#dc writing

when he jolts awake from a nightmare with frantic eyes and a heaving chest. his first thought is to not wake either of you up. to go to the living room and just deal with it alone. but he regains his senses and ends up waking either you or bruce up, seeking comfort. without fail, whoever he leaves sleeping ends up waking up from all the movement anyways. you both tuck him in between you, if he isn’t already, and soothe him with gentle touches and reassuring words. whispers of his birth name and promises of your boundless love eventually lull him back to sleep. two sets of arms wrapped around his form. two hands that stroke his soft skin. two sets of lips that press long kisses to his hair, neck, shoulders, cheeks… everywhere.

while he’s cooking for you and bruce in the kitchen. either in his apartment or at the manor with alfred shoo’ed away. he moves with ease, flipping bacon and pancakes before either have time to burn, because when it’s his turn to cook it’s always breakfast for dinner. he has an apron on, likely a frilly “kiss the cook!” one that was definitely made to fit your size, not his. tongue between his teeth and whispering measurements to himself. every time, without fail, either you or bruce sneak up behind him to wrap you arms around his waist and sneak bites of food. you’ll nuzzle your face against his shoulder with a hum, “mmm, thanks kal-el”

you’re all getting ready for another gala. bruce goes to help clark tie his tie while you finish your hair. although clark has tied his own tie a million times, he shows no objection to letting bruce do the job for him. bruce takes time to run his fingers along the tie underneath clark’s collar to “make sure it’s not flipped”. the contact would have clark a little flustered already. but after he’s all set, bruce kisses him and whispers “you look so handsome, kal-el.”, and it renders him speechless.

when he’s hurt, his powers stripped from kryptonite or his body aches from a brutal combat. either in the hospital or the medical corner of the cave. you hover over him with tears in your eyes, hands shaky and lip wobbling. “kal-el.. honey, please.” you’d whimper. your hands move from his arms to his chest, up to his face, wherever you can touch him as if the feeling would suddenly heal him. bruce is just as unwell, but more quiet. in a nearby chair with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

but moooooooooost definitely in the bedroom. sorry i’m a horndog 4ever. lemme share some thoughts

-bruce railing clark while he eats you out. both of you telling him how good he is, how he’s such a sweetheart, “so good for us, kal-el..”

-you & bruce worshipping clark’s cock. “such a pretty cock, kal-el… so fucking hard for us.. look at you..” while he whines and squirms.

-missionary where clark is just fucking the life out of you while bruce watches. “oh- fuck! mm- kal! fuck, kal-el.. right there.”

-bruce rimming him while you suck him off. “taste so fucking good, kal. mmm.. this ass is fuckin’ mine, kal-el.”

-him and bruce DP’ing you. “bruce.. kal… shit, oh fuck you’re so deep.”

and finally, when he’s a little bit floaty and in subspace. shaky breathing and heavy eyes while you and bruce clean him up. “so good for us, kal-el..” “kal-el.. so perfect. all ours, hmm?” and sweet murmurs of his name while you hold him in the hot bath after 🤌🏼

—-

It must have been nearing five o'clock in the morning when you finally heard your boyfriend's heavy footfalls approaching your shared bedroom, rousing you from your very light sleep. The door creaks closed behind him like always and he hisses through his teeth, as if his best attempt at stealth has been scuppered.

This had been the pattern for the past week and a half, a routine you rather despised.

You would lie awake, his side of the bed stone cold next to you, and stare at the ceiling with the shimmering lights of the moon's reflection flashing above. There you would wait for his shadow to obscure the candescent white as he walked around to his side of the bed, disrupting the steady beams.

Yet, every night the hour seemed to get later and later before he showed up.

Tonight was no different, with the familiar sounds of the floorboards whining beneath his weight ringing in the empty space before the mattress dips on your left. With a quiet, lethargic grunt you roll onto your side towards the man, watching in the low light as he pulls his tight fitting compression shirt off over his head, discarding it somewhere on the floor.

