Work Text:
Gotham’s polluted smog conceals the bright, burning sun from the misdeeds in her city.
"It'll get dark soon.”
For a split second, Dick got his hopes up, waiting with bated breath as heavy footfalls stalk out of a looming shadow before he registers who steps out of the darkness.
His black leather boots are coated in old, dry brownish blood, the result of whatever job he was on last. It must have been recent if he didn’t bother to clean them, and the light shower does a poor job of wiping his sins away.
Is it the same to him?
He looks up at the mercenary through tear soaked rain soaked eyelashes. It should cleanse him later on. Dick doesn't have it in him to glare, not right now. His energy has depleted, drained out of him like a hole in a water bottle, leaving nothing left but a drip.
"Does Wayne know you're here?" Slade questions when he realises Dick has made no move to do... anything. He didn’t even react.
He looks back down to his hands and attempts to identify his feelings. He feels like he's been hallowed out; that someone had opened him up and removed a part of him.
The part where everything Jason resided.
Dick doesn't know what to do.
He had a simple plan. It consisted of tracking down the Joker and after that- well, he isn’t quite sure what he was planning to do, but he thinks, subconsciously, that he knew.
"Give me the gun, kid."
Why else would he be carrying a gun?
He was in a haze, moving on autopilot. He barely remember hacking into the Batcave, but doesn't remember taking the gun. He has blurry images of driving through Gotham's streets.
But the thing that scares him the most is that he doesn't know why he has blood on his hands.
He swears the frigid metal is seeping into his bones through the flesh of his skin and tainting his existence. Slade’s leather gloves grip Dick’s hands, holding them in place when he startles, and makes a move for the gun.
Dick reluctantly lets Slade take the gun out of his hands, not like he has much choice. He watches as the mercenary turns the safety on, pulls the magazine out, and removes the ammunition before discarding of it in his pocket.
"I think I wanted to kill him," Dick admits quietly when Slade takes a seat next to Dick on the grime covered street. His eyes squeeze shut, "I think I might have-"
He chokes on his words, nearly retching and getting stuck in a coughing fit. He can't say it. He doesn't want to think it.
"You didn't," Slade assures as if his words mean anything to Dick, his hand ghosting over Dick’s back. "You knocked him around a bit but he's still alive."
"Yeah, and Jason isn't." Dick spits out venomously. "It's not fair that he gets to live while Jay- It's just not fair."
His eyes start to burn again, his tear ducts straining to produce tears he can’t shed. He's too exhausted and dehydrated to do anything but lean back against the brick wall behind him, tipping his head back and gazing up at the setting sun.
Slade doesn't do anything but sit quietly next to Dick as dry sobs wrack his frame.
Dick curls himself up into a ball, bringing his legs up to his chest and buries his face in his knees.
He should have been there for Jay. He shouldn't have been so far away. Why wasn't he there? He should have- Bruce should have told him. Bruce should have been there. Bruce should have saved Jason before-
Dick startles when warm fingers settle in his hair and gently scratch at his scalp. It's soothing. Dick sniffles, taking a deep, steadying breath before he makes monumental decision.
Slade is close enough for Dick to feel his warmth radiating off him in steady waves. Dick just wants to collapse. He wants to dissolve into nothingness and join Jason, wherever he is. He doesn't think he can hold himself up anymore; he’s not strong enough.
He shivers, not from the cold but from the immense emotional pain he's feeling. Not having it in him to prevent himself from falling.
Falling.
He lands on Slade.
His head hits Slade's shoulder; hard, but doesn't get pushed away. In fact, Slade doesn’t make any move to push him away. It makes it hard for Dick not to melt against him, he has to remind himself that he needs to move away.
Slade isn't safe.
Despite his resolve, Dick finds himself moving closer; further into the mercenary's side. It's like he’s puzzle piece slotting into place, like he was made to be at Slade's side.
Instead of pushing him away, Slade pulls him closer.
But a part of him can't help but think that it should be Bruce.
It should be Bruce sitting here with him. It should be Bruce's hand carding through his hair. It should be Bruce's arm wrapped around him and keeping him close.
It should be Bruce comforting him.
Something inside Dick, the thing that had already broke, begins to piece itself together anew. Not replacing the hole that Jason left behind but building around it, keeping a forever safe space for his little brother.
Jason didn't deserve to die, and Dick deserved to know. Bruce failed them both. And now Dick has nothing left.
Overhead, a shooting star blazes through Gotham's polluted clouds like a promise, leaving a flaming streak behind. It reminds Dick of Jason.
"Don't leave me," Dick whispers out to the brisk night sky, watching the clouds pass by and allowing bright moonlight shine through.
The dawn of a new night.
And Dick knows he's not going anywhere.