archive of our own is being a bitch and I want to read a fan fic so I'm going to post it here then delete this chapter right afterwards. This is it my work btw, it is geekoholic's. Also, I don't know if it's good or not, but it's a lemon. This will be deleted after wards, don't you worry!

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Dick wakes because he's losing his balance. Gravity rushes in on him, the earth tilts to the side, and he's sliding off... something. His hands flail out, gripping the soft surface he's sitting on. He steadies himself, and it takes a moment for his surroundings to come into focus, for that tiny instinctive spark of panic to abate. There's nothing to be afraid of; he's siting on a rolling desk chair, and must have been drifting to the side while he dozed. Rubbing at his eyes, he looks around: the room he is in isn't instantly familiar, but it's not foreign either. He's been here before. He's safe here, of that he's sure, and with that realization he relaxes and takes a second, more thorough look, scanning the room with intent now. There are no windows. The only source of light is a row of computer screens. Naked stone walls, some remainders of wallpaper hanging of them in places. A couch and a table, and a door, hanging ajar, that leads to a kitchen, and two more that are currently closed. Someone's sitting in front of the computer, obscured to a silhouette and thrown into shadow, but their shape also seems familiar. Dick lets his gaze roam over the IT setup and notices the helmet sat by a pull-out keyboard, the jacket strewn over the back of the chair.

"Sleeping on the job?" Jason says, turning around, like he's felt Dick's gaze on him. "I'm deeply disappointed in you, Grayson."

Thusly accused, Dick sits up straight on his chair and clears his throat. He's struggling to remember what's going on, why he's here, what they're working on, but he minute-napped his way through enough all-nighters to be able to convincingly cover the fact that he momentarily lost the thread.

"Of course not," he lies, and stretches out his arms over his head, biting down first on a yawn, then on a slight wince. He's oddly sore, muscles protesting the movement. It's not just his arms; his wrists sting, and his lower back throbs something fierce. Dick's tempted to roll his uniform up to at least check his wrists, but that'd mean admitting just how lost he is right now, which, no way.

Jason spins around on his chair a little further and hefts an eyebrow, disapproving but with a hint of amusement on his face. That's par for the course; the younger birds tend to be delighted when Dick proves he's also a mere mortal, and not the unattainable ideal Bruce somehow built him into.

"Sure," he says, tone just a bit mocking. "So exactly where did you stop paying attention?"

Routing through his memories, Dick comes up empty. Now that he's trying to concentrate, he notices that he's also a bit hazy. Like a hangover, but not quite, foggy and exhausted. But he grins, shrugs his shoulders. "Start from the beginning?"

With a sigh, Jason spins back towards the computer screens. "Amateur weapons dealers. We intercepted them at the harbor earlier tonight. You managed to put a tracker on their truck before they made us and it started hailing bullets. Now we're, well, tracking them."

So they were in a fight. That might at last explain why he's so sore. A bit early, but hey, if it's been vigorous enough that happens, and weapons dealers, even those new to the business, don't usually joke around. And if yesterday's patrol had also been busy... Wait. He doesn't remember last night either. On second thought, he doesn't remember much of anything. He's trying to reach back, but all that comes to him is a blurry blank space and vague sense of dread.

Dick makes to stand, but as soon as he's upright, putting all his weight on his feet, he sways. His head is swimming, and he's feeling a bit nauseous. Maybe a concussion, then? But Jason would have said something. He might not know, though; it might be an older injury. He takes a step forward, intending to ask Jason for the way to the bathroom, so he can check himself in the mirror. Unbending fully, he opens his mouth, but the words get cut off by a sudden stab of agony originating from whatever injury happened to his lower back. The sensation is accompanied by a cacophony of sensory impressions, images, sounds, a chilling feeling that spreads through his whole body, like he hasn't been warm in hours, if not days. His mind lights up with sudden, brief flashes of awful, intense, wildfear.

"Jay," he slurs, and hears more than sees other's desk chair roll back. Next thing he knows Jason's got him by the arm, grabbing his aching wrist and –

– he's on the floor, legs folded underneath himself, arms chained over his head. Cold air drifts over his body, and he notices that he's freezing. The ground beneath him is bare and icy, and he's only wearing a dress shirt, nothing else. He tries to get his legs sorted right underneath himself so he can try and rise to his feet, but here's that sharp pain radiating from his lower back, jolting up his spine with every beat of his pulse, and it overshadows everything else, making him gasp. And somehow he remembers that's bad; noise means he's drawing attention to himself, and it can't happen again, he can't –

He can't deal with Jason so close, can't deal with the proximity, and roughly shakes off his hold.