You could almost drool at the sight of his toned back muscles highlighted by the slithers of moonlight that invade through the ornate windows—the curtains for which he never seems to use—the subtle glow clinging to every contour. Though, the distinct lack of something was bothersome to the nagging voice at the back of your mind that had been neglected all week.

You're used to seeing evidence of your touch scattered all over him. Little, rouged crescents where your nails bite for leverage on the rounds of his shoulders, or slender, erratic lines that flare down his back. But they're nowhere to be seen, a flower wilted from a lack of careful maintenance.

"Finally joining me, Bruce?" you grumble as he tries to lie down beside you as quietly as he can, slowly reaching out a hand to find your figure.

"Sweetheart? You're awake?" his fatigue heavy timbre fills your ears when he shuffles closer to you, his warmth surrounding you with hands searching to hold your own. You guide one of his calloused hands to cup your face so that he can feel you nod, and the heat that you find in the well of his palm makes you glad you fought off fatigue.

"Mhm, couldn't sleep." your sentence trails off with a hushed hum, a hand dropping to walk your fingers down his scarred abs as you hastily throw a leg over his hip. The leverage helps to roll his body towards yours, trapped by the waft of your daytime perfume drifting past his nostrils. How it hasn't completely faded is beyond him. Suppose that's the consequence of buying you the upscale stuff.

This, as well as the slight asking lilt to your voice, was your way of letting him know what you wanted, or rather, needed from him.

And he clearly gets the memo, eyes widening with a nonplussed shine and jaw stiffening as the realisation hits him hotly. He hums something deep and resonant as his hand finds your waist, drawing small circles over your pyjama shirt—that was actually one of his—with the pad of his thumb.

"Oh, darling." Bruce murmurs in that velvety, magnetic grumble that you'd grown to love many years ago now. His heavy gaze seeks out your eyes, softening when he finds you already watching him, and his returning stare feels so very apologetic.

"Too tired, I'm sorry." he pouts, squeezing your waist to punctuate his candor.

You let out a frustrated, complaining groan and rest your forehead against his, sighing so that your breath fans over his lips. You want him to feel the disappointment, to notice and cling to how the rejection makes you deflate.

"Please, honey?" you practically whine, pulling him impossibly closer with your knee hooked over his hip, bare legs tangled together. "I've been patient haven't I? Or are you going to make me wait another week?" your tone is almost scolding in your playful, yet completely meant grievance, the tug of a frown resting on your lips.

Bruce almost recoils, his thorned brows raised and lips quirking into a smirk at your affront. The hand that had been cupping your face subtly adjusts to hold your jaw, middle finger curled under your chin with thumb and index finger lightly squeezing your cheeks. He angles your head up to hold your gaze, expression twisting stern but not cruel, more amused than anything else.

"Well, I'm sorry, sweetheart." he begins, sonorous voice dropping to a more sultry rumble that sends a commanding shiver down your spine. "I didn't mean to neglect such a pretty thing."

Your heart starts to thunder in your chest, a steady pounding ringing its beat in your eardrums that ever so slightly muffles the way his honeyed words reach you. It's the anticipation, it blooms ardently in your stomach, neglected sparks daring to find hope and ignite.

"But I've been busy, very busy, and you know that. I promise that as soon as this case is over I'll take good care of you." Bruce smiles apologetically, keening forward to kiss your forehead all too sweetly. The sparks die down in a pitiful way, fizzling out with disappointment dulling them into slumber once more. "Is that what you want?"

You can only muster a frayed whine in response, a undignified little noise that carries all of your burning dissatisfaction. Trying to mask it isn't even a thought that's crossed your mind, far too tired and worn down to want to try. Bringing your hand to grasp his wrist he releases his grip from your jaw in favour of going back to your cheek, thumb sweeping soft caresses where it rests.

"But Bruce…" your protest begins again, voice a wavering, shy mumble. He huffs a patient laugh and again raises his brows at you, encouraging your words to spill.

