Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bruce is going to kill Jason.

Again, he thinks, with a sort of detached grimness. It’s too late to go back, and he’s already going faster than he should, the rain splattering against his helmet and making the tires of his bike splutter and skid against the road. It’s his own damn fault, is the thing of it, and while he absolutely plans to bluster right back at the Bat, he can also admit (if just in his own mind) that it was an unacceptable oversight to leave his helmet lying on the table where he’d left it before staggering to bed the night before.

The all-call had come in so soon afterwards he’d flailed his way out of the sheets and stumbled into his boots and jacket still half asleep, grabbing a red domino before aiming himself at Bristol. He’d gotten so used to rolling out to Gotham without the full helmet he hadn’t realized until he felt the rain against his face, in his hair and dripping down the back of his neck. He told himself it wasn’t Scarecrow, because Crane had just gotten sent off -- to Blackgate, this time -- and the alert would have told him of any escapes or pardons. He told himself an alert at the Manor is too serious to risk doubling back to pick up the helmet, he told himself he’s got a handful of extras stored in the cave. And the worry, a stubborn lump of nausea in his belly, is enough to silence the urge to turn around. Alfred is the one who’s sent the all-calls in the past, and it was to the Manor itself, not the cave.

So Jason doesn’t go back for his helmet, and its state of the art filtration system, and he decides maybe he’ll let Bruce break his face again, if it turns out he gets a faceful of something that knocks him on his ass. Some risks are worth it.

What’s the worst that can happen, anyway? He passes out? Freaks out and then passes out? The price is easily paid.

++

Oracle dings into his comm just as he approaches the curving road that winds up from Gotham proper to the elite’s mansions and manors in the hills. “There’s an active jam. Manor itself and the front driveway, but not the grounds in the back.”

Jason frowns. “You have no idea what’s going on in there?”

There’s the faintest of terse silences before Barbara responds. She’s never liked sending in her people blind. “Someone issued the all-call with A’s credentials.”

Jason’s frown doesn’t ease. “You don’t think it was him?” Bruce definitely knows Alfred’s codes, probably Tim does too. Maybe Dick, even. Everyone has their own codes, though, and there’s no reason to use Alfred’s unless he’s specifically in danger. Jason increases his speed as much as he dares to, with the roads this slick.

“No, it could have been. Probably was. I just don’t know.”

“Who did you send?” Bruce was off planet just yesterday, Jason knows, but that doesn’t mean he’s not back already. Tim and Damian are with the Titans, he’s pretty sure, but that doesn’t really mean anything either. His hands creak on the handlebars, the fortified kevlar flexing against his knuckles. Dick’s in Blud with Damian gone, but he goes back and forth more than any of them that moved their base out of Gotham. He’s pretty sure Duke’s at the penthouse, almost positive Cass and Steph are crashing at Babs. Too many players for Jason to keep day to day tabs on.

“A was the only one inside, before it went dark.” Oracle’s cadence is always smooth, always focused. Even raised, it’s only in volume and not in tone. But Jason can hear the thin frustration in her words. “I pulled Black Bat off patrol, then Spoiler, then paged in Nightwing. None have made contact after crossing the jam.”

Ah. Three is a lot to deploy, if it’s a net loss, and all three of them uniquely hers. Jason isn’t so foolish to think she wouldn’t do it just the same again, or even truly regret it, but she would shoulder it, just the same. She’s one of Bruce’s, after all. “And I’m up next? Who’s after me?”

“Superman.”

She doesn’t sound like she’s joking. He doesn’t waste time making her run down the list of where everyone else is and why they’re not available. “I’ll let you know before I breach the grounds.”

“Don’t bother, I have a tag on your bike, I’ll see when it disappears. Break the comm jam and get me a sitrep.”

“I,” Jason starts, but she hangs up on him before he can finish. He’s not really sure what he was going to say anyway.

++

He clicks at her anyway, just before he turns off onto the long private road up to Wayne Manor. She doesn’t click back, but a few minutes later, just as the iron gates loom close and imposing, there’s a sudden quiet in his right year.

“Hm,” he says aloud, but doesn’t slow. It’s not like he didn’t know it was coming. He leaves the bike on the lawn, something he’s half hoping Alfred will storm out to address. But the foyer is dark and silent when he pushes the front door open, already unlocked and ajar. That alone is unsettling. The Wayne Manor door is never just open.

His boots are quiet and soft on the carpet, his gait careful and his ears pricked. The lights are off; he can’t hear anything except ambient noise, the birds and the wind through the trees. Jason risks a whistle, light and fluting. It’s something anyone he’d want to hear would recognize immediately as a call for allies.

There’s no response except the creak of the foundations settling.

Jason hesitates at the main staircase for a few seconds, senses straining. He’s feeling worse and worse about not having his helmet on. It’s got more tech than the domino, scanners and infrared and the like, and besides all that he’d just be less tense with a little more layer between him and whatever… is happening here.

The cave it is. He turns towards the piano and the clock, just as a blur of black and blue launches from a darkened corner of the ceiling. Jason’s moving before he’s finished processing, reacting on instinct, bracing to block a blow that doesn’t come.

Instead Dick tucks against his chest, in full Nightwing garb, the whites of his mask flaring wild and tense. His lips press against Jason’s ear, ignoring the automatic retaliatory elbow Jason slams into his shoulder. His voice is hard and terse. “Quiet.”

Jason stills. His heart is hammering, his chest heaving. He manages to keep it mostly silent, arm around Dick’s waist to keep him close. He forces his breathing to steady, and then to slow. He risks a single breathy rasp: “N?”

The rough fabric of Nightwing’s combat gloves presses against Jason’s mouth. “Shh,” Dick says sharply, but just as quiet. His lips bump against the curve of Jason’s ear, dry and chapped. Then he touches Jason’s collarbone with his other hand, a reassuring tap.

They stand there, tense as rocks and fine-trembling with the effort, listening to the distant tick of the grandfather clock.

Then Dick exhales, all at once, and steps away. Jason lets his arms drop back at his sides, nudging the inside of his elbow against a holster to feel the reassuring bump of his gun. He shakes himself a little. “Where’s A?”

“Spoiler’s evacuating him.” Dick jerks his head towards the kitchen and Jason follows without protest, both of them taking care to tread softly. “We have five minutes, maybe. Somewhere between five and six, really. It’s been fluctuating, but within that range the last three times.”

They enter the kitchen, which is dim and silent, empty and still. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or…” Jason trails off, frowning through the doorway at the dark hallway that leads to the dining room. It’s nearly seven, and usually the lack of evidence of any meal being made or served would be a red flag, but-- “Are Damian and Tim back?” he asks abruptly, crossing to open the fridge.