"Let go," he nearly shouts, his own voice sounding panicky and too loud in his ears. "I'm fine, just, please. Let me go. Get back."

Jason's grip around his wrist loosens and disappears, his hand hovering over Dick's arm instead. But he doesn't try and touch him again, and something about just how swift the reaction is, like he's anticipated the demand, makes Dick pause. The thought floats away from him before he manages to examine it, however, and leaves nothing but deep confusion in its wake. He swallows, and nearly gags, only just now noticing a bitter taste in his mouth that reminds him vaguely of herbal tea.

"Suit yourself," Jason says, toneless, stepping away and showing Dick his back. He points at a blinking dot on one of the computer screens. "They're leaving the city. I don't think it's smart to attack them again while they're on the move, so let's wait and figure out a plan when we have a better idea where they might be headed?"

Dick nods, still reluctant to admit that he'd be in no condition to fight anyone's kitten right now anyway, let alone a gang of arms dealers that already dealt them one beating. He reaches up to gingerly touch his own head, feeling for bumps or traces of blood after all, but finds neither. Whatever's got him so out of it, it's not a head wound, and he's had enough concussions be relatively certain it's not that either. The sluggish feeling would have him suspecting some sort of drug, but that makes no sense. Couldn't have been dispersed in the kind of fight they must have had, and also, Jason would likely be affected as well.

None of this makes sense, and it would all be so much easier if he could remember the said fight.

For the moment, Dick joins Jason in following the dot move on the screen. They're on the highway now, heading south. Metropolis would be a fair guess, but that's all it would be; any number of directions they could take between there and Gotham. For the moment, they really can't do much else than sit around and watch the computer do their work for them. And since he's basically ruled out being concussed, Dick comes to the conclusion that the waiting time is best used by lying down and getting some sleep. Maybe he'll feel better afterwards. He's probably just exhausted. Sleep deprivation does you dirty, if it gets severe enough.

"While we wait," he announces, and then points at the ratty couch in the corner that looks like it's older than either of them. "I'll be taking a nap."

He sits, carefully, and lies down. Settling takes a while; at first he tries to get comfortable facing the wall, away from the lights of the screens that he can't block out entirely even with his eyes closed, but it makes him feel vulnerable and uneasy. He rolls onto his other side instead, watches Jason slouch in his chair, lazily pull up different screens to track and search.

Falling asleep takes longer this way.

***

The meeting's been going on for more than an hour, and Dick's understood maybe half of the graphs and spreadsheets that Wayne Industry's marketing director drew up on the huge screen on the other end of the room. He glances towards Bruce; Dick's sure he checked out of the whole thing a while ago too, but he's better at hiding it. Sometimes Dick suspects that making them all attend business meetings like this in regular intervals isn't educational, but more a case of shared misery. Among all three of Bruce's actual and currently officially alive wards, Tim is the one only one who actually follows and likes these things. Damian has the advantage of being too young for anyone to expect active participation, and Jason is excused by being legally dead.

Across the large table, one of the marketing assistants catches Dick's gaze and winks at him conspiratorially. Dick rolls his eyes in reply, smiling. He neither knows nor recognizes the guy, but hey, they're trapped together and Alfred raised him to be polite. That catches Bruce's attention, however, and gets him a side glance. Nothing seriously disapproving, more a reminder to act the part in public and okay, time to pay attention again or at least give it his best pretense.

The meeting ends a little while later, and Dick doesn't give Bruce the opportunity to rope him into more business dealings; it's nearly five anyway and he's got plans for the rest of the day. He takes the elevator to the lobby and loosens his tie as soon as he's out of the building. Jason's already waiting for him outside, on his bike, just off the sidewalk. His face is concealed by a regular motorcycle helmet, out in public so close to a place where people might recognize him personally, but Dick has long since stopped needing that to pick him out of a crowd.

"Had fun?" Jason asks, and Dick flips him off before he takes the proffered spare helmet and joins him, snaking his arms around Jason's torso.