"I need you now." your confession is barely above a whisper, and if it weren't for your close proximity he might well have missed it. "Please?"

Though, you didn't particularly have to spell it out. You being awake at this hour is strange as is, the moment you reached for him Bruce had the inkling that he might be met with that sweet, asking tone you take on when affections between you both have been too scarce for a while. It's the unfortunate truth that the case currently vexing him is taking up his every minute, but he's been sleep deprived before, so perhaps he can sacrifice an hour of rest for you.

He hums and seems to stew over it for a moment, running his calloused thumb over your cheek bone in lazy sweeps. His touch makes your skin buzz eagerly.

Maybe if he hadn't turned to you, hadn't reached with such gentle touches, you could've staved off the desire for one more night. But even just looking at him in all his sculpted perfection brings it back in a way that demands to not be ignored.

"Alright, sweetheart." he starts with a click of his tongue. "You're so lovely, 'can't say no. Is something quick okay?"

You can't help the way you light up. You surge towards him in your excitement and steal a swift kiss from his lips, a contagiously cheery smile shining back at him when you pull away. There's a pause as you watch him, hand sliding down his neck, like taking in his offer, taking in him, before you swallow the lump in your throat.

"If it's okay with you, please." you giggle. Your voice goes quiet then, mousey, like the pound of your pulse makes you realise yourself and go suddenly diffident. But he matches your grin and his shoulders rise with a curt, adoring laugh.

"Of course, darling." he beams." No need to get all shy on me now." Bruce bows forward, stealing another quick peck from your lips, though, this time you try to chase for something headier. But he's already moving out of your reach and repositioning himself beside you.

"How about we try something like this?" In making his suggestion he removes his hands from you to sit up straight, his back flat to the ornate headboard. You hum a hushed tell of confusion as he throws the corner of the duvet back, leaving himself open to your view that sweeps him greedily.

Bruce taps his thigh instructively, thick with muscle, bulky like a tree trunk, wrapped with slender scars and pallid stretch marks. You eye him for a long second, drinking in the image of him under the streaming moonlight. His boxer briefs ride high, bunched up in the crease of his leg, leaving nothing to the imagination, everything outlined underneath the thin fabric. You almost lose yourself in your reverie before his cogent, sonorous voice calls out to you.

"Come sit."

Your brows knit with a flash of confusion, propping yourself up on your elbow and staring for another beat more. But blind lust doesn't ask questions, and you're quick to straddle his lap anyway, a knee settling either side of him. You situate yourself in the cradle of his hips in a way that's familiar, near second nature, but he slowly shakes his head at this, stray strands of greying black falling to obscure your view of his eyes.

"Like this, angel." he gently corrects, lifting one of your legs with a deft hand and easily adjusting your seating so that you instead have one knee between his, clothed cunt hovering above one of his built thighs. You bring your hands to take purchase on his shoulders and shudder as his slides up your leg to your hip, guiding you to sit your full weight onto his thigh.

"Now grind." he delivers the command clearly with a tone that's perplexingly soft, large hands squeezing at the softness of you coaxingly. A breath hitches and stalls in your throat, a weak gasp that failed to escape.

"What?" you near whisper, wetting your bottom lip with your tongue as it seemed to dry out as you sit with mouth ajar.

His hum is deep and patient, lithe fingers flexing to adjust his steel grip. "Here, like this."

With all the ease you'd typically expect of him, Bruce begins to drag you back and forth on his leg, a shallow, bucking type of movement that encourages you to roll your hips in a steady rhythm. Your pulse stutters and one of your hands slides down from his collar to his chest, brushing coarse, greying hair, and the chill of his skin makes you shudder.

"You need to get off, yeah? So get off on my thigh, and then when this case is solved I'll have all the time in the world for you." his voice comes so dulcet that it's almost derisive, every word dripping with honeyed promise, the exact kind that makes your whole body flush hotly. Worse is that you know it's all true, not a shred of actual mocking, and the idea of the night you'll spend once the case is over runs rivulets of arousal into your underwear.

