Stressed was a good word for how Dick was feeling. So was defeated; exhausted and drained were good ones too.
His ankle was in a brace since he’d nearly broken it the night before dealing with a team up between Bane, Croc, and Zsasz, his torso was taped to help with cracked ribs, and his wrist was wrapped up since a cut he’d gotten had turned out to be a laceration that needed stitches.
It pained him to say he wasn’t the worst off.
Killer Croc had gotten his teeth into Jason’s left shoulder, biting deep before anyone could get him off, Bane had broken Jason’s elbow, he had a concussion, and his leg was broken in two places. Which wasn’t to mention the stitches he’d needed for a laceration in his cheek and the cracked jaw Jason’d sustained thanks to Croc’s tail.
Now that he thought back on it, Dick had no idea how he and Jason had managed alone for so long.
Tim had shown up with his friends Conner and Bart, and their powers helped tip the odds in their favor, letting Jason and Dick retreat to get some medical attention. Bruce was upset about Superboy and Impulse’s presences in Gotham, but he’d tolerated it since they had essentially saved his sons lives.
Barely in time.
Normally Jason wouldn’t be unconscious by now—he’d probably have woken up about an hour or so ago, actually. The only reason he was still unconscious was that he was on meds so strong they’d knock out an elephant.
At this point, Dick had been sitting with Jason for about… Five hours, give or take, and he’d fallen asleep three times.
Bruce had tried to get him to at least lay in the bed with Jason, but he wouldn’t budge. Jason liked his personal space. Jason’s comfort came first. Dick could sacrifice a few aches for his little brother.
He was just waiting for him to wake up and prove he was going to be okay as he stewed in a bit of self-loathing.
Jason shouldn’t have gotten this hurt, the wind entering from the open bedroom window hissed. This is your fault.
Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, Dick made a small noise and buried his face in his hands.
All your fault, Gotham whispered in his ears. All your fault.
Like he sensed Dick’s rapid decline and was ready to go a few rounds with Dick’s subconscious, Jason groaned, eyes fluttering open to squint at the window with sunlight streaming through it.
Dick’s head snapped up at the sound and he stared in stunned silence at Jason’s newfound awareness.
Knowing someone is going to be okay and witnessing it are two very, very different things, and offer two very, very different emotions.
The window was to Jason’s left. Dick was sitting to Jason’s right.
Meaning Jason hadn’t noticed him yet, and Dick could leave the way the air compelled him to.
But, since his body was locked in place, stuck from the shock of Jason’s consciousness, he couldn’t move. He could just stare, heart stuttering.
Jason turned his head and squinted to see Dick.
Escape aborted.
“Hey, Jason,” Dick greeted with a strained smile that he prayed looked genuine.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Jason rasped, “My leg hurts ‘n’ my shoulder’s sore.”
Dick huffed a laugh, the smile becoming more genuine as he held out a glass of water with a hot pink bendy straw in it for Jason. “Yeah, I hear that’s what happens when a cannibalistic human crocodile takes a chomp at your shoulder.”
He paused.
“Can it be called cannibalism if he’s not technically a human? Isn’t he some weird mix of a human and a crocodile? There should be a word for it. We need to update the dictionary.”
Jason was sitting up to drink and he snorted at Dick’s decision.
“You’d need to add more than just one word if you’re gonna update the dictionary. Gotham’s bullshit can make an entire dictionary by itself,” he commented after taking a sip of the water.
“True. When should we start making it?”
Jason shook his head as Dick chuckled.
It went quiet and Dick’s smile slipped as he realized that he could leave; he should leave. Him being there wasn’t helpful, not at all. Maybe he could go get Alfred or Bruce—they’d know how to help. They’d do a better job of it.
Dick never really was a good brother, was he?
“I’m gonna go get Alfred.”
Pained, Dick stood to walk out, reaching out to ruffle Jason’s hair a little before he left.
Jason’s brow furrowed as Dick turned to leave and when he spoke Dick tripped at the quiet, vulnerable tone to his voice.
“You’re leaving?”
Dick hesitated, pausing and turning to face Jason. “Yeah, Jay. I’m getting Alfred.”
“Are you coming back?”
“I…” He couldn’t lie. He couldn’t, not with Jason giving him that look. “I don’t know, Little Wing.”
Maybe lying would have been kinder.
