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“He’s ready for quads,” Jason said, loud and firm, glancing at Tim. Fuck, but the sight of him spinning through the air was glorious.
“You’re not his teacher!” Dick cut him off, expression twisted in a snarl, “You don’t know what’s best for him. You can’t teach him—”
“I absolutely could teach him,” Jason snapped, patience entirely gone. He tried his best to loom over Dick, but Dick refused to budge, meeting his gaze with cool, cold eyes. “I’d teach him to actually improve his techniques, not just—”
“No you wouldn’t,” Dick said coldly, “You don’t know shit about technique, Jay. You never gave a shit about it.”
Jason had had it up to here with sanctimonious figure skaters. “That’s not true,” he growled.
“It is,” Dick snapped, blue eyes flashing, “I trained you, Jay, I remember.” Yeah, but Jason sure as hell didn’t remember his old mentor looking at him like he was less than dirt. “All you cared about was your lifts, how many rotations you could get in. You thought power was all you needed, and you thought technique played second fiddle to improving your strength. You were going to wipe yourself out. Bruce was absolutely right to bench you.”
The words were a dagger to his heart. Dick pronounced the verdict like he was doing nothing more than reading off a menu.
Jason shoved him in lieu of screaming. “Watch your fucking mouth, Dickie.” Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Tim’s worried frown.
“No,” Dick spun to head Tim out the gate, “We’re done.” Jason wasn’t going to let him get away that easily, yanking Dick back so hard he nearly sent the older man into a spin.
“Let him do whatever he wants to, Dick,” Jason growled, “He deserves the right to choose what jumps he wants to put in his routines.” Tim’s gaze was flickering between both of them like a tennis match.
“No, that’s what his coach is for,” Dick retorted, “And I’m here to make sure he can actually land the jumps he’s attempting, safely and consistently.”
The words left his mouth without permission, “Because you’re so safe and consistent.”
It was a low jab and Jason knew it, but his blood was singing too high, years worth of frustration breaking free. Dick’s pathetic attempt to shove him didn’t even register.
“You’re the reason Bruce never let Tim or I perform quads. Not because of safety or consistency; because you fucked up that triple at Worlds and wiped yourself right out, so now we get to pay for it—”
Jason wasn’t expecting Dick to actually punch him.
The Golden Boy was breathing hard, fist still raised, expression somewhere between shock and rage and quietly broken that Jason didn’t let himself focus on, because something inside him just snapped.
His face was stinging and hot and he was moving forward and Dick’s eyes were wide as he half-turned, trying to get out of the way. Before Jason crashed into him and shoved him, hard.
Dick wasn’t a hockey player. Dick had a figure skater’s build. Dick wasn’t wearing hockey pads. Dick tripped back on the ice, arms spread, and Jason didn’t know what happened but between one stumbled step and the next, he just…crumpled.
And hit the ice.
In the shocked silence, Dick’s high-pitched gasp came through loud and clear.
Tim’s inhaled, “Dick!” was drowned out by a furious, “Todd!” and Jason didn’t turn at the sound of his name, transfixed by the sight of Dick spilled out on the ice. Tim crouched next to his mentor’s side, hands hovering over him, face stricken as Dick groaned, and Jason watched silently until black-and-purple filled his vision with an incensed Slade.
“What the fuck, Todd!” Slade snapped, and the heavy hands landing on his shoulders managed to break his stupor.
Dick, on the ice. Dick, head tucked against an elbow, mouth twisted with pain. Dick, clutching his ankle.
No. No. “Dick,” Jason said hoarsely, pushing against Slade’s grip, “Dick, no—no, I didn’t mean—let go of me—”
Slade shoved him hard enough that Jason landed on his ass. “Stay down,” the man snarled, turning towards Dick and Tim. The younger skater had pulled Dick up to a sitting position and Dick practically buried his face against Tim’s shirt, both hands now clutching his leg.
“Dickie,” Jason tried, crawling on shin pads, unable to feel the ice because he was so cold, all over, frozen to his very soul. “Dickie, I’m sorry.”
Dick didn’t turn. Tim didn’t look up, his expression frantic as he held Dick. Slade crouched down next to the two of them, and had a muttered conversation before he hoisted Dick up in a princess carry. Tim scrambled after him, not throwing a single glance at Jason.
Dick looked so small in Slade’s arms. Jason caught the hint of a shimmering tear below Dick’s closed eyes before Slade stalked out the gate.
He could see the scene of Dick splayed out on the ice every time he blinked.
