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"Red Hood, report."
Bruce's voice came in loud and clear over the comms, and Jason was quick to respond. "Arriving on location presently. Will advise if I need backup. Going silent now." He slipped into an alleyway and positioned himself behind a dumpster to make sure all his equipment was in place, a last-second check.
Working with Batman and the others again was… strange. It had been a few months since he'd gotten on better terms with them, but he still wasn't used to having a team. Well, not quite a team, not really—Red Hood usually worked alone, and that hadn't changed—but having people on comms with him, who could find potential leads and be backup if he ever needed it (which he didn't) was nice, in a way. Mostly Jason just appreciated that the Bats let him handle Crime Alley himself now. If they got news of something going down there, they'd pass the information along instead of trying to do it themselves.
Which was why Jason currently found himself crouching twenty feet outside of an abandoned warehouse, ready to move in to intercept a drug supply deal between two small-time gang leaders. Normally Jason would just inspect the product to make sure it wasn't cut with anything harmful, remind them to pay him his dues for keeping Batman out of their hair, and be on his merry way. But in this case, Red Robin had gotten wind that the groups were targeting teens as new clients. That not only were they selling to minors, but actively seeking them out. Something every drug lord in the city should have known Red Hood abhorred.
But it seemed like these few had forgotten.
Jason strode into the warehouse, one hand nonchalantly resting on one of the guns at his hip. "Hey, boys," he said, glancing around the room. There were six people in total; two backup from each gang plus their leaders. A crate sat between them, ajar just enough for Jason to see the carefully wrapped packets inside. "Heard a deal was going down without me."
The leader of the first gang—a man with short-cropped brown hair who went by the name Doodle—turned to face him. "Red Hood! We weren't expecting you."
"I can tell." Jason gestured towards the case. "This all legit?" In cases like these, where it didn't seem like the men suspected that Hood was onto them, it was safer to play along—lure them into a false sense of security, then trap them into admitting they'd broken his number one rule. Of course, it didn't matter even if they didn't admit it. Jason already had the proof in his pocket. Tim had done the hard part for him. Regardless, Jason was there to confirm the facts, and make sure it ended there. Permanently.
…Ish. One of the conditions for Red Robin giving him the intel was Jason using rubber bullets, so the gang would survive the night. They just would probably wish they hadn't.
The other gang leader, someone new whom Jason hadn't met yet, nodded in response to Red Hood's question. "All one-hundred-percent pure fine-ground heroin."
"Glad to hear it." Jason walked closer, pretending to inspect the goods. Then he turned to face the one he didn't know. "I take it you already know who I am. What do you go by?"
The new guy stuck out his hand. "Call me Nico."
"Right. Nice to meet you, Nico. From now on you answer to me, just like everybody else who wants in on this business. Got it?" Nico nodded anxiously. He clearly wanted to be on Red Hood's good side. Which made sense; people didn't tend to easily forget a duffel bag full of heads. "Lovely. Then we have a deal." Jason reached out to shake Nico's hand—anything to make him and Doodle more relaxed before Jason shifted the topic to the high schoolers they were peddling the shit to—and froze.
In Nico's other hand, almost hidden at his side, was a crowbar. Jason's heart practically stopped. It's nothing, he told himself. Just this asshole's weapon of choice. Nico wasn't the Joker. Nico wasn't a threat. He was scared of Red Hood.
And Red Hood had absolutely no reason to be scared of him back. Jason swallowed his fear and tried to ignore it, shaking Nico's hand like expected. He could deal with this. He did when he wielded a crowbar himself, after all. Of course, it was different, holding the weapon via his own agency, knowing exactly how it would be used and that it couldn't harm him, but Nico surely wasn't suicidal enough to attack him with it anyway, so things would be okay.
All he had to do was remain calm. Not blow his cover. Finish the mission. But maybe just… hurry things up a bit. Jason didn't want to spend a second longer with the crowbar than necessary.