As he holds on, the busy street around them dissolves, and their positions change. Now someone's behind him, pressed to his back while Dick's on his knees on rough ground, so close that Dick can feel their breath against his shoulder. His legs are bound with rope that rubs over already roughened flesh with every shove. His hands are cuffed, and they also hurt; he remembers that he spent some time trying to get out of them, to no avail; they're solid and too tight, don't give at all, biting into his skin even when he keeps still. There's an arm wrapped around Dick's chest to hold him in place, too tight on fresh bruises, and it makes breathing difficult. Fingers are digging into Dick's naked hip, so tightly Dick's fairly certain he'll have those marks for a while –

A hand on his shoulder has Dick startling awake, and he's ready to lash out on instinct alone before Jason's face slowly swims into focus. The last vestiges of the dream flicker up before Dick's eyes, merging with the sight in front of him like a double-exposed photo, somehow calling the assumption into question that it's okay, he's safe, Jason is safe, no need to be on the defense. He shudders, sits up and shakes his head to clear it, and accepts a mug full of hot, steaming coffee that Jason shoves at him.

"They stopped," Jason says, and he's looking at Dick a bit sideways. "Thought you might want to know."

Dick takes a long sip from his coffee; it's almost too hot, but the way it spreads through his body, washes away the images of the dream and the chill lingering in his bones, makes that worth it. "Where?"

"Industrial park just outside Metropolis." Jason licks his lips, a slightly nervous, uncomfortable gesture. His gaze feels intense, inquisitive, like something physical. Right now, it makes Dick's skin crawl. "Did you have a nightmare or something?" he asks, and Dick freezes.

"I... yeah," he says, shifting his weight, and the stab of pain that produces almost doesn't surprise him anymore. "I guess. How'd you know?"

Jason makes a face that's best described as callous and shrugs. "You were tossing and turning. Mumbling stuff, too. Wanna tell me about it?"

"I hardly remember anything," Dick lies, and as if to prove him wrong, his mind conjures the sensations from before he woke back up. Pressure. Bruising hold. I don't want this, I don't – . The thought makes Dick's blood run cold all over again. He has to physically repress a shudder, but his hand is suddenly shaking violently. He catches himself before he drops the mug, but not in time to prevent some of the hot coffee from sloshing out and spilling over his leg. His suit saves him from burning himself with the liquid, but it's still soaked, wet and uncomfortable.

Slowly, Jason's eyes wander downwards to the mess, then go wide. He licks his lips again, turns on the balls of his feet. "I'm getting a towel."

Dick waits for his return with increasing unease. The sense of wrongness keeps increasing by bounds and leaps, and he's... he's scared. He blames the dream, his subconscious playing odd pranks. It'll fade. He's with Jason, he's been here before, he's safe. It was just a dream.

Upon his return, Jason kneels by the couch and leans over Dick, starts dabbing on his suit with the towel. There's not much use in it; the fabric works as armor and it's durable, but it's still fabric, and it does stain.

"Take it off and rinse it?" Jason suggests. "It hasn't dried yet, that might work."

They're talking about cleaning clothes while Dick's heart is beating in his throat, harder and harder, and it's all sort of surreal. He realizes with another barely repressed shudder that he desperately doesn't want to undress right now, here, with Jason, but there's no good reason to refuse. What is he supposed to say? I don't want to get half-naked around you right now because I had a weird dream?

And so he stands to kick off his boots and peel himself out of the lower half of his suit. He bends to pick it up, breathing through a fresh surge of pain, and it takes a few moments to register, the sight so out of place that it makes his head spin: there's rope burn, red and angry and pretty damn recent, around his ankles. His mind slows, reluctant to correlate what he sees with the knowledge that it's his body, his legs, and he should know how those marks got there. Have a reason to explain them away that doesn't involve that stupid dream. But he doesn't. He has no idea, and it frightens him deeply.

His eyes flicker up, meeting Jason's, and the other's mouth curves into the cruel, thin smile.

Dick's whole world comes to a screeching halt.

His heart is hammering in his chest. Jason holds his eyes, like he's drinking in every bit of the dawning realization that must be written all over Dick's face. But that can't be. It can't be real. This can't be happening. Dick is seeing things, imagining things. He shakes his head. Closes his eyes for a few seconds, but that makes it worse, makes the afterimage of Jason's face swim and contort in his mind. He blinks.

"Oh," Jason says after a moment. "Yeah, about that. I forgot to tell you we already had ourselves some fun. You don't remember?"

