#i mean jay is an obvious answer for the cop killer but i feel like dick would too

[notstvalentine]

This is probably going to be a very niche question but

Batfam and co

Do they know Lace Code for their boots? Do they follow it?

And which/how many of them would have the "cop killer" laces?

I need to know

[itispossibleihaveissues]

This Night Chapter 5

TITLE: This Night AUTHOR: Mikimoo RECIPIENT: tristen84 PAIRING: JayDick RATING: Mature

WARNINGS: Off screen Non-Con, murder of innocent young people, violence

SUMMARY: The Red Hood and Officer Grayson are on the same case. A small misstep has far reaching consequences for them both.

Chapter 1, 2 3 4

An hour was a long time, and even having Dick within arms reach hadn't lessened Jason's anxiety about him. In some ways, it was worse, being able to hear Dick’s shallow breathing and knowing Wilson had his hands on him. He knew it was irrational – Wilson was helping them, and being as impersonal with carrying Dick as he had been when he tended Jason's ankle - but Jason felt the same way about it as he did about having the delicate bones of his foot resting in Wilson's big hand; like his skin was crawling and he was seconds away from violence.

It wasn't as though he himself hadn’t worked with Wilson before, albeit rather reluctantly, and he had been professional despite the somewhat extenuating circumstances. Jason felt his cheeks heat at the memory. He was going to studiously avoid thinking about that.

Luckily there was plenty to distract him from past embarrassments - they had done well making their way through the jungle, but ran into trouble within sight of the Jet. They approached from the west, and Jason held up a hand to stop Wilson in his tracks when he caught the slight glint of metal through the leaves. They were so damn close.

“What do you see, Red?” Wilson murmured, his soft voice making the hair stand up on the back of Jason's neck. He had dropped to a crouch, still holding Dick like he weighed nothing at all.  For his part, Dick looked like he was struggling to keep his eyes focused.

“There are men surrounding your Jet. I thought it was supposed to be invisible or something?” Jason growled back at him.

Wilson gave him a look. “Only when its in flight. It’s invisible to radar, not the naked eye.”

“That's rubbish.” Jason grumbled as he edged forward. “I can't see how many there are. But I suspect too many for a frontal assault.”

Wilson carefully laid Dick down against a tree and came forward, gesturing for Jason to move back so he could get a look. Jason squashed the feeling of irritation at the gesture and moved aside, returning to where Dick was pushing himself upright with a grimace.

“How you feeling, Dick-face?” he asked, crouching in front of him and resisting the urge to lay a hand on his forehead. It was obvious just from looking at him that he was running a fever and he wasn't sure how Dick would feel about unnecessary touching.

Dick scrunched up his nose “Like I got beaten, shot and drugged to the gills,” he said.

“That's pretty much what you look like too. Not going to win any beauty pageants with that face on.”

“Fuck off, I can still rock it.” Dick told him, unconvincingly. Then he frowned. “The infection is spreading in my leg. If I don't get it looked at soon it could go septic.” He looked up at Jason with a touch of genuine fear. “I could lose it. That can't happen, Jay.”

Jason nodded, but if Dick's leg was as bad as he suspected it was, then losing the limb was the least of their worries - sepsis was no joke, and although he had given Dick what antibiotics he could there was no telling if the drugs in his system had caused any sort of interaction or lessened their effectiveness.

“We won't let it happen, Dickie,” Jason reassured him, but the truth was that if they didn't deal with it soon it was going to become a very real risk.

Dick nodded. “Do we have any more water?”

“No, but there's more in the plane.”

Dick ran a shaking hand through his sweaty hair, dislodging a collection of leaves and dirt. “I'm not sure I can be much help getting on board I'm afraid.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. But that's why we hired ourselves a supper efficient killer.”

Dick made a face at him, and Jason huffed. “Would it be better if I called him a soldier? That's kind of what he is in this situation. I don't think you can afford to take the moral high ground, here.”

“He doesn't have to kill them.” Dick complained.

Jason didn't think he sounded even slightly convincing, but it was enough to piss him off. “Right, so he goes easy on them, and it takes so long to get into the Jet you lose your leg. That what you want?”

