Dick hated this. Every part of him wished he didn’t have to do it.

After a brutal argument with Jason—one that ended with Jason trying to bolt in a blind rage—Dick had been forced to act. He tackled him hard on the rooftop, wrestled him down, and, with a heavy heart, made Jason swallow a sedative pill he kept for emergencies like this. He caught Jason just before he hit the ground, cradling his unconscious weight.

Jason hadn’t been okay for a long time. Mentally, emotionally—he was burning out, and Red Hood was dragging him deeper into the fire. Whether Jason wanted it or not, he needed a break. He needed help.

Dick carried him home, laying him down carefully. He removed as much of Jason’s armor as he could, piece by piece, each clatter of metal on the floor twisting the knife deeper in Dick’s chest. Jason looked younger like this, smaller somehow—just a broken kid trying to survive a war he never really left.

Dick moved quickly but quietly, locking away the Red Hood armor, Jason’s bike keys, his comm, even his laptop with the mission logs. Anything that could pull him back into that life had to be out of reach—for now.

He knew Jason was going to be furious when he woke up. Hurt. Betrayed. But Dick had to be strong. He had to be the big brother Jason needed, even if it meant being the villain in his eyes for a while.

Because saving Jason mattered more than Jason hating him.