“Not for another week,” Dick says.

Json peers into the fridge. There’s a prepped roast on the bottom shelf, twine-bound and seasoned and ready to pop into the oven. Would have taken hours to be ready at a time Alfred would find acceptable, even if he would have cooled it and stored it away for Bruce to eat at some ungodly hour of the late-night-early-morning. It’s not a good sign that it was never taken out of the fridge, that the oven is cold and unlit. There’s no potatoes on the counter to be peeled, no vegetables pre-washed in the sink.

He straightens, arms crossed over his chest. It’s been almost two minutes already, and Dick hasn’t told him anything or given him any orders. “What gives?”

Dick’s lips are tight slanted sideways in an unhappy, pinched line. “I don’t know. When I breached, everything was…” He waved his hand in a vague motion.

“Haunted,” Jason supplies. It’s hardly the first time they’d need to tag in Zatanna or Constantine. They’re somehow just as annoying as each other since they started their on and off again thing.

“Mm,” Dick agrees, before continuing. “I found Spoiler running from Black Bat. She said she’d stored A in the East Wing panic room.”

Concern tightens in Jason’s chest. “Running from her?”

Dick lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “Possession, maybe. Or brainwashing.” He’s wearing a breather over his mask, making his words come out tinny and mechanical.

Or gas, Jason thinks with a grimace at his error, or something Ivy’s cooked up, something biological. They’re all possibilities they’ve had to work around before. He should have gone back and geared up properly as soon as it started to rain on him. “I don’t have my helmet,” he says shortly. “I need to get to the cave.”

Dick shakes his head, checking a readout on his wrist. “Two minutes,” he tells Jason. “You need to go. Tell O what’s going on, if Steph hasn’t made it out. We split up just before you came in.”

“You disengaged?” Jason asks sharply. He doesn’t bother to scold Dick for names. They’re in the Manor, after all. Nothing leaks out of their base without the Bat’s approval. “It’s that bad?”

“It’s Cass,” Dick says, without further explanation. “I was leading her off to get Spoiler out, but she didn’t take the bait. We need to get out, resupply, regroup.”

“The cave--”

“Lockdown.”

Jason curses.

“Right,” Dick agrees. “Now you’re here, we have more options. I’ll work on getting in the cave, that should pull her to me. Find Steph, get A, and get out. We need the League.”

Jason feels his eyebrows lift in surprise. “It’s just Cass.” She’s good, very good, but he doesn’t know about needing the League to subdue her. He’s not happy about Dick going up against her when they don’t have the full picture, but Dick has the most experience and he’s faster than Jason, harder to read when he’s trying to be. He’s not going to admit it, but Dick is the better choice to try to take her down with minimal injuries. And he knows the cave the best out of any of them, if he can get in.

“She tried to shoot Alfred.”

Jason is getting tired of being surprised. He’d like a pleasant one now, please. Maybe that Superman and Wonder Woman are on their way, or that this is the worst prank Dick and Wally have ever played. Bruce is adopting another dark haired orphan and this is an initiation hazing. He curses again, then takes a steadying breath.

“B is going to lose his mind about this,” he mutters. Bruce always loses his mind when Alfred’s small collection of arms comes into play. Jason’s always kind of enjoyed it, in the past. It’s nice that Alfred appreciates and shares an affinity for the tools he himself favours.

“In more than one way,” Dick agrees. “One minute.”

“Until what,” Jason growls back. “Did you hit your head and forget how to brief?”

“I don’t know what it is that happens,” is the terse response. “Cass didn’t have a breather either.”

“Thoughts on her objectives?”

“Steph felt… hunted. Targeted. Alfred didn’t see any kind of device, but we didn’t get a chance to check all the vents.” Dick blows out a sigh. “She was disorganized. Impulsive. I don’t think she was reading me right.”

“We should stay together,” Jason says, but Dick is shaking his head before he can make his case.

“You don’t have a breather.”

“You didn’t even say gas first,” Jason protests. “Could be those nanobots again, or… radio waves.” He waves a hand. “Whatever. Could be anything.” Dick is looking at his wrist again, and Jason growls in frustration. “I don’t have time to get all the way out.” He yanks his guns out of their holsters, bending briefly to retrieve the small pistol strapped to his ankle, and holds them all out.

Dick only hesitates a few seconds before taking them, stripping the clips out and clearing the barrels with quick, practiced movements, Jason watching his fingerstripes work. “Tranqs?”

“No, just non-lethal.” He points to the smallest. “That one is live rounds.”

Dick quirks a smile at him. “Woulda been nice to have tranqs.”

“I’ll make a note.”

Dick retreats out of reach, until his back is against a wall. His body language loosens, his stance settling. Jason shakes himself, and tries to set his mind to something quiet and guarded. “It’ll be any second,” Dick is saying, eyes scanning the room idly. “I don’t think she’s close, but--”

The air shimmers, then thickens. It’s like a heat mirage, arcing off objects and radiating out in disorienting wriggles, like silver spots in the corners of his vision.

“Jason!” he hears Dick shout, and then everything bleeds out into a sickly green, before going dark.

++

Jason wakes up in the cave. He feels like he’s been hit by a truck. Again. He groans, barely audible over the steady beep of the monitors.

“Hood,” Bruce says, and Jason forces his eyes open. The ceiling of the medical bay in the cave is as familiar as the one of his room.

“Wha happen,” he slurs, blinking rapidly to focus his vision.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Fuck you,” Jason responds, mostly on instinct. He remembers… “Dick?”

“Everyone is quite well.” Alfred’s smooth accent cuts in, and Jason exhales in relief. Alfred looks good, at least, no bandages or splints or breaks in his movement as he comes to Jason’s side and helps him sit up, practiced hands quickly and easily rearranging pillows to prop him up and press a cup of tea into his hands. The heat leeches into his hands, easing the tension and anchoring him back to the world.

“Even me?”

Alfred pats his shoulder. “Even you, Master Jason.”

Bruce is facing away from him, engrossed in monitor readouts. “An Ivy compound,” he says without turning. “Designed to target inhibition, impulse control, and encourage violence. Meant for the oil and gas exhibition in Metropolis.”

Jason’s brain still feels sluggish, slow. “How did it hit the Manor?”

“Black Bat was infected while investigating the lab where it was synthesized. It didn’t take full effect until she’d returned.” Bruce turns, eyes flat and hard and a little distant -- he’s in Batman mode.

“O said she’d sent Cass in after the all-call,” Jason points out. “After Spoiler, even.”