Dick managed to see Jason’s watering eyes before his little brother shut them and turned his head to face the roof.
“I’m all alone,” Jason said, voice trembling, “all the time.”
Hand on the doorknob, Dick froze, eyes wide as he stared at Jason.
And his little brother wasn’t done, apparently.
“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” he whispered. “Please don’t go, Dick, please.”
The words sent Dick back to a time when he and Bruce were at odds and the new kid was wearing his colors. They sent him to a day when he’d just finished a shouting match with Bruce, both parties in the argument unaware of their audience of a boy who’d witnessed too many fights, and he’d been just about to walk out the door, hand on the knob, when a small hand grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and gasped out a quick, “Wait!”
Dick remembered pausing and scowling down at Jason’s hand, which was quickly removed when he was sure he had his brother’s attention.
“What?” Dick remembered hissing, all his anger with Bruce shortening his temper and patience smaller than an ant’s head.
“Ya can’t jus’ go n’leave things like that,” Jason had tried to convince, earnestness and fear making his voice strain.
His response had been a scoff, hand tightening around the doorknob, and a sharp, “Watch me.”
Jason’s cry of, “Please!” had Dick hesitate, but only for a second before he was out of the Manor.
That moment was one of Dick’s strongest memories. He hated the way it made him feel, hated his past self for the way he’d treated Jason, hated that he hadn’t tried.
Jason wasn’t going to ask again, this time. Dick could feel it.
Each inhale felt like someone was injecting his heart with lead, weighing it down, and Dick could only stare at his broken brother and see a younger child in his place.
Dick’s hand dropped away from the door.
He was back beside Jason’s bed in seconds, slipping his hand into one of Jason’s and holding it tight.
“I’m right here Little Wing,” he said, giving Jason’s hand a little squeeze. “I won’t leave.”
Not again.
--
a gift for @onipilot who always blesses me, so this is me returning the favor cheby. ily glucose guardian :)
Jason didn’t bother looking up from his book when he saw Dick starting to move out of the corner of his eye. Instead, he very calmly and patiently waited to finish the page he was on before memorizing the page he was on, closing the book, and turning his attention to Dick.
“How you?” he signs when Dick opens his eyes.
Dick blinks and squints at Jason’s hands, and Jason mentally kicks himself for forgetting about his brother’s concussion.
Leaving the book on the nightstand beside the bed Dick’s in, Jason scoots a little forward in his chair and holds his hands up to wait for Dick to focus on them. Dick squints a little at first but his eyes do eventually focus.
He says something but Jason can’t hear him, so he shakes his head and signs again, as a reminder to Dick.
Jason doesn’t need to read Dick’s lips to know that he says a simple “oh yeah”.
Dick lifts a trembling hand and signs, “Sorry.”
Jason shrugs and lifts his hands to repeat his question. This time Dick’s hands follow his and understand the question, and he leans back into the bed, pressing his hands to his face.
Patiently, Jason waits.
Dick moves his hands to sign, “So-so,” then he looks back to Jason, ready to read his response.
Nodding, Jason signs back, “Remember?”
His brother frowns and looks away to think.
Again, Jason waits, eyes focused somewhere to the right of Dick’s face as he thinks a little to keep his mind distracted, and only when he notices Dick’s hands start to move again does he return his attention to his brother.
“Maybe?”
Jason just nods and stands, signing a quick, “Wait here,” and only sticks around long enough to read Dick’s upset “Where I supposed go?”
Somehow Dick finds something to throw at him and Jason laughs quietly as he retreats out of the room to grab some ice packs for Dick’s injuries.
Everything is quiet as he opens the door to the freezer. It’s still quiet when he closes it. It’s quiet when he grabs a water bottle out of the pack he has.
It’s always quiet.
But that’s Jason’s fault.
He shakes his head and heads back to Dick’s bedside, tossing the ice packs at Dick’s chest and holding out the water bottle once Dick can reach it.
Jason sits down again while Dick opens the water bottle--silence, complete and utter silence--and he reaches out to grab the ice packs to arrange them where they go. One on Dick’s ankle, one on his shoulder, and one pressed to his cheek.
When Dick holds the ice pack to his face, Jason sits back and closes his eyes with his face tilted toward the ceiling.
He’s... tired.
Dick taps his knee, though, to draw Jason’s attention, so he sighs and cracks his eyes open.
Tilting his head, Dick signs, “Talk?”
