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The water runs warm; not hot, but comforting, and Dick wrings out the washcloth. Jason is perched on the bathroom counter, left leg lifted on top of the toilet’s lid, sitting in nothing but a fresh pair of boxers. His hands shake when he scrubs them together. There’s grime under his finger nails, burn marks wrapping around and around his bony wrists from being restrained; Dick shakes out the rest of the water, takes Jason’s chin in his hand.
The boy flinches, eyes squinting as his head no doubt aches at the movement, and he curses; Dick makes quiet shushing noises, tentatively reaching out once more. Jason doesn’t flinch this time; instead, he seems to press against Dick’s thumb and forefinger, searching out comfort without actually showing weakness. Not that comfort is a weakness, but what the kid had just been through? Dick doesn’t blame him for being careful.
There’s dried blood down Jason’s chin, dried blood spilling from his ears, dried blood along his thigh where the tracking chip was cut out of… Bruises litter his skin, from his ribs down to his naval, some along his legs and his knuckles are scratched up. His breaths are shallow and shaky, eyes skittering everywhere but Dick’s face, and he squeezes at the bruises around his wrist. Dick tips his head to the side to work at scrubbing away the blood from his ear, the wet washcloth brushing fleks off his skin.
“Stop that,” Dick murmurs; when Jason just bruises his wrist more, Dick puts the washcloth down and takes his hands in his own. “Jason, stop it.”
Finally, the boy matches Dick’s gaze; his jaw twitches, teeth cracking against each other, eyes impossibly wide. Dick knows how he’s feeling; the adrenaline works wonders, but once that’s gone the bravado runs too. All that’s left is the fear. Dick knows that feeling all too well. He reaches around Jason for the suture kit but doesn’t let go of his hand.
He kneels down with the needle in hand; he threads the eye, touches carefully at the hole in Jason’s thigh. The boy doesn’t flinch, even though Dick knows it has to hurt; he’s such a strange child to have taken up the bright mantel. All jagged edges around a soft middle, aching for something, for love and family; but he’ll resist the gentle touches because he’s too vulnerable then, too open. His smile is bright but his actions are cautious.
“Even when your tough,” Dick murmurs; there’s fresh blood from the way he’s had to maneuver the wound, from the stitches. “You can still get hurt. You’re not invincible, Jason, no one is.”
More clenched teeth and Dick doesn’t press any further; this is already the most open Jason has ever been in front of him, and Dick realizes he fits into the older brother role so easily. It’s different than with the team; he was the leader, the caretaker, the protector. It’s the same with being an older brother, but more. More intense, deeper love, something rooted so far Dick thinks he might come apart if…
If Jason had fallen to his death.
He had fallen apart when his parents fell, those familial roots ripped out agonizingly painful; he’s known Jason for a short time, but already the boy is his. His brother, his family, his to protect.
Dick takes a breath; his hands were shaking. He steadies himself, makes the next stitch, wipes the blood away with an alcohol wipe; Jason doesn’t even recognize the sting, though his hands are still shaking. He presses his thumb against the fleshy part of his opposite hand, breathes carefully, and Dick glances up just in time to watch an angry tear streak down the younger’s cheek.
It’s an instinct to wipe it away, reach up and offer comfort, but Jason jerks and glares and curses him out. A litteny of fuck you and don’t fucking touch me out across a numb tongue. Dick rinses out the now cold washcloth, rewarms it under the tap water, and then scrubs across Jason’s face; it’s gentle but not so much that he feels the need to run away from it. A compromise. Jason still mutters curses and Dick doesn’t chastise him for it.
By the time all the bandages are in place and Dick is stuffing him into an old Gotham U sweatshirt from his time in college, the boy’s worn himself out with anxiety; this is the crash, pass the realization of mortality, and Dick ushers him out to the living room. A hand hovering at the boy’s back as he limps along, Dick aching to hold him close. Hank is perched at the kitchen counter drinking...something, probably scotch, not that Dick knows where he got it from.
Dick settles Jason against the cushions, wraps him in three blankets, watches him press his face deep into the pillow under his head. He stays kneeling by the couch for a while, one hand massaging the knotted muscles in Jason’s shoulder; the boy shuffles under his touch, still on edge but his heart is calming while his mind keeps racing in circles.
“Go to sleep,” Dick murmurs; he presses his knuckles to Jason’s exposed temple. He’s clammy. “You’re safe, you’re fine, get some sleep.” He chokes on his thoughts, his feelings, his words. “Little wing.”
