#stray!dick

Closing his eyes, he exhaled a short, shuddering sigh. Static seemed to buzz under his skin, a faint feeling to accompany the low roar of it in his ears. Selina squeezed his ankle and the single point of contact, skin on fabric, burned. Some distant part of him wished he’d had the forethought to strip out of Stray’s suit, wanting nothing more than to curl up and sleep and hope that he woke up to find this awful night had been a nightmare. The rest of him didn’t hope — didn’t feel — much at all, though he knew he’d be glad once he got to his feet to find the clown himself and… And do something.

He’d done a lot of things as Stray, both kind and the sort that had landed him in prison a few times. Taking a life had never appealed to him much, not as a kid new to the scene and not now after over a decade at Selina’s side, but an exception could be made. Just this once.

Jason had been fifteen. A child.

Yeah, he thought to himself as Selina’s hand squeezed a little harder. Just this once.

He forced his eyes open again. The apartment’s lights were off, but the room remained dimly lit regardless. Gotham never slept, after all, and Selina didn’t believe in wasting money on a sheet of fabric that the cats would tear to shreds in a few hours’ time. He sighed and might as well have not been breathing at all.

Jason had been all of ten years old the first time Dick met him — rail thin and bruised, but a little spitfire nonetheless. The kid had been cornered and Dick hadn’t bothered to figure out why three grown men had decided to pick a fight before quite literally dropping in. He still remembered those wide, blue eyes watching him, mouth agape and too stunned to run even when provided with a half-dozen opportunities. After that, though, the kid had gotten good. Smarter, faster, fitter.

Dick hadn’t found out the Bat had plucked him off the streets to keep for himself until Bruce Wayne adopted Jason not a week after the Bat’s tiny sidekick made his debut. Selina had laughed at him for a month.

“Richard. Dick. My sweet little kitten,” she’d purred, far too amused at his expense. “How many times have you watched that man leave the apartment? You’ve seen him without a mask at least once,” she’d said and Dick had flushed bright red, nose scrunching at the reminder of his mentor’s activities.

“Well, what did I care about some ditzy rich guy?” Dick had thrown his arms up and huffed. “I thought he had a line right to Bat’s phone for Pete’s sake! What am I gonna pay attention to him for if I can’t even touch his shoes without the terror of Gotham catching up before I’ve even left his dumb manor.”

Selina clicked her tongue, the sudden displeased sound pulling him back from his memories. He shifted, twisting so he was wedged between the armrest and cushion, one leg pulled fully up onto the couch while the other remained firmly planted in the carpet, to better see her. She didn’t so much as glance in his direction, one hand still on his leg while the other did something on her phone. Silence settled between them, tense but comfortable enough, while he waited. He didn’t mind much. She’d always done things in her own time and he in his.

He let himself drift, no thoughts or memories pressing in on him. Just emptiness. That same nothing he’d coasted on just after his parents had died. Shock, they’d told him and he knew, now that it was. But he’d always been partial to reaching for this, finding it easy to let himself drop into something not unlike plunging into a metaphorical ice bath. Nothing stuck like this. Nothing hurt. He was, and he wasn’t. And Selina was content to let him do this — to wallow, she’d said — for a time. Later there’d be anger. Action.

Dick Grayson had never been much good at staying on the sidelines long, if at all.

Jason Todd had died. Alone. Alone in a warehouse in the middle of nowhere because the Joker had wanted to hurt the Bat. Alone because the little vigilante’s disappearance and the Bat’s subsequent hunt for his pup had sent nearly every major and minor player to ground to weather the storm. Even Selina. Even him, though he’d done his best to help where he could, even if it had all amounted to nothing in the end.

The Bat had been left to mourn while his rogues kept to themselves for a few days at least. For as long as Dick had been Selina’s partner — nothing more than a nine-year-old with a grudge against the man who’d murdered his parents — there had been rules among Gotham’s major players. Honor among thieves, to an extent, and while they didn’t apply to the Bat, Dick had staked a claim on Jason. An honorary cat for all that he’d been on the boring side of the law.

Dick had staked a claim and Selina had backed him up and the Joker had fucked them over and spat at their feet. When — not if. When -- they found the clown there would be hell to pay.