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Chapter Text

     Jason groaned as he pulled himself up the fire escape of the rundown apartment building that Dick had been hiding away in ever since he returned from Spyral. Blood dripped onto the rusty metal, its red hue blending in near perfectly in the low light of the half-lit marquis across the street. Man, Dick had picked a shithole of a place to stay. Jason huffed, his annoyance spiking. Did Dick really think that they were going to feel sorry for him? That if they saw how he was living, they would forgive him and welcome him back after the shit that he pulled? Fat chance. Jason wouldn't even be stepping foot inside Dick's place if it weren’t for the stab wound in his gut.

     Okay, it was less of a stab, more of a slash, and it missed his vitals, so yes, technically Jason could have toughed it out and made it back to one of his safe houses. But Dick's place was closest, and if Jason got to annoy his brother and bleed a little on his couch, then it was worth dealing with Dick's bullshit for a short spell to get himself patched up. It just made sense. It wasn't as if Jason was looking for a reason to scope out Dick’s place ever since Oracle updated their list of safe houses and Jason saw the absolute worst building listed as Dick's pad.

     Jason grunted as he paused beside a broken window of an empty apartment to catch his breath. Why the fuck did Dick have to live on the sixth floor?

     Trudging up the last creaking steps of the fire escape, Jason finally reached the window leading into Dick's place. He frowned as he deactivated the frankly sad security measures Dick had set up; Bruce would have torn him a new one if he'd seen the sorry excuse of protection. Sliding the window open, Jason ducked his head down and climbed inside. The apartment was completely dark, but the night vision in his helmet was more than enough to reveal the worn couch that had an honest-to-god spring sticking out of the right cushion, the TV that looked like something out of the eighties, Dick lying on the floor, and the plethora of mugs on the- wait.

     Jason's eyes flew back to Dick's still form, his brother lying facedown on the carpet. His injury forgotten, Jason hurried forward, clicking on a light on his way, and finding himself grateful that the electricity actually worked as he stepped over Dick and finally saw his face.

     Dick's eyes were wide open, unblinking and distant as he stared at a questionable stain on the scratchy carpet. His lips were quivering, mouthing something that Jason had to lean in close to hear.

     “J's a pill, ‘st a pill, just a pill.”

     Jason's brow furrowed, and he glanced over to see one of those yellow pill bottles clenched tight in Dick's hand,  the white cap on the floor, along with a dozen or so spilled pills.

     Now, Jason knew that Dick took medication. He never pried into what kind exactly, but over the years, he'd seen Dick pop a pill or two when he thought no one was looking, so why the flagrant panic?

     The unanswered question made Jason worry, just a little. Yes, he was still angry at Dick for fucking off to who knows where, but he had to admit, he was curious about what had happened to Dick in the last year. Jason knew how quickly an undercover mission could go south, and aside from Bruce, Dick hadn't had any backup. So just what the hell had happened to Dick that led to this reaction to the pills?

     “Dick?” Jason called, repeating the name louder when Dick didn't react.

     Dick's mumbling stopped, his eyes twitching in Jason's direction but not quite making it, not at all present as his lips trembled with each shaky breath.

     “Come on, ‘Wing. Throw me a bone here,” Jason said with a sigh, his eyes cataloguing the rest of Dick's appearance. He was wearing sweats that seemed about two sizes too big for him, but upon further consideration, Jason realized something alarming. The sweats were the same Superman-themed ones that Dick had worn since his early days as Nightwing, meaning they should be a bit baggy, but not big on Dick. Which meant they weren't too big; Dick was too small. Yes, looking closely, Jason could tell that his brother had lost weight- a concerning amount of weight. Even his face looked a bit gaunt, and his usual tan complexion was much paler than normal.

     What the fuck was going on with Dick?

Chapter Text

     At a loss of how to handle Dick’s dissociative state, Jason sat back on his heels and looked around the room like something there would give him a clue. But there was no forthcoming answer, just the sea of coffee mugs keeping company on the coffee table, several of them crowded along the edge, near ready to fall off. Despite his earlier stance on not feeling sorry for Dick, Jason had to admit that the sight of Dick’s dingy apartment, and so many dirty dishes waiting to be washed, alongside the mountain of dishware in the sink, made a pathetic portrait of Dick’s life.