And for a second –

the room goes dark and dips his face into half-shadow, little else visible than the silhouette of a wicked, excited smile. Dick's head is yanked back and there's something being poured down his throat, herbal and bitter and so much so fast he's choking on it, gagging, some of the liquid coming back up. He tries to fight, straining in his restraints, tries desperately to get some leverage, but that face is still in front of him, smiling.

"Stop fighting, golden boy," Comes the command and Dick does, goes rigid on the spot. His body denies him control over his limbs and he sits, damp clothes already making the cold down here so much worse, making him tremble. He literally can't put up a fight anymore when his dress slacks are removed, his underwear peeled down next –

Right then and there, Dick's legs give. Shock renders him immobile, and a few seconds trickle by before he regains partial control of his body and manages to scoot back against the couch. The ground is so cold beneath his bare legs and it's familiar, it's so sickeningly familiar. "You don't mean that," he says, stammers, whispers almost. "Quit it, this isn't funny."

"I don't hear anyone laughing," Jason says, and hits him, flat palm against his cheek.

The sting of it shocks Dick into freezing up yet again, momentarily, and damn this shouldn't affect him so much. He should be getting up, hitting back, but there's that sharp pain curling through up his spine again, and it serves to sear through his training and defenses. He's not stupid, he can put two and two together. He understands what that pain means, now, especially combined with the dream – not memories, not memories – and the rope burns and sitting on the cold ground in nothing but a dress shirt.

He just refuses to believe it. He desperately refuses to believe it.

Meanwhile, Jason is still kneeling in front of him. He watches Dick silently, the grin replaced with a perfectly blank expression that looks almost unnatural. Extending his hand he leans in, trapping Dick's chin between forefinger and thumb. Keeps watching Dick's face until his intentions sink in, and then he leans in further. Jason's lips are dry against his, he doesn't even try to pry his mouth open – this isn't meant to be a kiss, it's a threat. Dick jerks away, violently. Drawing back, Jason's gaze sweeps over his face, again and again, almost like he's searching for something; an expression, a reaction. Fear, probably, or defeat, but Dick's not about to let him have that kind of triumph.

He spits. It's a frantic and childish response, but it has the desired effect; Jason reels back further and rises to his feet, muttering curses. Dick uses the time he gains to inch away, try to make his body work as he intends, but he miscalculates just how out of it he is; he hasn't been on his feet for more than six long strides since this whole thing started and the speed, the suddenness of the movement, makes him lose his balance. His head swims, and he's swallowing bile, the taste bitter and acidic and mingling with the taste of coffee still on his tongue. When he regains his equilibrium, he's on his back, Jason standing over him, lowering himself back down into a crouch.

The expression on his face remains, observant and with an eerie, single-minded focus on Dick's every reaction, every emotion that might flit across his face. He reaches down and pulls Dick's underwear off, too, in one go until it tangles around his knees, and Dick nearly cries out. It's less about pain; it's about the sensation of rough ground against his lower back, the cold air on his genitals, exposed to the gaze of another without his permission, and the sinking knowledge that it's going to happen again.

Then there's a moment where neither of them moves. Dick's frozen harder than before, screaming at his limbs to move but yielding no results, and Jason just keeps gaping at him. If Dick didn't know better he'd say his body language is signaling hesitation – a predator, poised, but not yet striking. He's watching Dick's face, and Dick is staring back, which means he sees the exact moment when Jason pulls together his resolve. Finally his own body reacts, but it's too late; Jason moves to straddle his legs, reaching up to catch his wrists, and, after some maneuvering, manages to pin them in one hand, the unrelenting pressure making Dick gasp in pain. And yeah, he'd forgotten that: they're marred as well, having been rubbed bloody on a pair of handcuffs attached to a wall.

"What do you see?" Jason asks. His voice sounds rough, too deep, out of breath. For a moment his eyes shine with what Dick can only parse as hope, and that makes even less sense than the question.

He's gone mad. Years since he came back, since the pit, and they thought he was better. That he was past all that. But here they are; Jason has gone completely and utterly mad, and somewhere deep inside of him, underneath the fear and confusion, the realization makes Dick unspeakably sad. It's like losing him twice, having him again just long enough to get used to it, remember, start to trust him, let him back in. Or maybe they never really got him back at all; maybe this was always simmering underneath.