With a mindless, positively dazed nod you begin to follow his lead and rock your hips, pressing damp underwear firm against his bulky thigh and earning yourself a satisfied hum from deep in his chest. "There you go, that's it, sweetheart."

The stimulation feels to be barely enough, a light friction that spits hot sparks that can't catch light. With a frayed whine you attempt to press yourself down harder, pulling your pyjama shirt up and holding it between your teeth to keep it out the way.

Bruce huffs a quiet, fond laugh at your newfound sense of urgency, bringing a hand to your ass to fix his grip and help you bear down. Simultaneously, he bends his leg to push his thigh further flush against you, a subtle ministration that makes a whole world of difference. But, despite the improved angle, you still find yourself rocking your hips desperately to chase the static friction.

You grunt with exertion and move your hands from his shoulders to the sinew of his hips, tilting your own more. You can feel his eyes on you, a knowing gaze heavy as steel, but the fervent desire is a force far stronger than any embarrassment that would make you shy away from this.

Your breaths are shaky, curt, and he watches how your legs tense around his own in your frenzied search. He can't resist helping you, capable hands controlling the rocking of your hips, knowing what you need better than you yourself know.

A sharp gasp is sucked in through gritted teeth when it hits. A sharp, molten shock runs a fiery course up your spine, making you arch with the way it bristles outward over your skin. Finally, you've got it right, desperately humping and grazing your clit with every pass, muffling mindless, salacious sounds into the fabric held captured between your teeth.

"There you go." Bruce drawls fond encouragment, running a crusade-roughened hand up your midriff to your chest, groping and teasing a tit in his calloused palm. "See? Good, isn't it?"

You shudder deeply as he tweaks your nipple between finger and thumb, teasing the sensitive, hard bud. But for some lingering, senseless and stubborn reason, you refuse to give him the satisfaction of your sweet moans. You chew on the inside of your cheek to keep yourself quiet, focussing only on maintaining your steady rhythm. Though you can feel your thighs begin to tense with the effort, a coil twisting slowly in your gut that almost seems to sting.

But your bitten tongue leaves him bemused, noticing how you heave your breaths to pace yourself, but in turn suppress your typical, grateful groans. He watches your face, watches your lashes flutter, features twisting with the waves of pleasure that roll over you, but your jaw is tense with the determination to keep it clamped.

"Sweetheart?" he begs to coax you back to him. "'You being shy, or stubborn?" he asks with a huff, leaning in so his breath fans tepid along your jaw. You don't honour him with a response, zoning him out and attempting to chase the flames that lick behind your navel. He hums something sarcasticly sad and begins to pepper doting kisses where his lips hover.

"Please don't ignore me, angel." he urges between kisses. "I want to hear those pretty moans. I've been missing you too, you know." the tone of his voice drops with both a lilt of heartache and hidden mirth, an inflection that would normally compel you to comply, but you can tell he's enjoying this just as much as you are.

After all, where's the fun without a little pushback? One way or another, he'll learn to get his priorities straight.

"Alright." Kisses turn into grazes of teeth, smears of spit, descending down the column of your throat. "I guess I do deserve the cold shoulder at least a little bit, that's what it is, yeah?"

You humour him with a nod, feeling your skin grow dewy with sweat. But the heat of his mouth doesn't stop, it seeps into you, and it's only made worse when his hand leaves your chest to pull the collar of your shirt aside and make way for more of his advances. He dotes on your collarbone, lingering like unsure whether to mark the skin, but him pressing closer and closer to you throws off your rhythm.

You grunt a muffled complaint and raise a hand to push at chest, practically swatting him with the feeble smack you give. Bruce clicks his tongue against his teeth before conceding and sitting back, but with the way his fingertips dig into you, almost claw like, you can feel his dwindling patience.

"Don't distract me." you huff, shirt dropping from between your teeth. "I'm— I need—"

He scoffs a laugh and rolls his eyes, grip curling hard enough to bruise.

"You need…?" he echoes derisively. "What, darling? I thought it was me that you needed."