Jason snorts.
“Deaf,” he replies with a smirk.
Dick rolls his eyes. “You understand what I mean.”
Which he does. It’s just fun to tease.
Jason nods and shrugs. “Talk.”
So Dick does. He starts asking questions about what happened, they swap a few stories, then Dick’s obviously getting tired so Jason tells him to sleep and promises he’ll be there when Dick wakes up again.
But, Dick being Dick, he isn’t satisfied with the simple answer and asks Jason to at least sit closer to the bed.
Rolling his eyes, Jason agrees and stands to take the now-melted ice packs back to the freezer for later. When he gets back, Dick is fighting sleep off and losing terribly, so Jason makes sure to scoot the chair closer right as Dick’s finally knocking out again.
In true Dick Grayson form, though, Dick doesn’t fall asleep until he has a hand off the bed and holding tight to Jason’s forearm.
Surprised but not really, Jason slips the hand from his wrist to his hand and holds it as Dick sleeps.
Eventually he falls asleep too.
The next morning Jason manages to fight an ankle brace on his brother and they spend Dick’s time conscious coloring, reading, and watching as much TV as Dick can before complaining about a headache.
It’s nice.
---
@a-hellhounds-fandom had the deaf jason headcanon and i am now legally required to include him in almost all my fics.
Tim knew something was wrong when he called Dick twice and was sent to voicemail both times. Normally that was fine; Dick was a pretty busy person, so Tim could understand that; he just texted his brother instead, telling him to call when he got the chance, and didn’t give it much more thought until after patrol when he checked his phone and still didn’t have a response.
Frowning, Tim turned his phone off and looked over at Bruce. Normally whenever Dick didn’t answer text messages it meant he was either undercover or isolating himself.
If this was the first option, Tim would check with Barbara first then let Bruce know just in case he tried contacting Dick and couldn’t reach him. Bruce got overprotective.
If it was the second option, though… There was an entirely different protocol for that between Tim and Dick.
So he texted Babs and went to change out of the Robin uniform, running up the stairs once he was hopping into his shorts to get to the Manor because it was almost four in the morning and he had to get home in case Dad woke up and decided to check up on him, only stopping to say bye to Bruce and Alfred before booking it for the Drake estate.
As he approached the looming mansion, concern continued to roll in Tim’s gut as he thought back to the fact that Dick might need him and he wouldn’t know about it until Barbara answered.
Because something was definitely very wrong. Tim could feel it in his bones, in his blood, in his lungs. The sharp and bitter taste of fear was in the air, and it was unforgiving as it attacked Tim’s psyche worse than the toxin designed to induce it did. Underfoot grass crunched softly; quietly, in contrast to the raging storm and rolling of Tim’s gut caused by anxiety.
Maybe, he wondered as he crawled into his room through the window, Dick was just tired of him. Maybe Dick wasn’t avoiding Bruce, and maybe he wasn’t undercover. Maybe Dick was sick of talking to him, maybe he’d taken advantage of having a brother too much, maybe it was Tim’s fault—
No.
Tim shook his head, pulling his pajama pants up.
No, Dick wasn’t like that. He was a good and genuine person, and if Tim were annoying him he’d say it. Dick was honest. He was real.
Right before he curled up under his blankets, Tim checked his phone for a text from Barbara.
Barbara G: Nope.
Tim frowned, turning off his phone.
So Dick wasn’t undercover, then. That meant he was avoiding Bruce. Something was wrong, so Tim was going to have to get Bruce off his case on patrol tomorrow, which meant he was going to have a long night.
___
“You’re planning on doing what?”
Predictably, the whole ‘ditching Bruce’ plan wasn’t working. Maybe that was because Bruce was real mother-henny even after about a half a year or so of Tim being Robin. He doubted that the hovering would get any better with time, actually.
He paused on the rooftop he was on, shifting a little uncomfortably as he did, Tim answered, “Visiting Nightwing.”
“…and you want to go alone. Through Gotham, and into Blüdhaven, unaccompanied. Am I correct in assuming this?”
“Yeah, and?” Like hell if Tim was backing down now. He hadn’t when he’d stared Bruce down about a year ago to blackmail Batman, and he wasn’t about to start doing it now.
Robin stood up to Batman. (It was, like, a requirement.)
Bruce grunted.
“No.”
“Come again.”
