture. "I swear to God, if you came out here to apologize again, Dick…" I trailed off, letting the empty threat just hang there.

"Tato lapte ta pattriensis ," he replied in Romani. As if that actually meant something to me. Then he set about pulling out a pot, grabbing things from the fridge, and rummaging around in the cabinets.

"What are you doing?" The sharpness in my voice had dulled a little, and I watched with mild, tired interest as he busied himself in the kitchen.

He just smiled that breathtaking smile of his and kept working. In under ten minutes he placed a steaming mug in front of me. Then he grabbed one for himself and sat down, too. Tentatively, I took a sip.

"Warm milk? And what is this, cinnamon and nutmeg?" I scoffed, then regretted it, as I watched some of the cheer on his face dim.

"We both know you haven't been sleeping well. How long's it been, Jay? Since you've had a solid night?" He worried the hot mug in his hands and tried to smile again, switching tactics when I scowled at him. "There was a fire-eater who used to watch me some nights when my parents needed 'alone time'. She swore by this stuff. Though I'm not convinced she didn't put brandy in it, too. Regardless, it would get me to sleep every time."

"I'm pretty sure booze would put any six year old on his ass, but ok." Lack of sleep was making me surly, and I honestly just wanted him to go back to bed so I could stop hurting him. Here he was, heart in his hand, sharing a piece of his childhood with me and I was pissing all over it with my sarcasm.

He sighed and lowered his head. Trying so fucking hard to be there for me, even though I was making it as difficult as possible. "Look, why don't I just take the couch tonight," he suggested. "We can figure out better sleeping arrangements once we're more rested. Go to bed, Jason." There was a Bruce-like edge in his voice where the tenderness had been. A fact that only served to irritate me more.

"Fine. Whatever," I snapped.

He took two long strides toward the living room before turning back to face me. "Why are you so angry at me right now?"

Hell of a good question, actually. Sure, I was sleep deprived and grouchy, but that didn't explain the tight ache in my chest that screamed at me to lash out at him.

To push him away.

I shook my head and clenched my eyes shut. "Do you know what mine are about? The nightmares? You'd think it would be Joker, or my time with the League, or any one of the fucked up things I've lived and died through, right? They used to be about that, but now?"

His posture shifted - not rigid and frustrated anymore. Instead he seemed soft, open, accepting. Everything I loved about him. Carefully, he sat back down at the table and waited for me to continue. But he didn't rush me. Didn't press, or fidget, or sigh. Just sat there, patient and kind. Even though I didn't deserve half the grace he was giving me. Hell, after the shit I'd been putting him through? My bad tempers and sharp tongue? I didn't deserve the time of day, but Dickie always gave me his forgiving heart.

I sat, gulping in the silence, trying to find the words, before giving in to the growing tension and blurting out, "it's you. They're about you. Losing you, seeing you in pain and I can't get to you, can't fix it. Fucked up, vivid images of you dying in my arms. And with our life? The shit we do?" I huffed, then shook my head, doing my best to avoid looking at his too-wet eyes. "Those nightmares aren't far-fetched. It's just a matter of time. Fuck…" I blinked against my own tears, willing them away even as they welled up and spilled down my cheeks. "You're my everything, Dickie. I don't think I knew what that really felt like before you. And it scares me. Needing someone like this. I don't want to fuck this up, and it feels like that's exactly what I'm doing."

Sighing, he turned his head away. And, for what seemed like far too long, he wouldn't look at me. Just stared off, unreadable. Made me fucking nervous - Dick was usually like an open book to me.

Then he finally reached for my hand and faced me, blinking against his own tears. "You're not fucking this up, Jay. I…" He winced, swallowed whatever he was going to say, then angrily wiped his face with the heels of his palms. "You don't need to worry about me, promise. Get some sleep." Without another word, he stood, dumped his untouched mug of milk in the sink, and padded to the living room.