You can only groan, absorbed by the hot, mind numbing sensation that has you rapidly barrelling towards that which you begged for. With a shake of your head you plant your hands steadfast on his leg directly in front of yourself, dangerously close to the tent in his boxers, to anchor you. Adjusting the seat of your hips to deepen the angle you continue rolling your sullied underwear against the muscle of Bruce's thigh, but the fire starts to flicker, and frustration begins to fester.

"You know," he starts, leaning in close so you can feel the shape of his words on your lips. The heat of his breath is taunting. "I could help you out, if you listen to me."

"Hng—"

"You're close, yeah? But something's not quite doing it for you, is it?" his fingers flex where they hold you, like unable to resist.

"Bruce—"

"So work with me on this. Stop biting your tongue and I'll help you get what you need, okay?"

You mewl a defeated 'fine' and drop your head to his shoulder, sweat damp forehead pressed against his musculature. He bows down to kiss you, caring not for the dew on your skin, and mumbles a pleased, "Thank you."

Keeping one hand fixed on your waist he reaches around with the other to unforgivingly grab a handful of your ass. With that bruising grip he guides the fervorous rocking of your body, drawing you across his leg in strong, languid strokes that make the fire roar something ardent.

His name falls from your tongue in broken, stuttering strings as the sensation feels to override all else, your desperation finally rewarded with the head spinning pleasure you sought. The warmth of his hands guiding your body, the strength and demand of his ministrations, the chill of his breath on the shell of you ear, all the little things have you engulfed so effortlessly and wholly.

"That's it, angel. That's better." he coos, dulcet and ever so pleased with every sound he gets from you. You're pliant in his hands, breaths short and heaving, skin hot to the touch. Like this he can feel the frustration you festered, the honesty of your desperation and the plea you made to him. He's determined to be the reason that frustration melts away, he owes that to you, at least.

"Bruce—" you stammer in a broken moan, nails digging into his skin and threating to break its palid surface. The electric heat dances over your body, jumping between nerve endings, sparking your system with each rough rock of your cunt on his thigh. It's everything you ached for but now as the tension curls torrid and low in your gut, ravelling tighter with each drag, you feel overwhelmed by the promise of climax that makes you shake.

"I know. Go ahead, darling, I've got you." he keeps up his coaxing, pressing a lazy, doting kiss to your temple. His words spur you on, driving you to pour the last of your energy into pushing yourself over the edge. He doesn't slow his assistance, matching your pace, holding you down with a steadfast grip even when your movements start to stutter.

"Yes—Fuck—!" you cry out, your thighs locking up and whole body tensing when it finally hits you in a searing, warm wash that feels to drown you in the all encompassing euphoria. You screw your eyes shut with the force of it and moan out something shaky from a sore throat, body jolting forward as the tension snaps and you collapse against Bruce's chest. He slows you to a stop as it rocks through you, whispering little praises into your ear with his hands keeping you stabilised.

"There you go. Good job, sweetheart."

Silence settles in as you catch your breath, Bruce's touch caressing soothingly up and down the length of your back, both quietly draped in the invading moonlight. You can feel his eyes on you, the weight of his adoring gaze, but it takes a drawn out moment for you to muster the strength to open your own. He doesn't mind, if anything he's grateful to be soaking in the image of you like this.

Eventually you sit back up, though with some effort, and throw your arms to wrap around his broad shoulders, forehead pressed to his. You sigh a heavy breath that fans across his lips before giggling something sweet.

"Satisfied?" he murmurs in asking, raising a hand to cup your cheek and keep you close. You nod in his hold and trap his hand underneath your own trembling one.

"Mhm, thank you, honey." you nod gratefully, pressing a quick kiss to his smiling lips.

"You're very welcome, darling. Now how about we get some sleep?"