     Jason took his helmet and gloves off, wiping a hand down his face and settling it over his mouth as he debated calling one of the other bats. But would Dick want them to see him like this? The question seemed to mock Jason’s earlier theory that Dick was waiting for them to notice his suffering in an effort to manipulate them into forgiveness. Dick never let his cards show in an attempt to manipulate them. Sure, Dick would put on a show and dramatize trivial matters to persuade his brothers to do things sometimes, but this? Dick would never stoop so low as to fake this, even if he had bent over at the ankles to fake his death.

     Jason rubbed at his chin as he looked back at Dick, sighing heavily. “What in the fuck is going on here, Dickie?”

     Recognition flickered through Dick’s eyes, and Jason knelt on one knee as he leaned closer to his brother hastily. “Dickie? You in there?” He asked, his gaze sharp as he watched him closely.

     Dick’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before his mouth closed, his throat clicking with a dry swallow before Dick licked his lips and spoke. “Lil’ wing?”

     Jason winced at the hoarse sound of Dick’s voice. “Yeah, it’s me, Dickie. What’re you doing on the floor, huh?”

     One of Dick’s shoulders moved in a half-hearted shrug. “Tired.”

     “Uh huh.” Jason eyed the pills still clutched in Dick’s hand doubtfully. “If you’re tired, let’s get you onto the couch, okay?”

     “‘Kay.”

      Jason sighed when Dick made no move to get up, the distant expression on his face still present. “Oh yeah, just lie there, it’s fine. Let Jason do all the work, that’s fun.” Jason grumbled as he rolled Dick over enough to slip an arm under him, pulling him close as he gathered his legs in the other arm. Dick gasped as Jason lifted him, and Jason grunted, a sharp pain in his side reminding him of the injury that had brought him there in the first place. Ignoring it, Jason moved to set Dick down on the couch, huffing as he had to carefully shove Dick’s legs to one side to avoid the spring sticking out of the cushion. He then plucked the pill container from Dick’s hand and set it on the table before looking back at Dick, surprised when his gaze was met by another. “Hey, Dickface. Wanna tell me what’s got you all freaked out?”

     Dick’s gaze was now unreadable. He was present, but Jason couldn’t discern at all what he was thinking until Dick’s stare fell away from his face and landed on the blood seeping through his shirt beneath his jacket. The instant Dick’s eyes locked on it, Jason could see the worry gearing up behind those baby blues. This was when Dick would stop acting so strange. As soon as his mother-hen mode kicked in, his brother would be back to normal.

     “You’re hurt,” Dick murmured, sounding upset as he started to sit up.

     Jason was about to snap at him that he was fine, but Dick’s next words stopped him in his tracks.

     “I’ll make you pancakes.”

     Jason’s mouth snapped shut with surprise as he leaned back, completely bewildered as his brother got up and started for the kitchen. “I’m bleeding, and you’re making me pancakes?”

     “Mmhm,” Dick hummed as he miraculously produced a clean bowl out of a cupboard alongside some pancake mix.

     “What the fuck? Why are you making me pancakes?” Jason asked, anger warring with worry in his chest. Was this some kind of sick joke?

     Dick blinked owlishly at him. “I always make you pancakes when you’re hurt. They’re your favorite.”

     A hazy memory of Dick making pancakes for him after his second (or was it third?) encounter with Crane surfaced in Jason’s spotty memory. Hell, Jason hadn’t expected that, but it didn’t explain why Dick was making him pancakes now. Feeling as though he’d stepped into some strange alternate universe, Jason watched wordlessly as Dick whipped up the pancakes in mere minutes and set them to cooking on the stove. Dick talked while he worked, keeping up a weird one-sided conversation as if someone aside from Jason was actually answering back to him.

     Two plates stacked with pancakes were soon placed on the strangely spotless kitchen island, and Dick laughed, looking past Jason as he spoke. “Of course, I made some for you too.”

     “Dick?” Jason said, glancing behind him as he grew increasingly worried about his brother’s mental state.

     “It’s okay, I ate earlier,” Dick assured him, waving Jason off as he walked toward his bedroom. “You two enjoy the pancakes, Lil’ Wing. I’m heading to bed.”