“I said no.” The tone Bruce was using brokered no room for argument, and Tim tightened his jaw. “Finish your route then head back.”
“Ba—”
“This conversation is over. I’ll see you back home, Robin.”
Yeah, Tim bitterly thought to himself as he readied himself to continue heading toward Blüd full of bitter spite. See you back home when I get back.
Just as he fired his grapple, he heard a loud stream of curse words spout off from behind him and Tim whipped around, only for whoever it was that needed their mouth washed out with soap to run right past him and jump off the roof.
Heart jumping to his throat, Tim was ready to jump down after the person to catch them, but he stopped short when he saw the figure—male, Tim could finally make out, and with a red helmet—pull out their own grapple gun and shoot a line with what looked like practiced ease.
Tim didn’t hesitate to follow the red-helmet wearing guy. Normally, whenever someone was running, they either needed help, were trying to get away from Robin or Batman, or were just in a rush.
Odds were, though, since this guy had a red helmet, that he was a bad guy or something. Gotham villains seemed to have a theme of being flashy.
Somewhere in Tim’s mind he remembered the Red Hood—Joker’s ex-alias way back in the day—because of the red helmet. That couldn’t be intentional, could it? Was it?
God, Tim hoped not as he landed on the roof the other guy had and ran after him. The Joker had a history with Robins that Tim wasn’t eager to continue.
…that sounded vaguely insensitive, even in Tim’s brain. He hadn’t even voiced that comment and it still came out wrong.
Oh shit was the follow-up thought, which was completely warranted because red helmet had stopped at the edge of this roof to face him, and Tim was entirely unprepared for that—bad guys didn’t normally stop and turn around to face the good guys, at least the henchmen didn’t.
“I am really busy right now, Robin,” the guy quickly said, his voice coming out chillingly robotic but distinctly young—maybe early twenties?—even with the modulator, “so I don’t have time for your shit—if Batman’s around, tell him to fuck off too, actually—and I therefore ask you to please jump off the nearest roof and have a great face-punching night and kindly stop following me, thanks.”
With that, the guy jumped off the roof onto the neighboring one, leaving Tim with his mouth in a surprised and wholly undignified O.
Did—did that guy just—
No fucking way.
Now very intrigued, Tim followed Mr. Badass, vaguely wondering if Jason would mind if Tim added this guy as his hero.
“Hey, wait a sec mister!”
A very loud, very long, and very dramatic groan was heard probably from space at Tim’s shout, and he continued to silently gape in marvel and run to catch up.
Bruce would probably disapprove, Tim thought to himself.
…he didn’t really care. Robins hardly ever cared what Batman thought, actually, from what Tim had both experienced and seen.
Despite the overexaggerated noise of frustration, red helmet waited for him clearly anxious as he stood on the roof, arms crossed and looking for all the world like he had somewhere to be.
“What can I help you with and how fast can I do it?” were the first words from his mouth, and Tim’s amazement spiked.
Just who was this guy?
“What’s your rush?” Tim blurted. “What’s your name, too? Why the red helmet? Who are you?”
“I have something very time-sensitive I need to get to, my name is Noneya Business—call me Noneya, Business was my father—the red helmet looks cool, and I’m nobody you need to worry about, ‘kay?” Noneya answered, ticking off his responses on his fingers as he said them. “That all?”
Tim absorbed the answers, processed them, and finally said, “Can I help somehow? With your ‘time-sensitive something’?”
It surprised him when Noneya seemed to think about his offer, and it surprised him even more when Noneya said, “…fine, you’re his brother anyways right?”
He didn’t have time to think about that question before Noneya added, “No Batman if I say yes, a’ight? It’s enough with your ass Robin self.”
Noneya’s sudden accent sounded natural—like he’d been hiding it the entire conversation and had given up.
“No Batman if we’re not gonna be doing ‘ny criminal stuff,” Tim promised, letting a bit of his own accent slip into his speech.
A scoff of resignation was as much as he got before Noneya bit out a quick, “Hurry up, kid,” and was running off the roof again.
Tim paused to think about what he was doing. He was about to go off with a stranger to do fuck knows what and had promised to not get Bruce involved if criminal activity was uninvolved.
Growing progressively stressed out, Tim ran after Noneya, and re-thought his life choices as something Noneya’d said flashed back into mind sometime during the pursuit.