And the best way to speed up the interaction—to make sure he could take this gang down by himself—was to convince them they needed to end things swiftly. People in a rush tended to make mistakes, and if they were worried about an outside threat, then they'd be less likely to clock Jason as their actual enemy until he'd actually started shooting.
"Alright, boys," Jason said, swiveling away from the shipment and leaning casually against the crate. "So you've got a case full of the good stuff. Where's it gonna go?"
The two gang leaders exchanged a glance. "Not to kids," Doodle said quickly. "We know your rules."
So now they were actively lying to him. Jason wasn't surprised; he didn't think many people would volunteer information that would get them beheaded if Jason didn't happen to be working with the Bats this time. Too bad for them that Jason already knew the truth. "I don't mean who you're selling to. I know you wouldn't go behind my back on something like that. I mean this physical container. Where is it going to go before you have the time to sell the contents? Gotham City Police have been tracking you down." If they were going to lie, so could he.
But Doodle didn't look concerned at all. That was surprising. "Oh, don't worry, we've got that covered. If anyone comes in here while we're gone… the place is set to blow. Minor loss in profits, sure, but all the evidence goes up in flames."
Jason blinked behind his mask. "A bomb?"
"A big one." Doodle grinned. "Wanna see?" He pulled back a curtain just behind the drug case, and sure enough, plastered to a pillar, was an amalgamation of C4 and wires. And now that Jason knew what to look for, he could see a similar setup on the walls all around the warehouse.
His blood ran cold.
The location. The crowbar. The bomb. Jason knew it was different. That he wasn't in danger. And yet… and yet…
He had to get out of there. Fuck the mission. He couldn't take these guys down, not when his hands would be shaking too much to aim. "Nice," he managed to choke. He'd never been more grateful that the voice modulator also regulated his breathing, because there was no way in hell he was letting these chucklefucks know he was on the verge of hyperventilating. "I'll—let you get back to it, then."
He turned on his heel and strode for the exit as quickly as he could without running. Because Red Hood did not run away from minor gang leaders. Red Hood wasn't afraid of a tiny little bomb in a warehouse.
…But Jason Todd was.
His heart pounded as he reached his bike, speeding away from it all. He couldn't—he couldn't think, he couldn't breathe, the world was tunneling around him and he—he was going to crash if he didn't stop trying to drive. Jason pulled over into an alleyway, climbed off the motorcycle, and grabbed his temples. It had to stop. It all had to stop. It wasn't real, he wasn't there, so why did it feel like he was?
Oracle was buzzing in his ear, asking what was wrong, and Jason did not want to answer. He ripped his helmet off and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Even with his face now exposed to the night air he still felt like he wasn't getting enough oxygen. Drowning. That was the word for it, wasn't it? He was drowning, on land, alone and unharmed and yet suffering all the same. He remembered every blow. Every taunt. The betrayal, the fear, the desperation, and, and, and—
He would not cry. He would not cry. Not in public. Not like this. Hell, anyone just walking by could probably see him, and that was unacceptable.
A safehouse. He could let it out there. Still shameful, but marginally less embarrassing to break down in private. He wasn't too far from one; close enough to walk, at least, which was good because there was no way he'd be able to drive in his current state.
Where was it, again? Right. That way. The disorientation was truly doing a number on him. Jason started for it, almost stumbling. He reached the alleyway beneath it, the ladder he'd climbed up so many times before, and paused.
His hands were trembling. There was no way he'd be able to get a solid enough grip to climb it. To climb a goddamn ladder. How pathetic was he? Jason put his back to the solid brick wall, closed his eyes, and slid down it. He hugged his knees to his chest. Breathe. He needed to breathe. It was a panic attack. He was safe. It wasn't real.
The mission was real, though. And he'd fucked it up. Those assholes would keep selling drugs to kids because Jason was too weak to tell them off for it. And then they'd go on believing they pulled one over on the great Red Hood, so his reputation would be dented too. …God forbid anyone saw him in this alleyway. His helmet was off, which mitigated the danger somewhat, but even in just a domino he could still be recognized as Red Hood. Or as Jason Todd. Quite frankly, Jason wasn't sure which would be worse.