Jason shuffled in front of the door, drawing in a shaky breath, and tried to muster enough courage to press the doorbell. His fingers were trembling and he had a white-knuckled grip on his phone, still open to the updates Tim had sent him after Jason had begged.
On the way to hospital.
Admitted.
Checking out.
Dick went home.
Dick went home. Dick went home. They’d discharged him after four hours, which meant that it wasn’t serious. It had to not be serious. Jason didn’t know what he’d do if it was.
Dick, sprawled on the ice, black and blue and red, as still as death. There were still videos of it on the internet, as much as Bruce tried to take them down. The wipeout that had ended Dick’s career, permanently. The ankle that would never recover.
Dick, curled up on the ice, expression scrunched up in pain, clutching his ankle. Not because of a mistake, but because of Jason. Because Jason had lost his temper. Because Jason had nearly bodyslammed his old mentor.
Because Jason.
It was getting difficult to take in deep breaths. Jason had been sent home from practice, and he knew that disciplinary action would be waiting, but all he could think of was those few short seconds, over and over on a loop he couldn’t break out of.
Moving forward. Dick’s eyes going wide as he realized Jason wasn’t going to stop. The moment he half twisted away, an automatic flinch to cover for his bad ankle. And Jason slamming into someone not prepared to take the hit.
Dick’s gasp, high and loud and clear.
Tim’s messages were short and succinct and Jason didn’t bother asking for more information. He didn’t want to know more information. He didn’t know if Dick managed to fuck up his ankle for good, if Jason was going to be the reason that Dick Grayson never skated again.
They weren’t the first tears slipping down his cheeks and he rubbed at them as quickly as he could. He fucked up. He needed to apologize. He had to apologize. He would fucking grovel on Dick’s doorstep if he needed him to.
Jason sucked in a breath. Exhaled shakily. Pressed the doorbell.
As soon as he heard the chime, his entire body locked up. Everything inside him was screaming at him to flee, dread churning nauseatingly in his gut, run, run, run—
The door opened. It was Dick, dark circles under his eyes, hair rumpled, looking exhausted as he leaned on crutches. “Jason?” he said slowly.
At least he hadn’t slammed the door in his face.
Jason’s gaze immediately darted down, he couldn’t help himself, and he stopped breathing at the sight of the boot. It encased Dick’s left foot, stopping high up his shin, a solid, demanding black.
His left foot. Not the bad one. Jason didn’t know whether to be relieved or more upset.
“Fracture,” Dick exhaled, answering the question Jason was too much of a coward to ask. “It’ll heal. A month before I’m back on the ice.”
Jason drew in a sharp breath, weak-kneed with relief. “That’s—that’s good,” he said, voice cracking. He had to force himself to meet Dick’s gaze again, his vision blurry, “I’m—I’m so sorry, Dickie.” He scrubbed at his face to see Dick clearly. “I didn’t—I never meant to—if I could take it back—”
“Why don’t you come in?” Dick cut him off, hopping a step back to free the doorway. His voice wasn’t cold, but it was carefully even. Jason miserably wished that Dick would just punch him again.
Jason hovered behind Dick as Dick made his way to his living room, ready to catch Dick if he so much as wavered, until they actually reached the couch and his concentration split. He blinked, unsure if what he was seeing was real or a vivid hallucination.
“What the fuck is he doing here,” Jason said blankly, staring at Slade Wilson.
Dick collapsed into the couch with a soft sigh. “I needed a ride home from the hospital and I didn’t want to call Bruce.”
Oh shit. Bruce. As in, the guy who was definitely going to murder him for fucking up his favorite student. Jason was dead.
Jason tried to distract himself from thoughts of his impending doom. “But him?” he spluttered. He didn’t think Slade and Dick even knew each other. “Why him?”
“Why not?” Slade arched an eyebrow, “And what are you doing here, kid?” Something in his voice was coldly even, icy blue eyes narrowed. Jason remembered the fury in Slade’s normally steady tone, and swallowed.
He turned back to Dick and slowly shuffled forward, dropping to his knees next to Dick’s seat and doing his best to ignore Slade Wilson’s presence.
“I’m sorry,” Jason said, voice wavering, “I got angry and I fucked up. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to lose my temper, or say those awful things to you. I didn’t—you’re right. You’re Tim’s teacher. It’s not my business and I shouldn’t have interrupted your practice. And I shouldn’t have shoved you, I’m s—so so sorry, Dick, I a—am, I never m—meant to do that, I’m sorry, please, I swear, I never wanted you to get hurt, I swear, Dickie, I didn’t, I d—don’t know how to fix it, please—”
“Little Wing.” There were hands on his shoulders, pulling him up, and he went with it, still sobbing, breaths too short and panicked. “Shh, Little Wing.” As soon as he was tugged onto the couch, he was wrapped in a firm hug. “It’s okay,” Dick said hoarsely, “I forgive you.”