“You’re his brother anyways right?”
What did he…
Oh, shit.
Tim looked at the person to his right, bulked up with respectable and clear muscle, almost reminding him of Bruce, and suspected he knew how to use those muscles to fight. He couldn’t have meant Dick, could he? But who else could he have meant?
“Where’re we goin’?” he decided to ask, carefully adding a little space between himself and Noneya, ready to reactivate his comm to contact Bruce. If this guy had something to do with Dick’s radio silence…
“Middle ground,” was Noneya's response.
Scowling a little, Tim resigned himself to wait for them to reach this ‘middle ground’ to ask the question burning on the tip of his tongue. What did you to do Dick?
It took eight minutes to arrive at the ‘middle ground’ that Tim discovered was an abandoned electronics store.
An entire eight minutes of awkward silence, at least it was awkward on Tim’s side.
Noneya beckoned him to follow, pulling the helmet off, and Tim did, hand hovering over his bo as he did, ready for a fight.
He shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have kept it from Batman, shouldn’t have followed Noneya in the first place—stupid, stupid, stupid—he was gonna get Jason’ed and it was his dumbass fault.
Stupid, he mentally hissed at himself as the door closed. Utterly brainless! Dumb, thoughtless, moronic, half-witted, empty-headed, dim, daft, dumb as fuck.
But Noneya didn’t move to attack him, instead flicking some lights on to reveal the electronics store wasn’t an electronics store at all anymore—it was entirely renovated and looked more like either a very small apartment or a very big bedroom.
A cot was tucked into the furthermost corner—with a view of all vantage points, Tim noticed—and there was a pillow and light blanket tossed on it, a microwave rested on a desk across from it with a minifridge right beside that, and a lamp also on the shabby desk. Several monitors were set up on a separate table, nearest to the entrance, and looked to be working on something.
Noneya tossed his helmet on the cot and ran a hand through his hair, back to Tim, and Tim found himself curious as to just who this man was. Maybe if he could get a look at Noneya’s face, he could snap a picture with the domino lenses and run it through databases back in the Batcave to give Noneya an actual name.
“Right, well, we’ve reached the middle ground, Robin,” Noneya sighed, dropping his hand to his hip and turning his head to face Tim. “You can call me Simon.”
No way that was Noneya’s real name, but it was a start.
Tim nodded, then couldn’t hold his question back any longer.
“Did you do something to Nightwing?”
Simon snorted, not missing a beat as he tossed himself into the chair in front of the desk with the monitors and started to analyze what was being displayed. “Way to keep a secret, Rob.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Key-clacking was his only response for a few seconds, then Simon hummed and said, “I know.”
Narrowing his eyes, Tim rested his hand on the bo-staff.
Glancing over at the subtle movement, Simon threw his head back and laughed, his hands going to his gut as he did.
“Is that you threatening me?” he continued to laugh. “God, how long have you been at the gig?”
The laughter was surprisingly offensive, and Tim gritted his teeth. “Answer the question.”
“I didn’t do shit to Dick, kid.”
Simon had returned to whatever he’d been doing, attention wholly on the screens displayed before him, and didn’t seem to notice the name he’d dropped.
It made Tim tense.
“What did you just say?” Tim asked, hand tightening around his bo-staff. This guy would be a risk if he knew their identities—Tim took back mentally wanting this guy to be one of his heroes. This was a big issue.
“I said,” Simon repeated in an irritated exhale, “that I didn’t do shit to Dick.” Lower, he muttered, “Why does everyone think I’m the issue?”
He didn’t really think before he was moving, if anyone would believe him (which they probably wouldn’t).
Tim blinked and he was behind Simon—had slammed Simon’s face into the desk, actually, and Simon was swearing a blue streak.
“I—uh, I’m sorry!”
He was panicking. Why was he panicking? He’d trained for this! Tim was Robin, he’d dealt with scarier villains! (No he hadn’t. The worst Batman let him deal with was Riddler, and this guy was much more intimidating than some dude who shoved himself into a purple and green suit)
Simon continued swearing his heart out as he held his nose, but he was doing it in Spanish now, and wow Tim hadn’t ever heard swearing like that before.
“Joder—fucking hell, kid, that hurt.”
Refusing to continue apologizing, Tim tried to play it off and said, “Who’s Dick?”
That surprised a laugh out of Simon.