Dick just stared at him. He looked guilty, which made Jason even angrier – this bullshit Bruce had indoctrinated him with was toxic - the idea that other people’s lives were more important than his own was problematic at best, but it was truly fucked up that this way of thinking was ingrained to such an extent, he couldn’t even feel  justified defending himself and his body, if doing so meant the people who were trying to kill him might die instead.

Jason couldn't fathom it. It was a fucking no-brainier to that, in a situation when it was 'them or us,' you did what you had to in order to survive - sacrificing yourself to save civilians, innocents or those you cared about made sense. Dieing to save your would be murderer was fucking stupid.

“What about me, huh, Dick?” he said “What about if us going slow and easy and not letting Wilson take kill shots means I catch a bullet? That worth it?”

“Jay-”

“As interesting as this argument is getting,” Wilson interrupted “It's a moot point. I was paid to keep you alive, not them, and I intend to do that. If that means killing these people, so be it.”

“I could just not pay you,” Dick countered.

Wilson nodded at Jason. “If you don't, he will. And if he doesn't have the cash, then I guess he'll be in my debt.” He smiled, slow and wide. “More in my debt,” he added as he watched Jason's cheeks heat.

Dick shot him a poisonous look, but it was tinged with curiosity. Jason was hoping to avoid that conversation if at all possible. Maybe he could convince Dick the whole exchange had been a fever dream.

“If you two are done trying to glare each other into submission and would like to get on with being rescued, might I suggest paying attention to the militia attacking my plane?”

Jason flushed again. You would think running for his life for days though a jungle would have taken president over embarrassment, but apparently not.

“I hate you,” Dick said. It wasn't clear which one of them he was referring to.

“Do you have a plan then, Wilson?” Jason growled to cover his discomfort. “We're outnumbered and outgunned, even with you here.”

“A frontal assault is pointless,” Wilson agreed. “And Grayson here is useless.”

“Screw you,” Dick said from the floor. He was scowling, but his eyes were a bit unfocused again.

“You're not the only one - Red looks like he's on his last legs too.” Wilson continued.

“At least both my legs are working,” Jason said, in an effort to get a rise out of Dick, he didn't like how thin his voice was. “And I'm less likely to fall on my face if there's a stiff breeze.”

“Yeah?” Dick said, twisting his mouth into the parody of a smile. “Come over here and say that. I'll bite your kneecaps.”

Wilson had a look of infinite patience on his weathered face, but then again, he had known Dick since his teens. It must have been quite trying then, let alone now – time hadn't mellowed Dick's sharp tongue or terrible sense of humour any.

Wilson handed Jason one of his big guns. “I'm going to radio through to the girl on the plane to see if she can get it going and get the defences engaged. Then I'm going to see how many I can pick off before they notice.”

“She's hardly a girl, Slade.” Dick said.

“You need to get your priorities straight, kid. And for the record, anyone under fifty with less than a hundred kills to their name is a girl or boy in my book.”

“And then?” Jason said, hating to agree with Wilson, but also feeling the need to prioritise survival over arguing terminology with an assassin.

“Then you just hold your position and kill anyone who gets close.”

Jason nodded and hefted his new weapon. Dick looked at him miserably, but it was very easy to ignore that expression and he hunkered down to watch as Wilson disappeared into the jungle like a phantom.

“I don't feel good about this,” Dick said.

“I don't feel like I care.” Jason aimed his gun towards the armed men he could see through the trees, but he wouldn't shoot unless he had to. No point in giving away their position.

Suddenly the Jet roared to life – Jason was strung so tight he jumped, but avoided firing the gun still clutched in his hands. Behind him, Dick gasped in surprise.

The gathered militia began shooting at it, but the rounds bounced off like they were hitting an invisible shield. Now this was what Jason had been hoping for when Wilson said he had a Night Jet. All it was missing was some serious firepower.  