“Miss Cassandra altered the records and sent the distress call herself,” Alfred explains, pulling the thin hospital-grade blanket up and tucking it fussily around Jason’s waist. “She activated the jam, then went outside the premises until Spoiler entered the Manor before following her in.”

“Tricky,” Jason mutters. He hadn’t really figured Cass for that kind of plan. She’s direct, and cautious about relying on analysis not based on body language. She did run her own operations in Hong Kong, though, and it was a good plan, if she was setting a lure. And it’s not like they work closely together. She disapproves of his general existence. “She wanted any of us, or Steph in particular?”

Bruce picks up the debrief, tone cold. He ignores Jason’s question. “Oracle recalled Red Robin and Signal before you breached. After you failed to re-establish communication they went in after you. Spoiler neutralized the affected and got out of range of the jam to report. Red Robin synthesized an antidote; Signal evacuated Spoiler and Agent A.”

“You and Miss Cassandra were chloroformed,” Alfred explains, when Bruce says nothing more for several seconds. “Spoiler did very well.” His tone is rather pointed, and Bruce grunts reluctantly in response.

“That explains the funny taste in my nose,” Jason mumbles. He doesn’t know a better way to describe it, but it’s just as bad as the dull wiggly headache thumping behind his eyes and ears. He’s been cleared, so he’s not that worried about it. “I didn’t have my breather,” he admits, because Bruce already knows that. “It was gas?”

“Aerosolized pollen,” Bruce corrects. “An amateurish oversight,” he continues, without pause. “I thought I’d trained you better. I thought Talia had trained you better.”

Anger blooms green and ugly in Jason’s chest. “It was an all-call,” he grinds out. “I was only running on fumes because your operation was short--”

“Excuses.” It’s the Batman’s voice, harsh and unforgiving. “It would have been better if you’d not responded.”

It punches the air out of him, even after all this time, and he barely registers Alfred’s hissed Master Bruce, snarling as he moves to pull out his IV. “Fuck you, old man. If that’s how it is, you can take the comm back and leave me alone the next time one of your brood needs a bailout.”

Bruce’s mouth opens, probably to agree, but they’re both shocked into stillness when Alfred slams a tray down on the counter, making the supplies there bounce. A clean syringe, still in its plastic packaging, rolls off and onto the floor.

“I am,” Alfred says, with every ounce of British dignity he possesses, drawn up to his full height and looking down his nose at Bruce. “Quite disappointed in you.”

Bruce turns without a word and stalks away, the cave door hissing behind him as he storms up the stairs and back to the mansion.

Jason’s mouth is hanging open. He hasn’t disconnected his drip yet, and with Bruce gone he’s willing to let his hands drop back to the thin mattress. “What the hell happened, Alfie?”

Alfred exhales, and looks older suddenly, a sunken look to his cheeks and the skin around his eyes puffy and faintly discolored. “You were very much affected, my dear boy. Master Richard is still recovering.”

“Dick?” Jason asks, confused. Bruce hadn’t mentioned him at all. He’d said nothing, Jason realizes suddenly, about how Dick and Jason at all. “Did we…” he trails off. If Dick had neutralized him, Bruce would have said so. He replays the conversation in his mind, his frown growing. “Steph took me down?” He’s almost offended, but he was out of his mind, and all. Worse than the pit, really, because he’s always been able to remember a little of his pit rages, fragmented as they are.

“She did,” Alfred agrees. “A credit to her mentor.”

Jason blinks. “Babs?”

“Mhmm.” Alfred takes a breath. “You and Miss Cassandra were most affected, Master Jason.” His tone is overly formal, almost hesitant. “And very focused on your individual targets.” He presses a few tablets into Jason’s hand, and offers a glass of water.

Jason doesn’t take it, crunching the pills dry and grimacing at the bitterness and grit against his tongue. “How bad?” he asks bluntly. “Give it to me straight.”

“Four broken ribs, one of which punctured the left lung. Thirty two stitches in all, a fractured clavicle, a badly sprained ankle, dislocated shoulder, and concussion.”

Jason stares at him. He’s pretty sure he would have noticed any one of those, nevermind all of them at once. “Huh?”

“He’s talking about me, dumbass.” Steph’s voice comes from behind the curtain, and Alfred crosses the foot of Jason’s recovery bed to pull it back, revealing her sprawled out and disheveled, her leg extended and hanging and her blonde hair in a tangled mess across the pillow. Ugly black thread winds down her shin and up around her knee, the stitches puffy and raised. “I went through a window,” she explains, gesturing at the injuries. “Really fast. This foot first.”

There’s no visible blood on her, Alfred would never allow that, but her eyes are a little unfocused and her breathing shallow, unsteady and irregular. “Better than head first,” he tells her, without any of the usual bite. Steph is from the Narrows, anyway, just the same as him, and she’d kept out of most of the Robin drama by virtue of moving continents. She doesn’t like him, but that’s more to do with his interactions with Tim than his use of guns or outlook on murder. “Cass do all that?”

She glares at him. “It’s not her fault. She couldn’t help it.”

“She try to kill you?” Jasons asks. More than Tim, that’s the sticking issue between Red Hood and Black Bat, even after he’d agreed to keep it non-lethal within the League’s jurisdiction. Cass internalized Bruce’s golden rule with more devotion than any of them.

Steph lifts her chin, stubborn. “As if any of you could.”

“The Replacement figure out what the pollen was supposed to do?”

“Don’t call him that.” Stephanie sticks her tongue out at him. “I’m your Replacement too, you know. And you replaced--” she cuts herself off abruptly, then surveys her own blanket with too much interest. “That’s not relevant, anyway. Yeah, tried to kill. Makes sense for Ivy and an oil expo, right?”

“I tried to kill Dick,” Jason realizes with a groan. There’s no one else in the medical bay except him and Steph, so Dick must have gotten off lightly. “Did he embarrass me?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Steph’s tone is too careful, and she still won’t look up from the blanket. Jason’s anger flares.

“What would you say?”

She looks up then, face set. “Go fuck yourself, how about that? Alfred, would you?”

Alfred draws the curtain obligingly. “You both need rest,” he announces, and refuses to address Jason’s protests in lieu of sedating him again. “You can see for yourself when you awake.”

Jason dreams are fractured things, jarring and confusing. Bursts of movement and shouting, the crash of glass and furniture breaking. That funny taste in his nose.

++

“Replacement,” Jason greets the next night, slinking into the cave as soon as Batman has roared out of it.

Tim looks up from where he’s hunched over the main monitor’s keyboard, lips bitten and dark circles under his eyes. He’s in sweats and fuzzy slippers. “Hood. I thought you’d left.” His tone suggests disappointment.

“Alfred told me to stay.”