It didn't matter. Everything was bad. He hated Doodle and Nico and everyone else in that warehouse. He hated the Joker. And most of all, he hated himself. A few tears slipped out from the corner of his eyes, and he buried his face in his hands to hide them. Someone stronger wouldn't have been affected like this. How long had it been since Ethiopia? Long enough that he should be better. Long enough that—
The sound of someone approaching snapped Jason out of things in an instant. A fresh wave of panic rose up inside him, until he saw who it was. "Dick?"
"Guilty as charged."
Now Jason was even more embarrassed to be seen like this. "What are you doing here? I don't need your help."
Dick sat down next to him. "I came to check on you. You walked away from the mission pretty abruptly. I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"Yeah. I’m fine."
Dick glanced him up and down. "No, you're not."
Jason sighed. "Fine. You're right. I'm sorry. I fucked up the mission. Is that what you want to hear?"
"No. Because one, I'd never be mad at you for something like this, and two, you didn't ruin anything. Red Robin and Batgirl went in and finished it after you left. They won't sell to any more kids."
Huh. "Oh. …So you didn't go in, then?"
Dick shook his head. "Nope. I tracked you down instead."
Jason let out a bitter laugh. "So I was your mission."
"Hardly. I wanted to come."
"Why?"
"Because you're my brother and you're not feeling well?"
Did Dick think he'd left because he had the flu or something? "I’m not sick. It was only—"
"Only a panic attack?" Dick shifted closer, gently taking Jason's hand. "Don't downplay this, Jason. It's worth checking up on you over. And before you complain, imagine if it was me instead. You'd want to find me too."
A part of Jason wanted to snark back that he wouldn't, and that the only Bat he might care to comfort in that sort of situation would be Damian, but it would be a lie and they both knew it, so instead he just sighed. He didn't know what to say. No words came to mind.
His hands had stopped trembling, though. Dick's presence seemed to be enough for that.
"Hey." Dick touched Jason's shoulder. "You feeling okay enough to climb up to the safehouse? Inside might be a bit better. More private."
He certainly had a point. Wordlessly, Jason rose to his feet, clipped his helmet to his belt so he didn't have to carry it, and scaled the ladder. His arms still felt weaker than usual, but at least he wasn't so pathetic as to find it impossible. Dick climbed up right behind him, ready to catch him if he fell—which Jason was absolutely not about to do; he was still a trained vigilante after all—and together the pair made it through the apartment's window.
Dick guided Jason to the couch and tossed a blanket at him, then grabbed the TV remote off of its spot on the bookcase and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll go prepare something for you to eat, okay?"
Make himself comfortable. Like this wasn't Jason's damn safehouse in the first place. Apparently Dick knew about it, which wasn't surprising despite him never coming over before, but that didn't mean Jason didn't know how to act in it. Still, he took off his domino and utility belt, tossed them to the floor, and pulled the blanket up around himself. His breathing was still uneven and he flinched at every sudden noise, but he could call this place a home. That was the important part.
From the kitchen came the clang of someone getting out a metal pot. "Do you want macaroni and cheese, or chicken noodle soup?" Dick yelled.
"Why are those my only options?"
"I dunno, Jaybird, why are those the only two hot foods you keep in this place? This safehouse isn't mine."
"Cause they keep well and I don't come here too often! Don't fucking judge me." Jason sank further into the couch, groaning. "Just… I don't care. Whichever you wanna make."
"Think your hands are steady enough to handle liquid?" Dick replied.
Jason looked down. They were still shaking, but only slightly. "…Yeah. They're fine."
"Lovely. Chicken noodle soup it is, coming right up."
There was the sound of a can opening and then being poured into a pot, followed by Dick heading into the living room, presumably to wait while the soup heated up. But instead of joining him on the couch, Dick furrowed his brow at Jason. Jason frowned back. "Something wrong?"
