The final kick into his ribs is what does it--the line of fire that opens up in his chest is enough to make him groan. Blood dribbles from between his teeth as he starts mentally recounting the numerous reasons this stakeout went south so fucking quickly.
One, you thought New York was just like Gotham. Two, New York isn’t like Gotham. Three, Russians mobsters also love guns as much as you do. Four, those very same Russians are also pretty good at shooting guns. Many guns. All guns. Your guns--
The steel-toed boot drives into his side again, and he chokes on the rising blood this time. The second hit forces the air out of his lungs, cutting off his scream.
There’s laughter somewhere above him, a pretentious chattering of Russian and some other Eastern European language.
His fingers are itching for his guns, itching to empty a clip or seven into the slavic bastards, but there’s two problems with that fantasy.
You need guns to shoot Ivan in the head, he thinks to himself as stars explode behind his eyes, and in order to shoot Ivan in the head with a gun, you need working trigger fingers.
His left hand is a bloody mess by his side, his right curled tight into his jacket in a desperate attempt to align the crooked bones there. In retrospect, pissing off the angry Russian mobster with the crowbar had been a shitty idea.
(especially when metacarpals were on the line, he’d discovered. especially )
“You think he wants more?” suddenly Ivan’s above him, grinning around that dumbfucking cigarette like he’s hot shit. Another kick sends him skittering across the concrete. “Ah? You had enough?”
“F-fuck you,” he forces out, sending Ivan into uproarious laughter. He grits his teeth as the mobsters surround him, blocking his view of the alley. “You--”
He cuts off as they each grab one limb, his vision whiting out with pain as every broken rib, torn ligament, and bruise makes its presence known. He bites down hard as he’s lifted from the ground, swinging between the Russians like a bleeding, half-conscious piñata.
“You gonna come back to New York after this, ah?” Ivan, he thinks vaguely, the acrid smell of smoke the only thing he can process. “I don’t think so!”
“I don’t think so!” his cronies echo, and God, if he had three clips right now, he would shoot them until they didn’t have a face anymore. “Red Hood .”
Ivan says something in Russian, and the other mobsters start swinging him back and forth.
He hits something solid with a half-choked scream, pain roaring through every nerve. The world lights up behind his eyelids, his ribs burning like a brand under his skin. The thudding against his skull is a concussion, maybe worse; he can taste blood in his mouth, bitter against his tongue.
The Russians’ voices move farther away, suspiciously muffled.
No. No fucking way did they just leave me in a dumpster. He shifts a little, hearing plastic creak underneath him. What the fuck---
“I’m so fucking done,” he tells the top of the dumpster, grimacing as he settles against the bags. “At least in Gotham, they actually have the nerve to shoot you when they’re done.”
He shifts again, trying to get somewhere north of comfortable. There’s a metal frame digging into his back, and what feels like cottage cheese sliding against his ankle.
It’s easily one of his least favorite experiences to date, and that included dying.
“Fucking extra-ass Russians and their--”
His elbow flies out, knocking into something that he’s 85% sure isn’t trash. Lumpy? Solid. Ish.
Holy shit. Jason swallows, trying to inch towards the lid of the dumpster. They put me in here with dead bodies.
“Hey, man.”
The words freeze him in place. Adrenaline pumps through his veins. It’s a man’s voice, tinged with irritation, like he’d just interrupted an important football game.
Coming from underneath the trash bags.
“Do you think you could you stop moving?” the voice continues, oblivious. “I think my leg’s broken.”
Jason stares up into the darkness, processing what he’d just heard.
“What the fuck .”
A hand snakes its way out of the hefty bags, pointing at him. “Stop. Moving. ”
Jason closes his eyes briefly, wondering if this is some strange by-product of the blood loss and the concussion he probably has. When he opens them again, the hand is still there.
“What the hell are you doing in my dumpster?”
“Hey, this was my dumpster first.” the hand curls into a fist. “You think you can just get thrown in here randomly and own the place?”
“Usually I don’t get thrown in dumpsters ,” Jason says, growing irritated, “So yeah, I guess that was how I assumed the system worked.”
The man continues on as if he hadn’t heard the reply.