Tim bobs his head, some of the disdain bleeding out of his posture. None of them can stand up to Alfred once he’s issued a command, not really. Not even Bruce. It’s why Alfred so rarely issues them, defaulting to requests that can be avoided or denied without hedging against his own carefully deployed authority. “You want the footage?”

Jason’s always appreciated Tim cutting to the chase. “O isn’t answering my messages.”

Tim turns, tapping away at a different keyboard. “She’s got a lot on her plate.”

“And she’s pissed at me.”

Tim ejects a thumb drive and tosses it to him. “She’s not pissed at you.”

Jason catches it easily, drags a fingertip against the plastic casing, rolls it across his palm. “You’ve seen it?”

Tim grunts in the positive.

“You pissed at me?”

Tim stills. Then he turns, and faces Jason properly. “Do you know what’s on there?”

“Dick kicking my ass?”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Oh. You really don’t know.”

“Obviously,” Jason grits out. “Or do you think this is a fun conversation for me, asking you for a favor?”

Tim produces a tablet from thin air and offers it to him. “O was almost hysterical when she called me. Steph made it to the backwoods, but passed out before she could drop the jam. Duke found her before hypothermia, but it was a close thing.”

“That’s rough,” Jason says carefully. It’s more information than he’s gotten out of anyone else, and he doesn’t want to shut Tim down before he learns everything he can.

“Better than it could be,” Tim mutters, and as soon as Jason takes the tablet he turns away, dismissive. “You should probably watch it here,” he adds, just as Jason is thinking about slinking off to his room. “No audio because of the jam but the stream went to the main computer, behind the firewalls. It’s intact.”

“Is it going to explain why you and Alfred are acting so weird? And why Dick hasn’t shown up for a kumbaya?” Jason scoffs. “Not like him to pass up on this opportunity to gloat, or whatever.” Ask for hugs, probably, or for Jason to stay for dinner. The manipulative liar he is. Jason either says no and feels guilty about it, or says yes and has to deal with dancing around all the subjects they dance around instead of talking about. It’s a lose-lose offer.

“Yes,” Tim says flatly, and now he does look pissed at Jason. “I look forward to saying ‘I told you so’,” he adds with a sniff, and it almost makes Jason smile.

“Whatever,” he sneers instead, and turns his back to fiddle with the tablet. It’s barely a few seconds before the video loads, silent just as Tim said it would be. It’s high quality, Bruce would never abide less than the best, and it loads to show the kitchen, empty of movement for a few seconds before Dick enters, Jason trailing him. Jason watches their bodies shift, trying to match what he remembers from the conversation to what he’s looking at.

Five to six minutes, he remembers, and waits it out rather than trying to fast forward. He’d remembered the shimmer at breakfast that morning, like lightning, a sudden disorientation between one bite of pancake and the next. He’s curious about if it shows on tape, or if it was his brain misfiring under the pressure of Ivy’s pollen.

He doesn’t see the shimmer, or really any movement beyond their conversation. The only warning is the sudden stillness his on-screen self falls into, too tense and drawn up to be his fighting stance. Jason’s breath catches as he blurs into movement on the video, exploding into an attack against Dick so fast he almost startles at it.

The fight is brutal. They slam around the kitchen, and Jason can’t see Dick’s mouth but he thinks Dick is probably trying to talk to him, talk him down. It doesn’t seem to be working, the Jason on the video feed lunging for whatever weapons he can find at hand, pots and pans and one notable swing of the butcher block cutting board that knocks Dick ass over heels over the gas range, tumbling out of view briefly before springing back over with a roundhouse that is so clearly aimed to disable rather than injure that Jason groans. “He shoulda just laid me out,” he mutters, and Tim makes a noise indicating agreement. Jason opens his mouth to bitch back and chokes instead.

Because the Jason on the laptop screen has grabbed a knife from Alfred’s weathered but pristine collection, a sharp thin blade meant for fish, and in a blur of movement he and Dick clash, separate, and--

The knife is stuck into Dick’s chest, just under his collarbone, so close to his vitals and so deep just the handle is visible. Dick staggers back, hurling a cast iron skillet at Jason’s head to get himself the distance. It goes wide, and is thrown too slow, too arcing: a desperate gambit.

Then he twists in a flip, landing at the swinging door to the formal dining room, stumbling into the doorframe before leaving

A burst of dark purple enters frame, followed by a brief shot of Stephanie’s face, snarled blonde wisps appearing from under her hood and one eye covered over with blood. She throws her cape over Jason’s head, punches it several times, then skitters after Dick, noticeably limping.

A lithe figure shrouded in shadow darts after her, vaulting over the counters without breaking her stride and using Jason’s shoulder as a pivot point. Jason throws the cape off, slamming his fist into the wall and smashing Alfred’s spice shelf to pieces. He pursues, and the kitchen is empty again.

The video stops. Jason taps frantically at the screen, heart pounding. “Where’s the rest of it? The dining room feed?”

He can see Tim shrug out of the corner of his eye. “That part’s boring. Steph gassed you both in the hallway and ran for the trees to try to talk to O, Dick made it to the cave, where I came in from the tunnels. Signal entered through the garage to find Alfred.”

Jason rubs at his chest, right where he’d stabbed Dick. “There’s no way he’s out walking around already,” he says bluntly, dropping the tablet carelessly to make Tim wince and face him. “Leslie’s? The mountain?”

Tim shifts uncomfortably. “I thought B would have told you,” he grumbled. “C’mon, I was going to visit him anyway. Just let me change.”

Jason doesn’t say anything until Tim is passing him on the way to the locker room. Then he grabs Tim by the collar and hoists him up until Tim is kicking at his ribs, glaring and spluttering. “Where is he?”

Tim uses the hard ridge of his hand to hit a pressure point near Jason’s elbow, making his entire forearm reverberate in pain. “The satellite,” he bites out finally, when it doesn’t make Jason release him. “You’re not going without me,” he adds, with a mulish glower.

Jason drops him and ignores the retaliatory kick to his shins. “Two minutes, or I yell at the Martian Manhunter by myself.”

Tim scoffs, and kicks him again.

Jason stands at the edge of the ledge in the cave, looking down into the black of it. He thinks about the way Dick pressed close to keep him quiet, and didn’t try to eject Jason out of hand, even though in hindsight he absolutely should have. He thinks that Dick trusted him, right through the fight, right until Jason tried to stab him through the heart.

++

“Hood,” Roy greets, as they step out of the zeta bay at almost the same time. “You here for N?”

“Yes,” Tim says, before Jason can. “You?”

Roy shrugs. “I have a meeting. I’ll swing through after, bring him pudding from the mess or something.”