As if in answer to his thought, flaps opened on the underside of the plane and started to spray the armed men with bullets. They screamed and fell, many running further into the jungle to escape. Jason assumed Wilson was coordinating things with Ruiz in the Jet and had got himself out of the line of fire. He and Dick were safe too, off to the side.

“We should get ready to run for it,” Jason told him, creeping back to where Dick was sitting, wide, eyed.

“What's happening?” He asked, and Jason realised he couldn't see from where he was sitting – he could hear the gunfire and the screaming though, so he should have had a pretty good idea.

“Officer Ruiz is shooting the shit out of the soldiers from the Jet. But I suppose its okay when she does it, her being a cop and all.”  

Dick winced, but otherwise ignored Jason as he tried to struggle to his feet. Jason got one of his arms round his shoulder and heaved him up. They wobbled for a moment, like a pair of blood-splattered bowling pins, then Wilson materialised out of the trees nearly giving Jason a heart attack  - he hadn't even heard him approach. Either he was losing his edge or Deathstroke was really just that good.

“Let’s get while the going’s good,” Wilson said, coming over to take Dick from him, but Jason was reluctant to let him go.

“Slade,” Dick said, settling back into Wilson's arms - he looked pained and uncomfortable, but Jason still hated that he used the man's first name with such familiarity.

The short run to the plane felt like an eternity with a target strapped to his back, but no shots were fired. Perhaps lady luck hadn't completely deserted him.

“Lower the doors,” Wilson barked suddenly, and Jason realised he must be speaking to Ruiz who had been controlling the Jet at his direction. The sight of the ramp descending filled Jason with such a feeling of profound relief he was almost dizzy with it.

 Once inside Jason blinked in the harsh lighting. Ruiz strode up, and it looked for a moment like she wanted to beat the life out of the both of them. So much so that Jason was braced for a punch as she stepped towards him and he was downright shocked when she wrapped her arms around him in a tight, almost vicious hug instead.

“Your face, Jay.” Dick said with the shadow of a grin as Wilson put him down on one of the seats. “It's like you've never had a cuddle before.”

“It wasn't a cuddle, Grayson.” Ruiz told him, primly. “It was an 'I'm happy you're not dead' embrace.”

“I'll have to try that some time, when I want a cuddle.” The expression on Dick's face would have been impish if he didn't look like he was about to keel over and die on the floor of the Jet.

“Whatever,” Jason grumbled, while Ruiz gave Dick a much gentler hug. She looked exhausted, as they all did, but Jason could see  under that was still the shadow of fear. He recognised much of  it was concern for Dick, who probably looked even worse to her than he did to Jason. He wasn't sure how to offer her comfort without revealing his own anxiety to Dick. “At least we all made it,” he tried, awkwardly.

“Before we get too ahead of ourselves,” Wilson interrupted, “I would like to point out that we are four hours from the nearest hospital that we can trust has not been infiltrated, and Grayson's continued use of this leg might not last that long.”

“Can you help me?” Dick asked. He sounded resigned.

“If you want to keep it, then I'm going to have to do some field surgery, clean and drain the wound. It's not going to be pleasant, but it has to be done. It’s already putrid, I can smell it from here.”

Dick looked like he was going to protest. Jason could well understand why – it would leave him feeling exposed and vulnerable, far worse than being carried in the man's arms. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, before common sense and the will to survive won out and he nodded.

“I'm going to get the Jet into the air,” Wilson said. “Jason, you get the medkit out and start setting up. Officer Ruiz, you take down time and start thinking over what the hell you are going to tell your superiors that won't get you or Grayson fired.”

Ruiz frowned at him, but at Jason's nod she reluctantly took a seat and strapped herself in, leaving Jason to do as he was told and start setting up for surgery. He found a very well stocked  kit – more like a mini emergency room, with drips, drugs and plenty of sterile equipment. There was even a stainless steel surface that flipped down to make a serviceable operating table.  

As the jet rumbled to life again he made his way back to Dick who was barely able to stand. They took it slow, as Jason's own legs were wobbling alarmingly and his ankle was throbbing in renewed agony as the last of the adrenaline he had been running on seemed to fade. Despite his body's objections, Jason managed to haul Dick to the back of the plane and prop him against the table.