I headed back to bed. And even though I was exhausted, I just stared at the ceiling. I couldn't sleep. I could only keep replaying the worst of my nightmares over and over again. Dreams where I clutched Dick's broken body to my chest and howled like a wild animal, drowning in my grief. Huffing, I pulled myself back out of bed and went to find him. I just wanted to see him, watch him sleep in safety.

I found him sitting on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest, staring blankly at the wall. I flopped down beside him and pulled him close, smiling as he relaxed against me.

"Ain't we a pair," I whispered into his hair.

He gave a half-hearted chuckle and snuggled closer. "I guess we are. I'm sorry if I made things worse. I just… I just want you to be happy, Jay."

I tilted his chin up and looked at him, "are you kidding? You've made my life better in every possible way. And as long as you stay safe, I'll always be happy. No matter what."

— — — — — —

After

By the time I reached the courthouse, the streets were already a battlefield. Swarms of people just consumed Enforcers. Like some kind of fucked up magic trick. Now you see 'em, now you don't. Seemed like one thing didn't change, even after war and famine and totalitarianism - the people of Gotham were fucking savage. But there's a problem with mob mentality. It always goes just a little too far.

I waded through the stampede as best I could, and finally got some breathing room around back. Only a few miscreants in the alley there, laughing to themselves.

"Hey, hey buddy!" One very drunk teenager clapped me on the shoulder. "Didja know a Molotov cocktail isn't a drink? Crazy, right? I only know 'cause… 'cause… wait why do I know that Mikey?"

"Cause we just chucked a bunch of 'em inside, dumbass!"

My stomach felt like it was drenched in ice. "You what?!"

I grabbed the kids collar and shook him. Hard. His terrified and disoriented eyes bulged as he stared at me, stammering. "Yeah...yeah we...we just thought. Buncha people were in there and we thought…"

"Where?!" I snarled

"Back… back around the side. We didn't think we were doing anything bad. Really!" His reply was breathless, a hell of a lot more sober than just a few seconds ago. I dropped him to the ground and took off at a sprint, rounding the corner and taking in the sight of the flames licking out of the broken windows. I raised my arm to my face, trying to shield it from the fire as I peered into the blazing room. A figure I couldn't quite make out was collapsed on the floor, coughing and choking…

Dick…

No time for thinking. I plunged through the broken window, ignoring the pain as shards of glass dug into my arms and legs. It couldn't matter. Not now. As I got closer I could see why Dick hadn't escaped - he was chained to the floor. Chained to the goddamn floor and they just left him to burn alive. I swallowed my rage and got to work, slamming my foot down on the manacles until they broke. Part of me registered that Dick wasn't moving - passive and listless - as I scooped him into my arms and charged out of the door. Out of the courthouse. Into the frigid city air.

Chaos, battle, screams, gunfire… it all faded away as I gently laid Dick down on the hard granite just outside the engulfed courthouse. His face was covered in soot, his hair and clothes were drenched in sweat. And I suddenly felt sick when I noticed something else - he wasn't breathing. Fuck. He should have been gagging, coughing, wheezing. His body should have been trying to draw in oxygen reflexively. But he was just there, quiet and still and…

Any other sentimental thoughts were crushed under the instinctual training that suddenly took over. He. Wasn't. Breathing. I had to act.

I tilted his head back, forcing myself to focus on his need and not the deep, painful-looking bruises on his throat.

God. What did those fuckers do to you?

I pressed my lips against his, keeping a firm hold on his chin, and watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath I gave him. Shaking, I paused to press two fingers to his carotid and almost cried in relief when I felt a pulse. Weak, fast, but there. His heart was still working. He just needed me to breathe for him.

I can do that for you, Dickie. I've got you.

More rescue breaths. Rising panic clenched around my heart. It wasn't working. He wasn't coming around. I was too late, he was dying…

Then, finally, I heard it, felt it. A gasp. A cough. Dick's eyes fluttered open, his brows knitted together, and he choked out, "Jay…"

"It's ok. You're ok. You're safe." I tried to soothe him, but he just tugged on my sleeve, and his wheezes got more desperate. Looking pointedly over my shoulder, he shook his head and repeated in a rasp, "Jay…"

Slowly, too slowly, I looked back at whatever his terrified gaze was fixed on. Behind me stood a woman. Her tailored suit was disheveled, and her hair was falling out of her tight bun, but I'd recognize her anywhere. I'd burned her face into my memory the night I watched that broadcast in horror. She had given the order to beat Dickie half-dead. Inspector Fucking LeGrande. Her hands were still, her expression cold, as she leveled the barrel of a gun at my head.