     The door closed behind Dick, and Jason cursed as he dove for the pill bottle Dick had been holding and read the label. “Seroquel: Quetiapine, Extended Release 300mg Tablets.”

     Antipsychotics. Dick was taking medication to combat hallucinations. No, correction, Dick was unable to take his medication to combat hallucinations.

     “Fuck.”

     Jason pulled his phone out before he could let himself panic too hard, relieved when the call got picked up almost immediately. “We’ve got a situation. Meet me at Dick’s place, ASAP.” He cut off Tim’s attempt to respond. “ASAP!”

     He hung up the call and glanced at the bedroom door as Dick’s voice filtered through the thin walls.

     “Sure thing, Lil’ Wing. We’ll go on patrol tomorrow.”

     “Fuck.” Jason whispered, holding the pill bottle tight enough to crack the plastic.

Chapter Text

     The Red Hood never panicked. He was cool in the face of death, composed to a fault when facing certain doom. Jason Todd, however, as much as he hated to admit it, did, on occasion, panic. Like now. After Dick went to bed, Jason remembered that he was, in fact, still bleeding, and went to the bathroom to find Dick’s first aid kit. If Jason had been concerned before, he was now downright worried as he saw the state of Dick’s bathroom. His first aid kit was already out, with its contents strewn across the sink. There was a bloody needle and thread in the tub, along with blood-soaked bandages in the bin. The blood was dark and old, but the smell was still strong and damp, meaning the blood couldn’t be more than a day or two old. But it wasn’t just the blood making Jason’s worry increase. Because mingling with the scent of blood was the putrid stench of vomit, and Jason’s stomach turned when he saw the puddle of it on the floor where Dick just missed the toilet, still wet and barely coagulated, no more than an hour old. Was that the result of Dick trying to take his medicine?

     What the hell had happened to his brother?

     That question felt a lot more pressing after seeing the state of Dick’s bathroom, and Jason hastily grabbed the suture kit and some bandages before heading back to the living room. He sat on the couch next to the protruding spring and carefully set the suture kit on some of the coffee mugs that sat there, which, now that Jason looked at them more closely, seemed to contain more than just coffee. A select few were properly empty, while some others contained cold, sludgy coffee, but the majority seemed to contain mostly uneaten soup. Noodles, carrots, and chunks of chicken were growing fuzzy in the fullest mugs, while fatty broth had congealed in the bottom of those mostly empty.

     Jason felt suddenly cold as a chilling realization hit him. Dick wasn't just unable to take his medication. If the glaring indication of the coffee mugs in front of him was correct, then Dick was having trouble eating anything solid, sticking mainly to soups and caffeine. That had to be why Dick was so skinny, why he had weighed practically nothing when Jason picked him up. Something must have happened to him during his stint with Spyral, something that caused Dick to develop an eating disorder of some kind.

     Jason's jacket and shirt were off now, leaving his knife wound exposed and bleeding, and shit, it was definitely a bit worse than Jason had originally thought. It needed stitches ASAP, but Jason's hands were shaking as he picked up the needle. It could have been the blood loss causing his hands to shake, but Jason knew better. It wasn't a lack of blood, or even the panic that now had its claws hooked into Jason's skin. It was anger. Green tinted his vision, and Jason cursed something especially vile at himself.

     How could he not have seen that something horrible was going on with Dick? How could he have shoved his brother aside to the point that he didn't notice something as drastically wrong as eating disorders and hallucinations? And why had no one else noticed? Jason had been avoiding Dick because he was angry, same as Tim, but Dick still worked with Bruce from time to time. How had the world's greatest detective missed something so striking? And what about Damian? The boy was the one sibling in their family who didn't hold a grudge; surely he would have noticed, wouldn't he?

     The green in his gaze surged with the thoughts directed at the others, but Jason reeled his thoughts back in. He didn't want to go down the rabbit hole of raging against his family. It was too easy to let it happen, but it was just as easy to redirect that anger back onto himself. After all, Jason should have noticed something was off when Dick didn't push to repair things between them. Yes, Jason had pushed Dick away, but it wasn't like Dick to keep his distance. Even when he was unwanted, Dick had a habit of showing up and checking on his family, always making sure that they were alright. In fact, it should have set off a dozen alarm signals when Dick just quietly let Jason have his space. Dick had a tendency to isolate when he wasn't doing well, and Jason had failed to realize Dick needed help. Jason failed his brother, just like he'd failed his mother. He'd watched her get skinnier and skinnier as she fell further and further into addiction, and now it felt like he was going to have to watch as Dick followed the same spiraling fate of devastation.