“Hm,” is all Tim has to say in response. Jason jerks his head at Roy, who makes a face back at him.

They split into different hallways, and Jason waits until Roy is out of earshot to kick at Tim’s feet, making him trip over himself with an indignant squawk. “When’d you and Arsenal get so chummy?”

Tim rights himself with a sniff and increases his pace to get out of range. “The Outsiders and the Titans collaborate.”

Right, Jason remembers. Kory’s taken over henning the Titans, so that makes sense. He doesn’t pick at the topic anymore, though, even though irritating Tim has always been a standard self-soother, because they’re approaching the medical wing. The hallways are larger, wider to accommodate larger parties and gurneys, and the lights brighter, whiter than the softer yellow bulbs in the meeting rooms, living quarters, hallways. Colored green lines on the floor branch off into hallways lined with closed doors.

“He’s with green,” Tim says off-handedly, and Jason looks down at the floor, the dark green line and Jason’s boots following the switch of Red Robin’s cape. He hasn’t realized he’s slowed to a stop until Tim’s hand is on his shoulder, tentative and skittish. “Hood?”

“You go ahead,” Jason says, his voice choked up and uncertain despite himself. “I’ll catch up in a second.”

Tim crosses his arms in front of his chest. “You cannot be serious.”

“I think you can handle it, Big Bird.” Jason fakes reaching out to ruffle Tim’s hair and withdraws just as fast, leaving Tim swatting at thin air. “Page me if you need backup.”

“You’re running,” Tim accuses, stepping closer and dropping his voice to a hiss. “Ashamed, Hood?”

Jason feels his jaw work. “Careful, Red.”

“No.” Tim’s voice raises, and he doesn’t try to quiet it down. “You’re going to let this, let Ivy--”

“It’s not about Ivy.” Jason doesn’t know what his face does, but it makes Tim take half a step back, stance shifting. It’s about… Jason isn’t sure, really, except that it’s not about anyone except him and Dick. The rise and fall of their interactions, from when Jason looked out his bedroom window and saw Robin flying across the rooftops all the way through his death and after, dressed up as Dick and trying to burn his life to the ground, drag Dick down and join him.

It was just starting to get better, Jason thinks. Almost friendly, Jason swinging through Dick’s apartment when his leads take him to Bludhaven, Dick paging Jason for backup when he’s covering for Bruce. “I’m not going to hit you,” he snaps, shoving everything out of his mind with the ease of practice. “Jesus.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Tim shoots back, and it’s Jason’s turn to falter. “Don’t be…” Tim trails off, then rubs the back of his head with a gloved hand. “Just come talk to him. He doesn’t blame you, not like that means anything, but--”

He’s cut off by Roy’s arm, slinging itself familiarly around Tim’s shoulders after ruffling his hair and squeezing him tight into Roy’s side. “Don’t be like that, Rob. I’ll talk him around.”

Tim extricates himself, all black hair on end and affronted hair. “Don’t call me that. You don’t outrank me here.”

Roy looks back at him, steady. A few beats pass, and then Tim turns on his heel and strides away without another word.

“I’ll put it on your tab,” Roy says, without looking away from the retreating swish of Tim’s cape. “Avoiding him won’t help in the long run, you know. It didn’t during the Outsiders, and it sure as shit never worked for me, growing up with him.”

Jason’s teeth are grinding. “I’m not avoiding anybody.”

Roy’s look is pitying. “Sure, Batsy. Whatever you say.”

Jason punches him in the solar plexus, then pulls him in close to mimic an embrace. “Text me when they send him home. And don’t pick on the Replacement, he’s sensitive.”

++

Dick’s apartment isn’t as messy as Jason hoped it would be. It’s the work of barely a few hours to take out the trash, clean out the fridge, do a load of laundry, putter around the hidden room where Nightwing’s gear is far more organized than he expected. It’s not quite what he was hoping for in a gesture of penance, and he’s annoyed to realize he’d meant it as penance. It doesn’t stop him from pacing Dick’s shoebox one-bedroom, fretting with sweaty palms.

He’s halfway through making a mental list of what he’d need to pick up from the corner store to make the half a yellow onion and a box of dry pasta in the fridge into something edible to leave behind before he groans and flops onto Dick’s lumpy sofa instead.

“I hate Bludhaven,” he tells Dick’s lumpy ceiling. He pulls one of Dick’s lumpy throw pillows over his face and lets out a half-hearted yell of frustration. Then he makes Dick’s bed with fresh sheets, reorganizes all his drawers, and scrubs the mildew out of the corners of the windows before going out the front door and locking it behind him.

++

Breaking into the Clocktower always makes him feel fourteen again, doing it on patrol to try to impress the older Batgirl and pretending he didn’t have a crush on the girl that the entire cape community predicted as his predecessor’s endgame. Babs herself had felt threatened by Kory, more in friendship than as a romantic rival, so she’d been up for it. He finds it’s an easier drop down from the window to the small protected living area in the tower’s center than it was when he was Robin, or shorter at the very least.

“What are you,” a voice asks him, familiar and dry, snapping him back to the present, “fourteen?”

The Clocktower of the past melts away, the dust covered tarps and the roaches and the mouse droppings replaced by a state of the art security setting and a cozy (if cramped) kitchenette with a worn but sturdy table and a variety of flickering feeds displayed on the monitors mounted to the walls. Two mismatched mugs steam placidly on the tabletop; the air smells of warm dust and like the blend Tim favours.

Jason sighs, and sits, kicking the leg of the chair beside him to send it skittering away. Barbara rolls into the newly emptied space and slides one of the mugs across into Jason’s waiting palm. It’s hot, but not too hot, and Jason sips it black while Barbara shakes out a sugar packet and gives the cup a lazy swirl of her index finger.

“I’m not actually sure,” he tells her, after they’ve both had a languid sip. “How old I am, I mean.”

Barbara groans. “A guilt trip, Hood? Does it have to come to that?” Her tone isn’t quite friendly, but it is amicable. There’s dark circles under her eyes and a thinness to her that speaks of worry and late nights.

Jason sighs. He doesn’t have the energy to talk around it either. “I want to talk to Cass.”

Barbara’s face goes completely flat, all traces of amusement and familial fondness wiped away immediately. “No.”

Jason forces himself to swallow down his instinctual response. He takes another careful sip, and holds the rim of the mug against his lip until Barbara rolls her eyes and takes a drink of her own. Their shoulders ease at the same time.

Barbara surveys him, a deep furrow creasing between her brows. Jason meets her gaze steadily, face bare. She sits back, and blows out the breath she’d been holding. “I’m going to need a reason. The reason, Jason, and no bullshit.”