“You're going to have to take your pants off,” he said, suddenly realising the other reason for Dick's reluctance for Wilson to treat him. “And your shirt, it's filthy. We can get you a new one, and some clean underwear you can wear while he works on you.”

Dick nodded, he looked upset for a moment, but then his jaw tightened. “You're going to have to help me,” he said stiffly.

“Sure thing, Dick-face.” Jason said, determined to keep it as light as possible – not an easy task as Dick struggled to slip his pants over his hips,  revealing the edges of yellowing bruises. Jason took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself and then helped Dick get his shirt over his head. His torso looked much worse in the stark light of the plane than it had in the cave. There was a number of cigarette burns clustered on one nipple and another deeper burn on the soft skin under his arm.

Dick avoided his eyes as Jason handed over a white t-shirt from the stash of clothes he had found with the medical supply's. Jason helped him get it on – they would deal with the more minor injuries after the leg situation had been debt with, and he suspected Dick would rather have as many clothes on as he could at the moment.

Kneeling down to help Dick take his boxers off was strangely difficult, as though the physical action had some sort of emotional significance he couldn't put his finger on. But from this new position, he realised that he could smell the wound too, and Wilson had been right – they had to act fast.

Dick stood away from the table, one hand clutching the cool surface for support and the other holding onto the pair of underpants Jason had handed him. Despite Jason's attempts to keep things as calm and impersonal as possible, he found he was really struggling – working the fresh pair of underwear up Dick’s bruised thighs and over finger shaped marks, was cruelly intimate in a way that was upsetting and confusing.  Jason's own fingers were shaking, and though he tried to convince himself it was with fatigue he knew that it wasn't.

He had never faced this kind of situation with someone he was close to before, he couldn't wrap his head around having to treat Dick as a victim – especially knowing how Dick would feel about being labelled as such. Jason just couldn't bring his own turbulent emotions to bear; the feelings of  impotent rage, of grief, guilt and doubt were just too overwhelming.

He remained on his knees for a long moment, trying to get himself together. He needed food and water, a couple of days of sleep. Everything felt worse in the kind of physical state they were all in, and practical things could make it better.

He stood awkwardly, and began rummaging in the other storage compartments, finding enough water and energy bars to keep them all going for another day or so at a push. He handed both to Dick who ignored the food in favour of guzzling more water. Jason didn't stop him, the moron knew he shouldn't drink too fast and if he puked it was his damn fault.

He stuffed an energy bar into his own mouth, suddenly really registering how hungry he was, and then took a selection to where Ruiz was sitting. She was asleep, her dirt-streaked face pinched with pain or bad dreams. Jason didn’t want to wake her so checked her breathing carefully - he figured she was just exhausted rather than unconscious so he left her where she was, with water and food by her side for when she woke.

As Jason returned to Dick's side, Wilson made his way up the plane towards them. Apparently the Night Jet had a trustworthy autopilot to go with those sweet guns.

“You ready, kid? this isn't going to be pleasant,” he said as he approached.

“Is it ever?” Dick asked, as Jason helped him back up onto the table. He looked somehow small and  deceptively fragile sitting there in a loose t-shirt and ill fitting briefs. Wilson handed him a couple of painkillers and another bottle of water, which Dick took with out question.

Wilson started laying out the things he would need while Jason stood back, feeling uncomfortable. “I'm going to give you some local anaesthetic, but it’s likely to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch regardless. So, Red, you’re going to have to be ready to hold him down if needed.”

Jason grimaced, he hopped it didn't come to that for his sanity's sake.  

Dick lay back on the table, his limbs loose and apparently relaxed, but the set of his jaw said otherwise.  When Wilson set to work, Dick turned his face to the wall and stared at it fixedly, like it held the secrets of the world.  Jason avoided looking at Dick as much as possible, unable to bear the thoughts swirling around his head. Instead, his eyes were drawn to Wilson, watching his reaction to the damage on Dick's skin.

