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Jason wakes up.
Considering the last thing he remembers, it's vaguely surprising. Realizing several of the goons you've just been punching repeatedly in the head have literal bombs in their respective brainpans is not his favorite way to spend an evening, but that just seems to be his life, these days. Gotham was crazy enough - no one really needs their rogues to start getting even more creative, but no one told them that, apparently.
His vision is cloudy - but that just means the hood is on the fritz, the HUD offline, the lenses returning to their translucent default. It also likely means his comm is done, but he tries anyway. "Anybody read me? Need some... uh, need some help out here." There's no response, and he tries again, louder. "Nightwing! 'Wing, come in!" He still doesn't get a response, and he swears under his breath before shifting carefully. His ribs immediately protest the movement, and he groans, curling a little and breathing through it before he tries again. His head is one big ache, but it's still there, so he's counting that as a win.
His arms and legs also seem to be in one piece, and he takes another breath before he tries again, putting one hand down to start to push himself up. Rubble falls around him from where it landed on him, but he ignores it, biting back a second groan as he gets up, setting his hands on his knees for a moment before he straightens and reaches for the latches on the back of the hood.
The smell of burnt flesh hits him, and he swallows the retch that wants to roll up his throat, pressing the back of one hand to his face for a moment until he gets his stomach under control.
"Ugh," he mutters, looking around, opening his mouth to call for Dick - and then just darting forward, helmet falling from his hand when he sees the black-clad legs sticking out from under what looks to be part of the warehouse's roof. "Fuck, Nightwing!"
There's no response, and he starts tossing pieces aside, ignoring the pain that shoots through his chest, ignoring the body parts he grabs (thank God for gloves), ignoring everything but getting to Dick. It takes him way too long before he's heaving the largest piece aside and dropping to his knees. He rips one glove off and reaches for Dick's throat, pressing shaking fingers to his pulse point - and then letting out a shuddering breath when he feels a strong pulse, when he sees the rise and fall of his chest.
There's a nasty cut across Dick's forehead that has already mostly stopped bleeding, but he hasn't stirred even with all the ruckus Jason has been making and the number of times he's called his name, and Jason moves closer and reaches into his belt for a flashlight. He pulls the domino away and gently thumbs Dick's eye open - and Dick startles awake, scrambling to pull back.
Jason sets a hand carefully but firmly on his chest, keeping him from getting up. "Hey, hey, whoa. 'Wing, it's me. You're hurt, stay down."
Dick blinks up at him for a moment, pupils decidedly not even or especially reactive even as Jason's light catches them, and then sinks back down, lifting a hand to his head. "What happened?" he asks, voice vaguely slurred. If Jason wasn't already sure they didn't both have concussions, he would be more concerned.
"Coin came up against us. Dent's guys went all Lemmings and blew themselves up," he reminds him, and Dick's nose wrinkles.
"That explains why it smells like a barbecue in here." He blinks up at Jason again. "And why there are two of you."
Jason snorts. "Yeah, pretty sure we've both got some new brain damage to add to the list. Some of us just do the smart thing and wear a helmet."
"But then no one could appreciate this pretty face," Dick shoots back - and okay, he's with it enough to be snarking back, but Jason knows Dick is perfectly capable of snark even when he's on death's door, and it does absolutely nothing to stem the worry in his chest.
Or maybe that's the broken ribs. Hard to tell.
"Besides your head, what hurts?" he asks - and Dick sighs.
"More like what doesn't. Head. Ribs. Uh." He sighs heavily. "Wrist."
The tone is enough to make Jason sit up a little on his knee to look at the arm Dick hasn't moved yet - and he doesn't need to be a doctor to see the break. Arms don't bend that way.
"For good reason," Jason agrees, and Dick makes a face.
"I am not looking because if I do, I will throw up. And I really don't want to throw up." He pauses a beat. "Comms out?"
"Yeah. The hood got cooked in the blast. Guessing you're not getting anything either?"
"Nope," Dick agrees and then looks at Jason, pupils still huge and uneven. "Where are we?"
"Warehouse by the docks," he reminds him, because it's not a surprise that he doesn't remember, "and we gotta get outta here before someone comes looking for their buddies. Come on." Jason pushes himself up again, going slowly and trying to hide the wince as his ribs protest the movement.
Dick knows him too well, though. "You break something besides that helmet, little wing?"
Jason waves him off, pointedly ignoring the shooting pain that begs to differ. "I'm fine. Quit worrying about me." He holds a hand out to Dick, and Dick takes it with his good arm, starting to pull himself up.
Dick gets on his feet - and Jason has just enough time to register the blood draining from his face before he bends at the waist and throws up a few inches from Jason's boots.
"Fuck," Jason says as he steps backward - and then darts back in when Dick's knees buckle. "Shit, fuck," he mutters as he wraps his arms around him, holding him up. "Stay with me, 'wing."
"Said I didn't wanna throw up," Dick complains petulantly, and Jason chuckles despite himself.
"Yeah, I know, but we don't always get our way, huh."
Dick just makes a grumpy noise, head starting to lull forward onto Jason's shoulder, and Jason shakes him a little. "Hey, nope, stay awake, not nap time yet, come on."
Dick blinks at him. "What is that smell?" he complains, and Jason's stomach roils, made even more upset by the smell of Dick's vomit combined with the acrid stench around them. He forcefully swallows it and shakes his head.
"You don't wanna know, bro. Come on, we gotta get out of here."
"We've got comms," Dick says and starts to lift his broken wrist, and Jason growls.
"Hold fucking still. Comms are out." He sighs, because this is about to suck. "Alright, c'm'ere."
He bends, setting his shoulder against Dick's torso and starting to pull him into a fireman's carry.
This time, Jason's not sure whose cry is louder.