Jason clutched at Dick’s shirt, burying his face against Dick’s shoulder. “I broke your ankle,” he said, low and choked.
“No, you didn’t,” Dick said firmly, “I fell badly.”
“Because I shoved you.”
“Because I punched you.”
“Because I said something horrible—”
“If we’re going to get into ‘I said, you said’, we’ll be here all day,” Dick let his chin drop on the top of Jason’s head, bundling him close like he used to do back when he was Jason’s mentor. His voice dropped low, “You apologized. I forgave you. We’re good.”
It didn’t feel like Jason had groveled nearly enough. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I know,” Dick whispered. “Slade,” he said, louder, reminding Jason that his teammate was still here, “Can you get us a glass of water, please?” At least it got the older man out, though Dick’s kitchen wasn’t exactly soundproof. “It’s okay, Little Wing,” Dick said, quiet again, voice weary, “Shit happens.”
Jason clutched Dick even harder, as though he could protect the man from the bitterness in his own voice. He didn’t know how Dick had done it, how he’d taken his fall—his career, his hopes and dreams, everything—with such grace, how he fought so hard for a life that wasn’t what he was supposed to have. How he could so calmly accept everything life threw in his path—accept it, and move on, and keep smiling.
“You’re allowed to hate me,” Jason said quietly. Dick was allowed to hate the ice that had taken his dreams away, allowed to scream and rage at the world that denied him, he didn’t have to keep fucking smiling.
“I don’t hate you, Little Wing,” Dick said sharply, “And I never will.” He ruffled Jason’s hair like Jason was his bright-eyed student again. “Ever.”
That was a tall promise to make, but Jason disengaged from the hug when he heard Slade’s loud footsteps. He kept his head ducked, rubbing at his face as Dick took the glass of water and thanked Slade. He was surprised at the glass thrust in front of him.
Jason took it, eyeing Slade warily as the man retook his seat. He didn’t think the older man would poison him, but he was still suspicious. Slade merely cocked an eyebrow. “Heard that Jack’s been looking for you.”
Instantly, every bit of tension that had eeled out of Jason’s spine slammed back in.
“Jack?” Dick asked, confused, “Who’s Jack?”
“Manager,” Jason muttered, taking a hasty sip of the water. His breathing was rising too fast, the blow unexpected when he’d been so vulnerable. “How bad is it?” He had to fight to keep his voice steady.
“What do you mean?” Dick interrupted before Slade opened his mouth.
“He body-checked a skater on our ice rink, kid, you think that shit comes without consequences?” Slade asked, “Especially when the skater belongs to Wayne?”
“I don’t—it was an accident,” Dick leaned forward, eyes narrowed, “A simple disagreement that got a little out of control. I don’t blame Jason, and I’m happy to tell that to anyone who needs to know, whether it’s Bruce or Jack.”
“No!” Jason blurted out, a little too fast, a little too high. Both Dick and Slade turned to look at him. “I mean—I don’t need you to. I can take my lumps.”
No, he couldn’t. He really, really couldn’t. He didn’t want to imagine what Jack would do to him for this. To cover this up. Because if news got out, it wouldn’t just be Bruce who killed him, the press would vilify him.
“What consequences would there be?” Dick asked slowly, looking from him to Slade. He was still frowning. “What could they do?”
“Fines, probably,” Jason answered before Slade could, “Coach’ll probably make me do extra runs. I’ll be fine.”
His fingers were trembling again. He had to concentrate to keep his breaths even.
“Probability of being kicked off the team?” Dick asked sharply, looking at Slade.
“Nonzero,” the asshole said.
“No,” Dick pressed his lips into a thin line, “I’m not letting that happen.” Goddamn, the Golden Boy just always had to be the Golden Boy, didn’t he. “You worked so hard for this, Jay, and it takes two people to have an argument. I’ll talk to your manager.”
“No.” Jason was on his feet before his brain caught up with his instinctive reaction, the sheer, absolute terror at the thought of Dick and Jack Napier in the same room. “No. Absolutely not. You’re not talking to him.”
Dick was slowly raising an eyebrow. Slade had tensed in his seat when Jason had jumped up. “Why not?” Dick asked, a familiar, mulish glint to his eyes, “This concerns me. I should get a say.”