“And if I tell you?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Jason considers the offer. “Couldn’t go see him,” he admits, without fully deciding to do it. “Made it all the way up to the Satellite and everything, but just…”

“Walked out on Tim in the middle of medical reception,” Barbara fills in for him. “Punched Batman in full view of the remainder of the Trinity and swore vengeance on Gotham herself?”

Jason sloshes hot coffee into his own lap, gaping at her. “What? Bruce wasn’t even there!”

“That’s not what the rumor mill is reporting.” Barbara seems almost upbeat again. Then her eyes catch on something high above them in the drafty rafters, and her cheer drains away. “She’s not taking it well.”

“I figured.” He blots at his pants with his jacket sleeve, muttering a curse.

Barbara raises an eyebrow at him. “And?”

“I have a little experience with murderous rages and blackouts,” Jason offers. “Besides this one. I could try to talk to her.”

“She doesn’t like you.”

“She can join the long line. Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t help.”

Barbara takes the coffee out of his hand and he lets her. “How does it help you?”

“Dick would want me to do it.” Jason doesn’t look at her when he says it. “Talk to her, I mean.” He risks a look: Barbara is frowning at the table, eyes distant. It’s less wavering than he expected, insomuch as he thought this through before breaking in. He risks a little more honesty, only realizing how true the words are after he’s said them: “I can’t see him, not yet. But I can talk to Cass. We’re technically more related than anyone except Tim.”

“She’s taking it very hard,” Barbara says quietly. “I’m worried about her.” She clears her throat, shooting him a glare without any heat. “If you make it worse, I’ll make you hurt.”

Jason jerks his head in acknowledgment.

“She’s up on the roof. I’ll tell Dick you stopped by.”

“It’s not like that,” Jason mutters, and risks a hand brushing across her shoulder on his way past. She allows it, and he doesn’t push for more.

++

The roof is cleaner than usual, like most of the rooftops the Bats frequent, and the view still makes his chest tighten, all the grime washed out by neon lights falling away below him, made misty by the cloudy shine of the moon.

Cass is sitting on the edge, her legs dangling. Jason doesn’t try to quiet his steps any, and draws to a stop a few steps behind her, to the side so she can track him from her peripherals. “Hey.”

She doesn’t respond.

Jason resists the urge to shuffle his feet. He refuses to be stumped so early in his opening salvo. “Babs knows I’m here.”

“Names.” Her voice, still so carefully meted out, is raspy and thick. If Jason was a stupid man, he’d notice it seemed like she’d been crying. He deliberately doesn’t think it, so it’s not betrayed by his body language.

“I couldn’t see him,” he says, deciding that had gone his way earlier and he’s not above reusing lines that work. “Went all the way to space and couldn’t go through the door to his room.”

Silence. Cass doesn’t so much as shift her gaze from the view.

“I was mean to Tim,” he offers.

Cass turns to glare at him.

He takes it as an invitation, leaving a careful distance between them but sitting well within her range. “I am going to say sorry, you know. To Dick, not Tim.”

A reproachful shift of her weight on the loose gravel of the rooftop, and Jason shrugs at her.

“He’d think it was a trick, or something. He’d be right to, anyway. We don’t communicate like that.”

There’s no response to that, so Jason leans back on his hands, body language easy and open.

“It’s about rewriting what defines you,” he tells her, fishing a bent cigarette out of his front pocket and lighting it up without straightening it out. “Sure, I went on and killed a bunch of people, but I decided to do it. You’ll probably pick something else.”

“You should.”

Jason blows out a lazy cloud, not trying that hard to keep it away from her. “I should kill a bunch of people?”

She strikes faster than he can track, and he watches the lit cherry fly off into the dark night with more resignation than anger. “Should apologize to Tim. Should… communicate ‘like that’.”

Jason relights. “Should, probably. Probably won’t, though.”

“Probably probably,” she sighs, and leans her head on his shoulder. Jason is pretty sure they’ve never done this before, but he doesn’t actually have anything helpful to share and this is most likely to keep Barbara from reprisal.

“We’re the only adopted ones, you know,” he rambles, a little awkward about the whole thing. “And Tim, but he was used to it already. Gotta stick together, and all that.”

She blows a raspberry at him, spraying a fine mist against his neck and giggling when he makes a disgusted noise. “Still don’t like you.”

“Yeah yeah.” Jason pulls her closer with an arm, and when she doesn’t fling him off the roof leaves it slung around her shoulders, tucking her into his side. He stubs out his smoke to the side, even though there was still plenty left. “You’re not so high up on my list anyway--”

She scoffs at him. “I visited Steph.” Her tone is smug.

“I said I didn’t like you, not that you’re worse than me. Nobody thinks that.”

“Dad does.”

It’s Jason’s turn to scoff. “Please, I am absolutely B’s most disappointing pity case.”

“Not him,” Cass cuts in, before Jason can really start piling it on.

Oh, Jason thinks. “Well that guy fuckin’ sucks so doing whatever he thinks you shouldn’t is probably an okay life plan.”

Cass looks like she’s thinking, and Jason lets it lie, wondering if she’d let him smoke again. Both their feet are kicking idly, occasionally knocking into each other.

“My dad sucks and isn’t even a respected mercenary, you know. The younger generation is so ungrateful.”

Cass giggles again, and pats his leg.

“You will see him,” she says, when she’s following him back down the stairs. It’s not a question.

“Don’t get like that,” he says, holding the door to the main floor open for her. “We aren’t close enough yet, unless you start liking me.”

“Ew,” she says, peering past him. The light in the kitchen is on.

Jason drops his voice low. “You should talk to her. She’s got way better advice than to go kill people, you know. And tell her I helped, too. It’s okay if that last one is a lie.”

She just pats him again. “I know.”

++

Roy texts him that he’s an idiot.

Jason ignores that text, and the one about Roy intercepting Tim’s four subsequent attempts at tracking him down.

He’s at the Manor Roy texts. Discharged late last night

Jason spills his beer fumbling for his keys.

++

He has to cut out the latch to get through Dick’s window, and while he felt pretty stupid whispering it’s me at hinges before he did it he’s pretty sure it was the right move, because no alarms go off and no butlers with shotguns appear.

Instead, Dick blinks at him from the bed. “Jay?”

Jason pulls off his motorcycle helmet. “Yeah, it’s me. Don’t get excited, or anything.”

“I’ll try to contain myself.”

Jason shuffles his feet, then jerks the edge of his jacket inside from where it’s stuck to the cut glass. “You seem good.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine?! You--” Jason makes the mistake of looking at Dick properly. He’s pale, and his hair is slick with grease, disheveled and limp. There’s a swathe of white bandages across the left side of his chest, high up to reach his neck and thick enough to see under his shirt. His pupils are too big and his eyes faintly glassy - medicated. There are bruises in the crook of his elbow, where his drip was connected, and it’s hard for Jason to look away from them, the dark purple pinpricks and the red swelling that surrounds them.