But his melancholy doesn't last long, because when he shakes his head, spitting at Jason again by the way of an answer – albeit futilely because he's too far away – Jason holds up his free hand and wriggles his fingers. He lets Dick watch, lets the terror and apprehension built while brings them up to his mouth and wets the tips of two fingers with saliva, then slowly puts them between Dick's legs, brushing the pads of his digits over his balls.

Dick bites his lips, hard and long enough to taste copper. Shock continues to keep him perfectly still while Jason cups his balls and rolls them in his palm, rubs at his perineum, moving inevitably further down. Bracing for fingers to penetrate, for another violation, Dick whips his head to the side and screws his eyes shut.

But it doesn't happen; Jason removes his hand entirely instead and lets go of his wrists too. Before Dick can take advantage of that he's getting hauled into a sitting position and roughly propped against the couch, then with one hard, measured punch, it's lights out.

***

He comes back to in a dark, cramped space, his arms and legs tied, although it's now dulled by fabric. He's dressed, but it's not his uniform. The clothes smell like someone else, too; they must be Jason's – jeans and a t-shirt, no underwear – and the scent of him is oddly, intimately familiar. It makes something inside of Dick ache and twist. Memories hover on the edge of his mind, emotions, but he's too exhausted, his thoughts too jumbled, to hold on to them. It feels like all this has been going on for days and he's getting lost in his own head, only to find it a blank space. That makes the panic worse; he can't figure out what's going on, what's real and what isn't.

No. No. Dwelling on that won't help him. He's been trained to preserver in tough situations. He's been trained to rely on himself and his skills, and not give up, even when that's so hard to do that it seems damn near impossible. First step, and one he can do, is figuring out where he is and planning escape strategies. He concentrates, and notices another smell, overshadowing Jason's scent: the faint odor of oil and metal and old dust, and steady vibrations and a rumbling noise – a car trunk.

Dick's barely had that epiphany when the vibrations stop and the noises die after one last stir of the engine.

"Look at that," Jason says when he opens the trunk. "You're awake."

Dick reacts by turning his head up and spiting at him; his last working defense, it seems. Of course he doesn't even hit him this time either, misses his head entirely. Jason steps away and sighs, then hooks his arms under Dick's arm pits and knees and heaves him out. In his head, Dick is screaming for his limbs to move, obey him, let him strain out of the hold and get away, but all he manages is a slight struggle, barely more than the desperate flopping of a fish on dry land.

He looks around instead, parsing his surrounding and cataloging everything he sees. It's early morning, the sun just on the horizon. Dick sees the tower in the distance and one of the bridges. The neighborhood isn't immediately familiar – even though he could swear he's been here before – but at least they haven't gotten far. He's still in Gotham. If he can make it out of here, get away, help won't be far.

As if reading his mind, Jason's grip on him tightens. "Recognize anything?"

And yeah, nope, Dick would rather swallow his own tongue than answer any of his questions. His body might have betrayed him, useless and shocked into inaction, but he can still choose whether or not he'll speak or stay silent.

Their journey ends in a basement and it's so cliché Dick nearly groans despite himself. A naked night bulb on the ceiling, a dirty mattress on the bare ground, a single old chair: the interior for the murderer's lair in every cheap crime novel. He expects Jason to dump him on the mattress, finish what they started back in the safe house.

Jason does dump him, none too gently, but it's not on the mattress. It's on the cold ground, in front of a bare stone wall. Now that this bit of sense memory has made an appearance, Dick recognizes the room as a whole. The mattress, sticky underneath him. The bare light bulb, blinding him and dipping the face in front of him into harsh shadows. Dick cranes his neck upward, breath getting stuck in his throat. He already knows what he'll see, has absolutely no doubt whatsoever.

Dangling from a hook in the wall are a pair of handcuffs. He can even make out the dried blood that's still clinging to them. His blood. Sunlight glints off the metal when the light hits it just so, making it blink for fractions of a second at a time.

He wants to throw up. He wants to scream.

"Looks familiar?" Jason wants to know, the taunting in his voice absent. It's a simple question that sounds tired, worn, and weary.

Dick really doesn't care.

Instead of giving Jason an answer one way or another, he glares. Considers spitting again, but frankly, he's getting bored of that.