*****

     Tim swung onto the roof of Dick's apartment building, grumbling under his breath at the late hour. Contrary to popular opinion, Tim really did enjoy sleep, just to a lesser degree than most, and now it seemed like his long-awaited slumber was canceled, which really sucked after a grueling two-day investigation into some shady business down by the docks.

     He just hoped that Jason had a good reason for calling him out, especially for calling him to Dick's apartment. What had Dick done this time that required Tim's attendance? Hadn't he made it perfectly clear that he didn't want any contact with Dick beyond what was necessary until Dick managed to give him a proper reason for his lies and betrayal?

     Swinging down to the fire escape to Dick's apartment, Tim frowned at the sad security system that was already deactivated. Dick could be a bit lax sometimes, he knew, but when it came to serious matters, Dick had never been sloppy. Just look at how well he'd orchestrated his death; An execution so flawless that not even Tim had sniffed out the truth about the matter.

     Slipping inside past the drawn curtains, Tim's gaze immediately caught on Jason sitting on the couch, his eyes bright green as he sat there, breathing heavily and clutching a needle tight as he bled steadily onto his pants and the couch- if the sorry excuse for furniture could be called that.

     “Jason?” Tim called, moving to stand between his brother and the coffee table full of mugs.

     “Tim,” Jason breathed, “Fuck.” His brother's eyes were green, but it wasn't anger that Tim saw on his face. It was fear, and Tim's stomach gave an uneasy little flip. What was going on here? And where was Dick while Jason sat there bleeding out? Was that why Jason called him? Because Dick wasn't home to help him?

     Dick had a way of abandoning people, after all.

     “Hey, it's okay.” Tim carefully grabbed the hand that Jason wasn't holding the needle with and placed it on his chest. “Breathe with me, Jay.”

     Jason's breathing slowly calmed and met Tim's pace, the green in his eyes starting to fade.

     “Tim, Dick-”

     “Stop. Give me the needle first. You can debrief me after I stitch you up so you stop bleeding all over the place,” Tim demanded, plucking the needle from Jason's hand as he knelt down in front of him. Tim didn't want to talk about Dick. Whatever Dick had done this time was bad enough to make Jason have a Pit Episode that led to a panic attack, which meant that it was almost guaranteed to make Tim angry. Better to stitch Jason up now than risk his temper affecting his triage skills.

     Tim threaded the needle with steady-handed precision and leaned in to get to work before stopping suddenly and pulling back. The lights had gone out, plunging them into darkness.

     In the stunned quiet that followed the blackout, Jason's pained whisper broke the silence. “What the heck, Wing?”

Chapter Text

     Tim sat in stunned silence for a few seconds after the lights went out before looking over at the window where a little light played on the fire escape outside from the marquis far below across the street. “Centralized blackout?” He hypothesized, turning his night vision on and bringing his wrist computer up to display the electrical grid in Gotham. Blackouts weren’t unheard of, especially on this side of town, where the buildings were little more than crumbling rat nests, but there was always the possibility of foul play, and Dick living in the building increased the chance of it being targeted, especially if he’d been careless in his comings and goings. Was Dick so full of himself that not only did he think he needn’t worry about arming his apartment properly, but also that he had no need to keep his vigilante activity under wraps? 

     “Tim, I don’t think-”

     “The building still has electricity. Dick’s apartment must’ve been the target.” Tim frowned. He couldn't jump to conclusions. It was just as likely that someone had tracked Jason to Dick's apartment, especially since he was bleeding.  “Someone might’ve followed you here.”

     “I really don’t think-”

     “We have to leave.” Tim stood up and extended his bo staff as he looked around the room. They’d have to stay alert as they evacuated. Whoever did this was likely waiting outside to ambush them since they hadn’t entered the apartment. “We’ll get you back to the cave to get patched up, come on.”

     Jason pulled his arm away as Tim grabbed it. “Tim, Dick-”

     “Shit, is he here? Is he injured, too?” Tim’s gaze darted to the closed bedroom door. If Dick was there, they had to get him out, too. Dick may have abandoned them, but Tim wouldn’t follow suit by leaving Dick behind.