“Puto, you basically just spoiled the secret. If I hadn’t known who was behind what mask before, Batman would probably be within whatever fucked up rights he has he has to either ground you or fire you.” Simon eyed him, holding his nose, and asked, “Are you even one of his kids? Damn he replaced the last one quicker than a speedster on drugs, huh?”
Tim…
Had no idea what the fuck he was supposed to say to that.
“Uh…”
Simon rolled his eyes and returned to the monitors.
“To answer your original question, no hice nada,” he said, clicking into different tabs. “Penguin got the drop on your brother. Auctioned him off to Edward Skeevers.”
Tim sucked in a sharp breath at the name, and Simon hummed.
“Exactamente. I’m tryna help y’all get your Dick back,” Simon continued, turning to give Tim a pointed look. “I don’ appreciate the effort you made t’break my nose.”
Still at a loss for words, Tim didn’t think before he was saying, “It didn’t work?”
Fucking hell, where’s the filter between my brain and my mouth?
Thankfully, Simon barked a laugh at that and replied, “Not quite. Casi. M’nose hurts like a motherfucker.”
“Oh.” Tim sat down on the floor next to Simon and looked up at him, eyeing the shock of white in the guy’s hair. “S’too bad.”
Simon hummed again and it went silent as he worked on the computers and updated some files.
When Tim had collected himself and his thoughts, he made a decision and sat up straighter.
“How can I help?”
Simon raised a brow and glanced over at him.
“Pardon?” he asked.
“How can I help?” Tim repeated, gaze locked on Simon’s own, and he noticed that Simon’s eyes were an unnatural, vivid acidic green.
He knew that shade from somewhere.
“You’re looking for Dick, right?” Tim pressed, scooting a little closer.
Jason watched the rain fall, sitting on the window sill, arms losely wrapped around his legs.
Normally he'd be getting ready for patrol--rainy weather be damned. Tonight was his night off, though.
So he sat there doing... Nothing. Breathing. Blinking.
Existing.
Outside the rain continued to fall, drops of water hitting the glass of his window with little 'tap-tap's.
Jason sat there and looked out the window at the rain.
He had many memories to associate with rain.
The first one he could dredge up was one from when his dad came home late one night, water dripping off his clothes to the floor, blood streaked on his arm and cheek. Jason had been playing with a broken toy the neighbors had given him, sitting on the floor as his mom watched tv sitting on the couch behind him.
He remembered looking up to see Willis, and the man ignoring him and his mom as he shed the jacket he was wearing and went off to the room.
Jason remembered wondering where the blood had come from.
Another memory with the rain wasn't until many years later, when Jason was homeless. He remembered his first night alone on the streets, huddled up tight in the corner of an alley, sitting on a dirty and thin shirt he grabbed out of a trash bin in a wasted effort to keep his jeans dry.
He remembered the desperate hope for the rain to stop; remembered hating the rain for ruining what felt like everything. Jason remembered the painful despair that came with being forced to face what was his reality.
His next memory was him on a rainy patrol with Bruce, cursing Dick for the scaly underwear, short sleeves, pixie boots, and next to useless cape. He remembered being crouched on a rooftop, miserable as a wet ronin and sulking to himself, when the rain stopped hitting him all of a sudden and someone was crouched beside him, pulling him to their side and making sure he was covered. Jason remembered his surprise and looking to his left.
He remembered the glowing warmth that struck up inside his chest when he realized that Bruce was the one covering him. Bruce had stopped the rain. Not literally, of course, but it still made Jason's heart skip a beat to know that Bruce would do his best keep him healthy and safe.
One of him at a gala followed.
Galas, where judgements are dropped like apples on Isaac Newton's head; where cruel words and rumors fall like raindrops.
Yeah, he remembered his first gala. He remembered Bruce making sure Jason was always just a little behind him, a little hidden and out of sight, and he remembered feigning indignance to mask his appreciation and relief.
That was one of the better memories.
Really, aside from those... Jason didn't have many others. Nothing exactly recent and missing the green taint of the lazarus pit until present moment, where he was busy reflecting on past memories associated with some form of rain, and maybe that was him making a memory thinking about memories.
But he didn't think about it anymore. He didn't think about anything at all, really.
Dick Grayson to Gar, Rachel and Jason: let's move in to the old titans tower. Now that we've defeated the actual devil, nothing bad could possibly go wrong!