His face was as calm and impassive as it had been when he tended to Jason's wounds, but Jason had been trained by the Bat. He could see the anger in the tension in his wrist, the slight twitch of his jaw.  It was pretty damn obvious what had happened to Dick, just from the visible injuries – and Dick had to know that too. Having Wilson witness it had to be hard, despite whatever weird-ass relationship they had.

Wilson cut open the partially cauterized wound to help drain it, and the smell made Jason's gut twist. If he hadn't rescued Dick, he would have died from this. If Wilson hadn't come to their aid he would have died. It was pure fucking luck they had managed this intervention in time and had access to enough medical equipment they could start to fix things.

Dick was trembling with the effort of keeping still or not crying out, so Jason took his hand and Dick gripped it tightly. Neither of them said anything. There was no point.

 By the time Wilson started to flush the wound with saline, Dick was barely holding it together, clinging to consciousness by pure stubborn will alone. His face was pinched with pain, and his cheeks were flushed with fever, but despite that and the bruises marring his skin he still looked beautiful. But then Jason suspected he would always find Dick Grayson beautiful, had done ever since the first time he got his ass kicked by him. His lips twisted up slightly at the memory.

“Nearly done,” Wilson grunted, he was inserting a drain and mopping up the mess his cleaning had made. “Got to take some more antibiotics and keep it clean.”

Jason wondered how long it had taken. Ruiz was still asleep, curled tightly in her chair, and Jason could feel the tug of pure exhaustion pulling him under too. He looked down at Dick, who was still clutching his hand. He was still awake, barely, a tiny sliver of blue showing under his mostly closed eyelids.

“Alright, kid,” Wilson said, his voice weirdly gentle. “Let’s get you to a proper seat. You've got three hours to rest.” Wilson scooped Dick up again, making him cry out softly, in pain or surprise. He also didn't let go of Jason's hand which made getting to the seats in the front of the plane a bit tricky, and nearly sent him tumbling face first under Wilson's boots.

Wilson looked amused as he lowered Dick to a seat and fetched him a warm blanket. Jason took the seat next to him and tried not to pass out in relief.

“You need me to give you a check-up too, Red?” Wilson asked.

“Nah, need sleep. You can fix me up proper when we land.” Jason shut his eyes for a second and when he opened them again, Wilson was gone.

“Welcome back,” Dick said in a quiet, hoarse voice.

Jason's whole body ached like he had been run over by the Batmobile. “How long was I out?”

“'About an hour,”

“You didn't sleep?”

Dick shook his head slightly. “Thought would be better to wait for you to wake. Then take my turn.”

“Moron. What's going to happen up here that wouldn't wake us both?”

Dick shrugged helplessly, wincing at the movement. “Just didn't feel right,” he admitted after a moment.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. You get some rest, I'll keep watch for you now, OK?”

“Thanks, Jay.”

Jason squeezed his hand, where their fingers were still entangled. “No problem, Dickie. I'll wake you when we get there.”

Dick's eyes were closed before Jason even finished speaking, and he finally let himself think about what would happen after. A lot of people were going to die for this, and he would make sure a few specific ones would fucking suffer before the end.  

[mastcomm]

‘Birds of Prey’ Review: Nihilism for Fun and Profit

A lot of shocking stuff comes out of Harley Quinn’s mouth — maniacal giggles, streams of obscenity, big words to remind you that she has a Ph.D. in psychology, a splash of greenish vomit — but what caught my attention was the line “I voted for Bernie.”

This admission is offered up as part of a string of reasons for people in Gotham City to hate Harley, best known locally as the Joker’s (now ex-) girlfriend, and even though it’s a throwaway joke I can’t seem to let it go. Less because I’m distracted from my solemn movie-critic duties by electoral politics (though of course I am) than because the Bernie name-check is close to the only topical reference in all of “Birds of Prey (and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn).”

That title works very hard to achieve a puzzling effect — what is a “fantabulous emancipation”? why just “one” Harley Quinn? — and the rest of the movie, directed by Cathy Yan from a script by Christina Hodson, does the same. Including the scrap of dialogue I’m hung up on. What if instead of Bernie, Harley said she voted for Trump, or Hillary, or Jill Stein? Not as funny, for some reason. Are we meant to infer that she’s a socialist? Or (as she and others like to insist) that she’s crazy?