     “Tim, stop!” Jason roared. He grabbed Tim’s hand, and his eyes were glowing in the grey scale when Tim looked back at him. “We’re not under attack.”

     “What are you talking about? Someone shut off the power to Dick’s apartment-”

     “The power company shut off the power, you idiot!” Jason snapped before letting go of his wrist and sinking back into the couch, his other hand pressed against his wound.

     A cold pit grew in Tim’s gut. No. No. Dick hadn’t left him again, had he? “Why would they do that?” Tim asked, going back to his wrist computer to verify what Jason said, and sure enough, the power had been cut directly from the company. Was this why Jason called him there? Because he discovered that Dick had skipped out on them again? It could explain Jason’s Pit-induced panic from earlier.

     “Gee, I wonder,” Jason said flatly. “Maybe because Wing forgot to pay the bill?”

     The comment pulled him back from spiraling into the terrible assumptions, and Tim relaxed a little in relief as he hacked into the company’s records and saw the line of code for a failed automatic deposit linked to Dick’s apartment. “Or maybe because he couldn’t pay the bill.” He looked up to see Jason’s eyes widen and then narrow with realization.

     “Fuck, this is worse than I thought,” Jason murmured, his tone laden with anger and worry, but also confusion.

     “How can Dick be broke?” Tim asked, his brow furrowed as he started typing again.

     “How would I know?” Jason groused. “Doesn’t matter right now, anyway. Can you just get the lights back on before I bleed out?”

     “Okay, fine, just give me a minute. You're so grouchy when you've been stabbed.”

     “Fuck off,” Jason breathed.

     The lights came on, and Tim demasked before picking up the suture needle and rescinding his earlier stance. “Tell me about Dick. What’s going on?”

     Jason took a deep breath, welcoming the distraction from the pain, and set to recounting his night.

     Tim’s brow furrowed in deep thought as Jason told him about finding Dick on the floor and dissociated to a degree that Jason had never seen before. His lips pressed into a thin line as Jason detailed the apparent evidence of Dick’s eating disorder, the mugs on the table behind him clear proof of Jason’s theory. Guilt pulled the skin around his eyes tight as Jason mentioned bloody bandages in the bathroom, though Tim’s voice held no inflection as he muttered something about Oracle having hinted at Dick being injured a few days prior.

     Throughout it all, Tim kept his hands steady as he stitched Jason's side up and wrapped him in bandages. He wasn't sure what to do with the information being given to him. Was he worried about Dick? Yes. But did it have to be Tim’s job to fix this? Tim wasn’t ready to forgive Dick. Couldn't they just shove their brother at Bruce to be fixed? Bruce had been in on Dick’s mission, after all. Surely, he would have some kind of insight that would help.

     But then Jason dropped the biggest bombshell as Tim disposed of the needle into a sharps container.

     “Tim, Dick has been hallucinating.”

     Tim froze for a brief second before he tucked the container into his utility belt with a quiet click. “Hallucinating?”

     “Yup. About me, specifically,” Jason said with a grimace.

      Tim took a deep breath as flashes of a younger Jason came to mind, wispy apparitions of Robin that he remembered dreaming about, though he never remembered falling asleep. His hands pressed together and rested against his lips for a moment before he gestured to Jason.

      “Explain.”

Chapter Text

     Tim had fallen strangely quiet as Jason explained the strange behavior from Dick and provided damning evidence with the bottle of pills still sitting among the coffee mugs on the coffee table. He had refuted the accusation of knowing anything, muttered something about Robins and ghosts, and then found Dick’s laptop that was sticking halfway out from under the couch. Now, Tim was sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa, and his fingers tip-tap-tippety-typing away as Jason gingerly pulled himself off the couch.

     “You shouldn’t move around much,” Tim warned as Jason’s breath hissed through his teeth, his stitches pulling on tender flesh.

     Jason ignored him as he stood and moved to close the window. It had been left open, with the curtains mostly drawn, and Jason, sans shirt because he didn’t want to put his bloody clothes back on, was starting to feel chilly with the draft. Or maybe it wasn’t the draft. Jason eyed the iron radiator next to the window, wondering if the heat was even on. He reached out and hovered his fingers near the metal before laying his hand on it directly. It was slightly warm. So, at the very least, the heat worked, just not very well, which wasn’t surprising, given the rundown building they were in.

