Chapter Text
In my eyes, indisposed,
Things are always changing. That is a truth, if not the truth. Life changes at neck-breaking speeds, and it takes everything in them to just hold on and hang tight for the wild ride to come.
As it is, though, Dick Grayson likes to think he’s prepared for almost any situation life decides to throw at him. Not for nothing have his living years been one different kind of training after another, upon which he can add his personal experience and overall constant quest to update his knowledge.
To be willing to survive, a state of learning is, most of the times, the key to making it alive at the end of the night. The one way to be there for another day.
The key relies on being able to adapt to the events of their ever changing lives. Adapt, collect the scattering of the soul whenever something’s too much of a shock, and move on.
Because when it comes down to it, knowing and staying alert are among the most important parts in the life of a vigilante. And while one cannot know everything, and one can't be prepared for whatever life decides to shove in one's general direction, Dick Grayson likes to think he’s always ready for almost any situation.
Almost.
As life goes, though, there are indeed exceptions.
“No,” he says (for what’s probably the eleventh time in the past thirty minutes) to the most stubborn, newly discovered god he has ever met, “there’s no way you can go out on patrol tonight.”
“Listen here, you fucking dickface,” is what he gets for all his troubles, “I’m going out. End of the fucking discussion!”
There’s a list of things Dick wants to say that are running through his mind like a teleprompter on steroids. The list repeats itself over and over because it’s quite short — and it cuts precisely to the point. Which is that Jason should really, really, really avoid going out at all fucking costs.
It’s not even a matter of temporarily running away from the mountain of troubles that are incoming. If it were that, Dick would’ve given in after the second repetition of this same conversation that’s going nowhere. No, it’s not even about that.
It’s about Jason’s own safety.
In all fairness, Dick can more than easily guess where the contempt Jason currently feels comes from. This is a typical case of a pot trying to call out a kettle. If Slade were the one asking, Dick has the sneaking suspicion Jason would’ve listened after the tenth time. No, the ninth, maybe.
But it is not Slade asking. It’s him, and he does not get the same treatment—which is to be expected.
The thing is, Slade isn’t here, and Dick isn’t, well, enough of a dick to let Jason go out on patrol while he’s… like that. Surely Jason understands it. The safety concerns. The bomb about to go off it will all turn into the second he’s out there in full Red Hood regalia.
Surely, Jason understands.
“It’s been, what,” Jason huffs, finally calming down enough to say more words that aren’t insults hurled Dick’s way, “a month? Maybe more? Since the ritual. The after effects have worn off. I’m fine.” The last sounds are rough, short, bitten off while he sets his mouth into a grimace, teeth pressed together.
Ah. So Jason doesn’t understand.
Dick has no time to wonder how it’s all going over the other’s head like that. But if he tries to think about it, he’s sure he’s going to finally lose it. And truly, he shouldn’t be so surprised, not when they all have a bad case of thick-headedness accompanied by an unhealthy dose of the most stubborn of denials.
“For someone so smart,” Dick's mouth is faster than his brain. He speaks without hesitation, without thinking twice, “you can be so fucking stupid.”
It’s the wrong thing to say out loud, of course. Jason’s eyes flash in warning. The bloody kind. This isn't going well.
“Move. away.”
This isn’t going well at all.
“No,” Dick takes a step closer, lifts both hands in a placating manner and counts to ten faster than Wally can run so that he doesn't make this worse than it already is, “no, fuck that. You listen. I’m not—I’m not stopping you from going out because I worry about what happened after the ritual. It’s not that! It’s just—just.” He licks his lips, takes in the way Jason is staring at him like he’s just grown three heads and two extra feet. Okay. That look is about to get the opposite of better. “Jay. Jason. Jay, you’re. You’re pregnant.”
That, finally, gets Jason to stop. Just stop, like he's been caught in the blast radius of Mr. Freeze's ice ray.
He doesn't even look like he’s breathing.
“The fuck,” Jason says after a moment of tense silence, eyes wide. His hands drop to his sides just as he exhales the sound, letting go of the duffle bag full of gear that falls unceremoniously to the floor.
“No," he says next, predictably, and Dick is almost sorry for him. Jason's voice shakes alongside the twitch of his fingers, itching to close around a trigger. "No," he insists, sounding almost feverish, "I’m not. I can't. I can't be.”