"I had a feeling this would bring you all out of the woodwork. Like roaches. Or plague rats." Her face contorted in disgust and rage. "Look at the destruction you and your ilk have caused. I will restore order."

I felt frozen - caught off guard by the sudden shift from relief to fear. But, even half-cooked and gasping, Dick was faster than me. He was always faster. With a sharp, painful-looking inhale, he sat up and shoved my shoulder, pushing me into the crowd, just as LeGrande tightened her finger on the trigger. Like a nightmare, I struggled, too slowly, back up the stone stairs and broke free of the mob. Just enough to hear gunfire, and watch Dick fall hard onto the granite beneath him.

Desperate, enraged, I tried to push forward to get to him, to kill her, but the sound of the shot triggered a stampede. Terrified bodies pushed into me from all directions. Between shoulders and over heads, I saw Dick try to sit up again, but LeGrande stepped over to him, placed a foot on his chest to hold him in place, and aimed the gun at his head. Point blank range. Dickie winced as he turned to face me, and even though I couldn't hear him, I watched his lips form the words, "I love you. I'm sorry. Don't watch."

"No, no! Fuck, no!" I screamed as I shoved hard against the people closing me in and pinning me in place. Only a few feet away. I could make it. I had to make it. There was no choice.

I lunged, kicking off of whatever poor sap was behind me, and slammed into LeGrande before she could manage the next shot. Furious, I wrenched the gun from her grip and hit her. Again and again. She scrambled to her feet, blood pouring from her nose, and staggered back. Right into the seething, riotous crowd behind her. I watched with sick, gleeful fascination as the crazed mob tore into her, clawing at her skin before trampling her beneath their feet.

There was no time to bask in the victory. I ran back to Dick, slid to my knees, and cradled him in my arms. He was limp, bleeding. Shivering from blood loss or his soaked clothes, I wasn't sure. Crimson blossomed across his damp prison greys, spreading down from the hole near his collarbone.

"No. Oh, no. Dickie, please," I begged, holding him tight. Out of my mind, lost on the edges of panic and desperation, I pressed my hands down onto his wound, biting against targetless rage as I felt bones in his chest shift. Broken ribs, from whatever hell they had put him through.

A familiar voice strained to pull me back from the brink of hopelessness.

"Jason. Jason!"

Still in shock, murmuring into Dick's hair and begging him to be ok, I flicked my eyes up to see just who the hell was yelling at me. Bruce. Of course he'd show up when there was nothing he could do. He knelt down into my line of sight and grabbed my arm.

Behind him, the rest of 'family' shoved past the violent crowd of agitators, horrified. As always, fury crushed my fear and I held onto Dick, very aware that he was bleeding out under my hands. "You're all too fucking late! I told you we had to be here and you wouldn't listen!"

Tim crouched down beside Dick, listened to his pained wheezes and watched the blood seep out from under my palms. "He needs a hospital, Bruce," he looked up, imploring the Old Man, "He's dying. But I don't think we can take him, all the medical facilities are government-run, now. They'll execute him on sight."

Bruce tensed, then shook his head. "Let's get him up. We'll get him back to Alfred. See what he can do." He reached out, preparing to slip his hands under Dick and lift him. I shoved Bruce away and scooped Dickie up myself, fighting against sobs as I realized just how easy it had gotten to carry him, just how fragile he felt in my arms. His head sagged against my chest and his labored breathing was a constant reminder of how badly he needed attention.

"Fuck you," I spat at Bruce. "Tim says he needs a hospital, I'm taking him to a hospital. And if they lay a goddamn finger on him to hurt him, I'll kill them."