     Again, why did Dick pick such a dump?

     Turning to look at the apartment’s interior, Jason felt his stomach twist with the sad state of it. Dirty dishes and stained carpet aside, the smoke-smudged wallpaper was flaking off the walls, revealing brighter paper behind it from a bygone era, the ceiling was stained from old water damage, and the wooden floorboards in the kitchen were warped and uneven.

     It reminded Jason too much of the place he grew up in, that dingy apartment with his mom and Willis. Their windows had been drafty, and their pipes groaned when Jason turned the faucet on. Willis hated the place, but that was for the best, as it meant he was rarely home. His mother, on the other hand, would simply laugh as she bundled Jason up to keep him warm from the winter chill or make funny faces as she imitated the noise the faucet made.

     “It’s just the house talking to us, sweetie. It would be rude not to talk back!”

     Jason would grin and laugh, making the noise right alongside her as they washed the dishes. As horrible as their apartment was, his mom had always kept it clean, right up until she got sick. Really sick. With his mom stuck in bed, Jason took over the chores. He’d vacuum and dust and wash the dishes, and on the good days when his mom could make it to the couch, he’d groan back at the pipes to make her laugh. Those days gave Jason hope that his mom was getting better, but with no money for a doctor, she only got worse. Eventually, Willis couldn’t stand her complaints about the pain. He came home one day with a little baggie of white powder, telling his wife that it was that or nothing. Soon, Jason’s mom felt better, but it didn’t last long. Jason learned early in life what addiction could do to a person as he watched his mother’s health steadily decline. Then Willis was gone, killed, leaving Jason and his mom alone in that apartment with nothing to their name. And Jason tried, he really did, to provide for them. He scrounged up whatever change he could, doing chores for people in the neighborhood, and then bought food for him and his mom. But it was never enough. So Jason stole food instead, managing to keep them fed a little better. But then his mom ran out of her ‘medicine.’ It was terrifying. ***** His mother was a completely different person in the throes of withdrawal. She was short-tempered, twitchy, and paranoid. She wasn’t his mom, so when Jason met a man on the street who offered a baggie of white powder to him if he helped him, Jason took the offer. He brought the powder home to his mom, and then she was better. She was laughing again, and even though her smile was pained, she was genuine when she apologized for her earlier behavior. She praised him for taking such good care of her, and Jason clung tight to her side that night as the winter chill settled in, tears in his eyes as his stomach twisted something awful. The powder didn’t last long. His mom was acting weird again, aggressive even, and Jason, scared both of and for his mom, took to the streets. He spent days searching for the man from before, even though it made him sick to think about helping him again. But he never found the man, and with no idea how to find a drug dealer- yes, Jason was old enough to know what those were at the age of ten- he was forced to give up. ***** His mother had passed the withdrawal period by then and was thinner than ever. But at least she was back to her normal self, smiling at Jason whenever she was awake and thanking him for taking such good care of her. And then she was gone. 

     Back then, cleaning their home was all Jason could do to help in the end, so when Bruce gave him the opportunity to become Robin, to help people like his mom, Jason jumped at the chance. He was a good Robin. He loved helping people, even now, years down the road and twisted from death and green waters, Jason's main goal as the Red Hood was to help people, those who deserved it, anyway. But once again, Jason found himself in a situation where there was little he could do to help. So, just like those days in his childhood, Jason resolved to do the one thing he knew he could help with.

     He moved away from the window with purpose in his stride, grunting as he bent over and picked up several mold-infested coffee mugs and carried them to the kitchen. He needed some way to help, to make up for not looking out for Dick sooner, and the plethora of dishes was the obvious answer to his quandary.