Abruptly, Jason could see it in his mind’s eye. Dick, both legs shattered, trying to crawl across the ice as Jack stalked behind him twirling a baseball bat. He felt like he was going to puke.
“No,” came out too shaky to be believable. “No,” Jason tried, covering up the terror with a sneer, “I don’t need you to fucking bail me out, Dickface, just leave it alone.” Jason backed away from the couch but Slade had stood up, casually blocking the path to the door. “I’m not your responsibility and hockey isn’t your dainty figure skating. I’ll be fine.”
Dick pushed himself up, leaning on his crutches. His expression wasn’t mad, wasn’t frustrated, wasn’t upset. It was calculating.
Too late, Jason realized he was shaking all over.
“Jay,” Dick said softly, “Is this another Montreal?”
Jason froze. Montreal. His first Worlds. He’d been so excited, and Dick had shepherded him through the tournament with his ever-present calm cheer, and then they’d gotten to the awards ceremony, and then.
It hadn’t been Jason’s first party full of rich people. But it had been the first with someone he recognized from the days when he paid for rink access with favors. Dick had found him having a panic attack on a balcony and Jason had repeated over and over that he was fine, lashed out at Dick, tried to do everything he could to get him to leave before collapsing against his mentor’s side and sobbing out the truth. Jason didn’t remember much about that night, but he did remember Dick’s cold fury and Bruce’s dark, tight expression.
Jason had never seen that man again.
He swallowed. Dick’s gaze had sharpened, clearly taking Jason’s silence as an answer. “Don’t,” Jason said shakily, “Dick, please—”
“Who?” Dick asked, voice dangerously soft.
“Dick—”
“Who, Jason.”
Jason took three steps back until he hit the wall, and slid down it to curl up, burying his head against his knees. He couldn’t breathe.
“Is it Jack?” Dick’s voice had almost sharpened into a hiss. Jason curled up tighter and didn’t answer. “Did you know?” came out near-murderous.
That one didn’t make any sense, until he heard Slade’s voice answer, “Know what?”
“That your manager is an abusive piece of shit!” Jason flinched. His face was wet and his breaths were cracking.
“No.” Slade’s voice was quiet.
Jason heard uneven footsteps approach but only peeked above his knees when something brushed his legs. Dick was awkwardly sitting down in front of him, left foot extended, and he scooted himself closer, until he was close enough to touch.
“Jay,” Dick said quietly, “He won’t touch you again. I won’t let him. I swear.”
Jason buried his face back down. “I’m not your student. Not your responsibility.” I don’t need you, he almost said, except that was a fucking lie.
“Maybe not, but you are mine.” Jason looked up, shocked, to see Slade Wilson crouched behind Dick, looking at him with a tight jaw and narrowed eyes. “You have a problem with the team, Todd, you’re supposed to come to me.”
Well, yeah, Jason had gotten the whole spiel the day he joined. But—“He’s the manager,” Jason said hollowly, because this wasn’t a random businessman in a Montreal banquet hall. This wasn’t someone who thought they were rich and powerful and untouchable. Jack was just plain crazy. “What could you possibly do?”
“Quite a lot,” Slade said, low and dark, “Including waiting in the parking lot with a hockey stick. How long, Todd?”
Jason stared at him. He was shivering. Everything felt either numb or cold.
“How long.”
“T—two years,” Jason forced out.
Dick’s expression cracked to something raw and hurt. Slade squeezed his eyes shut and muttered a low, strangled, “Fuck.”
“Did you tell anyone?” Dick asked softly, “Tim?” Jason shook his head. “Bruce?”
Jason made a low scoff that was too choked to come out a sneer. “You’re delusional if you think Bruce still talks to me,” he said, words too weary to have a bite.
Dick made a sharp sound, and scooted even closer, his leg pressing against Jason’s feet. “It’s okay, Little Wing. We’ll fix this,” his voice was soft but so, so strong, “Even if I have to beat him with my crutches.” There was a low bark of a chuckle from Slade. “No, I will,” Dick said, louder, “You have no idea how pissed I am right now.”
“Dick always gets cranky when he can’t get on the ice,” Jason mumbled to his knees. He pressed a little closer, until he could press his forehead to Dick’s shoulder.
A hand cupped his head, keeping him there. “And when the people I care about get hurt,” Dick said softly, a thumb brushing through Jason’s hair.
Some part of Jason went limp, tension draining out and exhaustion taking its place. He didn’t want to think about Jack. He didn’t want to think about Dick’s broken ankle. He didn’t want to think about anything at all.
“Can I stay here?” Jason asked softly.
“Of course, Little Wing. Always.”