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Sparring is a staple in the routine of any vigilante, especially those who lack any kind of enhancement or special ability. Sparring keeps you sharp, prepared. With proper rules of engagement in place and strict adherence to them, the worst of the risk is eased, and the benefits outweigh the drawbacks of minor bruising and slightly higher amounts of physical exertion.
Matches almost always end with someone laid out flat on the ground.
Dick is no stranger to being pinned. At least once weekly since he was eight, someone has wrestled him to the ground, be it Bruce, his friends, his siblings, or his opponents. This time, though, his breath catches. His face is pressed against the mat, held there by Jason’s too-big-not-a-baby-anymore arms. One of Dick’s arms is twisted behind his back.
He taps the mat twice. Jason releases, careful to ease Dick’s arm back into a less strained position before he lets go.
Dick lies still on the mat, trying to catch his breath. He didn’t even hit the ground that hard, knew exactly how to get out of the hold, could have tapped out at any time. Did tap out, as soon as the panic started creeping in.
Jason might be saying something above him, but Dick can’t hear it. Dick doesn’t know how he winds up on his back, but the position only makes things worse. The sky is dark above him, something wet is on his face—rain or tears or both, it doesn’t matter. A phantom weight is settled above his hips, and a phantom touch is on his shoulders, his chest, his thighs.
Large fingers tap his cheek, too big to be hers, firm and strong and familiar.
“C’mon, Dickie. You’re in the Cave, not wherever else ya think you are. We were sparring. You tapped out. We stopped. You’re okay, you’re not there.”
Dick whimpers, reaching up to grasp Jason’s hand, holding it against his face. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Jason’s voice go so soft. It rained last night, bringing everything back up to the surface. The nightmare still lingers under Dick’s skin.
“Let’s sit you up, okay? C’mon. Easy.”
With Jason’s arms around his shoulders, Dick takes in a single, heaving breath, trying to center himself.
“Sorry, Little Wing. I don’t know—”
“Nuh-uh. No ya don’t.” Jason looks Dick dead in the eyes, face lined with concern and sympathy. “Don’t go dismissin’ that. Ya don’t gotta talk ‘bout it, but don’t go brushin’ it off.”
Dick tries to steady his breathing as he nods.
Jason sits down on the mat beside him, pulling Dick into his side. Though not the first time, it’s still jarring, being smaller than his baby brother. Once, Dick did the same for Jason.
“Y’know, I still hate it, too. Bein’ pinned down like that. Been years, but it gets me sometimes.” Jason takes a deep breath, culminating in a shaky exhale. He rests his head on top of Dick’s. “None o’ those guys could do shit to me now, but that don’t change that it happened.”
Dick hums, nuzzling Jason’s shoulder, curling in as close as he can without outright sitting in his brother’s lap.
Jason’s fingers find their way into Dick’s hair, running through it soothingly. “And I’ve met so many others down in the alley, folks who didn’t deserve any o’ the shit that happened to ‘em. And we didn’t either, y’know? Took me a while to figure that one out.” Jason snorts derisively. “Thought I was bein’ punished for lettin’ my mom die, for stealin’ shit to keep fed, and for any number o’ other things I had to do to stay alive back then.”
“Not your fault, Jay,” Dick mumbles, voice muffled by Jason’s shirtsleeve.
“I know that now, Big Bird.” Jason pulls Dick’s face out of his shoulder, looking him in the eye once again, serious. “Do you?”
Dick can’t hold Jason’s gaze.
It’s answer enough.
“How ‘bout we call it, yeah? Head upstairs and put on one o’ those shitty rom coms ya like.”
As if Jason doesn’t enjoy them, too. It makes Dick smile, just a little. “Yeah, yeah. That—” His voice cracks. “—that sounds nice. Can we steal Bruce’s weighted blanket?”
Jason laughs. “Sure, Dickhead. We can steal Dad’s blanket.”