Jason glares back for a few seconds, then lets his eyes roam across the room in the calculating, assessing manner that Dick was also taught. It's something he shouldn't need to do, assuming they were here before, that he brought Dick here before, but Dick's long past trying to piece together what happened. He'll survive, and he'll get away, and then he'll start figuring out the sequence of events.

Finally Jason's eyes settle on the wall behind them, on the cuffs, and Dick's heart seizes in his chest. No. Not that. His wrists start to ache that much harder again at the prospect of going back there, and his panic soars, making him scramble back on hands and knees.

"Please," he says, because it's the only thought left in his head, and he doesn't care that he's pleading, that he's begging. "Please don't."

Of course that doesn't work. Jason takes hold of one of Dick's arms and bodily drags him the rest of the way to the wall. He snaps the cuffs back on, tight and unforgiving, and within blinks, the strain in Dick's arms from the unnatural position returns. The pain in his wrists flares. Jason stares at him. Dick meets his gaze; it's the only thing left for him to do, that silent fuck you, a show of defiance he might not actually possess anymore.

Jason swallows hard and then lowers himself onto his knees next to Dick. He presses in close and undoes the zipper on Dick's borrowed jeans, still maintaining constant eye contact. He shoves Dick's jeans down his legs without ceremony, and Dick doesn't even stop to wonder why he can't fight him off anymore. He stays there on the ground next to Dick for maybe another minute before he pushes himself up and stands.

The grin he gives Dick then is another ghastly grimace, something that looks forced and out of place on his face. "Get comfortable. Remember. I'll be back in half an hour, and then we'll play."

Lacking any way to track the passage of time, Dick drifts. Past and present blend together, and after a little while he isn't even certain he ever left this place at all. Maybe getting out was the dream; maybe he's been in this bleak basement the whole time. He's cold and he hurts, everywhere at once. He's scared and ashamed. He doesn't bother trying to come up with an escape plan or a way to fight back; some small part of him suggests it might be better if he never got out of this goddamn basement at all.

He barely lifts his head when he hears footsteps coming closer. His eyelids feel too heavy, threatening to fall shut on their own accord. Jason sits down next to him again, the fabric of his jeans scratchy against the bare skin of Dick's legs, and Dick flinches when he lifts the t-shirt out of the way, working a hand between Dick's legs. Staring straight ahead, not looking at Dick at all, he takes Dick's cock in his hand and starts squeezing and stroking in quick practiced motions. It doesn't take long until Dick's body commits another betrayal, reacting to the physical stimulation, and his cock fills up. He bites his lip, hard, opening up the split he'd inflicted on himself earlier, and writhes and wriggles until his whole body is singing with pain, all in an effort to counter the skilled manipulation by any means possible. The combined effect makes it worse; the resulting anguish mixes with his unwilling arousal, makes his stomach cramp painfully, makes him sick. Jason doesn't waver through any of it; he strokes and he pulls just so, maintaining a steady rhythm that's too much to ignore and not enough to get off. The scent and now the weight of him become more familiar the longer it lasts, and the sense-memory they bring stands in stark contrast to memories of this place, the horrors that already happened here and that are still floating through Dick's head, overwhelming but vague, not quite close enough to grasp.

Leaning in further, their foreheads touching, Jason wraps his free hand around Dick's neck, forcing him to meet his eyes. His thumb massages Dick's airway, loosely, but insistent; not cutting off Dick's airflow yet, but the threat is there. "Look at me. Look me in the eye. Look at my fucking face and tell me what you see."

This time his voice sounds almost pleading, and that's what makes Dick obey, consciously, not another instance of his body turning on him. He squints, and he stares into Jason's eyes, really looking, really seeing him and he nearly rears back when Jason's face morphs into the face of someone else. It's like a photo effect again, but this time in reverse, revealing the truth underneath the shock and terror and the assumptions that made thenand now blend together. The face he sees now has a different shape, different haircut and color, also familiar but vaguely – like he passed him on the street and not from years of shared history.

Jason's hand on him stills, then gets retracted altogether. With great care, he frees Dick and rearranges them until Dick's resting against his side, and Dick doesn't fight him, utterly exhausted, lost and confused. "You're remembering now, aren't you? Please tell me you remember."

"It wasn't you," Dick says, his own voice small, and even to his own ears it sounds halfway like a question.

"No, Dickie," Jason replies, all but whispers it against Dick's temple. "It wasn't me."