Dick nodded at the remote, untouched on the coffee table. "You aren't watching anything. The TV's not even on. I put it there for a reason, you know. It's not good to just wallow in your own thoughts like this, or you might start spiraling again. You could put on a nature show and be distracted while your body learns to calm down."
He was right, and Jason knew it. And that only made him feel more useless. Some blasé show might be a good distraction, but how could he distract himself when every inch of him ached to either punch something or sprint away? Distraction meant ignoring the danger he knew was there but couldn't see. And sure, the danger might be solely in his past, and he might be fully safe in his own apartment—intellectually, he knew that—but the idea of it still made him feel too vulnerable.
He could never escape the Joker, could he? He couldn't do it then and he couldn't do it now. He was still in that warehouse, the one in Gotham merging with the one in Ethiopia, and he would always be there. Hurt. Bleeding. Waiting for the explosion to go off. Waiting to die. The lump in his throat was growing again, but he would not start crying, not in front of Dick, not when he'd tried so hard to calm down in the first place, and—
"Jason. Hey." Dick sat down on the couch next to him. "I didn't mean to make things worse. Just breathe, okay?"
"I know how to breathe, Dickface," Jason snapped. "You babying me is only making me feel worse." Which perhaps wasn't quite fair, but fuck it, Jason wasn't quite in the right frame of mind to care. It was already bad enough that he was having a panic attack without his own brother hovering over him treating him like a kicked puppy.
"Then I won't say anything." Dick shifted to the other side of the couch to give Jason more space, leaned forward, and grabbed the remote. "Would you listen to David Attenborough, though?"
Jason wanted to glare at him and say that it wouldn't work, but as Planet Earth started playing, he… had to admit that it kind of was. Nature was grounding. There hadn't been nature in the warehouse. Or the alley outside the safehouse, for that matter. Unless one counted sidewalk weeds and rats and pigeons. Which Jason did not.
A timer on Dick's phone went off, and he headed back into the kitchen. A few moments later he emerged again, balancing two steaming bowls of soup, two spoons, and a couple packets of saltine crackers. He handed one of everything to Jason and sat back down himself. "There. Feeling any better yet?"
Jason stirred the soup, staring into the tiny whirlpool his spoon made. "I guess. But… I thought I was feeling better in the alley, too, when we climbed the ladder. And then it started up again."
Dick nodded knowingly. "Yeah. That's how it can be sometimes. I used to get panic attacks that lasted for hours like that, on and off. …Nobody looks down on you for it, you know. We all understand. Anyone in your position could have been triggered. Honestly, probably would have been."
"Maybe." Jason crushed a saltine and sprinkled it over the bowl, waiting for it to cool down enough to eat. Getting something in his stomach probably would be good for him. "But I should have been better. I’m not 'anyone.' I’m Red Hood."
"Who, last time I checked, was still a human. You're allowed to have feelings and be vulnerable sometimes. Even all the time, if you want to be."
"Still. I…" Jason trailed off, no words feeling sufficient. How could he possibly even begin to describe how he felt?
Dick sighed and set his own spoon down. "Would you be embarrassed for me if I came to you? If I had a panic attack about my parents, or Tarantula, or any of the other awful stuff that's happened in my life?"
"…No." Jason would accept it and be there for him. But that was different. That was Dick. Nightwing wasn't Red Hood, and never would be. And that was a good thing.
"Then you need to learn to accept it in yourself, too. A panic attack isn’t your fault. It's Joker's, if anybody's. Feel free to blame him all you want."
Jason smiled a little at that. "So you truly don't think any less of me? Even though Red Hood is supposed to be…?"
Dick sighed dramatically. "No, I don't think less of you. But if you keep asking these stupid questions, I just might. Do you want any more soup?"
"No," Jason replied, "this is fine. I'm good." And for the first time that evening, Jason was.