Dick doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. The sound he lets out is a mix of both, in the end. It’s distorted when he forces himself to swallow, weighing heavily on the lower part of his throat. It makes every vocal cord vibration feel clumsy, dissonant, awkward.
“You can doubt me on literally anything else,” he starts, trying to find a way to make everything sound nicer, a little more comforting, and absofuckinlutely failing, “but not on this. Never on something like this. Trust me, Jay. You are.”
—
It’s thirty minutes later and the night goes on, unhurried by their blundering steps into the truth that’s now out in the open. It’s thirty minutes later and Dick should really be out there where he’s definitely needed, but he can’t make his own feet move from this room when he feels an obligation to stay. To help.
He wants to help despite the bitterness still catching him unaware at random moments. It's a viscose and sour taste at the back of his tongue that goes off whenever he inevitably thinks that he used to have this—or, no, part of it, really.
It used to be him, not Jason, and he can still remember the feeling of hands on his hips, of pressure between his legs, the grounding force behind each thrust, each squeeze, how electrifying it always is to be fucked open, to be turned into a mess of need and sweat. If he were to purposefully think of it, he could even recall the taste of their kisses, the hurriedness behind each meeting, how it was all messy and dirty and hot and—
Not his. It's not his anymore.
It's Jason's.
And Dick is still standing in the path from the couch to the window, ever so ready to stop the other from running away should that happen. Dick is standing still when he should be out, when he very much would rather walk away from this because it's honestly too much. This is hitting some kind of limit he didn't know he had.
This is. This is bad.
"I don't believe it," Jason whispers from where he's currently sitting on the couch, head in his hands, staring at the pregnancy test (voicelessly screaming POSITIVE) on the coffee table. It's the most open Dick's ever seen him. The most vulnerable. He almost feels like he shouldn't be a witness to this. But he is. Like an intruder. "It can't… I can't—fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"
The yell rings through the room. Dick was expecting it, really, and yet it makes him flinch anyway, makes him swallow past the lump in his throat. And honestly, he gets it, he gets the sentiment. Everything is turning out to be so much too soon.
God.
Dick really doesn't want to be here. But does he have that kind of choice?
"We can. We can buy another one," he finds himself saying against his judgment (it's not the better one, it's just judgment).
Jason doesn't reply at first. He's there, on the couch, and for a minute Dick can see the teen Jay used to be, all long limbs and awkward movements, unsure but full of hope, full of love. A teen looking for acceptance. For a better future. Looking for a family.
But Dick blinks and the image is gone, leaving behind this Jason that has been stripped of one too many choices, has been chewed up and spit out time and time again.
For someone else, this would be a happy moment. It would be something they looked for, prepared for—even if they didn't, even if it was a surprise, they would be happy. They wouldn't feel like the whole world is falling apart.
Jason doesn't get to have that, Dick realizes.
This was never his choice. Not even Slade's. The cult took that from them.
"I shouldn't be able to," Jason croaks out, voice cracking, and suddenly Dick feels bad for his stupid jealousy, "I shouldn't—I can't. I…"
"Jay—"
"I need to. I need to call someone," Jason pushes out each sound like everything is weighing him down. "You should… you should leave."
"I'm not leaving you alone," Dick's starting to feel a little desperate now. Jason's slipping through the space between his fingers. It's dangerous, how Jason's balancing over the edge of a cliff with little to reel him back to safety. "We can figure this out and—"
"Leave," Jason cuts him off, lifting his head at long last to look at Dick with reddened eyes, face pale, "the last thing I need is everyone else growing suspicious." Their eye contact doesn't last long. The weight of everything is too heavy for it to last. "Leave. Keep them—keep them away from me. I'll. I'll stay here."
Truth be told, Dick knows he should not leave. There’s too big of a chance he will regret it. He knows, deep down, Jason will bolt as soon as he's left alone. And who wouldn't?
"Alright," he nods anyways, mouth set in a firm line. "I'll keep them busy," he says, and it's a promise he fully intends to keep, "but please. Don't pull a disappearing act again. For both of our sakes."
Jason's face is a testament of control and self-repression. All he offers is a jerky nod.
With only that much in place for certainty, Dick slips out into the night. His jealousy goes with him, still unsettled.
Sometimes he really wonders if he’s actually a good person.
—
Jason changes safe houses the second the coast is clear.