“It’s not even a quality dumpster. This one is way smaller than the last one I was in,” he says, muffled by the foot of plastic and garbage between them, “The Russians are getting pretty predictable though, aren’t they? Same dumpster for everyone. Must be getting lazy.”
“You’re telling me,” a third voice says from across the dumpster, making Jason jump again.
Hand-dude swears loudly at the movement, his fingers disappearing into the garbage bags.
“Hey, asshole, what did I just say about moving, huh?”
“Stop giving the new guy grief,” the new voice says, weary. “It’s probably his first time getting thrown in a dumpster. Isn’t it?”
Jason stares at the other end of the dumpster in disbelief.
“There’s...two of you.”
“Yep,” Hand-dude says. His fingers appear again, clenched in a fist. It angles itself unerringly towards the other man, waiting for a fist bump. “Dumpster bros for life!”
The other man sighs somewhere beneath takeout containers and potato salad tubs. “Clint, I told you to stop calling us that.”
The fist shakes a little. “Hey, you wanna leave the dumpster life, you go ahead.”
“I was here first and you know it.”
“Clint,” Jason repeats, “Clint Barton? Like, the Avenger ?”
The fist turns towards him, morphing into a hideous pair of talking lips. The man’s thumb moves up and down. “And you are?”
“Red Hood.” Jason says, questioning his life choices intensely for a moment, “I’m from Gotham, just taking a little...field trip.”
“After your friends who threw you in here?” the other voice asks, sounding approving. “Sounded like big fans of yours.”
“First of all, fuck Ivan,” Jason pauses to catch his breath, pressing a palm to his aching side. “Second of all, fuck Ivan. If I was trapped alone in a room with Hitler, Stalin, and Ivan, and I only had two bullets, I would shoot Ivan in both balls, shove the gun up his ass, and stuff the clip down his throat.”
“I can sympathize.”
“Oh yeah?’ Jason challenges, squinting at the voice, “Why’s that?”
“He threw me in here earlier,” the third man sighs, shifting slightly. “Speaking of...I should probably get back out there.”
“How’s your ribs?” Clint asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
“Well, I’m breathing, aren’t I?”
Jason can almost visualize Clint’s frown. “That’s not what I asked, but I’m gonna let you have it because I’m pretty sure my leg’s broken, and I want you to worry about me instead.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“So…” Jason breaks in awkwardly, still in the precarious space between hazy-from-blood-loss and unconsciousness. “You guys come here often? Here being...”
“Hell’s Kitchen,” the third man says, monotone. “And no, I usually try to avoid getting thrown in dumpsters. But I’m pretty sure Ivan thinks it’s funny, and he keeps doing it just to fuck with me.”
“So you’re some kinda...what, rival gang member?”
“Hah,” Clint snorts, a hefty bag near Jason’s elbow fluttering briefly. The third man remains suspiciously silent. “You, my honorary dumpster bro, are talking to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. In the flesh .”
The other man grunts. “See, overdramatic descriptions like that are the reason people keep shoving crosses at me.”
“Hey, I’ve been staring at the same rusty dumpster lid for the past three hours, would you cut me some slack?”
“Daredevil,” Jason guesses, getting a affirming noise from the other man. “Wow….of all the dumpsters in New York to end up in, I get the one with the Avenger, and the pink highlighter.”
“For what it’s worth,” Daredevil says, droll, “People usually aren’t worried about my fashion sense.”
“They should be,” Clint snorts, laughing like it’s a private joke. “I mean, horns? Really?”
“All this coming from a man whose costume is literally a leather vest and black jeans.”
“Alright, cool it down,” Jason says irritably, shifting a little to ease the pressure on his ribs. “I don’t suppose either of you has a plan for getting out, huh?”
There’s a flurry of moving bags, and a blonde head pushes free of the trash. Jason nods weakly at what must be Clint, not bothering to force a smile.
“Sorry, my aids are a little fritzy after that last fight, and I was getting tired of guessing what you said.” Clint stares at his lips intently, his eyes fierce in the dark of the dumpster. “Matty, what the hell did we do last time?”