I did this to him Jason thinks, and his swallow is hard enough to hear, in the sudden silence. Dick’s gaze is steady, even if his fingers tremble slightly on the sheets.

“You look good,” Jason says. His voice is hoarse, like he’d been screaming. “Best you’ve ever looked, in fact.”

Dick’s face flickers, then breaks into a smile, brilliant as the sun. Jason coughs, and looks away. “I’ll let Alfred know you said so,” Dick says.

Jason makes a face at him. “No need to escalate, I didn’t come here to pick on you.”

“Just to see me?” Dick’s voice is off, just a little. Jason didn’t realize he knew Dick well enough to tell.

“Yeah,” he says, because he can tell. “All special, and everything.”

Dick smiles again, less brilliant but more genuine. “Thanks, Little Wing.”

Jason points at him. “One time, okay? Don’t make it a habit.”

“Sure,” Dick says, and it’s a little too obliging. Jason shuffles over quickly enough to catch him carefully as he lists to the left, grabbing one of the many additional pillows and using it to prop him up. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Jason resists the urge to shuffle his feet, leaning over to fuss with the throw blanket draped over Dick’s lap. “Is this cashmere?”

Dick shrugs. “You’d know.”

“You’ve been rich longer than me.”

“But never as discerning.”

Jason gives in and shuffles his feet. “When are you making your escape?”

Dick shrugs. “Dunno. J’onn gave me some of that dust he’s got.”

“The incredibly advanced and non-finite alien medical nanotechnology?”

“Yea. J’onn’s dust. Should be okay to recover at home in a couple of days.”

Jason frowns at him. “Is that what Alfred says?”

“Sure.” Dick’s smile turns sly and co-conspiring. “You know how he is.”

“I’ll have to swing through Blud, see if you make it out.” Jason can’t help smiling back as he says it, although he turns to point it out the window.

“I’m not waiting for it, you know.”

“A round of applause? I thought that was your whole thing.” Jason taps his fingers against his leg, feeling his palm sweat. He can’t remember why he decided coming here was a good idea.

“It’s not your fault, what happened. I don’t blame you.” Dick’s voice couldn’t be more sincere if he were Superman.

It pisses Jason off.

“An apology, you mean. You think I came here to apologize to you.”

Dick just blinks at him. “Didn’t you?”

Jason’s fists clench. “I’m through apologizing to you,” he spits.

Dick is still just sitting there, blinking guilelessly. “Did you ever start?” he asks, and his voice is so genuinely perplexed, like if Jason had said yeah, ages ago, you missed it he’d believe him.

Jason laughs. It’s crackly, higher than usual, a little too loud. It echoes off the walls and bounces back at him. He drops his helmet in surprise, and it thunks onto the thick carpet with a dull thump.

Dick starts at it, then his smile breaks into a giggle fit of his own, even as he winces and presses a hand to his chest.

Jason sits at the foot of Dick’s bed, careful to avoid his feet, and then flops over on his back, laying an arm over his eyes. Dick’s calf bumps against his shoulder. “I did actually come here to apologize.”

Dick kicks at him, but it’s gentle. “Yeah, I know.”

“I shoulda had my breather.”

“You really should have.”

“I should have pushed harder to get to the cave.” Jason moves his arm enough to peek past it and squint at Dick’s face.

Dick just shrugs. “Maybe so. Can’t change it now.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Jason rolls over and slithers up the bed, careful to kick his boots off, until he can sit up next to Dick. He frowns, then grabs the slim book on the bedside table. “You forgive me, or what? I’ll read Camus to you if you do, but I won’t not talk shit about you for doing it. And for reading Camus.”

“I forgive you,” Dick says easily. He falls asleep less than three minutes later, his head tipping sideways until it rests gently against Jason’s arm.

Jason never actually apologized for stabbing Dick in the chest, so he keeps reading, until his voice rasps hoarse. And then he’s silent, and he realizes suddenly he’s been silent for a few minutes. He can hear them both breathing, his rhythm just a little off of Dick’s, and the squeak of the pipes from downstairs in Alfred’s kitchen.

I’m sorry he thinks, hands limp around the slim volume in his lap, resting on his outstretched legs. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to. I’m so sorry, oh god Dick I’m--

++

“I know you’re avoiding me,” Jason announces two days later, kicking down Dick’s door and sliding in sideways, balancing a heavily laden tray in his arms.

“I’m bedbound,” Dick sulks. “I can’t avoid anything.”

“I already asked about moving a television in here, and I already told you Alfred said no. You can watch Lifetime on your laptop.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “I need to check my messages, and I can’t do that up here.”

Jason rolls his eyes right back, big and exaggerated. “You can’t check your emails on a laptop?”

“If I had something to throw at you, I would. You know what I meant.”

“Ah, but I have good news.” Jason puts the tray on top of the dresser, scooping the bowl off it and snagging a fork to go with it. “Alfred’s graduated you to solids. Mushroom bowties, non-blended, your favorite. Bruce is in space again.”

Dick groans, and sinks further down, a desolate slump. “I hate it here.”

Jason pauses; that had been said softly, and without a hint of a tease. He pushes the bowl into Dick’s hands. “If you…” he falters, then swallows determinedly. “If you finish this, I’ll jailbreak you.”

Dick looks at him from under his hair, grown just long enough not to impede his vision too bad but long enough to make Bruce prissy about it. “Promise?”

“Pinky-swear,” Jason says. And they do, a single shake with their pinkies locked so tight it outlines a thin scar on Dick’s knuckle, white and jagged.

++

They make it out, because Jason wasn’t a petty thief for nothing, and because Dick’s been an ops prodigy since before he could speak English.

They only make it halfway to Bludhaven before Dick asks Jason if he can has a safehouse to spare, one he’s moderately sure Bruce doesn’t know about. The request almost makes Jason drive off the bridge into the bay. He gives in for a swerve, to make Dick yelp.

“You don’t want to go to your place?”

“It’s a walk-up,” Dick mumbles.

Jason groans, long and effusive. “Seriously? You know there are a million and one ways to abuse the Wayne name but slumlords and below code buildings aren’t--”

“I don’t have the Wayne name,” Dick says, and it’s so flat and cold, suddenly loud against the backdrop of the radio. “That’s you.”

And Tim Jason thinks. And Cass. And Damian “He would have let you use the connections,” he says, instead of apologizing. “And he sure would now. You know how he gets.”