Jason stumbles back but keeps his feet, bracing himself against a pile of rubble. For several long moments, his vision swims, black spots swarming at the edges, and he sets a hand to his side, willing the pain to ease. It takes too long, and he hears himself growl at it, sees green pushing aside the black until he can breathe again.
Dick is back on the ground, sitting this time, curled around his wrist. "We need the comms."
"We don't have the goddamn comms," Jason tells him, and if either of them even remember this later he'll apologize but they need to get out of here and he's pretty sure it's getting harder to breathe, but Dick is still five shades whiter than normal and looking like he's had the flu for a week and Jason is terrified that if he passes out again he won't wake up.
"You gotta go get somebody," Dick tells him, and fuck him for actually looking like he's with it for the moment.
"Fuck you," he tells him shortly. "Not leaving you here. Come on."
He reaches out to Dick again, pulling him back up. This time, he turns his back to him, and Dick hesitates long enough that Jason turns his head to look at him. "Come on already."
He can actually see Dick swallow the argument before he steps forward and drapes his arms over Jason's shoulders. Carefully, keeping his torso as straight as possible, Jason bends his knees enough that he can reach back and lift Dick onto his back. Straightening is a whole new kind of agony, and he bites down on his lip hard enough that he tastes blood, that his vision swims again.
"Put me-" Dick begins, and Jason shakes his head.
"I'm fine. Let's go."
--
Jason is sure the dock wasn't this long when they made their way onto it, but all he can do is focus on putting one foot in front of the other. It's a goddamn miracle that they haven't run into any other goons, especially considering he didn't put his stupid fucking helmet back on like a stupid goddamn idiot, but he knows where the closest payphone is, and they just need to reach it.
"Stay awake," he tells Dick yet again when Dick's head drops against his shoulder for the fortieth time. "Come on, almost there." It's as much for himself as it is for his brother.
Finally - finally - he can see the crowd of moths around the light above the phone, and he lets go of one of Dick's legs to grab it like the lifeline it is. His hand is shaking hard enough that he almost can't dial the number Barbara hacked all the phones to call without coins, but it's only a moment before her voice is in his ear, and he almost can't breathe for the relief.
"Operator, how may I direct your call?" she asks, and he practically sobs into the phone.
"Need a... need a pick-up," he manages.
"Hood?" The worry in her voice thickens. "Where are you?"
"Dixon. Need a pick-up." Did he say that already? He's pretty sure he said that already.
"On the way, Hood. Stay with me. Is Nightwing with you?"
"Yeah. Um... do you need to talk to him?"
"No, I'll keep talking to you. Keep talking to me, okay?"
"Yeah," Jason manages - but Dick is getting heavier and he can't breathe for the worry that if Dick falls asleep again he won't wake up and can't breathe for the relief that help is coming and can't breathe for how much his ribs hurt and can't breathe for how tired he is and.
He can't breathe.
--
Jason wakes up.
It's not as abrupt this time, nor is it as painful, but it is almost as surprising, considering the last thing he remembers.
There's a soft beeping nearby, and that's all he really needs to know to explain why, though he's still in pain, the pain is more muted, now, more distant, and he's clear enough to know there's likely an IV in his arm, that there are some lovely, wonderful pain meds entering his veins. It's much easier to breathe, now, and he takes a deep breath just for the hell of it - and okay, it still stings a little, but it could be worse. His throat is dry, and he swallows, knowing better than to try to clear it.
"You awake in there?" a quiet, worried voice says near him, and he opens his eyes.
The clinic's ceiling greets him, and he blinks at it for a moment before his eyes adjust. He turns his head - and meets the worried eyes of Dick Grayson, who does not look like he should be sitting in a chair next to Jason's bed instead of in a bed of his own. "You look like shit," he says, voice rough, and Dick huffs out a laugh as he reaches for a cup, bringing the pink-striped bendy straw close enough that Jason can take a few sips of blessedly cold water.
"You're one to talk," he returns as he sets the cup aside again. He's moving stiffly, Jason notes, and there's a blue cast around one wrist. "You've been out three days."
"Explains why I feel like it," he returns - and frowns a little at the furrow between Dick's eyebrows. "What?"
"You had three broken ribs," Dick tells him, "and one of them got real cozy with one of your lungs. Leslie had to do surgery. She just took you off the vent yesterday."
Oh. Well, that explains why breathing is still not the least painful thing he's ever done.
"Oh," Jason says simply. "How 'bout you? You okay?"
Dick blinks at him like he's just grown a second head - and okay, he's doped up enough that he did not need that mental image. "Jay. You almost died."
"Yeah, well. Been there, done that. Pretty sure you were right there with me."
"You said you were fine. You carried me out of that mess."
Jason just waits, still not sure what the problem is, here.
"You made me let you carry me, and okay, yeah, staying awake wasn't the easiest thing in the world but suddenly I'm very awake because I've gotten dropped and Barbara Gordon is yelling through a payphone about the fact that you've just told her you can't breathe and dropped off the phone, you're on the ground next to me, and your lips are blue."
Okay. Jason can see how that would be alarming, but, well. "Somebody had to get the two of us out of there, and only one of us was going to be doing any walking anytime soon."
Dick swallows hard, eyes meeting Jason's. "I thought I was watching you die. And it would have been my fault."
Jason rolls his eyes. "You the one who decided blowing up a bunch of goons was a good plan? Because if it was, I do actually have some questions about how much brain damage you've suffered lately."
Dick just huffs a sigh out through his nose, eyes on Jason's for a moment - and then his expression softens. "I'm just really glad you're okay, little wing" he says softly, reaching out to take Jason's hand, mindful of the IVs that are definitely there. "Please don't do that again."
Jason laughs a little, squeezing back. "No promises, big bird."