“I called Claire,” Matty replies, sounding exasperated. “You whined like a baby for twenty minutes, and then she refused to take either of us home because we smelled like trash.”
“No, what about the first time?”
“Was that Hell’s Kitchen, or that one party at Stark Tower?”
Jason looked skywards, trying to guess the odds of getting over the lid without puncturing a lung. Clint continued to address the shadows at the other end of the dumpster, earnest.
“No, I’m telling you, the dumpster was over on 8th ave and--”
“I’m not disputing the existence of the dumpster, I’m just saying I have no memories of being in one with you at that specific intersection.”
“So, that’s how you guys met?” Jason asks, “One of you fell in the other one’s dumpster, boom, friends for life?”
There’s an awkward silence.
“I am firmly of the belief,” Clint says, “that when two men, in the pursuit of justice and vigilantism, find themselves in the same trash receptacle, lasting bonds are formed.”
Daredevil snorts. “He thinks it sounds better if he’s not the only superhero who’s been dumped in the trash.”
Jason grins, the cut on his bottom lip pulling with the motion. “You two sure are...something.”
“Hey, I know they do things differently in Gotham, but you don’t gotta be mean.” Clint adjusts something behind his ears, frowning. “Hey, Matt, are my aids on?”
The shadow on the other side of the dumpster shifts, going silent. “I can hear the battery, but not the amplifier.”
“Jeez, alright. Thanks. I’ll have Stark look at them later.”
Jason looks at Matt, or the vague approximation of his location. “You can hear his aids?”
“I can hear a lot of things.”
“That sounded….ominous.”
“I---speaking of,” Daredevil cuts off, shifting a little in place. “I think I hear them coming back.”
“Who?”
“ Ivan .”
Jason feels his heart sink. As much as he’d like to bash the Russian’s brains in with his bare hands, moving sounds very...unattractive.
Clint leans back into some ice cream containers with a sigh. “Well, I’ve got a broken leg, and Red Hat over here has some cracked ribs. I’m going to be realistic here; there’s no way we’re fighting them.”
“It’s Red Hood, asshole.” Jason says, even though there’s no point. “And if either of you has a gun, I’ll shoot them from here. We don’t even have to move.”
“No killing,” Daredevil murmurs, sounding so Bruce -like that Jason bites his tongue in knee-jerk obedience. The trash shifts again, the shadow of an arm pulling itself free. “I’ll handle it.”
“You good, man?” Clint waves at him, half-signing something with one hand. “I mean, I might not be able to stand, but I’ll throw bottles at them or something.”
“It’ll be fine,” Daredevil pushes open the lid, flipping over the side without a sound. He lands on the balls of his feet, rocking side to side like a boxer. “You guys stay down.”
Clint already has a can of Fanta in one hand and an empty vodka bottle in the other, ready to throw. He looks at Jason, who sighs and picks up a Dasani bottle in solidarity. Or something.
Sure enough, a moment later, the echo of Russian reverberates down the alley. Daredevil slides into the shadows, pressing himself against the wall. Jason grins despite himself, clutching the water bottle tightly.
Ivan sing-songs something in Russian, stepping over to the dumpster. His friends gather behind him in a semi-circle. Somewhere, a safety clicks.
Just as he’s about to touch the lid, Daredevil leaps forward, silent, arms outstretched. A quick jump onto the first man’s shoulders has him swinging around, his arm bent in a fierce hold around the man’s neck.
The second man is quickly taken out with a boot to the temple, crumpling to the ground as blood spurts from his head. The gun goes flying across the alley.
Daredevil is already gone, leaping off the man in the chokehold. He ducks into a neat flip that sends the Russian into the wall with an audible thump . A quick flurry of punches follows, brutal hits that land perfectly across his jaw and nose.
By the time Ivan turns around, it’s to the blunt end of a vicious roundhouse kick, perfectly executed. Daredevil settles back onto his heels, then spins.
Dick, is all Jason can think, watching the lithe grace in the lines of the man before him.
A devastating uppercut sends Ivan reeling backwards, unconscious before he can even hit the ground. Jason cheers as the Russian falls bodily to the asphalt, managing an enthusiastic wheeze around his ribs.