"Fine, if we have to."

dc masterlist || navigation

A few minutes later, you sense you’re not alone. The hairs on your neck prick. You glance over your shoulder and spot a lone figure—tall, silhouette rimmed by lamplight—matching your pace a dozen yards behind. His jog is smooth, unhurried. You study him for a moment: dark hoodie, hands tucked low. Nothing overtly threatening, yet your stomach twists.

You push off a little harder, picking up speed as gravel sprays behind you. You tell yourself the park is public; other runners aren’t unusual. Surely he’ll veer off or slow down. The night feels too open for stealth.

But around the next bend, there he is again, only closer. You sense his presence in your peripheral vision, a quiet thud of his steps mirroring yours. A flash of lamplight glints on something in his raised hand, causing your pulse to throb in your ears.

Panic flares. Your mind races through possibilities: a taser’s barrel, the cold edge of a knife, maybe a cloth soaked in knock-out gas. You can almost feel his intent drawing tight around you; the pack of adrenaline in your veins makes your heart hammer like a drum.

You surge forward, planting each stride heavier, angling toward the park’s center where a handful of late-stayers still linger. Someone will hear a scream. Branches whip at your arms, and your lungs burn, but you welcome the pain. You hear him accelerate too, the soft crunch of his shoes behind you growing louder, closer, his heat brushing past you in the chill air, and you pray one of those scattered families or stray joggers looks back in time to save you.

You know this is your chance to get one on him, and you quickly whirl around and deck him in the face, making his head turn and something drop out of his hands.

Your something, actually. Or rather, your apartment building pass that lets you go home, you know, something very important.

He bent over, pressing both hands to his knees, blinking at you through the shock. “Jesus,” he managed, voice muffled and thick. “You decked me.”

Horror dawns on you as you realize his intentions were innocent. Your hands flutter in the air between you, mortification heating your cheeks. "Oh god, are you okay? I'm so sorry—I didn't—it's just that I've been binging these murder documentaries lately and I thought—"

He straightened, rubbing his jaw, lips twisted in amusement that softened the swelling. He watched you for a moment, measuring you, then burst into a laugh that was bright and unreasonably forgiving. “No harm done,” he said, still grinning despite the bruise already blooming under his skin. “I guess I deserved that for chasing you through a public park in the dark.”

You tried to laugh, but it snagged in your chest. “I just—there’s been a lot of—” You hesitated, unwilling to say the words true crime out loud, as if it would curse you further. “I’m really sorry. That was… not the appropriate response.”

He shrugged, stooping to pick up the fallen pass, holding it out to you between two knuckles. “You sure about that? Looked pretty appropriate from here.” He smiled again, a full, crinkled smile that made his eyes wrinkle at the corners, and you found yourself smiling back in spite of yourself.

You accepted the pass, the moment of physical contact both transactional and jarring. “Thank you. I’m so sorry.” You shook your head, half in disbelief, half in apology.

“It’s okay. I’m Hal. Hal Jordan.” edges of humor softening his tone. “But honestly, I respect a woman who can defend herself.” He extended his hand, this time in a gesture of truce instead of transaction. Tentatively, you shook it, feeling the heat of his skin and the steadiness of his grip.

You stood there for a moment, both at a loss, the park suddenly feeling much smaller and much stranger than before. The voices of the families and teens filtered in, grounding you, and you found yourself exhaling the last of your panic.

“I really am sorry,” you said again, quieter this time. “I guess I’m a little jumpy.”

He grinned, gently massaging his jaw. “If it makes you feel better, I get it. The world’s a freakshow these days. I’d have done the same.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe you hadn’t just made the local neighbor news by the morning. Still, you managed a shaky laugh. “Let me buy you a coffee sometime. Or an ice pack.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Deal. But only if you let me walk you the rest of the way home. For safety’s sake.”

You hesitated, then nodded, the tension draining from your shoulders. Together you started down the path, the thud of your steps gentler now, less adversarial. The park was almost empty; even the soccer kids had gone, leaving scattered cleat marks and candy wrappers in their wake.

“So,” you said, finding your rhythm beside him, “what’s your story, Hal Jordan? You always chase women down in the dark?”