Dick slumps in the passenger seat. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll take care of it. The elevators only went out a month ago.” He shoots Jason a sly look from under his long lashes. “Do you even have a place Bruce doesn’t know about?”

Jason bristles, even knowing it’s bait. “Of course I do, he snaps, and shifts lanes so abruptly a horn blares behind them. “Relax,” he snaps, to Dick’s chiding look. “He wasn’t even close to hitting us.”

Dick makes a neutral noise.

“I’m cutting you a break, you know,” Jason says, “letting you crash at one of mine.”

“Oh yeah,” Dick replies easily, a sly flirtish edge to his voice. “Should I fall to my knees and thank you?”

Jason realizes he’s grinning. He’s not sure when he started. “Yeah, sure. Whenever you get the urge, Big Bird.”

They drive in silence for a while, Dick fiddling with the radio.

“I was hoping to brag, is all,” Jason says, and has no idea why. He’d planned to do this entire drive silent, and look how that’s gone. “I cleaned up your place while you were laid up upstairs.” He lifts his eyebrows comically high, eyes on the road, and sees Dick duck to hide a smile even as he rolls his eyes. “Upstairs. Aaaallll the way--”

“Yes Jason,” Dick says dryly. “I got it.”

He’s still smiling, and the roads are clear, the radio staticky. Jason rolls the window down to feel the breeze. “Anyway. I was gonna bask in your surprise when I dropped you off.”

“You can take me back when I’m feeling better,” Dick offers him. “I’ll gasp and swoon and everything.”

“It’s a date,” Jason says without thinking, and then winces. They finish the drive in silence.

++

Dick makes it inside mostly under his own power, which Jason understands as a point of pride, but as soon as they close and secure the door behind him he drags Dick over to deposit him on the sofa. He tolerates Jason for two throw pillows and a blanket before swatting at his hands and cursing him out.

Jason retreats to the kitchen, hearing Dick click the television on and start to channel surf. It blends into white noise, the distant buzz of sharing the space with another person, one he trusts enough to let his vigilance fuzz out a little. He loses himself into heating up some instant noodles, not so much nutritious as filling, but he can go shopping tomorrow and pick up groceries for more substantial future meals.

Dick doesn’t seem to mind, sitting up immediately and humming in pleasure when Jason passes him a bowl and a fork. “Don’t overdo it,” he mutters, when Dick thanks him. They eat shoulder to shoulder while watching the news, and then some corny sitcom that has Jason groaning and Dick lingering out of spite, but Jason never tries to take the remote from him.

“You’re staring,” Dick says, without looking away from the television. He flips a few channels. “Stop it or turn it up, you’re making me hot and I’m too injured for it.”

“You’re not movin’ right around me,” Jason tells him, sipping at his broth to hide a flush. “Fix it.”

Dick scoffs, and slurps at his noodles. “I’m not moving any differently from how I was before, except all the wincing and needing help to walk.”

“That’s what I meant,” Jason snaps, averting his gaze to a nonsensical commercial, either a perfume or a prescription medication, he can’t tell which. “You shouldn’t trust me like that, not after…”

There’s a long, quiet silence in which all Jason can hear is his own heartbeat in his ears.

“Shut up, Jason,” Dick says finally, and wipes his mouth on Jason’s sleeve.

Eventually it’s an action movie, something about soldiers and aliens, schlocky and violent. Dick nods off during a chase sequence, asleep in between blinks, and Jason moves swiftly to rescue the bowl from dropping onto the rug.

Jason watches the movie all the way through, registering nothing about it, thinking about him and Dick, circling each other in violence and recovery, over and over, the vicious cycle of it. The way Dick staggered on the video feed when Jason had stabbed him, the slight flare of surprised betrayals through the domino.

Dick’s arm falls off the sofa as he lists even further sideways and Jason rises to pick Dick up, grunting. Dick must be wiped, because he barely stirs. He settles Dick on the bed and kneels beside it, tugging the duvet up. “Dick,” he whispers, and waits. Dick’s eyelids flicker, but they don’t open. “I didn’t mean to,” Jason whispers, raspy and rough, “I’m so sorry, Dick, I have to tell you--”

“Ssh,” Dick murmurs. “C’mere, Jay.”

Jason hesitates.

Dick’s eyes open, heavy lidded and brilliantly blue in the moonlight. “It’s okay,” he says firmly, and then smiles. “You’ve been making it up to me anyway, quite the show of brotherly love.”

Anger sings through Jason for the first time since he agreed to help Dick leave the Manor. “There’s nothing brotherly about it,” he snarls, and then stops, anger gone just as suddenly as it’d come, eyes wide and panicked. His breath is caught, wild and thundering, in his chest.

Dick sits up with a grunt, hand pressing absently to his chest as he takes a carefully deep breath. “Jason,” he says firmly, and there’s not a hint of sleep in his voice. “Come to bed. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Jason exhales, all at once. He’d meant to sleep on the sofa. He’d meant to do a lot of things. “Yeah,” he says, after a long moment, Dick’s gaze firm and unyielding. “Okay.”

They lay side by side, and the headlights of the cars going down the street outside move in yellow and white rectangles on the ceiling, slatted through the blinds. Jason falls asleep listening to Dick’s breathing, counting the soft noises like sheep.

++

He wakes slowly, on his side, one arm under his head going numb and the other slung over Dick’s hip, wrist rising and falling with every one of Dick’s exhales. He breathes, quiet and easy, and watches the sky outside the window lighten as the sun rises.

It’s only on Dick’s face for a few moments before he stirs, reputation as a late riser be damned, and he rolls over, arching up to make his back crack before settling on his side facing Jason.

“It’s morning,” Jason says, and then winces. “I didn’t mean for that to sound combative.”

“That’s just how you are,” Dick agrees amiably. He smiles when Jason rolls his eyes. “I like it. I’ve always liked it.”

“I meant it, you know,” Jason tells him. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt brotherly towards you, even before--” he falters. “Before the Joker.”

“Hmm,” Dick hums, eyes going a little distant, flatter and more grey. “An inherent mother-hen instinct, then?”

Jason feels his molars grind. “Definitely not.” He grits out, and then swallows hard. “In fact, it’s never been any kind of familial anything, if you get my meaning.”

Dick’s hand cups his jaw without warning. His palm is soft, except in all the places it’s rough, and his grip is effortlessly strong. “Don’t grind your teeth. It’s bad for you.”

“Dick,” Jason lets out a frustrated noise. “I know that you know--”

Dick’s thumb brushes his lips and he stills. “I knew what you meant the first time, Jason,” he murmurs, “Of course I do.”

He kisses Jason, easy as anything, and the sun rises behind him.