From his perch on the garbage bags, Clint throws his vodka bottle at Ivan’s head, whistling loudly. A moment later, his Fanta can arcs after it, skittering past the mobster’s face. The alley falls silent.
Daredevil smirks at the pause, something dark in the curve of his smile.
“I’m not gonna lie, that was pretty sweet.” Jason says conversationally, slightly unnerved by the man’s ability to blend into the shadows--it rivaled Bruce’s, which was saying something. “Can someone get me out of this dumpster though?”
Clint turns to him, a serious expression on his face. “Once you go trash, you never go back.”
“Ignore him.” Matt ’s at his side in a blink, and damn, that’s spooky, because he didn’t even hear him move. The vigilante offers him a hand, which he’s too proud to refuse. “Are you alright?”
With burning pain in his side, he manages to lever himself up. He’s surprised to feel an arm under his knees a moment later, supporting him the rest of the way. “Easy there.”
“Get bird boy out,” Jason says instead of thank you, feeling himself pale as the blood rushes back to his legs. “Or he’ll smell like tuna for a week.”
Daredevil smirks at him like he sees right through that, but does as he says. Clint stumbles out of the dumpster with a blue streak of cursing, staggering on his good leg.
“Jesus fucking Christ-- ”
“Blasphemy,” Matt says, the same way Bruce mutters language under his breath, like the rebuke is pointless but still meaningful somehow, to anal-retentive bastards like him.
Clint snorts, propping himself up on the dumpster lid. “Doesn’t help the rumors if you flinch every time someone drops the JC.”
Matt glares at him, managing to lose all of the threatening aura in less than three seconds. “I’m hearing a lot of empathy from the guy who doesn’t get holy water thrown on him every other week.”
“Well I’m not hearing anything--”
Jason waves at the pair. “Hey. Hey . Could you two yahoos shut up for ten seconds?”
Clint’s teeth click together audibly, while Matt’s smirk turns into a frown. They both look at him, waiting.
Jason nods towards Clint, who’s still hopping around on one leg. “You gonna be alright getting him out of here?”
Daredevil doesn’t blink as the Avenger’s grip fails, reaching out and grabbing his collar with a gloved hand. Clint jerks to a stop a foot from the ground, eyes bugging out.
“I’m sure we can handle it,” the vigilante says, lifting Clint to his feet. Jason can’t hide his grin at the sight of the Avenger covered in potato salad, furiously trying to brush off the taller man. “Clint, stop moving-- ”
“I’m fine , stop babying me!”
Daredevil’s glare is impressive. “I can hear two breaks in your femur alone-- ”
“Good for you!”
“Alright,” Jason says, interrupting the melee, “I’m out of here. Nice meeting you guys, let’s never do it again.”
Daredevil shushes Clint, throwing the Avenger’s arm over his shoulder. His eyes find Jason’s unerringly in the darkness--or, at least where he thinks his eyes would be, under the mask. “You came here on a bike, didn’t you?”
Jason snorts. “Even if I did, Ivan probably chucked it into the river an hour ago.” with my guns too, most likely.
“You’d be surprised,” Daredevil says softly, his head tilting to the side. A moment of silence passes, then his lips curve into a smile. “Eight blocks away. 6th ave and 10th street, hidden behind the trash cans.”
Jason processes this slowly, blinking.
“You can hear that?”
Matt’s smile widens, something dark in the expression. Clint just snorts and shakes his head.
“Show off.”
“Get home safely,” the vigilante says, ignoring his partner. He’s staring at Jason, like he’s mulling something over. “And if you’re ever in Hell’s Kitchen again…”
“Be seeing you,” Jason says, nodding at the vigilante. Clint bursts into laughter, while Daredevil only smirks. “What?”
“Nothing,” the other man says, waving him off. “Get out of here. We’ll be fine.”
“Alright.” He nods at the strange pair. “Seeya later.”
Clint bursts into laughter again as Jason turns around, staggering a little. He walks down the alley with a bemused look on his face, flexing his hands gingerly.
Jesus, he thinks as an audible smack rings down the alley. What are the odds, huh?