     He moved back and forth, collecting all the dishes from the living area to the small kitchenette while Tim’s tippety-tappety typing continued in the background. The dishes were collected, now taking up the entire counter and the small island that separated the kitchenette from the rest of the apartment. The island had been oddly clean, apart from the two now-cold stacks of pancakes. In fact, Jason looked back at the piles of dishes in the sink and quirked a brow at the select few dishes that were set in the strainer. In his bafflement, Jason hadn’t even noticed Dick doing the dishes that he’d used to make the pancakes. But there they were, drip-drying in the rack, pristinely clean, whereas dirty pots of old soup sat collecting mold in the sink. One pot was full of fuzzy, green rice, and a scorched frying pan was decorated with burnt-on char that may have been steak at some point in time. There were bowls of cereal, something Dick had always loved, that were left abandoned on the counter, the milk gone sour and the cereal left to become nothing but mush.

     Shaking his head at the oddity of Dick doing dishes during a hallucinogenic episode when he apparently couldn’t do them on a day-to-day basis, Jason grabbed a dirty spatula and the pot of rice and walked a couple of steps to the trash can. Popping the lid up, Jason immediately reared back, wrinkling his nose at the concentrated scent of rot. Dick’s entire apartment needed a good airing out, what with all the moldy dishes and the carpet that had seen better days; Jason could stand all that. But the bouquet coming from the bin was four times as bad, and Jason had to hold his breath as he leaned over to peer inside. Unease crept through his body at the sight of a dozen stacks’ worth of pancakes resting in the bottom of the bag. The once delicious pastries were covered in black mold and wriggling maggots that thrived in the damp warmth of the garbage can.

     “Just how many times have you made me pancakes, Dick?” Jason muttered under his breath, using the spatula to pry the clump of rice out of the pot and into the maggot-infested bag. He spent the next few minutes disposing of all the molding food and thinking about that ominous sentence Dick had said.

     “I always make you pancakes when you’re hurt.”

     What did he mean by that exactly? Was Dick hallucinating Jason from a specific mission? He frowned, trying to think of the last time he got hurt on a mission when Dick was around. They hadn't worked together much since Dick got back, but Jason had been shot during their first team-up after Dick's return. It hadn't been much of anything, just a graze, but thinking back, Dick had seemed rather pale and worried. His brother had tried to talk to him, but Jason just brushed him off brusquely, his betrayal still fresh and more painful than the wound on his arm. Still, maybe that night had stuck with Dick for some reason.

     Jason had just finished shaking the soggy cereal out of the last bowl as Tim’s voice rose in frustrated bewilderment.

     “Who the hell is Patrick Malone?”

Chapter Text

     “Malone?” Jason looked up from the kitchen at Tim after his outburst. “That name sounds familiar.”

     “Familiar how?” Tim asked.

      “I don’t know, just familiar.”

     Tim directed a flat expression at his brother as Jason padded into the living room to look over his shoulder at the info Tim had pulled up. “Look, the bank account that declined the automatic payment to the power company doesn’t even belong to Dick. It belongs to someone named Patrick Malone,” Tim continued, frowning as he pulled up Dick’s lease before Jason could respond. “And look here, Dick’s been here for nearly three months now, right? But they put his name on the lease at the start of last month, and before that, they leased it to Patrick Malone.” Tim typed a few commands and pulled up another form. “In fact, it was leased to Patrick Malone for nearly three years prior.”

     “That seems kinda fishy,” Jason’s frown deepened to match Tim’s, and the genius nodded in agreement. “Get any hits on the database for him?”

     Tim shook his head, lips thinning. “None. No warrants in his name, no evidence of previous convictions or even jobs from what I can find on a surface level.”

     “Social media?”

     “There’s a Patricia Malone in Arkansas that loves posting photos of her cats, but I kinda doubt that’s our guy,” Tim said dryly.

     “Malone, Malone…” Jason hummed, pressing his lips together before shaking his head. “No, I can’t place it.”

     “Well, think about it while I try a couple of other avenues,” Tim murmured, resuming his typing as Jason walked back to the kitchen. He’d find answers one way or another, but Tim had no idea what those answers would be. Malone, on the surface level, seemed like a ghost in the system, and that rang all sorts of alarms in Tim’s head. Few people could accomplish the feat of erasing their presence. One: heroes, which Malone obviously wasn’t, as Gotham’s heroes all belonged to Tim’s family. Two: government agents, which wouldn’t make much sense in this scenario. And three: (the most likely) criminals. The only question was, why would Dick be living in the apartment of a criminal and letting said criminal pay his bills?