He doesn't want to stay in Gotham, doesn't, well, doesn't feel safe in the city. Not with Dick knowing his best kept secrets. Not with the reality of everyone else breathing down on his neck, trying to catch him, to get to him, to know what's going on. They've been snooping, trying to get through his security. Trying to trap him.
Jason isn't an idiot.
He knows Bruce is the one he should worry about the most. Bruce is the man he needs to avoid at all costs.
It's for such a reason that he acts quickly, efficiently. There's a smoke screen of activity he creates, raising figurative hell on the streets that leaves ripples of motions all throughout—both to maintain his Red Hood reputation alive, and to keep the big bat distracted long enough for him to slip out of Gotham's limits.
And Jason hates it, hates that he feels like he's prey on the run, hates that he's been made this vulnerable.
When he stops to think about it, if only for a second, Jason admits that he should've seen this outcome coming from a mile away. He should've suspected it. But there are things to say about denial and willful blindness, about how both things fit him ever so well.
Maybe there’s no need for him to blow through his leftover resources from his old days, back when he was new to this second chance at life, back when he danced with death like a lover.
Maybe there’s really no need for him to go through all the back routes and failsafes he’s kept around for truly big emergencies. Yet Jason knows he cannot take his chances with this. The emergency he's been planning for has come.
He can’t risk being ambushed on his way out of the city. He cannot risk Dick finding him again, stopping him, keeping him trapped in a place like a sitting duck.
Then there’s the matter of Slade, of course. Slade… He will know where to look, Jason is sure of that.
With their mark as unique as it is, his mate will have no trouble finding him, getting back to his side. He did it once before, with Jason purposefully covering all of his tracks and making himself as hard to find as possible. And still, Slade found him.
As things are, this time around Jason’s not pulling a disappearing act. (Dick's opinion does not matter.) His mate would be able to follow his tracks even while in deep sleep.
Jason cannot help it when he purses his lips, presses them together in coordination with a frown as he keeps the bag with his most important items close to his side. The safehouse, one of his own and the one he had been staying in after Slade went to fulfill another contract, has already been wiped clean. Left completely bare.
Dick is probably regretting leaving him alone, too. That poor idiot is probably cursing him out. It’s on him, though, what did he expect? For someone like Jason to really stay put and wait?
But fuck, even this—running, not away, no, it’s towards something—is proving to be as difficult as staying still like an idiot. Jason can almost physically feel the stares of strangers following his steps as he hurries through every back street. He’s tearing through the streets of this city that’s no longer his own and he feels it, scratch that, he knows he’s being watched because apparently with being a god and being pregnant comes the fact that no scent blocker in the world works for him anymore.
The whole world, as narrow as it is reduced to Gotham's underbelly, knows—the heated gazes at the back of his neck, the whistling, low, teasing, it's because they all know. Being an omega isn't his secret to keep anymore.
It’s unnerving. It puts him on edge, makes him feel transparent, wet and paperthin like old newspapers left to clog up the streets, stripped bare by rainwater. It’s a feeling that makes him move faster, keeping his scowl in place and growl at the ready for each time a stranger darts too close, gaze lingering for too long.
This is worse than a nightmare, he thinks, tongue curling inside his mouth. This is real.
Perhaps it is a miracle, then, a small wonder, when he makes it to the bus terminal in time without anyone getting in his way. Without interruptions. Without bat-themed vigilantes breathing down his neck.
Pulling his hood further over his head, he sinks into its comforting shadows. He still smiles at the old woman chewing bubblegum when he purchases his ticket—all cash, harder to keep track of, harder to trace back to him. By now he’s sure Dick has caught onto what he’s doing and is looking for him again. Jason needs to get moving. Who knows if that idiot has broken his promise and dragged the others into this?
No.
No, he cannot let that happen.
The bus is almost completely full when he boards it. He sits next to another old lady, this one with completely gray hair and no inch of her face devoid of wrinkles. She smiles tenderly at him when he sinks into the well used seat. Aisle. Easier for any impromptu exit, should his hand be forced. Partially shielded from the dirty window, harder for any tracking done via traffic cameras.
Jason smiles back a tense, anxious thing.
He cannot relax. He cannot make himself take a deep breath until they drive past Gotham’s exit. It’s only then when he takes out an old phone, flipping it open to punch in a phone number he knows by heart, hitting the keys with more force than necessary as he types in his message.
_S.O.S
_Coming to you.