Hours later, Dick awakes to screams and yells; it’s instinct again, something he didn’t even know he had, when he rushes into the living room. Jason is tripping in the tangle of blankets, the sweatshirt drenched, and Dick rushes forward; he takes hold of the yellow blanket, pulls it away, grabs the blue one and tries to get it unwrapped from Jason’s ripped stitches.
“Jason, Jason!” Dick blanches at the rivulets of blood staining the blanket; the more time passes the more he realizes how much he feels the pain Jason does. An empath type of sting. “Jason! You’re alright! You’re at the tower, Jason!”
Kori is suddenly at Dick’s shoulder, hopping from foot to foot, and Dick shakes his head.
“It’s okay, Kori, can you look after Rachel and Gar?” He senses them lurking in the hallway, worried, but Dick needs to focus on… On his baby brother. He presses Jason’s head down between his knees, one hand scratching through his hair and the other brushing across his boney spine. “It was a nightmare, Jay; just a nightmare. And this is just a panic attack.”
Jason gasps. “I know what a panic attack is, Dickface.”
He’s fifteen, years older in his soul, and Dick sighs; the boy’s breathing is easing, his shivering steadying out, and Dick tips his fingers against Jason’s temple.
“Dammit, Jason!” Dick hisses, pulling away. “You’re burning up!”
Jason groans, whether in annoyance or in pain, and pulls away from Dick’s grasp; he curls up against the couch cushions and Dick tosses the blankets aside. He grips Jason’s arm in one hand, fitting the other under his flushed cheek, and tries to tug the teenager into a sitting position.
“Up, little wing, come on.”
Jason throws a fist out, but Dick dodges it and pulls Jason up in one fluid motion; the boy mutters.
“Fuck you…”
It makes Dick quirk a smile; he takes the hem of the sweatshirt in hand and rolls it upwards. “Arms up.” Jason complies and Dick peels the shirt from his skin.
A cool cloth is slapped against his shoulder and Dick glances from it over his shoulder where Gar is scampering back into the shadows; he catches a glimpse of Kori’s bright hair in the kitchen, the microwave whirring quietly and Rachel pulling something from the cupboard. Dick takes the cloth from his shoulder and starts cleaning up Jason; he mops up the sweat, then carefully wipes away the blood from his leg. The stitches will need to be replaced, but for now Dick does a quick field-fix. He tightens the thread, ties it with deft fingers, then pats an unbruised part of Jason’s ribs.
“Let’s get you a new shirt.”
“Dick,” Kori calls softly; she’s holding another one of Dick’s old sweatshirts, a blue Superman one that’s fraying at the hem. He’s half annoyed, half embarrassed she went through his messy closet but is grateful all the same; he takes it, tucks the folds together, shoves Jason’s head through the hole.
The boy’s hair comes out sticking in all directions and Dick bites his lip to keep from laughing; Jason fits his arms through the sleeves without any help, and then Rachel is handing over a steaming cup of hot lemonade. Jason accepts the cup begrudgingly, belying exactly how horrible he feels, and Dick shoos everyone back to bed.
While Jason nurses the lemonade, Dick starts a load of laundry to clean the blankets; he makes a quick trip to his room and grabs the comforter and an armful of pillows. He drags it out to the living room, tosses the pillows at Jason and fluffs out the comforter. He lands heavily besides Jason, lets the boy squirm away and pout a glare into his cup; Dick turns on the television to some shitty midnight infomercials that last hours upon hours.
A lady showcases a bargain bin sweater going for 55 dollars and Jason snorts. “It’s hideous.”
“Are those baby pom-poms sewn into it?”
Jason sets the half empty cup down, buries down under the comforter thrown over both of them. “Looks like something I’d make in kindergarten.”
Dick chuckles; he takes the cup and finishes the lukewarm lemonade. They mock more outfits, teasing the poor lady hosting the show, and eventually Jason’s yawning turns to soft snores; he’s slumped against the pillow tucked between them and Dick reaches over to touch his back, gently brushing his fingers across the boy’s back. It’s instinct again, only a little bit strange, but it feels right to have his little brother sleeping softly besides him, to feel his shoulders rise and fall with his breathing.
There are no more nightmares. Come morning, they’ve shifted to be more comfortable; Jason fits perfectly against Dick’s side, tucked close with his arms crossed and head resting heavy against his shoulder, breath puffing across his neck. Dick lets him sleep, keeps him from rolling off the crowded couch with an arm tight around his tiny torso.
He thinks he could get used to this new role; afterall, it’s not like it’s hard.