He chuckled. “Only the ones who drop their security passes. And only if they outrun me, which, by the way, is impressive.”

The conversation unspooled, awkward at first, then warming. You learned he’d moved from Boston, that he liked running at night because it made him feel less like a lab rat on a treadmill. He learned you’re also new to the area and that your family was a state away, that you missed your old apartment but not your old roommate.

By the time they reached your street, the panic of the earlier encounter had faded into the kind of embarrassment that made for a decent anecdote, rather than a sleepless night.

At your door, you paused, turning the pass over in your fingers. “Thanks again,” you said, voice soft enough that you doubted he’d hear it.

He did. “Anytime. Just next time, don’t hit so hard? Well, you should if you think you’re in danger again, just try not to hit me.”

You smiled, genuine this time, and offered a small salute. He returned it, then jogged off into the dark.

Inside, you collapsed against the door, the rush of safety and shame colliding in your chest. You reached for your phone to text your best friend, to confess the story before someone else could twist it. As you typed, you realized your hands had finally stopped shaking. The park outside was silent, empty, and for the first time all week, you felt something like relief.

You made a mental note to delete your true crime podcast queue, or at least to stop listening after sunset. Maybe, too, you’d give Hal a chance. If nothing else, you owed him a decent cup of coffee.

You slept better that night, the world outside your window shifting from a threat to a possibility, your dreams bright with the memory of running not from, but toward.

a/n: two months late, and cut short, but here it is, since i promised to clear out my drafts for my birthday! idk what it is about hal that i almost always have a difficult time finishing stories with him. i wanted to write about a morning date, and maybe you taking care of him once you see you really got him good, but that's not what happened, so sorry about that!

thank you for all of your love and support, and thank you so much for your likes, comments and reblogs. i hope you have an incredible day, i love you, and here's a kiss from me to you! 😘💕

There had been something. Something so familiar about the Red Hood. Something that made Dick feel strangely hopeful the more he thought about it, and he didn't know why.

There was just something.

He made his way down. He stepped around the bigger flames and into the scorching rubble. He didn't know what he was looking for. The Red Hood was gone already. He would be, if both Batman and the Joker were. That much Dick had understood about what he had been able to hear.

Still, it was like something was calling for him. Something, somewhere.

Dick wandered through the rubble and the smoke rising from it. He had been trained to listen to his instincts, after all, and this was him listening to them, he told himself, over and over again. He was doing what he knew the best.

It was the only way he could explain the feeling.

There was something in the rubble.

His eyes took a moment to recognise that what he was seeing was different from all the surrounding stone and metal. It was decidedly not made from either of those, and once his brain caught onto that fact, he zeroed in on it completely.

It was a leg, sticking out from beneath the rubble.

Dick had ran over and started to lift the rubble off of the leg before his brain caught up with him again. It was a leg dressed in torn, dark fabric, with a heavy boot on the feet. Another one became visible as Dick got some of the rubble off.

Then became visible part of the torso, dressed in torn and burnt combat shirt, and it was then Dick knew who exactly he was diggin out.

Or at least he thought he knew.

He would remain oblivious to the real truth for a moment longer.

Dick grabbed the next piece of debris, his fingers digging to what had once been either a part of a wall or a floor, with shattered tile still somehow clinging to it, and he dragged it off of the Red Hood, uncovering more of his body.

That was when he noticed the blood.

There was a lot of it. It didn't come as a surprise, exactly, with the amount of heavy wreckage that was on top of the guy. It would've been a miracle if nothing had hit him hard enough to cause some real damage.

It was a little surprising that Dick couldn't see the source of the blood yet. Was there really only one, single wound, despite all of the chances to get them all over instead?

He would worry about it in just a moment. First, he needed to see what was actually going on.

He pushed and pulled the pieces of the building away from the Red Hood, uncovering him bit by bit, discovering more of his blood in the process.

Then the last piece was pulled away.

With it, Dick found himself staring down at the face of Jason Todd.