There isn’t really an answer. The answer is anything you want it to be. The senator from Vermont, whatever else he may achieve in 2020, has risen to the level of empty, vaguely humorous pop-cultural signifier. Whatever the name-check might mean, it’s a safe and easy reference.

Like “Joker,” “Birds of Prey (and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn)” is sincere in its commitment to nihilism, but coy about the implications of that commitment. Unlike “Joker,” this exercise in R-rated fan-flattery allows itself, and the audience, to have some fun with its noisy, hectic, self-conscious riffing on the conventions of comic-book-based entertainment.

Harley is played, as she was in “Suicide Squad,” by Margot Robbie, with strenuous attitude and abundant confidence in her own charm. This time, fortunately, she has a new squad. Her erstwhile beau the Joker, though he is frequently invoked, is never seen. Supervillain duties are taken up by the Gotham billionaire Roman Sionis (a gleeful Ewan McGregor). He and his chief minion (a glum Chris Messina) are venal, volatile sadists who like to slice off the faces of anyone who makes them mad. Harley has joined that group, and now that she no longer has the immunity of being Joker’s moll, Roman can dispose of her at will.

It’s more complicated than that, of course, as you might expect from a movie called “Birds of Prey (and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn).” (The more you say it, the less sense it makes.) The plot, driven by Harley’s hyperactive narration, zigzags and hopscotches across time and space to fill in the back stories of her frenemies, the as-yet-unhatched predatory birds who get top billing.

These include Cassandra Cain (Ella Jay Basco), a young pickpocket; Helena Bertinelli (Mary Elizabeth Winstead), a vengeful Mafia princess who wants to be known as the Huntress but who is usually called the Crossbow Killer for obvious reasons; and Dinah Lance (Jurnee Smollett-Bell), a singer in Sionis’s nightclub who is recruited for nastier work. On the other side of the law is Renee Montoya (Rosie Perez), a hard-as-nails Gotham detective who has grown bitter watching mediocre male colleagues receive credit and promotions for her work.

If Perez were to star in a stand-alone Renee Montoya movie (or an old-fashioned network-television cop series) I wouldn’t be mad. But this is Harley’s show, and it runs on a strange brew of righteousness and aggression, at once embracing and neutralizing the tropes of female anger and semi-feminist solidarity that are quickly becoming movie clichés. (The secondhand feeling is affirmed by the musical cues, which include “Black Betty,” “Barracuda” and other staples.) At times, a fed-up, cleareyed critique of male entitlement (and worse) snaps into focus — Sionis’s cruelty has a decidedly misogynist edge — only to dissolve into jokey irreverence.

The one thing “Birds of Prey” fears is being taken seriously, which makes it, again, something of an antidote to “Joker” and to the doomy solemnity of other DC products, going all the way back to “Batman Begins.” The mood of antic, playful obnoxiousness feels forced rather than liberated, the result of careful note-taking during repeated viewings of “Deadpool.” The rapid-fire repartee is less than sparkling, as if the goal were to sound smart while still appealing to the dumbest or most distracted person in the audience.

The fight scenes, on the other had, have snap and surprise — a hand-to-hand, martial-arts classicism that hasn’t been seen much in recent action movies. When Harley and her crew, outnumbered and outgunned, take on legions of muscular bad guys, “Birds of Prey” finds a rhythm and a logic, a sense of gravity and self-assurance, that is otherwise lacking.

It isn’t enough. Like other big-studio exercises in pseudo-subversion (very much including “Deadpool”), “Birds of Prey” is happy to play at provocation with swear words and violence while carefully declining to provoke anything like a thought. It’s really not that interesting that Harley Quinn voted for Bernie, though it might be very interesting to know why, or if she’s backing a different candidate this time around.

Birds of Prey (and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn)

Rated R. Sadistic violence, all in fun. Running time: 1 hour 49 minutes.

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