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It’s dark in the manor tonight, desolate with everyone scattered to their own devices. The Cave has come upstairs, becoming a black hole, devoid of life the farther you sink into it. It’s uncomfortable, stuffy, but Jason knows exactly why. Dick’s been seen less and less lately, holing up in his room or in the Cave to work and sleep. The only evidence he’s even been eating is the periodic disappearance of various cereal boxes from the pantry.
Even on patrol, Dick is quiet, lost in thought, and his movements are slowing, lagging, like a remote that’s worn out its batteries. It makes Jason’s chest ache, and while normally he’d let it slide or wait it out, the recent family run-ins with mental health have that feeling crawling around in his ribs, the need to do something, anything to protect his family.
What can he do? Jason decides to do what he does best--take immediate action. He bounds up the stairs two at a time, tactically fastwalking to where the bedrooms are. It’s not very late, just around eight o’clock, but there’s no light under Dick’s door. Jason doesn’t care. Dick can sleep another time and he needs to do this right this very second .
He opens his brother’s door to a cocoon-like mound of blankets on the bed. Jason shuts the door and goes over to the pile. Dick’s there, but he’s awake. “Jay, I-- I can’t do this right now,” he says, and he sounds tired.
“Tough shit,” Jason says, wedging himself underneath Blanket Mountain so he’s lying facing his brother. “ I’m the therapist now.” He pauses. They haven’t built forts for years, but when they were kids, they’d hide under the blankets at night so Bruce couldn’t ground them for staying up too late. A ball of something heavy settles in his stomach. “Tent time.” Dick allows it, and Jason pulls one of the blanket layers over their head.
For a long moment, Dick is quiet. “Talk to me, Big Bird,” Jason says, trying to keep it light-hearted: his voice betrays his worry.
“I’m tired,” Dick says, and he knows it’s not for lack of sleep. “I’m tired of-- of being on , all the time .” They can’t see each other in the dark, but the sheets audibly crinkle when Jason nods. His voice becomes watery as he speaks. “I’m tired, Jay, and I shouldn’t-- I can’t tell you this.” Jason slides his hand over, just touching his brother’s arm. “I have to be the older brother. I’m-- dependable and I’m an example and if I don’t step up everyone’s going to fall to pieces!” He sucks in a shuddering breath. “I’m-- I’m exhausted , and I can’t take a break. I can’t-- nobody’s going to take care of me . God, I shouldn’t even tell you this.”
Jason waits a beat, making sure Dick is done saying what he needs to say, before he starts. He has the fleeting thought of going to med school--he’d always been an academic, and he has a great intuition for people; but that could just be his skills as a detective, plus being a vigilante doesn’t exactly allow for a lot of free time. Intuition does not equal charisma, either , Jason decides. “You have people to take care of you. You just gotta say something. It sucks, like, I get it, but telling someone when I’m not okay is probably the only way I could’ve gotten through-- well, y’know. ” A small sniffle lets him know Dick is listening.
“You don’t have to just be a thing. You’re a person, not a robot,” he continues. “Fuck those other guys. You aren’t responsible for anyone. I mean, like, shit, you’re barely twenty years old! You can care about people and struggle at the same time. You give hugs, you get hugs.” That seems to strike a chord with Dick, who’s moved closer, and Jason takes it as an invitation for a hug. He pulls his brother over, practically engulfing him (a silent flex that he’s taller). It’s warm, but not too hot, and they stay like that for a while--the two had always been more touchy-feely than their other brothers (and father).
“I miss when we were just kids, and would get up to rambunctious shenanigans,” Dick says, breaking the silence. “I have to set an example. Boring, y’know?”
Jason laughs. “Uh, what? Excuse you, but I have never stopped my rambunctious shenanigans. In fact, I have a plan going right now.”
“Holy shit, what is it?!” There’s a playfulness in Dick’s voice, the kind that he has when he’s up to no good: scarcely heard but eagerly invited.