*****

      Jason organized the stacks of dishes on the counter as he mulled over the name Tim discovered tied to Dick’s apartment. It sounded too familiar to ignore, but for the life of him, Jason couldn’t figure out why. Patrick Malone. It couldn’t be the sniveling Pat the Rat that worked as Jason’s informant because his last name was Brown. But wasn’t there a pickpocket named Patrick that hung around the West End of Gotham? Jason would have to look into it.

     Maybe some of his men would know-

     *groooaaan*

     The loud noise of the water pipes shook Jason from his thoughts, and he froze with his hand on the faucet’s handle. The sound sent him right back in time. Jason was nine years old and washing dishes in their crappy little apartment. His mom was sitting on their couch, watching TV, and if Jason turned to his right, she’d be smiling as she met his eyes. Even when she was stressed, she never failed to smile at him. He would see her poring over bills, stress lines on her face, and worry in her eyes, but when Jason timidly piped up and asked to go to the park, she would look at him with soft affection and smile as she promised to take him as soon as she finished up with the bills.

     Tears stung Jason’s eyes, and he angrily brushed them away as he attacked the dirty dishes with vigor. Why the fuck was Dick living in this shithole?! Why was he letting some Joe Schmo off the streets pay his bills? If Dick was broke, why didn’t he go to Bruce for help? Jason grimaced at the thought, immediately disregarding it as stupid. Jason wouldn’t go to Bruce either. But if not Bruce, why not Alfred? Or one of his friends in the Titans? And why did Dick need the financial help in the first place? Jason knew that Dick never lived opulently after moving out, but Dick did have money. Bruce made sure of that, even though Dick rarely used said funds, preferring to rely mostly on his wages as a detective. Of course, since Dick’s ‘death’, he hadn’t gone back to the police force, but he should still have plenty saved up to afford a better place than the one he chose.

     Jason’s aggressive scrubbing of the burnt frying pan slowed as he registered his last thought. Dick hadn’t gone back to work since his ‘death.’ In fact, since his reappearance, Dick hadn’t done anything in the public eye. Jason knew that Dick’s secret identity as Nightwing had been restored; Bruce had mentioned it briefly during a mission. But now that Jason thought about it, he hadn’t seen any news articles explaining away his death and return. When Bruce came back from the timeline, they smoothed over his disappearance with some cockamamie story that ran for weeks in the tabloids. But Dick Grayson, the socialite who replaced Bruce as Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor, didn’t rate even a single front page expo?

     It didn’t make any sense, unless… Dick Grayson was still dead.

     Green invaded Jason’s eyes as he scrutinized the pot he was scrubbing for any traces of dinge. He knew what it was like to be legally dead, to walk as a ghost among men. When he came back to Gotham as Red Hood, no one knew his real name, and it was something that hurt more than Jason ever thought it would. Eventually, he restored his identity, and even though Jason maintained a low profile with most social events, it was a relief to be known by his own name again.

     Had Dick been living the same nightmare that Jason had found himself in?

     “Hey, Tim,” Jason turned to look at his brother, who looked just as frustrated as he had before by whatever was on his screen. “Is Dick… legally dead? Like, would his bank know he’s alive?”

       Tim’s eyes grew wide with realization, and a hasty moment of typing later gave Jason his answer when Tim’s expression grew pained with guilt.

     So Dick was dead. Not physically, but legally. He was unable to access his money; too proud or maybe just too stubborn to ask for help from Bruce. Thus leading him here, to this dingy dump, living off- what? A loan from a shady criminal that Tim can’t find any information on?

     It still didn’t seem plausible. Dick wouldn’t let himself fall into that kind of situation blindly. Pride goeth before a fall, but Dick would literally have had to jump into that type of financial dependence with both eyes open and both feet launching him forward. So how had it happened? How did Dick get mixed up with someone who was most likely on the wrong side of the law?

     Jason frowned. Could it have had something to do with Dick’s undercover mission? Had he gotten too involved? Had a third party found out about it? Could this Patrick guy be holding something over Dick’s head that kept him from reaching out for help from his friends or family?

     Jason didn’t have any answers to his questions or proof of his assumptions, but one thing was for sure: there was a lot more going on with Dick that extended past his mental health and physical issues.

     And Jason felt nine years old in the face of it all, unable to do anything but wash the dishes and hope it would all get better somehow.