Dick's world stopped for a one, single, long second.

Then it started all over again.

"Jason", Dick gasped, because he needed to breathe and speak at the same time to get his voice to work. "Jason."

Jason laid there, in the middle of smoke and rubble, his eyes closed and blood all over him.

He was taller than Dick remembered. He was bigger, too. Of course he was. Dick had seen the Red Hood. He knew who he was dealing with.

Jason was taller, bigger, older.

Jason was the Red Hood.

Jason was Dick's little brother.

Dick's little brother laid there, in the middle of smoke and rubble, his eyes closed and blood all over him.

There was so much blood.

"Jason." Dick wanted to scream. He didn't. If he did, then he would break the dream he was in. "Jason."

His fingers latched around Jason's wrist. Even through his suit, he could feel the warmth of his skin. He could've been warm because of all the fire that had been burning around him. Dick chose to believe otherwise.

He had been given a miracle. A miracle that was slightly twisted, but a miracle nevertheless.

He didn't want to believe that the world would be so cruel to give it to him and then take it away before he got to even have it.

He held onto Jason tight.

"Jason." His other hand craddled the side of Jason's face. The side with less blood on it. He still looked so much like he had before, despite all of the changes Dick could see. It had only been a few years, after all. Three? Four? Not too many. Entirely too many.

It was still Jason.

"Jason."

Jason opened his eyes.

He didn't look like he really saw Dick there, even though he was right in front of him. At first, he just stared somewhere past Dick, his eyes clouded over.

"Jason", Dick called.

At his voice, Jason's eyes moved ever so slightly more to Dick's direction. He still didn't look like he was really seeing him, but he was awake and moving at least somewhat. It was more than enough for Dick.

"Hold on", Dick told him. "You're going to be just fine."

There was blood on Jason's neck. It had spread from there and splattered onto his face and hair as crimson speckles. He had been bleeding quite some time.

Dick had no idea how he was still alive.

He wasn't complaining.

He needed to see a bit better, so he would know what he was dealing with, exactly. Reluctantly he let go off Jason's hand to wipe away some of the blood on his neck, to expose the wound more clearly to his eyes.

The skin beneath the blood was scorching through the fabric of Dick's suit.

Dick didn't pull his hand away. He continued to wipe away the blood, drenching his own hand in the process.

Beneath the red, there was a golden glow.

He got the edge of the wound visible. The flesh was still cut open on the surface there, but everything beneath it, the blood and the muscle were basking in golden light coming from the inside, slowly but surely knitting the flesh whole again, like thousands of needless with heavenly string in them were stitching Jason back together.

Dick had seen stranger things before.

One of them being his little brother back from the dead right in front of him.

He could take a little golden glow and the body healing on its own if it meant that his little brother stayed back from the dead.

"It's okay", Dick told Jason. "You're going to be okay."

He wiped away the blood from the edge upwards, all the way to the other side of Jason's neck. The cut was long and still deep in the middle, where the flesh had not yet healed itself as well, and Dick had the odd sense of familiarity come over him the longer he looked at it.

This time, though, there was no hopefulness accompanying the feeling.

This time, there was only the growing sense of despair.

Dick had seen a batarang being thrown enough times to know what a cut left behind by the edge of ones blade looked like.

Jason was not wearing his helmet. He was laying there, in the middle of smoke and rubble, blood all around him.

Batman and the Joker were both gone.

Dick's suit was covered in Jason's blood. He tore his eyes away from the wound, that damning wound, and looked back into Jason's eyes. They were still open, still looking at Dick, even if the slightly faraway look was still present in them.

It was enough.

"You're going to be okay", Dick told him.

Jason didn't say anything. Only one, singular tear gathered into the corner of his eye, dropping down to his cheek, washing away the drops of blood on its way.

He didn't resist when Dick gathered him into his arms.

"You're going to be okay", Dick told him. He pressed his face onto Jason's shoulder. He could feel the blood sticking to his skin, warm and damning. "You're going to be okay. I'll make sure of it."