Jason grins and throws the blankets off of them. “C’mon,” he says, giddy like a child, and the two jump up, running to his room.
Jason’s room is one of the largest bedrooms in the manor--he had strict terms of adoption as a child--and very likely one of the neatest. Everything is pristine, not because Jason doesn’t use it, but because he likes it that way. There’s various musical instruments near the far wall, and the room is soundproof. He leads Dick into his closet, where they can both fit comfortably inside. Jason shoves some of the lower-hanging clothes to one side, revealing a small panel.
“Close the door,” he says, and Dick does. When he comes back, he finds that the panel opens, as Jason’s body is halfway through it. Jason moves, then curses.
“What’s going on?” Dick asks.
“My fucking shoulders are stuck,” Jason replies, and Dick bursts into laughter. “Oh my God, stop! Just help me!”
Dick helps him squeeze back through the opening, still laughing at him. “Why are you such a meathead?”
“You’re just jealous that I’m taller than you now,” Jason retorts, a huge grin on his face, and a long box in his hands. He opens the box, and sitting inside is… six airsoft BB guns?
“I bought these three days ago. Bruce doesn’t know. I had to go all the way to New York and buy them with cash to make sure,” Jason says, and he’s smiling so hard his nose wrinkles. “He’s completely unawares. The bitch will never see it coming.”
Jason knows he’s succeeded when he sees Dick’s eyes wildly alight. They take one glance at each other and like some kind of chaotic sibling osmosis they instantly understand their purpose. “Show me how to use this,” Dick says.
“Well--” Jason falters. He isn’t sure how to explain this. “It’s just the same way you’d fire a normal gun.”
Dick snorts and looks at him, amused yet confused. “Jason, you are the only one of us who’s trained to use a gun.”
“Oh my God,” Jason exclaims, and stands up, excited to teach his older brother something generally forbidden in their house. Dick grabs the box, and they exit the closet. Jason picks a random BB gun--this one is pink, and has a Barbie sticker on the side. They make eye contact. “Shut up! I know what you’re about to say! I bought it second hand!” Jason tries to tell him, but nothing can contain Dick’s joy.
Jason hands him the gun. “Okay, hold it like this,” he says, adjusting Dick’s hands. “Good. Oh, also, uh-- Don’t shoot people with these. Like, in general. Bruce, maybe. He’s the real meathead in this family. But these fuckers can sting.” They mutually understand both avoiding injury to others and the adrenaline rush that can only come from destroying furniture.
“Okay, so, aim like that,” he instructs, and Dick mirrors him perfectly. “Okay! Shoot something!”
Dick gives him a quizzical look for a second, but then remembers. “Oh, right. Soundproof.” This is one of the only bedrooms to be soundproof (Jason + Drums = Annoying). Dick carefully aims at a lamp on the nightstand, and fires.
The lamp shatters into a hundred pieces with a very satisfying crash, and like they’ve never broken things before, the two boys are jumping and scream-laughing like eight-year-olds.
Once they’ve calmed down a touch, Jason asks, “Okay. You get to break these in. Fire the first shot at B.”
“YES!” Dick says, and as quietly as the two possibly can, they sneak to a certain part of the house. It’s a broad, open area, where there’s a skybridge that can see a sitting room on the floor below.
Bruce is sitting there with Alfred, both winding down with a glass of red wine as Bruce files paperwork for Wayne Enterprises. They are clearly having a peaceful evening, and it takes everything in the two of them not to laugh and give themselves away. Dick lies on the floor and positions the BB gun between the balusters of the railing.
With perfect aim, Dick shoots at Bruce’s wine glass--it explodes in an almost comical fashion, glass flying and wine splashing all over the papers and carpet. Bruce leaps to his feet and spots them immediately. “RICHARD JOHN--” But it is too late, because Dick and Jason are already running away, crying laughing and trying not to slip on the hardwood floor. The lights are back on.